Someday You Will Understand

by Nina Wolff Feld

  Antics and evasive behavior aside, my father was in the army to do a job. This was an opportunity to contribute to the demise of those who so profoundly affected the course of their lives. His fellow American soldiers could not have understood, let alone empathized, and they were beginning to get on his nerves. They were being trained to fight and protect a world away from their own. After all, the last battle fought on American soil was the Civil War.

  The army was an education on the finer points of being an American. Concealing his origin, his ethnicity, was a matter of self-protection. He worked on being a real American by studying his comrades’ gestures and accents. My father found himself surrounded for the first time by people from all levels of American society, amid behavior that was uniquely American, and he was clearly not used to it. They ranged from humorous to outrageous, and he fought against the constant threat of mediocrity. At times, there was blatant anti-Semitism. He was something of a loner, which is of little surprise. When he was small, he was protected behind walls of safety against the rising wave of anti-Semitism. He developed his inner resources and enjoyed his own company. He had to, and was happiest with his eyes focused on the newspaper or a good book if he was not engrossed in challenging repartee. When his American comrades became too much for him, he thought nothing of going off by himself. He had no tolerance for seeing how many glasses “Johnny Dope” could put under the table. He was happier going into Blackstone to a good restaurant and seeing a movie like One of Our Aircraft Is Missing. On the one hand he spent a lot of energy trying to fit in and be one of the “guys” in the army. Later on, when we were children, he did not want us to present ourselves as if we were a typical American family when we spent time abroad. He was a chameleon, and we were expected to follow in his footsteps.

  Before they came to the United States, the refugee soldiers had suffered different degrees of victimization, which varied from escaping the Nazis to actually having survived a concentration camp. They were a special group of people, with very useful skills that could not be replicated by their American comrades. They knew intimately the cultures from which they had escaped. They spoke the languages fluently, their native customs were a part of them, and they could blend in with the enemy. Many of them would be granted citizenship while in the army. When these men returned to Europe, more often than not as Ritchie Boys—intelligence men trained at Camp Ritchie—the rescued became the rescuers. These boys were not necessarily used for their physical prowess. Among the most educated of the soldiers, they were valued for intellectual gifts as well as their backgrounds. Most importantly, they possessed a desire for revenge, and this was a chance for them to prove in a very anti-Semitic climate that they were indeed proud to serve their new homeland and supported the ideals of our democratic society. Although avoiding as much mindless work as he could get away with and proud of his skill at it, my father was very serious about accomplishing the task at hand, and nothing was going to get in the way of that. Though he wasn’t a pacifist, he felt he could accomplish more using his mind as his weapon.

  Finally, the news that he had been waiting for arrived: the Field Selection Board for the Army Specialized Training Corps (ASTP) accepted my father, contingent upon his completion of basic training. Following that, he would be sent to a college of the army’s choosing. It was unusual for a nineteen-year-old to qualify for anything but basic or an engineering course in the first place, but due to his special qualifications, he applied for a more advanced series of language courses. He was up against heavy competition and was skeptical of the army’s red tape. He sensed there would be a catch. There was always a catch, as Joseph Heller famously illustrated after the war. He would fill out as many applications as he could for different positions, and whichever ball fell first he’d grab.

  Meanwhile, menial tasks would be repeated countless times over the twelve weeks at Camp Pickett, until training ended on September 12. Whether he was peeling potatoes, waiting tables, or spending an entire morning bandaging and transporting the “wounded” to the mock barracks hidden in the woods as a stretcher-bearer for his squadron, he turned light duty into an art form. He made the monotonous daily grind an adventure in relaxation. Instead of carrying the soldiers on the stretchers, they made them walk the twenty meters, taking the shortest path to the medical station. They sneaked around the sergeants guarding the path and arrived weighed down and swearing, pretending to gasp for air: “Damn, these guys are heavy!”

  Eventually, it was his turn to be wounded. He slept for half an hour, comfortably hidden and tucked in under the cooling shade of a large tree. Then, after having his leg bandaged, my father was taken to the station, where he waited for his bandages to be inspected. It was just another opportunity to read the headlines in that week’s edition of France-Amérique. De Gaulle had become the permanent chairman of the new committee for national defense. “A victory for the Jews,” he wrote.

  He would actually look at the week’s schedule and plan his sick calls. This practice allowed him ample time to think of excuses. While some of his fellow soldiers became enraged at his ingenuity, he “rose 20%,” as he said, in the eyes of his two Italian bunk neighbors, who appreciated his “gold bricking.” Again and again, he would skillfully avoid laborious tasks. If he wasn’t stretched out on the night guard’s mattress as acting air raid warden, he was on phone duty, answering calls. And if it wasn’t that, then he volunteered to guard while the others were on a twelve-mile march: two hours on, four hours off, from 5:00 p.m. to the following morning at 6:00 a.m. On KP duty, he arranged boxes of jam in rows while reading the Times all morning. When he had a rendezvous at headquarters after lunch one day, he arrived back at his barracks to find his corporal standing with his chest inflated to capacity, blocking his entry. “What have you been doing all afternoon, Private Wolff?”

  He thought better than to tell him that his meeting had taken only an hour and that during the rest of the four hours he was gone he had had a great afternoon getting his hair cut and relaxing in the cafeteria enjoying coffee, ice cream, and soda while reading. Instead he said, “Corporal, I went to seven different offices and was kept waiting at each one, but you should have seen the terrific blond WAC at HQ!”

  When in doubt, redirect. My father embodied the expression, “Don’t work hard, work smart.” He had heard it said that the desire to reduce or avoid one’s work is characteristic of a civilized man. Don’t look for mountains where there are valleys. In the meantime, worried that he was being overtaxed, his mother suggested he check himself into the infirmary for a rest cure.

  In answer to her suggestion, his response was, “Don’t worry, and don’t make up stories that I’m sick. Only the ‘Führer’ has intuition, and his aren’t paying off these days!”

  In some ways he is an accidental observer. Not there by choice, he’ll stand as far back as he can get away with in order to go as far ahead as possible. He cuts the figure of a soldier in silhouette, looks just like the others, yet in his own mind he’s different. If he stands apart and alone in the crowd, it might be enough to move ahead. Where he will go in the army isn’t yet clear, only where his motivation stems from and the seemingly distant goal of becoming an intelligence officer. Barely two months in, he quietly bucks against the routine imposed on him, by going out of his way to spend as much time as possible at his leisure—and succeeding. He eats, drinks, reads, and seeks out entertainment at the base as if he’s in charge. He seems to move through Camp Pickett as if his superiors were there to serve his pleasure. No matter what his assignment on a particular day, he is somehow off on his own, left of center and marveling at the ease with which he makes the best impression with those who can advance his position, while fooling them into thinking he is right there performing with the pack.

  He remained that dashing figure later in life, a quiet, impressive presence whose intellect was his shield, a barrier to the world and his family. It was respected and at times even reviled when we couldn’t compete with it. I know
why. I’ve read over his class notes from high school, the army letters, and the notebooks he saved from Columbia University, where he majored in business after the war. I have looked at the doodles in the margins, seen the voraciousness with which he consumed, digested, and used his knowledge and breadth of experience. He could hold himself back or move ahead by choosing the quality and quantity of the information required of him. Where others excelled in order to be placed, he excelled to engineer his placement.

  Accommodating new ideas, aspirations, and thoughts, and with the certainty that he would soon be protected by the cloak of citizenship, his youth swatted away the demons from his past. This in stark contrast to my grandmother, for whom those demons must have persisted long into her every night, pushing her closer to the stillness of her old age. His mother’s unrelenting anxiety propelled him to succeed. America had its own deep-rooted racism, but for this young Jewish refugee, freedom held the promise of a bright future.

  He also would have high expectations for his children. My father provided us with the best tools but didn’t show us how to achieve success, just as I was given a metal box that left its new owner with a million questions and no father to answer them. His method was quite Socratic. The simple term of endearment, “Chère Mamo,” and the words that followed told only part of the story. The letters at face value are a charming account of the everyday life of a young soldier, until the reader realizes what led to their innate simplicity. Weepy eyed, I occasionally reach out for my father as I grow to understand that when we are faced with great pain, we build a hard, protective shell.

  My mother remembers my grandmother taking her aside before their first-born son’s funeral to soothe her tragic loss: “You will have other children.” Omi clasped my mother’s hands in hers, offering those quiet words of strength, a buoy in a sea of despair. War had hardened her resolve enough to lead another down a path toward strength. My father, hardened with pain, was always cool and distant. It was easier to stand strong and straighten his neatly knotted paisley tie and his perfectly pressed hand-made shirt from Hong Kong, tucked perfectly into the pants of his three-piece Harris tweed suit, than offer the warmth that could save an emotional life and build a lasting bond. He was afraid. That made him vulnerable. He relied on his intellect and grace to carry him forth.

  * * * *

  Craning his neck, leaning out over the platform, he could see into the distance the lights of an ultramodern train appearing. White beams broke through like two moons from dark clouds. It pulled into the station. He boarded the steps and walked into the air-conditioned car, stowed his gear, and settled into a seat. Civilian trains were infinitely more modern and comfortable than their military counterparts. What seemed like moments later, my father took off his makeshift blindfold and opened his eyes to the bright morning sunlight beaming through windows.

  “Breakfast!” called out the MP.

  He took a deep breath and repositioned his seat from its fully reclined position to the fully upright one. The mere motion of it still caught him by surprise. It was so modern and so American. He slipped his glasses back over the bridge of his nose and glanced at his watch. Six a.m. What a night! He had twisted and stretched. They had left Camp Pickett at eleven the night before and were left standing outside with their gear for the better part of an hour before the trucks came and brought them to the station. It was after one in the morning when the wheels of the train headed north. The steady sway in tandem with the rhythmic music of the train cutting through heavy, humid night air had pushed and pulled his thoughts in and out of dreams.

  He arranged himself, brushed his dark hair back with both hands, and pulled his uniform tight. He straightened his tie and regained a more formal composure. As soon as he opened the door to the dining car, he was hit with the dense aroma of the meal to come. His stomach protested, loudly rumbling, hunger recalling memory. He briefly thought of Lyon, where the only food to be found in abundance for a family of stateless Jews hiding in plain sight was the salty ham that became their mainstay. He found a seat at a table among the other twenty-five soldiers. The ceiling fans rotated softly above them, pushing the artificially cooled air. He ate, intermittently staring out the picture window while chatting with the others. Sipping from the thick-rimmed cup, wishing the Americans would call this warm watery drink by any other name. If he couldn’t stand his spoon straight up, the coffee would never earn his approval. Shortly afterward, the train whistled into the station and slowed to a grinding halt. The only one from his company, and only one of three from his battalion at Pickett, he walked into the station waiting room, sat on a wooden bench, and dozed off. At nine o’clock, he was awakened from a fitful sleep.

  “All ABOOOARD!” the conductor yelled as the soldiers approached the train in loose formation. This one was so old that it seemed to date back to at least the Civil War. They reached Blacksburg, Virginia, at ten and were greeted by a smiling lieutenant. “Men, your orders were revoked last night. I have no idea of what to do with you.”

  During World War II, Congress passed an act whereby the US Army was running the nation’s single largest educational program in the country’s history. Created in 1943, it was a short-lived program that ran for less than a year. The Army Specialized Training Program (ASTP) and the STAR unit were established to make sure the army had enough college-educated men to fill more technical and intellectually demanding positions. More than 200,000 soldiers passed through the programs, given at over two hundred colleges and universities across the nation. Yale’s enrollment fell so short during the war that bankruptcy threatened to shut the school’s doors. Courses were offered in everything from engineering and medicine to personnel psychology and in thirty-four different languages. Campuses were turned into makeshift army camps, where the soldiers interacted with other students but were required to adhere strictly to military rules and dress codes at all times. The regular military population frowned upon these soldiers, who were generally thought of as not experiencing the “real army.” They studied hard and played equally hard, using breaks to play cards or catch up on the many activities offered at the campus service clubs. Not surprisingly, the soldiers in ASTP programs were to a great degree Jewish. Once their training was finished and they were placed, their technical abilities were so strong that prejudices harbored by the rest of the military fell away and they earned the respect of their comrades. The end of the program came suddenly, because it failed to gain the political and public support needed to continue. The general opinion was that ASTP was a way of protecting the soldiers who came from the wealthier classes from real combat duty.

  Rumors circulated that they would be sent back to Camp Pickett, to New York to the City University, or maybe even to Penn State. The Georgetown unit had already closed. Finally, at noon, the higher-ups decided to keep the soldiers on the Virginia Tech campus, test them, and place them. They spent the afternoon filling out forms and scheduling tests they would be given the next morning.

  Reveille sounded at six twenty the following morning. “Tant pis,” my father thought as he rolled out of bed. Too bad. Left to his own devices until seven, when breakfast was served, he tuned the dial on his radio until a local station with the morning news and weather broke through the silence. He heard the reporter say, “Temperatures are cooling, leaving the dog days of summer behind us.”

  Since Virginia Tech was also closing, the soldiers would only be given refresher courses before transfer orders came through. He filled out the required forms and requested placement somewhere closer to home. His superiors promised to make every effort. Unfortunately, in the army nothing was certain. As he filled out the paperwork, my father ran across a stumbling block: he did not have enough college. He was just nineteen. Since he had spent the year prior to being drafted attending night school, he wrote down one year and left the credit box open. The issue would be addressed at his upcoming interview.

  For now he was subject to placement tests. To determine their ability to learn a foreign
language, soldiers had to translate English to an artificial language and vice versa. He also took a French test. This exam he found insulting. He breezed through it and smoked a cigarette at his desk and wrote a letter until the others were finished: “I pity the poor chap who’ll interview me if he can’t speak the language. I’ll speak so fast that he’ll understand every third word. . . . After that, I’ll have an interview, after which, if all goes well, I’ll take tests for two other languages, provided it’s not Japanese. . . . It takes two to learn a language, a student who wants to and a teacher.”

  First thing Monday morning, he met the poor chap whom he pitied. She was actually a nice woman. He spoke slow enough for her to follow, but she eventually asked my father if he wouldn’t mind continuing the conversation in English. Scheduled to have a hearing, he armed himself with a letter of recommendation from France Forever, Charles de Gaulle’s agency in the United States during the occupation. It was founded eight days after the armistice with Germany in June 1940. My father had worked for France Forever for a time before leaving for the army, and he had brought the letter with him as proof positive that he was up to task.

  Virginia Tech was as enormous as it was magnificent. The college had dozens of buildings spread out over a well-tended green. They slept three or four to a room, with a bathroom down the hall. Hot and cold running water too! Again, the army was like a vacation destination. My father was so charmed by his new surroundings that he sent half a dozen postcards home from the university, showing the various buildings. The Service Club at Virginia Tech was in a building that looked like a French château and felt like one of New York’s chicest hotels. It had stores in the basement that sold civilian and military clothes, two drugstores, a post office, barbershop, bookstore, game room, and billiards. There was an enormous dance hall and rooms with club chairs, and radios. At the dining halls, they ate at tables covered with white mats. He found Army, Marines, and ROTC dressed like the cadets at West Point among the civilian students. His group was organized in paramilitary fashion, with insignias on their shirt indicating their name and company. Beyond the buildings, he found a little lake, tennis courts, and lawns for games. The town of Roanoke was small but neat, with bus connections to Washington, DC. As usual, he found ample free time.