While learning about the less noble, mean-spirited sides of Germany’s past history—especially apparent to me while attending the last few trials of Nazi war criminals during high school in Frankfurt and seeing ordinary-looking men convicted of unspeakable crimes against humanity—I was at the same time learning to resist the conclusion that all Germans were bad people and coming to the realization that life isn’t all bad or all good. A country can encompass many sides to it.

Also while in high school, I learned that there were many sides to my own father whom I adored. My first discovery of one of those sides shook my world.

My father and I had been best buddies since I was a little girl. After having three daughters and one son, I suspect he might have been hoping for another son by the time I came along. I sensed that desire and unconsciously accommodated his wish by becoming a tomboy. Even my childhood nickname, Rickie, the shortened version of my real name and my Swiss mother’s name, Erica, sounded boyish.

Growing up, I adored my father. I wanted to be like him. He led an adventurous life, was a highly decorated war hero, an engaging storyteller, and he was a kind man most of the time—and I sensed he took a liking to me. He was often gone on various assignments for the military, but when he was home, I craved his attention and did amazing feats to get it, knowing I had to compete with five attention-starved siblings. I even dove off the high diving board for the first time when I was only seven—just to win my father’s attention. I was terrified at being so high up with the water far below, but the prize was worth it.

My father was standing at the edge of the pool with a beer in hand, conversing with a group of men.

“Daddy, look at me. Watch me dive off. Daddy, are you watching?” He looked up at me and smiled.

I stood at the very edge of the board with trembling legs, took a deep breath and dove off. As I sailed through the air, I looked over to make sure my father was watching. He’s not watching. He’s talking with his friends. I lost focus and did a belly flop, knocking the wind out of my lungs and leaving me doubled over in pain. But I was a good soldier and didn’t complain. I resolved to find some other way to get his attention.

My father took me hiking, taught me basic rock climbing skills, and even taught me how to shoot a pistol and rifle. I became a member of the junior gun club and received an award for good marksmanship. At summer camp in Maine over the years, I learned to ride horses and compete in local horseshows, learned to shoot bow and arrow, chop down trees and make a shelter, survive in the wilderness on roots and berries. Eventually I became a Junior Maine Guide and was sent to the governor’s mansion in Augusta to receive my award. I could feel my father’s approval. His approval was my life raft, an antidote to the crippling criticism and harsh judgments that prevailed in my family.

When I was ten we lived near the Chesapeake Bay at Ft. Monroe, Virginia. One weekend my father took me in his cabin cruiser down the Dismal Swamp Canal, just the two of us. It was exciting to know that we were cruising a route used by the Underground Railroad, where escaped slaves traveled on their way to freedom in the North. Some of them stayed and settled on the tiny islands in the swamp. But even more exciting was the chance to spend exclusive time with my father and not have to compete with anyone for his attention. I felt immensely lucky.

My father said something once to me as a young child that became a talisman I held on to throughout my life.

As was common in those days, Mummy was angry with me for something I had done. When my father came home from work at the end of the day, Mummy said that I needed a good spanking. Hitting and spanking occurred frequently in our home. A disproportionate amount of punishment landed on me, the mischief-maker, the wild girl who talked back and got her clothes dirty.

My father led me into a room in the back of the house, in no mood to be doling out punishment, but not wanting to go against Mummy’s wishes. He closed the door. I braced myself for the pain. What happened next took me by surprise. My father put one hand against my bottom, palm up, and clapped his hands together, making a loud noise. He told me to yell out in pain. Then he sat down and had a serious talk with me.

“Rickie, you’ve got to try your best to cooperate with your mother and stop talking back to her. She has her hands full taking care of all of you six children. I don’t like to have to keep spanking you every evening when I come home.”

“I can’t help it, Daddy. I know I’m a bad girl, but Mummy can be really mean sometimes. I don’t like it when she hits me. She even hits me when I play the wrong notes on the piano. She thinks I do it on purpose.”

“Rickie, listen. I believe in you. Someday you’re going to make something of yourself. We’ll be proud of you. You have a lot of spunk. You can do anything you put your mind to. Just try to be cooperative right now with your mother, alright?”

I listened intently to what he had to say. He believes in me. He thinks I can do anything I put my mind to. My father’s words had a mesmerizing effect on me. They made their way deep inside my soul and lodged there permanently, providing encouragement in times of fear and doubt.

In 1961, around the time I entered puberty, my father left for an assignment in Korea as secretary of the United Nations peacekeeping mission at Panmunjom at the demilitarized zone (DMZ) between North and South Korea. The army called service in the Asia (then referred to as the Orient) “hardship tours” because officers went without their families. We were left behind in a small, dilapidated two-story house in the tiny town of Phoebus, Virginia.

After my father left for his hardship tour, all hell broke loose in the family left behind. My mother coped as best she could while we kids ran wild— fighting with each other, staying out late and getting into trouble. I missed my father and his guiding influence on me. Without his natural air of authority to keep at least a semblance of peace, my mother was in a chronic state of overwhelm and exasperation. She faced many challenges running the household alone, getting us kids to school in the morning, fixing things that broke down in the house, and trying to budget for the many expenses of raising a family.

While my mother was worn ragged trying to manage on her own, life in Korea was not exactly a “hardship” tour for our father. He dove headlong into the Korean culture, started a teenage club as well as a hiking club in Seoul, and befriended many young people. He was affectionately called “harabaji” or grandfather.

When he finally returned and order was restored in our home, I sensed that his time in Korea had changed him in some way that I couldn’t put my finger on. I wanted to find out what happened over there.

Over the next few years, letters kept arriving from Korea, pasted with unusual stamps and unfamiliar handwriting. In the meantime, our family moved to Frankfurt, Germany, where my father, now a general, assumed the post of assistant division commander.

One day, alone for the afternoon in our home in Germany, I went into my father’s bedroom to search for a pair of scissors in his cherry-wood desk. When I saw the stacks of letters from Korea neatly crammed into the top two drawers, irresistible curiosity took hold of me. I had always wanted to know more about my father’s other life in Korea. Now was my chance. But you must never go through another person’s mail. It’s a crime. I decided if I was caught, I’d beg for forgiveness.

The letters were poignant, each one full of appreciation and affection from young Korean men and women, thanking my father for all the many ways he had affected their lives. My father had helped many students, financially and strategically, to come to the States and get a college education.

I read every word of those letters, understanding that my father had a life separate from our family—a life that apparently was quite fulfilling. The feeling of pride in my father for the difference he had made in people’s lives was tinged with envy of the attention given to his young Korean friends.

After completing the Korean correspondence, I began the next pile, a small stack of letters written in German with careful and deliberate handwriting, and signed, “Edith Zschiesche.”

I didn’t read beyond the first few scented letters. I was too stunned and sick at heart. In the first letter I learned that my father and Frau Zschiesche had been meeting while my father was overseeing military maneuvers in Grafenwoehr, near the German border with Czechoslovakia. She referred to the fun they’d had “unter der daune Decke,” under the eiderdown quilt. Shock and betrayal hit me in the solar plexus like a compressed air gun, followed by a wave of sadness for my mother. I vowed I would never tell her, although I suspected she must have sensed his infidelity.

When he came home from work that evening, I made sure to avoid him. If our paths crossed, I looked away. He asked what was wrong.

“I hate you, Daddy. I’m never going to speak to you again.” My pronouncement was no small matter given our history of being best buddies.

For the following week I didn’t speak a word to him. He was perplexed and hurt by my behavior. Eventually, he must have figured out what the problem was.

He cornered me one day after a week of my silent treatment and asked if we could have a talk. He said he wanted to take me out for a beer. I was sixteen at the time, in my junior year of high school. The flattery and feelings of being important—and drinking a beer with my own father—outweighed my anger. I agreed.

We drove to the local pub in downtown Frankfurt. We sat on bar stools at a little round table and sipped our beers. I didn’t like the taste of beer, but drank anyway because it seemed to be symbolic of our truce and a grown-up thing to do.

The conversation began awkwardly. It wasn’t until my father was on his second beer that his talk came more freely.

Without ever acknowledging my discovery of his secret affair, he said, “Rickie, you have to understand how difficult it’s been living with your mother. She’s rejecting and critical of everything I do. We haven’t had sex since John was born thirteen years ago.”

Whoa! I can’t handle this.

I felt my face flush with embarrassment. I tilted my head down towards my beerstein so my father wouldn’t see how uncomfortable I was hearing him talk about his and my mother’s sex life, or lack thereof.

He continued, “A man needs to feel loved. Can you understand that, Rickie? I’m starving for a little affection.”

My anger softened with each revelation. Although I was in deep water, way over my teenage head in this role as confidante to my father, I felt sorry for him and realized that I had put him on a pedestal and expected him to be perfect. Even though I adored him, I got a flash of insight that he was just a regular guy who needed affection—not that different from me.

“Rickie, can you forgive me?”

“Of course I can, Daddy,” I said, trying to sound reassuring, hoping my inner ambivalence, revulsion and confusion would not be noticed.

It was painful listening to my father talk about sex, a Merriam family taboo. No one talked about this subject in my family.

When my father and I returned home from the pub, I went to my room and cried, releasing my pent up hurt and anger from the prior week. My tears were for my mother, too, for the deception she was living with. I wondered if she knew my father was unfaithful. I wondered if she recognized that she wasn’t giving him what he needed and if so, did she accept that he would go elsewhere to meet his needs? I didn’t dare ask her.

I wanted to protect my mother from my father’s betrayal—and his dissatisfaction that would surely shatter her world. After all, she had lost her parents at a tender age and had never received adequate affection. She showed her love by her devoted attention to our physical wellbeing—keeping us in cleaned and ironed clothes, feeding us healthy foods, and keeping a well-scoured house. Even the harsh discipline she dispensed demonstrated her version of love that she must have learned as a child in Switzerland from her stern stepmothers—three of them in all over the course of her childhood. My mother was only six years old when her mother died in childbirth. Her beloved father was rarely present, constantly on-duty as the town’s only doctor. He died when my mother was sixteen.

I grieved not only for my mother. I grieved for my loss too—the loss of the idealized image I had of my father.

As my father fell off the pedestal, I felt myself entering into uncharted territory where old feelings were giving way to new ones. Over time, my need to view people—or an entire country like Germany during WW II—as all bad or all good, villains or heroes, slowly evolved into a kind of acceptance that could encompass the flaws as well as the sterling traits, especially in those I loved. This new way of seeing the world was put to the test all too frequently.