I found this while reading the letters to the editor of the Chicago Tribune this morning. December 13, 2005 Recalling the kindness of a GI at Christmas It was 1945, a year filled with fear, hunger and suffering—and, yes, hope! World War II had ground to an end for Germany just seven months before. We, the vanquished living in the southern part of Germany, Bavaria, were incredibly fortunate to be occupied by the most merciful and generous of the Allied forces, namely the United States Army. Survival was the only important issue in those days. There was neither food, nor clothes, nor coal for heat. The black market was thriving. Times were bleak. Our little town of 5,000 escaped the worst, but many of the fathers, the breadwinners, were missing, either dead or prisoners of war. There was not much to look forward to for Christmas of 1945. But as curious as children are everywhere, the occupation provoked lots of interest. Probably none of us had ever seen a person of color, except in storybooks. The GIs stationed in our town had soft hearts. They looked at us skinny ragamuffins with much tender care, and soon had a little line up every day for candy or snacks or even that most incredible white Wonder Bread, the likes of which none of us had ever seen. Our landlord’s home, adjacent to our little mom-and-pop-store, had been made staff headquarters. And that is where this story truly begins. Our family had lived in Chicago during the great Depression. Without any family support and suffering unemployment for long periods of time, our parents decided to return to Germany before the war. Four of us were U.S. citizens; only my mother had remained German. There’s no need to describe what it was like to live in Nazi Germany as Americans (we were, therefore, the enemy). Christmas was just around the corner. My father, quite a sociable man, spoke English fluently and got acquainted with one of the MPs stationed next door, guarding headquarters. He seemed a lonely young man, eager to speak his native language with someone. What a surprise for both of them to find out they shared a common history of having lived in Chicago. Spontaneously, our dad, with his heart of gold, extended an invitation to this young soldier to join us Christmas Eve for our traditional family celebration. We, the children, had mixed feelings about a stranger joining us at that most intimate feast in German tradition. Christmas Eve arrived and we wondered, would he show up or not? Sure enough, at dusk this young man knocked on our door in full uniform. He carried a large, round, red tin can. What could it be? But Mother strictly went with the program: First, the Gospel reading of the Christmas story; then the singing, "Silent Night, Holy Night"; then the presents (if there were any at all, I don’t remember what they were; perhaps there were a few apples, nuts and some home-baked cookies). I do remember that my only doll always mysteriously disappeared before Christmas. She would appear again on Christmas Eve with a new wardrobe, sewn from scraps by a kindly neighbor. After sharing our meager post-war treats, Weisswurst and potato salad, the tin was finally opened to reveal the most luscious looking pineapple whipped cream cake. We children had never seen such a splendid-looking concoction during the six years of war. And pineapple was something we never even had heard of. To taste it was to die and go to heaven! I don’t think this young soldier realized what an incredible kindness he did to us that night. Truly it was the most meaningful Christmas I do remember, not because of the cake but for the willingness of this young man to trust us and no longer see an enemy in us. Merry Christmas, Thomas Lacey of the South Side of Chicago, wherever you are. One little girl, now an elderly woman, thanks you from the bottom of her heart and has never forgotten your kindness. Rosemary Kiss Chicago
This brings to mind a conversation I had recently with a sixty-nine year old Korean man. Until he was nine years old he lived under an often brutal Japanese occupation. The happiest day in his life was when he was nine and realized that the occupiers were gone for good, having been defeated by America and her allies. The part of his story I will always keep with me was his telling of the difference between a Japanese and an American soldier: when a Japanese soldier reached into his pocket or made any sort of hand movement, children that were nearby would cringe in fear or run away, afraid of getting hit with a fist or whatever weapon happened to be in his pocket. When an American reached in his pocket he would be mobbed by children because they knew it was pretty likely that he would be giving away candy, toys or money. His love of American soldiers was reaffirmed only five years later when, at fourteen, he was dliberately shot by a Chinese or North Korean soldier. Left for dead in an area that was quickly being overrun by communist troops his life was saved by a retreating American officer who risked his own life to scoop him up and bring him to safety. A statue of MaCarthur was erected in South Korea in the 1950's. Today it is often used as a rallying point for students protesting the American military presence in their country. How soon they forget.
