VOICES

I Understand

Omaha Beach was quiet. We took off our shoes and strolled along barefoot, stopping occasionally to explore the battle-scarred German bunkers and gun turrets. Afterward we walked slowly into the American Cemetery on the cliff above. I remember rows and rows of white crosses and Stars of David stretching to what seemed like the horizon. They were all the same size and height, aligned in perfect symmetry, extending as far as I could see. Though I was tall for a six-year old, my grandmother towered over me; I had to look skyward to see her face. Her soft hand wrapped around my fingers like a satin blanket. There was a chill in the air, but I found warmth in her embrace. I loved holding hands with her. She never walked too fast or pulled me along. I didn’t mind that my parents walked ahead. Grandma’s stride matched mine and we would pause often to admire simple things. These symbols were simple. I figured that Grandma had stopped to admire them, too. The hair around her face swirled in the breeze, and I thought that when she brushed her cheek it was to pull rogue strands back in place. Then I noticed the tears in her eyes. We were far from home in a place called Normandy on the coast of France. I wondered if she was homesick.

“What’s wrong, Grandma? Why are you crying?” I asked.

“They were so many. So brave. So good,” came her reply. I watched her kneel beside a cross.

I was puzzled. Why did she pick that particular cross? “Did you know someone here?”

“No, Dear.” Her lips trembled as she spoke, “I didn’t know a single one.” After a long pause, she looked out and finished softly, “I knew them all.”

I surveyed thousands of crosses and stars that formed a gigantic lattice over the gentle green slopes. Incredulous, I asked, “All those soldiers, Grandma? How did you know them all?”

Tears fell onto her pretty blouse. She smiled and dabbed her eyes with a handkerchief. “Some day you will understand,” she said at last.

A decade has passed. Grandma died two years ago. I miss her. What’s more, I wish I could tell her that finally I do understand. It came to me recently while waiting for a flight at Los Angeles International Airport.

I was sitting beside my mother and father, reading a book to pass the time. Across from me sat a group of children preparing to board their plane, waiting anxiously for the voice to call their names over the microphone. Some doodled and scribbled on paper with crayons. “How long before we get to fly?” a little girl asked her parents. Nervous fingers betrayed her apprehension; she watched the clock, eyes growing bigger each time the second hand moved. It would probably be her first time in the air. “Just a few minutes,” they answered. Beside the girl sat a young boy, watching his worried friends with a serene expression on his face.

The restless girl looked out the window pensively. “What if there are terrorists on our plane?” The question was addressed to no one in particular.

Another girl was quick to offer reassurance. “Don’t worry. Superman will save us. He’s faster than a speeding bullet!”

Her brother took issue. “Spiderman is more powerful. He would just zap them right out of the plane.” The siblings now had grounds for a long argument.

The little boy I was watching crossed his arms and shook his head, resolute, as though he knew something they didn’t. “Those are just pretend people,” he observed confidently. “They can’t protect us, but I know someone who can.”

The others looked confused. “Oh yeah?” asked the first girl. “Who?”

The boy grinned. “Soldiers can. They’re real superheroes, and they’re stronger and braver than the fake ones.”

Without missing a beat, the other boy challenged, “How do you know?”

“Because I know,” came the answer.

“Oh yeah? I bet you don’t know a single soldier.”

Just then deplaning passengers emerged from the jet-way. Several passed in single file through the door. There was a lull. I looked over to see a smile light up the little boy’s face; from somewhere a glint had caught his eye. He spotted a medallion gleaming beneath a man’s breast pocket as he disembarked. Around the man in uniform were five others in battle fatigues with camouflage pants. They stood tall, following their leader. The boy came to his feet and saluted them. The soldiers smiled and returned the gesture. As they passed, the boy’s words to his friends took me back ten years to where I was standing beside my Grandmother.

“I know them all,” he declared.

In that moment I understood.

by  Matthew Cook

© August 8,2006