piece of the puzzle

Dad is transcribing some of grandpa's history, specifically the years he spent doing church work in Germany. He's using recordings from interviews taken more than twenty five years ago. Since grandpa passed away a few weeks after my first birthday, I haven't any memories of him and I don't remember the sound of his voice. I've assembled a puzzle over my lifetime, made up of stories and pictures, a portrait of a man I never knew. His voice was different than I imagined. I don't know what I was expecting. Perhaps it's because I know him as such a spiritual giant. I expected a voice that matched that personality trait. It was gentle. Soft, like the faded photographs I've seen of him with my grandmother. They look like they have been steeped in tea, edges yellow with time. Grandpa is handsome in his topcoat and fedora, grandma next to him in a fur stole and gloves. They were the essence of 1960's class.

Germany stories are well-known, a vocal family history told by dad upon request at bedtime. He's spoken of many trips through Checkpoint Charlie as a seven year-old, waist-high, curious American boy. Church records were often kept in the children's suitcases. Audible and silent prayers were uttered that the soldier's eyes would pass over them. Sometimes the guards would take grandpa one way and grandma and the children another. A few times it was a while before they were reunited and could continue on to their destination together. To hear such tales in grandpa's voice, soft and gentle, as though he's sitting right beside me is like the finding the last piece of a puzzle 27 years in the making.