I once saw a picture of my Dad in a NAZI uniform giving the Heil Hitler salute. He had Nazi paraphernalia in his closet. Dear Kamala, did that make my dad a NAZI?
Dad and his three brothers all volunteered for service in the armed forces after Pearl Harbor. Dad was a young officer. He hit the beaches on D-Day. He helped liberate Paris. He led a company of men in the freezing cold during the Battle of the Bulge. He was wounded by shrapnel, but never came off the front lines. How well I remember the scar on his back from where he was wounded. He marched into Germany, and when Germany was defeated, he volunteered for service in the Pacific. Every Christmas, he would tinkle the ivories and sing the only piano song he knew how to play and belt out this chorus: “there’s a German in the grass, stick a bullet up his ass, da-ta-da, da-ta-da, da-ta-da.
Dad was not a NAZI, and if anyone seriously suggested he was, it would take me 3 seconds to punch them in the mouth.
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