“Lola O, what was it like to be born during World War II?” my 10-year-old grandson Hugo asked.
We were on the way to my birthday staycation in Tagaytay. I noticed a book on World War II in the van. That explains his interest! (His older brother Leon, 12, volunteered the story of how World War I started. These kids were homeschooled during the pandemic by their parents, my youngest son, Jim, and his wife, Edhel, both doctors.)
First two pages of the author’s wartime baby book
“I don’t know. I was just a baby,” I quipped. “In 1944, there was no baby book, my mama told me. So she asked my uncle to draw her one. I brought it with me. And that will be the topic of our bedtime story tonight,” I said, excited at the prospect of sleeping with three not-so-little boys. The youngest one is Henry, 8, the son of my youngest daughter Jo. It would be Henry’s first time to sleep over with his cousins.
Although I see them almost monthly, they are usually busy playing. During the pandemic, they hardly visited. “I miss the toys in Lola O’s house,” they would say but immediately follow it up with “I miss Lola O.” (Priorities revealed, haha!) My sons left some of their old toys in the house. So even the older boys could play Lego, Gundams, and other robots with the little ones.
This year, most of my classmates, born in 1944, are turning 80. I have already attended three luncheons and a neighbor’s grand party complete with a coordinator and photographer. It’s amazing how these octogenarians stay the same as I knew them—mischievous, funny, and talkative, albeit now with a cane or rollator. As most of us are hard of hearing, these parties tend to be quite loud.
I remember it was a flurry of long gown parties in 1962 at the height of debuts, when we turned 18. We were in college then. There were no coordinators. No 18 roses and dancing with 18 men. I don’t remember ever dancing the cotillon. It was waltzing with their fathers and brothers, if any. Then it was boogie woogie time, as well as slow drag with one’s budding romance partner.
The grandma author enjoying hugs from Henry, Leon, and Hugo
Henry tinkers with his grandma’s portable typewriter—a gift to the author from her parents on her 18th birthday. This green Hermes Baby still works.
My birthday falls in the rainy season. I remember fetching my classmates in the flooded streets of Manila for my birthday party. So when I turned 18, I told my parents I didn’t want any party. I just wanted a small portable typewriter. I still have it to this day—a light green Hermes Baby, and it still works! I showed it to my grandsons and they were all agog to see the letters pounding onto paper!
So this year, although turning 80 is a milestone, I again did not want a big party. I told my children I prefer a staycation with the family, and small reunions with different sets of friends.
So what was it like to be born during World War II? Here are my mother’s notes in her impeccable teacher’s handwriting. “It was Japanese Occupation 1942-February 1945. Baby’s book was not available then. So I requested my brother-in-law Dick to make this for Nene (my nickname).
“September 21, 1944. Nene completed her second month. Bombing in Manila. She cried under the table, our temporary air raid shelter.” My mother told me she used to carry me in one arm and the statue of the Sacred Heart in the other. By then the air raid shelter was behind the cement steps of our house in Santa Ana.
“February 11, 1945. Nene ate biscuit given by the American Cosby who slept in a fox hole near our house. They have taken Santa Ana Feb. 10 noon.”
According to my mother, I was breastfed since there was no milk during the war, although she listed gifts for my baptism when I was almost two months old: ”Klim and Nestle evaporated and condensed milk.” In my time, the hospital would send me and my newborn home with a can of prescribed milk formula. But things are different now. Most mothers are aware of the benefits of breastfeeding. After all, breast milk is free.
My parents hardly talked about the war. They moved to Bicol at the beginning of the war with my oldest brother Johnny who was born in 1941. My mother said he learned how to bow to Japanese soldiers. I don’t know when or why they moved back to Manila. My mother just mentioned that they planted camote and other vegetables in the backyard. They gave their neighbors and whoever needed them.
My father was very enterprising. He made postcards of Manila “Then (before the war) and Now” (right after the war, showing the bombed buildings). He bought and sold construction materials from wrecked homes while many were trying to rebuild theirs.
Years after the war, my siblings and I noticed a big hole the size of a fist on the second floor of my brother’s bedroom. My parents said it was made by a bomb that fortunately did not explode. There was a kindergarten school underneath it . We would take turns peeping through the hole and would recite the ABCs and sing along with the children. We never attended kindergarten. My mother, who was a grade school teacher before she got married, taught us to read and write, so all four of us were already six years old by the time we were in grade one.
My mother kept correspondence with an American soldier, Burton Greenblatt, whom my father met during the war. Through the years, they exchanged letters and Christmas cards. When Johnny went to New York with the first batch of Bayanihan dancers, the Greenblatts hosted him and met his Bayanihan friends. They would occasionally visit Manila and we would hear them reminisce about the war years. They also hosted us when my parents and I visited the United States after our pilgrimage to Europe in 1975.
When my youngest brother and his wife left for the US in 1980, Tito Burt and family treated them like their own. Until my brother’s retirement, they worked in the pharmaceutical company the Greenblatts owned. The friendship born during the war years was really exceptional, thanks to my mother’s penchant for writing letters.
Turning 80 is different from turning 18, although I do sometimes feel 18…until I see my gray-haired self in the mirror. Nowadays I try to finish what needs to be done—fulfill government requirements for the estate of my parents, finish my memoir, and give away books and household stuff my children do not want. Also make a list of important files, bank accounts, and passwords. And last, but more importantly, make my last will and give my jewelry to my daughters and daughters-in-law.
Ah but at 80, I take my time doing all of the above. I am content with what I have and do not crave for any material things, except for health and sustenance. Now I understand what my mother used to say: “What more do I need? I have loving children and grandchildren. Salamat sa Dios!”
