As the nation marks the 250th anniversary of its founding, I found myself musing on its 200th anniversary. My life has been long enough that I was a mature man when the bicentennial occurred. My wife and I were driving through the south of Germany on our way to Geneva with no schedule and no reservations, save that we had to catch a plane from the Swiss city to Athens about 10 days after the 4th.
Happenstance took us to a cemetery somewhere in the Black Forest. On America’s birthday, we found ourselves looking at neatly kept rows of tombstones, all of which marked the passing of young men who had died in the early 1940s. Many of the tombstones had small pictures of the dead young men. Obviously, they were casualties from Hitler’s quest for domination.
I felt a very uneasy suspension of feelings at this odd accident of travel. Scores of the graves of very young men who, if they had lived, would not be a lot older than I was. On the opposite pole was the reality that they had died for a cause as evil as any that had ever existed. Then I felt a need to explain my presence in such an unlikely place on a momentous day for the country that had sent or helped to send these young men to these graves.
We left the cemetery and, by accident, found the best hotel in the Black Forest, which has an open room. I soon forgot about the encounter with the dead Hitler Jugend as we continued our improvised journey. Only today did the unlikely event escape the vault of lost memories.
The accident of longevity allowed me to see if I could retrieve other recollections that might in some gauzy way be relative to this day. I came up with a few that might be appropriate for the day, though their connection is fragile.
My parents were both the first children in their respective families to be born in the United States; everyone older was an immigrant. Thus, I grew up among family gatherings that were filled with people who had strange names, at least to me, and who spoke English with heavy Middle-European accents. Their devotion to their adopted country was palpable and unquestioned. They sent their sons off to fight World War II; one was as young as 17.
My maternal grandmother (who lived in the same house as my parents, my brothers, and me) came to this country in 1906 as a passenger on the Hamburg-America Line’s SS Deutschland. She kept the passenger manifest with her until her death more than 60 years later. I spent a lot of time with her. She spoke many languages and helped me with my German homework. She also would give me my allowance back whenever my mother confiscated it for bad behavior – a frequent occurrence.
The incident relevant to today happened when she and I were watching the 1968 Democratic Party national convention in Chicago. I had long since left home to live on my own, but was back for a visit. The violent clashes between police and anti-war demonstrators finally became too much for her.
“What’s the matter with those people?” she asked with deep incredulity. “Don’t they know this is the greatest country in the world?” She had ample basis for comparisons.
Some things never change. May the Fourth be with you.
