Charlotte Clyve

Unknown Past

Charlotte Clyve

My backyard is surrounded by forest. Not the kind that anyone would take a nice stroll through though. One hundred feet in, and you’d be swallowed by the muck that my brother and I pretend is lava.

I am seven, and the three of us, my grandfather, brother and I look out into the trees and didn't see lava, we see a game. We stand here throwing sticks into the marsh until dark, each stick that stands up straight is a point. “No fair, grampy! You’re stronger than us.” my brother wails. 

We didn't even know the beginning of how strong he really was. A strong oak tree still standing as tall as he can, through every gust of wind. We play outside carefree, taking our grandfather's comfort for granted.  

I have read tens of books about World War 2, all with an unsatisfactory ending. To know now that my own grandfather suffered during those times, astonishes me. Except this time, there was a righteous ending, simply filling a void with a heartwarming puree. 

It's Norway, 1945 and my grandfather is about 8 or 9. The same age I am when I cry myself to sleep because my parents are out of town and can’t give me a kiss goodnight. The same age I am when I learned how to multiply. The same age I am when I come home after a long day to the smell of pillsbury halloween cookies and warm hot chocolate, with those little marshmallows floating on top.  

Yet, my grandfather and his brother are forced to flee the only place they call home without parents. They take a ship to America, just two children, their life altered in a matter of seconds. Only the stench of war, putrid smells mixed with claustrophobia. He knew no English, maybe a basic “hello”, but nothing useful. A whole new country, a whole new language.

I am nestled under my grandfather's warm arm soaking in the piercingly crisp fall day, one so cold, my exhaled breath would cloud and surface over a warm apple cider. The kind of cold where the tip of my nose is cold, but my body is warm. I stand throwing sticks with my grandfather, but I don't really know him. He was not always the old guy that we would play with, but a survivor, a soldier, a warrior.

Author's Note: I have always wanted to share the story of my grandfather's childhood, and when I was told to write a narrative about a person, he was the first to come to mind. His name and legacy is carried on in our family and that is why this piece is so special to me. I love writing because it is a way to express myself, and be creative in the process. I love the feeling when I am trying to think of what to write, and I come up with something that I can’t stop thinking about.