Escape from East Berlin

A War Memento Today is a really nice day for England. I have just returned from the commissary with my arms full of groceries. As I carry my stuff into the kitchen, I bump into a table corner with my right thigh. It really hurts, and the hurting just won’t stop. I can’t see anything on the outside of my skin. It isn’t red or swollen. When it is still more than just tender the next day, Tom says that maybe I should go over to the hospital and let somebody take a look. Once there, I run into our friend and neighbor who just happens to be our doctor. He asks what my problem is, and I tell him as we walk into his office. He takes a look. When he pushes against the spot, it really hurts; and he says that he can feel something. He suggests that I come back tomorrow morning when he will have time to figure out what it is and get it out. Following his instructions, I am back. He tells the nurse that they can do “it” right here in the office. He says, “We will freeze it and take it from there.” I’m thinking, “What?” The next morning the nurse has me to sit down, and then she sprays the area with something that “freezes” it. Charlie comes in; and, after making sure that I can’t feel anything there, he begins to cut. I am ready to pass out, but he says just to turn my head away. A short time later, Charlie says, “I think we’ve got it!” He pulls out a splinter of metal that is at least two inches long and about half that wide. He looks at it and me; and, since he knows where I come from and what happened there, he says, “This piece of metal has been with you since the war.” Well, I am truly stunned. It must have happened when we were all running around trying to stay alive in the last days of the war when we experienced continued bombing, low flying aircraft, and flak from both the Russian and our own planes. He adds, “There was no scar where I cut, but you will have one now.” He holds up that splinter, all bloody, and asks, “Would you want this souvenir?” “No, thank you,” I respond, and Charlie throws it into his trash. When I return home, Tom wants to see the splinter. He teases me and says, “Now you can’t prove that you lived in the heart of the fighting!” Although I don’t say this to him, there are some souvenirs that I wouldn’t wish to hold on to. Charlie stops by this evening, and we talk about it. He tells me that I have been very lucky, that the splinter could have killed me when it hit me. But I guess it was not my time then. Although I didn’t keep the splinter, I do have a little scar now, where he closed up his incision with six little stitches. Whenever I happen to see or feel that scar, I remember Charlie’s words. I have been lucky in many, many ways.