Chicken Soup for the Canadian Soul Read online

  I realized immediately that my wife was very agitated. “Where have you been?” she cried. “I was anxious to reach you, but there is no phone in that basement!”

  “Why, what happened!” I asked.

  “Look!” she said excitedly. “A new response from the Canadian government. They put some pressure on the Hungarian government, and they have finally relented. They’re letting her go! Our daughter is coming to us in six weeks!”

  I was speechless. Suddenly feeling weak, I reached for a chair to sit down. I gently placed my new carving on the kitchen table.

  “What is that?” my wife asked.

  “Don’t you see? It’s a statue of St. Jude,” I replied. I told her then the reason why I was late, about my sudden impulse to carve and about my vision of St. Jude’s face.

  We looked at each other. There were no words to express our emotions. Joy, disbelief, shock—all of these and more were wrapped into one.

  Six weeks later, my wife and I stood at the Winnipeg Airport waiting for the plane that would bring our daughter home to us, to Canada and to freedom. Back then, the airport was more like a barn in a large field. We saw the plane land, but it was far away across the field. I could see people disembarking. Guards were placed there to keep the waiting people back. And then, suddenly, I saw her! Our little girl—now almost ten years old! In an instant, I broke free of the guards. I ran to her and in one miraculous moment, embraced her. My heart was overjoyed. Our beloved daughter had finally come home!

  Alex Domokos

  Winnipeg, Manitoba

  Liberation Day

  To those who fall I say: You will not die but step into immortality. Your mothers will not lament your fate but will be proud to have borne such sons. Your names will be revered forever and ever by your grateful country, and God will take you unto Himself.

  Lieutenant-General Sir Arthur Currie

  Address to the Canadian Corps, March 1918

  For the citizens of Mons, a small Belgian city south of Brussels on the French border, it seemed like the horrors of the Great War would never end. Since the German occupation endless years earlier in 1914, their lives had changed forever.

  For the youngest, their memories were only of bombs and artillery shells shaking their beds and making their homes fall down around them. They dreamed of tanks and guns, and of strange men in uniforms walking through their streets. They knew the smell of death better than the smell of baking bread.

  For the older Belgians, their memories were of a time long-since passed . . . a time of peace that seemed a lifetime away . . . a time they feared they might never see again. Yet they lived in hope.

  The first glimmer of hope arrived just after Easter in 1917 when they learned the Canadians had successfully taken Vimy Ridge. About eighty kilometres west of Mons, the Ridge had been occupied by the Germans in September of 1914. Rising over 130 metres above the surrounding land, it offered an unobscured view of all activities below. It was protected by many kilometres of trenches, underground tunnels and impenetrable walls of barbed wire. Concrete bunkers sheltering machine guns were constructed on top. Vimy Ridge became a virtually impregnable fortress.

  Every Allied attempt to take Vimy had failed, but the Ridge was crucial to the Allies if they wished to win the War. The challenge was finally handed to the Canadians. In every battle they waged, the Canadian forces had been victorious, even against impossible odds. Certainly nothing seemed more impossible than conquering Vimy.

  Arthur Currie was not a soldier by nature. He was, in fact, a British Columbian Realtor. But when the approach of war caused real estate to collapse, Currie joined the Canadian militia, and then devoured every book on military strategy he could find. As a result he was quickly promoted through the ranks, and by 1917, he was commander of the First Canadian Division. The burden of capturing Vimy Ridge from the German armies now fell on his shoulders.

  When Currie studied past attempts at taking Vimy Ridge, he was convinced they had all been doomed to failure before they began. A completely new approach was needed—something totally unexpected. Vimy Ridge was impregnable, but he was determined to find a way to break it.

  Arthur ordered intensive surveillance photos to be taken of the Ridge and all the surrounding land. These photos were then compiled into one large image of the entire area. For the first time in military history, detailed maps were made and distributed to every soldier. Meanwhile, with the help of the Allies, an exact replica of the Ridge complete with tunnels, trenches and caves, was constructed behind the front. There, Currie trained his men. After two months of intense training, the Canadians knew the Ridge as well as the Germans. Each man knew exactly where to go, and precisely what he would find when he got there.

  On April 9, 1917, at 5:30 A.M., the assault began. It was daring and risky, and the Allied commands could only watch in amazement as events unfolded. Arthur Currie’s unusual offensive left the enemy scratching their heads in wonder. Instead of being bombarded by artillery as they expected, the shells fell in a solid line far across the land below. The attackers appeared either very inept or extremely cunning. At predetermined times, the bombardment advanced 100 metres toward the Ridge, and behind it, with carefully paced steps, advanced the Canadians in what would be named the Vimy Glide. Every three minutes the army moved steadily forward, 100 metres at a time, shielded by the ever-advancing artillery fire.

  The advance moved forward through all the barriers, and incessantly up Vimy Ridge. Bodies lay where they fell; they would have to wait for the stretcher-bearers and medics following behind. The advance must continue, and it did. When it was over, Vimy Ridge belonged to the Allies for the first time since the beginning of the war.

  On that day, 3,598 Canadian soldiers died and 7,004 more were wounded, but this victory marked the “beginning of the end.” For his efforts, General Arthur Currie was knighted by King George V on the Vimy battlefield and named commander in chief of the Canadian Expeditionary Force. Canadians were finally no longer considered simply colonials or subordinates. For the first time, they were now regarded as full Allies.

  While the Germans regrouped, the Allies began forming their final offensive to liberate all of France and Belgium.

  August 4, 1918, to November 11, 1918, became known as Canada’s Hundred Days. Flanked by Australian and French troops, the Canadian “spearhead” advanced steadily eastward from Amiens (northeast of Paris) through France and into Belgium. Realizing defeat was imminent, the German High Command was devastated.

  The advance continued incessantly. Losses were heavy on both sides, but in the end, freedom for the beleaguered French and Belgians lay in the wake of the terrible battles and bloodshed. Finally, in the early morning hours of November 11, Canadian troops marched into Mons. The words of Victor Maistrau, bourgmestre (mayor) of Mons, describe that moment:

  At five in the morning of the 11th, I saw the shadow of a man and the gleam of a bayonet advancing stealthily along that farther wall, near the Café des Princes.

  Then another shadow, and another. They crept across the square, keeping very low, and dashed north toward the German lines.

  I knew this was liberation. Then, above the roar of artillery, I heard music, beautiful music. It was as though the Angels of Mons were playing. And then I recognized the song and the musician. Our carillonneur (church bell ringer) was playing ‘O Canada’ by candlelight. This was the signal. The whole population rushed into the square, singing and dancing, although the battle still sounded half a mile away.

  In the city hall at six in the morning I met some Canadians and we drank a bottle of champagne together. We did not know that this was the end of the war.

  The dawn revealed a strange sight in the square. The Canadian troops, exhausted from their long offensive, lay sleeping on the cobblestones while all Mons danced around them.

  That same morning, on the eleventh hour of the eleventh day of the eleventh month, the Armistice was

  4

  ON LOVE

 
; From the beginning of life to its end, love is the only emotion which matters.

  June Callwood

  For Better or For Worse®

  by Lynn Johnston

  FOR BETTER OR FOR WORSE. ©United Feature Syndicate. Reprinted by permission.

  One True Love

  When Henri Bissette of Sherbrooke, Québec, went off to fight in World War I in 1917, he left behind his love of four years, Émilie Chevrier. The two wrote to each other faithfully. Letters could not always cross the battle lines, however, and eventually their writing became less frequent.

  Émilie missed Henri terribly and constantly prayed for his safe return. One day in April 1918, Henri’s family received a letter informing them that their son was “missing in action.”

  When Émilie heard the report she was devastated and refused to believe that Henri was gone. Six months later, when no further information had been received, Émilie finally realized that she would never see her beloved again.

  Five months after the armistice was signed, ending the Great War, Émilie received a letter that Henri had written almost one year earlier. In it, he wrote about his feelings of desperation and his longing to leave the horrific war. His only desire was to return home to Canada so that he and Émilie could be married. The letter reassured Émilie that Henri’s love was a true one, and although she kept all his letters, she treasured this one the most.

  Émilie felt deep in her heart that she could never love another man as much as she loved Henri. He was her one true love, and she promised herself that she would never marry. In 1921, however, she met a kind, caring man named Joseph who she married shortly thereafter. They moved to Ottawa, where they raised a family of four children and lived happily until Joseph passed away in 1959.

  Émilie was sixty years old when Joseph died, and her full-grown children were living lives of their own. Finding herself alone, she decided to return to her hometown of Sherbrooke, Québec, to enjoy her retirement years.

  One day while out shopping, Émilie met an old school friend and the two reminisced about their past. During their conversation her friend mentioned Henri—she hadn’t known about his war experience or his being “missing in action.” When Henri’s name came up, Émilie told her friend about everything that had occurred over forty years ago.

  When she heard the story, her friend replied, “How odd! I’m sure I remember hearing that Henri bought a farm up north in the 1930s.”

  Émilie assured her friend that she must have been misinformed. After the two parted company, however, Émilie couldn’t help wondering about the woman’s story. Could it be true? she wondered. Surely, if Henri were alive, the two of them would be together now. Émilie needed to know the truth, but Henri’s family had long since passed away. She began to investigate on her own and soon discovered that there was a Henri Bissette—he owned a farm just west of Trois-Rivières, Québec. Émilie decided to visit Trois-Rivières and make a trip out to the farm. She did not hold out much hope that she would really find her Henri. It was over forty years since she had received word of his death. In all likelihood, when the farmhouse door opened, she would simply find some farmer standing there—one who might be amused by her story.

  When Émilie arrived at the farm and knocked on the door, however, she received the shock of her life. As the door opened, a farmer indeed stood there, but it was her own beloved Henri! He was greatly aged, of course, but still as handsome as she remembered. Henri gasped, recognising her instantly, and whispered, “Émilie!”

  The two fell into each other’s arms, so overcome with emotion that for several minutes all they could do was hug each other, crying and trembling. A lifetime had passed since they had last seen each other, but now it felt as if no time had passed at all.

  When they calmed down, they both started to talk at once about what had happened over the years. Henri explained that after being wounded, he had spent over a year and a half recuperating in a hospital in Europe. When he finally did return to Sherbrooke, his family told him that the heartbroken Émilie, believing he was dead, had married and moved to Ottawa. They had no other information about her whereabouts. Henri was greatly saddened, but didn’t want to disrupt Émilie’s happiness in her life. He bought his farm shortly after, and had lived alone there all these years. He had never married because he knew that Émilie was his one true love.

  With tears running down her face, Émilie pulled Henri’s wartime letters from her purse.

  “I never forgot you either, Henri,” she said. “These letters have meant more to me over the years than you can ever know. I would always read them over and over when I began to feel sad, and it made me so happy to remember that you were the most special part of my life.”

  All at once the forty years of separation melted away. Finding each other had made them happier than they had ever been. Shortly after their reunion, they were married, and spent the rest of their days together on Henri’s farm.

  Crystal Wood

  Winnipeg, Manitoba

  Letters of Hope

  Life holds us like the moon and the sea. Far, far apart;

  The image of the moon shines in the sea. Yours in my heart.

  Laura Thompson

  “Love is patient, love is kind. . . . It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres.” (1 Corinthians 13:4,7). Our Gran Lindsay, who lives in Burlington, Ontario, has this scripture printed on a magnet on her fridge. To visitors it is only a magnet; to our family it is a gentle reminder of a cherished family story.

  It all began with a message in the town newspaper: “For Lindsay—Darling, I am well. Hope you and the children are fine.” The year was 1943. A ham radio operator had picked up the fragmented message and directed it to the small-town newspaper.

  Martha Lindsay had waited thirteen long months for word from the Red Cross that her husband, William Lindsay, had survived the sinking of the HMS Exeter on March 1, 1942. She did her best to stay busy with the children, always keeping William in her prayers. One afternoon, the Red Cross finally contacted her with the news that she had been praying for—a William Lindsay had been located and was presently a prisoner of war.

  Martha’s heart soared: William was alive! She had never given up hope. The Red Cross told Martha to begin writing messages to William—short messages, no more than twenty-five words, on a plain, white postcard—and forwarding them to Geneva. From there, the Red Cross would try to get the postcards to William.

  Only one postcard a month was permitted. Martha began by telling William about the antics of their children, Billy and Catherine, who had been babies the last time he saw them. She also did her best to express her love and devotion to her husband on the small, white postcards. In just twenty-five words, she kept reminding him that he was loved. Two and a half agonizing years came and went without receiving an answer from William, but Martha’s faith and hope never faltered.

  One September morning in 1945, as Martha was getting ready to take the children to school, the mail carrier delivered a small scrap of paper through the mail slot. It had no envelope and no stamp. As she turned the paper over her heart began to pound. Soon her eyes filled with tears as she recognized William’s handwriting: “Martha, I’ve been released. I’m coming home.”

  On a beautiful day in October 1945, William Lindsay returned home to his family. After their tears and joy had subsided, Martha asked William if he had received her cards. Sadly, she learned that not one card had found its way to him in the prisoner-of-war camp.

  Shortly after William’s return home, there was a knock at the door one day. Martha answered and found a young sailor standing in the doorway.

  “Excuse me, are you Martha Lindsay?” he asked.

  “Yes I am,” she replied.

  “Was your husband a prisoner of war?”

  “Yes,” she whispered.

  With tears in his eyes, he introduced himself. “My name is William Lindsay. I was a prisoner of war, too.” He reached into his pocket and, very gen
tly, handed her thirty tiny white postcards tied in a ribbon.

  “I received one of these every month,” the sailor told her. “They gave me the hope that helped me to survive. From the bottom of my heart I thank you.”

  Martha just as gently placed the cards back in his hands, and he held them to his heart.

  “Love is patient, love is kind. . . . It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres” (1 Corinthians 13:4,7).

  Shelley McEwan

  Sarnia, Ontario

  as told to her by Gran Martha Lindsay

  That Sunday Afternoon

  The plan on which this life is built is somewhat like a patchwork quilt.

  E.J. Pratt

  It was the first warm day of spring, about 20° C with a clear Calgary sky and full afternoon sun. Only a handful of people were around as I jogged through the park. Ahead was an elderly gentleman in a worn cardigan, sitting on a wooden bench a few feet off the path. He was somewhat secluded, nestled among the poplars and aspens, which were leafing out and stretching their wings. He had found a shaft of sunlight wending its way among the branches; he was enjoying the radiant sun on his face.

  I was ready for a break to catch my breath and check my pulse. I sat next to him, looked at my watch, and started counting my heartbeats. After a few seconds, he interrupted my focus by asking how often I jogged. Being somewhat preoccupied with counting, I responded without making eye contact and muttered, “Two or three times a week.” He persisted and attempted to engage me in the small talk that one engages in with a stranger.