Today, a year ago, a bugle called my name. It called me to remember those who no longer hear the call of their name. It called me to Victoria Park, just two blocks from my home, for the Remembrance Day ceremony. Last year I was close enough to hear the bagpipes and the bugle calling us to remember the dead. This year, I pinned a red poppy to my black coat and fell into step alongside others on their way to the park.I was moved by the number of Canadians who had come to remember. I was surprised (and pleased) by the religiosity of the ceremony. I remembered a friend's comment when we were at university together. Having served in the South African Defence Force and having come under fire, Rory testified that there was no such thing as an atheist in a fox hole; when under attack, every soldier prayed and called out to God.
I was inspired by the march-past and the flight formations of the aircraft. I teared up with the singing of the anthem and the saying of the Lord's Prayer. I thought of the nameless dead who gave their lives for the freedom of others. And I remembered two victims of war, a young woman and a boy who no longer hear the call of their name.
The failure of Operation Market Garden to liberate Holland in September 1944 had tragic consequences for Laura Smit and Jan Keizer.
In retribution for the strike of Dutch railway workers in support of this Allied invasion, the German occupiers forbade food transportation and Holland endured a harsh winter, the Hungerwinter. In Amsterdam, 11 year-old Jan Keizer died of starvation. One of thousands, he is easily forgotten. His brother, now a 90 year-old man, passed the memory of little Jantje on to me.
Across that small country, in February 1945, 20 year-old Laura Smit and her young cousin, Anton, were killed. A V-1 flying bomb, launched by the Germans in Holland to attack England, malfunctioned, landing on the house in Tilburg in which M's aunt was living with her father's family. Separated from her own family, it was not until after liberation in May 1945 that M's grandparents learnt of the death of their daughter.
"Remember me," they call from the grave. Remember "we (too) lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow, loved and were loved" (In Flanders Fields, by John McCrae).
I remember Laura and Jantje so as to remember the harshness of war. I remember two young people I will never meet so that I may appreciate the security and peace I know. I remember how short their lives were so that I may not take for granted the length of days I am given.
I remember, so that their lives may count. I remember, because my life is not my own.
