Form #1048

He was a mysterious man, a passionate man. He used to tell me stories of the war like he never left. My father often said he never really came home. To me he was a hero, a brave soldier who put the demands of others before his own. I constantly enjoyed hearing him speak so emotionally. My grandfather used to come into my room every night before bed to read me a story. Most children were told of nursey rhymes, or tales of a beautiful princess being rescued by a heroic prince, but not me. My grandfather used to pull out a small black notebook from the top shelf of the bookcase. I was always amazed how dusty it remained, night after night. It was always strange too given it was only 50 pages but it seemed every night there was a new story. For years this occurred. I knew more about my grandfather then my own father did. I looked forward to bed. I used to force myself to stay awake until he came in. I never got bored of his stories. I would often tell them back to my father but he had this sort of poignant interest. In fact, he never knew of a black book firsthand, a bewildered look on his face whenever I spoke of it. I always tried to show my father the book, but I could never find it on the top shelf. But I knew it was there. I used to ask my grandfather why he never read to my father after the war, but my grandfather just kept reading, seemingly unwilling to acknowledge the inquiry.

The older I got, the less he would come and visit. I used to ask my father why grandad didn’t come over as often, I thought he stopped loving me. My father always used to say that my grandfather was always in the room, and if I ever needed him he would be there for me. I never understood why he said that. It wasn’t until I was much older that my father took me to a memorial service for war veterans. It confused me that my grandfather was not there, because he was a veteran. He used to read me stories after the war. I just assumed he would meet us there. My father drove the car with tears in his eyes. I’ve never seen my father cry before. In fact I have never seen my grandfather and father in the same room before. My grandfather used to say that he was never there when my dad needed him and maybe my dad resented him for that. I felt it best not to ask. Yet still I didn’t understand why he was so emotional. As we walked to the service my father holding my mothers hand close I looked around but we were the only ones there. We walked across the grass passing hundreds of crosses until all of a sudden I walked into the back of my father. He was staring at a cross. I didn’t know why or what he was so intensely staring at. I looked around for my grandfather but he wasn’t there. As I approached my father I looked up at him and with a raspy voice and tears in his eyes he uttered “He would have loved you”

Before I mustered up the strength to ask who I looked down. I saw a picture of my grandfather. Underneath the photo read “Loving husband, and father – April 2, 1914 - June 6, 1944”

The car ride home was the most empty I’ve ever felt in my life. Was I crazy? Is everything I knew about my grandfather my own berserk subconscious playing tricks on me? That night I laid awake. With every creak of the house I rose awaiting my grandfather coming through the door. After several days I knew I would never see him again or hear his many bed time stories from his little black notebook. I wondered if as I grew up his memory subsequently faded and grew distant. I needed to see him again. I decided to tell my father everything, every story, every moment I thought we had shared growing up. After I told him my father remained silent, he took my hand and brought me to the attic. I was not allowed to go in the attic. I used to get into trouble for attempting to open the attic door in our ceiling when I would play hide and seek with my friends. I have never seen my father go up there. Upon entering the attic for the first time, I saw so many boxes. An army uniform was neatly folded atop a big chest. Medals of all colors collected dust, photographs of my grandfather filled the boxes. My father explained to me that he grew up without a dad because of the war and it was hard for him to be in the attic without becoming emotional. He opened the chest to show me photographs and accomplishments of my grandad. We spent hours up there. Before emptying out the chest completely I gasped for air before screaming “That’s the book!”. My father had no idea what I was talking about but there at the bottom of all my grandads possessions was the little black notebook which my grandfather would read to me every night. My father picked up the notebook, dust concealed the fine leather cover. My father opened the notebook but their were no words. Completely empty. I knew at that moment I was never completely alone, my grandfather was always there. To my surprise a folded piece of paper fell to the floor. It looked old, it was crinkly and worn. My father opened the paper which was titled “Department of Veterans Affairs Policy/Insurance form #1048” the document was dated June 5th. The day before my grandfather was killed in battle. As my father read on, the document stated “Proceeds to preferred beneficiary” and stated my fathers name. The face amount of $5,000 was given to all soldiers during the war in case of death however my father had no idea my grandad completed it.

That night my Father and Mother went out. They took the paper they found and told me they would be home later. I took some of the photographs out of the attic of my grandad and brought them to my room, I wanted his pictures close to me. To remember him. I heard the door open, my father called me downstairs. In his hand was a cheque for $20,000. I guess $5,000 in 1944 is worth a whole lot more now-a-days.