Easter was always my friend Marty’s favorite holiday. Back in my high school years, when we wrote each other letters that spanned from Portland to Buffalo, he’d start talking about it in January.
Easter Rachael, he used to write me, is the time of year when I remember that there is nothing I’ve done that hasn’t been forgiven. Easter is the time I remember that life can be new again.
Marty was a World War II veteran, a celebrated hero, an honorable, good man, who couldn’t face himself in the mirror when the horrors of the war caught up with him.
It wasn’t until last May, when I began researching for a book that takes place during the Second World War that I began realize just how complicated everything was, how far from black and white. I never understood Marty, when he said he didn’t know if God would forgive him for the things he had done. It’s war, I thought. You followed orders. You were with the Allies. You did what you were supposed to do. You did good.