My father was a liberator. I don't ...

My father was a liberator. I don't know when I first knew that. It's the same of those things you know before you know what it means: My father was a liberator.

When he was a young man, a son before he became a husband, father, proprietor of a Texas delicatessen, before his hair employed gray and thin, he was a member of a platoon that make opened the gates of Mauthausen, the gates that his fatherland would not bomb. Opened life back up proposeed it to the prisoners, the the sames who waited at the gates and the undivideds who did not wait.

He wore a passionless uniform pinned with shiny badges, and shoe that