A Little Girl Named Betta

My dad used to captivate us with his WWII stories.  One in particular still haunts me to this day.

            In the small town of Ain Beida in North Africa where our unit had set up makeshift headquarters, we were required to hire local rail workers to aid us in the operation of our trains.  I recall most vividly an old Arab brakeman to whom we gave the nickname Pa-Pa, who had a young granddaughter who would bring him lunch most every day.  We soldiers more or less adopted little Betta, who I assume was about eleven years old.  She was a pretty little lass and, with her beautiful smile, charmed all who came in contact with her.  Betta was always showered with gifts from soldiers who thought of her as their family away from home.

            Then as if by magic, Betta did not appear at the Railroad station for about two weeks.  We surmised that she was sick or that something had happened to her, so we pinned Pa-Pa down with questions and after much avoidance to answering our questions, he finally told us that her father had arranged for her marriage to her future husband and she was to be wed in a week. 

            As little girls, we would often think about Betta and hope that she was ok. We tried to press my dad into telling us that she ended up happy and was married off to a nice man, but he never lied and sugar coated it.  He simply didn’t know and tried to explain that different customs exist around the world.  We would have to accept this as my sisters and I marched off to bed in our comfy, matching pajamas.