Chicken Soup for the Canadian Soul (17 page)

I waited anxiously by the finish line as the first runners completed the two-and-a-half kilometres of forest trails. Soon all of the other runners had come in and another race had begun. Still no David! I started to feel sick. Had I done the wrong thing? He hadn’t checked out the trail with the other runners. Could he have become lost? Finally, a small figure emerged from the forest. With heels kicking out to the side and his body rocking with the rhythm of his run, David plodded toward the home stretch. He raised his arms in triumph as he crossed the finish line to wild cheers and applause.

Then, when David’s coach slapped him on the back and said proudly, “Good job, David!” he caught my eye, flashed me a toothy grin and said, “That was easy!”

At the end of the year, the track coach asked the class to nominate one of their classmates for the athletic award for their grade. Without hesitation the whole class voted for David, saying that no one had worked harder for that award than he.

It was an amazing moment at our year-end assembly. The auditorium resounded with cheering and applause when David came forward and received his award for outstanding athletic achievement—from his beaming coach.

Linda Chamberlayne
Kelowna, British Columbia

The Making of a Miracle

T
o the immigrant who comes on dreams and
bears the mirror that reflects us all. Keep faith—
this place is capable of miracles.

Lindalee Tracey
A Scattering of Seeds

It had been five long years without our little daughter. How can I explain the desperate feeling? The situation seemed hopeless. We’d been in Canada for five years and had just received our fourth rejection letter from the Hungarian government. There was no explanation—as usual—just a short statement: “Your request cannot be fulfilled at this time.”

In 1945, while fighting in Hungary against the invading Soviet forces, I was captured and forced to spend the next six years in a Soviet camp doing hard labour. My wife and I had been married only two months when I was captured, so we weren’t reunited until April 1951. After my release, I was forced into exile as a state farm worker. Although she did not have to, my wife went with me voluntarily. Our beautiful baby daughter was born on August 15, 1952, while we were in exile.

After Stalin’s death in 1953, my exile ended. My wife had a residency permit back in Budapest, Hungary, but as a former deportee, this status was denied to me. So I lived illegally with her in Budapest—where I worked as a bricklayer— in constant fear of being found out and arrested. In order to protect our beloved daughter, we sent her to live with my parents in a town close to the eastern border.

I was a strong supporter of the Hungarian freedom fighters, and in 1956, when they were subdued by the Soviets after a spontaneous uprising, we were suddenly forced to flee. First we headed for my parents’ home to get our daughter, but our attempts to reach her failed. The Danube River flowed between Budapest and the town where my parents lived, and all the bridges that would have allowed us to cross the river were guarded as a result of the uprising. Budapest was now under siege, and we were in great personal danger. Despite our terrible despair over leaving our daughter behind, we had to leave.

With the help of some very good people, we made our escape from Hungary to Austria and eventually to Canada and to freedom. We settled in Winnipeg and started a new life. Our beautiful little daughter was only three years old when we came to Canada and began the process of applying for her to come join us in Winnipeg. Little did we know how many years it would take.

When we received our fourth rejection from the Hungarian government, I feared for my wife’s emotional health. First she had waited six years for me to return from captivity; she had now been waiting another five years for our daughter to return to us. How much could one person endure? The most frustrating part of it was that with each rejection we were required to wait another six months before making another application.

Another six months! I couldn’t bear waiting one moment longer. We had become Canadian citizens and were so very grateful for that, but the seemingly simple matter of reuniting our family remained out of our reach.

One day my wife said to me, “I’m going to pray for the intervention of St. Jude. He is the patron saint of hopeless causes.”

“Fine with me,” I replied. But I had lost faith in such supernatural intervention long ago. At that time, I was working in the basement of a downtown building in the evening as a sculptor. Day after day, after finishing my regular job, I went to work for a church supplies company for a few extra dollars. The bonus was, I was allowed to use the facilities for some of my own work—and sculpture is an art form that really requires a work space. In the church basement I was surrounded by dusty plaster figures of various saints. My job was to finish them and prepare them for painting.
Hollow lifeless figures,
I thought to myself.
Ridiculous to expect any help from them.

But what did I have to lose? Why not take a chance? One evening I made a sudden decision. I dropped my work pail and went to the heap of wood where I often chose pieces for my own carvings. There I found a nice block of basswood that seemed to offer itself up for the task I was planning.

I began to envision the features of St. Jude. I had to see him first in my imagination. In a sudden flash, I saw a bearded face full of dignity and hope.
That’s it!
I thought. I put my chisel to the wood and started carving like I’d never carved before. The hours slipped away. Usually I arrived home at eight every evening, but on this occasion it was well past ten when I finally entered our little attic apartment.

I realized immediately that my wife was very agitated. “Where have you been?” she cried. “I was anxious to reach you, but there is no phone in that basement!”

“Why, what happened!” I asked.

“Look!” she said excitedly. “A new response from the Canadian government. They put some pressure on the Hungarian government, and they have finally relented. They’re letting her go! Our daughter is coming to us in six weeks!”

I was speechless. Suddenly feeling weak, I reached for a chair to sit down. I gently placed my new carving on the kitchen table.

“What is that?” my wife asked.

“Don’t you see? It’s a statue of St. Jude,” I replied. I told her then the reason why I was late, about my sudden impulse to carve and about my vision of St. Jude’s face.

We looked at each other. There were no words to express our emotions. Joy, disbelief, shock—all of these and more were wrapped into one.

Six weeks later, my wife and I stood at the Winnipeg Airport waiting for the plane that would bring our daughter home to us, to Canada and to freedom. Back then, the airport was more like a barn in a large field. We saw the plane land, but it was far away across the field. I could see people disembarking. Guards were placed there to keep the waiting people back. And then, suddenly, I saw her! Our little girl—now almost ten years old! In an instant, I broke free of the guards. I ran to her and in one miraculous moment, embraced her. My heart was overjoyed. Our beloved daughter had finally come home!

Alex Domokos
Winnipeg, Manitoba

Liberation Day

T
o those who fall I say: You will not die but
step into immortality. Your mothers will not
lament your fate but will be proud to have
borne such sons. Your names will be revered
forever and ever by your grateful country, and
God will take you unto Himself.

Lieutenant-General Sir Arthur Currie
Address to the Canadian Corps, March 1918

For the citizens of Mons, a small Belgian city south of Brussels on the French border, it seemed like the horrors of the Great War would never end. Since the German occupation endless years earlier in 1914, their lives had changed forever.

For the youngest, their memories were only of bombs and artillery shells shaking their beds and making their homes fall down around them. They dreamed of tanks and guns, and of strange men in uniforms walking through their streets. They knew the smell of death better than the smell of baking bread.

For the older Belgians, their memories were of a time long-since passed . . . a time of peace that seemed a lifetime away . . . a time they feared they might never see again. Yet they lived in hope.

The first glimmer of hope arrived just after Easter in 1917 when they learned the Canadians had successfully taken Vimy Ridge. About eighty kilometres west of Mons, the Ridge had been occupied by the Germans in September of 1914. Rising over 130 metres above the surrounding land, it offered an unobscured view of all activities below. It was protected by many kilometres of trenches, underground tunnels and impenetrable walls of barbed wire. Concrete bunkers sheltering machine guns were constructed on top. Vimy Ridge became a virtually impregnable fortress.

Every Allied attempt to take Vimy had failed, but the Ridge was crucial to the Allies if they wished to win the War. The challenge was finally handed to the Canadians. In every battle they waged, the Canadian forces had been victorious, even against impossible odds. Certainly nothing seemed more impossible than conquering Vimy.

Arthur Currie was not a soldier by nature. He was, in fact, a British Columbian Realtor. But when the approach of war caused real estate to collapse, Currie joined the Canadian militia, and then devoured every book on military strategy he could find. As a result he was quickly promoted through the ranks, and by 1917, he was commander of the First Canadian Division. The burden of capturing Vimy Ridge from the German armies now fell on his shoulders.

When Currie studied past attempts at taking Vimy Ridge, he was convinced they had all been doomed to failure before they began. A completely new approach was needed—something totally unexpected. Vimy Ridge was impregnable, but he was determined to find a way to break it.

Arthur ordered intensive surveillance photos to be taken of the Ridge and all the surrounding land. These photos were then compiled into one large image of the entire area. For the first time in military history, detailed maps were made and distributed to every soldier. Meanwhile, with the help of the Allies, an exact replica of the Ridge complete with tunnels, trenches and caves, was constructed behind the front. There, Currie trained his men. After two months of intense training, the Canadians knew the Ridge as well as the Germans. Each man knew exactly where to go, and precisely what he would find when he got there.

On April 9, 1917, at 5:30 A.M., the assault began. It was daring and risky, and the Allied commands could only watch in amazement as events unfolded. Arthur Currie’s unusual offensive left the enemy scratching their heads in wonder. Instead of being bombarded by artillery as they expected, the shells fell in a solid line far across the land below. The attackers appeared either very inept or extremely cunning. At predetermined times, the bombardment advanced 100 metres toward the Ridge, and behind it, with carefully paced steps, advanced the Canadians in what would be named the Vimy Glide. Every three minutes the army moved steadily forward, 100 metres at a time, shielded by the ever-advancing artillery fire.

The advance moved forward through all the barriers, and incessantly up Vimy Ridge. Bodies lay where they fell; they would have to wait for the stretcher-bearers and medics following behind. The advance must continue, and it did. When it was over, Vimy Ridge belonged to the Allies for the first time since the beginning of the war.

On that day, 3,598 Canadian soldiers died and 7,004 more were wounded, but this victory marked the “beginning of the end.” For his efforts, General Arthur Currie was knighted by King George V on the Vimy battlefield and named commander in chief of the Canadian Expeditionary Force. Canadians were finally no longer considered simply colonials or subordinates. For the first time, they were now regarded as full Allies.

While the Germans regrouped, the Allies began forming their final offensive to liberate all of France and Belgium.

August 4, 1918, to November 11, 1918, became known as Canada’s Hundred Days. Flanked by Australian and French troops, the Canadian “spearhead” advanced steadily eastward from Amiens (northeast of Paris) through France and into Belgium. Realizing defeat was imminent, the German High Command was devastated.

The advance continued incessantly. Losses were heavy on both sides, but in the end, freedom for the beleaguered French and Belgians lay in the wake of the terrible battles and bloodshed. Finally, in the early morning hours of November 11, Canadian troops marched into Mons. The words of Victor Maistrau, bourgmestre (mayor) of Mons, describe that moment: