I'll never forget holding World War II medic Tony Acevedo in my arms. He wept and convulsed for more than 10 minutes, his body constricting and tightening in a way I'd never seen before. "I'm sorry," he said, repeating, "I'm sorry. I want to say more, but I can't."
I held his hand and hugged him until he calmed. I had asked what I thought was a simple question. "When I say the name Erwin Metz, what comes to your mind?"
That's when the demons of 1945 took over. Read full article »