Marianne: Tell me about that army tent he had.
Erika (mother) : The tent was something from the basement. Next to a lantern, in a big barrel with something uninteresting in it which I knew as Bruce’s army tent. It had always been there. Once, I don’t really remember when exactly it was anymore, once we were on a holiday in the countryside with several people. And he decided to set up this tent in the garden for girls. And suddenly it was there, standing. Big. He was very proud – tadaa! You could sleep in that tent. I think you were there too, and Olivia, and Ellie. And the shock of having to sleep in that? It smelled a bit like mold. You only spent one night there.
Marianne: Out of courtesy, right?
Erika: Out of courtesy. And the next day the complaints were there: there were spiders, and all the scary sounds of the foxes and wild beasts outside. Yes, he was really disappointed. I could just see it in him. He had gone to great lengths. He thought that would be an adventure, but no. You preferred to sleep indoors. You were not convinced. And it was dark too, with a flap like that, you know.
Now, I put up this tent myself, together with my own son and daughter. The tent that I was scared of as a kid. The tent that was an invitation from my grandfather to talk about his experience of the war. The only attempt that never repeated afterwards. Perhaps, he hoped it would be a playful setting for children. And at the same time, this object was his personal connection to the events at Iwo Jima. Every soldier had to carry half of such a US army pup shelter alongside his equipment. During combats, you had to search for a fellow soldier, so that you could connect two halves into one joint. For the last two years, I go through my grandfather’s archive. I attempt, and I fail, and I attempt again to find stories that would make it whole. I question: when is the right time to talk about war? How can memories be passed through generations? Can they…?