My grandfather lies in bed, close to death. Is he really what people think he is? Is he?
|For years we had ignored him, pretending he was invisible. Many times had he stood in front of our porch, holding a flower or a box of chocolates, only for my parents to slam the door on his wrinkled face, and for me to stare silently as he trotted sadly back to his home in the east, the gift quietly placed on the doormat of our house, to then be thrown in the trash without comment. Perhaps it was because only I visited him secretly when my parents were gone.|
Perhaps it was because I didn't bear hatred for Austrian Nazis.
My grandfather was a quiet man, who based his life on solitude due to what he told me as a "mistaken career" Despite what my parents said, he is actually a kind and sweet person inside, scarred by a simple misunderstanding. I knew that he killed people, but inside I knew that he didn't mean to. He was young and brainwashed, following orders when he didn't even know the meaning of Nazism. He now lay in bed, breathing his final breaths in his cursed life. Beckoning me closer, tears in both of our eyes, he silently whispered: