Their vigour is striking. They may all be over 80, but that
doesn't seem to affect their keen wit, cheerfulness, unflagging
energy, and curiosity.
Their green berets bob and weave amongst the crowd gathered at the
seaside park – the members of 3-Troop, 10th (Inter Allied)
Commandos, look proud and excited. This jovial mingling precedes a
solemn event. Former commandos, their families and the villagers
of Aberdovey, Wales have come to participate in the unveiling of a
craggy slate monument dedicated to the British troop who, during
1942 and '43, lived and trained at this remote seaside resort.
I have come to affirm my late father's actions in the Second World
War, to play a part in the ceremony commemorating the 86 3-Troop
commandos for their contribution. Where the small park juts out
slightly into the sea, the cloaked monument sits. Most guests have
come from afar— from continental Europe, the US, even New Zealand.
I am overwhelmed. This is the first time I have come so close to
touching my father's past. I had hoped his wartime story would be
revealed at Aberdovey. Despite the hundreds of letters my parents
wrote to one another after they met in 1943 at Albert Hall in
London, England, there was nary a word of what my father, by that time a British commando, was doing. All
letters, after all were censored. With my father's death in 1978,
I realized I had not known the man behind the father very well.
Now an opportunity presented itself to meet the young man my
mother had chatted up at a concert, the daredevil rock climber and
parachutist— but most importantly, the refugee.
My father never spoke about the war. Somehow I knew as a child
that he had been a commando, a more dangerous job, I understood,
than that of other soldiers, and that he'd fought for the British.
He was once Hungarian, I knew, because my grandparents sent me
Hungarian dolls and story books (translated). When they came to
visit, I heard Hungarian spoken for the first time.
It wasn't until my late teens that I discovered they were Jewish,
that in 1938, when my grandparents saw writing on the wall, my
father had been sent from Hungary as a 17-year-old to attend
school in England. He didn't see his parents for 10 years. And he
was one of the lucky ones.
Heritage Community Foundation Presents
