War-torn Christmases are treasured to this day By HUBERT BEYER WHEN | was a kid, a year lasted forever, The four weeks leading up to Christmas alone were longer, somehow, than the time between elections these days. Christmas in my childhood Germany was the glorious culmination of a month filled with anticipation and the warmth of family life, The four Sundays before Christmas were exciting har- bingers. In preparation of the four Advent Sundays, we would make a large wreath of pine branches adorned with tinsel, decorations and four candles. On the fourth Sunday before Christmas, we would light one candle and sing Advent songs. On the third Sunday before the big day, two candles would be lit, and so on. And all the while, mother would be baking cookies. Nothing brings back memories of Christmases of my childhood more powerfully than the smell of cookies baking. Mind you, for a while there, as ingredients got scarcer and searcet during the war, mother’s-cookies didn't turn out quite right. EF remember one year, it must have been 1943, when . most of the things that go into baking were not to be had. Whatever ingredients mother managed to scrounge re- sulted in look-alike cookies, but that was about it. Try as we might, we couldn't take a bite out of the cookies. They were hard as rock. Dad, wha was home on furlough, called them “Panzerplatten,” tank plates. He said we should send them to the army for use as tank armour. Needless to say, nobody really cared about the coo- kies. The most important thing was that the family was ‘together for another Christmas, something that could not be taken for granted during those terrible years of de- struction and death. Another image from that year is forcing its way back into my memories. When we picked dad up at the Dus- seldorf railway station, we saw a grizzled soldier, a pri- vate, stepping off the train. Everything in his looks and bearing told us that he had come from the Russian front. When he passed a young lieutenant without saluting, the whipper-snapper, who had obviously not been close to any front, barked at the private ordering him to salute. The old soldier turned, looked at the milky-faced aan S> Se Se ie ais we May your Christmas be Se jilled with — hope, joy and love J . #4, Merry Christmas and she Ne Ny NG - Happy New Year 4 Dr. Peter Okimi 4 wee and staff eas : > | SesYlat ek ye - 39,.5¢ PER LITRE From Our Family To Yours. ss Best Wishes For ASafe And ‘4% Merry Christmas. Convert your vehicle to... 100% FINANCING avatlable upon request, WE’RE STILL THE LOWEST lieutenant, opened. the lop of his gray coat and re- vealed a Knight's Cross, the highest decoration for brav- ery, And as the young licu- tenant snapped to a salute in turn, the old soldier just shuffled off. I don,t know why I am thinking of this soldier this Christmas, except that maybe it was his last be- cause he was bound to be sent back to the Russian front. Dad, tao, had to go back, but fortunately not the Rus- sian front. He was-stationed with the Luftwaffe in what he called the Northern front, Norway, where he did not fire one shot during the four years he was there. That year turned out to be the last Christmas of the war we were able to spend together. By Christmas 1944, my brother Karl Heinz was drafted at the age of 15 and Sent to the Russian front, which by then was in Czechos- lovakia, and dad didn’t get leave to come home. Miraculously, my brother survived the war, and by Christmas of 1946, our family was reunited. A bleak Christmas in many ways, it was also one of the most memorable ones. We were hungry because food was scarce. We were cold, because there was no coal. We were shabbily clothed. But we were all together again, which was more than many families were allowed. Dad would be with us for another 29 Christmases and mother for another two, although for many of those 1 was separated from the rest of the family because I had made Canada my new home. With all the misery and horror of war that accompany the images of those Christmases past, [ wouldn’t trade them for all the electronic toys in the world. Hubert Beyer writes from Victoria and provides a weekly column oa provincial poltical matters to The Ter- race Standard. 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