THREE BROTHERS

In a time past, in a distant small town bordered by a restless and muscular river, three brothers shared a room and their dreams.

The oldest brother, Leonard dreamt of life as a classical violinist,  the middle brother Harry yearned for a career as a lawyer, defending the little guy from the forces of evil, in other words, the big guys.  The youngest brother Jarvis, kept a diary and wrote about the eccentric relatives, the famous tourists and entertainment folk who frequented his father’s hunting resort, and the lithe young swimmer up the street.

Each young man undertook the education required to fulfill their professional goals.  The eldest studied in New York after first completing instruction at the Royal Conservatory in Toronto.  The second fellow attended Osgoode Hall for his law degree, while the third, Jarvis attended the University of Toronto to become a man of letters.  Life was full and bright,  All of the brothers would return to their father’s resort to work in the summer, or some time, work for the Whites, the wealthy relatives in Ottawa at one of their brokerage or real estate offices. The summers were sun soaked, joyful and brought everyone home to the huge family home that housed fourteen children. Oh the beautiful music night and day generated by the five pianists, one violinist and choral efforts of the boys and the girls in the conservatory, with stained glass windows.

The father, though appearing only periodically would enjoy the warmth of the family home, but typically be tending to his various businesses.  The mother, a tiny woman with a perpetual cameo on her dress was tough, she was the heart of the family, and had been known to frighten intruders off the property (she was frequently alone) with a stylish silver 22 caliber pistol that had no bullets.

Listening to the crystal radio one night, the whole group gasped as Canada joined the World War. All  three younger men were conscripted, while two older brothers were passed over because of health problems.  The mother was devastated. She had seen her brother come back a broken man from the Great War and feared for the worst. 

The oldest brother joined the Air Force and was trained to be a pilot, the second brother was in the ground forces, and the third brother became an officer in the merchant marine fleet. For the first time in their lives, the brothers were totally separated. After leaving the continent, Leonard was shot down and had a long recuperation of almost two years, while the middle brother had most of his hand blown off and reconstructed to the best of medical science’s ability at that time. The third brother found himself a prisoner of war for the duration of the war, barely maintaining his sanity by writing with whatever he could get his hands on. Time dragged on and finally the great conflict was over. The men returned home, but nothing would ever be the same. All three men bore the psychological scars of their tenure in the armed forces and their exposure to the brutality of war. They would drink to excess, have a serious inability to maintain relationships, and over the years would have to return to the family home after “crashes” or spend long periods of time in treatment sanitariums for alcoholics.They achieved significant successes in their professions, but had lost something precious. Hope, innocence and self-love were all missing.

Leonard had developed shell shock and could not play, teach or travel much. He had a stint playing in a famous big band, but could not handle the pressure. He ended his life in a small prairie town selling insurance, protected by a devout wife and fiercely loyal children.

Harry was a brilliant criminal lawyer who made his home in Montreal and lived a rather elegant life, in between his addiction relapses.

Jarvis was for a time, publisher of the Globe and Mail, and died by his own hand.

They loved their countries, families and life. The course of each young man’s life was inexorably sent off compass by a war full of hellish suffering and for which each man on each side bore equal losses.  These brothers’ children did not have whole men as fathers, but fragile men whose joy in life had been permanently diminished.

As for me. I did not meet the oldest brother, but did know and love my charming younger uncles. Sometimes they were in their cups, and singing with their beautiful voices raised high in some funny song they had changed the words to. One of my uncles was chastised by my mother for teaching me the prayer “Now I  lay me down to sleep in my little bed, if I should die before I wake, how will I know I’m dead”. This did not go over well with the women in the family and resulted in a forced coffee drinking ritual for the offenders.

I loved these men and their humour, and did not know what the internalized suffering was that kept them far from us for long periods of time.

In thinking of the more brutal times we live in, and our readiness to send generations of young men away from the places they belong, we need to take pause and think of what we lose and whether our reasons are sound for participating. Our great reputation as a country was formed when we were the global peacekeeper.  We are not suited to war, because our sensibility is not paranoic or brutish.  We are good people. A good country. A country made up of families, neighbourhoods and towns that can add just as much to the world with our generosity, kindness and empathic support of those who suffer as suiting up for battle might.