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.

November 2nd, All Souls' Day

The day to remember the dead, those who have gone before us.

Today they remembered Prince Friso, the Dutch prince who died this summer after an accident 1,5 years earlier which left him in a coma. His funeral in August was a very quiet, private affair. But on this day the historic church in Delft where he also got married was packed with his friends, business friends and family. The beginning and the end of his married life in the same church, in the town where he went to university and where he lived for a few years. A perfect circle, although it feels that his death was terribly untimely, leaving a young family behind.

This evening I attended a special Requiem concert, in the church where my late husband and I were married. Although his remembrance service didn't take place in this church, he was buried in the small churchyard surrounding this 14^th century church, a church founded by Willibrord who landed in Katwijk, a fishing village on the North Sea coast, and walked along what used to be a branch of the river Rhine to our village where a church was built. That branch is now a canal. It is a historic spot, a place where generations have worshipped, had their new-born baptised, asked for a blessing on their marriage and buried their dead. (Interestingly this church which officially is called the Willibrord Church, is known as the Green Church due to the fact that at one time it was totally covered by ivy which has since been removed.)

This afternoon I removed the dead and soggy autumn leaves from my late husband's grave, a grave shared by his oldest son, so that their names were clearly visible again. It started raining, rain which only lasted as long as it took me to finish the job. In Italy relatives picnic on the graves of their dead on this particular day, but the weather here usually isn't appropriate for al fresco dining.

 Peter Sculthorpe, Requiem for Cello

The Requiem concert this evening was special. And very modern.

A Requiem for cello by Peter Sculthorpe was the framework, filled in by various pieces of requiem music, both old and modern. The cello parts were extremely difficult, and often very moving, but I did not know the piece and I think it takes time to appreciate Sculthorpe's  music, and to familiarise oneself with his compositions.

 Howells Requiem 2

The choir sang parts of Herbert Howells Requiem, as well as Versa est in luctum by Alonso Lobo, a 16^th century composer, followed by a very modern Miserere by Rudi Tas (*1957-), this last composition together with the cello.

Rudi Tas

The men sang a Gregorian lament, Libera me Domine, standing in a circle.

In spite of all this beautiful and clever music, I felt the strong urge to listen to some more traditional Requiem Masses, preferring Fauré and Dvorak. It is brave that this small choir dares to tackle this difficult and modern repertoire. But personally I found it hard to get into the mood of the evening, as I had to concentrate so much to understand the modern compositions.

It rained when I left the church. Symbolic for our tears, the tears we shed for the departed? If beloved relatives died years ago, is it really for them that we cry, or is it the awareness of our own mortality, of the near futility of our lives, the unimportance of our daily worries and struggles? We will be forgotten and who will remember us? But then there is the ethereal Lux Aeterna, the eternal light, which passes all understanding.

 Alonso Lobo, Versa est in Luctum