The Graveyards

By: C. DeAntonio

I ascended the white bus, which bore a mini silver zebra on the front and the name Safari. It had been three days on the road staying in different hostels, unpacking and then packing and leaving again. My school had provided an exchange program for students who study French, and today was the day we were visiting the beaches of Normandy. Already the atmosphere was solemn as we drove to the American graveyard. When we arrived, our teacher yelled into the microphone, “Réveillez-vous! Réveillez-vous!” Her shrill voice awoke grumpy teenagers, but I just stared out the window, thinking of all my friends at home. I was not mentally prepared for this graveyard.

——————————————————————————————————

The tall and mighty evergreen trees tower over us as we approach the cemetery. A white circle surrounds us and I notice that on these white ghostly walls are written the names of all the men that died on D-day. I cannot breathe. These thousands of men have died for the freedom of France. I quickly scan for any last names I know. And I shiver as I walk around the circle of death reading the names of all the dead soldiers. I think about the lives they could have had, and then I see it. A last name I know, McKinney. Paul McKinney is a like an uncle to me, and to see that one of his relatives fought for freedom and died makes it personal. When someone from my group yells, “Charlotte, hurry up!” I am awakened from my trance, and run to catch up, but when I get to the top of the steps, I stop in my tracks. At the top, a circle opens to reveal an iron statue of a man with arms extended as if reaching for the sky. The American flag stands strong, blowing triumphantly and prideful in the wind like the soldiers who brought freedom to France. I slowly soak in the landscape. Moving my focus away from the flag, I look out on to the hills covered with blurred specks of white. I look past the trees, past the square pond of water reflecting the landscape, past the greenery and past the flag, and then I notice with utter amazement that those little blurs are actually crosses. The crosses are all perfectly in a line vertically, horizontally, and diagonally. I do not want to think about how these men died or what their lives were like before and how some were my age, but the thoughts creep into my mind. As I gaze at the white monuments, I notice that some have replaced the cross with a Jewish star. I think that no matter what their religions, these young men will always rest in peace together. I was struck by the engraving on one cross that read, ‘Here rests in honored glory a comrade in arms known but to God.’ I wondered how you could find a body and not be able to recognize it? Then I pondered the meaning of ‘known but to God’. If I died being atheist and they did not recognize me, would I then be known to no one? Imagine that your family cannot say their last mournful goodbyes because they do not know which tombstone you are. All is silent as I walk on. Some family members have placed small bouquets in front of the crosses while other gravesites have large cakes of flowers. But the unknown tombs have nothing. Our group stops at another headstone; this one is in gold and near a giant evergreen tree. The tree has moss on its trunk, and the green spreads everywhere, a symbol that some believe is everlasting life after death. This is Theodore Roosevelt, Jr.’s tombstone. On the vertical contour is written made of honor. I ponder again. Roosevelt received this award after he died, but he would never know it. Thoughts run through my head, but I am not fast enough to catch them all. We walk on. We have walked through one yard and half way through another and still the white crosses and greenery keep going into the distance until I see the water’s edge. So many people died in one day. I stop for a second and see a black crow land on a tomb. Its beady black eyes look at me, trying to scare me away, but I keep staring as if I am locked in a gaze with the bird and only it can let me go.

Before we get on the bus, I see that one boy’s eyes look big and watery. He is describing his pride in American liberty and bravery, when suddenly the bus stops. We are at the German cemetery. The sky is grave and overcast and I shiver even though it is not cold. A guide explains that the five gray, rough-hewn crosses are symbolic of one bunker and that all of the soldiers from that bunker are buried together. Unlike in the American graveyard, here the German gravestones are not standing upright, but embedded in the ground with two names on them. I wonder, then, if there are two names, how are two bodies buried under one? I realize suddenly that there are no Jewish stars on any of the tombs. And of course there would not be. At the same moment, the boy with watery eyes, speaking with pride at the American cemetery, is talking in an angry voice: “Why should we respect our enemies? They are evil people who were zombies under Hitler and killed thousands of Jews. Why should we be here to honor the soldiers who killed our people? I’m going back to the bus. I can’t take this.” I move on and wander back to the guide. Since the gravestone does not rise up I do not get the same overwhelming feeling of sorrow as I did in the American graveyard, even though two times as many people are buried here. Our guide tells us that usually there are no flowers at the German cemetery, just a solemn atmosphere. Today, however, since it is right after D-Day, there are bouquets of white flowers set in front of each tomb. All of these soldiers are of Aryan descent and must have had blue eyes and blond hair. I have some German blood, as well as blue eyes and light hair. I could have been a sister or mother of one of these soldiers. I could have lost a husband here. I could have been as devastated as any American wife, mother, or sister. Then the guide tells us that the trees at the German cemetery actually die in the winter, unlike the evergreens in the American graveyard. Then I see the roses. The blood red petals are shriveled around the black edges. The rose seems like a symbol of our world. War just brings blood and disaster and corruption. Hitler corrupted his citizens and killed many beautiful and talented people. I slowly walk back to the bus and that same boy says that war is good and healthy. I want to scream. The boy is a parrot repeating what his parents had told him. I cannot stand it. I walk away, just has he walked away from the tomb. I walk away and ignore him. Some people will say that that is not being open to another person’s ideas, but it is just too much for today. Then I realize why I am mad and why I cannot stand what that boy had said. It all makes sense. All of the men who died each had their own lives and their own reasons for going to war. Many of them probably were pressured to fight, and a human is a human no matter which side he is on. Each person has a history, a family, a life, and a story. And their individual story gets lost in the generic side on which they fight. Each person is valuable and worthy. We cannot see one another as simply a color or a country, but rather as part of humanity. In death, I learned about life and I would carry this new knowledge with me for the rest of my life.