I don’t remember the faces of the men who liberated us; don’t recall the stretchers or the army doctors rescuing us from that chamber of death. I was too sick to notice anything. All I know is that the three of us were evacuated immediately to a nearby American field hospital. I was told afterwards by the doctors that if the camp liberation had taken place just a few hours later, they would not have found me alive.
They gave me a double injection of antitoxin serum for the diphtheria, figuring, I suppose, that the double dose might kill me, but the diphtheria surely would. As expected, I had a terrible reaction to the shot, but I lived through it and began to recover. I remember little else of the field hospital. Everything was a blur. Andy and the other guy seemed to be in better condition than I was. The three of us were taken to an army hospital in Belgium.
It was there that I insisted that a telegram be sent to my mother. “Please, just let her know that I’m alive. She’s waited so long!” I knew that after all these months with no communication she would be overjoyed with the good news. I pictured her face when she would receive the telegram. She’d cry, yes, she’d probably cry. She’d run to show the telegram to Jerry and Max, and they’d hug and laugh; she’d race over to Uncle Harvey and to all the neighbors, waving the telegram and shouting with joy. And of course, she’d thank God. She always thanked God.
In fact, Mother did receive the much-awaited telegram, but the scene was not as I envisioned it. Someone mistakenly sent her a form telegram with the wrong message. Tearing open the envelope, Mother read, “Business is bad, need money immediately. Your son, Ivan.”
Though mystified by the perplexing message, Mother was still ecstatic to receive anything signed, “Your son, Ivan.” But she knew what to do. She contacted Colorado Senator Ed Johnson, who promised to find out immediately what the telegram meant. In a very short time, he called her back, excitedly telling her that the wording was a mistake, but the signature was true. “Ivan is alive,” he exclaimed, “and recuperating in an army hospital in Paris!”
That was quite accurate. After my brief stay in Belgium, I was flown to Paris for further treatment. The trip was my first by air. I was amazed by the sensation of flight and buoyant in spirit as well. The nightmare was over. Though still sick and listless, I felt sure I would recover.
Andy and I parted in Belgium—a bittersweet moment, for he was going home at long last, and I would too, eventually. We knew neither of us would ever forget all we had been through together. Without trying, we could easily conjure images of months past: our capture beside the burning Barracuda; my near execution; our pact to become “one”; our sharing of every morsel of food; our intimate conversations through long, freezing nights; his escape from Gerolstein on my ticket; the bitter months in Limburg; and finally, that glorious, incomprehensible moment when we heard the shout, “It’s over! The Americans are here!” There was really no need for promises to stay in touch. We shared one heart.
In Paris, my recovery was slow, but I gradually reentered the normal world—a world of haircuts, baths, shaving, and no lice. Eventually I was well enough to be taken in a wheelchair to see the sights. Hospital staff took us to the Eiffel Tower and to the wonderful museums. As an art student, I had often visited the Denver Art Museum and the Denver Public Library, so the most exciting excursions in Paris for me were to the Louvre and to the studio of Henri Matisse. The great artist was still alive at the time, and I got a tour of his studio, though I didn’t see him. The art alone was enough to fill me with joy. What a thrill!
But I was reminded at every mealtime that I still had a long way to go before I would recover fully. I tried to eat regular food, but in my four months as a prisoner, my intestines had rotted, and I was unable to hold down food. I was placed on a special diet, the blandest stuff you can imagine, and little by little, there was progress.
Our ward was a long room with beds lined up on both sides. I noticed that some of them had red tags tied to them, and I thought that maybe these patients were receiving better treatment. I asked the nurse if I could have one of those special tags. “Mais, non!” She laughed, “No, you do not want such a flag!” She told me that the red tags indicated patients with advanced venereal disease, soldiers who had caught the disease from Parisian prostitutes. ”Non, non, be glad you do not have that!” I chuckled at my own naiveté, realizing that not all of our ills had been inflicted by the enemy.
In addition to the sightseeing, the hospital tried to provide wholesome recreation. Periodically, a screen would be set up at the end of the ward and we were treated to popular movies. One day in April we were watching Judy Garland in Meet Me in St. Louis, when the movie was abruptly stopped. The lights went on, and there was a murmur of protest in the audience. Then came the somber announcement: “We regret to inform you that our president, Franklin Delano Roosevelt, has died.” We were stunned.
Greatly loved and respected, President Roosevelt had sent us off to war to protect our nation and to save the world from a madman. We had tried to live up to the trust he placed in us. We had all seen our friends die on the battlefield, and we had been wounded in service to our country. The war was not yet over; how could he leave us now? I should add that at that point, most Jews were not aware that Roosevelt had obstructed plans to save Jews in Europe. Like all of our countrymen, we regarded him as a hero and the greatest American. He was genuinely mourned.
While in Paris, I received a letter from home informing me that—wonder of wonders—I was an uncle! Jerry’s wife had given birth to a daughter. Overjoyed, I made a toy lamb for the baby from craft supplies the hospital gave the soldiers. The army had paid me my back salary from all those months in captivity, and I was feeling pretty flush. So, along with the lamb, I sent some perfume and other special gifts that I had bought.
From Paris, I was flown to a hospital in Glasgow, Scotland. I felt much better but was still battling to restore my stomach to a normal condition. As in France, I was taken on trips. Among other majestic places, I saw the famous Loch Lomond, twenty-four miles long and five miles wide. I remembered my father imitating Harry Lauder, the Scottish singer who popularized this old song, among so many others: “Oh, ye’ll tak’ the high road and I’ll tak’ the low road/And I’ll be in Scotland afore ye . . . On the bonnie, bonnie banks o’ Loch Lomond.” Now, here I was, at this legendary place, humming that little tune, taking in all its beauty and wishing I had a sketch pad in my hand.
Yes, it’s gorgeous, but it doesn’t compare with our Rocky Mountains, I thought. It’s not half as beautiful as Denver in the twilight. I yearned to go back—back to my hometown, to my brothers and cousins, my neighbors and friends, and, most of all, to Mother. It seemed like years since I had last seen them. Here I was, all of twenty years old, but I felt as if I had lived through a century. I felt aged and feeble. I had seen too much.
It did not take long before a number of patients were told we soon would be leaving for America. When? Tomorrow!
The next day found me dazed but joyous, waiting in line with other patients bound for the United States. Before getting on the plane, we were each weighed. It was worse than even I had imagined. At six feet three inches, my precombat weight had been 205 pounds. Now I was down to 96 pounds, and that was after being “built up” in the army hospitals. In those four miserable months, I had lost over half my normal weight. I was actually shocked, but my sense of humor was still intact. After they weighed me, I said, “Wait! That’s not my true weight. I’m holding this paper—let me put it down.” The guy behind me thought I was serious.
Accompanied by army doctors and nurses, we boarded the plane. The propellers whirred, and once again I was in the air, this time thankfully headed back to America. No words can do justice to the deep sense of gratitude I felt; no words can describe the intensity of my anticipation as we flew quickly, steadily home.
CHAPTER 10
Going Home
THE PLANE GLIDED SMOOTHLY onto the runway in New York, and we were taken to Mitchell Fi
eld Army Hospital. The doctors there told me that I needed an extensive period of recuperation and wanted to know if I preferred any particular army hospital. “Fitzsimons!” I told them jubilantly, “Fitzsimons, just outside of Denver.”
It didn’t take long for my choice to be confirmed. I was going home at last. I called my mother for the first time since going overseas.
After a few rings, she answered. “Hello?”
“Mom, it’s me, Ivan.”
She gave a loud scream of surprise and joy before shouting, “It’s Ivan!” As we talked, I thought the sound of her voice was more beautiful than any music I had ever heard.
“Ivan, Ivan—how are you?”
“I feel fine, Mom.” It was an outright lie, and she knew it.
“So you’re coming home?”
“Well, not directly. I have to spend some time in Fitzsimons first.”
“You’re so fine that you’re going to a hospital?”
“Well, I’ve lost some weight. They’re going to build me up a little.”
“Build you up better than your mother can? Tell them to send you home!”
“Not just yet, Mom. I’ll call when I get to Denver tomorrow.”
“Ivan, we can’t wait to see you—Max, Jerry, every-body . . .” Her voice trailed off, choking with sobs. I knew the tears were of happiness and thanksgiving. Her Partner had answered her prayers.
We talked for a long while, and she gave me Uncle Nat Goldstein’s phone number in Brooklyn, urging me to call without delay. I called Uncle Nat; he immediately phoned the head doctor of the hospital and told him he wanted to pick me up and drive me to Brooklyn for a family reunion. He guaranteed that I would be back at the hospital in the morning. Hearing the urgency in Uncle Nat’s voice and the details of my story, the doctor kindly approved an overnight pass for me.
Uncle Nat picked me up at the hospital, and soon I was shuffling into Aunt Sara’s house amid joyous cries of “Ivan’s here!” The entire New York Goldstein clan, aunts, uncles, and cousins—all the same people who had seen me off before I shipped out—were together again at Aunt Sara’s. Could it have been only seven months since the last time I had heard “Ivan’s here”? The change in me must have been terrifying to them. In place of the robust young soldier confidently going off to war, they saw an emaciated creature of skin and bones, aged by experiences they didn’t dare to imagine. Though I tried to smile bravely, they could see that I didn’t feel well at all.
They told me my Great Aunt Leah from Denver, the widow of my beloved Uncle Block, was visiting his family in New York and would be coming over to see me. I was anxious to see her too. Much of the spiritual strength I absorbed as a child was provided by the richness of her traditional Jewish home; it had sustained me through my recent trials. She strode in, glowing and happy, but the smile on her face froze when she saw me. I gave her a reassuring grin, but the tears in her eyes told me everything. No doubt, she would call my mother to prepare her for the sight. Maybe it’s better that way, I reflected.
Our reunion was wonderful, though now and then someone would look at me and begin to weep. “Hey, I’m fine. Really, I’m in great shape now,” I laughed. “You should have seen me before!” I guess the contrast with my previous visit was overwhelming.
Surrounded by family, my mind skipped to earlier trips to New York—particularly with my father when I was only about five years old. The oddest recollection came to mind. I pictured myself in the basement of Zaidy Goldstein’s house. This was where he made his own cherry wine, and he was showing Jerry, my cousins, and me his collection. “I’ll give you each a taste,” he teased, “and the one who asks me the nicest will get the bigger glass.” Jerry went first, smiling adorably and saying, “please.” Each of my cousins implored sweetly, but I won, hands down, with “Zaidy, dear, may I please have a glass of your wonderful wine?” Even at five, I knew the score.
At Zaidy’s house, I also sipped a memorable soda pop—Dr. Brown’s Celery Tonic. I never forgot that taste. What sweet little memories! But this time, fifteen years later, my evening with the Goldsteins was on a more somber note. Reluctantly, but with an intense desire to share my pain, they asked me about my war experiences and listened in stunned silence past midnight. When it was over, I was exhausted and they were crying.
Aunt Sara woke me for breakfast. I had to get back to Mitchell Field for my flight to Denver in the afternoon. Uncle Nat was running late when he came to pick me up. We scrambled into the car, and he floored the gas pedal. Streaking down the highway at top speed, he saw in his rear-view mirror that a highway patrolman was in hot pursuit. The cop pulled him over, admonished him for speeding, and wrote out a hefty ticket. Uncle Nat briefly told him I had been a POW, stressing that he was rushing only because he had to get me back to Mitchell Field for my flight home. “Oh, yeah?” the officer snarled. He peered into the car and looked me in the eye. His features softened, and he turned away. Then, tearing up the ticket, he thanked me for my service to our country and waved us on.
My flight arrived at Buckley Air Force Base outside of Denver in the evening, and an ambulance waited there to take me to Fitzsimons hospital. It was well after nine o’clock by the time I was checked in and assigned to a bed and, to tell the truth, I needed to sleep. As much as I wanted to see my family, it was too late for a reunion with them. I called Mother, and it was decided that they would come to the hospital in the morning. I gave her directions on how to find my building inside the Fitzsimons complex. “You probably won’t recognize me,” I remarked affably, “so I’ll be outside on the grass with a pink carnation pinned to my pajamas.”
We both knew that it wasn’t much of a joke. It had been almost a year since my mother had seen me, and now meeting her son as a hundred-pound skeleton would be quite a shock. It would be an even bigger jolt because I had been sending her reassuring letters from the hospitals in Europe, downplaying my true condition, only casually adding that I had “lost a little weight.” I meant what I said about meeting them outside. I didn’t want our emotional reunion taking place inside the ward.
It was a beautiful, sunny day in May. I was out there early, waiting impatiently when they drove up. In the car were my mother, two brothers, sister-in-law, and Joe Hirsh, a distant cousin of Mother’s. Joe repaired watches for Murph’s customers, and he proved to be a truly caring relative. Since the moment I was reported missing in action, he had been in continual contact with Mother and Jerry, trying in numerous ways to bolster their hopes. He repeatedly told them that he was convinced that I was alive and would be coming home. “I want to be there,” he’d say, “I want to be there when Ivan comes home, so don’t forget to call me.”
The car door opened, and there was Mother rushing toward me, her arms outstretched. I remember throwing my arms around her and holding her close for the longest time. I couldn’t let go. All the tears that I held back during my captivity now ran freely and trickled onto her hair, her forehead, her cheeks. During the long embrace, Mother held me very close, very tight, her eyes closed, but there were no tears. It could be that she had cried for so many months that now she had no tears left, only thanksgiving. But my brothers were crying.
Or could it be that she was, once again, setting an example for her child? Through the years, she often had exhibited stoic qualities, pushing onward to better our lives through sheer determination. Though she panicked inside when her children were endangered, she would take care not to frighten us but to act as calmly and decisively as she could. She had weathered cuts, bruises, and broken bones.
Of course, once the crisis was over, she would store these incidents in her mother’s bag of complaints. Every so often, she would wryly remind us of all she had gone through with Jerry and Max. At these moments, I would triumphantly say, “But Mom, from me you never had trouble!” Until now, that is. She had suffered the trauma of the telegram telling her I was missing, the long months of waiting, watching for news, latching onto any sign of hope. And now she stood there, sta
ring at the wan face of her son—her previously healthy, athletic boy—with his pajamas hanging from his shoulders like oversized rags around a pole. She took it all in and swayed a bit, as though she were about to faint.
“At least he’s alive, Ida,” Joe whispered. “He’s alive. That’s all that matters.”
To tell the truth, when I saw Mother I was shocked too. There were lines on her face that had never been there before. Her eyes seemed softer and deeper, and her brow was more wrinkled than I remembered. The energy she had expended fighting off dark thoughts and fears had left her weary and spent. I knew that enduring the trial of my uncertain fate as only a mother can, her strong faith had prevailed. And yet, I could see that she would never be quite the same again.
Once she saw me, Mother understood why I could not yet come home. In fact, the damage to my gastrointestinal system was so profound that I needed nine months at Fitzsimons hospital to heal. Moreover, my teeth had suffered a good deal too, and the dentist had his work cut out for him. There were occasional passes granted to go home, but even after discharge, I had to keep coming back to the hospital for treatments.
My stay in the hospital was more pleasant than I thought it would be. When the war in Europe was over on May 8, 1945, my fellow patients and I shared the joy of reading the top news stories. The Denver Post headline screamed, “TRUMAN AND CHURCHILL PROCLAIM COMPLETE VICTORY OVER GERMANY,” and the front-page stories assured us, “GERMAN ARMY CHIEF PLEADED FOR MERCY AT PEACE SIGNING,” followed by, “BODY OF HITLER FOUND, RUSSIAN GENERAL CLAIMS.” A banner headline in the Rocky Mountain News rejoiced, “This Is V-E Day,” and announced, “TRUMAN ON AIR 7 A.M. TODAY.”
Surviving the Reich Page 9
