Heaven knows I'm miserable now

Is a song by this lot of course.

Anyway, I heard something yesterday which just about put the tin lid on things for me. An event that pricked my bubble of self-concerned angst. This is it.

I was born in 1950. At the time, the village I come from, was full of foreigners. Poles, Lithuanians, Estonians, and other peoples who were known, at the time, as "Displaced People"

One such person was Arthur. A German from the east. Ex-POW working on a farm for the local vicar. Arthur was one of these during the war and rode a motorcycle. He was captured quite early on in 1942 and came to the UK as a POW.

My Father was a POW too. Here

On my Father's return to the UK in 45, Arthur and him struck up a comradely friendship resulting in Arthur learning very good English and my dad improving his German. Arthur didn't want to go back to Germany because of this guy

During Arthur's training to be a soldier, he met Christa. Later, in 1949, she came to England to be with him. She came from here.

Arthur and Christa had 4 children in the 50's and early 60's. The first two of which, Gunter and Harald, became my best friends. We went everywhere together.

As Kids we used to do good stuff

Ride Bikes

Play Football

Play Cricket

Build Fires

Build Dens

Have Boxing Matches

Have Birthday Parties

Go to the Seaside (Weymouth usually)

Go Fishing

Have Fun.

Christa was always a massive part of all this. She was like my second Mum. Through her I learnt what a Kartoffle was. I learnt what Stube meant. I can remember, 14 or 15 kids, crammed into her little kitchen for birthday parties. The noise and hubbub part of a really exciting day. Games, fun, laughter, all on a shoestring. Christa's speciality was Jelly and Fruit in Waxed Plates, onto which she poured tinned cream. A real luxury.

Times at the sea were good too. Fish and chips, picnics, sand castles, swimming, rides on the wild mouse, cricket and football on the beach. Burnt backs, sand in all the wrong places and a luxury ride home in Arthur and Christa's car, one of these. Finally stop off for Lemonade and Crisps at a Pub.

When I was 12, I came home from swimming on a Saturday morning to hear shocking news.

Christa's son Gunter, my best friend, had been killed in a tractor accident.

Christa's three children came to our house over the week whilst the dust settled. After the dreadful, painful, heart aching, sad funeral, the family closed ranks and got on with life. It would be true to say that the deep pain of the day on which this tragedy happened remains with all of them, in one way or another to this day.

It still burns in my heart too.

Over the course of my teenage years, I continued to be friends with Harald until I went off and joined the Air Force. Truth to tell, the carefree joy of those early days, never really to be repeated.

Arthur died about 15 years ago. A bolt out of the blue heart attack. Christa has since lived with one of her daughters getting on with her life and generally contributing to keeping village life a collaborative and community minded environment.

About 4 years ago, Christa, helping others as usual, was looking after a dog for a neighbour. She took the dog for a walk and the dog, a big brute, pulled her over and she fell into a wall, dislocating her shoulder. She has, to all intents and purpose, been debilitated by this and other small complaints since. She is 82.

More recently, she has been going through a bit of a purple patch, however. getting herself back into mainstream life inch by inch.

Last week, for example, her daughters took her out shopping here, for the first time in 3 years.

Feeling justifiably confident, she said to her children-now almost middle aged, "you go on, I need to go to the covered market." So they did, and off she went.

In the market, Christa noticed a family close by, "oriental looking" with a young baby. As pro-social and community minded as ever, she talked to the baby, petting the child. The "Orientals" jostled her strangely and then moved on.

At the till, she went to pay for her goods and, of course, no purse. No cards, no £180 (that she had) to pay for the shopping.

There was hell to pay. The shop couldn't do enough of course. "Have the shopping for free" Managers summoned. Tears mopped up. Police called for. Security guards in attendance talking about cameras.

It's left her feeling devastated though. 82 years old, a life-time of pain and endurance. Living in an adopted country. The effects of this have been shocking and life threatening.

I feel both angry and ashamed.

Our world was one in which fascism was beaten, a world embracing change and a new love for others.

What have we come to that an older person cannot now walk our streets in safety ?

JVIP