For many years, my parents insisted they would never visit Germany. We’re Jewish, and the history…well, you know. They’ve extended that ambivilence towards Austria, but since I married the Austrian, they wanted to see the homeland and have moderated their views a little. Time passes, opinions change, and the draw to see Vienna is undeniable.
The ‘rents are staying up the hill at a farmhouse – they’re in a little apartment up on the third floor. It’s a nice place, clean and pretty and smack in the middle of a working farm. After we got them settled in, we were invited to join the family for coffee. While we were sitting there, the old man came in. He’s 88 and still farming, in fact, he’s still driving though he hasn’t had a license for nearly 20 years, since he was 70. Says he can’t be bothered to renew it and anyhow, mostly he just drives the tractor.
When he found out we were Yankees, he told us he’d been in the US before. As a much younger man, he’d been a guest of the US government. Okay, not a guest. He was a POW. He got picked up in Northern Africa and sat out almost all of the war sitting in a fenced yard in Texas. He picked cotton as prison labor. He was locked up for three years and says the isolation was a killer, they weren’t allowed to talk to the US guards and they didn’t have much to do. “I spent the first year just lazing around,” he said. When he was finally released, he actually wanted to stay in the US, but they tossed him out. “Sure they did,” said the woman to his right, “They had to throw out all the Nazis!” She whacked him on the arm and laughed.
We told him it had been much safer for him to sit out the war in Texas, picking cotton. He agreed and his son said, “Yes, safer and so much better than having to live with the memories of what happened during the war.” The old man, who was still feeling pretty talky, said that during his time in uniform, he sat in a bunker holding a rifle, but he never shot the thing. Never shot at anything or anyone. My stepfather reached over and patted him on the arm as a way of thanks.
Many years later, the old man did make a trip back to the US and one of the places he went to see was the place he’d been a POW. When he was finally released and transported back to Austria (in spite of his wishes to the contrary) the Red Cross shipped him a guitar that they’d given him while he was a prisoner. He says that even though they were very isolated, they were well fed and cared for. He still has his guitar – he likes country music – and he’s going to take it out and play it for us some time while the ‘rents are still here.
The folks had a helluva a flight itinerary. They flew from Eugene>San Francisco>Denver>Frankfurt>Salzburg. It’s another two hour drive to get home from the airport. They’d had an extremely long day and then, Austria wanted to give them a whole new perspective on history. You know, as a welcome. Wilkommen, bienvenue, welcome.
On day two, we had coffee and cake with my mother in law and went for a lovely walk by the lake. The only past we talked about was what the family had been doing with their summer.
Loved this … linked to it. Love the photograph too 🙂
Okay, enough love, I should go to bed. 🙂
It’s nice that enough time has passed so both Austrians and Jews can share a common passion – baked goods.
When we met our Bavarian friend’s grandfather, he said he, too, had been picked up in North Africa, and spent the rest of the war at a camp in Kansas. He said he loves the US now because he was treated so well there (to our immense relief). Reading your post was like hearing him tell the story again.
You’ve tapped into so much with this post…and reminded us how something as universal as history is most importantly, utterly personal.