1-  September 13th, 1995

2-  November 30th, 1944

3- September 15th, 1995

4- November 24th, 1944

5- October 5th, 1995

6- December 5th, 1944

7- October 15th, 1995

8-  July 19th, 1941

9-  November  5th, 1995

10- December  10th, 1944

11- November 15th, 1995

12- December  7th, 1941

13- November 16th, 1995

14- December 25th, 1944

15- March 1st, 1996

16- June 6th, 1944

17- March 2nd, 1996

18- February 15th, 1945

19- March 3rd, 1996

20- September 17th, 1944

21- March 7th, 1996

22- April 15th, 1945

23- March 20th, 1996

24- August 15th, 1945

25- April 2nd, 1996

September 13th, 1995

It was no surprise that everyone loved Grandpa Joe Harper. He was the quintessential sweet older man that invoked memories of the archetypal grandfather from classic films, as though he were the physical embodiment of all the positive imagery of grandfathers in popular media.

Joe was skinny but not frail, with deep blue eyes that reflected the sun as though they were opals. The grandkids called him “Pop Pop” and everyone loved it so much they adopted the nickname themselves. The name suited him, and, like most great nicknames, it just fit, as though Joe was just a name he would have until the moniker of Pop Pop would rightfully take its place. More than once, a stranger, such as a nurse or a telephone salesman, would ask for Joseph, which would create some confusion because people didn’t call him Joseph or even Joe. They only knew him as Pop Pop. Sometimes even Pop Pop himself wouldn’t respond to “Joe.” He would tell his grandkids that Joe was the old reminiscence of a man he wasn’t anymore, as though he were eager to shed the past like a snake does its skin. He was transformed into the lovable elderly man everyone knew and loved. He was Pop Pop.

Pop Pop was tan but not dark, as his northern European heritage would not allow his complexion to become any darker, plus he always wore a fedora tilted to the side like Sinatra, which he would remove indoors and in the presence of women, which just added to his charm and kept the sun off his face. He was handsome too, even at 85, and would have given Sinatra a run for his money in his prime. He would blush when his late wife Emily, or Umma, as she was known by the grandkids, used to tease him about his similarities to ol’Blue Eyes. He would say, “Oh, honey, Frank would be ugly if he couldn’t sing and I can’t, so I must be hideous.” Then he would laugh, oblivious to the fact that no one but himself was laughing, which would inevitably cause anyone in his company to laugh or at least smile. “Jovial” was one of the many adjectives that seemed as though they were created specifically to describe Pop Pop.

It was obvious Joe laughed a lot; the deepest wrinkles on his face were smile lines which had become pronounced in his old age and played across his face as though they were lines on paper. Joe was lovable, however, there was something mysterious in Joe’s eyes, a feeling of conflict that reached out from them as though his past were screaming to speak. This look always beguiled his family and friends. Everyone that knew Pop Pop could feel a sense of conflict, even though he was the happiest man in the neighborhood. Not even his late wife could put her finger on the mystery of Pop Pop. Most people just attribute these feelings of conflict in him and many men his age to their time in World War II.

Pop Pop would never talk about his past prior to meeting Emily. When questioned, he would turn slightly cold and irritable, not enough to make the enquirer notice outright, but just enough to make them not want to dig deeper. What was known to the family from the minimal attempted inquiries was the following:

Joe was an only child, born April 19, 1922, to Danish immigrants, Hans and Petra Schneider. Hans, with Petra, whilst she was pregnant with Joe, had emigrated, along with Petra’s mother Gretta, looking for opportunity, like most emigrants after WWI, and settled in Detroit. They changed their last name from Schneider to Harper to “fit in” with their new country, and when their baby boy was born, Hans and Petra named their son the most American name they could think of – Joe – much to the dismay of Gretta, who wanted them to name him after her late husband Deiter. But this was the new land, the land of the free, and Hans and Petra wanted nothing about their son to be European. He’d be American. Joe Henry Harper, it was, and, really, is there a more quintessential American name than that?

Joe was raised as a normal child of immigrant blue-collar parents. Joe’s dad worked as a mechanic and Petra was a stay-at-home mom. They would never speak Danish at the Harper home. Even though both parents never had the best grasp of English, they had never resorted to Danish once they had moved. Joe, however, did know some bad words in Danish which he had picked up from his father when he would get upset and say them under his breath at Petra, but that was very rare. Those Danish bad words were so rare and out of the ordinary for his father that he’d always remember their pronunciation and would almost jokingly use them, usually in the wrong context, when Umma would ruffle his feathers.

Tragically, Pop Pop’s parents both died in a car accident when he was fifteen. This was another part of his past he did not talk about. After his parents died, he was raised with lackadaisical rules by his elderly grandmother, who barely spoke English and was in the early stages of dementia. Little is known of his high school years, but it was clear that Joe was a class clown with loose rules from a mentally absent grandmother who allowed Joe a great range of freedom not known to boys his age, but a much larger personal responsibility as well. This explained Joe’s great sense of independence and uncanny confidence that only relying on one’s own wits and self-reliance can provide.

Joe joined the army directly out of high school because he had no clue what he would do, and even though he never admitted it out loud to his wife and sons, they believed he was “duped” by a recruiter. However, Joe never spoke highly of the military and actively persuaded his kids not to join.

Much of what was known about Pop Pop in his younger age is from assumptions by the family and inferences into what made him tick. These assumptions were bouncing around in the mind of every one of critiquing age in the Harper family because they were intrigued. Pop Pop was very open about his life after the war but not before. Why was this? This confused his family, especially Umma, but Joe would always say, “I never existed until I met Emily.” Umma never knew him until after the war, and because he had no living family, she never indulged in questions about his upbringing because she sensed a level of pain and anguish that the death of his parents at a young age and the subsequent raising by his mentally absent grandmother had caused. His grandmother had died when he was away at the war. He was never too fond of her, so her memory was not worth bringing up.

The feelings of self-worth and accomplishment which are usually established through family contact did not seem to be disrupted in Pop Pop, so, as Umma used to say frequently, “If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it,” so she never brought it up. But Pop Pop’s sons, Henry and Lee, as they grew older and started to question their upbringing, would always wonder about what Pop Pop was like when he was their age. What were Pop Pop’s parents like? But upon enquiring with their dad, he would respond with the subtle negativity that prevented anyone from diving deeper into his past.

There was another subject you did not bring up with Pop Pop. That was his time in the war. All the family really knew was that he served as a captain in the 508th Infantry Regiment of the 82nd Airborne Division of the army. No one, not even his late wife, knew much about his time in the army. He joined at 18 in late 1940 and spent two-plus years on base in the US waiting to be deployed, which finally came early in 1943. He served two years in heavy combat all over Europe in horrendous circumstances and was captured and held in a prisoner of war camp inside Germany. It was evident that he had experienced horrible atrocities, that he had seen many men die. He had killed many men. Moreover, he did not want to talk about it.

No one brought up his time in the war with him. Umma admitted that for the first 15 years of their marriage, he would wake up with night terrors, screaming sometimes in a gibberish mixed language similar to German that she never understood. One time, Pop Pop admitted to her that it seemed unfair that he had survived when so many had not. He did not feel worthy of the gift of his life when so many were denied the pleasure of life itself. Why was he so lucky when he was not a good man? But she just brushed off the comment and assured him he was the best man she knew. Because of these nightmares, she never brought up the war and would warn others to not speak about it in front of Pop Pop.

However, one time, Lisa, Pop Pop’s granddaughter from his son Henry, when she was 12 before she understood the social norms of her grandfather’s generation and was in her awkward pre-teen stage, asked in a joking manner if he had ever killed a German. Joe, who had never been stern with Lisa before or really done anything but smile at her, got a look of disgust on his face, and, in a scowling manner, replied, “That is an inappropriate question! You stupid little girl. Death is very serious and you should give it the respect it deserves.” Lisa was very distraught about Pop Pop’s comments and never brought up the subject again. She warned her younger brother Andrew and cousins not to ask Pop Pop about the war. Regardless of this one mishap, Lisa loved her Pop Pop. She absolutely adored him. Everyone did.

Pop Pop was the archetypal grandfather. On his visits to his grandchildren, which had become increasingly frequent ever since his wife’s passing from skin cancer, he would impart wisdom, share a story, and play with the children just as though he were still a kid. At 85, he was still mobile, and the children would jump on him and he’d lift them up and roll on the ground, though it would take him a bit to get up sometimes and he’d get dizzy, as he, like most others of his age, was on the blood thinner aspirin but that was all he was taking. He was a model of health at 85, really. His doctor always congratulated him on his health. Pop Pop’s only vice was Jameson Irish whiskey. He’d been drinking it on ice for as long as he could remember and would have a “Jami on the rocks,” as he called it, every day after dinner. No one had ever seen him drunk but he would indulge in wine and other drinks at family events, especially his sons’ weddings. But he was always a pillar of control.

His sons would always tell him to take it easy when playing with the kids, which is a little backward because usually, caution was for the kids to take it easy on the 85-year-old. But Pop Pop would never listen. He would scoff at their request and continue to chase the kids or play tag or whatever he was playing with them at the time. Umma was the only one that could get him to settle down with the grandkids. She had control over him. He’d do anything for her and always had, but she had never taken advantage of his trust and willingness to please her, mostly because she felt the same towards him.

Umma was Pop Pop’s counterpart: the classic grandmother. They were perfect together. They were the old couple you see walking home from the grocery store, she with flowers, him holding the groceries, with her hand tucked nicely in his arm, as though there was a handle for it there, using each other for balance which had been lost in their old age. They still doted on each other after 50 years of marriage. Everyone who met them commented on how cute and lovely they were together, especially those at their Missouri Synod Lutheran Church in Grand Rapids Michigan, which their two sons attended with their families. When a new member would discover either Henry or Lee or any of their kids were related to Pop Pop and Umma Harper, they would always comment on how wonderful and adorable their family was. However, no one in the family, even young 13-year-old Lisa, would linger on the compliment too long, so as not to seem arrogant about the positive perception that most people had about the Harpers.

Joe and Emily were together for 55 years. They had met, as had many in their generation, right after the war. Joe had returned from four years in the military in 1945. They met in a bar in New York City on V-J Day. Emily, who was 20 at the time, had worked in a factory building tanks. However, she was not like the classic propaganda posters of a strong woman with arms like a man saying, “We can do it.” She was petite and cute and had retained her dainty qualities, despite working on the factory floor. She was not a weakling, however; she was athletic. She was a strong swimmer, a skill she had obtained by spending her summers working as a lifeguard in Leeland, Michigan at the community pool and at the beach on Lake Michigan when needed. However, she didn’t have the large arms and curvy figure of many women swimmers. She remained skinny and used to laugh with her daughters-in-law about how her body would have been considered sexy by today’s standards, but then she was considered almost gaunt. Emily’s body type was exactly what drew Joe to her in the bar that V-J Day, that and the liquid courage of a few whiskeys, which he admitted during Henry’s wedding toast. This appropriately received many laughs and ahhs of admiration from the guests.

Joe himself was similar in appearance when he met Emily. He was quite tall, in fact, 6’3”, but considering she was 5’7”, he towered over her, which made him look even taller. He was not weak, but his skinny build made him seem that way, which was unfortunate for the sailor who thought he could alpha male his way past Joe to edge him out for Emily’s attention. The story had been recollected many times by both Emily and Joe, and, as far the family understood from the many times the story had been told, the sailor had pushed Joe aside – lightly, according to Umma, and heavily, according to Pop Pop – and said something condescending about his skinny strawberry blond appearance and some cliché about how the navy was better than the army. Apparently, it was some derogatory comment about how army men are horrible lovers. Joe responded with something witty that caused the navy man to take a swing at him. Missing him, as Joe ducked, the fist connected with Emily, with a resounding smack in the eye and she dropped to the floor, holding her face. Pop Pop grabbed the sailor as he was off balance and lifted him into the air, which brought great surprise to the sailor’s face. He struggled to get free but had underestimated the strength of the young skinny army captain, who, with ease, threw him over the bar table, knocking the wind out of the sailor when he landed square on his back. The sailor scrambled up and ran off with tears in his eyes, according to both Pop Pop and Umma. By this time, though, the entire bar had erupted into a full-on brawl between the army and the navy – even some air force men were unfortunately in the location and got sucked into the chaos of testosterone-fueled military men drunk on whiskey and beer, all railing against the different factions. Pop Pop dodged some more punches, threw the sailor’s friends off his back, and managed to make it to Umma, who was still on the floor holding her eye. He picked her up and rushed out of the bar and into the alley. Before she knew it, she was at her apartment with a cold steak on her eye and a beer in her hand. They had not been apart from each other ever since.

Pop Pop finally admitted to his sons at his wife’s wake what he had actually said to the sailor. The boys were alone in the corner of the room. Other mourners were close to them but not close enough to hear them talking, after Henry’s wife Gwen had lovingly told the story to some members of the church who had not known how they had met when they had been asked to fill in with the conversation. The boys were in the corner with their dad, being supportive and creating small talk to fill in the time, but really eavesdropping on Gwen’s version. Pop Pop smiled slyly at the part of the story when she said, “He responded wittingly.”

Lee, who was always impulsive (which he had picked up from his mother) and a little inappropriate (which he had picked up from his dad) saw Pop Pop’s smirk and asked, “Dad, I know this might be inappropriate, but Mom, even on her deathbed, wouldn’t tell me what you said to the sailor to cause the fight over her.“

Pop Pop saw it was just his grown boys, who both had families of their own, and said, “All right, boys. I’ll tell you what I said, but it’s vulgar and inappropriate, so don’t tell your kids or friends.” He continued, looking heavy at heart, and motioning for the boys to lean in, as he whispered. His voice cracked when he mentioned their mom but he continued. “Your late mother promised me that as long as she was alive, I would not repeat what I said but now that she is gone, here it is. After that son of a bitch sailor had just told me I was a bad lover, I responded by saying, ‘I may be a bad lover but that is because I have not fucked anyone, while this sailor has had lots of practice with both his hands and the majority of his shipmates’ assholes.’”

After he spoke, he leaned back with the same smirk of deserved confidence on his face that had caused Lee to ask the question in the first place. Lee and Henry were shocked. Never in their wildest imaginations could they have thought their beloved Pop Pop could have said these words. During their whole lives, they had heard their dad curse once, maybe twice. Both leaned back with big uncomfortable smiles on their faces, both not knowing whether to laugh or ask questions.

Finally, after a brief moment, Lee responded quite loudly, half laughing, “No way!” lifting himself up on the balls of feet as he said it.

Several people in the room perked up to see the small commotion in the corner from the Harper boys.

Henry was next and asked, “Are you serious, Dad?”

But Pop Pop acted as if nothing had happened and walked away from the commotion and joined Gwen, interrupting her conversation to loudly say, so most could hear, “You want to know what I told that sailor to get him to fight over Emily?” Everyone quietened. Most had heard the story and were intrigued, especially the grandchildren. Henry and Lee looked at their dad and then at each other, very uncomfortably, not knowing whether they should stop him. He continued, not in his normal friendly demeanor with which he was known for telling delightful stories. He was agitated and forceful about the story, which put many in the room on edge, especially his sons.

He continued, “The arrogant sailor came over and PUSHED me to get to Emily, and told me that army boys” (he emphasized the “boys” to show that that comment got under his skin) “were horrible lovers.” With a look of disgust on his face, he continued, “So I responded by telling him, “Oh, yeah….” He paused for dramatic effect.

Henry noticed this pause and tried to interrupt by saying, “All right, Dad, let’s….”

But he was cut off as Pop Pop continued and said, “Well, General Nimitz is a sissy.“

Upon hearing this, both Henry and Lee breathed a great sigh of relief. The room erupted in laughter. Gwen clapped her hands ecstatically with a giant smile and an uncontrollable laugh, as she let out a snort and leaned back on the sofa, clapping her hands in excitement about what she felt was Pop Pop’s relatively risqué response. All those that laughed did so, not out of respect for the funeral process, but because most had known the story of Pop Pop’s meeting his wife, as he would gladly share it with whoever would listen, and everyone found it comical that this non-volatile gentle soul could ever say something negative about another human enough to get another man to swing at him. He was the nicest man they had ever met, and imagining him in a fight was a struggle for many imaginations when they heard that he had fought for Umma when they first met.

Henry and Lee glanced at Pop Pop, who looked back with the same look of confidence and satisfied smirk. For a moment, all three connected to understand that the story they had heard was the real version but was meant only for them. Henry and Lee looked at each other and smiled, even though they were sad that their mother had passed. They were filled with an amazing feeling of happiness that at least she had been loved by their amazing father and that she had lived a great life. Neither would articulate it, but both felt that they had never loved their dad more than that day, when, in the middle of a sad event where they had all lost someone close to them, especially Pop Pop, he could make them laugh and be happy and still have a surprise after a lifetime of stories.

The wake started to die down around 7 pm and the family and friends started to trickle out around 8 pm, everyone paying their respects and sincerely thanking Pop Pop and the Harpers for a lovely evening, despite the sad event that had brought them all together.

The Harper boys had both settled in the place of their birth, Grand Rapids Michigan, where their dad had worked as a senior manager of the Herman Miller furniture factory, his style almost being picked up by osmosis from the stylish furniture he ensured was built to the highest stands. Pop Pop had joined on the factory floor and moved his way up to management after several years. He and Emily had moved to Michigan when they realized she was pregnant with Henry and wanted a more family-friendly city than Detroit.

Lee worked as a lawyer specializing in real estate and Henry worked as an engineer for a tool and die factory. Both had graduated from Michigan State. Living close but not in the same neighborhood, they would see each other at church and some family get-togethers but would not make special occasions to get together because they would run into each other enough through their regular routine. They were two years apart and were very similar, some even asking if they were twins. However, this was silly because they really didn’t look anything alike, but they did act in very similar ways. Both were tall, over 6 foot, slender, not athletic, and almost clumsy, like their father. Lee was a little more muscular than Henry but this was only recognizable to close friends. Both were very confident and commanded an audience when they spoke, both taking after their father in that regard. There was an obvious difference that made each unique and affable for their independent qualities. Henry had confidence, independence and a sense of worth many firstborns have, while Lee was a little more dependent and conscious of what others thought, especially his older brother. There was no real competitive nature between the two. Both were into very different things.

Henry was always analytical and involved himself in “geeky” clubs such as math and chess clubs, and the rotary club in high school, but he was not a geek, far from it. He actually was just smart and enjoyed those people who challenged and pushed his intellect. He was handsome, which made him especially intimidating to the few girls in the “geeky” clubs who lacked the social skills to articulate a conversation with someone they found both attractive and smart. Needless to say, Henry had many girls swooning over him in high school but because he didn’t associate with the “cool” crowd, none were the popular type. Regardless, Henry was a late bloomer and girls were really not on his radar, even the ones undressing him with their eyes in the hallways. So he went through most of high school hanging out with male friends, getting into the standard trouble, and social interactions. This all changed when he became a freshman in university when he realized his newfound freedom and that women actually liked him. He grew in leaps and bounds in his freshman year socially, partially because of joining a fraternity, Sigma Alpha Epsilon, but also because something within him just clicked.

Henry dated many young girls his first few years of college, mostly women introduced to him through fraternity functions where he was the president, attesting to his social turnaround and his propensity for leadership instilled in him by his father. He didn’t really enjoy many of the sorority girls he had dated; most were too involved in fake ideas of popularity at a large university which he found “ridiculous.” He had always disliked the self-proclaimed “cool” people who dominated high school popularity contests and attempted to do the same in university, especially within the Greek system. He did not become president because he was popular, even though he was; he did it because he and his fraternity brothers knew he’d do a great job, which he did. Because most of the women he met he did not connect with, he would feign interest and could be known as almost mean. That was until he met Gwen.

He met Gwen at a Gamma Phi Beta sorority social diner when SAE had been paired with them for homecoming. Gwen was not your typical sorority girl. She did not wear much makeup or wear revealing clothing. She was almost tomboyish, wearing jeans and tee-shirts, with her hair in a ponytail, tan skin with no foundation or blush, just a little eyeliner. Her dark blue eyes and cute smile just screamed, “I’m fun and not pretentious!” She was in a sorority because her mother had demanded it. She pretended she didn’t care for it, but secretly enjoyed the social interaction with the fraternity boys and some of the “girly” things, but her attitude branded her a mild outcast to some of the sisters who were gung-ho. She was sitting with two other sorority girls at a table at the front entry of their house, asking each fraternity member their name, year, major and fraternity position, if they held one, and writing it on a name tag. Henry finally made it to the front of the line, not paying attention to the girls doing their menial task. He was chatting with his friend and not paying attention, which annoyed Gwen. She was about to tap him on the leg with her pen when he turned and she “accidentally,” according to her, used the felt end and drew a dark splotch right on Henry’s crotch.

“Oh, my God!” she blurted out and stood up, not knowing what to do. “I’m soo sorry! I can’t believe I just did that,” and she ran to the kitchen. She ran back out with some soda water and a cloth. She dabbed it in the soda water and attempted to dab at Henry’s crotch, but halfway to leaning down realized the place of the stain. She was stopped by Henry’s hand, clutching hers to force her to stop. At that moment, she looked up awkwardly to see him smiling.

“I think I got it from here,” he said, as she looked away nervously.

“I’m so, so sorry,” she pleaded. “I really didn’t mean to do it.”

Henry smiled at her and could tell she was truly sorry. “It’s ok, don’t worry about it,” he said. He now held the cloth and soda water. “Can you point me to the bathroom so I can see if this will come out?”

Gwen showed him to the bathroom. She waited outside the bathroom while he got the stain out.

Henry emerged with the pen mark gone but a giant water stain right in his crotch, and proclaimed, with a resounding tone of confidence and accomplishment, “I got the stain out!”

Gwen smiled at his look of accomplishment and then glanced down at his pants and smirked, holding back an entire laughing fit. She responded, half laughing, “You did,” in recognition of his accomplishment.

Henry realizing, her sympathetic acknowledgment, got a little angry. “Listen, I wouldn’t look like this if you hadn’t…”

But he was interrupted by Gwen, who, still laughing, said, “I’m sorry, this won’t do. Wait here. I have a pair of my brother’s pants in my room that should fit you. I’ll get them.”

She returned with the pants and took his other pants, saying she would return them washed for him, which she did two days later and forwardly asked him out. A year later when Henry met her family, it turned out she did not have a brother, just another funny layer to an already funny story. Henry loved Gwen and knew she was his equal in every regard. Henry never said it, but Gwen and the family all knew he was proud of the quirky situation that led them to meet. Just like his father, he had a story to be told over and over again.

Lee, just like his brother, was over six foot, but he excelled at debate and was heavily involved in theater all through high school and college. He even played varsity baseball but rode the pine as a backup catcher. He enjoyed sports and sporting activities. He did not hang out in the same circles as his brother in high school but there was no animosity, and when their social circles did intertwine, it was not weird or forced. They loved and respected each other and enjoyed each other’s company. When Lee attended the same college as Henry, there was a feeling that Lee wanted to separate himself from Henry, plus he didn’t like the social construct of fraternity and knew he’d be very busy with theater and he would not have enough time for fraternity. He, therefore, didn’t even rush, which upset Henry a little bit, but he understood. Either way, Lee was a constant at some of the fraternity parties and was always accepted by the members when he came around to see his brother. Lee was in the debate club through college and even competed in the national debate championships in Washington DC in his senior year, which Umma, Pop Pop, Henry, and Gwen, who were young newlyweds, attended. He did not win but was respectably placed seventh, considering it was a national competition. While they were in university together, Henry would go to all Lee’s opening night theater productions.

Lee dated on and off through high school and college and was quite popular with the thespian ladies. He was never serious about his relationships, though, and was more concentrated on the next play or debate, but, like most college students, had time for social interactions with the opposite sex. He was very determined to become a lawyer. He knew that was his calling from high school and was accepted into every law school he applied to. He finally chose to attend the University of Michigan Law School, which was a little controversial, considering his undergrad from Michigan State, but it was the best opportunity. He would always root for State when their teams played each other.

Lee met his wife Linda through a mutual friend and they were not romantically involved for many months, even though Linda complained she basically had to throw herself upon Lee. They did not indulge in a quirky meeting story, maybe because neither was competitive and didn’t feel they needed to prove their relationship’s authenticity, but mostly because they just met organically and not during some time-stopping event. This did not bother Lee; he was not competitive and didn’t care about how he met his wife. He only cared that he loved her deeply, which he did, especially when he saw how wonderful a mother she was to his three children: Jeffery, eight, Peter, six, and Eve, three.

Neither son was closer to their parents than the other. However, Henry did take after his dad more and Lee after his mother more, but their similarities did not endear them more to their similar parent; if anything, it did the reverse. If favoritism was to be noticed, then Henry got along with his mother and Lee with his father. Regardless, their family was very close, and what little favoritism was shown did not cause animosity, jealousy, or distrust. This attitude was instilled in all of the Harpers, and even the grandchildren got along well, with Henry’s and Lee’s children playing together regularly, and Henry’s son Paul and Lee’s son Jeffery even declaring the best friend status of their relationship several years back. They had been inseparable ever since. They were rambunctious together and Pop Pop egged them on, often getting the boys and himself in trouble with the wives. Lisa, now 13, was getting too mature for her younger brothers and cousins and often felt left out when they would play guns and “boy games,” especially when Pop Pop would so eagerly play with her brothers. But, just as he had never done with his sons, Pop Pop never showed favoritism towards his grandchildren. Each was special. He was even very gentle and enthusiastic with the youngest, Eve, at three.

Pop Pop had started to spend a lot of time with his grandkids after his wife’s death. He hated to be alone in the house, so would drive over most days to one of his sons to babysit/play/supervise. He would eagerly volunteer to babysit and even force Lee and Linda and Henry and Gwen to go on “date nights,” even going as far as buying concert and theater tickets so the sons would be obliged to leave and use him as a babysitter. The family knew how lonely he was after Emily’s death and gladly embraced his eagerness to be around. No one ever complained, because Pop Pop was helpful and cheerful and never complained.

Henry and Gwen would often take advantage of Pop Pop’s eagerness to babysit, Gwen doing errands, and Henry playing golf with his good friend Nigel. During one of Nigel’s and Henry’s golf matches after Umma had died, he tried to console Henry on the links by finding misjudged similarities.

Nigel commented, “Good on you for indulging in your father after his loss,” to which Henry responded, in confusion, “What are you talking about?”

“You know, it must be tough to spend so much time with him now.”

Henry, still confused and a little annoyed with the comment, said “Nigel, I don’t dislike having my dad around. If it weren’t for him, I wouldn’t have played golf today or….” With a smile on his face, he stopped.

Nigel looked intrigued. “Or what?”

“Fine, I’ll tell you.” Henry paused for dramatic effect and said, “… wouldn’t have gotten head from my wife in a hotel last weekend.”

“Wow, a non-birthday or anniversary blow job. That is amazing!”

Right at that moment, Henry got a call, which made Nigel look up in disgust, as it was his backswing to his putt. Henry looked at the caller ID while apologizing for the call. Usually, he would never take a call on the links, but the caller ID was his home and his father was the only one home with the kids and would never call him on the golf course.

He answered, “Hey, Pop Pop, what’s going on?” However, it was Lisa on the other end. “Hi, honey, what’s going on?”

Lisa was crying and hysterical. “Daddy, Pop Pop has fallen over and can’t get up!”

“Honey, stay with me.” He put his hand over the phone and told Nigel to call 911. “Is Pop Pop breathing?”

Lisa was crying but getting it together now that she knew her dad was there. “He is but he’s saying things but I can’t understand him and he’s trying to get up but he can’t.”

“Ok, honey, calm down for me. Can you put Pop Pop on the phone for me?”

Her voice trembling with fear, Lisa said, “I’ll try.”

“Thanks, honey, just hold the phone near him. We have called the paramedics.” Henry at that moment was looking at Nigel, who was talking with the dispatcher, telling them the address.

“Ok, thanks. Here is Pop Pop.”

Henry spoke loudly. “Dad, can you hear me? Are you ok?” On the other end, all he could hear was moaning and what appeared to be inaudible words, very similar to German.

Henry spoke even louder this time, with fear and trepidation in his voice, “Dad,” as his voice cracked because he was emotional, “Dad, can you hear me?”

At that moment, Lisa spoke on the phone. “Dad, I’ve tried to talk to him. He’s not making any sense.”

“Ok, honey.” Nigel, at that moment, was handing his phone over to Henry. “Honey, can you wait for a second and talk with Nigel for just a sec?”

Henry and Nigel switched phones. The dispatcher asked a few questions and instructed Henry that an ambulance was on the way and to inform his daughter at home that an ambulance was on the way. Henry hung up with the dispatcher and motioned for his phone.

He said to Lisa, “Ok, Lisa, don’t worry. The ambulance should be there very soon. Make sure dad is comfortable. Stay by the phone until I come home. I love you, ok?”

Lisa said, “Ok, Dad, but hurry. I love you.”

Henry hung up the phone. He looked over at Nigel and they both jumped in the golf cart and raced towards their car.

Henry arrived home to see an ambulance and several paramedics or firemen, he could not quite be sure which, standing around, with one heavyset lady paramedic with a mullet haircut talking with his daughter. He ran over to her. As soon as she saw him, she broke away from her conversation and sprinted into her father’s arms, with tears in her eyes.

Before she could say anything, her father was speaking. “Are you ok? Where is Pop Pop? Is he ok?”

With fear in her voice, trembling, she responded, “I am fine. I don’t know.”

The lady paramedic walked over and introduced herself. She then asked, “Are you related to Joe Harper?”

Henry responded, “Yes,” gathering himself, preparing himself for tough questions. “I am his son, Henry Harper. Is my father ok?”

At that moment, he was interrupted by the lady, who explained in a monotone masculine voice, “Mr. Harper has been taken to Mercy Health. He was breathing when he left. We have a few questions that your daughter was unable to respond to. Is Mr. Harper

on any medications? Is he allergic to anything? Has he been hospitalized recently?”

Joe said “Pop Pop… I mean, Joe is on low dose aspirin, isn’t allergic to anything, has never been hospitalized.”

The lady paramedic called into her microphone and relayed the information, saying, “Thank you.” She did not ask any other questions like if Pop Pop had reached the hospital or if he were alive. She just looked at Henry and Lisa and said in a very unsympathetic tone that perplexed both, Henry and Lisa, “Mr. Harper is being brought to Mercy Health Hospital,” and said that they could go there to see if he would be ok. She then asked Henry to sign his statement. Henry signed and ushered Lisa away towards the house.

At that moment, he received a call from Gwen. “Hello, honey…. I don’t really know.”

November 30th,  1945

Drip drop, drip drop. Water was leaking through the cracks of stone and echoing through the cavernous room. There was no light. The only way the vastness of the room was understood was by the echo of the water ricocheting off the walls in nature’s most primitive form of radar. It could have been a cave until another sound echoed from the walls: a sniffle and cough. There were people in the room.

“Hello? Is anyone out there?” a voice screeched, quivering in the darkness. The words echoed and eclipsed the sound of dripping water. The man’s words were forced. They were strong in sound but labored due to injury or sickness or both.

No response, just the echo of the water.

Again the strained voice spoke. “Hello, my name is…”

Suddenly, the loud sound of a metal door unlocking overtook and muffled the man’s voice. There was a deafening sound of creaking metal as the heavy door swung open. It shone a light on the man’s face, causing him to squint with pain. Two German SS soldiers rushed in and grabbed the man, with his hands and feet chained.

The man screamed, “NOOOO!”

He was scared. He kicked and fought, but his gaunt figure could not overcome the two large soldiers forcing him to his feet.

He was dirty, with cuts and fresh bruises on his face and other exposed skin. He appeared to be suffering from malnutrition. He was unkempt; his hair had not been cut and his chin had not been shaved for weeks.

The soldiers grabbed the man and forced him to the door like a rag doll. His physical condition did not allow him much resistance and the men pulled him out of the room with ease. They forced him down a hall and sat him in a chair and locked his feet and chained them to the metal chain around his waist. The men stood by the door.

Soon two other men walked in. Both these men had identical uniforms with black trousers tucked into their black leather boots, a khaki shirt, a black tie and black leather jackets with the Nazi insignia on the chest pocket, and a black belt with a metal buckle with a Danziger. Both had a black rhomboid patch with SS in silver stitching outlined on both the right and the left side of the collar. One officer had a rhomboid patch with two leaves on it, while the other officer had a similar patch with just one leaf on it in silver stitching. The man with two leaves was older, in his mid to late 40s, with dark eyes and heavy lines on his face as if he had been squinting in the sun or scowling for many years. No wrinkle lines associated with pleasure were on his face, just dark lines of displeasure, with eyes that matched. The other officer was in his mid to late 20s, with a clean-shaven face with no stand-out facial characteristics that would have set him apart from any other SS officer in the 3rd Reich. He was 6 foot with blond hair and blue eyes.

The older officer spoke in German with the younger officer for a brief moment, then the younger officer kicked the man chained to a chair and began to speak in English with a very thick accent, as though he had to have the accent because if he were to speak English without a distinct German accent, it wouldn’t be acceptable.

“What is your name?”

The man, looking in pain and sick, did not answer.

The young SS officer was not amused. He asked again but louder, “What is your name?”

The man did not lookup. He did not answer.

The young officer said again, but standing even closer to the prisoner, “WHAT IS YOUR NAME!” Still, the man did not answer. The young man raised the rod he had in his hand and smacked the prisoner on the face, splitting his lower lip open. “WHAT IS YOUR NAME!” as he struck him again

The man, now holding back groans of pain while the cut on his face leaked blood as red as rose petals down his neck, did not answer. The young SS officer smirked disgustedly at the prisoner and walked over to the older officer and spoke in German for a bit. He returned calmer and spoke to the prisoner calmly in the thick German accent.

“We don’t want to hurt you. We just want to know your name and rank so we can put you in the proper POW camp.”

The prisoner looked up at the young officer and did not show any signs of acting as he would respond. His face did not show any emotion related to what the officer was saying but his eyes looked at the young officer with the intensity of a headlight and spoke stronger than words could that he would never talk. He did not say a word. His eyes just screamed out that he would not capitulate. And he sniffled and spat a mixture of blood, mucus, and teeth fragments on the floor at the officer’s feet, splashing onto his nicely waxed boots.

The young officer looked down and saw that the spit had hit his shoe and laughed. He slowly turned around and shrugged his shoulders as though he had given up, then suddenly turned back with the rod in his hand raised and quickly stuck the prisoner across the face three times. The prisoner slumped in his chair; he was now bleeding quite profusely from the cuts on his face. He managed to gain what little strength he had to sit up. He groaned and spat blood and pieces of teeth on the floor at the SS officer’s feet again. He looked up with hate and determination in his eyes. He did not smile but his eyes just glared back at the officer, declaring with his eyes: is that all you got?

The young officer then turned and walked back to the older officer who was sitting a meter away, just where the light of the lamp was fading and just providing enough light on his face to illuminate the lower half of his face. He spoke very firmly in German to the young SS officer. He then unclipped the handgun out of the holster on his right side and cocked it and handed it to the young officer. The prisoner saw this and started to squirm in his chair.

The young officer looked the older man in the eye with disbelief. He swallowed and readjusted his posture and cricked his neck readying himself for what he was prepared to do. He took the gun from the man’s hand in a smooth transfer, as it was obvious this was not his first time the older officer had ever handed him a gun.

The young officer walked over and held the gun to the prisoner’s temple. The cold steel of the barrel touching his skin made the prisoner recoil and shiver in fear.

He screamed, “No!!!” but as the words left his mouth, the gun fired. BOOM! The sound resounded around the room and through the cavernous halls of the prison. The prisoner tensed and squirmed as the bullet entered his skull. Blood gushed like a faucet from the man’s wound as he slumped over, eyes open with the same intensity gleaming from them like a headlight. But there was no confidence in them now, just emptiness. Lifelessness. Death.

The officer spoke to the two German guards standing by the door in a rushed and impatient tone, “Nehmen Sie diesen Leichnam und bringen Sie ihn mit den anderen Gefangenen zurück in die Zelle. Sagen Sie ihnen, dass Widerstand nicht akzeptabel ist, und schnappen Sie sich einen anderen, um ihn zu verhören.“

(“Take this corpse and put him back in the cell with the other prisoners. Tell them that resistance is not acceptable and grab me another to interrogate.”)

The two guards looked at each other with confusion, and then the one closest to the officer spoke, “Verzeihung, Sir, aber wir können nur Deutsch. Wie können wir den amerikanischen Gefangenen das sagen?”

(“Pardon, sir, but we only know German. How can we tell the American prisoners this?” )

The officer realized what he had asked was out of the question but still wanted his orders followed. He frowned and spoke firmly, “Holen Sie sich Mikka Bakker. Er kann Englisch.” (“Go get Mikka Bakker. He knows English.” )

The guards removed the lifeless body with blood still oozing out of the small entrance hole, and, as they passed the officer who had shot the man, the other side of the skull was displayed, pouring blood out of a gigantic chasm that had occurred when the bullet and energy that came with it had ruptured the skull, spraying brain blood with it across the room. The man holding the gun just smiled as they removed the body, and handed the gun back to the older officer.

The men carried the body by the arms down the hall, the man’s heels dragging on the concrete floors, making an echoing sound when the rubber sole would catch the edge of the new concrete flooring. They reached the heavy metal door, unlocking the metal lock with the same loud echoing response, which startled the men in the pitch-black room.

The guards entered, lifting the man up with what little energy they had left from dragging his large frame down the hall, and threw him on the floor. His body made a resounding slam, as only a dead body with drained muscles and bones can make it as it hits the hard unforgiving floor. Several of the men gasped. There were 10 men in the room, who were still trying to adjust their eyes to the light that had been abruptly turned on in the pitch-black dungeon.

The guards stood over the body and the short one closest to the men shouted, “Dies passiert, wenn Sie nicht kooperieren,”(“This is what happens when you don’t cooperate.” ), and turned and walked out of the room, slamming the door, leaving the light on for just a few seconds to let all the men look at the body. Then there was the sound of a light being switched off and then absolute darkness once again.

From the dark, a raspy voice with a southern twang struggled to speak. “Why the hell they kill the new guy?!”

Another voice from the dark spoke. “What kind of people do this?”

On the other side of the room, they could hear a man crying but trying hard to hold back his emotions.

“Is that you, Joe?” said the man with the southern accent.

On the opposite side of the room, Joe replied, “Nah, Tex. I’m over here. I’m fine. I don’t know why they killed the new guy. They are just evil, trying to break our resolve. I don’t know who is crying but hold strong, soldier. You hear those bombs in the background?” He paused for the men to listen, but all they could hear was the echoing of dripping water.

“That is the sound of the allied forces coming to rescue us and show these Kraut bastards who’s boss. Stay strong and don’t let them break your will.”

At that moment, a young officer with a similar uniform to the man who had shot the soldier in the temple opened the door, turned on the light, and walked into the room.

He was tall, nothing particular or distinctive about this young officer, just like all the other 3rd Reich officers: tall, blue-eyed, nicely shaven, with short slicked-back blond hair. His eyes were not like the other officer, though. They were not angry and filled with hate. This was a junior SD officer, Mikka Bakker. When he walked into the room, he looked down and saw the dead body and his eyes could not hold back the horror they were witnessing. Although his face did not show emotion, like the good soldier he was, he couldn’t help but take a second look, and he stumbled upon the first few words he was about to speak.

Officer Bakker spoke in English with a strong German accent. He spoke slowly, as though his grasp of English was good but he hadn’t had much practice, so lacked the confidence it took to speak it at normal speed. “If you do not cooperate (struggling to pronounce the o-o in the word), “you will find a similar fate for all of you.”

The short SS officer who had yelled at the men before rushed up and yelled in German, very loudly, with spit flying from his lips, very close to the prisoner who had been crying but now had controlled his moment of weakness, but could not hide the red eyes and nose that comes with weeping.

Officer Bakker translated in a calm, unamused and monotone voice, “You will cooperate or I…” he stumbled on the word, as he was confused whether he should say ‘I’or ‘he',"… "will put the bullet in the next head, you cowards.”

When Tex heard this, he jumped forward to his knees against his chain, as that was as much movement as they would allow. He was restrained against the wall. He yelled, “Fuck you!” loudly, directed at the officer, not removing his eyes from the short guard’s eyes. He spoke again. “You will pay for your sins against humanity, whether in this life or the next! FUCK YOU!”

The guard heard this and clenched his teeth. He turned and ran over to Tex, who was smirking with confidence, still looking the guard in the eye, with his hands restrained behind his back against the wall. The guard kicked Tex in the face, knocking him backward, causing Joe and the men to look away from his pain. The man yelled louder in German.

Officer Bakker translated again. “You won’t win. You can never win. We will get what we want and you will suffer until we get what we want.” His eyes were looking at the ground, trying not to look at the dead body on the ground or at Tex’s bleeding nose. The guard looked at the other guard and pointed at the man who had been crying and motioned to him and spoke in German. The men walked over to him and unlocked his chain from the wall and grabbed him under the arms, moving him toward the door.

The man started to struggle and plead. He could not hold back his tears now and he screamed with fright, “WAIT NO! Wait, not me! I don’t know anything! Wait, not me!” as the German soldiers dragged him down the hallway

The other guard followed and spoke to Officer Bakker loud enough that the men could hear him laugh a disgusting laugh from his gut. Officer Bakker did not translate the last sentence; he just turned away and walked out and shut the door. The lights turned off again. It was pitch black. For a while no one said anything. And the water did not drip. It was just as silent and as dark as outer space.

About a minute passed before Tex spoke loudly, “That motherfucker broke my nose. When I get out, I’m going shit on his grave.”

Joe blew up. He had had it with Tex’s arrogance. “Shut the fuck up, Tex! Just shut up!”

Tex, taken aback, tried to speak but was cut off by Joe again. “No, just shut the fuck up! Can’t you see you’re not helping?”

Tex did not respond. The men just sat in the dark silence for some time.

The young man sitting next to Tex spoke. “I wonder what he said before he left the room.”

Tex said, “Who cares? He’s fucking pussy.”

Joe spoke under his breath. “He said, ‘Let’s see how your weak do.’”

The young man shifted. “He said what?”

Joe spoke louder. “He said, ‘Let’s see how your weak do.’”

The men sat in silence for 15 minutes or so. The only noise heard was the water dripping and a small stint of cursing under his breath from Tex when he reset the bone in his nose.

Then a loud bang. It echoed throughout the halls, ricocheting around the cavernous room in a loud cacophony that startled Joe and the other men. It was a sound they’d heard a thousand times. The distinct sound of a gun being fired.

Then suddenly the lights switched on again. And the door swung open. This time, the older SS officer stepped in.

He spoke in very broken English, “You will give us your name, rank, and location of your regiment.”

He motioned to the guards, who walked in and threw the young man on top of the other dead body, making the same splat that only a body drained of muscles and bone can make.

Tex raised himself up again. “Fuck you! Fuck you, bastards, you will pay!” Then almost breaking down, about to cry, “You will pay, you bastards!”

The officer motioned to the guards, who walked over and grabbed Tex under the arms. He squirmed and jerked his legs.

Yelling, “Fucking don’t touch me! Get your fucking Kraut hands off of me!” Tex tried biting and spat at the officer, but even though Tex was 195 lb and had been an all-state middle linebacker, he was not strong enough in his weakened gaunt state to fend off the two guards. They dragged him towards the door.

Joe saw this, with fright in his eyes, and yelled, “Wait!” but the older SS officer turned around and walked out the door with Tex.

Then Joe yelled in German, “Warten!” (“Wait!”)

As soon as the older SS officer heard the German word “warten,” he turned and looked at Joe with an intrigued look. He whistled at the guards. One had punched Tex in the stomach and was about to knee him in the face. The guard heard the whistle, looked, and saw the older SS officer shaking his head. He motioned to the officer with a flick of his head. The men then brought Tex back into the room screaming and locked him back to the wall. They grabbed Joe, who did not resist.

Tex, locked against the wall, screamed, “Joe, NO, don’t do it! Take me, you Kraut fucks! TAKE ME!” But they had already escorted Joe into the hall and slammed the door shut and turned off the light.