A little history to my reasons for being.

I was a 10-year-old American officer’s son when I
walked through Dachau. I remember the ovens, the
showers—stains still on the walls.

I remember the ash piles, before they had soaked
into the dirt. This was 1955. It had been 10 years and the
ash still hadn’t disappeared.

History is repeating itself, and nobody is stopping it.

As I grew older, I could never understand how the
Germans allowed this to happen.

Now I know:
One part stupidity,
One part misplaced trust,
Two parts apathy.

God, how I’m going to hate saying, “I told you so.”