Chapter 2
Alex’s Story
I was 19 when I enlisted. I’m not sure why, but I kind of thought it was my duty. My parents had come to Canada from the Ukraine seeking a better life, and they had much to be thankful for. They’d worked hard, and it had been tough, but they loved the new country they now called home. And now, we were in a war with Germany, which was running amok throughout both Eastern and Western Europe.
My older brother Tom had recently married, and his wife didn’t want him to go and fight. My other brother, David, had been diagnosed with a heart murmur and been deemed unfit for service. My sister Elena was helping the war effort by working in a car parts factory; so it fell to me, the youngest, to represent our family. I made my way to the recruitment office, birth certificate in hand, and signed up.
Less than a month later, the night before I was due to go, I was packing an old battered suitcase of my parents with my meager belongings. As I was folding a shirt, there was a knock on the door of the room I shared with my brother.
“Come in.”
“Alex,” my mother said as she came in, her eyes brimming with tears. She’d been like this for the last few days. She took the shirt from me, folded it better than I ever could, and gently placed it in the suitcase. She reached for the one remaining shirt I had sitting on the bed and folded it too.
“Thanks, Mom.”
“Alex, sit with me a minute,” she said in her broken English as she patted a spot on the bed beside her. I sat down next to her and she took my hands in hers. My own eyes started to well up as her soft hands stroked mine, just as they had when I was a child. “Alex, I going to miss you. You…..you still my baby, you know.” We both smiled at that, but I saw a tear run down her cheek. I saw the love in her eyes, and I felt a tear trickle down my cheek as well.
“I’m going to miss you too, Mom.”
“I have something for you.” She reached into the pocket of her apron and drew forth a powderblue handkerchief. “I want you to take this, to keep it with you always. It make sure you come home safe to me.”
My heart shuddered with anguish as she pressed it into my palm, the soft fabric comforting in my grasp.
“Promise me you do that for me?” she asked, her voice quivering with emotion.
“I promise,” I replied, wrapping my arms around her, the handkerchief clutched tightly in my hand. She hugged me back, and I felt her shaking as she cried. She finally drew back and lifted her apron, wiping her eyes as she stood up.
“Okay, you get good night sleep now.” She leaned forward and took my face in her hands and kissed my forehead, her lips lingering a long time before she stepped back. “Good night, my son,” she said as she paused in the doorway. I could see her fighting to control her emotions, and I knew those weren’t the last tears she’d be shedding tonight.
“Good night, Mom.” I was barely able to choke out the words myself, my throat feeling like I’d swallowed an apple.
She closed the door and I sat looking at the handkerchief, a reassuring warmth seeming to spread from the soft blue fabric right through my body as I held it. I carefully folded it and tucked it inside my little suitcase, hoping my mother was right: that it would bring me home safe.
I slept fitfully that night and said goodbye to my siblings the next morning as they left for work. My dad took a couple of hours off from his job at the foundry, allowing him and my mother to see me off on the bus. At the station, we stood with a number of others in the same situation; young men going off to war, their families sadly saying their last goodbyes. I looked around at the others, wondering how many of them would never come home again, and praying that I wasn’t going to be in that group. A noisy backfire interrupted the ongoing chatter and we all turned and watched as a battered old school bus lurched to a halt, the driver levering open the door.
“Good luck, son,” my father said as he shook my hand. I instinctively took it, realizing that this was the first time I had ever shaken his hand. I was surprised at how soft his hand was, but how strong his grip was at the same time. I immediately wondered since I was his son, if my handshake was the same. It was funny the things you think of at certain times.
“Thanks, Dad,” I replied as he reached forward with his other hand and squeezed my shoulder affectionately. It brought tears to my eyes; that handshake and comforting touch was the closest my father and I had been in years. He finally stepped back, his eyes brimming with tears.
“Alex,” my mother said as she hugged me, her frail body trembling as she cried. “I love you, my boy, I love you.”
“I love you too, Mom,” I whispered into her ear as I held her close. “And I will come home safe to you. I promise.” She let me go and my father held her as she wept. He gave me a little nod, letting me know it was time to go.
I wiped my eyes with the back of my hand as I picked up my suitcase and made my way onto the bus. I felt that lump in my throat again and it took all my willpower to hold back the tears. I looked out the window as my parents stood and watched as the bus drove away, my eyes zeroing in on my mother’s tiny hand clutched tightly onto the lapel of my father’s jacket as he held her, wondering if I’d ever see them again.