Lest we forget.
When I was a little girl, I often sat on my grandfather's (opa's) lap as he and my grandmother told stories about how they survived the Second World War in the Netherlands and shared the good and the bad things that happened. They told the stories so well I felt as if I was there with them. Oma used to say, "we need to talk about this often as we can and never, ever forget this and hope, and pray that something this horrible will never happen again.
The story I remember the most is about Liberation Day as told by my dad on his deathbed. We were talking about his life at sea as a captain and he was describing the ships he had been on, when all of a sudden he stopped, his eyes lit up and he came to life as he remembered something from much, much longer ago.
Liberation Day, May 1945 in Holland; my grandmother had heard the Canadian soldiers were only half a kilometre away and their little town in North Holland was about to be liberated. Earlier that week she had sewed, with a few rags and threads she had found, tiny little Canadian uniforms and dressed the boys in them that morning.
As they were standing on the side of road, watching the soldiers walk by and the tanks rumbled along, the whole parade came to a halt where the little boys stood in revered attention in their little uniforms at the side of the road. Then, to their amazement, they were lifted onto the tanks and got to roll into town with the Canadian soldiers, who brought food, freedom and hope.
It was a monumental event in my dad's life and was the reason we moved to Canada in 1975.
I will always remember Oma's words, and try to tell as many people through songs and stories what happened and why we never ever forget
