Joey, by Will Stanton

I was in my car, driving to a friend's house in town.  The destination does not matter.  What happened along the way is what is important, something very poignant that I just cannot forget.

It was 1974.  The Vietnam War was supposed to be over - - “Peace with honor,” we were told.  My classmate Bernard had lost his younger brother Larry in Nam and still was having a hard time dealing with it.  The little blond boy in the class ahead of me, the one who looked to be no older than an adolescent, he was dead, too.  Ours was a very small town, yet we had our share of losses.  Maya Lin was the talented designer who later would be chosen to create the Vietnam Veterans Memorial honoring the 58,000 American lives lost.  I remember her as the little girl who once lived in our town.

As I started up a steep hill, I saw an older man slowly making his way up the sidewalk.  Head down, he moved as though he had the weight of the world upon his shoulders.  As I drew alongside of him, I recognized him as Mr. Bodnar.  I stopped next to him and offered him a ride up the hill.  Expressing appreciation, he accepted and wearily sat in the passenger seat next to me.

Mr. Bodnar was from Hungary.  He was an educated attorney in his home country.  Here in the U.S., he worked for a pittance doing furniture repair and as a handy man.  His knowledge of Hungarian law was of no use to him in this country, and his limited English also was a handicap.

The Bodnar family fled Hungary in 1956 when the Soviet army invaded his homeland in response to the Hungarian people's abortive attempt to bring a modicum of freedom to their lives.  The Bodnars chose America to come to, the land of peace and opportunity.  I imagine that they were proud when they received their American citizenship.

Nicholas Bodnar was in my class at school.  He was deemed unsuitable for the draft, but his younger brother Joey received his draft letter.

Joey was a very impressive person, exceptionally bright and very talented.  In addition to being a very good student, he was a remarkable artist.  He was very athletic, too.  Blond, small but compact, he could swim more than two lengths of the pool underwater in just one breath.

Because Joey now was an American citizen, he had the honor of being drafted into the American army in 1966 and being sent to Vietnam to go to war to save the world for democracy.  On one unfortunate day when he was slogging through the rice paddies or dense jungles, he contracted malaria and was removed to the rear.  He was given time to recover his strength and eventually returned to the front lines.  His company received enemy fire, and Joey did not survive.  His family was notified.  He was only twenty-two.

As I drove Mr. Bodnar up the hill, I mentioned that Nicholas was in my class.  Mr. Bodnar then quietly asked me, “Did you know Joey?”  I replied, “Yes,” and said that I had admired him.  There was a moment of silence, after which Mr. Bodnar, in a soft, tearful voice, said, “They killed my Joey.”

It was clear to me what Mr. Bodnar meant.  The “they” that he was referring to were not the Vietnamese people who had killed Joey; the “they” were not some faceless enemy.  The “they” he was referring to was the American government that had the legal right to draft this naturalized boy and send him off to war, adding him to the 58,000 others who were killed in Vietnam - - a boy from a family that had fled Hungary to escape violence and governmental oppression, who had come to America to find peace and safety.  I deeply felt the tragic irony of Joey's fate.

We came to the address where Mr. Bodnar was to do some work.  He opened the door and got out, thanking me for the ride.  I sincerely wished him well.  After the door closed and I continued on, Mr. Bodnar's painful lamentation continued to haunt me, “They killed my Joey.”  I never have forgotten.  Those words and the mournful sound of Mr. Bodnar's voice have remained with me ever since.

© 23 August 2014

About the Author 

I have had a life-long fascination with people and their life stories.  I also realize that, although my own life has not brought me particular fame or fortune, I too have had some noteworthy experiences and, at times, unusual ones.  Since I joined this Story Time group, I have derived pleasure and satisfaction participating in the group.  I do put some thought and effort into my stories, and I hope that you find them interesting.