![](https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOwy6hyE38oureDOGY1MoJ8oBLuYIloRj4L5hvYtKRzoe6ZfYn-UAxvXtmmywXE2HdCRE4S0DZ9SZi-f68W-FpIH5mEDfjeAeR1hD_pBqZiIpJsI-2WKNzR6lP6Qmq2IfSn-3TyKVLim8/s200/3+brothers.jpg)
So, while it happened long ago and far away, for me, when I look at the photo of my dad and his brothers—he’s eighteen and in his Luftwaffe uniform—I know that Hitler still affects my life. When I look at the photo of his young son’s grave in some conquered Polish city, I know that little Winnfried’s 1942 death impacted my life growing up here in the middle of Canada. Maybe Dad spoiled me . . . just a bit. . . because of Winnfried?
We’re still cleaning up Hitler’s mess. I guess that’s why I still write about the old days. . . still trying to figure it all out. How did a whole nation get swallowed up by Hitler and his perverted ideas? What evil do we have to keep watching out for, today in 2019?