Soldier Person: Reflections on WWII from Behind Enemy Lines

Today marks the 70th anniversary of the start of World War II when Germany attacked Poland at Westerplatte. To this day, WWII marks a tragic era for the entire world. Considering the losses faced by nations and families, there were no winners.

(Before I go any further, I want to state emphatically that Hitler was a madman and his ideology and plans have no place in our world. He needed to be stopped and, thankfully, the allies were able to bring about the war’s end. And to all the service men and women who’ve protected our freedoms over the centuries…Thank You!)

Studying World War II through the eyes of American history books was an experience I’ll never forget. We learned about the triumphant allies and evil enemies. Classmates spoke proudly of their grandparents, aunts and uncles who served the allied forces honorably. Classes would recount America’s heroic efforts to avenge attacks and stop the war to end all wars.

But history books are just printed facts on a page. They capture no feelings. They say only what the writer wants you to know when there’s so much more to be said. No matter which side they’re on, nations and soldiers are people too; they're not all mindless, soulless brutes.

Concentrating on hiding my guilt-ridden secret, I hoped no one would ask about my family’s past. While I was born in America to immigrant parents who are proud Americans, I couldn’t turn my back on my family’s history. You see, there’s more to the good guys versus bad guys WWII story. It’s not a clear cut case of black and white. My ancestors were inextricably caught in the many shades of grey somewhere in between.

70 years ago today marked the beginning of a series of events that destroyed both sides of my family.

Hungary in 1939 was a tumultuous place. Over the prior thousand years, the country had grown extensively both politically and culturally and subsequently been conquered by countless invaders. With Hitler positioned to the northwest and the ever present Russian threat to the northeast, Hungary was literally caught between a rock and a hard place. When Hitler gave them an ultimatum (join us or we destroy you), the Hungarian politicians were left with little choice. They wanted to salvage whatever they could of their country and its inhabitants. As a member of the “enemy” forces, the people and soldiers were at the mercy of Hitler’s whims.

With the ever-changing eastern borders, my grandmother's father (on my mom's side) was forced into serving with the Romanian army. It didn’t matter that he had four young children and a very young wife who he was abandoning for the war effort. Hitler needed bodies. The men were drafted. They went. The alternative for those who refused: imprisonment, torture, and, possibly, death. Oh, did I mention, the punishment extended to their family members as well. So, to protect his wife and children, he served unwillingly for a cause with which he vehemently disagreed. Although he eventually returned home, the horrors his children faced without his presence and protection shaped their futures.

Although he was proud to be a Hungarian soldier, my mom's dad and his brothers didn’t agree with Hitler’s agenda or Hungary’s position in the matter either. Nonetheless, as active soldiers, all of the brothers were shipped to the eastern front. Only two returned.

Though the circumstances varied across the country and from family to family, my dad’s family fared far worse. My grandmother was one of three sons and three daughters from an educated, middle class family in Vasvar. She gave up her comfortable life to marry my grandfather who worked as a railroad officer across the country. (He survived the front lines in the army at only 17 during the first World War.) Still, they lived a comfortable middle-class existence and had five children before WWII. When the war hit, my uncles, who were already soldiers or of serving age, were forced to fight against the allies. Despite their stance against the war, they had no choice but to do as they were commanded.

Decades after the war ended, the blood of their friends could not be washed from their hands. Memories of herding their childhood playmates, classmates, their families, and coworkers onto railcars to be shipped to death camps haunted my uncles and grandfather until the day they died.

After the war ended and Hungary’s borders were remapped yet again, my dad’s family was given 24 hours to move back to the country otherwise they would be considered Yugoslavian citizens. So deep was their tie to their homeland, that they packed what they could carry and crossed the borders with their children. The comforts they once enjoyed became faded memories. Under communist rule, my grandparents died impoverished. Their children struggled for every crust of bread and every accomplishment; some made it, some did not.

It’s easy to say the honorable thing for both families would’ve been to stand up for what they believed and fight against the oppressive regimes leading them into unpardonable actions. Having lived a fairly easy life in a country that lets me speak my mind, I can’t even begin to imagine the challenges my ancestors faced. Their choices amounted to picking between the lesser of evils. Fight with a regime at the expense of countless innocents or oppose the regime and forfeit both your life and that of your families. In a time when the idea of the “greater good” was muddled with conflicting ideologies, they protected what was within their very limited power. They chose their families.

Choosing the honorable path is never easy and many have lost their lives in the process. In this one case, I’m selfishly glad my families did what they had to in order to survive. If they didn’t, I wouldn’t have been given the greatest gift ever.

Life.