The Clockmaker

I never knew just where my parents bought the old grandfather clock, I just knew that they bought it when we lived in Germany while my father was stationed there with the US Army.

The wooden case was in good shape. The brass cases of the three weights were a bit worse for wear having received a number of dents and dings over the seventy years since the clock's manufacture in the mid 1890's.

When the movers packed our belongings for our return to the United States, the weights were wrapped up and placed in a box separate from the rest of the clock. The pendulum was wrapped in paper and placed inside the case of the clock. When our possessions were delivered, a mover took paper from the clock case.

"The pendulum is in that paper," my mother told the man.

"No it isn't," he replied.

My mother tried to argue the point but the man refused to check to see if the pendulum was, in fact, wrapped in the paper.

We never saw the pendulum again. The clock stood lifeless for six years until after my father retired from the Army.

There is something about the chimes of a grandfather clock. If you are not used to them, the chimes every fifteen minutes are an annoyance. Once you get used to them, their absence makes for a disconcerting silence.

Even though a new high school was being built just a few blocks away from our house, it was not going to be ready for me to attend. My graduating class was the last to be bussed from the east side of town to the older school on the west side.

One afternoon I got off the bus as usual. As I walked the block to my house, I saw a brown, eleven-year-old Chevy drive slowly down the street. Behind the wheel was a tiny, shriveled old man peering about as if he were looking for an address.

"I hope he is not looking for my house," I thought.

As I rounded the slight bend in the street, I saw the old, brown Chevy parked in front of my house.

When I entered the house I found the man talking to my mother. After a few minutes the man went over and started inspecting the grandfather clock. He took off his coat and opened the door to access the inner workings of the clock. On his arm I saw a neatly-done tattoo of what appeared to be a series of numbers.

I had seen pictures of tattoos before. I may personally have seen tattoos myself, but I had never seen a tattoo like this.

The man took the mechanics of the clock along with the beat up weights. He brought them out to his car and drove away.

From time to time, a parent has to explain thing to an offspring. My mother explained to something that hopefully no parent will ever have to explain again outside of an historic discussion.

I knew about the Holocaust. I knew that my father had been with Patton's troops when they liberated a concentration camp. However, I thought that was all part of a distant past. I had never come face to face with that terrible legacy.

While I felt shamed by my first reaction to the man, I also felt gratitude that the man had survived.