my grandfather could be a cold man, as if he was afraid to feel. he loved from a distance with his obscene wealth and playboy lifestyle. today i found out he was one of the allied officers who liberated the concentration camp bergen belsen. he killed men; he shot lots of people, often in the back, cowardly nazi’s who were fleeing the hell they had created. at one point, he reached beneath a crate for a small pile of rags and discovered instead a woman, skeletal and close to death. she summoned the strength to say in english, are we? he nodded. yes, you’re free. she understood. too late, she said. hold me? and he held her as tightly as he could without breaking her, for the few minutes she took to die. she died with a smile on her face, the first for a long time, her last. she knew, at the most important time in her life, that she was loved, and she was safe, and my grandfather gave her that.
a dear friend once upset me by saying all troops are cowards and murderers and shouldn’t be honoured. i hope she reads this and realises that i never want to hear her say it again. not to me. i could never do what he did. she couldn’t either. he killed people. he killed a lot of people. he was a hero. there’s no but, no however, no despite. he killed people and he was a hero.
Your grandfather was a hero!!!
