The troubled non-martyr

I tried to figure out things happen the way they do, The summer that changed everything was when I turned 11. But I guess it could have started the day my father was born. His father was a prisoner of war in Nazi Germany at that time. The year was 1944. The allied powers were making steady progress towards the heart of Europe in Early December. Where my grandfather was being held, snow fell on the prison camp where he was made to walk daily around the fence of the camp. It was the third such location for him, as he had been moved along with the rest of the prisoners in his group, each time closer to Berlin as the german armies kept retreating from the relentless grind of American and British Soldiers and Bombardment. My grandmother was not sure if she would ever see her husband again, though he was eventually rescued when the guards had no more places to hide the captured soldiers, and the allied forces finally were able to release the last of them. When my father was one year old the following May, his father finally came home.I am told that my dad fell on his head when he was born. Maybe I fell on my head when I was born. Of course not, though. I was born in a hospital bed.