stories about my family

toward the end of world war II, my father's father, the tall and somewhat scrawny son of french-canadian immigrants, lied about his age so he could enlist in the military. at seventeen, he was assigned to the coast guard, and between 1944 and 1945 he toured southeast asia extensively, spending the majority of his active duty in the philippines. once the war ended, his ship was stationed in a japanese port as part of the occupation. my grandfather was not pleased about this. it was one thing to be a thousand or so miles from japan, keeping an eye on the enemy, but the idea of having to share a shore with them, to walk and live among them after all those months and years of being singularly focused on destroying them, knowing they had been every bit as hellbent on destroying him, made him extremely ill at ease. not that there was anything he could do about it, and he's always been the sort to make the best of whatever situation he finds himself in--so off to japan he went.

lo and behold, it wasn't even awful. the nearby town accepted the crew's presence (outwardly, at least), the girls were very pretty, and sometimes the local theater showed american movies. while he understood it was in his best interests to remain vigilant, he started spending more and more of his leisure time away from the boat--where his shipmates didn't do much of anything besides gripe about having to babysit the japs and drink themselves sick--and in the town. one night while he was walking along the main street a young boy, maybe seven or eight years old, ran up to him and followed him along the road, asking for money. my grandfather isn't sure now whether he would have given the kid any money if he'd had it, and maybe if there'd been some change in his pocket this story would end differently, but there wasn't any change; all there was was three-quarters of a hershey bar. chocolate he could part with, especially less-than-scrumptious war-ration chocolate, and he handed it over. the boy's eyes grew huge and he started talking excitedly, but my grandfather couldn't make heads or tails of it; he understood that the boy was happy, though, so he smiled at him and patted him on the shoulder before he continued on his way.

about a week later, my grandfather was standing in line outside the movie theater when he felt someone tug on his sleeve. he looked down and saw that same boy, and he reached into his pockets, turned them inside out, and said, "no candy." but the boy grabbed his arm again and started pulling for all he was worth, trying to get my grandfather to follow him. gramps thought about it for a minute--it wouldn't necessarily have been impossible for some adults he had told to have talked the boy into luring my grandfather into an ambush; after all, an enemy who has surrendered doesn't magically turn into an ally--but in the end he let the boy drag him down the road to his home.

from the entrance they descended a small staircase into a tiny room, where six pairs of eyes turned silently toward them. the boy raced over to his family and started in on an animated speech involving much wide gesturing and some jumping up and down, the gist of which was not at all apparent to my grandfather. none of the listeners offered up any clues in terms of facial expression, and my grandfather started wondering what he had gotten himself into. finally, the oldest man in the group, presumably the boy's grandfather, rose and filled a cup. he held it out to my grandfather, motioning for him to drink. my grandfather, who still had no idea what was taking place, motioned back, "you first." after the old man drained the cup, my grandfather accepted a drink of his own, and then, finally, everyone in the room smiled.

the boy's family managed to get across that night, through their very minimal english, my grandfather's very minimal japanese, and extensive charades, that the boy had brought the chocolate home to share it with them and had told them all about his friend the soldier. they thanked him many times and offered him what little food they had, and my grandfather was more moved by their sincerity and kindness than he could remember ever having been. the next day he got his hands on a japanese-english dictionary and an entire hershey bar and went back to the boy's house to thank the family properly for welcoming him into their home.

over the next several months, my grandfather came to think of that family as his own. whenever he could he would gather up leftovers from the ship's kitchen and bring them along on his visits. he and the boy spent hours poring over the dictionary, teaching each other new words for things they'd been talking about all their lives. the men talked about the war, what it had done to their countries, how much they all wished everything that had been done could be undone. the day before he was scheduled to depart, my grandfather went to the house with all the food and supplies he could carry and told his family, with a speech he had pieced together on his own and rehearsed for days, that he would not see them again. everybody cried, but silently and reservedly, and my grandfather left them and returned to his ship.

the next morning when he went up on deck, he saw his family on the shore, waving. behind them was another family, and another, and another, dozens of people my grandfather had never seen before, all smiling at him and waving.

"who are these people?" my grandfather called out, sweeping his arm toward the crowd.

"they are our friends, and they are your friends," the boy's father answered, "because you are our friend."

all those months, the family had been taking the food my grandfather had brought them and sharing it with almost everyone they knew. a simple act that had cost him nothing had touched and bettered the lives of an entire neighborhood and convinced everyone involved that even among enemies, even in war, you can find someone who will see you only as a person and offer you what he can.

the crew didn't know what to make of the scene, didn't understand what was being said or why my grandfather was weeping. one shipmate asked who the fan club was, and my grandfather told him, "they are my friends." this statement and his lack of interest in drinking himself unconscious at the end of every day left the other sailors with little to say to my grandfather, but he was all right without them, and anyway, they were on their way home. after he married and started a family, he showed his children important words in the japanese-english dictionary. when my sister and i were young, he showed them to us.

"this means 'give' . . . this one says 'love' . . . that one is 'friend' . . . let me teach you how to say 'hope' . . ."