Rough Stone Rolling

I’m reading an engaging memoir/biography of Hugh Nibley entitled Sergeant Nibley, Ph.D: Memoir of an Unlikely Screaming Eagle, covering his years in the service during WWII. One of the personal pleasures for me is, it’s co-written by his son, Alex, whom I home taught when I was in college. When I knew Alex he would, every once in a while, mention an anecdote about his father and family life. In the memoir Alex interjects here and there, offering historical background to moments his father recalls, giving each story a little extra scope. I envy the collaboration they shared, and I wonder how much Alex discovered about his dad that he didn’t know before.

Reading the book makes me think of my own father, an Estonian. He was also a colorful man and a survivor of the War. However, instead of overcoming the tragedies he experienced, he allowed them to consume him. It left him a wayward vessel of wanderlust, an alcoholic, consumed by ulcers and nightmares that ultimately killed him when I was seventeen. A couple of years after he died, I took his personal diary to a woman in Provo who was also Estonian. As she was translating the thoughts my father penned the last days of his life, her eyes were filled with tears “That war,” she said, “killed so many people, and it’s still killing them.”

When my dad died, though, he left a lot of things unanswered. Under the spell of drink, he shared many stories with me when I was a kid. Some my grandmother corroborated. Others she just kept quiet about. She was a sometime compass that left us seven years before Dad, and after she was gone there was no telling what was real or not anymore.

Here are some of the stories (I’ll note the ones that were confirmed by my Vava (grandmother):

My father was born in Estonia in 1930, the son of a strict music teacher from royal lineage (he was a music teacher, from a long line of music teachers and organists; the royal part I, as yet, am unable to confirm). During the war, my grandfather snuck information about Nazi activity to the Russians, was caught and shot (corroborated). At age 9, Dad killed a sleeping German guard so he and his mother could escape to Russian-occupied territory (not corroborated). While practicing writing English, he was caught by a Russian soldier who took him for a spy and arrested him. A Soviet officer who was fond of my grandmother ordered him released (the officer was courting Vava, that much I was able to confirm). He saw Hitler give a speech (absolutely not true). At the end of the war, they fled back to Germany and were put in a relocation camp (corroborated). In 1948 they arrived at Ellis Island. While they were waiting in a crowd to be processed, someone urinated in his coat pocket (unfortunately true). He became a member of the legendary street gang, the Bronx Tigers (absolutely not true). He became the head butler to William Fox, founder of 20th Century Fox. One Christmas old man Fox offered to buy Dad a house in New Jersey. Concerned about the man’s senility, Dad graciously declined and got a gold Omega watch instead. The chauffeur got the house (All true. He was married to my mother when all this happened, and he was still employed by Fox’s widow when I was born. I now own the watch). Dad had ex-Nazi soldiers come to his home for cocktails & sharing stories of the old days (absolutely true). He befriended an ex-SS officer who snuck into the U.S. and re-invented himself (absolutely true– one Halloween the man lent me his war medals). During a stint as a limo chauffer, Dad drove Sophia Loren, Hugh Hefner and Darren McGavin. Hefner was supposed to have given him a club card, which Dad gave away because Mom didn’t approve of it. He harbored a dislike for McGavin ever since because the actor stiffed him on the tip (who knows?– about any of it?). As a butler at another estate, he met the Edward VIII, the Duke of Windsor, and got his autograph (True. I was 9 at the time and saw the Duke & Duchess from a distance. We also have pictures. As for the autograph, Dad gave it to me but I can’t say if it’s authentic). Dad falsified a resume when we moved to Utah and became an engineer. The few college courses he took– and his affinity for math– covered him (absolutely true). He died a civil engineer seven years later.

Despite his flaws and penchant for the tall story, I loved my Dad. He was tender, gregarious and giving– and he DID lead a very colorful life. Our experience with him, though, certainly skewed our perceptions of family histories, or even history in general. How much of it is true, how much fable, and how much distorted from memories of those sharing them? I think this is something everyone should consider when they pick up their family histories and read about their ancestors’ exploits. It could very well be true. Or, it could be the fancies of someone who wanted to be more interesting than they thought they already were.