It was a beautiful, sunny summer day in Berlin. I remember counting my steps, lining up the edges of my shoes to the edges of the cobblestones along the path. My grandmother walked near me, in halting, slow steps. She said something. I shifted my gaze from my feet and asked, "Sorry I didn't hear you, what did you say?" She mentioned the row of graves we were walking past, the dates on the headstones. "It was probably a kindergarten class that got killed in an air-raid." she said quietly. With her comment, I looked up at the rows and rows of headstones in the cemetery. We were visiting the place where my great grandmother and great great grandmother were buried. We were there to film my grandpa talking about his past. He grew up in Berlin during WWII. He tells story after story of bombings, air-raid drills, and the scarcity of the food. He has lived in America since he was twenty, but he still has a bit of a German accent that hangs onto his W's. The life my grandfather has lived is completely different from the life that I have lived, yet I couldn't help but relate to him as I listened to his stories in the cemetery that day. His trials taught him strong morals like courage and hard work which he passed on to my father, who in turn passed them onto me. I haven't endured starvation or experienced a war, but the principles that my grandfather teach help me face the challenges in my life. The trials of each generation are never the same, but sometimes the lessons learned are.
