My father was a brilliant, well-respected man, an ordained minister, a charismatic speaker, a skilled psychotherapist, and a lover of beauty and poetry. He was a man who lived an extraordinary life.
Growing up in a working class family, he was expected to quit school at the age of sixteen to get a job to help support the family. He worked at a gas station as a mechanic, pumping gas and reading the poetry of William Blake.
In August of 1940, at age 18, he signed up with the Irish Regiment of Canada, a non-permanent Active Militia of Canada. A year later he enlisted in the Royal Canadian Army, Queens’ Own Rifles Regiment and married my mother.
He was a striking young man with a genius I.Q., a photographic memory, and he spoke fluent French. These skills made him a valuable asset in the war effort. He was selected to train at Camp X, the top secret, World War II Spy Training School, in Oshawa, Ontario, near Toronto, Canada and was sent overseas in January 1942.
Over the next four years he served in Canada, England, and Europe, following the allied invasion at Dunkirk. He worked closely with British Intelligence and spent a lot of time in France, working with the underground. I remember him telling us about one mission he went on with a woman whose code name was Juanita. He was fairly new to the spy game, but she was more experienced. She taught him well, and she saved his life during that mission. Sadly, they were captured by the Germans, and my father was tortured for three days before he was able to escape. He never gave up any information. Juanita was not so lucky. She was also tortured by the Germans and died, but neither did she give up any information. Shortly thereafter, my Scottish grandmother wrote to tell my father that she was expecting another baby. My father wrote back, and he asked her, if the baby was a girl, if she would name her Juanita, after the brave young woman who had saved his life. This is how my Aunt Juanita got her name.
When I was a little girl, I would go into my father’s study and look at all the books he had on his whole wall of floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. I couldn’t wait to go to school, so I could learn to read all his books. I used to think that, if God didn’t know the answer to something, He would ask my father.
My father loved pears, cashews, fish and chips, Turkish Delight chocolate bars, poetry and music. He had a beautiful tenor voice, and he often sang duets with my mother, who was a classically trained, soprano. He was a big fan of the music of Nana Mouskouri, and I think he had all of her records. He spoke fluent Greek as well as French, German, Italian, Spanish and a little bit of Russian. I remember when I was about 13 years old, I witnessed him as a guest speaker at a Greek Orthodox Church in Toronto, preaching a full sermon in Greek. My mother had a beautiful voice, and I often accompanied her on the piano. On this occasion, not only did I accompany her as she sang hymns in Greek (which she learned phonetically), but I also filled in as the pianist for the whole church service, playing hymns for the congregation from a Greek hymn book. After that, I often noted to friends that I could play the piano in Greek! I still love listening to Nana Mouskouri singing in different languages, remembering all the times when I sat quietly in the living room with my father, listening to her music. My soul was transported to places all over the world!
My father was a self-taught man and was always striving to improve himself. While raising five children, and already an ordained minister, he went back to school in his 40s to get his degree in psychology. I had the privilege of working with him in his office at Christian Counselling Services, which he co-founded in Toronto, when I was sixteen, and I saw firsthand how his kind and compassionate nature helped so many people. I can only imagine the countless lives he touched throughout his lifetime. Of one thing I am certain… When he finally entered the gates of Heaven, the Lord said to him, “Well done, thou good and faithful servant.”
© Laura L. Martin
Louis Martin's Daughter 