 |
| Photo by Michael J. Kannengieser |
A Legacy of History
My Dad was more than a lover of books, he was an amateur historian. His library included titles covering WWI, WWII, steam engines, ships (he always wanted to be a sea captain), birds (he was also a bird watcher), and the Civil War. In addition, he shared his passion for reading with our mother who typically sat in the living room after supper with a cup of hot tea and a mystery.
My siblings and I became accustomed to shelves of literature and
history books crammed into every corner of our tiny Cape Cod style home. My
father’s grasp of the subject matter was so thorough, one of my sister’s
friends, a professor an esteemed university once told me: “Your father knows
more about American History than most history professors where I teach. “
It should have been no surprise the amount of books we accounted
for in our parents’ home after dad passed away in May, 2009. Yet, after I
probed deep into a crawlspace to retrieve a box I discovered in a dark corner using
my flashlight, I found an assortment of documents, relics of his earlier
occupation, which are remarkable not only in their subject matter, but because my
father possessed of them.
I dragged the flimsy, cardboard box from the eaves and into
my old bedroom. Dripping with sweat and covered in dust, I eyed the contents,
which at first glance seemed unimpressive. Many were reports, plain blue and gray
government documents. One of the titles grabbed me. On the pale blue cover, in
all capital letters across the top the title read: The United States Strategic
Bomb Survey. Underneath, a subtitle: The Effects of Atomic Bombs on
Hiroshima and Nagasaki. The words Atomic Bombs were printed in a much larger font
size than the rest of the text.
Other booklets caught my attention, too. The End of the War
in the Pacific, Surrender Documents in Facsimile, Germany Surrenders
Unconditionally, International Military Trials, Nuremberg, and most
impressive, Charter of the United Nations, in five languages. There were
about two dozen of these government publications. Their numismatic value is uncertain, their historic significance indisputable, but their worth as
family heirlooms, enormous.
Details about how my father came to own this collection of historic
papers are sketchy. He worked for the U.S. Navy at the old Brooklyn Navy yard in Brooklyn, New York, for twenty years. Dad took the job of forklift driver in his late twenties. He
was ill for years after his discharge from the army in November of 1944,
battling pneumonia and various infections – all complication from his wounds, and
much more manageable with today’s medicines. There, he took advantage of the
many education opportunities offered both by the Navy and through the G.I.
Bill. He studied accounting, management and mechanics. By the end of his
twenty-year tenure, he worked in an office as a labor liaison between the
unions and the government.
Records
of his employment, such as training certificates and work orders, gave few clues as to how he would gain access to this trove
of government journals. In another box, I discovered a newspaper. It appeared
to be weekly published by the Navy for its employees. On the front page, in the
lower, right-hand corner, I noticed a picture of a group of men and women in
business attire. Among the names mentioned in the caption, was my father’s He
was in the back row, taller than many of them, smiling, and according to the description,
named to the N.S.A. Library Committee.
As a member of a library commission, he would certainly be
able to acquire the items I uncovered in his home. However, I have not confirmed if the N.S.A. organization
he worked for was indeed the National Security Agency, or a defunct branch of
the government. Perhaps I don’t want to unravel the mystery surrounding my
father’s trove of important booklets. The tiny mystery accompanying them adds
an aura to the memory of my father as a man who had influence above the ordinary
capacity of a lower-middle-class family man. I’d like to believe my father kept
these for their historical significance. I’m sure before he died, he knew I’d
find and appreciate them the way he did. I wish he’d have told me about them
sooner so I wouldn’t have to crawl through the dusty eaves to drag them out of
there.
