The Fabric of History

When I learned that Red had been in charge of enforcing some of the most crucial post-war consequences in Germany, I began to understand how the world must have looked through his eyes. It is almost unfathomable to think that only weeks after supervising the death-sentences of notorious Nazi criminals such as Hermann Göring, Martin Bormann, and Wilhelm Frick, my great-grandfather sat down at the very same desk that their fallen Führer had once claimed as his own. Red commanded hundreds of US soldiers and coordinated dozens of military assignments from within the same four walls that Hitler had planned the demise of the Allied forces. Its hard for me to imagine anyone being able to carry on a normal life after experiences such as these, and when I step back and reflect on the type of person my Nana describes in her letters, Red’s identity begins to make sense.

I realized that whether or not he was conscious of his choice, my great-grandfather had given his entire life to the American Army. Although his wife and his three daughters were his biological relatives, the soldiers he had fought alongside in Africa & Europe during the war, and the men and boys he led afterwards grew to be Red’s true family. As I went back to the American flag, and turned the thick cloth over in my hands, I realized that he was not the “big bad myth” that years of silence had made him out to be. He, just like Nana, had stories to tell, feelings to be shared, and memories that could not be forgotten, but no one yet had cared to figure out what they were. I knew that I would probably never be able to uncover any personal letters written by my great-grandfather (I doubt he was even the type of man who wrote letters), but I had hope that someone had made a record of his accomplishments in one way or another.

Through extensive research and continuous fact-checking, I was able to discover five newspaper articles and an assortment of government documents that were written about Lt. Col. Henry “Red” Clisson between 1946 and 1964. It was with these articles that I was able to piece together a timeline of his life after the war and answer the big question of what happened to him when the family divided.  

My great-grandfather Henry Michael Clisson was born on June 11, 1909 in Syracuse, NY, to William Henry Clisson and his wife Catherine Cummings. Henry was the first of four boys born to William & Catherine, and he assumed the role of man of the house at the age of 18 when his father died in 1927. On May 18th, 1935 Red married 23-year-old Virginia Masset in Syracuse, New York and for the next five years they lived at 235 Berwick Road in Salina. They had their first daughter (my maternal grandmother) Catherine on December 28, 1935, and then their second, Margaret, on May 29, 1937. Having joined the army as a reserve officer in 1934, Red was called up from inactive duty as  2nd Lt. of the 26th Infantry Regiment, 1st division in October of 1940. His third and final daughter, Marilyn, was born on March 30th, 1943 while he was stationed on the front. Red served as 2nd Lt. for four years until he was promoted to Captain on June 11th 1944.

 Three months later on September 20 1944, Red was wounded in action at the Siegfried Line during the Battle of Hürtgen Forest, shortly before Aachen was taken by the Allied forces. A little less than a year later on July 24, 1945 Red was appointed as Lt. Colonel of the 2nd Battalion and given the position as POW commander in Nuremberg for the duration of the trials. In January of 1946, he was able to return home for the first time in over three years and got to spend 45 days with his wife and children before resuming his post. 

In regards to his experience as Lt. Colonel between 1946-1947, the only information I can find is within my Nana's letters.

The next piece of evidence that indicated Red's residence in Syracuse was a newspaper article published six years later announcing a speech he was scheduled to present. 

An article published in the same newspaper one year later indicates that the Clisson family was still together in Syracuse by 1954. It featured what is now my favorite photo of Red. I see the way he stares at that piece of paper (which was written to commemorate his role in the D-Day invasions) with incredible pride, and I note the sweet excitement in Marilyn's young face, and I simply want to cry. I look at this unconventional portrait of father and daughter and mourn the imminent erosion of that relationship. It's as if I know how the story ends before the main characters do, and that is an incredibly difficult burden to confront. 

From that point, Red's trail goes cold for seven years. I have no idea whether he stayed in Syracuse much past this date in June of 1954, or if he left a few months later. Living with this large hole in my re-created timeline of his life is maddening; to come so far by stringing together bits and pieces of history only to fall short at the most crucial part of the story is incredibly disappointing, but I'm not naive enough to think that I'm the only one who's experienced a dead end like this. As I reflect once more upon Edmund de Waal's journey, I realize that there will always be limitations in my knowledge of the past. It makes me wonder, "Do I even want to know all that happened?". Would knowing why he left his family make me love my great-grandfather any more? Less? 

I don't suppose I'll ever have an answer for that, but leave them he did. The next sign of Red's whereabouts was an article published in the Albuquerque Journal in 1962. This article, unlike the previous three that I had studied, did not paint Lt. Col. Henry Clisson out to be the glorified WWII hero that the Syracuse paper had, and in fact, it paid hardly any attention to Red at all. This newspaper, located in Albuqurque, New Mexico, was recognizing the construction of local fallout shelters and mentioned Red's involvement as the Director of the Civil Defense Office.  

Although I was relieved to know that my great-grandfather had found a reputable and seemingly important position after leaving New York, it was odd to read something that talked about him in passing. All the other articles I had read had made me feel somewhat attached to my great-grandfather, as if I were one step closer to understanding how the rest of the world had perceived him. But this article did nothing to satisfy me. If anything, I grew hungry to learn more about his life in Albuquerque. I wanted to know where he lived (was it a house or an apartment?), who he became friends with (did he move there to be closer to friends from the Army, or did he ever date another woman after my great-grandma?), and if he ever regretted his choice to get out of New York. 

But of course, as all good things seem to do, my journey came to an end sooner than I had wanted. The last piece of information that I found relating to Red was his obituary, published in the Syracuse Post-Standard only two years later. 

One fact that became abundantly clear to me as I read my great-grandfathers obituary was that Virginia and his three girls were never mentioned. Most obituaries have information for the public regarding funeral services, the name of a cemetery, or at least a "survived by" section that lists the relatives of the deceased. But not here. Instead, Red's funeral arrangements were categorized simply as "incomplete".

I couldn't help but think about the irony of that word, "incomplete", and how extremely relative it seemed to me now. How many gaps, and holes, and instances of absence did it take to qualify something as incomplete, anyways? Furthermore, did I, after all this work and these countless hours spent searching, still feel incomplete?

If I'm being truthful, the answer is no. I won't lie and say that I have been able to uncover all there is to know about my family's history, but to say that history is ever really "complete" would also be lying. I've realized that there is a certain beauty to the absence I had originally set out so vehemently to destroy; it was this absence, after all, that allowed me to dream about the person Red was, imagine the events of his life, and essentially rediscover him in a way that no one else in my family had.