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" The telescope was my mother&amp;#039;s idea. My father was away on business trips so often that when he came home, she&amp;#039;d think up ways to bring him together with his children. Her machinations worked. I lived for those clear nights, just he and I in the middle of the dew-soaked lawn, peering cheek to cheek through the lens. My mother would stand at the window, a wistful little smile on her face.  But as I grew into adolescence, my father and I hurtled out of each other&amp;#039;s orbit. He became emotionally absent, light-years away from the Daddy I&amp;#039;d worshipped. Eventually, my mother died, and my father and I continued to live under different skies. The tension eased after I married, but being with him was still a strain: We couldn&amp;#039;t think of anything to talk about.  Then one day, on a whim, I bought a portable red telescope and watched as he and my youngest child, age 6, gravitated toward it. &amp;quot;Look, Amy,&amp;quot; Dad said, adjusting the lens. &amp;quot;There&amp;#039;s the North Star.&amp;quot; Soon, he was putting his arm around her and pointing to a curve of stars as they took shape in the darkening sky. &amp;quot;It&amp;#039;s the Big Dipper!&amp;quot; she cried out triumphantly. I felt a twinge of bittersweet joy seeing how Amy&amp;#039;s very presence could light up his dour but still handsome face. For her sake, I left the red telescope at his house, and whenever we arrived I&amp;#039;d carefully polish the lens and put it outside, ready for their stargazing.  By then my aging father was spending his days in a bathrobe so full of holes, it looked as if it had been sprayed with a machine gun. One day, I heard Amy&amp;#039;s voice saying &amp;quot;Grandpop, let&amp;#039;s put on some clothes. Come with me.&amp;quot; I saw her tugging at his hand, leading him into the bedroom. He emerged fully dressed, complete with socks and shoes. &amp;quot;See Mom,&amp;quot; whispered my daughter with sly pride. &amp;quot;When you scream for somebody to do something, that makes them not want to do it even more.&amp;quot; Not long after, I found a shoebox filled with his wartime letters to my mother. I opened a packet marked 1943 to 1945 and read with astonishment. The letters were full of so much exuberance and passion for life, I checked the signature to be sure it was my father&amp;#039;s. And then, in a packet marked summer, 1945, I found the tone had changed to one now familiar to me: distant, dry, devoid of emotion. Something had happened to him.  I prodded Dad for details, handling him as gently as my daughter had, until finally he divulged what he&amp;#039;d been ordered to do. I listened, rapt, as he described the enemy soldiers he&amp;#039;d killed and could never forget, and the survivors of the concentration camp he&amp;#039;d liberated, who still haunted him. The silence I&amp;#039;d taken for hostility was in fact stoicism. He had tried to protect us. I forgave my father. In fact, I fell in love with him all over again. &amp;quot;Come with us,&amp;quot; said Amy one night as they bundled up to track the stars. She&amp;#039;d been secretly listening to our talks. The lens of the red telescope was wider than the one I had known years before. There was room for all three of us to peer up at Orion lifting his lance, his brilliant belt flashing diamonds in the sky.  Lucinda Franks is the author of My Father&amp;#039;s Secret War: A Memoir. "^^<http://www.w3.org/2001/XMLSchema#string>
<http://www.goodhousekeeping.com/life/inspirational-stories/a17345/what-father-saw-jun07/>