My opa was also a Dutch POW, and his story is one for the books. He was assigned to work at a sake distillery just outside of Hiroshima. When the bomb hit, he was in the middle of taste-testing a new batch—he always claimed he was more of a quality control expert than a prisoner. The explosion sent him flying into a stack of sake barrels, and he ended up with a head full of rice wine and a newfound appreciation for the finer things in life.

The distillery, being built like a fortress to withstand earthquakes, somehow remained standing. Opa used to say that if he ever got nuked again, he'd want to be surrounded by sake barrels—apparently, they make for excellent shock absorbers.

Every New Year, he'd tell us about "the time I survived a nuclear blast with nothing but a sake buzz." He'd chuckle, pour himself a small glass of the weakest beer he could find, and toast to "the power of fermented rice."