Many years ago, I struck up a conversation with a Dutch businessman in a hotel in China. In the course of our discussion, I learned that he had been born in Asia, in the Dutch East Indies, today known as Indonesia. I quickly calculated that he was old enough to have been alive during World War II, so I asked what happened to him?
He told me that he and his parents spent the entire war in a Japanese prison camp.
“What was that like?” I asked.
He explained that because his family entered the camp when he was 3 years old and were liberated when he was 8, he really had no basis of comparison to anything else.
“That’s all I knew,” he said. “That was really my whole life up until then.”
They got by. They survived. As a child, he even found ways to play with some simple toys his mother made for him. He didn’t appear scarred in any way, and I thought our conversation had ended. But after a long pause, for some reason he opened up and began to tell me a story that I have never forgotten. It is a story that actually said more about my own country, its singularity and its values.
“When we were liberated,” he said, “these soldiers came into the camp. They were different. They looked like giants and they were all smiling.”
One of these giants quietly sat down next to him and gently lifted him on his knee. The soldier reached into his pack and took out a tin can, which contained a piece of bread, something the boy had never seen. Then he reached back and opened another can with a strange, colorful paste.
“I watched the soldier as he slowly spread jam over the bread and then he gave it to me.”
The man stopped there for a moment as his voice choked up, and then he turned and looked straight at me. “I travel all over the world.” He said. “I eat in very expensive restaurants . . . and I will never, ever, eat anything again that tasted so good.”
I didn’t realize that I was nodding in agreement and I said, “I know,” to which he quickly corrected me: “No, you will never know . . . and that’s a very lucky thing.”
Seventy years ago this summer, as World War II came to its climactic end, the world became a vast arena of liberated humanity. People came out of prison camps and attics, forests and cellars. Whole countries and populations were freed as the Nazi army crumbled and Japan surrendered. Millions of human beings, many of whom had been slaves for years, most of them starving, were suddenly released.
Their liberators included, along with our allies, a vast army of millions of young Americans—for some reason everyone referred to them as boys or “our boys.” Paul Fussell, the late writer, who was a young lieutenant in the 103rd Infantry, accurately titled his war memoir The Boys’ Crusade.