Someday You Will Understand

by Nina Wolff Feld

  My father made a move to stand to attention, but the lieutenant stopped him. “At ease, Private. May I show you how it’s supposed to be done?”

  Faster than he could utter a response, the superior officer took the coat from his hands and began to sew the chevrons on for him. As the lieutenant finished his handiwork, a pretty young lady came into the room and brought my father a sandwich and a cup of coffee. My father looked at the lieutenant and back at the girl, incredulous. He stole an appraising view of the volunteer’s derriere as it disappeared from sight, and reported in a letter: “Only in the US Army. Life is grand. The best USO in the world, excellent food and a chorus of pretty blond Swedes to serve me. . . . Only in the army. Rockford spends serious money on us, and lucky for me Grant is situated in the midst of a great crop of immigrants stemming from Nordic ancestry. . . . Uummf, pas mal!”

  Several weeks after arriving at Camp Grant, my father became the personal tutor for a soldier who was originally from Portugal. He spoke no English but was multilingual and able to speak French, Spanish, Russian, and Polish. Dad was given a new uniform and relieved of busy work. Waldman had almost completed a medical degree at the University of Lisbon before he fled to the US. They communicated mostly in French, and following the same method as was used for the Japanese classes at Yale, my father began teaching his pupil. It turned out that Private Waldman left Portugal for political reasons. While he was in school, he was an active member of the Revisionist Party and a student leader of the Anti-Fascist movement against the Portuguese equivalent of the Hitler Youth group that was called Mocidade Portuguesa, a compulsory paramilitary group.

  Camp Grant was turning out to be a lot of fun. He was having a great time with the other guys in his barracks and was becoming father confessor, general counsel, and wise man to all. Beginning to feel like their guru, he was glad to oblige. One private even consulted him about his upcoming marriage. His superiors became so dependent upon his language skills that they transferred him out of his platoon and into what he referred to as “Waldman’s Illiterate Platoon,” so that he could be closer to his charge. He didn’t entirely trust this bunch, until he returned to his barracks shortly after moving in and found that they had put away his things, sent off his laundry, and made his bed in a gesture of appreciation. Just what the prince ordered—an entire platoon of soldiers who would now serve as his personal valets. To top it off, they gave him the one spot in the barracks in a corner area. After a while, he realized that they weren’t all as dumb as he originally thought, when he learned that one soldier in his new quarters was an ex-editor of a democratic paper in Madrid, one was a Harvard graduate, and another who worked in Classification spoke French.

  Not the type to sit for long without some ambition to push forward, my father was getting restless. His assignment as live-in interpreter made him feel more like a nanny. Although he was given a variety of other assignments throughout his stay, they were really just busy work. Very often he slept late and spent at least part of the day reading anything he could get his hands on to keep himself intellectually sated. Since magazines and newspapers were not enough, he bought himself a copy of U.S. Foreign Policy: Shield of the Republic by Walter Lippmann, the renowned journalist and author.

  Tutoring and nights out with Waldman were fun, but he was disgusted with his student’s lack of progress because he took no initiative to learn the language and my father couldn’t tolerate anyone who wouldn’t at least make an effort. He needed to find a way to get into the G-2 Intelligence Training Program, but as long as he was stuck at Camp Grant, he might as well make the best of it. He decided that the best way to teach Waldman to speak English was to go out socially with him. This way he might be forced into speaking English even if it was only to pick up girls. He was sadly mistaken.

  One night they went into Rockford and saw the new Jean Gabin film, The Impostor, before going to the service club for a dance hosted by the B’nai B’rith Foundation. He wrote in his letter, dated February 17, 1944:

  I pitied my poor student who just stood there, unable to communicate, I politely introduced him to my [dance] partner. He smiled angelically and in the most pleasing voice started to swear like a truck driver in Portuguese, calling her everything under the sun. My friend from Yale, who speaks P[ortuguese], and I almost burst out laughing. I cannot imitate for you what he called her but it wasn’t pretty. My little friend asked what he was saying, and I answered that he said that she was charming and that he really would like to speak to her, but he spoke so little English.

  I tried to stop him to no avail. She asked me again what he was saying. I said he thought she had a “million $ smile.” All of that in the sweetest voice with an engaging smile—he did the same thing with the lt. the other day—and he told me that he has already done it with a colonel once. If he does that again I’m going to break his head. We have so much fun with that guy!

  As if Waldman’s antics on the dance floor weren’t enough, having caught sight of a photograph of Aunt Ellen he was smitten. Don Juan started a wartime letter writing campaign in Spanish in hopes of gaining a new pen pal in Ellen. Dad’s letters were right behind his, cautioning big sister to watch out for wolves, because he was already engaged.

  When he was off duty my father spent as much time as he was allowed in Rockford or Chicago sightseeing by himself or at one point with the young Swede he’d met. While in Chicago, my father ran into several more friends, one of whom was a decorated “Franco-Boche” (German-French) who had formerly served in the French army. He had earned two medals, including the Croix de Guerre, for acts of heroism. He was now in G-2, military intelligence, earned a good salary, and was certain to be commissioned shortly. He was doing extremely interesting work with prisoners but couldn’t elaborate on the details. The mystery alone struck my father, and he felt even more ambivalent about joining the Medical Corps. With a new law sending soldiers overseas after one year of military service, my father could never be “an essential man” with the medical department because his post was provisional, and his friend was sure the army would never have 100 percent confidence in any German-born national. He would never be chosen for more “delicate” work. On the other hand, because he was not, as my father put it, “a first-class physical specimen,” his chances for a more interesting post were far better than the others. In any case, even provisional positions such as an instructor were on notice that, as soon as orders came through, they could be shipped out from one day to the next.

  After running into his friend in Chicago, he went to his commander and spoke to him about applying for a position in G-2. He found out he was eligible to enter General Intelligence, and he knew an officer at headquarters who would facilitate the process. His excitement was met with yet another wall of paranoia from his mother. He responded with exasperation, enumerating every reason why, specifically because “his physical value was second rate,” he would be the perfect candidate for intelligence, because he could handle himself anywhere and, speaking as many languages as he did, he could always make himself indispensable.

  Unsure of where his next posting would be but absolutely certain the army had something special in store for him, he wrote: “As our mayor Fiorello says, ‘PATIENCE AND FORTITUDE’—The army directs, I follow . . . (after determining the direction).”

  CHAPTER 7

  The Ritchie Boy Takes On the Pentagon

  Somewhere on a troop train in Pennsylvania, the train sergeant opened the door to a car and, leaning a heavy hand on the seat, said, “May I have your attention men? Soldier, turn down that music, will ya? There’s gonna be three men in each section for sleepin’ tonight. Two on the lowa’ berths, an’ one on the uppah’.”

  “How do we know where we go?”

  “You’ll find out tonight boys, so at ease. Oh, and anyone caught smokin’ in the berths will get KP and peel petatas for the resta’ the trip. Is that clear?”

  “Yes, Sarge,” called out a chorus of men. The sergeant walked through to the
next car. The men resumed their former adolescent contortions of relaxation, splaying out over the seats in every direction. Some of the guys sat with shoes off, lounging awkwardly on their seats, while others crouched in the corridors and played cards and dice. A couple of the fellas were reading comic books they had traded for. Before going into the train’s lavatory, one guy who was leaning out of the train window pulled his head back in, dog tags clinking against the glass, and spoke over his shoulder to the black porter.

  “Hey boy, you know where we’re goin’?”

  The porter answered politely, “Oh, no suh, that’s one thing ahhhm not allowed to tell.” The porter had been asked that same question many times before and sat back down on the hard wooden seat next to the lavatory. From another car came the faint sounds of a kazoo band playing “Auld Lang Syne.” My father turned his radio back up and continued writing the letter he had just started.

  April 7, 1944

  My Dears,

  Praise the Lord—Hallelujah! The train is rolling east, southeast to be exact. We have just left Pittsburgh and our destination is X. But, as a good algebraist, I found a solution to the equation X + DC. We left Camp Grant at 4h (16h). It was an immense convoy. . . . I was a little scared that they had changed our orders. But when they divided us into groups—and when my group was full of students—and when they put us on the two Pullman wagons at the end of the train, I was reassured. We had a Pullman with little compartments for 3, a restaurant wagon, service and all of the comforts. It’s almost a dream. I’m with a really nice gang.

  My TSF is playing dance music—there is a cocktail on the table . . . from my destination X, I will telegraph or telephone you. I hope that my handwriting is excused. I am hoping that I will have a pass this weekend, but I don’t know yet. I will come to Lakewood.

  Kisses

  Walter

  The Transportation Corps of the US Army directed the largest military mobilization in history from its nerve center in Washington, DC. Gigantic lit boards showed the direction and destination of every troop train and its location across the nation. WWII was a war of movement, and America’s war machine was being dispersed all over the world. Army ground forces moved 30 million soldiers, troops, and machinery across the continental United States. By the end of the war, 7 million soldiers and 126 million tons of tanks, guns, and machinery had been directed to battlefronts all across the globe.

  The next morning, the soldiers heard: “Attention men, we’re stopping at the next station. Be ready to get off.”

  * * * *

  April 7, 1944, my grandparents and Ellen were at the Laurel-in-the-Pines Hotel in Lakewood, New Jersey, celebrating Passover. My father had just arrived at Washington, DC’s Walter Reed Medical Center to continue with his basic training. The New York Times was awash with articles about the symbolism of Easter and Passover falling so close together. A year after the Warsaw Uprising, the paper had taken a decidedly more sympathetic tone as news of Hitlerite atrocities filled its pages. With no assurance that freedom would prevail, Passover 1944 was a poignant reminder that without a lengthy and difficult struggle, the world would continue to confront the oppression of the Nazis. With millions held as slaves in concentration camps and ghettos across the globe, people of all faiths were urged not to give up the fight. A New York Times article that same date asserted that the true definition of religious freedom was creative freedom. As the most precious gift of our civilization, it is what allows for rebirth and reconstruction after prejudice, tyranny, and the devastation of war. Rabbis urged Americans at home and on the battlefronts of every theater of war to prepare for the decisive blow that would bring about the largest celebration of freedom the world had ever seen. Provisions that included 7,000 gallons of sacramental wine and thousands of boxes of Matzoh were made for all Jewish soldiers to be served a Passover meal wherever they were stationed. Lieutenant General Mark W. Clark, commander of the United States Fifth Army, addressed a thousand of them at a seder near the Italian front in Naples:

  “Tonight you are eating unleavened bread just as your forebears ate unleavened bread. Because the Exodus came so quickly, the dough had no time to rise. There was a time of unleavened bread in this war. The time when it looked as though we might not have time to rise—time to raise an army and equip it, time to stop the onrush of a Germany that has already risen. But the bread has begun to rise. It started at Alamein. It was rising higher when the Fifth Army invaded Italy. It is reaching the top of the pan and soon the time will come when it will spread out . . . and the victory will be ours.”

  Flowers and trees were in full bloom, accenting red brick buildings and their black roofs. Walter Reed was impressive. My father could not get over how each barracks was outfitted with a very small armoire for every man, ice water on every floor, tiled bathrooms, chrome fixtures, and shiny floors. There were automats for cigarettes, candy, chewing gum, and nuts. The PX was a veritable department store. There were restaurants and even a “bar,” as well as a grocery store, cinema, recreation rooms, barber, tailor, shoe repair, laundry, dry cleaner, and post office. Mess halls were open for a full hour and soldiers could come and go as they pleased. Since passes to New York were given out only once a month, my father was perfectly happy to stay in town that first weekend and do some sightseeing on his own during his time off. He walked for hours. The cherry trees were magnificent, their flowers swayed in the warm breeze, blanketing the ground below them with a lush carpet of pink petals. He eventually stopped for dinner. As he entered the restaurant, he overheard a heated argument between a US fighter pilot and a waiter. Watching for a moment as they traded impatient gestures accompanying what was obviously a language problem, he approached. Spying the patch sewn to the soldier’s shoulder that read “France,” my father immediately understood how he could help. He walked closer and offered, “Pardon, est-ce que je pourrais peutêtre vous aider?”

  The pilot was rather surprised but nonetheless pleased to have been spoken to in French. He explained that there was a little “mistake” on his bill. The waiter had come to the conclusion that if the man couldn’t speak English, maybe he couldn’t add either. Grateful for the timely interruption, he introduced himself as Sergeant Pierre Bartella, from Paris. He and my father became fast friends and spent a good deal of time together over the next two months, going to as many nightspots as they could fit in to their schedules. During one evening out, they went on a double date with two girls they met at the Press Club, taking them to the smorgasbord at the Occidental around the corner from the White House. The two men made quite an impression, with their dashing uniforms and foreign accents. Hoping to spend the night in town, my father had arranged for a room with Mme. Aron, a family friend. Washington was going to be another pleasant sojourn. He was free from four in the afternoon until eleven at night; they got a pass once a month, and KP duty was mandatory only one Sunday the first month. More than enough time to enjoy the nation’s capitol.

  The family had not been together since the end of March. Omi’s unrelenting efforts to control her son may have been soothing to her anxiety, but they were driving my father crazy. Yet, as clever as my father was, I’m beginning to think he enabled my grandmother’s paranoia. If one knows someone will come undone at the slightest mishap, why on earth would the condition of one’s feet become topic for discussion, as it was in more than one letter in April 1944? Was there really so little to talk about, or was there more to this?

  Sunday came and with it his assignment for CQ (Charge of Quarters). He situated himself at the desk with his short-wave radio nearby. The phone rang. Tempted by the deliciously soft voice at the other end, my father responded flirtatiously with, “Oh, I’m sorry, he’s not here right now. May I have your name and a number where I, uhh . . . I mean, you can be reached, and I’ll take a message?”

  My father leaned back in his chair and fondled the bowl of his silky briar wood pipe as he listened to the flirtatious voice at the other end. He blew out some smoke and with an equa
lly flirtatious tone commented, “Eh, you have brown hair, how lovely.”

  Taking a chance he asked, “Do you have a couple of friends for two of my buddies, we could all go out together. It’ll be a great evening, I can promise you that.”

  “Tant pis,” he thought after he hung up. “First come, first serve. If she’s as cute in person as she sounds over the phone, well then.”

  He cocked his head to one side, relit his pipe, and considered what a windfall it was to be back in Washington again. He had not been since his first week at Walter Reed in April. There was no time to waste. The first month had been relatively demanding, but not so much that he couldn’t plan his advancement. The first thing he did was make an appointment for an interview at Reclassification. He wore a sharply tailored khaki uniform instead of the standard-issue green one. He paid close attention to every detail of his image by mirroring his civilian elegance and emulating that of his superiors. The interviewing lieutenant had listened carefully to my father and offered to assign him to the Medical Department of the Allied Military Government. Thinking on his feet, he countered the offer with every cogent reason he could think of for not receiving that assignment, until the lieutenant responded that he would take everything into consideration and that my father should make another appointment with him as soon as he was finished training at Walter Reed in May.

  Feeling encouraged by the interview, he left the office thinking about who he could ask to write letters of recommendation on his behalf. When the time came to submit his application, he would be prepared. He scribbled a list of names, and next to each he wrote their position: