The Girl holds herself with regal deportment.  Shoulders down, back straight, head turned, ready to receive her fans.  She comes home after being gone from Holland for too long.  Japan, New York City, Atlanta, San Francisco, and Italy.  She was sorely missed.  The crowds on this Friday in The Hague are backed up several hundred deep in eager anticipation.   Two marching bands, the King and Queen, and assorted street artists herald her arrival to the restored Mauritshuis Museum.  It’s a fine day for the Girl with the Pearl Earring.

Across town, another woman holds herself with brash directness.   Shoulders leaned in.  Eyes bright.  No wilting flower.  She also returns after being gone for too long.  Shanghai, Moscow, Berlin, Prague.  But there are no crowds to see her home.  Not even one baton is twirled on her behalf.  In fact, she advises me to lead with the picture of her in her bikini — “otherwise no one will read further.”  But, if asked, she’d tell you it is a fine day for Marloes Wesselink.

The Girl with the Pearl Earring was painted in 1665 by Johannes Vermeer.  She wasn’t such a big hit in those days.   She was painted as a “tronie,” which just meant Vermeer didn’t have a commission and was hustling for money by painting a model, maybe his oldest daughter, in costume.  Perhaps Vermeer was hoping for a quick sale down at the Des Moines farmer’s market on a hot Saturday morning.  Unclear.  But when Vermeer died, the painting disappeared.  For 200 years.  No parades during that time.

Marloes Wesselink turned professional at 16.  By 19, she was deep into the world of beach volleyball.  The international circuit was her playground.  She travelled around the world from April through September — with some success.  Heck, she even had her own Wikipedia site.  Her life was practice, practice, practice, travel, competition, practice, practice.  An ordered life for sure.

But then events turned a little south.

“My Wikipedia site is not up to date because I think I got less interesting,” Marloes says with a self-conscious smile and a shrug.   After a decent year in 2013, she was cut from the Dutch beach volleyball program.  26 years old and put out to pasture.  A very public rejection.

“It was pretty weird.  I think I’m a realistic person.  I know your spot is never secure.  That you always have to prove yourself every year.  We had results.  And I really liked the team.  It was pretty crushing.  ‘What’s happening?  We just got a great result and now you tell us this.’  It was pretty painful.  It actually came like falling out of nowhere.  It was a difficult situation.”

So, Marloes disappeared.  Not for 200 years, but disappear she did.  Off the circuit, off training, and onto the couch.  A hard time.

Vermeer took a similar trajectory.  Sure, he had some early success during his career.  Sold a few paintings.  Made some money by running a bar and art gallery.  Elected to run the artists guild.  But he had eleven surviving kids and times were tough.  War and disease were the order of the day.  Sadly, when he died at 43, he left his wife and children in debt.  His paintings were auctioned off.  His work was soon forgotten and his reputation as a decent painter vanished within a couple years.  Gone like a puff of Vermeer light blowing across canvas.

End of the story.

Or not.

After doing nothing for several months, Marloes realized she loved the game and she missed it.  Eventually she searched out another volleyball star, Laura Bloem, and they decided to make a run for it together.  They found a strength coach, a ball coach, a practice area, and sponsors.  They formed a team.  All on their own.  And between the two of them, they had enough points earned from past performances that they could start competing on the international stage in the 2014 World Tour.  So they did.

As for Vermeer, in 1881, at an obscure auction in The Hague, there was a dirty, grimy picture waiting to be sold the next day.  Two art-collector buddies from The Hague recognized it.   It was agreed that one would buy it.  Which he did.  For a song.  Two guilders.  After the auction, the painting was sent to Antwerp for restoration, and lo and behold, the Girl with the Pearl Earring was reborn with her glistening parted lips, the wet corner of her mouth, the drop of moisture at the edge of her eye, and, of course, the translucent pearl.  My oh my.

And Marloes, our other girl, now waxes philosophical about the twists of her life.

“You can say it’s just a game.  It’s not.  It’s your life.  Some people say it’s just sport.  True it is just sport.  Of course, it’s more important to be healthy, to be happy, and to be loved, and to love, that is most important.  But you cannot make it that simple.  You really dedicate your life to the sport.  You just have to find your way back after the sport doesn’t work.”

“Every week you’re somewhere else.  One week you’re happy, one week you’re sad.  It’s a roller coaster.  We would like to play in 2016 in the Olympics.  But even if it doesn’t work — I would of course feel bad if it doesn’t — but I have many things to feel proud of.  Now I am playing only for me and my team.  It feels like it is our own battle.  I think it’s good.  After 2016, I will definitely be done.”

Maybe.  However, today, even the strands of her hair seem to dance with energy.  There is a zing to her every sweep of hand.  Her flower is definitely the hard-scrabble Iowa rose.  I don’t envy those on the other side of the net.

When the Girl with the Pearl Earring was in New York this last winter, 235,000 people came to see her.  No wonder.

And for Marloes?  What will be her future?

Hmmm, is that a pearl earring in her left ear?

Joe

The high gloss on the wood shines as the rag wipes the first spill of beer to the side.  The movement of the rag continues over the wood, back and forth, polishing, as the young bartender patiently waits.  He is almost indolent at this early stage of the evening.  Why rush?  The beer taps are perched and ready to deliver.  Glasses are clean and within reach.  Coasters are strewn over the top of the bar.  And the shot bottle is upside down, ready to perform.  Waiting is all that remains.

Game 1 — Spain against Holland

The Sien bar in The Hague is bursting.  Orange is in every nook and leaking out the door.  A big screen TV is placed so that the dozens of fans who cannot fit into the bar can watch from outside on the street — an alternative Drive-In Theater.  Five bartenders are pouring  beers and shots for the customers who are standing in a space the size of a large American living room.  Raucousness is the scent in the air.  Spain scores.  No matter.  Everyone expects it.  Spain is a mighty team from the past.  Aging but powerful.  They shamed Holland last time around.  An ugly defeat.  Beer flows regardless of the score.

On the bar stool next to me is a slight man hidden among the Dutch giants.  A Spaniard.    Identified immediately by the bartenders.  The bartenders’ response after the Spanish goal?  An orange t-shirt, orange sunglasses, and a big orange hat are placed on the counter next to the Spaniard.  An offering from the Dutch.  And a free beer.  A sacrifice on the altar of good will.

It works.  A flying header by Dutch striker, Robin van Persie, starts the rout.   Two, three, four, five more beers and a shot for good luck arrive in front of the Spaniard.  Holland 5, Spain 1.   The lone Spaniard smiles and dons the orange shirt.  The crowd cheers.  There will be another day.

Game 2 — Australia against Holland

Admittedly, it was a mistake to come in costume.  The bartender almost immediately sidles over to me as I try to blend into the masses.  “You know that shirt you’re wearing is not orange, don’t you?”  Well, apparently not.  I am a red cherry floating in a sea of orange sherbet.

Jaap, the bartender, is young, mischievously handsome, and focused.  He tells me there are around 120-130 people in the bar.  They’ll sell around 2000 beers this evening.  Not bad.  Tonight they’ve brought in seven bartenders, their entire staff, because they’re going to try to move some food also.  Packed like sardines, without an inch of elbow room, my guess is that a few fries will go missing as they are passed hand to hand to the poor customer who actually ordered them.

Australia, one of the lowest ranked teams at this World Cup, is dominating.  Tim Cahill for Australia line-drives a shot so hard into the Dutch goal that my teeth hurt as I sit thousands of miles away on my barstool.  Unfairly, it almost seems, the Dutch team hangs on.

Jaap tells me that these evenings are a little nerve-wracking.  “It is nervous because it is busy, nervous because of the game, and nervous because you want a good result.  It is worth it.  But, handling this crowd should not be every month.  Not good for your health.”  He laughs and runs to pour beer from the tap where he unerringly fills four glasses before he throttles the handle back.

The Dutch team has regained their balance.  A quick score moves them ahead.  The crowd erupts.

And, like as after every Dutch goal, the room breaks into song for several minutes.  Sung at the tops of their voices.  With stomping involved.  And some swinging of the lights.  It is infectious.

What are they singing after each goal?

Jaap, drinking his traditional shot after a goal, takes a breath, and says:  “It’s called ‘I Will Survive.’ A song we stole that was popular in the clubs.”

Of course.  The Dutch don’t sing  “We Are the Champions,” or “Another One Bites the Dust.”  They are a people where one-third of the land is below the ocean.  Another third is at sea level.   They are survivors fighting for every inch of the ground they stand on.  This is not about winning.  It’s about not dying.

Holland 3, Australia 2.

Game 3 — Chile against Holland

The bar has a different tone this evening.  The Dutch can lose and still advance.  Everyone is relaxed.  There is even a sense that it might be too greedy, too impolite, for the Dutch to win a third time.  Moderation in all things, please.

Although, that feeling doesn’t stop a little money from being placed.  Why not?

Sjoerd, a soft-spoken bartender working my corner, explains in perfect English how the betting works.  He might as well have been speaking Dutch, however, as I drink my beer and am lost in the vagaries of the explanation.

“So, what number do you want, Joe?”

In my early days as a prosecutor, I was enlisted to review charges and assist in investigations dealing with a type of gambling that rocked upstanding Iowans.  Yes, mothers of River City, I’m talking bingo.  Played in church halls and social clubs.  Dens of vice.  In these days of Prairie Meadows, where grandma is playing the slots while hooked up to her breathing machine, someone shouting out “O — 3” seems a bit less of a gateway to organized crime.  But  the old days haven’t disappeared for me.

So I hesitate, as Sjoerd patiently waits for me to choose.  I turn to my barstool neighbor, Aeisso, for advice.  Why do I turn to Aeisso?  Because I had earlier made a determination that Aeisso was a  trustworthy and knowledgable legal advisor based on his selfless act of sharing his french fries with me.

“Is this legal?”  I ask.

With a loud laugh and a clap on my back, Aeisso leans in:  “A question like that would not occur to a Dutchman.”

And that’s all the tolerant Dutch have to say on the subject.

“Five euro on number 2, please.”

Amazingly, the late game subs, Leroy Fer and Memphis Depay, come out of the shadows of the massive stadium and win the game.

Holland 2, Chile 0.

Jaap, with blurry eyes and a mischievous grin, drags his rag one more time over the wood.  The  luster is returned to the high gloss.  Patiently and slowly.  His movements are almost indolent at this late stage of the day.  Why rush?  Closing time beckons.

So there you go.  A Dutch bar — in three games.

Joe

The witch sits across from me at the table.  Smiling.  No pointed hat.  No flying broom.  Not a single cackle is recorded during our long conversation.  She is smart, open, answers each question carefully, and is aware of “being made a fool” by others.  She does suggest that I don’t eat elves’ food at the time of summer solstice —  “when you eat their food, you are their servant forever” — but then she also speaks of kindness and love and the disheartening sadness of all the violence in the world.  It is not easy to clearly label this woman.

Why am I sitting with a witch?

Well, in small increments, in small ticks of the clock, the longest day of the year is approaching. Summer solstice occurs on June 21.  This year, there will never be another day with this much light.   Heck, why even go to bed when the sun certainly doesn’t?

Celebrations and feasting will occur on this day.  Stonehenge, the place in England that has the strange stones set on end, is a destination for many.  For about $24, you can get a timed slot to visit on June 21.   There will be modern druids, pagans, wicca, and even astronomers, all there to see the stones in a long-forgotten farmer’s field line up with the sun.

Margreet David-den Adel, the Dutch witch with whom I am sitting, is friendly, polite and caring.  She asks about my family.  She is curious about my time in Holland.  She wants to know of my wife’s work.  A model of a socially gifted person.  But a witch?

“Wicca is a religion of nature.  Nature is the driving force behind all life.  Nature is god.  There is an unbelievably intellectual force behind nature.  And he wants the best for us all.  He wants that we live in the heart, not in the mind.  When you treat somebody not so well, there is a force from the universe that you will get it back ten times harder.  It is a universal law.  That’s how it works.”

Margreet knew that she was tied to nature from when she was a very young girl.  However, it was not until she read her first Wicca book at 27 that she discovered, “Wow, that’s me.”  It explained her extreme sensitivity, her healing hands, her need to be next to animals and plants and trees, her “old spirit” that at one time was an Inca shaman, the protection offered by Archangel Michael, and why even strangers on the train come to her for help.  It just made sense.

And now we sit together in this coffee shop in The Hague.

“The wicca celebrate the changing seasons.  The solstice is the celebration of Litha.”

On solstice, Margreet will prepare a meal and a special wicca tart for her husband, her children, and her friends.   It will be served on a blue tablecloth.  Everyone will have sunflowers for their hair.  And sunflowers will be on the table.  She will speak some words about the solstice and then all the guests will write wishes on small pieces of paper.  These wishes are then put in a fire.

“The wish goes into the air and everyone leaves with a sunflower.  It is a lot of fun.  It is not so important how you do this ceremony, it is the right intention.  Why you do it?  You do it with love.”

Of course.

This evening, shortly before the solstice, the sun sets slowly over the North Sea, dragging its feet reluctantly, refusing to go to bed.  But things are closing down.  Out on the arms of the harbor walk only lovers, using the shadows and early night wind as an excuse to meld even closer.  Storm clouds rest low on the horizon.

And hidden in the kernel of summer solstice is a small darkness.  For on the very next day, summer is dying and the shades of winter are getting ready to blow down from out of the north.  Relentlessly and without remorse.  “A time to be born and a time to die.”

And so there you are.  You get one wish on one sheet of paper.  With love.  What is your wish going to be?  And don’t forget the blue tablecloth.

Joe

Yes, dear reader, you have now turned to that part of the newspaper where we traditionally focus on some amazing young professional in the Des Moines area as an inspiration for those of us who might be slacking just a bit and need to shape up.   These are always great stories of great people doing great things.  What’s there not to love?

But, honestly, don’t these stories make you a little depressed?  Take last week’s story where we headlined Bob, who, at 32, owns three successful internet businesses, raises two kids with his first and only wife, and, when not coaching youth soccer in Johnston, spends vacations in Kenya caring for two-dozen orphaned children for whom Bob has donated a kidney, one finger, and his Y membership.  Really.

Perhaps it’s time to look through a different lens.

Johan de Niet sits across from me.  Intense.  Hair pulled back in a knot.  Bearded in a Shroud-of-Turin sort of way.  Sadness pulls at the corner of his eyes as his mouth smiles across the table.  He’s Dutch, but talks with a strong Australian accent, and it takes me a couple of beats to catch up to the cadence.  But when I do, I’m caught in the song of it all.

“If I was going to teach someone to surf, I’d take them fishing.  To surf, you have to learn how the ocean works, go for a swim in it, get comfortable in it, know where to enter, know where to exit.  You have to know the sea a little bit.  Get into trouble a little bit.  Find your way out.”

I suspect Johan has never written a resume.  However, if he did, it would be very short and very succinct.  “Johan de Niet.  32 years old.  Single.  Lives in The Hague, Netherlands.  Sociable.   A little bit crazy.  More friendly than you are used to.”  And at the bottom, the most important piece of information —  “Occupation: surfer.”

Johan began surfing at the age of nine.  He fell in love.  School was thrown to the side because all he could think about was waves.  Family was left behind because he wanted to go to Australia where the big waves could be found.  Relationships with women floundered because surfing was a demanding mistress.  None of it mattered.  He wanted to surf.

“Just because you enter the water doesn’t mean you’re the runner of the sea, you know?  Just because you go to church doesn’t mean you go to heaven.  Surfing is more than just catching a wave.  For a real surfer, the wave has meaning.”

By the age of sixteen, Johan was living in Australia.  Surfing with “the old pros.”  At first, he was laughed at and ridiculed, but he survived the initiation and stayed for six years.  His goal during that time was not to become a champion surfer on the circuit.  Rather, he wanted to surf the waves the champions surfed.

“When you go surfing at a strange spot, you have to ask the locals, what are the dangers here?  Where do I exit, where do I enter?  What are the hazards?  If you’re not prepared, you’re in trouble.”

Johan returned to The Hague.  A dark time descended.  Alternative pleasures blocked his path.  His sense of self-worth faltered and caused him to stumble.  And when it came to choosing between pain and love, he told me he chose pain.

“Surfing is a long-term relationship.  Most of us are never going to be a world champions.  The biggest fear in surfing becomes the biggest challenge.  The challenge is between you and the sea and overcoming fear.”

Johan is trying to put the black clouds of unnamed problems behind him.  He’s changed his habits, changed his friends, and is making plans.  He sees his life as blessed, and now it is time to turn his back on his demons and chase the big waves.

But enough talk.   With a clap on the back and a broad smile, Johan says to me: “Mate, let’s just go for a surf.  We’ll go surfing together.  The Hague is a great place.  Nice sunny day.  Surfing is for everyone.  Not just surfing people.  Let’s surf together, bro.”

Yesterday, I walked down to the North Sea.  Young boys and girls were taking surf lessons.  All clad in wetsuits and each with their own board, they surfed 12-inch waves on the nearly flat water.  Only laughter rose above the roar of the ocean.  And, apparently, pushing your buddy off the board was an integral part of this class.  The teachers stood patiently on the shore and waited for the clock to run out.

One young boy had drifted away from the group.  Looking straight out at the ocean, he lay flat his board, fingertips dragging through foamy surf.  Lost in dreams of big waves, it seemed.

“Never fight the sea,” was what Johan told me.  “Joe, never fight the sea.”

Spotlight on a young professional.

Joe

It’s just a game.  Nothing more.  Something to pass the time.  Perhaps you can do it with your kids on long car trips.  Or with your husband, when he looks across the table at you in that nice restaurant with his usual bored expression.  Or maybe you know someone in the hospital and you’ve exhausted all there is to say about the Hawkeyes or Cyclones.  I’ve got a new conversational picker upper.  Give it a whirl.

Are you ready?

Okay, on this tiny, narrow street in The Hague, there are two stores facing each other. The first one is a chandelier and dress shop named “Emma.”  Bright, lavish, and beguiling.  

Across from Emma’s is another type of store.  Spare, simple, serene.  All you can see in the window is the back of a violin, a book, and flowers.  That’s it.

The small sign identifies the shop as one owned by Josef Vedral — violin maker.  Who is Josef Vedral?  Well, lo and behold, Josef Vedral  set up a violin workshop in The Hague in 1908 and became the violin maker to the stars.   His two sons, Nicolaas and Josef, Jr., continued in the business after his death.

Got it?  Those are the true facts.

Okay, here’s where it gets fun.  You get to make up whatever you want with those given facts.  Anything.

This one is easy.  On one side of the street is Josef the violin maker, with a single violin, a book, and a flower in his window.  On the other side of the street is Emma, with a store window reflecting warmth, laughter, and soft feminine apparel.   It’s obvious — Nicolaas and Josef, Jr., are the product of the tempestuous-but-passionate relationship, forged at the beginning of the 1900’s, between Emma and Josef.

Of course, this is all baloney.  But shouldn’t it be true?  Shouldn’t the world be full of tempestuous relationships that culminate in high passion at the turn of the century?  Shouldn’t love sweep away all propriety?  Shouldn’t a twinkling chandelier always catch your eye?

You can play this make-believe game all day long, with any theme you desire, with any juxtaposition you want.  Let’s say you’re feeling a little adrift today, a little at loose ends.  Okay, here’s two white-haired women taking a walk by the North Sea.  Fact.

But did you know that they married and buried partners?  That their knees and hips have been cranky for awhile.  That they are tired, bone tired in fact.  That their conversation inevitably turns to lost love, forgetful children long grown, goals never achieved.  And, as the wheels of their walkers turn in cadence, their shoulders periodically brush.  And they inwardly smile at the gift of each other.

Pure baloney.

Are you getting the hang of it?

Okay, one last one.  How about the theme of violence?  A logical choice with 250 little girls kidnapped by terrorists in Nigeria, and a mentally ill person killing innocents in California.  No problem.  I have just the juxtaposition.

There’s a nudist beach on the North Sea . . . .

And do you see that object at the back, up on the dune?  It’s made out of poured concrete and tucked tightly into the sand.  Abandoned nearly 70 years ago.  No identifying signs.  Empty.  Overrun by dune grass.

You guessed it — a Nazi bunker.  This bunker, built to push back the Allies from landing on this North Sea coast, was armed and manned and loaded with weapons.  It bristled like a mean dog back in 1944.  It doesn’t take much to imagine its teeth barred, spitting violence.

Along comes a group of nudists.  Exposed.  Open to the sun and sea.  Nothing left to take from them.  The quintessential pacifists.  Gandhi without the robes.

And as the nudist played in the sand, the soldiers questioned a world built on identifying and destroying those who were different from themselves — those who needed to die for purity’s sake.  This disconnect was bound to happen as the soldiers took off their own clothes and discovered, you guessed it, they had the same parts as those on the beach.  And before you knew it, the biblical swords were turned into plowshares.  The children of the soldiers’ children cavorted on the beach.  The bunker was absorbed into the dune to disappear forever.  And today, only pale bottoms, not guns, are flashing in the sun.  Violence has been defeated.

Of course, that’s also baloney.

Your turn to play.

Joe

Omaha Beach.  Utah Beach.  Sword Beach.  Juno Beach.  Gold Beach.

70 years ago, on June 6th, 1944, thousands upon thousands of American soldiers came to Europe for the first time, up these “beaches” into Normandy.  And over the next few months, thousands followed behind them for the push into Germany.

The students

Like newborn ducklings, the students follow their teacher single file up the road.  On bicycles, of course.  Each student wears a bright orange vest announcing that they are on a day trip away from their local middle school.  Rolling wheat fields surround them on all sides as they turn in at the manicured drive.  In the background can be heard the occasional squawk of a crow and the lowing of distant cows.  Farm country.  As they get closer, the sound of American and Dutch flags cracking in the wind announce that class is about to begin.

“Hello, I’m glad you’re here. I knew you would come, and I’m impressed that you found my grave. They all look so much alike. More than 8,000 men who fought in the Second World War are buried here, and I am one of them. If they all could tell you the experiences they’ve had, you’d hear a lot of different stories. But today you’ve come to hear my story; to hear about my life from the time I was born to the moment I was laid in this grave.”

The students’ teacher, Laur Rutten, is on a mission.  His goal, his “ultimate challenge,” as he put it to me, is to get these children to grow up as “citizens who feel responsible for a peaceful world.”  With that challenge in mind, he brings his Dutch 7th and 8th graders to this cemetery every year.  The Netherlands American Cemetery at Margraten.

“After high school I started dating a girl named Marion, whose parents were also Irish. . . . Even with my small salary we were able to save some money and then get married in 1941.  We’d been dating 7 years and knew each other well.  We were very happy, especially when our daughter Gerry was born in March 1942. . . .  I left out of New York with 2000 other soldiers to cross the Atlantic Ocean on a big ship. . . .  The beaches of Normandy, where the Allied troops began the liberation of Europe, are now named after various American states and cities, such as Omaha Beach and Utah Beach.  I arrived in France in February 1945 with my division, the Second Division of the 38th Infantry Regiment.”

Rutten wrote a eulogy in three parts.  Three segments of a day-long lesson.  He spent countless hours researching and interviewing, phoning and writing, and weaved together the life of David Conway, out of Massachusetts, killed on April 14, 1945, just weeks before the end of the European war.

“In the morning we got up early and got ready to leave for Leipzig.  We hadn’t yet gone a kilometer before we were facing enemy fire.  Everyone ran for cover.  In the crossfire that followed, the freight truck I was hiding in was hit.  A lot of things ran through my mind all at once.  I thought of my mother, my father, my brothers, my friends at school, and all the nice and sad things I had experienced.  Last I thought of my wife and little girl.  I was badly wounded.  No one could help me because they were all as badly hurt as I was.  Marion and Gerry would have to live on without me.”

Rutten wrote the eulogy in the voice of the dead soldier, who tells the students of his life, his family, his marriage, his new-born daughter.  He tells of the war.  The dangers.  And, ultimately, of his own death.

“You are now standing at my grave, but soon you’ll return to home or school, to your family or friends.  That seems normal, but it is something special.  We can only enjoy this peace because of those who were prepared to come and fight for it.  I was one of them.  When I was born, that was my mother’s wish.  Her wish came true.  My wish for you is to live a long and happy life.  But at the same time I hope you’ll understand that peace on earth is much more than what it says on a Christmas card.”

As they circle the grave at the end of class, the young Dutch students remain transfixed.  Faces down, tears trailing on cheeks, they stand in silent reflection.

“It’s a start,” Rutten says.

The son

The old couple sit as solid as the stone bench on which they rest.  They look out over a bumper crop of marble crosses and stars of David.  The sun shines bright and hot on this spring day.  The couple doesn’t flinch.  They know weather, good and bad.  Their faces are open, friendly, looking with anticipation as my wife and I approach.  They’re from Pennsylvania.  Edna and Dave.

They take us to the grave where Dave tells us his story.

“My father, Harold Wray, went by the name of ‘Huck.’   It’s my dad’s birthday tomorrow.  Of course I was a small boy when he died.  My mother, I was told, went through a deep depression.  As a small boy, I couldn’t figure out why other family’s dads were coming back and mine wasn’t.  Finally, when I was about six, my mother had this wooden box with all the letters and the flag and she said we’re going to go through this . . .  and then she put it away. . . .   She only lived to be 37.  Then I got the box.”

Edna’s eyes begin to glisten.

“Several years ago a man approached me at our small church in Pennsylvania.  He had noticed my last name and wondered if I knew a “Huck Wray.”  It turns out he and my dad had been best of friends since they shipped to England.  They were both blown up by the same bomb.  He ended up in the hospital.”

“First time I came over here was 1968.  There was an ad in the paper, for next of kin.   KLM flew us over here.  That was really something.  Very special.”

“Did you notice all the John Deere’s they have doing the cutting at the cemetery?  They keep it spotless.  It is an honor to these men.”

“See how his name is almost golden.  They have sand from the Omaha Beach.  They have fine sand and wipe it on there.  It gives it a gold cast.”

“We hope to bring our son Jim over to see this.  He wants to come so bad.  Him and his wife . . . .   We’ll see how we hold up.”  Dave clears his throat.

Edna leans in to adjust Dave’s shirt.  They stand as one.  A family picture is taken — Dave, Edna, and Huck.

The gravedigger

Jeff Wiggins appears to have lived a life of teaching and community service from what I can tell from my readings.  An exemplary life.  He was an outspoken advocate for different races and religions to coexist and learn from each other.  He was an author and a leader.  But, for all that, he never spoke about a time when he was 18 years old.  Even to his wife of over 40 years.  It was as if the months spent in Holland in the winter of 1944 and spring of 1945 never existed.

Wiggins was one of 280 African-American soldiers assigned to dig graves at Margraten.

“We need to remember that in World War II there were two armies.  One army was white and one army was black.  They had chosen not to use us in combat and gave us the tasks that nobody wanted to do.”  Wiggins spoke for the first time on television and in newspaper interviews in his home state of Connecticut after being discovered by a Dutch author and documentary director in 2009.

Wiggins reported that he was unfamiliar with death as an eighteen year old.  Suddenly, he was burying three bodies a day.  28,000 soldiers were laid to rest at Margraten in 1944 and 1945.

Wiggins did not want to remember this time.  However, after being discovered as the last surviving gravedigger, he was compelled to change his mind: “If these 28,000 can’t escape where they are, I have no right to escape their memory.  There is a price to be paid for war.  In spite of all that we hear, there is no glamour.  There is suffering and death.”

“When I first arrived, I had to dig a grave with someone with the same last name as me.  I was 18 years old.  I was a country boy never been to the big city.  I saw this name ‘Wiggins’ and the first thing that came to my mind is this all a dream?  Am I in that grave?”

And, as this picture of the Margraten gravediggers shows, they were.

Jeff Wiggins and his fellow gravediggers laid to rest many an Iowa boy in Margraten.  Every burial was done with dignity and honor in spite of the harsh conditions, according to Wiggins.  He recalled another gravedigger who decided to sing an old spiritual after every grave was dug.  Soon the song was echoing over the burial grounds as the dead arrived by the hundreds.  “Lord, I’m coming home.”

Jeff Wiggins can be found today in the Mountainview Cemetery, New Fairfield, Connecticut.

On this 70th anniversary, may they all rest in peace.

Joe

Older men are a dying breed.  Sad to say.  They are a species unto themselves and I worry about their extinction, which causes me to write on their behalf.  I’d speak of older women, but I find myself frequently infatuated with older women.  Not enough emotional distance to report accurately.  But older men?  To write about them is like talking about your old dog who pees periodically on the living room rug.   You totally love that dog, and will be sad when he moves on, but, undeniably, there you are scrubbing on the carpet looking forward to the day you won’t be on your hands and knees cleaning up Rover’s mess.  I’m not saying older men are incontinent dogs, but, let’s be honest, they’re not a bed of roses either.

Part of why older men are a little complicated to love is their sharp tongues.  Just yesterday, this Dutch guy, who I guess is somewhere in his 70’s, saw me and shouted his typical greeting of the last six months, “Heh, American.”  Sometimes he will switch it up with the greeting, “Heh, Obama,” to great hilarity among the octogenarians he hangs with; but yesterday he stuck with the tried and true — “Heh, American.”

“How are you feeling?” he said.

I told him I was great except for a blood vessel that broke in my eye last night when I sneezed too hard.

He looked at me closely, and then said, “Well, you are getting old.”

I told him that was the same thing my wife told me.

The old man looked startled and said: “I am surprised you have a wife.”

I asked him why.

“I am surprised because you are such an ugly man.”

See, older men, with one leg in the grave, are missing that part of the brain that says: “whoa,” “don’t say that,” “what will others think.”  They are looking for unfiltered entertainment.  Pure and simple.  Their days are shorter, they are watching reruns of Sex and the City late at night, and they’re feeling frisky come morning.  They will say and do anything.

But inside the rough exterior of every older man is the soft custard insides of a delicious pastry.  I promise you.  This is why they need to be saved from extinction.  You want an example?

Okay, today I am indoors at the Dutch Nationals Powerlifting Masters Competition in Alkmaar, the Netherlands.  Alkmaar is one more of the dozens of beautiful Dutch towns that dot Holland.  And, of course, Alkmaar has an awesome windmill.

But I’m not sightseeing today.  Today I’ve chosen to be in a gym with really big men who are sweating and occasionally grunting.

The guy I’m betting on at this national competition is a little past most men’s prime.  Rik Priester is 58 years old.  He has all the aches and pains men have of that age.  But six days a week he puts iron into the air with the squat, the dead lift, and the chest press.  Serious stuff.  This type of lifting is not exactly the body sculpting advertised in men’s and women’s magazines at the checkout counter.   No, this type of lifting is more like “hey, do you want me to lift up your car while you change that flat?”  That kind of lifting.

Priester, a committed middle school teacher during the day, and a successful trainer of Dutch Olympic contenders in his off hours, is on his own personal quest.  He wants a world championship in his weight class for powerlifting.  He did it many years ago and is on track to do it again — yes, at the age of 58.  So, he warms up in the back room with the other competitors and tries to prepare for the nine lifts he is going to do this day.

The audience is politely disengaged during the day-long competition.  That is, until the competitors step up to the bar.  At the first sign of struggle by the poor guy up front, we all begin to yell in support, collectively willing the iron upwards.  You don’t even realize until the lift is over that you’re exhausted.  Everyone is exhausted.  Heck, we all just squatted over 500 pounds.  Sure, the guy with the weights gets the credit, but, come on, who carried the day?

It’s Priester’s turn.  He comes out, positions himself, and lifts an unholy amount of iron.  Again and again and again.  The guy is a monster.  Even the weight bar bends under his strength.  A champion to the bone.

Of course, he wins it all.   A mark in the victory column against youth.

Ah, but what about that soft interior, which is the salvation of older men?  Well, when Priester stood up on the podium to get his championship trophy, he waited for a moment, but jumped down too soon for his wife, Henriette, to get a picture.  How do I know this?  Well, from out of the audience came Henriette’s voice, lilting over the crowd, “Rik, ga near boven terug.”  I don’t speak Dutch.  I didn’t understand a word she said, but, of course, we all understood every word.  I saw Priester quickly jump back up on the podium.  And, sure enough, Henriette walked to the front and got her picture.

Okay, let’s recap: the champion, our hero, who just lifted a house, couldn’t get back up on the podium quickly enough after just five words spoken by his wife.  Really.

Are you satisfied?  Older men are marshmallows in a graham cracker crust.  Save one today.

Joe

The old Dutch couple moved slowly along the narrow reflecting pool.  Flowers and a vase were cradled in the woman’s arms.  They stopped.  The man took the vase from the woman and carefully, with obvious complaint by his joints, went to one knee next to the pool.  He dragged the vase through the water and then handed the dripping vase to his wife.   Pushing both hands against his bent knee, he forced himself back into a walking position.  The man adjusted his coat.  With his wife by his side, he continued the slow walk along the pool towards the stairs.  Looking past the old couple, and just on the other side of the stairs, could be seen the tops of marble crosses and stars of David glimmering in the early morning sun.  And in the far corner, an America flag flying far from home.

ALFRED WESTVOLD.  Hometown in Jasper County, Iowa.  Killed on April 7, 1945, east of Muhlhausen-Thuringen, Germany.  His wife was Helen, his only son was Larry.

The cemetery near Margraten, the Netherlands, might have been sitting smack in Iowa farm country from outward appearances.  When the bus from Maastricht left my wife and I on the side of the road, we found ourselves in the middle of lush spring wheat fields.  Not a town or a person in sight.   It was the wrong country for “amber fields of grain,” but it felt like home.

The engraved stone wall across the road announced: Netherlands American Cemetery and Memorial.  This road in front of the cemetery, the road we travelled to arrive, was originally built by the Romans for the war campaigns of Caesar.  This same road was used by the Germans to invade France.  And the road was later used by the Allies to attack Germany.  During late1944 through 1945, however, this road carried truckload after truckload of dead boys.   Sometimes 1000 a day.  The trucks were unloaded at this very location.  The last stop.

ADOLPH PEDERSON.  Hometown in Emmet County, Iowa.  Killed on November 28th, 1944, in Germany.  Bernice was his wife.  He had six sisters and one brother.

Although the Netherlands wasn’t totally liberated by the Allies until 1945, this little section in the southeast corner of Holland was freed by September of 1944.  It became a staging area for troops heading into Germany and other parts of the Netherlands.  Many soldiers that came through here were put up by Dutch families and made Dutch friends.  Many of these same soldiers returned in the trucks, killed in nearby Germany.  Over 17,000 bodies.  The majority of the dead were eventually returned to their hometowns in America.  But 8,301 stayed in this restful spot next to their comrades — hallowed ground.

CHARLES CLOUGH.  Hometown in Hardin County, Iowa.  Killed on November 22, 1944, in Mullerdorf, Germany.  His dad was Charles.  His mom was Eldona.  He was killed by a German sniper on Thanksgiving Day.

Forty sets of brothers are buried here.  Side by side.  As are four women caught in the maelstrom of the Second World War.  When bodies were found that could not be identified, they were given a marker that says: “Here rests in honored glory a comrade in arms known but to God.”  There is even one grave with two unidentified bodies together.  It is suspected they were killed in a tank explosion.  Melded together in the heat, it was felt “unethical” to separate them.

EDWIN WULFEKUHLE.  Hometown in Clayton County, Iowa.  Killed on July 28, 1943, somewhere in the North Sea.  Wife was Ruth.  His only son was Edmund.  He was last seen bailing out of his plane.

Two long walls separated by a reflecting pool provide the roll call for 1,722 missing American soldiers.  In 1994, the remains were found of one young soldier whose name was on this wall of the missing.  His funeral was the last to be held at the cemetery, nearly 50 years after the end of the war.

GEORGE KERBY.  Hometown in Appanoose County, Iowa.  Killed on February 23, 1945, in Hilfarth, Germany.  His dad was David.  His mom was Cora.  George was promoted to Private First Class nine days before he was killed.

Ah, but there’s another story this cemetery tells.

In late 1944 and early 1945, as the bodies poured into Margraten, the Dutch town folks responded by assisting in any way possible, including digging graves when the bodies became too many for the American Burial Corp.  When the war finally ended, the Dutch communities were at a loss as to how to thank the Americans and to show respect for those who gave their lives.   On Memorial Day in 1945, just weeks after the end of the war, 30,000 Dutch showed up at this cemetery to honor the American dead.  Even more amazing, all 17,000 graves were decked out in flowers provided from Dutch gardens.  After the ceremonies were ended, the Dutch refused to go home.  They remained at the cemetery to pray for the dead.  No one left.  And the next year?  50,000 Dutch showed up at the Margraten cemetery.  Yup, 50,000 Dutch to honor our dead.

RICHARD WESTFALL.  Hometown in Tama County, Iowa.  Killed on April 1, 1945, at Eisen, Germany.  His mom was Nora.  His dad was Carroll.  He also had two brothers who fought in the war, George and Raymond.

A translator used frequently by the American army staff back in 1944 was the Margraten town clerk, Joseph van Laar.  After the war ended, an American soldier asked van Laar to periodically bring flowers to the grave of his cousin.   Peter Schrijvers, in his book about the cemetery and town, says that van Laar responded: “I will take care of your cousin’s grave as if he was my own family, . . .  I will adopt his grave.”

LYLE EVANS.  Hometown in Linn County, Iowa.  Killed on April 6, 1945, near Dortmund, Germany.  His wife was Alice.

And so it began.  The request for adoptions from American relatives overwhelmed van Laar.  Soon the mayor of Margraten decided to form a committee to organize the adoption process.  The Dutch responded to the committee’s request for volunteers in overwhelming numbers.  Grave after grave was given a family.  And now, nearly 70 years later, every grave is adopted, every missing person has a family.  Yup, over 10,000 adoptions.

As for the adopters, sure, they bring flowers to the graves, they write letters to the families when the families request, they send pictures of the grave or pictures of the name on the wall, but, mostly, they remember.  They remember when we all might forget.   And their remembrance is kept alive by their children.  The caretaker at the cemetery said that some graves are tended by the third generation of the same Dutch family.  The dead passing on the memory of the dead.  Amazing.

On Memorial Day this year, every grave will again have flowers.  And, once again, thousands from the surrounding communities will come for the ceremonies to honor the dead.  How can this be?  Schrijvers offers a clue: “When the Dutch talk about the soldiers whose graves they have adopted, they rarely mention ranks or last names.  Instead, they speak of Jack, or Gustav, or Antonio, or, just as naturally and caringly, of ‘our boys.’”  You see, this is personal.  As van Laar said to the American soldier, “I will take care of your cousin’s grave as if he was my own family.”  And so they do.

What about the dozens upon dozens of Iowa boys resting on this hill?  Don’t worry.  Each one of them has a Dutch family.  These families are bringing flowers, brushing off the cross, or the star of David, or the carved indenture into the stone wall.  Grass will be clipped, bird droppings whisked away, a wet cloth wiped across the smooth white marble.  Rest assured, the grave will be prepared for this Memorial Day, someone will speak his name aloud, and every Iowa boy will be remembered and honored.

PAUL LUTKER.  Hometown in Scott County, Iowa.  Killed on January 2, 1945, in Belgium.  Wife was Lenora.  Daughter was Nancy.

Meanwhile, the old Dutch couple made their way up the stairs to the large field of graves.  The old man trailed just a little behind his wife.  They seemed intent as they headed into the field of graves.  They had a job to do.  An important job.  They had flowers to deliver to their boy.

“Our boys.”

Joe

Wading into the dark waters of women’s issues is not a good idea.  Especially for a male.  I  know this.  Why not just stay up on the bank where there are no snakes, no quicksand, no danger?  This seems a no-brainer.   But, unfortunately, I also believe in the magic of four events.  If four similar events call out to you within a short time, even though you are reluctant to wade into the muck, it’s already too late.   Just by counting the events and noting the coincidences, you’ve already planted one foot right in the middle of the snakes; you might as well put the other foot in the quicksand.   And, who knows, it may be a quick death.  Although I wouldn’t count on it.

It all began with Joni Ernst.  You know, one of the Republicans running for the Senate seat being vacated by Iowa Senator Harkin.  Yup, it was her amazing ad touting her ability to castrate pigs.  A gimmick to be sure.  A successful one.   In the same vein as the ad, however, I wondered about Ernst’s political position on Planned Parenthood and contraceptives, given her proclivity for castration.  Heck, you probably wondered the same thing.   But I recognized that thought as silly nonsense.  Unfortunately, in short order, along came Sarah Palin pulling me towards the water.

“No one is going to push her around . . . .  She’s not one who’s going to be told to sit down and shut up and let the good old boys do what they’ve been doing . . . .  She’s packing’ and she knows how to use it.” Yup, that  would be Palin stumping for Ernst in West Des Moines.  She continued: “Liberals like to claim there is a war on women.  Little chicks who need little sugar daddy government to take care of us.  Liberals make it sound that women are defenseless. Well, [Joni Ernst] is a pistol-packing Harley rider.”

Yikes, what was happening?  Sarah Palin was causing me to think about what women should do in this day and age.  What are women’s aspirations?  Where does feminism go next?  Palin’s vision of women (who she admiringly calls “Momma Grizzlies”) is that they should be strong, aggressive, and up for a fight.  The term “defenseless women” is coined by Democrats to entice women into being subsidized by the government — according to Palin.   Interesting notion.  I mean, who doesn’t admire a strong women?  Of course, do strength and aggression put bread on the table?  Is any safety net needed for single moms or women caught in poverty because of health problems or other reasons?   Is aggression really the only missing ingredient for women to succeed in the world?  And is carrying a gun ever the answer?

See, I was starting to fall over the edge into the water.   What did I tell you?  And I was given a decided shove by an event in Washington D.C.

A panel of self-styled conservative women were discussing feminism at the Heritage Foundation.  Mona Charen, a columnist for conservative publications, forcibly argued that the real concern by women should not be the lack of women in powerful positions, but “what is happening with men.”  “The decline of marriage has damaged men, women, and children. . . .  Family disintegration is the problem. . . .  The decline of stable families is hitting boys disproportionately hard.” Charen then rattled off statistics supporting these conclusions.  Having read of these findings before, I am hard-pressed to disagree with her.  Few would disagree that children generally do better with intact families.  Period.  She goes on to argue that single women with children are exposed to all sorts of dangers, which is why government programs are attractive to them and why they vote for Democrats.   Marriage is the answer, according to Charen.  And who caused the problem for women?  Charen tells us: “Feminism must take the blame.”

If you set aside Charen’s provocative language, we are left with her proposition that marriage is what society needs for the stability of the family.   That makes some sense.  I wonder, however, if she goes far enough.  Is the lack of two-partner families just a symptom of greater societal problems like poverty?  To say marriage is the answer to family disintegration is like telling a person to stop coughing to cure their cold.  I don’t think it works that way.

And then the fourth of my magic four events occurred, pushing me right into the dark waters.

Katty Kay and Claire Shipman, successful TV personalities, wrote a column in The Atlantic.  They assert that the reason for the disparities between women and men in the workplace is  because women have less self-confidence than men.

“Success, it turns out, correlates just as closely with confidence as it does with competence. No wonder that women, despite all our progress, are still woefully underrepresented at the highest levels. All of that is the bad news. The good news is that with work, confidence can be acquired. Which means that the confidence gap, in turn, can be closed.”

Is that it?  Is self-confidence the piece that will bring high-powered positions to women?  Can self-confidence really be learned by action?  Isn’t this just a variation on Sarah Palin’s Momma Grizzly?  And what about Charen’s concern about marriage?  How does that tie into this workplace disparity?

My head was spinning.  Four visions concerning what women should do.  I could no longer ignore it.  So, I did what any man would do.  I went to the gym.

Henriette stands behind the main desk — the mother of this gym in Holland.  With her pale, freckled skin and reddish-blond hair, she could be the poster woman for the word “Dutch.”  And like the Dutch, she does not tolerate the intolerant.  Including me when I get on my high horse.   You want advice?  She is the go-to gal.

Henriette told me a story.

“At the start of the war, my mom was engaged to marry a Jewish man.  He was sent away. . . .  She feels so awful and sad about it.  It was a strange time.  Everyone wants to survive.  After the war, she met my dad.  He was a smooth talker.  She thought he was the best man ever.”

But soon after the marriage, Henriette’s father started acting strangely.  “He wrote with lipstick on the walls, ‘my wife, she is dirty,’ because there was some stuff left around the table.  It started as mental abuse and then physical abuse.  When it was done, he cried and said he was sorry.  ‘I hope you can give me another chance.’  My mother was pregnant. Her dad was in prison because he built bunkers for the Germans during the war.  Soon she had two kids, three kids, four kids, and I’m the fifth.”

When Henriette begged her mother to leave her father because of the abuse and his philandering, her mother stated that she had nowhere to go.  So the abuse continued.  “My brother and I have the most hitting.  The three older sisters had less.  My brother is stuttering.  When my brother didn’t say words, my dad looked for reason to beat him up.  He shaved his head one side so everyone could see that he did something wrong.  My brother left when he was 15.  All those years go by.  And I left at 16.”

Really.

Okay, what should a woman do?  I certainly don’t have the answer.  Not that I would object if you are a married, self-confident, Harley rider.   Or even an unmarried, shy, bicycle rider.

What should a woman not have to do?  Mmmm . . . how about survive?

Joe

Conspiracies are awesome.  Who doesn’t love an intricate web of deceit and lies and blind alleys that end with a broken bottle, three yellow tulips, and five drops of blood.   The obvious explanation?  A conspiracy.  Conspiracies are the province of mystery story writers and science fiction authors and the media.  We all love a good conspiracy.

And we certainly have had our share of them in recent times.  Just check the internet.  Global warming is a conspiracy by those against big oil.  The horrible tragedy of the Twin Towers was a conspiracy by the Government to curtail individual freedoms.  The mysterious loss of Malaysian Flight 370 was a conspiracy to cover up that it was shot down by [blank] government for [blank] reason.  Oh, and let’s not forget that Obamacare is a conspiracy to bring us under the thumb of Russian Socialism.  And on and on and on.

Conspiracy theorists, however, are in no way limited to grand tragedies and health care.  When we receive two parking tickets in a row, it is obviously a conspiracy by the Des Moines Police Department.   Offering year-round school for Des Moines Schools is a conspiracy to undermine the family.  Your boss asking you to train a new employee — duh — conspiracy to phase you out of a job.  When I was a prosecutor with the Polk County Attorney’s Office, I was constantly accused of being involved in some kind of grand conspiracy against someone for some ill-gotten purpose.  Please.  As my wife would gladly tell you, I’m just not that clever.

But even though all conspiracies have a menacing component, something dangerous to our wellbeing, we still cling to their rosy light.  This might be because conspiracies require the existence of a higher being, a clear purpose, an explanation for the inexplicable.  If every accident, every mistake, every tragedy, every stupidity, can be explained away as the result of some Machiavelian madman, wow, we are free and clear.   Something bigger and smarter and more evil than mere ignorance is causing it all to happen.  Absolution complete.

I ran across a new conspiracy the other day in, of all places, Colmar, France.  Colmar is this fairytale city that has a markedly unfairytale past.  First, the fairytale.  It is one of the most funky, beautiful little places in the world.  It sits comfortably on tributaries of the Rhine River at the foot of the Vosges  Mountains in north-east France — the Alsace region.  Yup, you heard me correctly, I said wine.  Riesling in particular.  Although the vines are just beginning to sprout, they are something to behold.

And the town is a delight of rich-pastel colored houses, timbered windows and doors, and cobblestone streets that wind and curve and wax and wane.

Sure, this place is the home of the guy that designed the Statute of Liberty and it has a museum with a work of art that is such a big deal no museum outside of Paris is more visited in France.  But it is these amazing homes that cause you to stand in the middle of the street with your mouth open and eyes wide.

Now imagine tanks and soldiers and machine gun fire on these streets.  Yup, Colmar was conquered by France in 1673, made part of the newly-formed Germany in 1871, then back to the French after the First World War, then retaken by Germany during the Second World War, then back to the French in 1945.  As you can see, none of pretty Colmar’s history was very pretty.   How it survived is a mystery to me.

But to the conspiracy.  As you World War II buffs know, by January of 1945 the Germans were almost pushed back to the Rhine River.  Not quite, however.  There was a pocket around Colmar still held by the Germans.  The Battle of the Bulge was over, but there was real concern about this small area in the Alsace region.  The French and the Americans mounted an offensive.  At the end of the day, it is estimated 8000 Americans lost their lives at the Colmar Pocket.  And twice that many French.  As for the Germans, they still don’t know how many died.  A lot.  An unbelievable cost for a battle that has disappeared in history.

But, again, back to the conspiracy.  Just after Colmar was taken by the Americans and French, the Americans arrived with a truck that contained two safes.  In those safes was special super-secret cryptography equipment used only for the highest level of communications among the Allies.   And, even more amazing, in those safes were the Allied plans for the spring invasion of Germany.  Yup, the entire plans drawn up by Eisenhower and his buddies.  All sitting in a truck in Colmar, France.  Parked on a side street.  And since it was nighttime, everyone was tucked into bed.  Sound asleep.

Well, not quite everyone.

That night the truck disappeared.

So what happened?  Did the Germans sneak back into town (they were four miles out), find the side street, hot-wire the truck, and scoot back out of town?  Did Hitler order a cunning infiltration?  Was the truck really stolen by the Russians in preparation for the Cuban Missile Crisis in 1962?  Or was it aliens?  You can pay your money and make your choice, but, clearly, a conspiracy of the highest order.

Of course, I’d never heard of the “Colmar Incident.”  I suspect you hadn’t either.  In researching Colmar, I came across a secret report, written years earlier, released by the National Security Agency in 2008.  It told of the loss of the truck  and how it was a potential disaster for the invasion of Germany.  It catalogued the unlimited resources thrown at the pending catastrophe.  Even Eisenhower was personally involved, according to the NSA document.

After an intense hunt for several days, the truth did come to light about the stolen truck — and it wasn’t Hitler, it wasn’t the Russians, and it wasn’t aliens.  A French farmer was the culprit.  Fortunately, all the top-secret information and equipment was found untouched.  Germany could be invaded in the spring.  World War II was soon to be history.  The end of the Colmar Incident.

Oh, and one more tidbit, according to the NSA report, the French farmer did not steal the truck to sell the information to the highest bidder for world domination.  Nope, that darn French farmer took the truck because he had some furniture to move.  Yup, furniture.  So, being a practical farmer, he swiped the truck, threw the safes in the river, and moved his furniture.  Period.

A typical conspiracy.

Joe