Surviving the Reich

by Ivan L. Goldstein

  Visits from my family were frequent, and Max (fourteen years old at this point) was especially devoted. He would come and watch movies with me. Army buddies who had concluded their service in Europe or were on furlough came to see me. I learned that after I was taken captive, the 11th Armored Division had fought on in the area west of Bastogne but suffered significant losses. Over the next few days, they took Lavaselle and the village of Chenogne, sometimes with hand-to-hand combat, and pushed on a day or two later to take Mande Saint-Etienne. Around the time that I was dodging Allied bombers on the railroad tracks near Prüm, they were resting in the village of Bercheux. There, they whitewashed the tanks so they would be less of a target in the swirling snow. I thought this was a clever idea, and I wished we had thought of this camouflage before that fateful day of destruction for the Barracuda.

  Their battles continued north of Bastogne during the arctic weather of mid-January. As I shivered in Gerolstein, they were fighting frostbite in their tanks. There is no place colder than a tank in freezing temperatures. Rather than shield its crew from the cold, frost forms on the metal interior, in effect turning the entire tank into a huge icebox. Many a soldier was sent to the medics with frozen feet. The tank drivers had trouble maneuvering in the icy conditions too, as freezing rain caused them to slide uncontrollably. In fierce fighting, they had lost one commander after the other, fighting almost each new day under an acting commander, some of whom had little or no leadership experience.

  They moved steadily toward the Siegfried Line, the long barrier Germany had constructed along its western border as a foolproof line of defense. They crossed the Our River, and though neither they nor I knew it, they were right on my heels, following the route I had taken just weeks before. As I was being moved about in Germany, the 11th Armored followed: they passed through Prüm and Gerolstein and later turned southward. On March 29, the day that I was liberated from Stalag XII A, they were crossing the Rhine River on pontoon bridges near the city of Oppenheim. They pushed on through desperate battles deeper and deeper into central Germany. And they were shocked to the core when they saw Mauthausen Concentration Camp, where the gas chambers and crematoria were still in operation when they arrived. What they saw in the camps was so heartrending that even soldiers toughened by bloody battles and harsh conditions could not even talk about it.

  We shared news of what happened to our friends, and I discovered that a good number of people were headed back to the war after their brief stay in the United States. The army had set up a point system for discharging soldiers coming back from Germany. It was based on military service, time overseas, and time in combat. Many of the soldiers coming back from the war in Europe didn’t have enough points for discharge and were sent to the Pacific conflict.

  One of the most painful meetings I had was with the father of my tank commander, Staff Sgt. Wallace Alexander. The last time I saw him on the day of our capture, he was screaming in agony as the Germans carried him off. I assumed that his wounds were critical. His family, however, was never notified of his whereabouts. When the war in Europe ended, Wally’s father tracked me down and came from his home in San Francisco to Fitzsimons hospital. He knew I had been in the same tank with Wally, and he came hoping I could give him some assurance that his son had, in fact, made it through the war.

  A distinguished looking gentleman, Mr. Alexander said he felt that Wally was alive—that he must be somewhere in Europe. I’ll never forget the tears trickling down the old man’s face as I told him that his son had been wounded, very badly wounded in both legs, and how we had tried to help him. I suggested quietly that if he hadn’t heard from Wally by now, it might be better to assume the worst.

  But old Mr. Alexander wouldn’t give up. He went to Europe to find his boy. I was told later that he located the spot where the tank had been destroyed and traced Wally’s journey. He found out about the German military hospital and he talked to everyone he could find who had been there, who may have worked there, anyone who might remember the American soldier Wallace Alexander with severe leg wounds.

  His perseverance paid off. Somehow, he found the medic who had attended Wally. The German medic clearly remembered that they had amputated the sergeant’s leg, but the wounds had been too profound for him to survive. He was there when Wally died, and he had personally buried him. The medic assured the grieving father that he had left Wally’s dog tags on him so the body could easily be identified—and then he took him to the grave. That was the end of the search. I was not there at that tender moment, but I can imagine his reaction when he saw the grave. Mr. Alexander understood that he would never again see his son alive, but at last he had found him, and that was some consolation. He brought Wally’s body back to San Francisco, where it was buried with full military honors.

  Wallace Alexander’s grave.

  But it was counterproductive for me to dwell on the horrors I had seen. I needed to get back to my old self, back to a youthful, happy outlook. The ward began to fill with returning GIs, and a strong feeling of camaraderie developed among us. Some of them, suffering from serious ailments, were fairly glum. They need to be cheered up, I thought. One day, a crazy idea came to me, and I prepared my friends for what I was about to do.

  Because I was taking sulfa medication that could be damaging, daily urine testing was a must. As usual, the nurse had brought me a clear plastic container for my urine sample. I took a glass of apple juice from my breakfast tray and poured it into the container. When the nurse came to pick up the urine sample, she commented, “It’s a little cloudy this morning.”

  “Let me see,” I said, taking the container from her. “You’re right! Well, let’s just run it through again and maybe the second time it will look better!” Then I quickly drank the entire contents. Her mouth fell open in horror. But the loud bursts of laughter from the other patients made her realize the wild joke. Ivan the prankster was at it again. And boy, did it feel good!

  At Fitzsimons, I was introduced to a sport that was to become a lifelong hobby. One of my doctors felt that I could recover from my weakened condition by walking every day, and he asked me if I had ever played golf. Aside from hitting balls on a driving range now and then as a youngster, I had never played the game.

  “Fine,” he smiled. “We have a nine-hole course here on the hospital grounds and clubs available for patient use. You can buy balls in the pro shop.”

  It sounded like a great idea. I had always liked sports, so I started playing nine holes several times a week. I might add that although I had tried most sports in my youth, after my four months of frostbitten misery in Germany, I could never take up winter snow sports, such as skiing or iceskating. I had seen enough snow to last a lifetime.

  But golf—now that’s another matter. Give me a nice, breezy day, with the sun beating down, warming my skin, and I will be out there with my clubs. It’s a great sport. But back at Fitzsimons, even this innocent pastime evoked “war nerves” when I least expected it.

  Ironically, recovering U.S. soldiers shared this army hospital with a good-sized contingent of German POWs who had been assigned there to work in the laundry, the mess halls, and gardening—what a difference from the way we were treated. One of the first times that I played golf, I faintly heard the familiar guttural sounds of the German language being spoken nearby. At first, I thought that my mind was playing a devilish trick on me, that I was hearing things, but then I realized that it was only the German prisoners detailed to golf-course maintenance.

  I hit my drive to the right side of the fairway. Walking toward the spot where the ball should have been, I saw there was no ball. A German worker was standing there. I asked him if he had seen the ball; he shook his head no and kept working. I knew he must have picked up my ball, but I had no proof. A few holes later, I hit a ball into the rough. The Germans there said they didn’t see it, but anxiously added “We’ll sell you some.” They showed me a bag with about twenty golf balls, the thieves!

  “I’ll take ’e
m all,” I said, grabbing the bag. I started to walk away.

  “Where’s the money?” they demanded.

  “There is none!” I answered, and the chase was on. They came after me, yelling that they wanted their money. Suddenly I turned, grabbed a golf club, and swung it wildly. “You come near me, and I’ll kill you with this club!” I must have looked like I meant it. They stopped, but continued screaming. “Just one step closer and I’ll kill you!” I threatened. They retreated, cursing me in German. It took me a while to stop shaking.

  At the pro shop, I reported what had happened, and they said that similar complaints had been made, and that they would handle the situation. I heard some days later that the entire group of German prisoners had gone on strike because they were being served meat “only” a few times a week. I was furious.

  As I was a returned prisoner of war, military investigators came to the hospital to hear the complete story of my captivity. I vividly recalled the incidents I had witnessed of German soldiers killing Americans and told them approximate times, locations, and circumstances of the events. One of the events of an American soldier being murdered had been reported in almost identical detail with my information. I also remembered a particular American prisoner who had become a kapo, essentially a turncoat who would assist the Germans in return for special privileges. In this case, he was relaying information he heard from prisoners that would be of use to the German army. For his help, the Germans gave him special quarters and food. He would trade the American prisoners extra food for cigarettes or for their hidden jewelry or money. I remembered the American’s name. The man taking down my testimony told me there had been other complaints about the same soldier. He thought my testimony would be of great help in tracking down the guilty individuals.

  After hearing my entire story, the officer asked to see my two wounds, the one from the bullet that had pierced my leg when I ran along the top of my tank and the other from shrapnel at the train tracks. I felt this request was very odd but showed him. Gaping at the scars, he announced, “You’re entitled to a Purple Heart!”

  About a week later, I was stunned when a major came to the ward looking for me. After a brief ceremony, he presented me with not one, but two Purple Heart medals “for wounds received in action against the enemy.”

  But there were also scars that couldn’t be seen. The human mind is an extraordinary thing. It not only stockpiles information, it is adept in storing terror. Beneath the layers of conscious recovery, emotional memories of unbearable magnitude lurked unseen.

  As it happened, Fitzsimons hospital was in line with three airfield flight patterns. At night, while I was sleeping, the sound of airplanes unleashed nightmares that would wake me up tossing in a cold sweat and screaming—reliving the horror of hearing the whir of bombers overhead as we scrambled for cover. (These nightmares continued into the first years of my marriage, when I would wake up screaming and swinging as though to protect myself. Over the years, I thought I had left them behind but was eventually shocked to discover that at the most profound level, they were still with me. Deeply sedated in a recovery room after surgery just a few years ago, I started yelling “Watch out, Andy, look out!” The dark specter of peril that I thought I had buried sixty years before had suddenly reemerged.)

  The two Purple Hearts I received while recuperating at Fitzsimons Army Hospital.

  The goal during my time at Fitzsimons was, of course, to forget my ordeal and enjoy the loving support of my family and friends who now surrounded me. As I was getting stronger, I was allowed overnight passes home twice a week. On one of these occasions, my mother threw an open-house party, inviting all the neighbors on the block. In those days, people didn’t move to new homes as often as they do now: many people lived in one house most of their wedded life. So for the most part, on my return, the neighbors were the same I had known all my life. When word had gotten out that I was missing in action, they had sincerely worried about me, doing all they could to shore up Mother’s spirits. When Mother invited them to our party, they were overjoyed. I walked in, and there they were—the Murphys, the Urpshausers, the Gabels, the Pecks, the Ziskas, the Boslows, the Greinetz family, of course, and every neighbor I had ever known, with smiles on their faces and tears in their eyes. I was never hugged and cried over so much in my entire life.

  And one of the best benefits of coming home was getting every kid’s dream at Walter’s Drug Store. In those days, a drug store was not just a pharmacy. Many of them also had a soda fountain where they served all sorts of refreshments. This was the place we had always gone to get ice cream cones, five cents for a double-decker, or an ice cream soda—with two scoops—for ten cents. My favorite was Walter’s terrific Cherry Submarine—soda, ice cream, cherries, whipped cream, and nuts. My mouth still waters just thinking about it.

  What does a starving prisoner of war think about? In my case, Cherry Submarines were at the top of the list. Sometimes I could picture old Walter behind the counter, squirting layer upon layer of whipped cream over that ice cream, and the thought alone would give me pleasure. From my European hospital bed, I once wrote home that in the POW camp I dreamed about Cherry Subs. I soon got a letter with a coupon enclosed. It read, “This entitles the bearer to 20 free Cherry Submarines at Walter’s.”

  Needless to say, I used up that coupon pretty quickly when I came home. When I turned it in for the twentieth time, I lamented aloud that I was eating my last free sub. Walter came over to where I was sitting, gently placed his hand on mine, and said “Son, it’s a lifetime offer.”

  CHAPTER 11

  The End of the War

  PATRIOTISM RAN HIGH, and everyone knew that the end of the war was near. This feeling became more intense when soldiers started coming back to the United States from the battlefronts and prisoner of war camps. Every city and town across America feted its returning GIs. We were treated royally everywhere. We could travel on buses and go to movies and shows for free. We were invited to parties, and we visited celebrities at the Stage Door Canteen. At the Stage Door, I watched a rising young singer perform. His name was Frank Sinatra. He was pretty good, I thought.

  The spirit that animated our lives then was powered by the fact that everyone—military or civilian—participated in the war effort. Unlike today, where only the soldiers and their families directly feel the effects of war, Americans in the 1940s backed the war wholeheartedly and were called upon to make sacrifices for it. They were invested in it emotionally, morally, and financially.

  I had been in Fitzsimons for over three months now, and my progress was visible. I was gaining strength, putting on weight, and the sparkle that had once been in my eyes was returning more often. I could come and go from the hospital, as long as I was there for treatments, tests, and to take my medicine.

  An old school friend, Leonard Strear, came home from his service in Europe and visited me at Fitzsimons. Leonard had a car, so he would pick me up at the hospital for short jaunts and bring me back. One day in August, he suggested that I get a three-day pass from the hospital so we could take some road trips to the majestic Colorado Rockies and spend some restful hours there. I got the pass, and we headed for Estes Park, a scenic spot adjacent to Rocky Mountain National Park. We rented a mountain cabin and stretched out to relax, listening to music on the radio.

  Leonard had brought a bottle of Southern Comfort liquor and was mixing it with Coca Cola. Because of my sensitive stomach, I couldn’t drink spirits; I was more than content to simply enjoy the classical music humming on the radio. He was on his third or fourth drink when the music stopped playing, and an excited voice cried, “We interrupt this program for an important announcement: The Japanese have surrendered!”

  It was August 14, 1945, the day that came to be known forever after as VJ Day, the day all America went wild. Victory over Japan meant that the war was over. Giddy with joy, Leonard and I agreed that we must get back to Denver immediately. Ten minutes later, we were hurtling down the winding mountain roads.
I saw right away that Leonard couldn’t handle the twisting road. We tore faster and faster around curve after curve, our wheels narrowly missing the edge. The trees became a blur.

  I can’t believe this, I was thinking. I can’t believe that I made it through combat and freezing winds and slave labor and POW camps just to wind up shooting off a mountain into a canyon!

  “Len, you’ve got to slow down! Listen, let’s stop at Grand Lake. You know my crazy stomach. I need some food and a restroom. OK? Let’s stop there for a couple of minutes.”

  We came to a stop in the parking lot of the Grand Lake Restaurant. I felt like I’d have to peel my fingers off the dashboard one by one. I dawdled and delayed at the rest stop, urging him to have something to eat (and how about some nice, strong coffee?) and stalled some more. When I was sure he was better, we continued our trip. Some hours later, he dropped me off at home and he said he’d pick me up in thirty minutes to go downtown.

  When we got there, the whole town was celebrating. After four grueling and bitter years of death and sorrow, the war was finally over. It was a euphoric scene—everyone was kissing, and people were on top of buses and cars—crowds literally dancing in the streets. I suppose every city in America was like that. Those of us who had been overseas—and there were many of us—danced with joyous abandon, thankful that our nightmare was over, that no more men would be sent over to kill or be killed, and that all we had fought for was finally achieved.

  Leonard and I stayed till well after midnight. That night, I went home instead of back to Fitzsimons. I wanted to be where I had been when the Japanese had bombed Pearl Harbor nearly four years before.

  The end of the war made me anxious to get out of Fitzsimons and get on with my civilian life, but my doctors insisted that I remain because my health problems were not fully cured and I needed further treatment. I had planned to reenter the University of Denver (DU) on the GI Bill to finish my education. I chose this college because I did not want to leave Denver. I had traveled far enough and been separated too long from my family to even think of leaving again.