a German outpost

dwarfed by the Russian giant nearby.

Skiing to school

in winters of iceberg temperatures

minus thirty and below,

swimming in pristine lakes

on steaming summer days,

walking through the cooling shade

of fresh-smelling pines,

the small hand engulfed

so safely,

so securely,

in the father’s,

feeling so proud,

so happy,

so warm,

so loved.

A big sister to three,

a younger to two others,

one of a handful of girls

in a grammar school¹ of boys,

diligence driving her again and again

to fall asleep over books,

to gain the reward of good grades

and the praise of teachers inspiring.

Sport, biology, English

no problem at all,

but math and physics

a different story;

sixth form² classes

with pupils few,

for the oldest boys,

her brother, too,

have gone to fight and die

in honor, they say,

on the Eastern front.

But war or no war,

nothing deflects

from her goal of study.

A levels³ she passes with

countless distinctions,

and so to university

to realize her dream

to become a doctor,

a doctor for children,

to help and heal

to care and share.

Two terms at university,

then books and lectures

she abruptly leaves —

a letter from the father adored,

soldiering in Leningrad,

foretelling the disaster to come.

The family must flee

from the Russian advance,

shedding tears for a father

they’ll see no more.

Hour upon hour

in horse and cart

on the long journey West,

Hamburg their goal,

along tracks barely passable,

thick with refugees,

leaving the happy land of childhood

for the future of uncertainty and fear.

The brother lying wounded

in a hospital southeast of Prague,

so farewell to family

when they reach Berlin.

The long trek shared with

the brother’s young wife,

anxious and afraid,

squeezed like sardines

in the back of an ammunition truck,

no longer stuffed with bullets and shells

but with Russian prisoners’ coats,

destined for German soldiers at the front,

then by train to Prague...

But a city in turmoil

and frenzied revolt they meet —

Czechs rebelling against

wartime oppressors —

so German barracks they seek,

a refuge from fires and shooting,

till a ceasefire agreed,

leaving at midnight

without brother, without hope,

back on foot from whence they came,

in sweltering, stifling heat,

jeered on by locals

offering poisoned water

to the sun-parched German throats,

whilst the brother’s shiny, new officers’ boots,

two sizes too big and

for the bulging rucksacks too large,

rub, rub, rub, rub, rub,

the suffering, silent feet.

The town of Pilsen in sight,

forty-odd miles

from German borders.

Soldiers there,

odd-looking helmets,

the Americans,

how come?

“The war’s over,” she hears.

Relief overwhelmed by

fatigue and pain,

and a doctor called to treat

the young girl for exhaustion

and brutally blistered feet.

Then by hook and by crook

to Hamburg they must,

no trains, no buses, no planes,

but from south to north they must go.

A journey of months it will be,

lorries and feet sharing the load

and pages of an English dictionary,

discarded by a German soldier,

helping to while away

long, tedious hours on the road.

Sleeping fitfully

in airless air-raid towers

and suffocating barns,

rivers and streams,

pumps and wells

washing off the dirt and heat

of miles and miles and miles.

Hamburg they finally reach,

delight at the sight of family reunited,

even the brother thought hopelessly lost

in that hospital near Prague,

their ears made sharp and sensationally keen

by his tale of escape on the last train out,

bodies shuddering with fear,

realizing what a close shave it had been.

Through bombed ruins

she makes her way each day

to British Army HQ,

showing German clerks

how to impress with

expert, efficient administration,

teaching them mind-blowing,

bewildering, English ordnance jargon.

A slice of bread her breakfast and supper,

a soup of water for lunch,

hunger pangs her constant companion.

Then one day no food left —

digging under cover of darkness

for vegetables to feed

starving brothers and sisters,

face wet with streaming tears.

But starvation knows no shame,

no dishonor,

no deceit,

swallowing all

in the aftershock of war.

Yet still she takes pride

in smartness and fashion,

hours spent conjuring up clothes

from this rag and that,

hands weaving magic

with needle and thread.

Catching the eye

of an English colonel

with a well-informed mind

and attractive appearance and manner.

An unhurried courtship

leading to announcement of marriage

and good-byes said to family and friends;

then off to the land

her husband calls home,

to a life of new hope and success.

 

 All so strange this new country,

adapting to customs unknown,

spellings so odd and funny,

shorthand and typing, too,

a secretary valued by bosses

for reliability and punctuality,

efficiency extreme,

but what of the pediatrician,

her longed-for, childhood dream?

Gone up in the smoke

of the burning bombs,

other things to focus on now,

no time for regrets

with two screaming infants in tow.

Decorating an old, worn-out house,

busy from morn till night,

then translations to do till three,

useful money it brings

for a family’s needs, you see.

But translations aren’t enough,

when school fees have to be paid,

so off to work she goes,

to London each day by train,

rising at four for weeks on end

when railways strike,

though the stress would drive

many others around the bend.

Yet even she succumbs at last,

two weeks she’s off,

made ill by the strain,

work has to get by

without her for once,

till she’s fit again.

Application intense

and energy immense,

no problem for this woman

of German descent.

Hard work her friend,

her family and house her rewards

in this life she has made across the sea.

A British citizen of many years,

yet still the voice betrays

an accent ever so slightly,

indefinably different,

and her desire for tidiness precise,

for everything in its place

and cleanliness supreme,

for work to be done just so

and attention to details minute,

still give clues to the land of her birth.

But to return is not her wish,

here she will most certainly stay,

walking, reading,

badminton, gardening

giving clear purpose to her day.

A wild, overgrown bush —

what to do?

Pull it out, of course,

no other choice,

spade, push,

root, pull,

push and pull,

pull and push,

pull and push...

“Ow! Not that leg,

my bad hip.

Forgot again...

Got to shift.”

Toiling with the energy

of someone barely forty,

though her years number now

(would you believe?)

a massive one and eighty.

Planting and cutting,

digging and weeding

regardless of time,

ignoring the cuts, the bruises,

the aches and the pains,

because to do nothing and lie back

would be infinitely worse,

in short —

a villainous crime.

A remarkable woman

who laughs at the conduct expected

of old fogies aged eighty and more;

the pursuit of her passions

infusing energy into her days

and cementing the resolve

to vanquish all problems,

events that serve merely

to engage mind and body,

extracting solutions

of admirable resource and

great ingenuity.

How many of us follow

our passion in life?

How many of us grow old

in grayness and lethargy

because we never

listen to the heart’s joy,

destined to fill our soul with

rainbow-like vitality?

The daughter gives thanks

for this woman of resolute will

who refuses to wallow

in past tragedies, disappointments,

upheavals and strife,

living in the here and now

of the autumn of her life

and living it in a blaze of vibrant color.

May each day in the seasons

of our lives glow likewise

with iridescent rainbows

of passion and joy,

so we can live life to the full

and help and heal

and care and share

like this woman,

exceptional and extraordinary,

whom in another time, another place,

one unthinkingly called an “enemy.”