INHERITANCE OF SACRIFICE

Not long ago, I opened a box of my family’s past. It was gifted to my father by his mother, and it was a time capsule of my great-grandfather’s life in the U.S. Army. The day I was allowed to look through its contents, I felt a great honor bestowed upon me. Opening the lid of a military-issued mailbox was a moment that made me giddy, as I knew I’d learn something about the history of my family.

I heard stories about my great-grandparents flying reconnaissance missions during World War I and dropping into enemy territory. I understood that there were some keepsakes that my great-aunts and my grandmother had handled, but to me, it seemed like an open myth of historical patriotism that ran through my family’s bloodlines. Nevertheless, it was something I had always cherished, as it added the value of greatness to my storied past, which was rooted in my direct ancestry.

As I slowly cracked open the still lid, the smell lingering in the air was musty, with potential mold spores being released; however, I didn’t care. The energy pouring out of the package felt like pride and reinvigorated my sense of pride to be a descendant of someone who stood on the right side of history.

I began to dig gently as I did not want to disrupt its spirit. I withdrew picture after picture, seeing my great-grandfather stand proudly with his fellow compatriots in front of the Eiffel Tower. There were notes and letters to family members. It seemed endless, and I eagerly kept digging to learn more about my great-grandfather’s time during the war.

Once I reached the bottom, I removed some documents from their place. What was revealed next made me stand still in silence. Bewilderment began to consume me. All of the pictures and letters that evoked a sense of happiness suddenly faded, and the reality of war brought on the confusion of someone who would have been in their twenties during this time.

You see, everything I extracted from this box were the cherished memories: the good times and the feel-good moments. All the while, these heroes were tasked with bringing death and destruction to our enemies. It is likely these very keepsakes are what kept my great-grandfather alive, not as a form of protection, but to establish hope.

During the wars, it was not uncommon for infantrymen to remove Nazi insignias from German uniforms. To some, these were instances of vitality, and the fabrics were souvenirs to reflect their contributions. One of the last articles I would hoist out of the box were just that: two Nazi garments cut and pulled from a German uniform.

While these atrocious relics rested in the creases of my palms, I began to question the barbarism that took place during the war. The brutality that had to be inflicted in an equal or greater manner was nothing short of necessary. In order to defeat the oppressor, the oppressor needed to feel how it was to be oppressed.

It was at this moment that I understood the ultimate sacrifice, and the letters and pictures were sentiments of survival. While holding these pieces of cloth, I could almost feel the life escape from them and hear the death echo in my ears. It led me to recall the smell once I opened the box; it was not the smell of old age, but the odor of war.

As I held onto these insignias, I felt even prouder knowing that my bloodline was on the right side of history. The confusion was stripped from my body as I thought in lockstep with my ancestry. My wonderment for the day was settled, and I needed to dig no more. I felt more connected and had a deeper understanding of the ultimate sacrifices the men and women around the world had made only a century ago. It was this day I was proud to be an American: the day I learned a Nazi died.