On June 26, 1982, my dad went back to the little town in Germany where he had parachuted into someone’s backyard, bleeding, in the snow, in the Winter of early 1944.
He went to the local Post Office and spoke with someone who knew some English. He explained who he was and why he had come there.
The person he spoke with made a phone call and a short while later the woman who had saved his life, when all the men were going to kill him with pitchforks, came in.
I have the front page of the local newspaper from that day. There is an article about the two of them with a photograph.
My dad is standing there with his arm around his savior.
She must have been a very fine, compassionate and brave person.
My dad sure was one lucky 19 year old.