At Last

Like spring, victory in Europe came at last—in its own sweet time.

For soldiers in Europe, war's end came variously, and at various times. For some it ended long ago—at Dunkirk, at Salerno, in Normandy, in the Ardennes, at many an unsung roadside. But for each survivor the war ended on the day when the prisoners' cage was opened or the field ahead no longer spat death.

For the commanders it ended over different tables at different hours: for Alexander in Caserta on Sunday; for Montgomery on Lüneburg Heath on the following Friday; for Devers, at Munich on Saturday.

For heads of states, it ended when they got around to announcing it—anticlimactically, after everyone knew it was over.

And for ordinary people, the war in Europe ended—not when they heard the hoarse voice of the radio, nor when they saw paper blizzards falling between skyscrapers, nor even when they ate their first food in freedom—but slowly and silently, by degrees, somewhere in each man's heart.

But this week victory in Europe, like long-deferred spring, was here.