My Grandfather Joseph Wasn't a Nazi

My Grandfather Joseph

My grandfather was a soldier with the german army during wwII (he was not a nazi-the young soldiers that were drafted were simply soldiers and not nazis...one had to join the actual nazi party to be called a nazi). He was twenty years old when he was forced to fight with the german army and was sent to russia where he was shot within two weeks in the gut on the russian front one cold january morning.

His name was Joseph Richter. He was an artist and created beautiful hand carved violins and was purported to be a wonderful violinist as well. They put boys like him that didn't have a clue how to fire a gun or fight in a war on the front to serve as the outer disposable rim. he was apolitical and was an artist that only cared for his music and his young love, my grandmother. my mother was but a mere three month old fetus in her mother's womb when her father was killed. my grandmother hated the nazis for taking her country where they did and for ultimately being the blame behind the loss of her young husband's life. she was almost imprisoned many times for refusing to salute in honor of the fuhrer and was tough as nails. Her name was Magdalena Richter. she especially loathed the party because her sister had a disabled baby. back then they didn't have the medicine we have today to prevent pre-eclempsia. needless to say, my mom's cousin was taken away by the nazis and put in an institution for the mentally impaired where they were all gased to death. there are records of her death. this child's name was Christine Richter, named after Saint Christine. God rest her young four year old soul. my mother ate flour and water until the age of eight or nine and was considered lucky because her grandmother, my great-grandmother Anna, worked on a farm 25 miles outside of town. Anna would ride her bicycle to work every day and was a laboror on the farm. Her name was Anna Weiss. She was paid with eggs. Thus, my mother's family was lucky because they not only ate flour and water but also had the luxury of eating eggs. I have been feeling sad lately when I imagine the faces of these young soldiers dying in Afghanistan..not because they are any more or less important than anyone else in this world whose life ends in a grotesque fashion, but because I yearn to have known my Grandfather who was probably their age and probably just as clueless as to what he was really doing on that cold winter morning in 1941 Russia.