Read Chicken Soup for the Canadian Soul Online
Authors: Jack Canfield
Chicken Soup for the Canadian Soul (18 page)
At five in the morning of the 11th, I saw the shadow
of a man and the gleam of a bayonet advancing stealthily
along that farther wall, near the Café des Princes.
Then another shadow, and another. They crept across
the square, keeping very low, and dashed north toward
the German lines.
I knew this was liberation. Then, above the roar of
artillery, I heard music, beautiful music. It was as
though the Angels of Mons were playing. And then I
recognized the song and the musician. Our carillonneur
(church bell ringer) was playing ‘O Canada’ by candlelight.
This was the signal. The whole population rushed
into the square, singing and dancing, although the
battle still sounded half a mile away.
In the city hall at six in the morning I met some
Canadians and we drank a bottle of champagne together.
We did not know that this was the end of the war.
The dawn revealed a strange sight in the square. The
Canadian troops, exhausted from their long offensive,
lay sleeping on the cobblestones while all Mons danced
around them.
That same morning, on the eleventh hour of the eleventh day of the eleventh month, the Armistice was
F
rom the beginning of life to its end,
love is the only emotion which matters.
June Callwood
For Better or For Worse
®
by Lynn Johnston
FOR BETTER OR FOR WORSE.
©United Feature Syndicate. Reprinted by permission.
When Henri Bissette of Sherbrooke, Québec, went off to fight in World War I in 1917, he left behind his love of four years, Émilie Chevrier. The two wrote to each other faithfully. Letters could not always cross the battle lines, however, and eventually their writing became less frequent.
Émilie missed Henri terribly and constantly prayed for his safe return. One day in April 1918, Henri’s family received a letter informing them that their son was “missing in action.”
When Émilie heard the report she was devastated and refused to believe that Henri was gone. Six months later, when no further information had been received, Émilie finally realized that she would never see her beloved again.
Five months after the armistice was signed, ending the Great War, Émilie received a letter that Henri had written almost one year earlier. In it, he wrote about his feelings of desperation and his longing to leave the horrific war. His only desire was to return home to Canada so that he and Émilie could be married. The letter reassured Émilie that Henri’s love was a true one, and although she kept all his letters, she treasured this one the most.
Émilie felt deep in her heart that she could never love another man as much as she loved Henri. He was her one true love, and she promised herself that she would never marry. In 1921, however, she met a kind, caring man named Joseph who she married shortly thereafter. They moved to Ottawa, where they raised a family of four children and lived happily until Joseph passed away in 1959.
Émilie was sixty years old when Joseph died, and her full-grown children were living lives of their own. Finding herself alone, she decided to return to her hometown of Sherbrooke, Québec, to enjoy her retirement years.
One day while out shopping, Émilie met an old school friend and the two reminisced about their past. During their conversation her friend mentioned Henri—she hadn’t known about his war experience or his being “missing in action.” When Henri’s name came up, Émilie told her friend about everything that had occurred over forty years ago.
When she heard the story, her friend replied, “How odd! I’m sure I remember hearing that Henri bought a farm up north in the 1930s.”
Émilie assured her friend that she must have been misinformed. After the two parted company, however, Émilie couldn’t help wondering about the woman’s story.
Could
it be true?
she wondered. Surely, if Henri were alive, the two of them would be together now. Émilie needed to know the truth, but Henri’s family had long since passed away. She began to investigate on her own and soon discovered that there was a Henri Bissette—he owned a farm just west of Trois-Rivières, Québec. Émilie decided to visit Trois-Rivières and make a trip out to the farm. She did not hold out much hope that she would really find her Henri. It was over forty years since she had received word of his death. In all likelihood, when the farmhouse door opened, she would simply find some farmer standing there—one who might be amused by her story.
When Émilie arrived at the farm and knocked on the door, however, she received the shock of her life. As the door opened, a farmer indeed stood there, but it was her own beloved Henri! He was greatly aged, of course, but still as handsome as she remembered. Henri gasped, recognising her instantly, and whispered, “Émilie!”
The two fell into each other’s arms, so overcome with emotion that for several minutes all they could do was hug each other, crying and trembling. A lifetime had passed since they had last seen each other, but now it felt as if no time had passed at all.
When they calmed down, they both started to talk at once about what had happened over the years. Henri explained that after being wounded, he had spent over a year and a half recuperating in a hospital in Europe. When he finally did return to Sherbrooke, his family told him that the heartbroken Émilie, believing he was dead, had married and moved to Ottawa. They had no other information about her whereabouts. Henri was greatly saddened, but didn’t want to disrupt Émilie’s happiness in her life. He bought his farm shortly after, and had lived alone there all these years. He had never married because he knew that Émilie was his one true love.
With tears running down her face, Émilie pulled Henri’s wartime letters from her purse.
“I never forgot you either, Henri,” she said. “These letters have meant more to me over the years than you can ever know. I would always read them over and over when I began to feel sad, and it made me so happy to remember that you were the most special part of my life.”
All at once the forty years of separation melted away. Finding each other had made them happier than they had ever been. Shortly after their reunion, they were married, and spent the rest of their days together on Henri’s farm.
Crystal Wood
Winnipeg, Manitoba
L
ife holds us like the moon and the sea.
Far, far apart;
The image of the moon shines in the sea.
Yours in my heart.
Laura Thompson
“Love is patient, love is kind. . . . It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres.” (1 Corinthians 13:4,7). Our Gran Lindsay, who lives in Burlington, Ontario, has this scripture printed on a magnet on her fridge. To visitors it is only a magnet; to our family it is a gentle reminder of a cherished family story.
It all began with a message in the town newspaper: “For Lindsay—Darling, I am well. Hope you and the children are fine.” The year was 1943. A ham radio operator had picked up the fragmented message and directed it to the small-town newspaper.
Martha Lindsay had waited thirteen long months for word from the Red Cross that her husband, William Lindsay, had survived the sinking of the HMS
Exeter
on March 1, 1942. She did her best to stay busy with the children, always keeping William in her prayers. One afternoon, the Red Cross finally contacted her with the news that she had been praying for—a William Lindsay had been located and was presently a prisoner of war.
Martha’s heart soared: William was alive! She had never given up hope. The Red Cross told Martha to begin writing messages to William—short messages, no more than twenty-five words, on a plain, white postcard—and forwarding them to Geneva. From there, the Red Cross would try to get the postcards to William.
Only one postcard a month was permitted. Martha began by telling William about the antics of their children, Billy and Catherine, who had been babies the last time he saw them. She also did her best to express her love and devotion to her husband on the small, white postcards. In just twenty-five words, she kept reminding him that he was loved. Two and a half agonizing years came and went without receiving an answer from William, but Martha’s faith and hope never faltered.
One September morning in 1945, as Martha was getting ready to take the children to school, the mail carrier delivered a small scrap of paper through the mail slot. It had no envelope and no stamp. As she turned the paper over her heart began to pound. Soon her eyes filled with tears as she recognized William’s handwriting: “Martha, I’ve been released. I’m coming home.”
On a beautiful day in October 1945, William Lindsay returned home to his family. After their tears and joy had subsided, Martha asked William if he had received her cards. Sadly, she learned that not one card had found its way to him in the prisoner-of-war camp.
Shortly after William’s return home, there was a knock at the door one day. Martha answered and found a young sailor standing in the doorway.
“Excuse me, are you Martha Lindsay?” he asked.
“Yes I am,” she replied.
“Was your husband a prisoner of war?”
“Yes,” she whispered.
With tears in his eyes, he introduced himself. “My name is William Lindsay. I was a prisoner of war, too.” He reached into his pocket and, very gently, handed her thirty tiny white postcards tied in a ribbon.
“I received one of these every month,” the sailor told her. “They gave me the hope that helped me to survive. From the bottom of my heart I thank you.”
Martha just as gently placed the cards back in his hands, and he held them to his heart.
“Love is patient, love is kind. . . . It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres” (1 Corinthians 13:4,7).
Shelley McEwan
Sarnia, Ontario
as told to her by Gran Martha Lindsay
T
he plan on which this life is built is somewhat
like a patchwork quilt.
E.J. Pratt
It was the first warm day of spring, about 20° C with a clear Calgary sky and full afternoon sun. Only a handful of people were around as I jogged through the park. Ahead was an elderly gentleman in a worn cardigan, sitting on a wooden bench a few feet off the path. He was somewhat secluded, nestled among the poplars and aspens, which were leafing out and stretching their wings. He had found a shaft of sunlight wending its way among the branches; he was enjoying the radiant sun on his face.
I was ready for a break to catch my breath and check my pulse. I sat next to him, looked at my watch, and started counting my heartbeats. After a few seconds, he interrupted my focus by asking how often I jogged. Being somewhat preoccupied with counting, I responded without making eye contact and muttered, “Two or three times a week.” He persisted and attempted to engage me in the small talk that one engages in with a stranger.