Remembering Romance or Revising Reality?

Salzburg, Austria. Summer of 1945.

He was handsome and strong, an American soldier, having spent much of the war building bridges - forty of them, to be exact. His warm smile and air of confidence camouflaged the pain and trouble he had known all too well in the war.

She was a blond beauty with piercing blue eyes. Her rosy cheeks showed no sign of the ravages of war, the oppression of the Nazi regime or the abuse of Red Army soldiers she and others like her had witnessed first-hand. Since the arrival of the GIs she had heard stories of war brides who were swept up by handsome GIs and taken to America, the land of milk and honey. She had dreamt of Mickey Mouse, Coca Cola and a home with a washing machine. Her mother had warned her, though, about pursuing this foolish dream. She didn't listen. She wanted out.

The room seemed to sway. The smell of smoke and alcohol pungent in the air, a mix of swing and jazz music pulsating in the background only added to the tension between soldiers seeking a much-needed break from their rigorous and often mind-numbing duties, and the beautiful women with their own stories of pain and suffering to tell.

Their eyes locked from across the room. That was the beginning.

But the beginning of what?

My hub’s uncle, Donald, passed away this week. He was just days shy of his 88th birthday. He lived a fairly solitary life, never marrying or having children.

Uncle Donald joined the army at age 21. Serving with the 163rd Combat Engineers, he landed on Omaha Beach in Normandy just days after D-Day, in June of 1944. His service took him through France, Belgium, Germany and Austria. He served his country courageously and received four Bronze Star medals and one Silver Star. He was honorably discharged and returned home in February 1946. Not much else is known about his life during that time.

This week, my sister-in-law collected his belongings from the small room at the assisted living center he called home for the past several years. In a cardboard box with the family photos he loved and a handful of newspaper clippings, she found one small photo that didn’t seem to fit. Not a family member. Not a celebrity. Just an unknown young woman, the photo showing signs of the passing of many years, important enough to hold together with pieces of surgical tape.

Who was she? Why did he keep her photo? The only clue to her identity - two words on the back in Uncle Donald’s handwriting - Salzburg Austria. Did he fall in love with her? Was it a short-lived romance that ended abruptly when he returned home? Had he intended to bring her back with him? Were there children? Was she still alive?

Did he dream of her when he raised his eyes to the clouds in the Wyoming skies all those years he worked the railroad after coming home?

Uncle Donald never spoke of this woman. But, then, like many soldiers who've been in a war zone, he didn't speak much of any of that time. Today, we'd probably say he suffered from PTSD. He certainly had some hard times upon returning home.

There’s not much chance that we’ll ever know the real story. At least not in this life. I like to think that there was something more than a single night of reverie and that perhaps they have found each other once again. Rest in peace, sweet Donald.


Uncharacteristic as it might seem for me, this is my Alphabe-Thursday offering this week. But then, it's an uncharacteristic week and I'm feeling a bit more reflective rather than my usual rebellious and rambunctious self. R is for Remembering Romance or Revising Reality. Be sure to read what the other Alphabetarians registered over at Mrs. Jenny's for that rowdy letter R by clicking HERE.