A few kilometers from the American military cemetery in Luxembourg lies its German equivalent. Where the American cemetery is supported by tax dollars and a Government agency, the German one is cared for by volunteers. Much smaller in size, it contains the remains of nearly twice as many soldiers as the American one, because almost 4,900 Germans lie in a common grave, the marvels of modern forensic science not being available to those who cleaned the battlefields between Hamm and Bourgogne in 1945. Instead of glistening white granite crosses, all the German headstones were of darker native stone, and, intrestingly, there were no Stars of David to be seen. Fresh flowers were to be seen on only a small handfull of gravesites, left by some still grieving relative or decendant. The vast majority of the German dead ranged between 17 (one was only 16 and 1/2) and 22 years old. There was a small chapel near the entrance, open and inviting, with a table holding a registry for visitors to sign. I saw that five other Americans had visited that day, but so also had the son and daughter of one of the dead Germans. I wondered if that dead German had ever seen his children, who today must be in their late sixties. Above their affectionate note to their dead father was another, written in a shaky hand by someone doubtless in her late eighties, that read (in German): “Dear E., This will probably be the last time I come to visit you here — your everloving sister.” An old German woman succeeded in bringing a tear to my eye when all the rows of white crosses had not. Gotta go.