Surviving the Reich

by Ivan L. Goldstein

  I missed registration for the fall semester, but in December, I convinced the doctors that I could continue outpatient treatment at the veterans’ hospital, and they agreed. I was discharged from the army and from the hospital. My stint with Uncle Sam was finally over.

  I registered for the winter quarter at DU with a fine arts and commercial art major. Before my education had been interrupted by the war, I had joined a Jewish fraternity, Phi Sigma Delta, Chapter IOTA. By 1943, the chapter had become inactive because there were so few men left at the university.

  When I returned to college, alumni from the University of Denver and the University of Colorado contacted me and asked if I would take on the task of reactivating the Jewish fraternity at DU. I agreed to do it. It was my first volunteer job in community-related work, and it set a precedent that lasted throughout my life.

  The alumni offered to send me to the National Fraternity Convention at the Waldorf Astoria Hotel in New York. There, I would meet with national officers and get the backup support I needed to restart the DU chapter. Great! I’m ready to go, I told them, and almost instantly regretted it. I had no civilian clothing. I was still in my army uniform, and the last thing I wanted was for people to ask me about my war experience.

  But I couldn’t just go out and buy new clothes. Back in 1945, clothing manufacturers had been working under military contracts, producing uniforms. Some were in the process of converting their operation back to designing and manufacturing civilian clothing, but there were few who had made the change. It was nearly impossible to buy a man’s suit at that time, if indeed you could afford one.

  But I decided that the trip to New York was a chance I shouldn’t miss, so I took the train and, once again, made my entrance at the Goldsteins of Brooklyn. As always, they were cordial and welcoming—and this time they were overjoyed that I had arrived in time to attend my Uncle Phil’s wedding. I told them I had come for the convention, and even mentioned how uncomfortable I was to still be in uniform. “Call Etta! Call Etta!” someone urged, and before I knew it, my Aunt Etta was on the line.

  A true Goldstein, Etta was entranced with the world of music, and she had once aspired to be an opera singer. She quickly discovered that her dream would never come true, and she opted for a more practical route. She went to work in a dress shop owned by a Mrs. Alexander and eventually became highly successful in the clothing business. In other words, she had connections in the clothing industry that were firmly closed to outsiders. (Etta became a buyer for a big chain store and ultimately transformed herself into a woman executive in an era when there were very few. I surmise that the name Goldstein was an impediment to her career, however, because she used the name Olsta instead.)

  Etta showed up the next day and surveyed me thoughtfully. “No, no, this will never do. Ivan, we’ve got to get you a new wardrobe!” She whisked me off to a wholesale clothing manufacturer, and I spent the morning climbing in and out of one suit after another. By noon, she had bought me two suits, a sport coat, and a pair of slacks. Not only did I have suits to wear at the convention, I was the best-dressed guy in Denver for years.

  I had been warned not to mention the war to Etta. The rumor was that before World War I, she had been engaged to marry a fellow who went into the navy and was sent overseas. He never came back. Over the next few years, I learned that there were many like her as a result of both World Wars. Not only were there “war widows” whose husbands died in the service, there were thousands of young women like Etta, hopeful brides who never again saw their beloved alive. So we had a silent understanding not to mention the war, for both of our sakes.

  Aunt Etta and I focused on the task at hand. The rest of my family joined in too. It was as though, this time, they were determined to put my war ordeal behind me and make my vacation with them as carefree and fun-filled as possible. It was a wonderful week of sightseeing and shows with the cousins, aunts, and uncles. I then returned home to start the rest of my life.

  CHAPTER 12

  Civilian Life

  I IMMEDIATELY WENT TO WORK on the reactivation of the Phi Sigma Delta fraternity. Before the war, our membership was made up almost entirely of Denver residents, but now returning GIs wanted to settle in Colorado, and we opened our doors with twenty new members, many from out of state. The frat became a vital source of social, sports, and religious activity for Jewish male students.

  My mother always encouraged me to choose my friends carefully. Be close to good people, she urged, people from whom you can learn something. If she disapproved of a friend, she would discourage the association. A perceptive judge of character, she would base her opinion on her observations of the family as well as the person. In general, I listened to her, and she usually liked my friends. On a few occasions, I disagreed with her about someone. Looking back on it, she was always right. Moreover, she taught us—through word and example—that you should hold on to people who are good friends, stick with them, and I did. My friendships brought me great joy and fulfillment over the years.

  One such friend was Dave Spivak. His grandfather was the renowned Dr. Charles D. Spivak, who headed a tuberculosis hospital just outside Denver. Founded in 1904, his Jewish Consumptive Relief Society became world famous. (The Denver climate is very beneficial for lung problems, and there are still numerous renowned hospitals there for treating lung-related diseases.) Dave’s father, H. David Spivak, was a famous painter, known especially for his landscapes and portraits.

  Dave and I were inseparable during our school years, for we had much in common. We both lost our fathers at a young age. Raised by our working mothers, we were taught to work hard, do well in school, and appreciate the arts. Unlike me, however, Dave didn’t have much of a connection with Judaism and didn’t even plan to have a Bar Mitzvah. His indifference bothered me. When he claimed that he did not know the necessary blessings and rituals, I quickly volunteered to work with him. I did, in fact, teach him the blessings and haftorah, the biblical passages chanted aloud in Hebrew, expected of a Bar Mitzvah boy at that time. It was a proud day for me when I attended his Bar Mitzvah.

  Dave Spivak and me: friendship reunited after I left the army, 1946.

  But in high school, Dave’s talent as an athlete led him to other social groups, and our friendship seemed to fade. During the war, he also was in the ASTP and wound up going overseas. He came home from Europe in fine shape. We picked up as close friends again, as though nothing had ever separated us. A superb athlete, Dave loved handball, racquetball, softball, and golf. We were inseparable again.

  Now that we were both at DU, Dave joined my fraternity. In fact, Dave and two other members became that “old gang of mine.” We spent most of our time together on campus, on summer vacations, and on Saturday nights. Dating, sports, even weekly pinochle games revolved around the gang.

  Dave and I would remain great friends throughout our lives, our friendship deepening and growing. We both got married around the same time. We both had four children, and our families enjoyed spending time together. Later in life, he visited my new home in Jerusalem, and whenever I came back to Denver for a visit, I’d make it a point to see him—often, several times a week, just like in the old days. He always pushed himself as an athlete, playing softball and volleyball, even when he was elderly and had a heart condition. The day he died, he had just played a few games. He was seventy-five. I was in Israel at the time and couldn’t come to the funeral, but I sent the speech I would have made, and my son read it aloud at the funeral. Now, whenever I go back to Denver, there is an empty feeling, hard to describe. “Where’s Dave? He should be here.” My mind knows he is not there, but my heart does not. You don’t have that type of friend more than once in a lifetime.

  But during our college days, with so much of our lives ahead of us, Dave and I simply shared all the excitement of going back to “normal.” The war was behind us. It was time for new things.

  As president of my Jewish fraternity, I found myself working with June Alexander, the pr
esident of the Jewish sorority. A year before, when I was one of those recovering soldiers so admired by my peers, I had been invited with other soldiers to a sorority party held at June’s home. It seemed like I knew everyone there except the hostess.

  Now we found ourselves thrown together because of our mutual inclination toward leadership. And we discovered that the Mrs. Alexander who employed my Aunt Etta in New York was June’s grandmother: another one of those small-world coincidences that pepper my life. Together we founded DU’s first Hillel chapter, a coed club sponsoring social and cultural activities for Jewish students. (Hillel is still popular on many American campuses.) We even dated—but not each other. On double dates and triple dates, I would invariably find myself with June, even though she was not my date. Like any joker, I can’t stand a cold silence after one of my quips. It slowly dawned on me (too slowly, according to June) that she appreciated my sense of humor more than the others. I would deliver one of my hilarious lines, and my date would barely chuckle, while June would be breaking up with laughter. I finally got smart and asked June to go out with me. It was the beginning of a romance that was to flourish.

  June was a gifted and popular student, and she treasured her independence. So it was no wonder that she had no intention of letting her relatives intervene in her social life. Her grandfather, Mr. Alexander, was the sweetest old man you’d ever want to meet. He used to go regularly to the Beth HaMedrosh Hagadol (BMH) Synagogue, and he befriended a young fellow there. He would come home and tell June, “I met the nicest young man.”

  “Pop, don’t fix me up,” she’d answer, “I’ll do it myself.” This exchange went on week after week, as June adamantly refused to meet “the fellow” her grandfather favored.

  Then one day when I picked her up for a date, I met her grandfather. A sly smile spread across his face. “June! This is the fellow I wanted you to meet!” It was true: I had been walking home from shul with him for quite awhile, and we had taken a liking to each other.

  But I was in no hurry. Marriage could wait, and besides, it would break up my gang. Dave and the other guys were my social lifeline. So June and I continued to date, but I wasn’t ready to take on the responsibility of a permanent relationship. I wanted to finish school and move to California.

  Mother had other ideas. When June decided to attend our synagogue on Rosh Hashanah, I introduced these two women in my life to each other. After the service was over, I left June talking with my mother. When I retuned, Mother was standing alone, smiling pleasantly. I was ready to leave, but she put her hand on my arm.

  “Not yet, Ivan, we have to wait for your lady friend. She went to get her coat.”

  “Why should we wait?”

  “Well, I invited her to join us for lunch.”

  “You what?”

  “Invited her for lunch. What’s wrong with that?”

  “Motherrrr!”

  “What’s wrong, dear?”

  “You could have asked me first!”

  “Whatever for? I think we’ll have a lovely lunch together. Ivan, stop staring at me like that.”

  As it happened, she was right. It was a lovely lunch, and Mother and June laughed and talked together like old chums. I should have expected it, but I was shocked later in the year when she invited June to our Passover Seder. We weren’t even engaged. I guess the guy is the last one to know.

  In early December, I asked Mom to buy an engagement ring for June, and on the thirtieth of that month, I proposed. Though I hadn’t planned the correlation, I realized later that was the day that I had been captured by the Germans three years before. For the second time, I was giving up my freedom on December 30.

  On May 14, 1948, the last British troops left Palestine, and Israel became a state. This historical fact may seem like a digression in my personal account, but in fact, it had profound meaning for us, as it did to all Jews. It was a momentous event, uniting all the Jews in Denver, which was no small accomplishment. In fact, it probably united Jews globally, but at that point, I was focused on my own little corner of the world. June and I celebrated together, along with our friends and family, feeling a poignant joy in the victory after the recent brutal murder of six million of our people.

  June and I were married on July 11, 1948.

  We both graduated that spring. June received her bachelor of science degree, and I had my bachelor of fine arts. We were married a month after graduation, on July 11, 1948. I knew it then, and I still know now, that the greatest blessing I ever had was June.

  When we were first married, the differences in our religious backgrounds came to the fore. June had been raised with little Jewish tradition. The Jewish world of the 1930s and ’40s was much smaller than it is today, and a good Jewish education was a luxury most people simply did not have. It was not uncommon for religious and nonreligious Jews to marry and find some sort of compromise in their way of life. Although June was raised in a nonobservant home, we agreed to keep kosher and shared a deep commitment to increase our knowledge of Judaism, which would lead to further religious observances.

  My new life was in full swing, and I faced the future with great optimism. At the time, the government was recruiting for the National Guard. Though many veterans flocked to join up, my response was “nothing doing!” I pushed my war experiences as far out of my mind as possible. I did not want to reminisce, as others did. I didn’t want to join veterans groups or march in parades. And I swore I’d never set foot in Europe again.

  CHAPTER 13

  Family and Career

  THERE WERE VERY FEW advertising agencies and art studios in Denver, and competition for jobs among graduating art students was fierce. My first job was assisting the resident artist and sign painter at the RKO Orpheum Theater. It paid thirty-two dollars per week, enough to live on since we were rent free.

  This was a time before television, so the local movie theater was a major form of family entertainment. Every large theater had its own studio that produced signs for the front of the theater, advertising the weekly new movie. Depending on the importance of the coming film, we created some very elaborate and spectacular fronts, huge banners, lobby displays, and newspapers ads. I was working in a field quite removed from my commercial art training, but it was a fascinating departure.

  I signed up for evening classes in a technical school, with my tuition covered by the GI Bill. I took courses in sign painting and silk-screen printing, a commercial printing process used for producing signs, banners, and decals in quantity. I could see great possibilities in the techniques I was learning in school.

  After six months, I went to the manager of the Orpheum and asked for a raise. My salary went up to thirty-seven dollars per week, but June and I soon realized that would never be enough. Our first baby was on the way, and we had to find our own apartment. I decided to quit my job and take a calculated risk: I opened my own sign and silk-screen business, Display Art Sign Company.

  My in-laws allowed me to use part of their large basement as my first studio. At first with a partner, then on my own, I created signs, banners, and posters. June and I were able to move into our own apartment, paying fifty dollars a month. This was a great deal of money to us, but we needed our own place—somewhere we could build our family and establish our own lifestyle. In October 1949, our first child, Michael Jay, was born. Like all new parents, we thought of him as a tiny miracle.

  The income from my business gradually increased, and I rented a small building. Our second son, David Alan, was born three years later. My business was moved to larger quarters, and our family went to a two-bedroom apartment.

  How the wheel of fortune can turn! In time, the Orpheum Theater closed its art and sign department, and I took my former boss as a partner. Eventually, I bought out his share, and he became my employee. Silk-screen printing became more and more popular, and some theater artists started a company called Denver Advertising. I merged my company with theirs under the name Advertising Display Company.

  There w
ere other commercial silk-screen businesses operating in Denver, and the question was how to beat the competition. I bought state-of-the-art machinery, printing presses that would reduce the need for hand lettering. We were the first in Denver to use this kind of machine. I still kept one department for hand lettering, but the printing press became the mainstay of the business and was a huge success. We did convention displays and exhibits, and advertising agencies gave us assignments. I enjoyed the work immensely. It is a great blessing when one can do work that is truly satisfying.

  Our third son, Daniel Seth, was born two years after David, and our fourth and last child, Judith Sue, was born two and a half years later. My business moved for the third time to larger quarters and our own building. I strongly felt that I should pass on to my children the invaluable knowledge, experience, and responsibility I had learned working with my mother at Murph’s. As they grew up, all of our children worked at the Advertising Display Company. Just as I had learned many essential lessons in my youth, they too learned much that they could apply to their future lives.

  The fact that I had been a soldier continued to give us benefits that made life easier. June and I purchased our first home with a GI loan, and we moved to a larger house with plenty of room for the children to play. I was fully aware that all of my good fortune had been provided by the same Partner who had protected Mother. Though I allowed my nightmarish memories to recede in my mind, I never forgot the vow I had made in that packed cattle car in Germany.