Kitchener Waterloo Collegiate and Vocational School - Grumbler Yearbook (Kitchener, Ontario Canada)

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Help W antejl g Henry Anderson threw down his paper. Another European Relief drive, he grumbled as he swallow- ed his coffee and darted a hurried glance at his watch. Do they think we're made of money '? If they go on at this rate they'll soon be making collections over there for our benefitln The clock struck, and with a smothered yelp the irate Mr. Anderson snatched his hat and made his daily sprint for the bus. At that moment a shivering child was trudging along a storm- dlrenched Czechoslovakian road. The rain was cold in Novy Bydzov, a bitter cold that overcame hunger, and tiredness, and grief. The child stumbled in the midnight blackness, and as his bruised and bleeding feet tripped among the bricks and rubble he began to cry. It was not a loud sobbing that quivered from his trembling lips but a low wail that seemed to pour out all the anguish and longing of his childish soul. He was alone. The enormity of that single word overwhelmed him as his haunted eyes darted about trying to pierce the darkness and find some sign of life. Life there was indeed, but not the kind he sought. Rats scurried along the gutters and around the corner he could hear the frenzied snarling of starving dogs. They were familiar sounds and brought no fear to him. So, exhausted by weeping and the day's hardships the child curled his meagre little body in the corner of what had once been a house and dropped off to sleep. One hears much of the gentle sleep of childhood. Even this was not for him. Behind his sleep- sealed eyes stole visions of his former life at home in the lovely hills of Bieskid. There had been a little cottage then and a gentle cow which grazed near the door and f,ruci: H.-xu.. A XIII Il shook her bell with a wonderful jangle whenever you shouted at her. But it was wrong to shout, Mamma said, and if you did you would have no milk with your sup- per. What milk it was tool rich with yellow gobs of cream dancing at the top and so cool and good as it slipped down your thirsty throat. The child always drank two big mugs-full every night, and so did Nicolai, his brother, but little Mari could only manage one. Pretty was Mari with her dark laughing eyes and the smoking hair which was forever straying into her face. Sometimes that hair drove Mamma nearly frantic, but Oh! how proud she was when it was brushed sleekly back and tied with two perky crimson bows. Strange that whenever the child thought of Mari he remembered those little bows. But not so strange perhaps when you remember that in those days he was only five. Then the Germans came. With- out warning they descended upon the village, and the old happy life evaporated like smoke before the people's startled eyes. Some talked of broken treaties and agreements. but what were these to the common folk of the Bieskid? They were soon to learn. The child's father was sent with the other men of the village to work in munitions factories in the Fatherland. That was the beginning of the hard times, for with Papa gone. there was no money, and food was be- coming scarcer all the time. No milk there was then, and as the worried look sank deeper into Mamma's eyes little Mari took sick. Her once chubby body grew frail and white while her questioning eyes grew larger and darker than ever. The doctor who came gave her illness a long name. but Blam- 20 THE GRUMBLER

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Contributed by Neville Bishop, A X LUCUZ OIZ GRACE HALL. A XIII B Sunlight smiles upon the river. antl the perfume-laclen air Spills its fragrance o'er the zrater lilfe the blessing of a prayer: But. unmintlful of the beauty as she softly glitles along Chanting lzer last lovely lyrics. slozcly goes the flying Slltlll. Sings sl1e of the silvery moonlight on the silence of a lalre. Anil tl1e flancing reetls at tzcilight zchich the playful :ephyrs shalfe. Antl the ecstasy of flying: as hier anguishetl heart is stirretl To the heavens soars that music uhiclz by mortals ne'er is hearzl. For the melofly that rises. sobbing. lilting. soaring high. ls the mystic air thatls chanted by the stars in ,Iliclrziglzfs shy. Then it quivers into silence. as in solitary state Down the sunset gleam she passes. prouflly. on to meet her fate. THE GRUMBLER 19

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ma said in her strangely dead voice that it really meant that lVlari was starving. For a few pathetic days she struggledg then her little eye- lids closed and they said that she was dead. Her grave was so very tiny but then Mari was such a little thing, only three years old. And Mamma cried. The child turned restlessly in his sleep. In his dreams he saw again his brother when he came to say good-bye. Nicolai was sixteen and a man, so he was going to join the Underground and kill the Nazis. lVlamma's pleading was unheeded: so at last she kissed him sadly and sent+him bravely on his way. Now Mikul, my little one, she had said, You are all I have leftg you must be a man and help your poor mamma. And the child had proudly agreed as he squared his thin shoulders and envisioned the duties before him. He was almost eight by this time. So the years had sped past although each day had seemed to creep painfully by with weighted footsteps. Nicolai was captured in Zilina eight months later. They shot him. When, many months afterwards, word reached his home village, Mamma didn't cry. She just sat quietly in the silent kitchen and the last light died in her eyes. She was sitting there when the village was bombed. Mikul had gone into the forest to collect wood and while he was in the midst of its green coolness he heard the throbbing roar of the mighty wave of aero- planes which winged high over- head. Dropping his sticks he ran swiftly home to tell his mother of the wonders he had seen. She wasn't there. Neither was the cot- tage nor the ones on either side. Most of the sleepy little street was in ruins, and where the great ware- house on the corner had stood there remained only a yawning crater. Some said that the Germans had used the deserted old building to store ammunitiong perhaps they did. The child only knew that his mother was gone and that he was alone. He turned and stumbled back into the woods. Hour after hour he trudged on, knowing only that somehow, somewhere, he must find his father and leave the bitter memory of the village forever be- hind. But hours passed into days, and months and a year. People were kind, although a homeless child had long been a common sight, but there was so little that they could share. During the warmer months he slept in any protected corner. but as winter clamped the land in an icy grip he was compelled to beg shelter from kindly folk along the way. Some were able to give him odd bits of clothing to replace his tattered rags, and this, together with scraps of food enabled him to continue painfully along the way. The long weeks dragged by, each taking him closer to Germany by a few weary miles. Rumours came to his ears of great battles to the west and east but they meant little to him. Battles brought only noise and killing. and the child had had enough of both. So he trudged doggedly on. Gne day as he entered a town a great commotion surged about his ears and his amazed eyes beheld people laughing and shouting as they danced in the streets. Swas- tikas were torn down and burned as shriek after shriek proclaimed victory. Mikul was terrified. Any minute the Gestapo would come and he must flee at once. So think- ing, he hid in the shadowy out- skirts of the town till morning. then silently, stealthily he hurried along his way. To his amazement he met no Germans in the villages through which he passed, but in his befuddled state even this made little impression. What could vic- tory mean to him with his home THE GRUMBLEF2 21