She wasn’t interested in anything I had to say about Grandpa Trenker’s innocence. “He was there, in Germany,” she said. “None of them were innocent.” “He didn’t have anything to do with those concentration camps,” I said. “Oh Buddy, he was a German!” “Loyal to his own,” I said, “just the way you claimed you were loyal to your own, the other night in Montauk, when we were talking about the Vietnam war!” “Loyal to his own?” She gave a snide hoot. “His own were over here in America scratching for a living!” “You know what I mean,” I said. “He was loyal to his country.” “Some country!” “You once said you’d have disowned me if I’d refused to go to Vietnam!” “Buddy, this is not the same thing,” she said. “Why isn’t it?” “I’m sorry I ever went to Montauk and sat down at his table!” she said, ignoring my question. “I did that for you, Buddy. Now you do something for me. Stay away from him! I don’t want to hear his name in this house!”
