Remembrance Day

They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old:
Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn.
At the going down of the sun and in the morning,
We will remember them.

Remembrance Day and Remembrance Sunday.

Although yesterday in church we remembered the many men who died in the first and second World War, today it is really Remembrance Day, November 11^th.

In the small churchyard in our village there are just 17 war graves, of both Canadians, British soldiers and a Dutchman, a pilot, who had joined the RAF. Most of them were killed when their aircraft was shot down near the spot where they now lie buried. Although in the Netherlands we remember the dead on May 4^th, I am very glad that we also have a special ceremony in this 14^th century church and the surrounding churchyard near the graves of those young men. For young they were. For me it is always a very moving ceremony. The church organ is invariably played by the former mayor of this village, an amateur, whose performance touches me. A professional organist and choir master whom I know quite well, has written a special choral piece for the choir in this village to be sung on this occasion. They are getting better at it. The last post, flowers on the graves, and a salute by the veterans, fewer of those every year. It is emotional to see those veterans, who once were war heroes themselves and young. But they survived, unlike the young men buried here. They have grown old, and are leaning on canes, supported by friends or a family member, or sitting in a wheelchair or on a scooter. We do not recognize those heroes from times past. There is no glory for them. They have escaped the fate of those unfortunate pilots and fighters, but they have grown old, and age has indeed wearied them.

We put white flowers on the graves, and in the silence think of those and of all the others, of their sacrifice, the ultimate sacrifice.

It is also an emotional day for a private reason. My husband joined the RAF after the war, to work as an interpreter in Germany at the war tribunals. He interpreted from German into English and the other way round. Clever for one who had not been able to finish his highschool during the last two years of the war. Like many others in his position, he was given his diploma anyway. As he had listened in secret to the BBC during those war years, his English was quite good. And he must have had an ear for languages. Instead of having to go to Indonesia as a soldier, he served three years with the RAF in Germany. I found his RAF uniform and other paraphernalia in a wooden chest in the attic after his death, with lots of pictures of him in his uniform, a dashing figure driving an open jeep and riding a horse. He made many friends during his years of service, Irish, and British, whom he kept in contact with through the rest of his life. He would always, without exception, go to the Remembrance ceremony in this village. If I did not have to go to work, I would join him. The last time we went together, he was already very sick and drove his scooter into the church, which has a rather narrow passageway. He could no longer walk, nor drive a car as he had lost the use of his legs. Undaunted he just pushed on. I was very embarrassed when he couldn’t turn round in the church after the ceremony, and tried to manoeuvre this scooter backwards which was a disaster. Anyway, we got out. Before we went home he decided that he would chose the plot where he wanted to be laid to rest. There were a few empty plots available, and he sent me to find the caretaker so that he could make enquiries and if possible reserve a spot. An unusual request, as it could only be reserved after buying the rights to that plot. But my husband promised that he would pay on the first day of the new year, if he would still be among the living at that time, which he was determined to be. Tax wise it was more profitable to pay in the new year. The caretaker was a bit taken aback, but agreed and said he would reserve that plot for my husband. Around Christmas the caretaker phoned me and asked if the deal was still on, which I confirmed. But he did not have to wait till the new year. My husband died exactly on the last day of that same year. When I phoned the caretaker to tell him we needed that plot, he was upset and asked if my husband had deliberately died that day. A strange question, which shocked me. I paid in the new year!

Since that time I always go to this ceremony, to represent my husband who is no longer with us, and because my life too was saved by the Allies, the British and the Canadians. We - and I - owe them our freedom.

Today, Poppy Day, I stopped at this other grave, my husband’s. No poppies here, just brown and wet autumn leaves covering the grave and the name of his son who joined his father just two years later. My husband resting not far from those RAF members, no war hero but in a way strongly connected with the RAF which he had served as well as he could. And I was proud of him, of his fighting spirit, and sad because of all those things we could no longer share: the beauty of the changing seasons, the pleasures of exploring new countries, of travelling together. But thankful he had lived his life to the full, unlike those men we remembered today.