The American Cemetery

Sometimes what we don't plan for ends up being what we needed to see, something memorable and heart-stopping.

We planned for some sightseeing on our first day in England--going to Cambridge to see King's College Chapel and to explore a little bit of that city, then on to Ely (pronounced EElee) to visit the cathedral there. But along the way we passed a cemetery that I didn't know existed, one that sent a shiver through my bones and tears to my eyes. It was the resting place of the American soldiers who lost their lives in World War II while stationed in England.

Imagine rows and rows of white crosses in he midst of quiet green fields and trees; imagine each cross with a name, except for those (and there were many) with no name and only an inscription to the unknown soldier sleeping below. Imagine a cool, gray day with a few drops of rain and a light mist hovering just above the trees. Imagine our quiet voices and our sad hearts as we read the names, walked among the graves, and thought about that grim and terrible time in our world's history. But for the grace of God, my father, my uncles, my husband's uncles could also have been beneath that soft green grass.

The British government maintains the site and is currently doing restoration work to the chapel and visitors center. (I took the photo at left through the glass door so it's a little crooked). It will, I think, be stunning when complete. As it is, the cemetery shows the love and gratitude of the British people by the care that is so evident in the neat lawns, shrubs, gardens and reflecting pool.

A granite wall lists alphabetically the names of all the soldiers buried on the site. We found several from West Virginia, bringing the war even closer to home. Such a place makes one proud of their country, and mournful too--such loss of life, and all because of a mad man. So many young men, and probably a few women were there too, who would never live out their lives, see their children grow up, see their countries flourishing because they were there to fight when needed.

I will never understand war; I will never understand the urges that drive men to seek dominion over others at all costs. But I do understand bravery and sacrifice, and I was humbled in its presence.

Copyright Susanna Holstein. All rights reserved. No Republication or Redistribution Allowed without attribution to Susanna Holstein.

Pearl Harbor: A Different Kind of Story

Today is Pearl Harbor Day, a day to remember the many Americans whose lives ended or were forever changed by the bombing at the Hawaii base. My life, however, is a direct result of that horrible day.

 

My mother was a young girl of 14 at the time of Pearl Harbor, growing up in the small village of Cambridge, England.

Dad grew up in New Orleans, and at the time of the bombing his family had moved to Washington, DC when his father was transferred there by the government. When the bombs fell, Dad, like many other American men and women, signed up to fight. He was sent to the Army Air Force for training, and then to Steeple Morden Air Base near Royston, England. He wasn't happy to be there--he wanted to be in Europe fighting the Nazis or in the Pacific fighting the Japanese. Life in England wasn't all that easy, though; it was the Battle of Britain, when bombs fell nightly, blackouts were mandatory and the air raid sirens frequently sent out their alarm. But Dad chafed at not being at the front; his letters home were at first full of vigor and excitement about being in the war but gradually shifted to impatience at being only support for the US bombers and not being in the action itself.

One day while on leave he visited a local tea shop on leave one day. My mother and her mum and sisters were in line in front of him, and he started up a conversation. To hear Dad tell it, he fell in love immediately. They invited him to have tea with them; he accepted. Afterwards they went shopping, and he was invited to go with them--and he went, of course.

I asked him one day what they were shopping for, and he said, "Oh you know, ladies undergarments and things like that."

"In front of YOU?" I was stunned.

"Oh no, no," he said. "I mean they were looking at things..."

Ahem.

Anyway, Mom told him about a dance that night in her village. Would he like to come?

Dad was so excited he said yes immediately, and returned to the base on cloud nine.

He got cleaned up and then realized that he didn't know her name or the name of her village! Another soldier told him that there was a dance in a little village seven miles aay called Caldecote every Saturday night. Perhaps he'd find his girl there. With no other choice, Dad got on his bike and headed to Caldecote.  As he entered the village, he met a man and asked, "do you know where a beautiful redheaded girl lives around here?"

"Oh yes," the man said. "Turn right, and it's the last house on the left." Dad hurried down the road and followed the man's directions. When he reached the last house, he knocked confidently on the door. He'd found his English beauty!

But the lady who opened the door...well, she was no lady, or as Mom would say, she was no better than she should be. She was wearing a skin-tight dress, flame red lipstick and her hair was bright, bright red.

 

"Hel-lo, Soldier," she crooned. This was not the girl he was looking for! Dad made hasty apologies and beat a retreat. He was crushed. How would he ever find his girl? As he retraced his steps to the main road, he saw her. She was coming down the road with her mother, on her way to the dance.

 

What forces intervened to bring them together, I do not know, but come together they did, on August 5, 1944. Their lives changed forever from that chance meeting. Dad wrote home  intended to marry. Grandma wrote back that he would do no such thing, that he would return to America and attend Georgetown University like his siblings.

He never did go to college. Instead, he married his English girl at the Church of the English Maartyrs on January 11, 1945.

He was sent to Germany at the end of the war, and Mom was sent to one of the interment camps for war brides, at Royston. Dad returned to the US on November 18th; Mom had to wait to be declared legally married, healthy and fit to travel by the authorities at the camp. She left England in February 1946 and arrived at Ellis Island on March 8th. From their marriage came 13 children, much love and a story that started with war and ended after 61 beautiful years together.

You can hear this story on my upcoming CD of family stories, which will be published by March 2013.

Copyright 2012 Susanna Holstein. All rights reserved. No Republication or Redistribution Allowed without attribution to Susanna Holstein.

Reaching Back with Old Photos

Here are more photos from my mother's collection. All of these, with the exception of one, were taken during her childhood and teen years in the area around Caldecote, England. Mom's teenage years were defined by World War II, and her future was decided by the placement of an American air base at Steeple Morden.

My mother is the baby in this photo from 1927 (the year she was born) or 1928. I'd guess 1928 would be more likely, because she was born in June and she looks fairly grown in the picture. I don't know who is holding her--Aunt May, her oldest sister, perhaps? or her mother?


At three years old--look at those cute little shoes! The coat and hat look very similar to one I wore in photos from my childhood.


Mom with a favorite pet, Sunshine, in 1936.


And swimming at "Skig Ness" in 1936. I have not been able to find where this place is (but "ness" is surely in Scotland, isn't it?) , but it looks like a beautiful place to swim.

The road to Caldecote in 1944. This would have been the road Dad followed when he tried to find the red-haired English girl he met at a Cambridge tea shoppe. Here's the story:

Dad was a young American soldier stationed near Cambridge with the Army Air Force. He visited a local tea shop on leave one day. My mother and her mum were in line with him, and he started up a conversation. To hear Dad tell it, he fell in love immediately. They invited him to have tea with them; he accepted. Afterwards they went shopping, and he was invited to go with them--and he went, of course.

I asked him one day what they were shopping for, and he said, "Oh you know, ladies undergarments and things like that."

"In front of YOU?" I was stunned.

"Oh no, no," he said. "I mean they were looking at things..."

Ahem.

Anyway, Mom told him about a dance that night in Caldecote, her village. Would he like to come?

Dad was so excited he said yes immediately, and returned to the base on cloud nine. He got cleaned up that evening and headed to Caldecote. It was about that time he realized he didn't know the name of the girl he'd met. He went on into Caldecote, determined to find her. As he entered the village, he met a man and asked, "do you know where a beautiful redheaded girl lives around here?"

"Oh yes," the man said. "Turn right, and it's the last house on the left." Dad hurried down the road and followed the man's directions. When he reached the last house, he knocked confidently on the door. He'd found his English beauty!

But the lady who opened the door...well, she was no lady, or as Mom would say, she was no better than she should be. Dad made hasty apologies and beat a retreat. He was forlorn. He had no idea how to find the girl he'd met.

As he retraced his steps to the main road, he saw her. She was coming down the road with her mother, on her way to the dance.

What intervened to bring them together, I do not know, but come together they did, on August 5, 1944. Their lives changed forever from that chance meeting.

This is the place my mother grew up, a cottage on a few acres called Ashlyn. I do not know how long they lived there; it is where they lived when her father died. They owned the cottage and the land. Her father had been the manager of a "pig fahm" as Mom would say. After his death, her mother became the housekeeper for the farm owner and they moved to the farm, renting out Ashlyn, as I understood Mom's story. I'm sketchy on the details of those years.

For example, my granny was a single mother, raising four children. How did they survive? Mom did not tell stories of great deprivation. She told me once that Granny received money from the government, and perhaps some insurance money? I do not know. What Mom told me sounded like she grew up very happy and enjoying life in rural England.

Mom is on the left, Granny in the center, and an unknown child on the right in this mid-1930's photo. I am surprised my Granny did not remarry for so many years; I think she looks lovely here. But she was 63 before she met George Swindells and married him. I remember when they came to visit us after they were married. I believe I was 12 or 13. He was a happy man who seemed to enjoy being around our large family; he had a thick accent and I would have to interpret for him when we went shopping. Clerks did not seem able to understand that "strawbry ahyce" meant strawberry ice cream.

The back of this photo says "raising money for the Tommies, 1945." I suppose it must have been some sort of play? The X is over my mother's head. At this time, she was already married to my father.

And last for this series, the young couple honeymooning on Skyline Drive in Virginia in 1946, after Dad returned from Europe. How young and happy they look here! Skyline Drive was always a special place to them, and to us as we grew up. When I look at this picture, I seem them as they last were together, old and suffering from many ills, but still just as much in love as they were in 1946.

Book Review: The Pages in Between

I know people who read every book they can find on the Holocaust. I am not one of them. The topic is so horrific I cannot bring myself to delve into it too deeply.

After my father died, I found photos of a concentration camp after the end of World War II in his desk. I remembered him saying that he had been in Germany and Poland after the war, and had helped clean up a camp, but I did not know he had photos of the place. I took one look at the top photo, and quickly stuffed them back in the envelope. The pictures were too terrible for me to look at. (My family agreed later that the photos needed to go to the Holocaust Museum).

So for me to read The Pages in Between was unusual. The story, however, intrigued me: Erin Einhorn traveled to Poland to find the family that had cared for her mother when her mother's parents were taken to a concentration camp. I had heard a little of her story in an interview on This American Life, an NPR radio program, enough to whet my appetite. I wanted to know more. Would Einhorn actually find the house she was seeking? Would the Polish family welcome her? Would she find some unknown part of herself in the experience?

The answers are more complex and far more involved and interesting than a simple yes or no.

Rather than dwelling on the Holocaust itself, Einhorn focuses on the effect of the war on ordinary people--the long-term results of actions taken so long ago in desperation, and the continuing struggle of those who inherited, in one way or another, those old tragedies and joys.

Imagine this: a hurried message that the Nazis are coming; a young Jewish family taking flight, and finding in their panic a woman who is almost a stranger to care for their daughter. The father survives, the mother does not. After the war he returns for his daughter, travels to America and drops all contact with the family that sheltered, protected and nurtured his little daughter. Now imagine the Polish family who cared for and loved the little girl, only to have her abruptly taken from them after the war ended. Add a young woman seeking the truth of her past, and you have the basis for a compelling story that explores changing cultures, complex relationships and conflicting views of history.

The story takes unexpected twists as Einhorn tries to get information from her mother, who prefers to look ahead rather than behind, and as she struggles to understand what really happened to her grandparents and to the Skowronskis, the family that took her mother in. Instead of joyous reunion, for example, there is a complicated issue with the house that belonged to her grandfather, where the Skowronskis still live. As Einhorn struggles to untangle the web of the house's ownership, she finds that her dream to reunite her mother with the Skowronskis is more difficult than it might have seemed, and that feelings of wrong, abandonment and confusion had festered over the years when there was no contact between the families.

Einhorn's story kept me reading long past my bedtime. I felt her confusion and frustration, exhilaration, grief and joy. For those of us who had family members serving in or affected by the war, she opens yet another window into understanding and, I have to admit, to sadness. Would that war would be no more, so that no one had such stories to tell.

And yet, after I closed the book on the last page, I was very glad to have had the opportunity to know the people in its pages. None of us is perfect; we all have flaws. But sometimes we are given an opportunity to do what is right, and to love when that love may cause us pain in the future. Einhorn's story explores people who know these truths only too well.

Einhorn, Erin. The Pages in Between. A Touchstone Book published bySimon & Schuster, NY: 2008. $24.95

ISBN-13: 978-1-4165-5830-9

ISBN-10: 1-4165-5830-6

Vintage World War II Photos

I was browsing through my picture files, and came upon these photos from my father's time in the Army Air Force during World War II. Some of them have a little information, others do not. I decided that I will post them each week from now through October, since Dad's 85th birthday would have been October 24th. If you recognize anything and can add more information (especially if you know anything about the Steeple Morden air base, or about the photos of planes, etc), please do leave a comment.

My Dad, William I. Connelly, Jr just after boot camp.


On the HMS Queen Mary, 1943. I believe he was on his way to England at this time. He told me that they took a very circuitous route, going first to the Caribbean region, then to Scotland, I think, and south to England from there. According to Dad, it was to throw off the U-boats.

The back of the photo says" Lil Lo,Texas Hun Hunter."


A squadron flying out of Steeple Morden to Germany. Since Dad wasn't in a job that required flying, I'm not sure how he got the photo. Perhaps a friend took it, or maybe he did make a trip or two.


Transition from P-47's to P-51's, Steeple Morden, England. Probably taken in 1943 or 1944.

Book Review: Hitler's Daughter

I needed a quick read, something I could finish in an hour or two. Granddaughter Allison urged me to read a book she'd just finished, Hitler's Daughter by Jackie French.




It fit my needs so I started reading. I didn't put it down until I finished it two hours later.

The story line is simple--what if Hitler had a daughter? What if he kept her hidden away because she wasn't "perfect"? What if she had a teacher who kept up with her lessons during the war, and what if the daughter was unaware of how the world viewed her father?

What caught my attention was the role of Anna as storyteller. Like many tellers I know, she seemed to be telling a story that was being channeled through her. It was not a story that she may have wanted to tell, and yet she was compelled to continue, day after day.

Stories can be like that. They grab you, won't let you go, live in your mind and demand to be told. Hitler's Daughter grabbed me too. I wondered, what if? Although a children's book, the story line is strong and simple enough to hold anyone with the imagination to believe that perhaps, just perhaps, it might have happened just this way.

As I tell my storytelling audiences, it's as true as you believe it is.