“Citizens of Every Calling Bred in the Principles of the American Democracy:” The Silent Voices of Epinal, France

I view the recent conduct of the Trump administration—Trump himself, Vance, Rubio, and Hegseth, in particular—regarding Ukraine and our allies in Europe, as singularly disgraceful.  They betray our nation’s deepest and highest calling—the defense and advancement of human liberty, equally for all—and for which so many have sacrificed so much.  It sickens me.  Growing up, I was aware that my father, and many of my friend’s fathers, had served in WWII.  Next door, Mr. Sarivalli had lost half a leg and an eye by stepping on a landmine in Germany.  I thought of these men this last week.  And I remembered a personal experience I had a few years ago, shared below, related to our nation’s wartime sacrifices in Europe and the inspiration this provides and the obligations this imposes. The contrast with our degenerate present could not be more stark.  I hope the images below inspire you and perhaps strengthen your resolve as we, individually and as a nation, struggle to find a way forward to a better day.

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Several years ago, on a beautiful early May morning, I was driving to visit a customer in northeast France, not far from the German border, in a town called Cornimont, in the Alsace-Lorraine region.  I was on a winding, secondary road, with almost no traffic.  The terrain was wooded and rising as I drove eastward toward the Vosges mountains.  There had been a morning rain.  But now the sun was shining and the light sparkled in the trees.

A sign on the right caught my attention.  Something about an American WWII cemetery, in a place called Epinal, not far away.  I pulled over and checked the time.  I wanted to go if I could.  I had never been to the Normandy cemeteries, or any other American war cemetery in Europe.  I had enough time.  I turned around, and wound my way to Epinal.

I crossed a bridge over the Moselle River, and the road rose slightly.  A few minutes later I pulled into the parking area.  I stepped out of the car.  The air was cool and clean.  Only one or two other cars were there.  I saw no one.  Silence pervaded.  Only birds, and maybe the distant river, could be heard.  Before me, set upon an immaculate green lawn, was a large limestone monument that served as gateway and guardian to the cemetery itself—thousands of crosses and stars, in perfect rows, nestled against the woods above the river, marking the final resting place for over 5,000 US soldiers who gave their lives in the fight against fascism.

The place and all it conveyed was breathtaking.  I fell silent.  It was holy ground, sacred space, a place to instinctively fall upon your knees, to weep, to give thanks.

The office staff, French employees of the US government, were serious and respectful.  They told me I was free to walk the grounds, with reverence.

I approached the monument and I saw inscribed along the top the words, “Citizens of Every Calling Bred in the Principles of the American Democracy.”  I stared at the words.  For me, they captured the glory and inner strength of our diverse nation and its citizen soldiers.  On the crown of the monument were the words, from Exodus, “I bare you on eagles wings and brought you unto myself.” To the left and right of the entrance, dramatic scenes were cut in the stone, portraying the courage and valor of our soldiers, and the sacrifices and redemption of the fallen.

I entered the monument and beheld a fresco on the left wall that portrayed the military campaign, beginning in southern France in August of 1944, heading north toward Epinal, and then swinging east into Germany, for which the fallen soldiers had given their lives.  An older French couple appeared.  They spoke to me, in English, and told me that they had been children when the Americans had liberated their town near Marseille.  They expressed, after all these years, gratitude to me, simply because I was an American.  They told me stories of their liberation.  When they first saw the Americans.  I tried to deflect their expressions of gratitude—I told them I had never served in the military, much less in WWII—but they wouldn’t listen.  They praised our nation and what it had done, and in their eyes, as a descendant, I represented the goodness for which they are forever grateful.

I walked the grounds, allowing myself to be led by the spirits that permeated the resting place. It was easy to imagine a cloud of witnesses, hopeful, plaintive.

And for those whose bodies were never found, “This is their memorial—the whole earth their sepulchre.” No one, in death, is excluded from their nation’s gratitude.

After maybe 30 minutes, I walked back through the monument, stopping at the chapel, so humble and noble in its devotional expressions.  An appeal that the souls of the valorous may dwell in glory.  And a simple prayer, that light may be given to those in darkness, and that our feet may be guided into the way of peace.

And then, silence all around, I walked toward my car.  I saw up ahead a French family getting out of their cars, maybe eight or ten people total, from small children to elderly grandparents.  They were about 100 feet from me.  As we got closer to one another, I saw some of the older folks looking my way, and then walking my way.  The grandparents.  They approached me, and though we could not speak each other’s language, it was clear that they somehow knew I was an American, and they too were giving thanks to me.  They were animated and smiling and cupped my hands in theirs.  I knew this had nothing to do with me, of course, but had everything to do with our nation and all that we did those many years ago to free them from their wicked oppressors.  The encounter lasted only a minute.  And then we parted, speaking a language with tears we could all understand.

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The profound gratitude of those who remember what liberation from the Nazis meant was an unexpected experience at Epinal.  Their gratitude speaks to me of universal human longings.  It is testimony to me of our common bonds, and therefore, the rightness of our principled cause.  But Epinal tells me more.

I believe the soldiers fought for many things—survival, each other, their loved ones back home, and their nation.  Underlying it all, inspiring the entire enterprise, and what made us so profoundly different from the Nazis, was a belief, a conviction, that we were fighting for something bigger than ourselves, bigger than our tribe, not about land, not about minerals, not about money, but about something that humans have dreamed of and fought for since the beginning—freedom in a just world, dignity for all.

From the outset of our war effort, principles of a democratic, peaceful, free and prosperous world—yes, for the world, not only the nation—were asserted as the purpose and goals of the American war effort.  From the Atlantic Charter, signed by the U.S. and Great Britain before our formal entry into hostilities, to the Four Freedoms, Roosevelt rallied the nation around a higher cause.  The Four Freedoms—of speech, of worship, from want, and from fear—were the basis of both wartime strategy and post-war planning.  Like all human enterprises, the realization of the dream was imperfect.  Yet for three quarters of a century, this vision did inspire countless millions to fight for freedoms, the dignity of self-determination, and the elimination of ignorance, disease, poverty, and even war itself.  What Kennedy called “the common enemies of man.”

And so I grieve at the betrayal—through lies, insults, demands, arrogance, and unspeakable cruelty, currently being executed by actions illegal and unconstitutional—the betrayal of these good and great things that our nation once advanced in the world, and that Epinal, in silent testimony, proclaims, and beckons us to assert again.  Which we will.

The betrayal by Trump and the ill wind that forever emanates from him, embodied in the depraved and cowardly sycophants forever circling him, will, if uncontested, return us to not only a more dangerous world, but a smaller and meaner and uglier world.  So contest we must.  Contest we will.  We citizens of every calling, bred in the principles of the American democracy.  We, lovers of freedom for all, want no mad and monstrous king.

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