I don't normally do sweeping reviews but I can't help but add my 2 cents on what I just experienced with this book. I found Henry to be very likable, and did not get a sense that the crimes he committed were that horrendous... but perhaps it's easy to overlook them when reading from his perspective and not the perspective of those who were affected by them. For example, when his unit was ordered to burn down a hut with many Russian villagers in it: we never learned (because he never learned) what became of them. Surely it was horrendous. Furthermore, I suppose, there's something of an element of "just following orders". In that instance he didn't really have a choice... if he were to go against his superiors he would have been dead or otherwise. I don't know. Perhaps I am too forgiving of him, I'm not sure.
This was up there with Dr. Viktor Frank's "Man's Search for Meaning" for me. It's amazing to me how such horrible times can bring out both the best and the worst in Man - this was, in fact, a central theme of Dr. Frankl's work. Horrific elements aside, I found Henry's experience to be utterly interesting, and at times even comical, like when he and three German prisoners drove a jeep unguarded through the United States.
And what to say about love? The love story with Anna brought me to tears and made me reconsider what it means for me to love in my own life. The fact that it isn't fiction makes it all the more compelling. It was powerful when he said that if he and Anna could love, why could the world not?
It was utterly upsetting for me to see how cruel people were to him - American, French, and even German - after leaving Russia. After feeling like I bonded with Henry, and knowing how much he had suffered, to see even his own countrymen laughing at him and even blaming him for losing the war was utterly discouraging. Understandable? To an extent I suppose. But still, utterly discouraging. It is sad just how deep hatred seems to run in the human heart.
I found it interesting when he said the ages of 18-26, when he was a soldier and a prisoner, are the formative years of any man's life. I reflected upon that, and I absolutely agree. When I was 18 I started drinking and using drugs, by 21 I had a drunk driving "accident" that was my fault (luckily, nobody was hurt), and by 22 I was sober. From 22-26 I spent the rest of my time figuring some things out, and at 31 I now feel I have my head about me. I guess you could say that I had my own little war, even if it paled in comparison to what Henry and others like him experienced.
I originally decided to read this as a follow up to Beevor's "Stalingrad", in order to get some real-life context on what happened during those pivotal moments of the war and of humanity. Little did I know that I would be getting a deep look into what it means to be human.
Perhaps I am wrong, I don't know, but as I hinted at before, I was taken aback at times by Henry's self-flagellation. I noticed that not only at the end, but at the beginning, when he modestly shared that he had always thought that he had little to share. How wrong he was! What he wrote was one of the most compelling pieces of writing I've ever had the privilege of partaking in.
So perhaps I am wrong, and perhaps I am too quick to forgive and not sensitive enough to those he had harmed. But there's something inside me that says that maybe we've all got a little Henry Metelmann inside of us. We've all done bad things, we've all made mistakes, but even so, there's something deeper in us that is worthy of expressing, sharing, and being loved. At the age of 31 years I feel absolutely privileged to have been given this perspective, and while I selfishly hope to enjoy it for myself, at the end of the day I want to be able to give a little of it back, too. That, I think, would be a life worth living.
Though you can never read these words, thank you for this, Henry, and for what it's worth, I forgive you.