A Tribute

There aren’t many men like him.

He was only 16 when the war began. He faked his date of birth, telling the Army that he was 17 and enlisted. A 16-year-old soldier who walked in front of the tank. One of his biggest regrets was that because of his injuries, he didn’t get to roll into Berlin with his brigade and celebrate victory.

He was critically wounded twice. A bombshell that exploded next to him cut off his right thumb and showered his body with shrapnel. Some of it was so close to his spine that doctors decided not to remove it because it may have paralyzed him. This shrapnel now sets off metal detectors in airports. He always laughs at that.

The second time, he was wounded in the legs. When the doctors decided to amputate his legs because of gangrene was setting in, he begged them to give him another day. “Today, you’ll lose your legs up to the knees, but if we wait until tomorrow, it will be up to your hips.” But he insisted. And the next day, the infection subsided.

He was on crutches for two years after that. When he fell and was taken to the hospital, he met a nurse. After being released, he asked her out. And married her a year later. They had a daughter two years later. And another 27 years later, their daughter had a daughter, who couldn’t pronounce his name, so she called him Goga, which was just baby-speak, but it became his new name. Everyone—his family, friends, neighbors, colleagues—now know him as Goga.

For many years, he worked as an engineer at a heavy machinery plant that had a secret weapon production arm. He knew nothing of it, but because of his employment with the plant, he was prohibited from traveling abroad until 15 years after his retirement for the fear that he may disclose some sensitive information. After that, he traveled only twice. He retraced his fellow soldiers’ steps to Berlin for a documentary film, pondering why people in the country that lost the war were so much better off than people in the country that won it. A few years later, he flew overseas to attend his granddaughter’s wedding, where, despite not knowing the local language, he won the hearts of so many people.

His passion for helping people is intense. After he retired, he got involved with a local veterans’ committee and it became his mission in life. Even after he couldn’t drive anymore, he hopped from one public bus to another, every day, to meet with the government officials to advocate for the veterans’ cause or help someone get groceries or fill their prescription or make funeral arrangements. When those war-wounded legs started to give him trouble and he couldn’t walk well, his spirit was shaken, but not broken. He continued making phone calls on behalf of “his veterans” to get help for them. And they came to visit him to say thank you. His apartment was always full of flowers.

He is an amazing cook—and always has been because his wife never enjoyed cooking. He believes that a meal that doesn’t contain bread, meat and potatoes can NOT be called a meal. Even when he lost his appetite, he still spent hours cooking from scratch for his family and friends.

He likes to sing after he’s had a drink or two. They are old songs, quite unpopular in this day and age because they promote the old ideology, but they are memories of his past. They are the songs he sang as he went to battle. And he sings them with such vigor that others want to join in.

He is a voice of reason. He is a peacemaker. When his overly dramatic wife argues with someone, he always takes her side, even when she is unreasonable. But he is also the first one to tell her to make peace.

He laughs a lot. His eyes—they are always laughing, they are the perfect definition of that “twinkle in the eye.” He tells jokes. He teases, but it is always so good-natured. He makes up his own words that are absolutely hilarious. He loves to rhyme, and some of those rhymed sayings have become so common in his family that they forget that the rest of the world doesn’t know them.

He is so loved. So respected. So admired. And he will be so missed. He is my grandpa. My Goga. And he passed away on Monday.

There just aren’t many men like him.