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I met eighty-one year old Boris Gregorivitch in August of 1990 near the entrance to the metro in one of the large suburbs of Moscow. Part of a fifty member delegation of Vietnam Veterans sent to the former Soviet Union to work with Afghantsi, Soviet Veterans of the war in Afghanistan, I and an interpreter had just left the apartment where I was staying and were on our way to a meeting with members of the Soviet Congress when I spied the WWII Veteran walking across a courtyard.

I asked my interpreter to see if he could get the old man to pose for my camera. He waved us off with a laugh, and even though the interpreter was persistent and as polite as Russian courtesy would expect, the old man let us know he was not interested and headed towards the Metro. In a last-ditch effort, I shouted one of the few Russian phrases I had learned since arriving; "Please sir, as one war veteran to another." The old man turned and walked back to where we were standing. His eyes burned into mine and he began questioning me about nationality, my service, and what role my father had played in WWII. He told me how he had fought and survived the entire five-month siege of Stalingrad, an especially horrific battle for Russians and Germans alike. Eventually, he agreed to pose, telling me that war veterans from all nations, even those who had once been enemies, had more in common with each other than with the rest of their own society. He added that each of us owed respect to the other no matter the nation. "It is the knowledge we gained through our sacrifice," he said, "that forces us to speak against those in our own countries who would ruin the peace." He was strong, and stern, and sure, and the ten minutes I shared with him completely altered my understanding of what it means to be a patriot.