1918: Opa’s father, Antone, is at a local bar in Albert Hansen, Germany. “This is a big mistake, Hitler will never win the war,” he says out loud.

That night there was a knock on his door; someone had ratted him out to the authorities for his lack of support. His comment landed him in a concentration camp.

After two months, Antone was taken to the commander of the camp who began questioning Antone about his family: “Did you have a brother Peter? What happened to Peter?” He had died fighting in WWI. “Do you know how?” the sargent persisted. “He died saving my life, you can go.” This act was larger than kindness or forgiveness, but one of life.

Yet, this quality of life Antone was granted wasn’t much better than what greeted him upon his return home. The Treaty of Versailles demanded Germany accept all responsibility for damages. The “War Guilt Clause” would later prove to be counterproductive in repairing international relations. Germany began printing money so fast bills were only printed on one side to save time. A wheelbarrow of money couldn’t buy a loaf of bread; likewise, a billion marked bills wouldn’t buy my Mutti a cup of coffee. The economy was in a dark rabbit hole. Antone and the rest of Germany hadn’t worked a steady job in ten years. My distant family lived out of their garden fertilized by goats, rabbits, and chickens. The lack of income, expense of food and the pressure to live set the stage for Hitler to rise to power, who promised “arbeit und brot” or “work and bread”. Germany was maneuvered into WWII in the same way that mass printed money, depression, and hunger created Hitler.

At age forty-five, Antone is drafted in WWII, his second time fighting on the German front in a single decade. He left Mutti alone for the second time with a house full of children. At this point in Germany, the ration of men to women is 5:1.

Any man between the ages of 14 and 60 who could hold a mauser, which weighed eight pounds, was expected to fight. Opa is 13, one year before he will be bused to serve in the war.

What I find miraculous is how both Antone and my Opa lived to share their experiences. Each faced unimaginable tribulations, like the concentration camps, that no doubt imprinted on their character forever.

Yet, my Opa was the most soft spoken man. He would slip me extra noodles when we ordered Chinese for dinner, watch me waste yards of print tape as I punched in numbers on his electric calculator and have me sit on his lap as I blabbered away about a new Barbie doll.

Too young to know any of my Opa's experiences before he passed, I am glad my dad has shared with me what I now share with you. Opa blesses me with strength, hope and love. I've learned his story is felt beyond his living years. My dad always tells me (whenever I think I’m having my next life-crisis of nineteen years) that we, the Korb family, are from a long line of survivors. I think I'm finally starting to understand what he really means.