| Sunny Side Up Nov. 12, 2003 �2003, Kathleen Gibson Remembering one old soldier I've known-and cared about-a few old soldiers. But every year, when poppies bloom blood-red on lapels, and young men stand like statues at all four corners of city cenotaphs, it's Carl I remember most. He was in his seventies when I first met him. A retired pastry chef, widowed for many years. He lived alone. His daughter and her family lived next door. And they all lived just down the street-around the corner from us. Like most old soldiers, Carl didn't talk much-or long-about the war years. I can't recall when he first began to tell me his story. It came out in bits, like coins slipping through a hole in a pocket. Clink. Clink. Clink. I learned some of it in his garden, the day he asked me to come over and braid the tails of his garlic. The sun shone then. His 'grand-cat', Kitty K, purred and wove her black sleekness around and through our legs. Carl served me lemonade, freshly squeezed. When WWII broke out he'd had to leave his three girls. "My big one and my two little ones. I missed them so." Soon he was surrounded by a cavalry unit of fresh-faced soldier boys. He treated them like sons, worried over them like a father. "Did you know�.?" I let the question trail. He shook his head. Talked of other things. I learned more about Carl the day he shyly asked the Preacher if he would accept a gift of money to buy me a warm winter coat. We'd recently moved from B.C. My raincoat served me poorly in Ontario's cold. He reminisced then about the winter he spent in the POW camp. They took his horse away, his captors. "I cried like a baby," he said. "King saved my life many times. So strong, so beautiful." But he'd tried to stay positive for his men and others in the camp. He showed us a black and white photo. I looked into the eyes a laughing young man wielding scissors over another's head. Carl shrugged. "I cut my men's hair. We had to keep hope. What else was there?" More story slipped out the day he walked into our porch carrying a plate of holiday baking. "Real butter. Real chocolate. Only the best ingredients for my good friends," he said, his cheeks reddened by the brisk Ontario wind. "Do you know, after the war it was a Jew who hired me to bake cakes in his store? I would have happily died for that man. Like a king, he treated me!" I don't understand the ways of men and war. I don't know why God arranges for some of us to be born in Canada and not Europe, or Korea, or Afghanistan. All I know is that some men are mere pawns on another's chessboard, some causes aren't real causes, some enemies aren't real enemies, and some men are big enough to understand. Carl was a Nazi soldier. You can respond to this column at [email protected] |
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