None But The Brave: A Novel of the Surgeons of World War II

by Anthony A. Goodman

  “You knew about all of this?”

  “Oh, no. Your father never showed me any of it. I didn’t even know he kept a diary. I kept the letters he sent to me, of course…and the letters to you. They’re in there, also.”

  She reached in and pulled out one rubber-band bound packet of letters. I recognized Dad’s distinctive handwriting in blue ink on the top envelope. It was addressed to Mrs. Allison Hammer.

  “The war was so painful for him,” she said. “When he came home, he never said a word. None of them did. They wanted to get back to their lives and forget.”

  “But all those years…” I said. “I mean, I wasn’t a child forever!”

  “Don’t get angry, Jacob. He just didn’t want to expose us to what he saw. To what happened to him. It must have been horrible there.”

  “But, Mom, not to tell us anything. Not even let me see these diaries. I went to war, too. Surely he….”

  “Oh, Jacob. You’re so much like your father.”

  Mom nodded slowly to herself, and, without a word, slipped from the room.

  I flipped through the letters, leaving them in their rubber bands without reading them. Then I picked up the first diary again and sat down in the armchair next to the window. I opened the diary to the first page.

  New Year’s Day, 1943

  And I began to read.

  It was getting late now, and our last two guests still hadn’t shown up. There had been no phone calls. My mother was starting to fret. Again.

  “It’s awfully late, Jacob, you know. I mean, the children….”

  “I know, Mom,” I said. “Let’s give them a few more minutes. There’s probably a lot of traffic, and he’s not the greatest driver.”

  “He’s driving still? Your father stopped driving years ago.”

  “Yeah, he still drives.” I laughed. “God help us all.”

  “Jacob, he really shouldn’t be driving.”

  “I know, Mom. Maybe she drives for them now,” I said, wanting to be done with this conversation.” Yeah, she’s probably driving.”

  “So where are they, then, if she’s driving?” she said, hands out, palms raised. I would lose my fragile calm very soon if this kept up.

  “Mom, why don’t you see how the cooking’s going? If everything is ready, we’ll just start without them.”

  Marjorie was still bustling in and out of the kitchen and dining room. She knew enough after all these years to stay out of Mom’s way. Peace at any price.

  I called to my oldest son, Edward, “Go into the dining room and make sure there’s a place set for Elijah.”

  Edward laughed. He was patronizing me. “Sure, Dad. I’ll make sure.”

  I looked at my watch and wondered if I should really go ahead and call everyone to the table. If they’d only carried a cell phone, I could call and know for sure when they’d be here. But they were the last of the Luddites and had never given in to e-mail, much less cell phones.

  By eight o’clock the natives were just too restless to delay any longer, and dinner was getting overdone. Mom was nearing hysteria. So I grabbed Edward and said, “OK, son, get all the kids to the table.”

  “Should I page Elijah, too?” he said with a laugh.

  “Nobody loves a smart ass,” I said. “Just round up the kids. Where’s Rachel?”

  Edward’s four year old daughter was Jacob’s favorite, even though he would never play favorites. At four, her Grandpa could do no wrong.

  “She’s organizing a Passover Rebellion. The kids are going to strike for higher allowances.”

  “Go get her, and make sure she sits near me.”

  “Okay, Dad.”

  “And get your sister to help Mom.”

  “Beth’s been in the kitchen with her all evening—mostly keeping Grandma calm.”

  “Good.”

  We all took our seats. The little ones all jostled to get closer to me. And I loved it! I told them all to behave, but of course I was thrilled they all wanted to be near me. When everyone was seated and quiet, I reached for the Haggadah. The old book had been in the family now for three generations and was showing its age. The children all had new versions loaded with colorful pictures and large print.

  As I was about to start the service, I heard a crunching of tires in the driveway and the tired squeal of old brakes in need of new pads. I let out a long sigh, happy now that everyone would be here for the start of the service, and especially that Mom would settle down and stop fretting.

  I was just about to send Edward to greet them, but at the sound of the car doors closing, the kids all scrambled from the table and rushed to the front door. There was a flurry of activity and greetings and hugs and kisses. I sat back in my seat smiling at Mom, who wasn’t going to give me the satisfaction. She pointed to her left wrist, which was funny, since she never wore a watch.

  I nodded, I know, I know. Enough, already!

  I knew she would never be rude; instead, she would take out her feelings on me. What else was new?

  In a minute more, the room lit up with the high voices of the children now all like bees swarming around the last of the Passover guests. It might have been Elijah himself for all the excitement.

  I got up and pushed through the little mob. The kids reluctantly gave way, allowing me into the circle. They drifted back to their seats. I gave Molly a huge hug and a big kiss on her cheek.

  Molly kissed me back. “I’m so sorry we’re late,” she said. “The traffic…and you know how he drives!”

  I looked at her carefully, trying as always to see any change, any signs that she was growing old. I had known her for as long as I could remember. But, no, her age had only enhanced her beauty somehow.

  “Hi, Jake,” Steve said, reaching for a hug. He nearly took my breath away. A great strong bear hug for a man his age.

  I took their coats and handed them to Edward, who was waiting to take them away.

  In a moment, we were all seated. The children each reluctantly moved down the table one seat so that Molly could sit next to me. Steve took his place next to Marjorie at the other end of the table. Then there was silence.

  So it began again, as it has in Jewish homes all over the world for millennia. The story of the Jews as slaves; of the plagues visited by God upon the family of the Egyptian royalty; of the Angel of Death passing over the houses of the Jews, sparing their first born children from the touch of Death; of the Exodus; of forty years wandering the desert with Moses; of a new life in the Promised Land.

  I read a few more lines, and my eyes began to swim. Tears welled up, and I could barely see. Hamm—Dad—should have been here reading, and no matter what anyone said, Passover would never be the same again without him.

  It didn’t matter though. I continued to say the words. After so many years, I knew them by heart. What Jew didn’t? Passover was the happiest and most beloved holiday feast of the year because of the food, and the stories, and the gathering of the family. Many Jews who never showed up at synagogue all year long—like me—would not miss a single Seder if they could help it.

  Everybody loved Passover.

  I continued to read the story and made my way to the Four Questions. As the oldest of the clan, I would answer the Four Questions asked by the youngest child at the table who was old enough to read. Tonight, it was my seven-year-old granddaughter, Sarah, Beth’s daughter, proud as she could be at her first reading. Holding her Haggadah, but looking straight into my eyes, she asked me, “Why is this night different from all other nights?” And she went on to ask me why, on this night, do we eat only unleavened bread, and on through all the traditional questions. She looked at me, pretending she had never heard the answers before.

  Steve sat quietly though the service, and as usual, he hardly took his eyes off Molly. It was nice to see them apparently just as in love as Dad told me they were during the war when they met.

  When dinner was over and the service finished, everyone rose to move into the living room and the den. The kid
s followed Edward to see who could find the Afikoman, the matzo he had hidden before everyone had arrived. The grown-ups all anted up dollar bills for the winner and some more booby prizes for the rest of the little ones.

  I stayed at the table with Molly and Steve. My mother and Marjorie moved into the kitchen to help clean up.

  “Another one,” Steve said with a sigh. “One more Passover together. It’s so good to be with all of you. But it’s just so different without your father.”

  “I know. I know. How many is that?” I asked.

  “Well, it’s 2004, and we should count the one in Munich. So that’s…uh…fifty-nine counting the first one, I think.”

  “Fifty-nine Seders,” I said. “Wow, that’s a hell of a lot of matzo and Manischewitz!”

  Molly laughed. Then she said, “I’m sorry about your father, Jake. We all loved him so much.”

  “Thank you. I know. Everyone misses him terribly. It was a tough year watching him die. Not a way any of us want to end our lives. I keep thinking of all the cancer patients he treated, only to die of one of the worst cancers of them all.”

  Steve put his hand on mine and said, “It stinks. He held our group together over there. He was The Rock. He was a wonderful surgeon and a really good friend to me…to us.”

  I was trying not to choke up, so I changed the subject.

  “How are the girls?” I asked Steve. “Emily and Anna?”

  “They’re great. They’re having First Seder with Susan and her husband tonight, along with their kids…not really kids any more either. Lots of generations of Schneiders now. We’re having Second Seder with them tomorrow at our house.”

  Steve looked away for a moment. Molly took his hand. The two of them had no children together. I don’t know if it was by choice or something else. Dad never discussed it, and I never felt it was something I could ask Steve or Molly. While they were so devoted to my dad, I felt a bit as if I were their son-by-proxy. I was in their lives because Dad had kept them in his. He never let a holiday or a birthday or a wedding or bar mitzvah go by without including the Schneiders.

  After the war, Steve had come home to his old practice. Molly resigned her commission in the WACs and became his office nurse and assistant. She actually ran the whole practice. Steve spent a lot of time teaching upcoming young doctors the practice and principles of surgery, especially trauma surgery. He always attended Grand Rounds and Mortality Conference at the hospital, and offered what wisdom he could from his long experience as a combat surgeon.

  Steve had told me that he went to war burdened by a heaviness in his soul: a failing marriage; a fear of his own cowardice that ate at him during all the years under fire; his lost faith; and his alienation from his German-Jewish heritage and family. In the end, he came home a very different man, stronger in many ways. Perhaps a little wounded deep inside as well. I only wish that my own dad had told me as much about how the war had impacted him.

  He and Molly married as soon as he and Susan were divorced. It was a messy time from what little my Dad told me. He thought Steve should have gone back to Susan. Steve was crazy about Molly, but Dad felt Steve owed his marriage with Susan a try. Of course, Mom had a lot to say about it, too, but it never changed anything. Apparently there were too many things that happened over there in the war that changed everyone.

  Steve’s Uncle Meyer searched for his wife and children for years. It was a long search, but he never found any trace of them, no evidence that they were either alive or dead. Nothing. As if they never existed. He had kept such careful records of his own patients, but apparently no one had done the same for his family. Finally, he left Germany forever and settled down not far from Steve and Molly. He died only a few years later…of something no one could name. Everyone said he had just lived too long without any heart for life.

  And then there was a medic named Marsh. I heard Dad telling Mom about him. Shortly after he left the army, he called Dad to say he was on his way back to Malmédy to look for the young woman who saved him: the woman of his dreams, or perhaps, Dad thought, just the woman in his dream. We all wondered if he ever found her, but no one ever heard from him again.

  Another medic named Antonelli showed up in Philadelphia not long after the war. He asked Dad and Steve for letters of recommendation. He was going to go to college and then to medical school on the Servicemen’s Readjustment Act, now known as the G.I. Bill. Steve told him that he’d probably know more about trauma surgery than his teachers would. And it thrilled Dad.

  Dr. McClintock came back to Philadelphia, too. He stayed single for as long as I knew him and continued to “pass gas” (as he always joked) for Dr. Schneider.

  Dad came home and started a new life as a surgeon at the VA hospital, caring for the men he served in Europe. After about eight years he took a position as professor of medicine at a teaching hospital in Philadelphia, and he stayed there for the rest of his life.

  This Passover, we spent a very quiet evening together. I tried not to see every gathering as possibly the last, but it was hard not to. I watched Steve age even as Molly appeared to stay so young. Looking back, they seemed to have made the right choices, though I’m sure it was never easy in the doing. I couldn’t help but wonder what Molly would do when Steve died.

  After most of the others had said goodnight and left, Edward drifted back into the den with us. He sat down between Steve and Molly and me and, for a while, just listened. Finally he asked, “When can I hear about it, Dr. Schneider?”

  “Hear about what, pal?” Steve said. I smiled. Steve always called dad “pal,” and he called me “pal’” too. Now Edward had been promoted to that name.

  “I want to know about the war. About what happened there. About my Grandpa. And about you.”

  “You don’t want to hear about all that, pal. It’s old stuff. It was horrible. And it’s history. Gone.”

  “But it’s my history too,” Edward persisted. “Dad told me all about Vietnam,” he said, looking at me. “And some day the story of Grandpa’s war—your war—will be gone unless I know all about it, unless I remember it and tell it to my kids. There’s no one else but you now to tell me about it. This matters. It matters to me.”

  Steve looked at me and then to Molly. Neither of us moved or spoke.

  “Fair enough,” he said. ‘Where would you like me to begin?”

  I sat quietly with Edward, Steve and Molly in the den. I listened to Steve’s voice as he told Edward the story of his, and his grandfather Hamm’s, war.

  It was hours later by the time Steve had finished. But, in spite of the late hour—nearly morning now—everyone was still attentive. Steve became more and more energized and enlivened with each passing hour. It was as if he had been just waiting for Edward to ask.

  We hugged and kissed goodbye on the frosty front doorstep. Steve and Molly walked down the drive. Thankfully, I saw Molly take the driver’s seat. I left Edward waving goodbye to them, and returned to my study upstairs. As I walked the hallway, I could hear Mom snoring lightly in her room. The little ones were sleeping together in one bedroom, all tucked into makeshift nests on the floor, all snoring like my Mom.

  I made my way back into the sitting room where I had left the diaries and letters. It was chilly in the room, but I didn’t want to turn up the heat. It felt better to bundle up in a blanket on the wing chair. I pulled the carton nearer to me and began opening the letters dad had saved in chronological order.

  Soon, I sensed Edward at my side. He found himself a spot on the floor and looked toward the cardboard carton. I pointed at the diary and nodded.

  Edward picked up his grandfather’s worn leather journal and opened to the first page.

  “Friday, January 1, 1943.” He read to me.

  “Spent New Year’s Eve at Evenlode with Steve.”

  End

  Tribute

  “The soldiers have been wonderful, never a whimper. Always “Yes, Sir,” even with their last breath. It is the amazing courage of these boys t
hat spurs us on. We can’t sell them short. They must always be our prime consideration.

  “This has made me a wiser man. It has imbued me with the realization that petty things won’t disturb me in the future, that there is an indescribable beauty in just living.

  “Thank you for your prayers. Somebody did take care of me, but I am afraid many more deserving men have been sacrificed in the holocaust.”

  From a letter home

  Dr. Alfred Hurwitz

  June, 1944

  Author’s Note

  This is a novel, a work of fiction. All individual characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, is purely coincidental. None of them should be construed to represent any actual person, living or dead.

  Events such as the D-Day invasion, the Battle of the Bulge, the events which took place at the Baugnez Crossroads near Malmédy, the liberation of Hitler’s concentration camps, and the 1946 Munich Seder are all documented historic events. While the background and story lines are based upon true events, the stories are fictionalized.

  None of the names of characters, field hospitals or surgical groups portrayed here are meant to represent any specific person, place or group. Names and military designations of field hospitals, ships and organizations have been changed, and do not represent the actual names or standard military numbering. Well known figures such as General Dwight D. Eisenhower, General George S. Patton, Général Charles De Gaulle, SS Lieutenant Colonel Joachim Peiper appear briefly as background to the documented historical setting.