Once we got down the Alps and into the province of Milan it warmed up a bit, but driving south through these mountains was a sad experience. The hills were bare, and there was hardly any vegetation anywhere. We wondered what had caused this. We stopped in the first little village we came to for a bathroom break and to find a restaurant for a hot lunch. The village had neither, and looked to be very poor, with old grey houses and cobblestone streets.
We were in the centre of this little town, stretching our legs — with the bikes lined up in a row — when we were approached by a local. He spoke no English and none of us spoke Italian. But we understood him because he kept repeating over and over, “Canada, Canadian?” The man had noticed our Canadian license plates and flags sewn onto the jackets and become very excited. When we answered, “Yes, we are Canadian,” people began approaching us. They started shaking our hands smiling at us and saying, “Grazie, Grazie.”
We had no idea why they were thanking us, until one man began speaking to us in heavily accented English. He explained that back in the 1970s this region was hit by an enormous earthquake that left many people missing and trapped by debris from the mountainside. Their town had been partially swallowed up by the rubble. He went on to tell us about the devastation and how they had no water or supplies to dig for those who were lost. They had no choice then but to wait for help.
“The first to arrive were the Canadian Military,” he said. They came with helicopters from their base in Germany. They showed up with supplies and manpower and ready to help. The Canadians got there even faster than their own countrymen, and helped for as long as they were needed.
He then explained that the local people never really got a chance to thank the Canadians, and so would we please accept their hospitality now? “Please,” he said, “let us thank you our way.”
Within minutes, tables were brought out and filled with bread, all types of meats, cheeses, beer and wine. They brought us into their homes to use the bathrooms, and took pictures of our group with the bikes. Even after we told them that none of the Canadian soldiers with us today were part of that aid mission in the 1970s, they fed us and kept thanking us. They did not care; we were the first Canadians they had seen since the earthquake and they were not going to miss this opportunity.
We spent a couple of hours with these wonderful, grateful people — eating, drinking and laughing. Some of them were older, grandparents with white hair and beards, enjoying the company of a few Canadian motorcyclists. I thought how odd this would appear to someone if they were to see a group of bikers dining like this with the locals. Eventually we told them we had to get back on the road in order to make it to a campground outside of Savona before dark.
But leaving that little town proved to be an even bigger challenge then crossing the Alps had been that day; they kept hugging us and asking us to stay the night with them in their village. We finally got back on the road, but only after we took a picture with the whole town.
We made it to the campground before dark, and the conversation around the campfire that night was all about this amazing experience. We also realized this was only possible due to the enormous generosity of Canada and Canadians — always there to lend a hand when people around the world are in these dire situations. I will always remember this day — more so than the rest of the trip. The generosity of the people in that little village — sharing whatever food and wine they had — was their way of expressing their gratitude to Canada. And we were the lucky recipients.
~Isolde Ryan
Tottenham, Ontario
My Australian Introduction to Team Canada
Hockey is Canada’s game. Nothing else is: nothing else will be.
~Ken Dryden and Roy MacGregor
I was genuinely happy for my son, Ryan, when his work relocated him from Toronto, Ontario to Melbourne, Australia. At the same time I was upset there would be such an enormous distance between us. Secretly I hoped he wouldn’t like living there and would return to Canada within a year or two, but that was not the case. In fact, Ryan thrived in Melbourne and chose to make it his permanent home.
During the summer of 2009 I met a man named John who specialized in booking flights for tour groups to Australia. I mentioned that Ryan lived in Melbourne and that at some point I had to get there to spend some time with him. To my surprise, that December John called and said he could fit me in with a tour group leaving in mid-February for a month in Australia. I didn’t have the money in the bank, but it was a great package. After giving it some thought I realized the years were slipping by as I waited for the “right” time to make this trip. So I phoned John and said, “I’m in.” Then I e-mailed Ryan to let him know I was finally coming for a visit.
My flight, with stopovers, took thirty-six hours, but it was all worth it when I got off the plane in Melbourne and saw Ryan waiting for me. After our reunion, we made a couple of stops on our way to the condo he rented. I was intrigued as I heard him seamlessly switch between an Australian accent when he was talking with locals, and his Canadian accent while he was talking just with me. He explained that it just made life easier not having to answer questions about being Canadian all the time.
A few days later I experienced my own introduction to the locals when I had a chance to get out and explore Melbourne on my own. The weather was as warm as the people I met, and I was truly surprised by the number of people who guessed I was Canadian as soon as I spoke. However the first time someone said, “You must be so proud of Team Canada,” I found myself at a loss for words. Our little family had never really followed sports, so while I was aware that the 2010 Winter Olympics were being held in Vancouver, Canada, they had not really been on my radar. By the time the fifth or sixth person had excitedly mentioned Team Canada, I was feeling decidedly unpatriotic at my utter lack of knowledge of this major event currently taking place in my own beloved country. I couldn’t have named even one hockey player on Team Canada but, according to the Australians I spoke with, they were doing really well.
Back at Ryan’s place I pulled out my laptop and looked up Team Canada. Of the twenty-three players on the roster Sidney Crosby was the only name familiar to me. It would have been hard not to know who he was as the media was in love with this young, good-looking, talented player. I sent an e-mail to my friend Larry (an ardent hockey fan) and asked him to provide me with his insights on the Olympic hockey games. When my son got home I happily told him about my day, including the fascination many people had with Team Canada.
“Australians love sports,” Ryan explained with a laugh. Apparently he’d been making a point of watching the daily recap of the Olympics prior to my arrival. That evening we watched the day’s Olympic results together. While Ryan’s interest in hockey was still minimal, we did make a point of watching the last period in which Team Canada was playing. I actually started to look forward to the games, and even had favourite players. In support, Larry continued sending e-mails full of his opinions and observations about the teams and players he thought I should know about.
One afternoon I went for a long walk and got a bit muddled about where north, south, east and west were. A young man about Ryan’s age stopped and asked if I was lost. When I told him which street I was looking for, he immediately burst into a giant smile, touched my arm and said, “Wow, isn’t Team Canada doing awesome at the Olympics?”
I grinned back and said, “Yes, we’re doing an amazing job!” I used the royal “we” as if I personally had something to do with them continuing to win games!
Ryan and I watched the entire medal deciding game between Canada and the USA, and when Sidney Crosby scored the winning goal in overtime for the gold, we were truly elated. It had taken me a journey to the other side of the globe to finally appreciate my own country’s national sport. That evening, as I heard our national anthem on TV and watched the players of Team Canada receiving their gold medals, I can honestly say I felt my Canadian blood pulsing proudly through my veins!
On my flight home
I found myself grateful on so many levels. I was pleased to have experienced Melbourne, and felt a new level of comfort that Ryan had chosen this wonderful city to be his new home. I had the validation in my heart that, although distanced by a world of miles, my connection to my son was as strong as ever and it will always be that way.
And, while I reflected on my visit, I couldn’t help but appreciate what I’d heard from so many Australians — that Canadians were their favourite people, and Team Canada was their favourite team. But what I was most grateful for on that flight home was the passport I carried in my purse that proves I am a Canadian citizen. And, in my own mind, that I am part of Team Canada.
~Laura Snell
Wasaga Beach, Ontario
A Father’s Stories Come to Life
It’s the possibility of having a dream come true that makes life interesting.
~Paulo Coelho
“I think I’ll stay here,” Marianne told her three companions. “I have no desire to tramp through the forest and possibly come face-to-face with a wild animal,” she finished with a shudder.
So the three men headed out without her. Soon they were brushing their way through debris and thick underbrush to get to the ridge. “A moose must have slept here recently,” the guide pointed out when they came to a freshly trampled spot. “We must have startled it.”
Lutz looked around nervously, recalling the postcard of a moose his dad had sent from Canada back in 1945. The moose was chasing a man with a camera dangling from his neck, and had been sketched by a German prisoner of war (POW) to commemorate a comrade’s birthday. Although loving his Canadian adventure, Lutz was nervous at the idea of this bit of history repeating itself.
With their father on their minds, Lutz, his son Marcel, and his sister Marianne were touring the Riding Mountain National Park in Manitoba with their guide Michael. Nostalgia was setting in for them as they remembered their father’s stories. For along with 35,000 other German soldiers captured on the battlefields of World War II, a teenaged Richard Beranek had been sent to Canada as a prisoner of war. Assigned to Camp Mafeking in Manitoba, he spent his time working in a Canadian lumber camp.
Years of listening to their father’s stories about Canada’s wildlife, beautiful forests, prairies and friendly people had left Lutz and Marianne with a deep fascination for this country. They longed to follow in their father’s footsteps and share his experience. Perhaps they might even get a glimpse of the animals he had seen. Oh, except for the small black and white one Dad had tried to catch and take back to camp as a pet. Not long after Richard’s arrival, two of his comrades had suggested he catch the skunk. Never having heard of this animal before, he knew nothing about the little fellow’s potent defence mechanism! “Willkommen im Lager!” his fellow prisoners had laughed, thrilled with their welcome-to-camp trick.
According to the Geneva Convention, prisoners could not be forced to work. However, when given the option, many decided it would be better than being bored behind barbed wire in one of the twenty-five camps they were held in. They ended up working in parks, lumber camps and on farms during the summer, and were paid fifty cents a day. And many of them fell in love with Canada.
Richard told his young children that he had loved nothing better than exploring the woods around his camp. “Do you know what the guards told us?” he said with a laugh. “If you try to escape, there are wild animals waiting for you! But we were treated so well, I can’t remember anyone wanting to take off while I was there.”
I’ve always been intrigued with this time in my community’s history: when pacifist Hutterites hosted some of these German POW soldiers in our own community. Through my research I learned there had been a shortage of labourers in Manitoba, so five hundred German prisoners were employed to help with the sugar beet and grain harvests. Satellite work camps were set up in farming communities, with German prisoners supervised by the Veterans Guard. During the summers it was common to see men clad in dark blue uniforms with a large red circle on the back — “easy targets,” the prisoners joked. Curtis Camp, located in an abandoned creamery a mile east of my own Hutterite colony, housed seventy-five prisoners. Over noodle soup, roast duck and sauerkraut served at the communal kitchen, some German prisoners became good friends with the Hutterites.
One day, during my research, I received an intriguing e-mail in a roundabout way. Written in broken English, a German guy named Lutz Beranek was seeking information on his father, Richard Beranek, who had been a POW in Canada. So I put him in touch with an acquaintance, Michael, who was studying POW history. Since Michael spoke no German and Lutz no English, I translated for them. In this way, Michael was able to answer Lutz’s questions and provide him with documents relating to his dad. Lutz and I stayed in touch, and he often told me, “I’ve been fascinated with Canada ever since I was a little boy.”
Then, during a visit to Germany, I met Lutz and his wife Antje and spent a memorable weekend with them. That’s when I started helping Lutz make travel plans. He and his sister, along with his son, decided to make this pilgrimage to Canada, and get to know their father’s past.
Now I was watching them finally experience Manitoba, and I was touched as I saw how much the experience meant to them. “This place is so peaceful,” Lutz said softly, as we walked around our colony. “Everyone we meet is so friendly and it’s obvious they love this communal life. No wonder the prisoners enjoyed visiting here.” With child-like fascination they climbed into semi-trucks and tractors. Proudly perched on a combine seat Lutz chuckled, “Our fields at home are too small for such big machines.” He was gazing at the Canadian prairieland stretching around them for miles in all directions.
Then the day came when they were able to visit Camp Mafeking. “Standing in the ruins of this former POW camp building, I felt very close to my dad,” Lutz shared. “It was like he was right there with me.” Framed in time, Marcel captured Lutz with his camera, gazing through a window. “I wonder if my dad actually stood right here seventy years ago?” he reflected.
One day, when the men were traipsing through the forest, Marianne experienced a moment that none of her dad’s stories had prepared her for. “You’ll never guess what just happened!” she announced excitedly when the men returned a few minutes later. “As I was bent over taking pictures of wildflowers, I heard something behind me. Thinking it was you returning, I didn’t look up right away. But when I turned around, there was a huge moose, and it just stood there watching me!”
“A moose! What did you do?” Lutz asked anxiously. “Where exactly was it?”
“It was so close, just over there,” she replied, pointing to a spot about seven metres away. “I was frozen to the spot. After staring at me for a few minutes the moose turned and ambled off into the forest. I stumbled to the car only to find it locked. Next time you venture out on foot, you must leave me the keys!”
“Did you take a picture?” I asked her later.
“No, I couldn’t move! I was too scared to even think!” she replied emphatically. “I only remembered the camera after the moose was gone. All I would have needed would have been for a bear to have come along then as well! And me locked out! We did see a bear later though,” she laughed, “but from the safety of our car.”
Richard Beranek died in 1988, but his children’s dream of seeing the country he had fallen in love with remained alive. “My father always said he never felt like a prisoner in Canada, deeming his time here as the best years of his life,” Lutz beamed. “Now I know why; I’ve enjoyed it as much as he did! I’ll always be grateful for this visit to Canada; it’s allowed my dad’s stories to truly come to life!”
~Linda Maendel
Newton, Manitoba
My Big Country
My country is very fantastic. We are lucky to be Canadian, to have such a big and wonderful country.
~Marc Garneau
It is another beautiful hot, sunny day. My husband and I decided to leave our home in Ontario’s cottage country and, through our
church, travel and teach on this tiny Eastern Caribbean island called Bequia. Winter is a long way away.
The roads here are poor, not like the good roads and highways in Canada. The bus driver speeds along, negotiating the ancient potholes. He uses the weighty momentum of the dollar-bus to climb out and up onto the other side of the gap. I watch as our heads bob up and down in unison. The bus is similar to a long van and aptly named, since it costs one Eastern Caribbean dollar to ride anywhere.
This island is only one mile wide by three miles long. When the bus slows down I look up to see a familiar young man get on. What’s Jeff doing here? I wonder. Normally, young people on this small island walk. Then I spy the reason he is riding today: three green plastic sacks by his bare brown feet containing fuzzy round fruit. It is harvest time for sapodilla, a fruit similar to our Canadian Spartan apples. Jeff hauls the bags down the aisle, motioning for people to shift so he can sit beside me.
“We is crowded today,” he says loudly, speaking to the driver up at the front. He turns to me and in a whisper asks, “Whut you hear from my friend Sally?” Sally, a pretty Peace Corps worker, had befriended Jeff when she rented a room in our apartment before returning to her home in Whitehorse, Yukon.
“Sally’s fine… her letter says to say hi to Jeff.”
He beams. “You visit Sally, when you go home?”
“No… Jeff,” I explain. “It’s too far away. Sally lives in Whitehorse.” He gives me a blank look. “We live close to Toronto… in Ontario, a province in Canada.” Jeff still has a blank look. “Okay Jeff, wait.” I shift on the seat so I can use my hands and say, “You know how far Bequia is from Canada?” I draw an imaginary arc in the air as though my right hand is a plane crossing an ocean expanse to Toronto. He nods. Then with my left arm, I make an equally large arc saying, “Sally lives as far away from our city to Whitehorse, as Bequia is from Canada.”