Someday You Will Understand

by Nina Wolff Feld

  Let us now turn to Russia. When Germany attacked the Russians in June 1941, things looked pretty dark right from the first day on. German reports dealing with millions, with the Russian air force wiped out completely. At least twice a week, many people gave up all hope. Others said: “Let’s see what happens when the Germans will have reached the old Polish border where the famed Stalin line was supposed to be.” But, when the Germans smashed their way on and on, meeting considerable resistance, but always advancing steadily, those too thought it was all over; a revolution would break out in Russia and a peace treaty would be signed. That was the general belief at least. Well history has proved since that they too were wrong! The war went on in the old style, according to the German communiqués. Moscow was caught in an enormous pincer movement. The government and foreign legations have moved to Kuibyshev. Leningrad was about to fall, Rostov, Odessa, Karkov, and Orel fell. In the Crimea, Russian resistance was said to have been finally broken and Sevastopol was about to be taken. But suddenly, as if by magic, the Germans were stopped. The Russians had thrown into battle fresh troops of the Serbian armies. The Germans began to admit stubborn fighting, and suddenly on or around November 28th, as one was waiting for Moscow’s fall, Rostov was retaken by a victorious Russian Army. German communiqués were reassuring, saying that it was merely a strategic retreat, “caused by Soviet Guerrillas,” but Sevastopol did not fall; and the Germans, ready to leap over into Caucasia were thrown back. The Nazis began to grumble something about winter lines and bad weather, and Russian stubbornness. They bitterly complained about “senseless Russian destructions,” the Scorched Earth Policy, which by the way was very effective. But, the Russians decided to make the most of winter. Moscow was relieved: the Huns had to take a terrible beating and were thrown back, Leningrad was freed, Mohaisk was reoccupied and today the Russians are about 30 miles from Smolensk and have reached the Latvian border.

  Last Tuesday a Soviet communiqué announced the closing of a giant trap, locking up about 96,000 Germans. One arm of the pincers runs roughly along the coast of the Gulf of Finland, the other covers the area near Staraya Russa in the direction of Lake Peipus: a second pocket, horseshoe shaped, is limited by Nevel near Vitebsk which is in German hands. Rzhev in the middle and in the south is limited by a point approximately 30 miles from Smolensk. The latest reports say that the Soviets are systematically cutting the Nazi armies to pieces and destroying division after division. So far, the Germans have refused to surrender, obviously in hope to break out. In the south, the Russians are meeting stiff resistance in the Karkov area, but further below, they were reported to be advancing in the direction of Dnipropetrovsk. In the Azov Sea area they were reported to have outflanked the Germans by driving a one-hundred-mile wedge into Nazi lines, evidently to close a pocket around Stalino. Russian guerrillas are playing havoc in the rear of the German lines and are a great nuisance to the Nazis. The Russian air force, far from being doomed, is said to blitz the Germans in their good old, own way. All this must have made a good impression on General Field Marshall Adolf Schikel Gruber, because he made up his mind to fire his general staff and take over “personally.” Immediately following this, a total of eighteen generals, if I counted right, were officially reported to have either died from heart failure, or something. But, since the great general took over personally, the Germans advance to the rear has been considerably accelerated. . . .

  That is the situation today in Russia. The German reverses do not mean that they are permanently beaten. No, but the invincible Germans have been beaten. It is true, when the British smashed a German invasion attempt with their RAF in August 1940, they had enormous casualties. But they have never even admitted that they tried. In Libya, the Nazis got some beating from the British RAF, but this was no disaster, as they suffer right now from the hand of the Russians. As to further developments of the Russian offensive, it is hard to make a forecast based on facts. The Russian aim, naturally, is to kick out and destroy the German armies. As the Russian ambassador to Washington said the other day, and I quote “We do not insist on exclusive rights,” he declared when talking of Russia’s pride to have been first to take the initiative from the Germans, “We are quite prepared to let others have a share of our pride!” unquote. He also predicted that, if the Allies could open another front or two, Hitler would be through by summer. This statement, however, should be treated with caution. Such an opportunity, he went on to say, should not be missed, because errors made in diplomacy should not be repeated in strategy, the peace having been lost! So much about Russia.

  Now what about England and the British Empire? The British are at a great disadvantage: they are spread over the whole world, and when their forces are concentrated on one spot, the enemy is likely to attack somewhere on the opposite side of the globe. If they spread their forces equally over the world, they would be weak everywhere, and would lose everything. Thus, England has to sacrifice something, so that she may not lose everything. It is not merely a problem of manpower, but also of long supply lines and supplies. But, time does not allow for a discussion of this very important subject. The problem of manpower could be relatively easily solved, if the British were willing to grant political independence to India. Not only is England reluctant to grant the freedom, but also in London one is not inclined to give arms to India’s millions. Russia and the whole world however are appealing to England to open another front, so as to forestall an eventual Nazi spring offensive. When Stalin appealed last winter to the English for a second front, Prime Minister Churchill despite heavy criticism, turned a deaf ear to all pleas. We can now see that the English would have taken a great risk, had they opened a second front. They would have been unable to send simultaneous reinforcements to the Far East and Lybia, to keep enough troops in the Middle East to helps the Turks in case of need, enough in the homeland to block any desperate attempt to destroy the English in their home. Thus, it was wiser to wait.

  But, there is one possibility, which could be very successful, would not need too many troops, or too much material. I am thinking of the indomitable Serb armies under the Yugoslavian war minister, General Draza Mihailovic. It may not be commonly known, but the Serb patriot troops occupy between two and three fifths of Yugoslavia. The Germans, too busy or unable to destroy these troops last summer when the Serbs reoccupied large parts of the country, have now before them a well-trained fanatical army which is estimated to number more than 100,000 men. Where these men are supplied from, is a mystery. There were reports saying that Russia was supplying these troops by air. Mihailovic is said to be using Russian aeroplanes. Latest reports indicate that the Yugoslav armies have opened a general offensive. So far they are said to have reoccupied the area around Sarajevo. In the southwestern tip of Montenegro and in Bosnia, the Italian armies are reported to “have hastily left” the towns of Podgorista, Cetinje, Bar, Rogatisa, and four more towns of names I am unable to pronounce. Would that not be the ideal place to establish a front? It is easier to stir glowing coals than it is to start a new fire . . . Especially when matches are scarce . . . The establishment of a front there would have the great advantage of hitting the enemy at his weakest spot. The words “Balkans” and “sudden explosion” are often named together. Furthermore, it would leave open two possibilities: an attack on Italy or in the direction of Rumania Czechoslovakia, or even in an effort to make a junction with the Russian front. Considering reports coming in from Italy, this ought to be not too difficult.

  The question of a spring offensive brings us again to England, to the battle of Dover Straits. To many, it has been a riddle why the Germans transferred their ships from the Atlantic to the North Sea. One of the ships is even reported to be in the Baltic, being repaired. The official explanation from Germany was simply that the ships were withdrawn from Brest, where they were of no use; to the North Sea, in view of the spring campaign. One of Germany’s reasons was naturally to get the ships out of Britain’s bomber range. As we have seen already, it did not help t
hem much because RAF bombers have been blasting Kiel for the past nights, and Germany has admitted considerable damage in an official communiqué. But the other reason is not clearly perceivable. There have been persistent reports about heavy German fortifications being built along the Norwegian coast. On Friday the radio reported that German newspapers were discussing the possibility of Allied attack on Norway, apparently trying to prepare the Germans for something of the sort. By the way, the RAF is giving considerable attention to the port of Trondjem, and a British submarine was reported to have sunk a German cruiser of the Prinz Eugen class, off Norway. Although the submarine has been named, there were no further reports on the subject, however, the attack on Norway is a possibility.

  Thus we conclude this survey of the military situation. The vastness of the topic made it impossible to give a more complete report in a relatively short time, but I hope to have given you the most important facts.

  Thank You.

  Fifteen months later, my father was drafted into the US Army. This opened a new chapter for him, a chance for some autonomy from his parents and a place to really adapt to his new country. Happy to be part of history as it happened, he painted in his letters home an often touching picture of life in the army, with beautiful descriptions of war-ravaged Europe, food, friendship, and camaraderie. Both an outsider looking in and an insider looking out, he ofttimes felt like a war correspondent with a duty to describe life as he saw it happen.

  I, as an armchair traveler accompanying my father on his whirlwind journey through his letters, often have had a sense of voyeurism. His memories were my path; his story holds the clues to the mystery of his youth. Details can be researched with such ease nowadays that I could place myself where he was and bring up the most minute of artifacts. One of the most striking things to observe was the silence of the refugees as they passed the oncoming troops during the occupation of France in the old newsreel footage. The muteness of the victims as they advance toward their unknown destinies is intensely powerful, contrasting with what my imagination conjures as I listen to my father tell his story in the Shoah Foundation interview. In reconstructing his experience as I translate his letters, in the truest sense I am my father’s ghostwriter.

  PART TWO

  The Long Road to Ritchie

  CHAPTER 6

  Drafted

  News reports from CBS and NBC radio echoed in his head as my father left his family residence at the Clarion Hotel on West 79th Street and walked downtown on a lovely Memorial Day morning. Farther west, the oldest living Civil War veteran led the parade up the FDR Drive. My father’s draft noticed warned: “Willful failure to report promptly . . . at the hour and time specified is an offense punishable by military authority. Bring with you sufficient clothing for three days. Draft Board 31.” Since he was early, he decided to pass by Carnegie Hall to see what he would miss. Posters for upcoming events lined the wall on 6th Avenue. The New York Philharmonic was hosting a memorial concert for Rachmaninoff that week and on June 21 a memorial rally was scheduled for the Jews lost in the Warsaw Ghetto Uprising. Satisfied, he picked up the pace and walked the rest of the way to the draft office on East 59th Street.

  Not yet a citizen, he was summoned by the US Army to report for duty on May 31, 1943. No doubt he was out late the night before, carousing with his best friend, Monroe, and discussing geopolitics, a debate that would continue throughout their lives. Early wake-up calls were never a part of the routine. They would often carry on these conversations from their respective bathtubs, talking to each other over the phone and smoking with their eyes closed as they governed the world and solved its problems. He was never the robust athletic type, and other times he must have set forth with pipe in mouth and an ascot tucked into his open collar. What must they have thought of this long and lanky eighteen-year-old boy from another country with a very proper continental accent, when he arrived at the induction center?

  The small group from Draft Board 31 was sent by train to Fort Dix, where they arrived by two o’clock that afternoon and were placed in Company M. His first impressions were good, and he was happy enough. They were assigned four men to a bungalow. By the next day he found time to write home for the first time, describing his experience. I suspect no one had any idea that my father’s need to communicate would amass in a collection of over seven hundred letters! And that was only the beginning of reassuring my grandmother that he was not being starved or worked to death, that all manner of food was available to him and what he ate was his choice and his alone! In fact, on that day they were the first to be fed. In stark contrast to his family’s sixteen months on the run when they scavenged for food, at the mess were sandwiches, fruit, donuts, Coca-Cola, ice cream, and creamy milk, all for the taking. Next they were given their equipment: four uniforms, raincoat, mess kit, and toiletries and sent straight to medical for a physical and vaccination. By the time they were done with the preliminaries he was exhausted. Lights out!

  For at least the next three weeks, communication from and to the outside world was not an option. His transition into the army would be made easier by two contacts whom he was to look out for. One was a Mr. Ohren, and the other was Robert Oppenheimer. Who they were exactly has never been clear, but from the letters they seemed to have held important positions in the military. It was probably our old friend, Mr. Kresser, the ex–intel officer who put my father in touch with them. He held on to these contacts and waited to use them to his greatest advantage.

  It had already been recommended that my father become a translator. He took tests, making sure he scored as low as possible on anything other than the intelligence test. He scored 42 percent on the radiotelegraph test and demonstrated that he had no talent for mechanics. This would be his pattern as he tried to control his destiny in the army. Fort Dix was a way station, and he would leave within a week. During a routine interview exam he made a point of describing his past health issues in hopes of not having to go straight to basic training. Use my mind, not my body, and I’m all yours, he thought. He found himself among other Europeans and befriended a Hungarian and some veterans of the French army who had been there for a month. The Hungarian had experience and could show him the ropes. He found it surprising that a bed could be made so perfectly and that, if it was off by even a millimeter, it was wrong. I never knew that my father could make a bed.

  The first week consisted of working in the bakery and volunteering at the “Orderly Office.” Every day was a learning experience and a new way to avoid rigorous training. A blister on his foot was an opportunity. Lance it, answer to “sick call” in pain, and be exempt from duty. A voracious news buff, he spent the day devouring the New York Times, paying attention to troop movements and biding his time until his real training started. He was so quick to come up with excuses that he developed a reputation amongst his peers. The next day he developed a deep need to see the chaplain. Since he was on the army’s time now, my father tried to work around their schedule to fit his needs, which meant that he was not above a little religious comfort if this meant he didn’t have to train in the heat of the day. He felt stimulated by the company of the other refugees. It didn’t take long before he met three Russian coreligionists with whom he spent his free time. One was a psychologist, and the other two worked with G-2, the Intelligence Service. He garnered more vital information from them than from anyone he had encountered thus far: temporary camp had no importance, and once placed in a more permanent camp, their treatment was better and the most qualified were of value.

  June brought with it the smells of summer in the country, in contrast to the heated canyons of the city that offered his family little relief. Fort Dix remained pleasantly warm, and my father often found himself left to his own devices. He quickly learned that if no one told him exactly what to do, he should keep his head down and stay out of sight of acquaintances and superiors. The free time that this afforded him allowed him to read, do his laundry, and drink beer! So far, it was a vacation. The “Jeeps” (new r
ecruits) wore zoot suits or the more formal “sun-tan” uniforms. The former were their work uniforms, and my father wrote that they looked like convicts or that they had escaped from the circus. The official response to “Are you a soldier?” was “Hell no, we’re just Jeeps and that means shit!” It was their official salute. Officers didn’t like to be saluted by the new recruits, so ever the provocateur, my father saluted every bar he saw outside of his company area. He seemed overjoyed to wear a properly pressed uniform that highlighted his sun-tanned features.

  My father reported all of this in his letters home. When he wrote, he literally dressed the set: “Please excuse the way this letter is written, but I am at the Service Club, sitting on a couch and writing on my knees. A radio, 4 ping-pong games, 2 arguments and a general brouhaha are also responsible for the salad my letter is!” He concluded with what became his motto, “Qui vivra verra!” (Time will tell, or, literally, “He who lives will see”).

  Food was an issue between my grandmother and my father from his first days in the army and would continue to be throughout his service. As her control slipped away, and stories of the raging war on the continent blanketed newspapers and newsreels alike, I can only think that some kind of post-traumatic stress manifested itself. Her suffering continued as her only son was now off to war, and a future for which they had almost lost their lives was once again uncertain. What must it have felt like to send a child off to the same war that caused them to flee their homeland in the first place?