For Liberty

Grandma lived World War II ...

My heart was beating loudly. I could feel it vibrating in my temples when Grandma, on the verge of tear, was telling me about her youth. I listened to her trembling voice. She had been very frightened by the war, I could feel it. It pained me to see her in this state, and also to think about the dead in the battle fields.

I remember the days we had spent visiting cemetaries of war in Normandie, the way we had gone from cross to cross, reading every name. To start with, it was like a game, and then, I began to realize that those people were really dead. Face to face with the truth, I was horrified, in tears when we reached a great monument, between the graves, with countless names carved onto its sides.
" Dad, what is it ?" I asked softly. ( I already felt to bad about speaking in whispers in that place.
" In this monument, we have placed pieces of bodies, to whom we didn't know they belonged to. The names are of those who must be piled in there."
I had the feeling my heart was going to burst. These men, who were dead in a war that should not have been, I didn't know, and yet, I felt so very close to them. Even bent over the Nazi tombs--easy to recognize because of their thickness and grey color--I grieved. War has no meaning for me. I noticed that many muslims (Arabs and Morrocans) had died for France. Silently, I thanked them all for their great courage and determination to free the french soil.

Grandma had lived through the American Normandy landings. She was around fifteen in 1944. The Nazi Occupation in France had not, until then, interrupted the course of life of her rather large family; fourteen children, two of which died at a very young age. Some time before the landings, the Ally planes had flown over Normandy and dropped piles of paper, announcing the date and approximative time of the langings. It was only then, that I became aware, with an astounding anguish that the martyrs of the war were not only soldiers, but also civilians. We often don't talk about dead civilians. When we talk about the war its always is : "soldiers which died for us" or "servicemen who gave their lives for our liberty".

When we come to talk about war, I'm always the first one with a number of questions beyond compare. A passion took hold of me when I was only a little girl for wars. I was the most macabre girl of the neighborhood. Often, and perhaps too often, I sit at my desk, and during one instant, I imagine life full of apprehension, which is that of the war. It is most atrocious. The images that cross my mind give me incessant shivers, sometimes very violent. If my imagination alone gives me this feeling of fright and disgust, what can possibly be reality ?
Grandma certainly did not see men die under her very eyes, but she did hear the extreme agony sounding from far away. Sitting at the dinning room table, I listened with the greates attention possible to her story.
Not long before the great step leading to the end of this war against the Nazi Germany, Gradnma's family had had a short time to be able to assemble together their belongings and abandon their home and cattle to the German troops, who had confiscated their lodgings for their utility. My throat was tight, it was repulsing. I was shocked and angry. I think once more to the book 1940 written by Max Gallo, and how Hitler had lied to the nations ( or rather his) after which he had gained a demeasured power, and greater land. It is a feeling of frustration of not being able to anything about the past, of the present (maybe even of the future) which fills me when I think of this man, who thought that blonds with blue eyes were tomorrow's generation, and he himself was dark haired, whose folly had been cheered, and had for effect the death of millions.
Grandma had cried when the family's b***h, Cheyenne *, had not followed them. Putting myself in her place, I tell myself that I too, would have cried; not only for the dog, but also for what was inevitably going to happen.

when the sun lowers on the horizon and becomes red, I often think about this war. Whenever we study and ponder the subject in-depth, we cannot help but think that we are nothing next to those men who sacrificed what there is most precious on Earth for our liberty : their lives. It changed me to go to these cemetaries, to listen to Grandma. We tell ourselves that after all, our situation in life is not so bad, that we have not right to complain; that if we have financial problems, or physical problems, it's nothing compared to getting a bullet to the heart.
We should always respect the dead, even the nazis. Sure, they did not make the right choice, and yet, they hoped to do the best, and give dignity to their families.
In sum, War is sad. War is selfish, war is a poison which eroded, erodes, and shall erode many people. War is a dark night, in which men walk blindly. It is despairing to say it, but it has to be known : war is the price for liberty.

Author's Note

This was originally written in french. I'm sorry if my translation is not very good. I hope you enjoy a bit of me !!

Reviews

[Tegon Maus]

Hi Gwyn... your translation is very good ! The memories of your Grandmother and the telling of her memories is very touching... not to mention true on so many levels. I’m thrilled to see the connection between you and a life lesson passed on... good write !!