Denise Snodell: Stories of migrations past shed light on the present

“Because all the stained glass was removed from the church windows, sun rays were shining on Father Pierlot as if he was God. He was sad and concerned. Our group of 15 was going to have First Communion at the end of the month. He said he may have to cancel the ceremony due to all of the bad news. He feared an attack on France was imminent.”

The above is a passage from a war memoir my father has been writing in fits and starts. I imagine, even now, it isn’t an easy thing to do. He was almost 11 when his priest made the shocking announcement. He rode his bike home. Within minutes, he found himself in a bomb shelter, listening to big guns and planes flying overhead and feeling the ground shaking.

Today’s news of families escaping from war zones and migrating across Europe prompted me to dig into my dad’s pages, and to call him. It’s hard to imagine running from your life — running for your life — but it’s happening to so many now. I hear the numbers of migrants are the highest since World War II. The individual stories of each refugee must be unfathomable.

My dad’s story, as he says, is the same in some ways, but also different. Just weeks after he learned his first communion might not happen, my father became a migrant himself. His innocent childhood was interrupted.

The people in his small village had already been witnessing other Europeans from the north fleeing dangerous Nazi invasions. My dad wrote, “Refugees from Denmark, Holland and Belgium appeared on our road. It was a mixture of cars with mattresses tied to the roofs, horses and carts loaded with families, some on motorcycles, some on bicycles. Others were pushing baby carriages or small carts loaded with belongings.”

My father told me on the phone that his mother gave food and encouragement to the frightened people walking through their village. She did not realize that she and her own young family would soon be joining them.

His father, on the other hand, saw it coming. “He predicted everything and warned everybody, but they didn’t believe him.” My grandfather was world-wise and trilingual (Italian, German, French.) He listened to Hitler’s speeches on the radio. He paid attention. Evil ambitions transmitted loud and clear.

“We were lucky,” my father said. “We had a place to go — a hamlet further south near Decize. A cousin there knew of an abandoned 150-year-old house. There was no plumbing, no electricity. Just an old stove and a lot of dust.”

Getting there was perilous. His parents’ personal car had already been taken away for the war effort. They loaded up my dad, his siblings and two other families in a Citroën work truck from his father’s job. My grandfather was aware Stuka dive bombers were killing refugees on the main routes. He had the good sense to take back roads and dirt roads the entire trip. Sometimes he hid the truck beneath trees along the way.

My dad’s stories of war and horror went on for years. There isn’t room in this space to share the dramatic details. His family eventually returned to their village and coped with the Nazi occupation as best they could. He celebrated his first communion a year later — outdoors in a garden — because his church was so badly damaged by bombings.

I will share this: My dad, once a war migrant with just a bag of food and a mattress to his name, went on to serve in the French Army. He’s also a U.S. Army veteran and a proud American citizen. His three children are college educated. All of his six grandchildren have earned their degrees or are now in the process.

A year ago my father stopped driving. He’s 86 now. Despite health issues that come with age, he and my mom walked almost two miles round trip to vote last November.

Just like his father, he pays attention to the world. 　

This story was originally published September 22, 2015 at 5:29 PM with the headline "Denise Snodell: Stories of migrations past shed light on the present."