I don't have a grave to put a flag on
Edit: I wrote this text on Memorial Day 2016, as the entire United States was remembering its fallen soldiers. This is a tribute to my grandfather, who fought in the French Resistance during WWII.
“I had the honor to place a flag at my grandfather’s marker. Remember those who served and sacrificed on Memorial Day,” writes West Springfield Mayor William Reichelt on Memorial Day. Everybody remembers their fallen soldiers today, those “who made the ultimate sacrifice” for their country, or whatever. United States of America. France. And I try to remember you, granddaddy. You’re not here, you’re nowhere. But somehow, you’re everywhere. I don’t have a grave to put a flag on today. I don’t even have memories to hang on to. All I know is that you were a soldier once too, the unofficial kind. All I know is that you resisted. That’s it. I could spend all my time looking for clues, proofs, testimonies of what it was like to be part of the French Resistance for you. Where you were, how long, with whom. Because you told nothing to your son. Only that you didn’t really want to talk about it. The other day, veterans from the Vietnam War came to our TV Studio and were interviewed. They told their wartime stories and the recordings were sent to the Library of Congress. It was part of a big history project, designed to make sure that we remember. So that we can study their stories later at school. So we know. And guess what, all that time, I was imagining that it was you in that black leather chair, being interviewed, telling your own kick-ass story to that old white-haired guy, talking for hours. Of course, upon reflection, I don’t think you would have done it. But still, I bet you have much to tell. As much as these guys. If even more. You didn’t only fight for your country. You fought for freedom, in its truest meaning. You went to combat because you didn’t accept the fate of these countless people, bent to the will of others, crushed. Half of the country was occupied by Nazi Germany, streets were paced by horrifying figures, there was no food, they were taking people to Germany as forced labour. And you said, fuck this shit, I’m going underground. You fought. Naturally, I may be completely wrong, it may not be as glorious and badass. I just don’t know. Maybe you met some of those American soldiers buried in the Veterans Cemeteries as WWII heroes, maybe not. But dammit, sometimes I really would like to know. Sometimes I really wish you were still here. I wish somebody else had asked and recorded you, at least. I was too young to be able to ask you anything. I didn’t know about WWII, or any war. Not long after my birth, you left us. I don’t remember anything about you. The only thing I possess is this little clip my grandmother cut out from the newspaper. Your obituary. And it says, in big letters: “Ancien Résistant.” Former Resistant. My grandmother highlighted this part. I put it in my drawer.
I have come to terms with it. What is unique about your fight is that I don’t feel the need to know about it all. You’re my hero. No, not “all of France” resisted during WWII, as some politicians claimed at Victory. It is funny how we so often tend to forget that France collaborated, even in the northern part. You didn’t. Like those who fought on your side. They were not that many.
In your absence, you taught me that there is no freedom without a fight. That you should never take what you have for granted. Most importantly, you inspired me. Because of you, I refuse to stay idle during my time on this planet. I want to do something meaningful. In your absence, you ordered me to fight for justice and freedom, not to accept the status quo, not to surrender to somebody else’s rules and commands. I will never forget. I am a writer. I hope I serve this purpose well.
So, no, I will not spend my life looking for traces of you. I could. But I won’t. I have something much stronger in me.
Thanks so much granddaddy.