Lary Bloom photo
PFC Zlotowski's plot.
NORMANDY, FRANCE — I watch on this sunny day in late May as a barefoot young girl twirls and twirls in the sand as if she is the prima ballerina, and not performing on a spot where 81 years ago death became a cheap commodity.
And where, a cakewalk away, 9,388 Americans killed during the D‑Day landing — the turning point of World War II — are buried in carefully landscaped rows of crosses and a smattering of stars of David.
The girl on her toes seems to me a stranger to all of that. And so, I figure, are the volleyball players that have strung up a net nearby. I am a stranger, too, wandering to that hallowed ground from a different time, from a much different kind of war.
Even so, I have come here to pay respects to those who made the ultimate sacrifice in a monumental struggle against tyranny. Perhaps I can even find the grave of someone who may have walked the streets of New Haven: This would allow readers of the Independent to celebrate the heroism of a native son. But there are two problems.
The site keeps records only of the states of the dead, not their hometowns.
And most of the graves are roped off in order to keep these 175 acres pristine. So hunting for any particular burial site is limited on a rotating basis to just one area.
I have walked to that expanse, and hope to find the impossible. Something, I don’t know what, leads me to Plot H, Row 9, Grave 38. That of Private First Class Victor L. Zlotowski, of the 4th Infantry Division, 22nd Regiment. Killed in action 12 days after the landing in the town of Sainte Mere-Eglise.
This is quite a find, not only because the discovery comes so quickly, but his name is unusual enough that I know that if I researched it I would learn his origins. Indeed, I quickly discover courtesy of the internet that Victor spent his formative years in New Haven County. And though it doesn’t specify where, evidence suggests the city of Meriden.
Because it isn’t possible to do otherwise, I also think of the differences between our wars. Victor’s was far deadlier than mine in terms of numbers. More than 55,000,000 perished when you count all the soldiers, civilians that became collateral damage or bombed on purpose (as in London, Dresden, Berlin, Nuremberg, Hiroshima, Nagasaki), and the millions sent to death camps.
In Vietnam, the true mortality count is unknown. What is documented is the U.S. military toll, 58,220 killed in action. The number of Vietnamese, however, is only estimated, but certainly many times that figure.
And there are many more differences. At Omaha Beach and the cemetery the tourists flock, especially now that another Memorial Day arrives and another anniversary of D‑Day, June 6, 1944, approaches. Because even with all that death, there is still a thing called victory.
As I remove my boonie hat to honor PFC Zlotowski, I wonder what Victor would think of the sad irony of the triumph of the Allies in vanquishing one of history’s most brutal tyrants just to make it possible, decades later, to see another power-hungry and bigoted leader rule — and do it in Victor’s own country. (Note to readers: No, I’m not suggesting they are equal in their villainy, but I am insisting that we recognize the perils of today.)
And yet, there are too many sad ironies for one mind, or a thousand minds, to make sense of. And there is no doubt at the time of the D‑Day landing there was widespread unity of purpose.
In all that smog composed of the burning of human flesh, pure black and pure white appeared. And so at 4 p.m., “Taps” sounds from a lone trumpeter as the American flag is lowered, many tears are shed. I even notice a drop or two of my own.
The public memory of the Vietnam war is not so generous and empathetic, even though millions have visited Maya Lin’s memorial in Washington, D.C., (she was a Yale architecture student when she won the design competition) and like me, made a tracing of a dear friend who was killed in action.
My own lingering sense of bitterness has certainly eased. It was 32 years after my return when I first heard the words, “Thank you for your service,” which made me cry for a different reason, one I have yet to discern.
I came away from the war with all of my limbs if not all of my wits. It took years to begin to understand my own role in that terrible mess, and it took until 2011, when I returned to that land, to discover a hint of a meaningful lesson.
Despite the communist government that yet endures, everyone on the streets of the city that was once called Saigon, “Pearl of the Orient,” is a capitalist. Selling bananas or weed or Louis Vuitton or Sony or Chevrolets. And the young professionals, some of whom are Facebook friends, hold no grudges against those of us who invaded. So what is the true legacy?
Back at the Normandy cemetery, I see a very old man, barely able to stand, being helped down the steps from the little chapel where visitors can ponder and pray. He has trouble walking and I can see his distress. He wears a veteran cap and I figure, well, he must have landed on this beach that fateful June day. I go over to shake his hand and to thank him. But, seeing my hat, he thanks me and says he was in the same war as I was. Two old soldiers, then, in an embrace of distant but still penetrating memory.
My selfie.