The Choice

Veterans Affairs, to oncologists and people living with cancer, to
Righteous Gentiles, to parents and children, to Christians and Muslims
and Buddhists and Jews, to law students and at-risk youth, to people
grieving the loss of a loved one, to people preparing to die, and
sometimes I spin when I say them, with gratitude, with sorrow. is
time as I said the words, I almost fell from the stage. I was overcome
by sensations, by sense memories I’ve stored deep inside: the smell of
muddy grass, the ĕerce sweet taste of M&M’s. It took me a long
moment to understand what was triggering the Ęashback. But then I
realized: Ęanking the room were Ęags and insignias, and everywhere I
saw an emblem I hadn’t thought about consciously for many, many
years, but one that is as signiĕcant to me as the letters that spell my
own name: the insignia the GI who liberated me on May 4, 1945,
wore on his sleeve: a red circle with a jagged blue 71 in the center. I
had been brought to Fort Carson to address the Seventy-ĕrst Infantry,
the unit that sixty-ĕve years ago had liberated me. I was bringing my
story of freedom to the survivors of war who once brought freedom to
me.
I used to ask, Why me? Why did I survive? I have learned to ask a
different question: Why not me? Standing on a stage surrounded by
the next generation of freedom ĕghters, I could see in my conscious
awareness something that is oen elusive, oen invisible: that to run
away from the past or to ĕght against our present pain is to imprison
ourselves. Freedom is in accepting what is and forgiving ourselves, in
opening our hearts to discover the miracles that exist now.
I laughed and wept on the stage. I was so full of joyful adrenaline
that I could barely get out the words: “ank you,” I told the soldiers.
“Your sacriĕce, your suffering, have meaning—and when you can
discover that truth within, you will be free.” I ended my speech the
way I always do, the way I always will, as long as my body will let me:
with a high kick. Here I am! my kick says. I made it!