The New York Times seemed to slant its views in favor of world opinion that somehow the Jews were to blame for the scourge. The front pages from that May reveal article after article reporting the “over reaction” of American Jews to the Warsaw Uprising, and that this behavior would have grave humanitarian consequences. It was a rough political climate for a refugee entering the army. People were systematically slaughtered, and to stand and fight was wrong?
Before long, my grandmother started to send cream-filled chocolates, prunes, and fruit. Dad was unable to stop her, and this routine of an excess of love in the form of care packages and exasperated protestations would happen so often that, as I translated the letters, I found myself laughing out loud. If he truly needed something, he would describe it in such detail that very often there was an accompanying sketch.
My mother remembers that, after the war, when she and my father were first married, her mother-in-law would arrive for a visit with bags of delicacies from Bloomingdale’s and the Eclair bake shop. As she would empty one bag, my father would refill the other so she could take it back. My mother would stand there and watch this odd match, wondering: Why?
My father often included sketches in his letters home.
* * * *
They left Fort Dix too early and he missed his chance to speak to Robert Oppenheimer the night before. The sergeant wouldn’t let him. Dad was supposed to contact him to see if he could get around the traditional training route, but then transfer orders came suddenly, and they packed up and left camp. His deep Asiatic eyes stared out of the troop train window as it rumbled past the many small towns on its way south. Since most of his comrades were bilingual, they were almost sure they were headed to the top secret military intelligence training center, Camp Ritchie, near Frederick, Maryland. When they passed through Baltimore, they were sure it must be the camp near Washington, DC; then they passed through DC and were left wondering if perhaps the destination was Missouri, where a lot of his comrades were.
It was 7:30 when they pulled off the main track onto the rail spur that connected to the camp. His perspiration dampened his new uniform and formed a Rorschach pattern on his back as he stretched and gathered his gear, before descending the metal steps into the evening heat of a Virginia summer, weighed down with equipment. Their destination had been Camp Pickett. As my father got off the train, he noticed how out of the way the camp seemed. Trucks were waiting for them at the railhead. Looking around, there was nothing but nature in sight. As the trucks pulled forward and he began to focus, he saw that the camp was as big as a city. Their commander greeted them with a friendly smile, surprised by the mixture of languages he heard, as the new recruits entered the mess hall. He apologized; there was no fresh meat to feed such a large crowd. No fresh meat, but an assortment of food with unlimited portions. My father could always make do whatever the circumstances, but this camp reminded him of Lakewood, the famous New Jersey resort. It was clean, air-conditioned, and enormous. Free time meant waking up at eight o’clock to a hotel-style buffet, complete with morning papers. The open-air theater seated hundreds of soldiers. This camp was brand new and had every amenity.
The recruits were all assigned to the medical corps, qualified or not. That was the army’s way of administering the refugee soldiers. They got new uniforms that resembled those of the African Corps: they looked for all the world like German soldiers, some of whom would later be held as POWs at Camp Pickett. The men settled into their new air-conditioned barracks. My father put his radio on his footlocker and tuned it until WOR came through the static. The big band sounds of Duke Ellington filled the barracks and wafted out the windows into the night. All he wanted to do was get to the “Chairs With No Middle Club” and sit on the latrine and read in quiet. Instead, the place was packed, with everyone snap-snapping and foot-tapping to the beat of the music while he fought for space. Café Society was a distant memory.
The “Latrine Society of the 3rd Company C” at Camp Pickett was the army at its best: six toilets facing each other, the boys on the thrones in various states of undress, a big game of dice in full swing. If a table was placed in the middle of the toilets, the soldiers could play poker, which they often did, especially after payday, betting their military wages. At 9:30, lights out, the club was filled to capacity. They went there to read, write, and smoke, and sometimes even for personal reasons. In the latrine, there was equality among the ranks, and sometimes even a “social” encounter with the sergeant. On that particular night, the guys passed around a photograph, and when his corporal got an eyeful of my Aunt Ellen, he said, “Pffs . . . she’s really a knockout, gee!” He begged my father to write to her mentioning him and arrange a date for when he went to New York on leave. Sure, why not work that to his advantage too? Total strangers, many of whom were away from home for the first time, in the shared climate of an army bathroom. My father finally found a spot and read the Baltimore Sun.
Morning came and with it reveille. Well, at least it was at a more civilized hour than at Fort Dix. After a full breakfast, he took a twenty-minute jeep ride across camp to the hospital for an X-ray and urine test. They gave him a “light duty” slip, which didn’t expire until nearly the end of his tenure at Pickett.
CAMP PICKETT, VIRGINIA June 11th, 1943
Today I was at the hospital for an examination—by order of the Sgt.—who after having heard my history and read my letter (which the commander of the company kept) was very nice. Everyone tells me that he’s a nice fellow. They took an X-Ray and a sedimentation rate. Until there are new orders and the test results are back, I’m on “light duty.”
Just as well: the thought of exerting himself made him hungry and in need of a nap. He found a patch of grass and wrote a letter home until it was time to get together with his bunkmate. Usually spot on in recognizing accents, for some reason my father couldn’t place the source of this fellow’s. It turned out he was Parisian and had been a photographer for Life magazine. More often than not, my father found himself surrounded by other refugee soldiers. He and the Frenchman wound up being “fire wardens” together, which was advantageous: in case of emergency, all the others had to deploy to the woods, while the fire wardens were left behind to file a report with the office.
He played up his tubercular past until he felt it was becoming a potential roadblock to a promising future in the army. It was too much of a good thing, and he was afraid that if he overused this excuse it might actually derail his aspirations. It had been a tool; time to put it away. He was called to headquarters for reclassification. That night, the honorary president of the Latrine Society of the Third Company C squeezed out a spot in the latrine, propped his writing paper against his knees, and wrote to Mr. Kresser. The man had taught him well during nearly a year and a half on the run. My father loved him and felt indebted to him. He wanted to share news of his progress:
June 16, 1943
Dear Mr. Kresser,
We have here Turks, Danes, Greeks, Italians, South Americans, French, Canadians, and—lots of Germans (non-Aryan and Aryan, and there some of the latter are anything but sympathetic). Well, when my turn came, I “let ’em have it!” I made good all my claims, especially in French, on which I put great emphasis for several reasons. The Frenchmen there told me that only 10–15% of the people who claim French really know it. When I sat down at his table, I started out full blast. He saw on my record that I was not French-born and was quite startled. He went over to the table with the “Spaniard” and said: “Listen to this one, he’s GOOD!” The Spaniard answered: “Didn’t I tell you?” With the Frenchman, as always, I did the most business. It’s funny; I have had the same experience many times now. . . .
Mais revenons à nos moutons.
They asked me and about ten other fellows—out of an initial group of ca. 30–40—maybe more—to write a short biography, especially mentioning background, education, traveling experiences—and all that in the claimed languages. I started my letter in French—naturally (it’s
pretty rare—most everyone there knew German), alternated paragraphs in German and French and wrote one paragraph in Spanish. They wanted me to write in Italian too, but I explained in the letter that I couldn’t write it. (I was interviewed in 4 languages.) I think I made a very good job of it—considering the short time I had. I wrote in very concise, accurate language.
. . . I gave a good picture of Belmunt as a 1st class school (International with a capital I) and sanatorium at the same time. They said that they’re first going to check my medical record at the hospital. But since the report filed there states that I’m, at present, in good health, this probably won’t jeopardize my transfer to Camp Ritchie in about 3–4 weeks—I hope!
Everybody here in the office tells me (I talk to everybody, or rather listen to everybody) that I am as good as there—in Intelligence. There are 2 grades of linguists: translator and interpreter. Translator is the higher and I was originally recommended for that.
I’d like to “talk” to you about so many more subjects, but time is worth gold here. I hope I’ll soon find time again. I am glad that your family—civil war—is subsiding. My mother writes me that you want to get operated. I suppose you know what’s best in your situation.
Sincerely Yours,
Walter
P.S. Your impression of Camp P. does not seem too good. I can assure you that this part of camp is just about the “jackpot” as far as camps are concerned. Everybody says that.
W.W.
He was almost nineteen now and had grown into a tall young man, looking almost like a descendent of a Hong Kong Chinese, with his slicked-back hair and those exquisite eyes that had just the right slant. He was a quiet listener, absorbing information. He had a personal stake in the outcome of this war. He had suffered and been tested long before his American comrades were drafted. His mind was on strategy. For now, Europe was as in a dream, recalled by a small breeze or when the sun gave off a certain light. These moments would remind him of how much they had left behind. He was listening for a way back. He wanted to go home again.
The brittle yellow pages of his letters brim with life. Every Coca-Cola stain, smear, or cigarette hole has an explanation and an accompanying apology. Any scrap of paper was used to fulfill his need to write. And he would write anywhere, at any time he could, sometimes standing on the troop train traveling to and from leave, always describing where he was and in what position while he was writing. As I translated the dizzying stack of letters and read the newspaper articles folded among them, I also played the music and watched the films to which he referred. It was all there, soundtrack included. If he fell, I dusted myself off.
At Camp Pickett, army life took on a routine of work and evasion of said work. Free time was spent at the Service Club, a show, or a movie, or simply honing his laundry skills by scrubbing his underwear against a washboard to whiten them. He was particularly proud of this accomplishment and joked that he would make a good husband someday because of it. He never did his own laundry again—God forbid! The entertainment at Pickett was phenomenal. It’s no wonder he felt as though he was at a resort. He saw Fred Astaire and Jane Frazier live. He was safe, extremely well fed, was making new friends, learning, and enjoying himself—all while earning a salary and receiving a stipend from his parents.
Boredom was my father’s nemesis. During classes, he often pulled his sunglasses over his eyes, leaving one ear perked just in case his teacher dropped a nugget of information that would be of later use. Sometimes he complained that he was so bored he could fall asleep standing up. During one anatomy and physiology class, hearing that blood was made up of red and white cells, he perked up just enough to find that the guy in front of him had fallen asleep and slumped forward in his chair with a thud. The sound jolted him out of his daydream, and the whole class got punished. Information was carefully packed away to be used once on an exam and then, in the case of the blood cell lesson, not for six decades until he was ill, when white cells were of keen interest as their count rose and fell, an indicator of just how sick he was.
My father was bursting with a certain kind of enthusiasm, and he had the charisma and gall to take full advantage of his situation. After all, as a civilian he had been chased, shot at, bombed, and yet lived, never really to speak of it again. So, coming from where they had been, having seen some of the worst of humanity, this was a cakewalk. He had attitude and elegance and played the part of refugee soldier like a professional. He wrote home about the “right way, the wrong way, and the army way,” was undeterred, and showed confidence early on that he would serve at a higher level. Image was everything. He could not be thought of as a momma’s boy. He had already made enough of an impression with his health issues and mail call. He was clearly dependent on his family and deeply devoted to them, but they needed a bit of control imposed upon them. They had definite ideas about how he should proceed with his military career and the expectation that he would remain as close as if he were living under the same roof. His letters were their lifelines. Not one to be fussed over, he nourished a seething antagonism toward his mother in particular because of her overabundant attentions. He included his parents in the process through his letters, but ultimately he was directing this show and would have to live with the outcome. As soon as he felt smothered, acrimonious words flowed from pen to paper, marking his determination to keep his family at bay.
Shortly after his arrival to Camp Pickett in June 1943, he wrote: “This is not a Boy-Scout camp; it is a military installation. . . . I don’t get passes to visit my parents, if my parents come and visit me . . . and I would not make this request . . . and have no intention of making a fool of myself in the eyes of my superiors. . . . Don’t get the idea to come to the village nearby. There is no fence from which you can see me even if only for ten minutes.”
Up at 5:30, KP duty until noon, the rest of the day spent wearing a gas mask on bivouac, eating rations that were not to his liking. By the time they reached their barracks, it was 10:30 that night. There was something appealing about bivouac that was so contrary to what he knew. My father felt a sense of freedom in breaking away from the protected cocoon of his mother’s constant and fearful worry about his health. It tested his manhood. It gave him strength and inched him closer to being a regular American guy. In the woods near the base, he put up a tent with a medical student from Baltimore, happy to have found an intellectual equal. They talked the entire time. It reminded him of a picnic at his Swiss boarding school—Europe never far from his mind. Then the news: all of his friends were going to be reclassified and sent to Camp Ritchie the following week. Number C173900 would be the only Jew left in his barracks, and the only European left in his company. Useful action had to be taken, so he filled out an application for citizenship. What a birthday!
To add insult to injury, the deluge of cards, letters and packages from home kept coming. He complained that it was enough to open a small store. Thankful for the check that fell from one of the cards but outraged by the embarrassment of riches, he had a lot to say to try to staunch the flow. Free time was becoming more precious as his training began in earnest, but every letter, telegram, or package needed a response. He had been away seven weeks and had written home at least fifty pages worth of letters. In turn, more telegrams, packages of chocolate, mandel bread, wool socks, fruit, and even a zoot suit came to him at mail call. He felt like a complete fool when he received eight such packages in one day. Half of them contained rotten food: he threatened to send the packages back unopened if he ever received such a thing again. In one package, he found two prayer books, one large and the other small enough to fit in a pocket. With a more courteous tone, he explained to my grandfather that he unfortunately had no use for them and would bring them home on his next visit, which had been delayed because ten men went AWOL and returned the next day at noon. The entire platoon was punished. Passes were earned and easily revoked; a thirty-six-hour weekend pass was a luxury.
Anyway, the prayer books were symbolic relics of
a life not of his choosing. His strong-willed atheistic tendencies were supported by newfound freedom contrary to the orthodoxy of his father. During his boyhood, there had been structure to his religion. He would hold his father’s hand as they walked to temple on a Sabbath morning. On the High Holy Days, my grandfather wore the customary high hat of the observant Jew. My grandfather’s principles were supported by five thousand years of religious history. My father’s principles were based in part on the five thousand years of survival skills that Jews have acquired from being under the constant threat of annihilation. Zionism became the religion to which my father held a steadfast allegiance. Atheism was his choice, a badge of merit earned from the courage it took to survive anti-Semitism:
June 20, 1943
. . . I made some really interesting observations on the subject of anti-Semitism here—and I learned a little about the character of the “rishes” in the working and peasant classes (in the North). The enemy propaganda has done irreparable damage. The guys I’m talking about were rustic and without education; their “ideas” on the origins and the goals of this war are from the authentic “D.N.B” [died not battle]. What is worse is that one cannot even have a discussion about their conceptions, because these people have no intelligence and do not and cannot follow an argument to prove the absurdity of their ideas. It is later than we think.
My grandfather remains a mythic figure in my mind. Having never met him, for he died long before I came into the world, I know little about him. He was an elegant, stern-looking figure with a restrained smile that barely shows in photographs. Some say he helped the poor and needy but would not help a family member if they had the finances in their background to help themselves. The overriding detail that surfaces is that he was not kind to my grandmother. They led separate lives, living in the same hotel, and he went as far as to bring his mistress to the United States after they came. The philanthropist was a philanderer.
Someday You Will Understand Page 6