Recently, after visiting my elderly grandmother, I stopped somewhere that I had not passed since I was a child. This time, the emotions that had eluded me years ago caught me quite off guard, and have returned often in the intervening days. To say that this has had a sobering effect would be an understatement; indeed, the juxtaposition of my modest, though ultimately privileged, youth with the narrative of earlier generations has been humbling. The place in question is a small memorial wall to the side of a cemetery entrance in a quaint southern German town. There is no flag that can be flown here, no great cause to validate the sacrifice, no heroes to be carried off into history, leaving but names in stone to remember sons, husbands, brothers, and fathers. As memories of the fallen fade with a passing generation, may the tragedies that led to this not be forgotten.
Among the names is that of my grandfather, who did not return from Russia.
Visiting this place some six decades on, I recalled the only two occasions that I’ve seen my father’s steady composure break, if only for an instant, betrayed by no more than a slight crack in his voice and a brief pause to collect his thoughts. The first time, he toasted to the birthdays of his mother and stepfather, and shared a story of receiving his first 50 Pfennig to go to a traveling movie show. The second time, he spoke of the strength of his mother’s generation, when lives and families had to be rebuilt after the war left too many chairs unfilled.
Quite frankly, I don’t really know what to make of the stories that find themselves twisted up in one of history’s great calamities…perhaps they are just that, tiny droplets of misfortune in an ocean of war’s misery. Certainly, it is easier to consider family history separate from the greater narrative of the times. In any case, this void left in my father’s life may help explain his unwavering loyalty to me, and for that I still struggle to find the proper thanks.
Gosh, where to start? Mark your eloquent soliloquy has invoked emotions I’ve not or choose not to feel in quite sometime. I’ll admit this passage brought me to tears. The memory of going to the Vietnam Memorial Wall for the first and only time. I’ve only been once because of these emotions I fear.
My uncle died as a marine in Vietnam. Watching grown men, war tattered veterans fall to their knees crying over lost comrades. Wives, brothers, sisters all expelling raw emotion.
I’ve never met my uncle, but shed tears at the sight of his name.
I’ll never be able to put words on paper as well as you have here, and am deeply moved at this revelation you’ve decided to share with us.
We all owe our elders for the sacrifices they’ve made for us.
Hug your father for me, kiss his cheek.
Thanks, James, for these comments, and I’m happy to have your personal experience shared here as well.
Hallo Mark,
Ein sehr berührender Artikel von Dir. Viel zu wenig wissen wir alle über diese schreckliche Zeit. Kaum vorzustellen was unser Pa und vor allem Omi durchmachen mussten.
1000 Knutschies, Britt
Danke Britta!
Es lag mir sehr am Herzen, dass diese Gedanken vor allem innerhalb der Familie den richtigen Ton treffen würden.