So what do I do with the Nazi flag?

Cousin Bobby asked us to grab it, before someone else went through the house and found it in the attic - folded up and faded by the sun, but still capable of inspiring horror.

Bobby never got around to telling us how he wound up with it, although, God knows, if it was a prize of war, he was entitled to it. He was wounded twice, once badly. He didn't like to talk about what had happened.

One night, when I was a boy, I lay in the bed next to his down the Cape, and he riveted me with stories about the rain of mortar shells, and how he hated to carry his gun, and how lucky he was to serve with so many country boys who could shoot.

I used to marvel at the smooth indentations in his tanned belly, his gnarled toes. Those were the wounds I could see.

Then, a couple of months ago, in the hospital as he was slipping away at age 84, a fresh story emerged.

It took place in late 1944, the year he was to have graduated from Harvard. He'd joined up with his unit - the First Army, Ninth Infantry Division, 39th Infantry Regiment - a few weeks after D-Day and fought his way through France toward Germany.

In the woods one day he found himself face-to-face with a young German soldier. They stood, guns trained on each other, hearts pounding.

As if in a dream

"I knew that if I didn't shoot him, he'd shoot me," Bobby told my wife. Bobby was a good shot. Later, going through his desk, we'd find that during the war, he was certified as a rifle instructor.

Seconds ticked, but no one shot. Bobby lowered his weapon a fraction of an inch. The German lowered his weapon a fraction of an inch. For some reason, neither was interested in killing the other.

"I thought for a moment," Bobby said, "that maybe he had a mother back home, too."

Did it happen? I don't know. I believe it could have. But I also believe he could have been making peace with a far bloodier memory.

I can't imagine what it must have been like for such a sensitive soul to find himself in the middle of the green hell known as the Battle of Huertgen Forest.

Cleaning out Bobby's place a few weeks ago, I came upon his V-mails from the front, where he'd quote William Shakespeare and criticize Noel Coward. He'd ask how everyone was doing, chronicle his troubles with Harvard, which didn't want to give him a diploma before he passed physical education.

For the first time, I saw a photograph of Bobby on crutches in Birmingham, England, recovering. He looked lean and hungry, with small, wire-rimmed glasses and wavy hair. He looked like my son Gordon.

No war

In Bobby's desk drawer I found a stash of his old political buttons, from the marches on Washington and Boston, with their slogans "Stop the War" and "Wage Peace."

I'd forgotten how, as a kid, we weren't allowed to play with guns - water pistols, even - because they made him so upset he'd scream at us. He'd scream at a lot of things he found to be wrong.

I carted away boxes of books that I'll treasure: history books and classics, such as Don Quixote, early editions of Naked Lunch, and Henry Miller's Tropic of Cancer, still wrapped in plain white paper.

I will put them on my shelf and think of this "traditional radical," as my cousin liked to call himself, for the rest of my days.

But what do I do with the Nazi flag?

My guess is nothing. EBay won't touch it. The thought of its ending up in the hands of some whack job is unacceptable. Maybe a museum?

I think we'll keep it, with the antiwar buttons, the letters home, and the photo of the sensitive young man who is now gone.

It serves as a reminder that sometimes we need to fight for what we believe is right and that sometimes the wounds of even a just war can last a lifetime.

Contact Daniel Rubin at 215-854-5917 or drubin@phillynews.com.