I will never forget the day my son left, it was June 22 1941. He packed his things and headed on his way. I already knew that this was our last goodbye. I knew that him entering the “Operation Barbossa” that he would most likely not make it out. This was such a gut wrenching feeling, knowing this will be the last time you see your son and being nothing you can do about it. I had tried stopping it before but now the time had come and he had to go through with it. Inside I was broken but I had to stay stong for my daughter, Adal. My eight year old girl was all that I had left and I was all she had left.
Months and months had gone by before I hear d any news, but I knew what happened. I just wish that we would have spent the time we had wisely instead of fighting about it. No one can come into a place demanding something that is not theirs and expect to get it, especially when the place your demanding it from is bigger, stronger, and on their own land. You can not help but to be worried sick the entire time about what horrible things could be happening, I get sick just thinking about it.
By February 2, 1943 they surrendered to the red army . Over 150,000 people died, 45,000 died during the march to prisoner of war camps and in the end there were only about 7,000 survivors. When he did not return home I knew that my worst fear had come true, he was gone forever. The Germans did not get their land so “Operation Barbossa” was pointless.
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