My mother was in the Belgian Resistance during World War II. Her first husband, the leader of a Belgian Resistance group, was eventually captured and endured more than a year of torture and Hell at Breendonk, south of Brussels. He was executed two weeks before D-Day.
Mom was twice imprisoned by the Gestapo, at St. Gilles Prison in Brussels.
Though she met an American G.I. (my father) after the Battle of the Bulge, and came to America in 1947 to marry him, she had the highest regard for the British.
I recall coming home from school in early 1965, when I was nine years old, and noticing that my mother had been crying. My father, a construction electrician, was often on the road. I immediately feared that something had happened to Dad.
"Winston Churchill died," she said, making me a snack on the counter while her back was turned. Then her shoulders sagged and her head hung a moment. She returned to the task at hand and rather quickly set the snack on the table and hurried away.
I sort of knew who Churchill was, because both parents had been in the war.
Mom came back a little while later, looking fine.
That little moment always impressed me with how much, and how far, Churchill affected the lives of people.
Later, when the National Geographic arrived, it had a small 45 rpm record enclosed that included recordings from his funeral. Mom looked through that issue and sighed occasionally. By then, the tears were over.
During the war, the Oppressed heard him on their radios, broadcasting from London, nearly every night.
For all of Europe, Churchill was the lifeguard standing on the beach yelling, "Hang on! Help's coming for you! Just hang on!"
He gave people hope, and inspired them to do what they could until help arrived.
And when he died, he gave an entire world a heartache, a reflection -- and an example of someone to emulate. Like any legend, he wasn't perfect; but his voice calmed and assured millions that they were not forgotten.
I don't believe the world's seen anyone like him since.
