It’s that purity—you know.  That purity that makes everything pure.  Because as I watched them I saw them doing what you don’t mind children doing, but if it were you or me—an adult—we might watch and be ashamed.  We might watch and judge.  They were just being themselves, and I don’t know when you lose that and become something else—something you live with—this not about lost innocence—that’s not what I felt looking through that window, watching two  sisters wait for Christmas to come—too much had happened already and I had forgotten about that—that answering to my name.  That’s not what I was feeling.  I was thinking what was outside of this.  This street where I stood, looking in a window—where that street led, outside of this town, outside Bastogne, and who was there waiting in the darkness.  There was something out there that wanted to hurt them—these children.  Something out there wanted to hurt them, and I couldn’t get my head around it.  There were just men out there.  Men with children, some of them at least.  Men remembering children, this night—in the kind lies they were told.  I couldn’t get my mind around it.  How you become something you shouldn’t be.  Even when you try to do the right thing, when you’re told you’re doing the right thing, and not doing what you’re told makes you wrong—makes you dangerous.  But these children—they knew—they knew what it was not do what they were told and were sometimes disciplined, sometimes just amusing, but they were never dangerous, never a threat…  How’d this happen?  I couldn’t get my mind around it, not in how this is lost, not in how we even live with it—this a basis for all our stories, all our sketch comedies—but how we become threatened by it, how we become threatened by just being ourselves.  How there’s something out there that wants to hurt that, some force giving absurd orders we must follow, and what happens if you choose to be a child again, if you choose not to listen, not do what you are told—how that’s looked on in adult world…  I just wanted to help.  I wanted to help these children, and the only way I could do that was to kill what was out there, kill men merely following orders—I had to hurt what wanted to hurt—and I questioned what I was really defending, who I was protecting.  Was I really protecting these children?  Or just protecting something I needed to hold onto, some idea I saw through that window that gave me sanity in the reality I faced.  The reality those children faced—Christmas Eve in Bastogne…

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