On Memorial Day, I was in my basement looking for a cat. (Yes, it was a cat, as opposed to my cat—but that’s another story.) Anyway, I was sorting through the clutter when I came across a bag containing various tokens of my youth. At the bottom of the bag, I peered in and saw one of my possessions that I hadn’t seen in years: A swastika armband that had once belonged to a Nazi soldier.
People who own Nazi artifacts are somewhat suspect, and the suspicion is not unwarranted. Human Rights Watch has long been critical of Israeli military actions, but in 2009 the organization suspended their lead investigator on Israel after it was revealed he was an avid collector of Nazi memorabilia and went by the name “Flak 88” on Internet message boards. (H is the eighth letter of the alphabet, and 88 is code for “Heil Hitler” among Nazi sympathizers.)
In 1988, it was revealed that Las Vegas gaming impresario Ralph Engelstad had a secret chamber in his Imperial Palace casino filled with Nazi memorabilia, including a portrait of himself in full Nazi regalia, and he hosted at least two Hitler birthday parties. According to the New York Times, Engelstad insisted the “Hitler festivities were just ‘theme’ parties to boost employee morale.” The Nevada Gaming Commission fined Engelstad $1.5 million and insisted he stop celebrating der Führer.
Others appear to have more innocent motivations. Actor Peter O’Toole begins his memoir Loitering with Intent by discussing a letter he owns that was personally signed by Hitler, a signature he describes as a “foul little gash.” The largest collector of Nazi artifacts in the world, Kevin Wheatcroft, is a wealthy British heir whose father fought bravely and honorably in World War II. Wheatcroft is fairly public about his obsession. Like O’Toole, Wheatcroft seems more like a classic British eccentric than a closet sympathizer.
As for me, well, it was my grandfather’s brother Jack who served in Europe fighting the Nazis. I don’t know how my great-uncle Jack acquired the armband. It’s rather large, so it appears it was worn over a heavy coat in a cold climate. And I assume it was not handed over willingly.
As to why Jack gave my dad the armband, aside from being a piece of history, it’s my understanding it was simply a totem of the hard-won victories and sacrifice the whole family endured. On December 7, 1941, my grandfather was a buck sergeant in the Marine Corps stationed at Pearl Harbor. As gramps ran to his battle station, my 5-year-old father and his younger brother hid under a table when the bombs started falling. Dad returned to the mainland and didn’t see my grandfather for two years. When he came back, my grandfather was an officer thanks to a battlefield promotion at Guadalcanal.
I’m sure Jack would have obliged me with the story behind the armband, though I never asked him. Jack’s own story is probably more worth telling. After World War II, he fought in Korea, where he commanded the 2nd and 3rd battalions of the 223rd Infantry Regiment. He did two tours in Vietnam, where he helped head Army Aviation—he was in charge of 23,000 soldiers and 2,000 aircraft. By the time Vietnam rolled around, Jack was fighting alongside his two nephews. Both my dad and his brother were career Marine officers and Vietnam vets. Jack retired a brigadier general and then spent 27 years as a municipal judge. He died eight years ago, and it’s a shame I didn’t get to spend more time with him. It’s a cliché because it’s true: They don’t make them like Uncle Jack anymore.
I’ve ventured out in public with the armband exactly once. In the fourth or fifth grade, I managed to convince my parents to let me to take it to school for show-and-tell. (They sagely insisted I first clear it with the parents of the lone Jewish girl in my class.) I brought it to school and proudly told the story of my grandfather’s and uncle’s service in the war. These days, I am quite confident that sending my kid to school with a Nazi armband would result in a national news story at best and three dozen congressmen proposing new hate-crime legislation at worst.
Of course, I’m not about to frame the armband and hang it above the mantel. But I make no apologies for hanging on to it, either. Uncle Jack probably deserves a better memento than the one I have of him, but the foul little rag sits in my basement nonetheless. It may have a swastika on it, but it’s also a symbol that evil is real—and it takes men of real character and courage to fight it.
