My own personal hero

In the fall of 1945 – right after the end of World War II – my father signed up for the Red Cross. He was 21 years old and had just finished his military service. Dad was stationed in a war-torn Poland that lay in ruins, and with Krakow as his base, he spent the next two years working as a car mechanic and driver. He quickly learned the language, and with a small camera he documented everything and everyone he came into contact with.

When I was growing up, those pictures represented something that was so far removed from everything I knew, but at the same time so incredibly fascinating; they were, after all, an obviously vital part of my father’s background and history. In one of the drawers in the large linen closet, they lay carefully tucked away in envelopes – small, black-and-white photographs that together provided clues to what my father had been experiencing. He rarely spoke of that time, but as a child I remember the hushed conversations in Polish he had in the living room with one of our neighbors, Uncle Dreier, who had mysterious numbers tattooed on one arm.

People sometimes talk about everyday heroes, ordinary people who help others in some way or contribute to the local community. I don’t think Dad ever considered himself a hero – rather, I think he saw what he had done as something absolutely obvious, something that had to be done at a time when the need for help was practically endless.

Over the years, I have returned to those photos again and again. I have come to terms with the fact that they are the only document I have left of my dad’s time as a young adult; at the same time, there is the bittersweet realization that I will always carry the memory of my dad as a man full of warmth, humility and great humanity – my own personal hero.