LEFT: A detail shot of the supple carves on the back of Alf’s guitar.
RIGHT: A close-up of a hairline crack that runs parallel to the strings
all the way from the f-hole to the anchor of the trapeze tailpiece. Note the
clean,
art-deco-like lines of the adjustable saddle piece.
The latter stages of the war should have meant the worst was
over, but the opposite was true: Russian troops had purged the
Nazis from their homeland and were marching west, liberating
countries in eastern Europe as they went. This led to a frenzied
evacuation of prison camps all over Poland, Czechoslovakia,
and eastern Germany. About 80,000 prisoners were sent on
foot across hundreds of miles in the dead of the coldest winter
in decades. Thousands died, some from starvation or exposure,
others to friendly fire incidents when Allied planes strafed the
columns of men they mistook for retreating German troops. Alf
saw friends and comrades die in such a manner.
All this time, Alf kept his guitar slung on his back, covered
with some of the inadequate clothes still in his possession.
Rations were literally scavenged from fields and farms en route,
and it was never enough. As his group reached Gresse, east of
Hamburg, their long-awaited deliverance arrived.
“They were on the road, and it was miserable because it was
wet and raining,” she says, “but all of a sudden the guards all left,
and then they heard that the war had ended. He and this friend
went into this small town and took this soldier’s motorcycle. The
Americans were coming towards them, and they [the prisoners]
were waving at them. They had a white flag. They stopped that
first night at a German farmhouse and took a ham [from it].
They stayed in the barn and they weren’t bothered. But those
guys were something—they took the ham, but they left cigarettes
[as payment]!”
LEFT: The crack in the top of Alf’s guitar widens a bit as it approaches the binding, but it’s not bad for a guitar that survived
both a POW camp and “The March” at the end of the war. RIGHT: The binding appears to be separating from the
body a bit, but it’s otherwise in remarkably good condition.
Lifelong Companions
Alf recuperated in England and returned home to Canada, where
despite his wounded leg he went back to his passion for skiing.
He bought a small hotel and became chief ski instructor at a
larger resort called Jasper in Quebec. That’s where he met Joan.
“I was working in Montreal,” she says. “I went up every Friday.”
Although many things that brought back memories of life in
Stalag IX-C were repugnant to Alf throughout the remainder
of his life—for instance, he couldn’t stand the smell of boiled
cabbage—his guitar stayed with him as a source of joy till the
end. He had the neck repaired when he was back home, and he
often played for hotel guests, sometimes alone and sometimes
sitting in on informal jam sessions with musicians who came up
for breaks from New York or Montreal. “It was romantic,” Joan
recalls. “I don’t think I appreciated it enough at the time.”
Around 1950, Joan and Alf moved to a more practical life in
Long Beach, California, where he became a real-estate appraiser
for a bank. Upon retirement, they moved back to snowy climes
in the town of Whitefish, Montana—near the Canadian border
and more great skiing. Alf continued to love jazz and some hillbilly
country, becoming a fan of Chet Atkins and Glen Campbell.
He played the guitar until nearly the end of his life. Sometimes
it would sit unused for a while, but then, says Joan, “All of a
sudden, something would come on the radio or TV or something
and he’d go upstairs. He’d play quite often by himself up there. He
would rush up there to get it. I used to love when he did that. The
guitar was a big part of his life—all of his life.”
Alf’s widow, Joan, whom he met while working as a
ski instructor in Quebec.
The two later ran a small hotel where he often jammed with guests.