The enemy who loved me.

The Enemy Who Loved Me.

I was six years old the enemy soldiers lived in a camp
nearby, they had sweets and I was free to walk
everywhere; yes I cooperated readily, for a bar of
chocolate I was willing to commit treason, I could even
speak few words of their guttural, yet very cultural
language. And then there were those women in a house,
next to the camp, a friendly lot, spoilt me they did when
not busy in locked rooms, teaching, as they said, young
soldiers the art of darning socks. Then peace broke out
and the camp’s gate shut; the women where marched out
of the house, spat on and humiliated for given the foe
comfort. Later in life it struck me as odd that those who
had helped the enemy to built airports and roads, supplied
material and food went on to become the local elite.