Karl Heinz on Memorial Day

      Monday was Memorial Day. Every year, I invite to my house people with whom I have a connection from Brazil. It turned out to be the biggest group ever and figured there were about 52 people here. Half were children. We grilled, enjoyed the dishes everyone brought to share, and sat around and talked. The little ones gave the bounce house a run for its money and the balls from the pit were all in said bounce house at the end of the day. It's always great to be together. It's also a day to remember those who gave their lives for the freedoms we enjoy as citizens of this nation.

I come from a multicultural family. My father was from Germany and my mother is American. They met in Germany in the early 60s when my mom was a university student in Marburg, the city where my father had been born and raised. 

        During World War II, both my grandfathers served in opposing armies. My American grandfather was stationed in India and flew bombing missions in the Pacific theater. My German grandfather was a foot soldier who served at the Russian front. No one in my German family was pro-Nazi. Both men breathed a sigh of relief when the war ended and returned to civilian life.

One man in my German family did not go home to resume his previous life. He was my great uncle Karl Heinz Fleckenstein and my father's godfather. He was the youngest of three children and barely old enough to shave when he was sent to wherever the fighting was as a machine gunner. His service began in 1940, as far as I can tell, and ended on the Russian front on March 29, 1944, when he was shot in the head by a sniper. He was 22 years old. Whether by choice or not he fought for his country not the Nazi regime. He's buried in Ukraine--nobody knows exactly where.

My father inherited several items that belonged to Karl Heinz. One is his military service record book. It records every battle he fought and ends abruptly on the date of his death. The blank pages in the book were cut out to prevent identity theft. It's heartbreaking to read he endured four years of war only to have his life cut short so suddenly. 

I remember asking my Oma who had done a painting in her living room. It's of a young girl holding a bouquet of flowers. She told me her brother, Karl Heinz, had painted it. I felt I was missing something because I had never met this brother. Oma looked up from her sock darning and calmly said, "He died in the war." The painting now hangs in my dining room.

As we remember the Americans who gave their lives for our country, I also remember the uncle I never met who gave his life for his. It doesn't matter to me he was on the opposing side. He was a family member and his loss was still felt by my German family many years later.