From Beyond The Bar — The Day I Met A Nazi
No, dear reader… a real Nazi. Not what some use to slander anyone that disagrees with any facet of a given perspective. The term that was formally used as the epitome of evil which now some consider a joke when labeled as such. Anyway, I’ve been a bartender for roughly twelve years in a veteran’s bar. I’ve encountered all walks of life — races, creeds and religions — and a broad diversity of thought. Never did I believe that I would meet a member of the Axis of Evil. It’s a strange sensation. Meeting someone associated with such evil and malice, and yet… relatable.
The day started off as any other day at the bar. My regular patrons trickled in, ordering their favorite libations and partaking in barroom banter. It was close to the end of my shift and the social lubrication was keeping all cylinders going. Half of my bar was full, and I was shooting the breeze with customers at the corner of the bar. Suddenly, the front door swung open. The sunlight made it difficult to examine the man’s face; all I could see was the silhouette of a human being.
As the door closed, I could see that this stranger was an elderly man as he shuffled to a seat at the end of the bar. He was alone. I surmised that this man was someone who had just ended his own shift at work just looking to wind down from a hard day’s hustle. Being the prompt bartender that I am, I paused my conversation and made my way to the end of the bar.
A Nazi Walks Into A Bar…
“Hey, how you doing today? What can I get for you?”
He was an older man, close to seventy I guessed. His eyes were deep blue, and they had a strange gleam to them — the type of eyes that reveal the story of a person’s soul that carry an eerie sadness. He replied with a gruff, heavy German accent. “Is it OK for me to be here?”
This is not an uncommon question, for many veteran’s bars require proof of membership before a person can be served. Our bar, however, is special in that we welcome members of the public to our establishment.
“Absolutely!” I happily responded. “What can I get for ya?”
“Just a Budweiser, please.”
“No problem.” I made my way to the cooler that housed his chosen brew, twisted the cap off the bottle and headed back to my new customer.
“Here you go! That’ll be $2.00.”
The man reached into his pocket and pulled out a crinkled $10 bill and placed it on the bar. As I grabbed the bill and maneuvered back to the register, I glanced at the other end of the bar to make sure my other patrons had full drinks. I snatched his change from the register and promptly returned it to this old soul. He nodded his head and I walked back to the other end of the bar to check on my other patrons.
The usual banter continued friendly jests, political theories, and hilarious conversation. I often glanced down at the other end of the bar to see if this quiet stranger needed a new brew. After a few minutes, I saw the man place his bottle into the well. I snagged another Bud from the cooler and made my way down to the end of the bar. I set the bottle on the bar.
He looked at me and reiterated his previous question.
“You’re sure it’s ok for me to be here?”
“Yeah, you’re fine sir, don’t worry about it.” He paused for a brief moment and followed up with a shocker.
“So, you mean you serve the enemy?”
My brain paused. How does one take this question initially? The man is at least seventy years old, he’s quiet and he has a heavy accent. Is it possible that this man is a veteran from the bloodiest war in world history and had fought for the wrong side?
“What do you mean?” I carefully responded.
“I fought for the Germans in World War Two.”
I didn’t know what to say. What could I really say other than…
“Really?”
“Yes.”
I’m rarely lost for words dear reader, but I was honestly speechless. It took me a few seconds to sort myself out.
“Well… the way I see it and the way a lot of the guys see it here, you’re a soldier who was fighting for his country. I don’t have a problem with you being here and I’m sure nobody would mind it either.”
“Ok, thank you.”
Sympathy For The Devil
I turned away and walked down to the other end of the bar and quickly grabbed new drinks for the other patrons and made my way back down to the Nazi. Dear reader, we all know the idiom about curiosity and cats, but I couldn’t help myself.
I talked with this man for about three hours. During my shift, I continued my duties and served the other patrons, though, admittedly, I was quite distracted. This man’s story was magnetic. As soon as my shift ended, I asked this man if he was sticking around so I could have a few beers with him. Say what you will dear reader, but how many opportunities will one have to speak to a Nazi willing to tell his story in the twenty-first century?
He informed me that he was fifteen years old in 1939 and part of the Hitler Youth Program. He was conscripted into the world’s deadliest war a few months later. He battled the Americans and the Russians over the ravaged landscape of Europe.
After the war, this teenager, now weathered by war wanted to live in the country that he had just lost everything to. Well, he had to earn it. Lo and behold, five years after the war to end all wars ended, there was some trouble in Korea that America needed help with. He fought in another grueling war as a mercenary for the Americans. Yet, this was still not enough to earn citizenship.
In the jungles of Southeast Asia, Communism was rearing its ugly head and America needed assistance. My Nazi friend again answered the call. He never mentioned how long he had fought in Korea or Vietnam, but I surmise by the war-weathered face of this weary old man, he had seen his share of combat.
The irony of this man’s life was astounding. Coming of age in the deadliest time in the deadliest war in human history where all rights had been eradicated must have been traumatizing enough. But then to fight for freedom for a country that one had just lost a war to in a treacherous attempt to gain one’s individual freedom is a story that the best scriptwriters in the world couldn’t come up with. This is where the surreal becomes normal.
Eventually, the man was granted citizenship and he built himself a quiet life as a truck driver, traversing the great country of the enemy. Of all the bars in all the world, I was lucky enough for him to walk into mine. Perhaps this Nazi transformed me into a sympathizer… dear reader I must admit, it’s difficult not to have sympathy for the devil once one hears his story.
Close Encounters Of The Third Reich
After I shared a few beers with my new compadre, I placed my bottle in the well and told my new friend that I sadly, had to leave.
“Will you be back tomorrow?” the man inquired. “I’m only in this area for one more day.”
“Absolutely! I would love to talk with you some more.” I answered excitedly. “I’m so sorry I have to leave; I have my wife and kids to get back to.”
“It’s ok my friend, I will see you tomorrow.”
“See you then.”
I shook his hand — shook a Nazi’s hand — and proceeded to the door. On the drive home, my mind was spinning in a million different directions at once. I talked my wife’s ear off for hours once I was home. I couldn’t wrap my mind around the fact that I had just spoken to a man that had a hand in shaping the world that we live in today. Granted, I’ve had the privilege and honor of speaking with World War Two veterans, enthralled with their perilous and heroic stories. I’ve listened to the tales of Vietnam Vets about places that they never were because we were never supposed to be there… bathing in the Ganges. But this was different.
Once I rested my head on my pillow, I was able to collect my thoughts, rather questions. What if, as a sixteen-year-old kid, I was conscripted to fight for the most inhumane power that the world had ever known? Unable to grasp the finality of the consequences of atrocious actions that had not yet taken place? What would I do? What would anyone do!? Faced with the prospect of death by disloyalty or a life — in all probability short — marred with carnage and terror and gore forever scarring the psyche, what is the courageous choice for a child? Dear reader, there seems to be no right answer, for even when one tries to walk a straight line, one still becomes lost in a maze.
Then it occurred to me; this man was not a Nazi at all. He was a soldier — a patriotic citizen answering his country’s call to arms. This man had no hand in policy or battle tactics. He didn’t push propaganda against the Jewish population. He didn’t usher millions of innocent, emaciated souls into the gas chambers where the scratches still mark the walls of the chamber, echoing hopeless screams from the past. The boy did what he was told by his country and killed people that were attempting to kill him. This man was no Nazi, just a victim of circumstance held hostage by a hellacious ideology and yet, was still able to come out of it and build a decent life.
I never saw the man again, and regrettably, I never even caught the man’s name. I was so selfishly enthralled by this man’s tale that I never bothered to introduce myself. Our fates didn’t allow our paths to cross again. I had forgotten about a previous obligation and wasn’t able to return. My fellow bartender (a little shaken from the previous night after encountering the man while we were engaged in conversation and coming to the realization of who he was) had told me that he had come back and sat in the same seat. She told me that after a few beers, he stood up from his barstool in preparation to leave, he gave the Nazi salute with a quiet Sieg Heil and proceeded to leave the bar. I suppose old habits die hard. Perhaps some Nazis deserve a chance at redemption, for this man earned the right to hail victory after his epic journey.
Back then, the term Nazi wasn’t used as a banal Blitzkrieg to disarm ideological opponents. Back then, a Nazi was the epitome of evil with the Swastika invoking emotions of terror. We used to say never again, but never never comes when we become lost in a sea of ignorance on our way to Never Never Land. The term Nazi has been diluted to the point in which when the word is spoken, it causes apathetic eyes to roll, ignorant minds to chuckle and wise hearts to tremble, for this allows the truly sinister souls to sneak under the radar.
It allows digital Gestapos to seek out any quislings that speak out against the status quo. It elects sadistic sycophants into gargantuan governments that convince entire populations that anyone that opposes them is evil… the other… the Nazis. Because silencing, fighting and even killing Nazis could never be perceived as evil. I suppose anyone identified as a Nazi deserves what they get. But then again, what do I know dear reader? I did shake a Nazi’s hand.
