Surviving the Reich

by Ivan L. Goldstein

  Surviving

  the Reich

  The World War II Saga

  of a Jewish-American GI

  Ivan Goldstein

  In Honor of June,

  my wife and helpmate for sixty wonderful years

  of support, encouragement, and inspiration.

  In Memory of my Mother and Father.

  Contents

  Preface

  Acknowledgments

  1 Early Years

  2 Army Life

  3 Going Overseas

  4 Prelude to Battle

  5 Baptism of Fire

  6 Captivity

  7 The Hellhole

  8 The Cattle Car

  9 Liberation

  10 Going Home

  11 The End of the War

  12 Civilian Life

  13 Family and Career

  14 The Return of Barracuda

  15 Belgium Revisited

  Epilogue: Looking Back, Looking Forward

  Appendix: Family Lore

  Bibliography

  Preface

  WRITING A BOOK ABOUT MY LIFE at the age of eighty-three is like watching a movie through a dreamlike haze. Some recollections stand out in vivid detail; others flit by, barely there at all. A major part of this memoir is made up of my World War II experiences, a period of only two and a half years, but how I reacted to that episode has everything to do with my earlier years, and its impact has resonated throughout my life, even when I was least aware of it.

  So this is a book of discovery, in a way. More than just a narrative of challenging encounters, it is a work that I hope will offer its readers—among them, my own descendants—a demonstration of the strength of our human spirit and the resilience of faith.

  Though sometimes treated as a hero, I did not feel like one at the time. I was a simple soldier, charged at the age of nineteen with the formidable task of eradicating evil from the world. At least, that is how we viewed our mission—my army pals and I. Over these many years, I have acquired a meaningful perspective of that era, and I have gained insights worth sharing.

  You could say that at eighty-three, I’ve learned a thing or two.

  —Ivan Goldstein, Jerusalem, 2008

  Acknowledgments

  FIRST OF ALL, I would like to thank my wonderful editor Charlotte Friedland for her expertise and advice and for guiding me through unfamiliar territory.

  Thanks to my son Daniel, who for many years has constantly insisted that this story be told. Also thanks to my son David, whose valuable assistance helped in the completion of the final draft of the book. Thanks to my granddaughter, Nechama, for the countless hours she spent typing the manuscript. Thanks to my friend Martin Zerobnick for his honesty and knowledge in the proofreading of the book.

  I owe a special debt of gratitude to my three army buddies, Jules Levine, Ted Hartman, and Wayne Van Dyke, as well as to Greg Urda and Bob Anderson, who never stopped pushing me to write the book. Thanks to my friend Roger Marquet, without whose dogged determination in finding the Barracuda this story would never have been told.

  I owe the greatest thanks to the two main women in my life: my mother, of blessed memory, who is one of the main characters of the book and was the guiding and primary influence of my life, and my wife, June, for her input and wise counsel on every phase of the story. But mostly I wish to thank June for her love, guidance, and companionship over the past sixty years. She is my life.

  CHAPTER 1

  Early Years

  IT WAS A SUNDAY, a warm, beautiful, December day in Denver. The year was 1941, and I was seventeen years old. My mother had given me a number of chores to do, and I was now on the last of the list—“Beat rugs.”

  I lined up four rugs on the clothesline in our back yard and started taking some mighty and rapid swings with my Louisville Slugger. As the rolls of dust rose in the clear Colorado air, I became transformed into baseball star Ted Williams, lifting a monumental shot into the centerfield bleachers.

  It’s the World Series, bottom of the ninth, two out, one run behind, one runner on base. I am up at the plate, ready for the pitch. I hear the sportscaster shout, “It’s a fastball down the middle!” I watch the ball and . . . wham! The ball flies long, high, and out of sight.

  The scream “Ivan!” shattered my imaginary moment. Mother’s voice was frantic. I ran through the back door and up a few steps into the kitchen. The breakfast nook had a long, narrow table with a built-in bench on either side. At the end of the table under the window was a mahogany Irvin table radio.

  Mother was sitting next to the radio, her expression frozen with alarm. The reporter was blurting, “Japanese airplanes have attacked Pearl Harbor . . . great damage . . . many casualties. . . .” My brother and I sat with Mother in the breakfast nook. We leaned in toward the radio, listening to the sketchy news, as the reporter tried desperately to sound calm.

  I had promised my friends earlier that I would join their football game, and I raced my bike to the park, my mind in turmoil. My friends had not heard about Pearl Harbor, and the weight of the shocking news overshadowed the game. Would there be war? Should we enlist in the army? The football in my hands seemed childish now, as if I somehow understood that my boyhood would soon be over.

  At ten o’clock the next morning, our principal, Mr. Hill, assembled the entire faculty and student body of East Denver High in the auditorium. A stern disciplinarian, old Hill looked more somber than ever before. The stage was empty except for a large console radio. There was an unnatural silence as the familiar voice of the president of the United States, Franklin Delano Roosevelt, filled the room.

  Packed together in that auditorium, we heard our president declare, “Yesterday, December 7, 1941—a date which will live in infamy—the United States was suddenly and deliberately attacked by naval and air forces of the Empire of Japan. . . . Yesterday the Japanese government also launched an attack against Malaya . . . Hong Kong . . . Guam . . . the Philippine Islands . . . [and] Midway Island . . . I assert that we will not only defend ourselves to the uttermost, but will make it very certain that this form of treachery shall never endanger us again.”

  We were at war! That day, all we could talk about was how our lives and our country had changed overnight, and how both would never again be the same. World War II, which had seemed so far away, hit home.

  Until now, no threat had loomed so large on my mental landscape. Though I had grown up during the Great Depression, I was not rushed into adulthood too quickly as others my age had been. My childhood had been a joyous time, despite the fact that my father died when I was very young. This normalcy and contented lifestyle was entirely the work of my mother. But we are getting ahead of ourselves.

  Some of my earliest childhood memories are the times that I spent at my grandparents’ house in Denver. These memories are mostly associated with the Jewish holidays and Shabbos (Sabbath). From the age of three to five and a half years old, I remember my brother Jerry and me walking on Shabbos with my mother to my grandparents. There was always a delicious Shabbos lunch. I still remember Bubbie’s (Grandmother’s) homemade gefilte fish and chrain (horseradish sauce). She had the reputation as the best cook in the family. I remember my grandfather with his beautiful voice singing Shabbos zmiros (songs) during lunch. Later, Zaidy (Grandfather) would cuddle with us in his bed with a large feather comforter and tell us wonderful stories from the Bible and stories about his youth. Finally, I would drift into sleep after hearing the tales that left such a deep impression on me.

  My grandmother Taube Esther Greinetz died about a week before Passover. I was five and a half years old at the time. One of the most vivid memories that left its imprint on my youth occurred at the night of the Passover Seder. The entire fam
ily of aunts, uncles, and cousins was assembled at my zaidy’s Seder table. The family had just finished the shiva, the week-long period of mourning following the death of a close relative in the Jewish tradition. As one of the youngest grandchildren, I was sitting next to my zaidy and listened as he read and sang the Haggadah. I remember the tears rolling down his cheeks the entire night, some even landing on me. I remember his beautiful booming voice being interrupted by his crying and choking.

  A few weeks before my bubbie’s death, my Brooklyn zaidy (my father’s father) had died, seven months after I had met and visited with the Goldstein family in Brooklyn. Despite losing two grandparents, at the age of five I was too young to understand the implications or meaning of death. However, only six months later the sudden and untimely death of my father would change the circumstances and direction of my young life.

  Max and Ida Goldstein, 1920. To hear Mother tell it, theirs was the greatest love of the century. She never remarried.

  Father and Mother worked side by side in their first store. Photos taken around 1923 show the beautiful shop, with Mother behind the counter.

  A simple tooth extraction led to an infection that took him from us quickly and without warning. My brother Jerry was eight years old, I was almost six, and Mother, in her thirties, was in the first month of another pregnancy. As though it were yesterday, I can still hear her piercing screams of anguish, yelling with despair, as I came home from school on that fateful day. My cousin Howard met me outside. “Don’t go in there, Ivan,” he warned. “You don’t want to go in just now.”

  I stayed outdoors for what seemed like hours, listening to Mother’s cries punctuated by the deep, soothing voices of her family. I wanted to run to Mother, hug her, and tell her that everything would be all right, but I was afraid to go near the house where terrible things were going on.

  They said I wouldn’t understand. Deemed too young to attend the funeral, Jerry and I were kept at home while the grownups went about their grim, mysterious business.

  Though Father’s death didn’t seem quite real to me, Mother’s inconsolable grief now hung like a thick black veil over our home. Where there had once been laughter and song, there was mourning and worry. What would become of us?

  Because of Mother’s initial state of shock and grief, her sister Libby and Uncle Joe, who were wealthy, convinced her to move temporarily into their large home for the shiva period and until she could regain her bearings and plan for her future. Every morning, Uncle Joe’s chauffeur would drive us in his limousine to Teller Elementary School. Even at that young age, I was a little embarrassed by this ostentation, especially since our fancy arrival belied the fact that we were, in truth, penniless.

  The original Murph’s logo was designed by my father, Max “Murph” Goldstein. Murph was the nickname given to my father while growing up on the Lower East Side of New York.

  But Mother had no intention of staying long in their home. She would pull herself together; she would manage on her own. She would raise the children and provide for them, Depression or no Depression. Regardless of what others may have thought, Mother was not one to languish in self-pity. She had a job to do. It was clear to her that she must be mother, father, breadwinner, and teacher to her lively, growing family.

  Only a month after the shiva, Mother had already taken steps toward financial independence and moved us out of her sister’s home. Our father had owned a jewelry and gift store, but it had gone into bankruptcy along with millions of other businesses during the Great Depression. The fixtures and merchandise from the shop were in storage with the bankruptcy court. Somehow, Mother convinced the court to release everything to her. Perhaps she was entitled to it, or perhaps the court took pity on this recently widowed young woman, soon expecting her fatherless child, who so resolutely had decided to stand on her own. In either case, the goods were signed over to her.

  Against the odds, Mother reopened Murph’s. This photo of 318 Seventeenth Street, where Murph’s was in business for over thirty-five years, was taken shortly before Murph’s was moved to its final location.

  At the train station in Denver in 1924, the year I was born, my zaidy, bubbie, and their youngest daughter, Mashie (Margaret), set off on the first leg of their trip to Palestine for Mashie’s wedding in Jerusalem. It was my grandparents’ first visit and would set in motion their plans to move to Palestine. Five and a half years later my grandmother died, and Zaidy moved to Palestine in 1931.

  Zaidy’s grocery store.

  Next, she needed a place to set up shop. Padding up and down the streets of downtown Denver, she hoped against all reason to find an empty store for which the landlord would not demand the usual down payment for a month-to-month lease. At last, she found one. It was a perfect location, too, for it was across the street from the Brown Palace Hotel, a famous landmark erected in the late 1800s. Murph’s Jewelry and Gift Shop was once again open for business!

  My grandfather had sold his house and moved into Aunt Libby’s home, already having made the decision to realize his lifelong dream to live in Palestine. All of his children adamantly disagreed with his wishes, except for my mother, who was closer to him and needed him the most. She supported him 100 percent, and she knew that his ultimate wish must be carried out.

  Zaidy just before his death in 1938.

  The memory of the entire family bidding Zaidy Greinetz goodbye at the railroad station still remains a vivid memory. This was the last time we would see Zaidy, although I remember mother reading us his letters through the years. He settled in Tel Aviv, and eight years later we would hear of his death.

  Throughout the years growing up in Denver, numerous times I would make contact with older people who said they knew my grandparents, Abraham and Taube Esther Greinetz. These conversations were in glowing, thankful terms:

  “When I came to Denver from Europe, it was your grandfather who got me my first job.”

  “He was instrumental in starting me out in business.”

  “It was your grandparents who made our wedding.”

  “It was your grandmother who supplied the layette and took part in the delivery of my first child.”

  “Your grandfather supplied us with groceries when we couldn’t afford them.”

  “Your grandmother was a true tzadikkas; no one knows of the many families that she helped.”

  “If it was not for your grandparents, our families never could have made it.”

  These encounters proved the saying, “A good name is more precious than rubies.”

  My little brother was born on July 3, 1931, while I was sick with the measles. He was named Max, after my father. Whenever he was called by his Hebrew name in the synagogue or shul, “Mordechai ben [son of] Mordechai,” strangers would lift their eyebrows and stare with pity, for our custom is to name babies only after deceased relations. “How did this poor child wind up with his own father’s name?” they’d wonder. But the people in our shul, our family, our friends, and our neighbors knew.

  Mother’s resourcefulness met the challenge of caring for her newborn while running a full-time business. Because of the Depression, farm girls were readily available as maids and babysitters. Mother offered three dollars per week, with room and board, for a live-in sitter. And she found a gem—Julia Sturdavant came to live with us and remained for three years. Julia made Mother’s work possible, though not easy.

  Mother was an avid reader, well versed in Shakespeare, the classics, and contemporary works, and she easily transmitted her love of reading. One of our favorite bedtime rituals was that she would read a chapter or two of a library book to us. A favorite book was Mrs. Wiggs of the Cabbage Patch, by Alice C. H. Rice, about a widowed mother who struggled to support her children. Mrs. Wiggs, with her plucky spirit and unshakable determination, mirrored our own mother, subtly comforting and inspiring us. Clockwise from top: Ivan, Mother, Max, and Jerome.

  Mother’s family tried to convince her to remarry and to put the children in the Home for Jewish Ch
ildren in Denver. “No,” she replied ardently to their pleas. She would not remarry. And true to her word, she remained alone.

  At least, I thought she was alone, until one day she confided to us that she had taken on a “business partner.” When the lights suddenly had gone out of her sparkling life, when all seemed bleak and the dread of poverty had gripped her, she cried out, “Dear God! Give me the strength to raise these children, to bring food to our table. Please help me, and I promise You that I will give all I possibly can to charity!” It was a pledge she kept all her life, and her Partner never let her down. We were not rich, but we always had enough to eat.

  Every morning, Mother would get up at five thirty, prepare our breakfast, lunches, and evening dinner, and send Jerry and me off to school. She would nurse Maxie and then take the streetcar downtown to work. In late morning, she would lock up the store, take the streetcar home, nurse the baby again, and go back to work. Day in and day out, she continued this taxing routine. If she ever was sick, we never knew about it. She seemed indestructible.

  Of course, she needed help in the store but couldn’t afford it. As each of us grew big enough to stand behind the counter, Mother trained us to be competent and reliable workers. We were proud to be able to help her, and the skills she taught us were invaluable: good salesmanship, making change, wrapping packages, measuring a proper ring size. The vast knowledge we acquired specific to jewelry has stayed with me all my life. We learned about precious and semiprecious gemstones, as well as copper, gold, silver, and platinum. We knew how to buy, test, and weigh old gold that customers wanted to sell; to understand the intricacies of all types of jewelry; and how to change watch crystals and bands. Moreover, a large part of our stock was hand-made silver and turquoise jewelry, pottery, beaded items, and woven materials from the Indians in the region. We became little experts in the symbols and histories of different Indian tribes.