August 15, 1945

“OUT OF THE WATER, EVERYBODY!” Mom shouted from the lakeside door of our rented cottage on the shore of Lake Muskoka. “Supper’s ready.” She retreated inside and the screen door slammed shut.

A hubbub ensued as, one by one, family and guests filed into the cottage, passing the battery-operated radio near the door. They dried themselves but left wet footprints on their way to the bedrooms or to the loft to change. It was a hot day and I was sorry to leave the water.

Since it was the middle of the week, Dad was at work in Toronto. I would miss sharing the major event of this day with him. There were Mom, my brothers Wilf and David and various Canadian and American relatives and friends. About thirteen people shared the cottage, and many of us had to double-up. We were part of the annual summer exodus from the hot city to the relatively cool countryside and were fortunate to have found this cottage on the water’s edge.

Mom and her sister, my Aunt Ray, put a cold supper on the table, stacking bowls, plates, cutlery and napkins at one end. In spite of August’s warmth, I knew that after supper, the adults would have hot coffee or tea, followed by the usual after-dinner liqueur. Of course, none of us children were allowed any of that.

Supper started at five o’clock and by 5:30 the kids were finished. We all wanted to go back into the water, but the rule was to wait for an hour for the food to digest; then we could swim without fear of developing cramps. To pass the time, we children washed the dishes, getting water from the pump on the counter.

There was no electricity in the cottage; we used kerosene lamps and flashlights to see at night and the radio to keep up with world news. Mom made sure there were spare batteries.

Not enough time had passed since supper, so after helping with the dishes, I talked with a family friend, my piano teacher, Mildred Spergel, while the other children played board games. “Mildred,” I said, “I can make up tunes in my head all the time, like this.” I hummed in four-four time. “Ever heard that before?”

“No I haven’t, Manuel. I think it’s just yours, alone.”

“I can make melodies in waltz time, too,” and I hummed in three-four time. Mildred listened and smiled. “One day, I want to learn how to write them.”

“I believe you will,” she said.

At 6:30 on the dot, all of us kids ran to the water and jumped in. We shouted, squealed and splashed, and the time flew by. Mom ordered everyone out at 7:30. The water was quite warm and, like the others, I didn’t want to leave it, but Mom’s tone meant we had better, right now. I didn’t want my swimming privileges cut off.

Joining the others in the main room, I heard a man’s voice drone from the radio. None of the adults was speaking. Some of them sat, unmoving, their faces like stone; others stood like statues, their cups or liqueur glasses perfectly still. They could have been a display in a museum, except for an occasional blink that revealed the life beating within.

“This is Matthew Halton of the CBC,” said a voice from the radio. I thought it might have something to do with the end of the war.

It was a few minutes before eight o’clock. The voice said, “The Japanese have just surrendered unconditionally. The war is over!” The adults smiled and raised their cups and glasses and shouted, “Hurray!”

I looked at Wilf. He smiled, then laughed. At fifteen and in high school, he knew what the war was about. I was aware, too: I was ten and could read the maps in the Toronto Daily Star and follow the progress of the conflict. I knew that Hitler’s suicide on April 30, Mom’s birthday, and Germany’s defeat on May 8 meant we Jews were safe, once again. The war that had just ended was the one against Japan.

Matthew Halton interrupted our celebration. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he said. “I have just been informed that the previous announcement was in error. The war against Japan is not yet officially over.” The adults groaned, lowered their arms and looked at each other, but no one said anything. The radio played music while everyone stilled themselves, seemingly suspended in time.

Again Matthew Halton reported that the war with Japan was over and hooting filled the air. Time advanced a few seconds. Then he said this announcement, too, was false, and moans saturated the cottage. The air took on a heavy thickness. The clock slowed once more. Time felt elastic, as if it were being stretched again and again.

The mood of expectation was palpable. Silence pervaded the room; hands held cups and glasses but no one drank, as if they were afraid the sound of liquid being swallowed might cause them to miss the news from the radio.

I walked over to Mom and sat by her. She put her arms around David and me. Wilf stood behind her. No one else moved. The other children had already joined their parents, sitting on their laps, on the floor or on the arms of chairs. We were serious and quiet; even I could not be my usual boisterous self. The radio played music; no one spoke or moved.

In a few moments, Matthew spoke again. I felt I was getting to know him through his voice alone. There was a certain tone in it, an expectancy perhaps, that his audience shared.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, and stopped. I felt he spoke directly to us – to me -- in that room in the cottage. If he had materialized from the air, I would not have been surprised. Tension rose, if that were possible. The silence felt like an immoveable object surrounding my head, pressing, pressing.

“This is not a false alarm. I repeat: this is not a false alarm. The war in the Pacific is over. I repeat: the war in the Pacific is over.” For the first time, the radio played “God Save the King.”

The cottage remained quiet. The anthem finished. The only sound was the hissing of the kerosene lamps. I didn’t turn my head, but stole side-long glances at the adults. They sat like tree stumps. An announcer said we would be returned to the program in progress.

Someone reached out and turned off the radio. The sharp click signaled the start of a new era and the room erupted in shouts of joy and uncontrolled laughter. Tears trickled down the cheeks of virtually every person. I think it was my mom’s brother, Uncle Barney, who picked up David and me and pranced around with us under his arms, then put us down. He crouched to our height and said in a conspiratorial voice, his eyes shining and his face beaming wide, “Never forget this moment. Never forget!”


© 2006 Manuel Erickson