(I took a short piece from a couple years ago and updated / rewrote it in anticipation of Father's Day)
James
“Gigi” DeSimone earned his travel chops the hard way: dodging shrapnel and
Nazis. He participated in the European theater during World War II and as a
field medic on D-Day, saw nightmares of the unforgettable kind.
But
my grandfather saw some other things in Europe that he could not forget; but
those, he wanted to remember. He found them by exploring, when he was able. He
sought out good experiences, thinking that all he knew of European life, days
filled with explosions and gore, nights dripping with anxiety, couldn’t be the
finality of existence across the Atlantic.
Whether
to protect us kids or to keep the unforgettable somewhat forgotten, he doesn’t
talk about wartime much. What he does recount are his adventures that took him
around France and Belgium, riding on trucks and meeting girls. He even had a
girlfriend in Paris, which he likes to point out in front of my grandmother for
a good laugh and eye roll. Michelle Dupont may still be waiting for him on,
“one of those bridges over that river.”
When
he returned from Europe, met my grandmother Alice and started a family, they
shared a common love for travel. In their day, Nana and Papa were the avidest
of avid world travelers. Mexico, Ireland, Italy, the world was their oyster -
scratch that, my maternal grandmother is extremely allergic to shellfish - the
world was their, let’s say, filet mignon.
Years
slipped by and travel went away with the hearing, eyesight and easy mobility.
They even squashed their annual snowbird migration to their beloved home in
Florida (the Tin Can, as my cousins as I call it).
But
nothing can hide the gleam that undoubtedly sparks in their eyes when they
start reminiscing about their travels together. Nana has a hard time seeing,
but I know she sees those mental pictures in high definition without any need
for glasses.
The
night before my wife and I left for our three-week European honeymoon, we
visited my grandparents hoping to get a few travel tips and maybe a story or
two.
They
didn’t disappoint. Nana corrected Papa during a story about a salesman on a
beach in Mexico who told my grandmother she was too grande to wear the shawls he sold out of
his kiosk.
And
then my grandfather got up and told us to wait a minute. He went to his room
and came back holding a small 4 inch by 4 inch brown booklet and handed it to
me.
On
the tattered front cover were the words, German Language Guide.
I
held it like it was made of crystal, afraid if I opened the cover the whole
booklet would disintegrate in my palm. But Papa said to open it, so I did.
The
inside cover reads:
War
Department
Washington
25, D.C. 22 June 1943.
TM
30-306, German Language Guide, to be used with the Introductory Series Language
Records, is published for military personnel only, and is not to be republished
in whole or part without the consent of the War Department. By order of the
Secretary of War:
G.C.
Marshall,
Chief
of Staff.
He
saved it for 67 years. This booklet had been with him throughout Europe and
clearly had some wear and tear. I couldn’t help wondering how he used it, since
my grandfather never actually proceeded into Germany with the Army. I ignored
the thought and instead rapidly began flipping through it like a kid with a
comic book.
On
the next page was an Archie comics-esque cartoon depicting four G.I.s sitting
around a record player, presumably practicing their German. Each one had a
confounded look and the small Dachshund dog with them appeared to be howling at
their ineptitude (the weiner dog was all over the booklet, I’m guessing he was
the least offensive representative of German culture they could come up with in
1943). Humor was undoubtedly the theme. The comics run throughout, each one is
of U.S. soldiers mocking each other for their poor bilingualism. There’s even a
general in a bathtub that looks suspiciously like Wilford Brimley.
The
possibly offensive cartoons led to outdated maps and a few dozen pages of
common German words and phrases. All in all, it appeared to be quite a helpful
piece of literature. Something I would actually find useful in Germany.
“That’s
for you,” my grandfather said. “Take it with you.”
I
was touched but my stupid practicality blurted out, “But we aren’t going to
Germany. We’re doing France, Switzerland and Italy.”
He
smiled and I couldn’t help but think he had something wise to impart upon me
but withheld it, possibly knowing the merits of making the discovery on my own.
Instead
he said, “Well I wish I kept the French one too.”
At
a train station in Bern, Switzerland two weeks later, I emerged on the platform
to signs written solely in German. My wife and I anticipated French and Italian
along our journey, not factoring in the third language of the Swiss – but Papa
had. Too bad I left the German booklet home. That was the last time I didn’t
listen to my grandfather. That was the last time I didn’t take a little bit of
him wherever I went.
Papa
was the original adventurer in the family. He seized opportunity. He saw
whatever he could, experienced whatever he could experience. And despite the
horrors of war or the difficult times, the only memories he shares are
unabashedly joyous and distinctly humorous. And of all the things he has given
me, I cherish this outlook the most (his German booklet is a close second).
At
the Smithsonian Air & Space museum in Washington, D.C. there is a World War
II exhibit. There, somewhat out of the way of 1940s aircraft, is a display case
with era memorabilia. The last time I was there, I noticed a small green
booklet that looked vaguely familiar. It was the Japanese Language Guide. Next to it in blue was the French
Language Guide.
But nowhere in the case was the brown German booklet that I had tucked away
safely at home.
I’m
sure there are many out there somewhere and maybe someday I’ll offer to give mine
to the museum. But for now, it’s not going anywhere except with me the next
time I visit Europe. Just in case.
I’ve
learned a very important word from it.
Danke. As in, danke Papa.
