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At our rural two-story farmhouse in North Richmond, California, I, Richard, a seventeen-year-old, sits downstairs at our kitchen table with my older sister, Mary, and my older brother, Tony. My father, Mike, is pouring wine into his brother’s wine glass from a gallon wine jug that sat on the table then pours wine into his glass. You can smell the baccala that my mother, Katie, is cooking. The baccala smell is overwhelming. On the kitchen wall hangs a large 1943 calendar with a large picture of Uncle Sam that reads buy war bonds. On the end of the kitchen table lies a red-white-blue airmail letter that hasn’t been opened. We eat. My dad picks up the airmail letter that was sent from his sister, Toya, who was living in Yugoslavia. He hands the letter to my mother. She opens it and begins to read. As she reads, we find out German soldiers came to my dad’s Village in Yugoslavia and killed his father, sister, Petra, and his uncle, Martin. My mother begins to sob. She hands the letter to my father and he finishes reading the letter. Then he begins weeping. Then he throws the letter on the kitchen table and shouts, If you kids ever marry a German, don’t ever come back to this house. Guess what? My sister marries a Yugoslav. My brother marries a Yugoslav. I married a beautiful, loving, fifteen-year-old German girl. Then all hell breaks loose until they find the unconditional love she gives to them. Then tragedy strikes only to bring more love into all our lives. 12/18/2017
