The Lost Child of WWII

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My name is Leonida, but people just call me Nida. I grew up in the Philippines during the great war

of my time. I had a loving father who adored me. He was my protector and teacher. He was my rock,

my hero, my father. He made me feel safe and he shaped me into the person I am today. Without

his love and teachings of what is right, I strongly believe that I would not have what I have today. I

may be overstating him a bit. My last memory of him was when I was only four years old, yet even at

that young of an age, he captivated my imagination with his stories. I remember walking with him

when I was even younger. I guess my earliest memories were from when I was as young as two

years old. He was my inspiration and my hope, and he was taken from me when I was just four

years old. I watched with tears in my eyes as he was killed at the hands of the Japanese for

safeguarding some Americans by hiding them in a cave. I will never forget his last words to me. Be

strong, Nida, I love you.