In 1984 or 85, Nana and Papa went to Europe. They came back armed with stories of a Scottish barmaid begging them on bended knee not to reveal her Campbell connections, the Filthiest Teaspoon in London and the amazing hospitality of the Dutch. It was because of the Dutch that I heard my first story about the war.
The way Papa told it to 9 year old me, when the Army arrived in Holland, they were greeted by a farmer. Since there were no Germans left to fight, the farmer asked if the soldiers might help him get his car out of the garage.
This, as it turned out, was no mean feat.
You see, upon learning that the Germans were finished with Poland and had their sights set on the Low Countries, the farmer had decided to draw a line: the Nazis could invade his country, but they were not going to invade his car. He dug up the floor of his garage, drove the car into the hole, removed the tyres, locked them in the trunk, wrapped the entire thing in sacking and buried it. The displaced dirt went onto the vegetables and the car lay under the floor of the now empty garage for the next five years, untouched by German hand. With the arrival of the Canadians, it was time to dig her up.
Digging up the car didn't take long with a few dozen servicemen to help, and soon they were pumping up the tyres and siphoning petrol out of the Jeep to get it running. As payment for allowing the men to use military petrol, their commanding office had the honour of being the first person the drive the car in a liberated Netherlands.
It was one of Papa's favourite stories. Unlike many of the others, this one never changed. He would always finish the same way.
'Beautiful car.' He'd take a lungful of cigarette smoke and blow it out slowly, looking up towards the ceiling and nod. 'Beautiful car.'
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