A Door in the Sky

He was already halfway into the Christmas vodka by the time I walked through the door. 'Go get yourself a glass and sit down' he barked. 'I always told myself that one day you and I were going have a drink of vadker and I was going to tell you some things'.

I had heard the stories from my Mom, grandparents, aunts and uncles. I had seen the old yellow newspaper from his hometown with his picture on the front page. A 24 year old steel eyed soldier posed behind a machine gun and a waist high stack of Nazi soldier helmets. The family always spoke with glowing reverence of his single handed obliteration of a platoon of German soldiers that had planned a surprise midnight attack on the American troops.

'We're so proud of him. Your Dad is a hero. He saved the lives of all his men.'

Sergeant First Class George B. Grimm received the highest honor that can be awarded for heroism in battle without dying. I still have his silver star medal in my top dresser drawer along with the swastika and iron cross he took off a dead soldier. When we were in depositions and negotiations for his medical malpractice and wrongful death law suit, I secretly carried his silver star in my pocket. 

'First of all' he said, 'your daddy was a damn good soldier. I did what I was told. I did what I had to do.' 

He stood at his position while on solitary night watch while the rest of the troops slept. Somehow he became aware of an immediately impending attack by a German platoon. He sequestered himself beneath a bridge with as many machine guns and armaments as he could quickly gather. When the enemy forces stormed over the bridge, he let fly with a flurry and hail of gunfire unleashing a storm of blood rain upon himself from the fresh corpses of soldiers above. 

He killed every last single Nazi son of a bitch in sight all by his lonesome damn self.

Part of him never emerged from beneath that bridge, never stopped hearing echos of gunfire, never came clean from the bloodshed, never awoke from the night terror. 

Nearly four decades after that night, as we pounded down shot upon shot of vodka, he finished telling me his story. It was the first time I ever saw my father cry. I tried to put my arm around him but he told me to sit back down. We sat across the table for what seemed forever while he repeated 'your daddy was a good soldier, your daddy was a good soldier, your daddy was a good soldier......'

A Door in the Sky

The fragility of children 

transcends space and time

trickles through pores

on the surface

of the grid work of his skin

surrounding his face. 

Immemorial legions of bastards 

drawn to his bedside

to bask in the sun

as his father

calls him back home. 

The light of his day

was preceded with glory. 

His family sat round

trading stories over coffee

cakes and regressions

led to tears

soaking the bread of communion

shared at his dining room table. 

The lamp overhead

was the only light artificial

in this room full of angels

ancestors and souls

of those he had loved

and loved him in return. 

The lives he took

on the battlefield returned

and offered forgiveness

for his unchosen tasks. 

The light overhead came closer. 

We witnessed stillness and haste

in its approach. 

Then God as a man

rose up and proclaimed

his innocence had returned 

and he shared it with those

present and otherwise. 

He kissed us goodbye

one final time

as he ascended and climbed

through a door in the sky. 

All my love always,

Max

PS. If I have one prayer right now, it is that Dad is looking over my shoulder as I write this and saying 'You told it right, kid. You told it right.'