We became close to a young rabbi who arrived in Denver around the time that June and I were just starting out. We joined his fledgling traditional congregation, for it seemed to me that now that I was settled, with my own family and business, I could dedicate more time to learning about Judaism. Rabbi Daniel and Ida Goldberger were the same age as June and I; they proved to be great lifelong friends and true catalysts for our spiritual growth. From the beginning, Mother also took a great liking to them and invited them to her home. They were honored guests at our family Thanksgiving meal, and from then on, it became a tradition for them to join our family for this event every year.
Fresh from rabbinical school in Skokie, Illinois, Rabbi Goldberger came from a long line of rabbis and knew what it meant to build a congregation. It is certainly not only a matter of leading prayers or giving sermons. A rabbi is a mentor, a confidant, and an advocate. It’s not an easy life, especially if a rabbi is conscientious about being there for everybody, at all hours, seven days a week—and Rabbi Goldberger was as dedicated as any rabbi could be. Starting out in a small rented hall on the East Side of Denver with Torahs from a synagogue that had closed, he attracted more and more congregants. He was a master at taking families that had little or no connection to Judaism and leading them toward deeper appreciation of their heritage.
His manner was direct but not aggressive. He was a wonderful teacher who brought meaning into everything. He was inspiring and magnetic, and his approach was reasonable. Knowing that becoming an observant Jew means taking on a great many lifestyle changes, he never pushed anyone to commit to total observance. He knew that once a person starts to keep one commandment, does one mitzvah, he or she would move on to the others.
Denver had an outstanding Jewish education program in which rabbis and teachers across the spectrum of Jewish life taught various classes. Rabbi Goldberger’s classes were always filled. We know. We went to all of them.
His congregation grew quite large, and after much fundraising, a building was constructed. My shul finally had its own home. But the rabbi wouldn’t let us rest on the satisfaction of building a structure. He stressed that along with communal growth, we must each keep growing within ourselves too. He formed a study group of six couples who met once a month. We read and discussed Jewish books on philosophy, faith, and Jewish living. Sometime we agreed, sometimes we debated, and often we found ourselves needing more research to answer the questions that arose. It was an enriching, growing experience. It was a way of exploring every facet of Judaism using our intellects, our experiences, and our gut feelings. June and I appreciated every aspect of the meetings, and we enjoyed the social camaraderie. With increased Jewish knowledge, came increased commitment. Little by little, we found ourselves becoming more Orthodox in our outlook and more observant of Jewish laws.
Our children now attended a Jewish day school, and we needed to keep up with them. June and I went to more classes on Judaism, steadily becoming more and more observant and finding great satisfaction in the lifestyle. Ultimately, we would move to a strictly Orthodox shul, though our deep friendship with the Goldbergers never abated.
Mother, of course, was delighted with this development, and she heartily endorsed our decision to send the children to a school where they would receive an intensive Jewish education. She always made it a point to attend the school’s fundraising dinners, and she did so proudly.
In fact, she always gave charity with a full heart, thankful that her lifelong Partner had never failed her. The woman who collected donations for Israel on behalf of the Allied Jewish Federation of Colorado always knew that Mrs. Goldstein would be waiting for her, money in hand. There was no need for pledges; she just gave, and with such gratitude on her face that the collector said, “She always made me feel like I was doing her a favor!”
As adults, my brothers and I cherished Mother even more than when we were children, for we understood and respected her unerring values and priorities. She never ceased to inspire us with her example. Standing, left to right: Jerome, Max, and me.
So it came as a shock to the entire Denver Jewish community when Mother passed away. The year was 1972. June and I, together with two other couples, Sally and Dave Spivak and Helen and Al Markson, had been planning our first trip to Israel. For me, it would be more than a vacation; I had looked forward to this visit as an emotional and spiritual opportunity for many years. As a young boy, I had listened enraptured as Mother read stories from the Bible, learning about the covenant that God made with our people and our inseparable connection with the land of Israel. With the establishment of the state of Israel in 1948, my dream of visiting grew stronger and stronger. Now it was going to become a reality.
But we delayed our trip because Mother seemed to be having problems with internal bleeding. Despite our urging her to see a doctor, she insisted that she felt fine and refused to go. After more pleading and pressure, she went to a doctor, who predictably wanted her admitted to the hospital for tests. She refused, citing the fact that she hadn’t been a patient in a hospital in forty-two years, since Max was born. Perhaps remembering my father’s untimely death after a routine dental procedure, she made it plain that she didn’t trust doctors and feared that she would never leave the hospital alive.
But there was no alternative. Ultimately, she had to go to for tests, and an intestinal tumor was found. It was removed, and the results were promising. She was to return home in a few days. But a blockage occurred, her complaints were ignored, and gangrene set in. To the end, she was a fighter and never gave up hope. But it proved to be too much for her.
News of the death of Ida Goldstein was in the Denver newspapers and set off an enormous emotional reaction throughout the city. Privately, our family knew well what an unusually resolute and positive person she had been. Despite all of the truly bitter events of her life, she never turned cynical or despairing. She faced those challenges as they came to her, like waves hitting a rocky shore, and stood up to them with a faith and determination. Her goal of raising her children and instilling in them the values that she treasured had been accomplished.
As my brothers and I married and eventually provided her with ten grandchildren, she joyfully emerged as the greatest bubbie. She told her grandchildren stories, read to them, encouraged them to develop their talents, and gave out treats (especially Life Savers and lemon drops). As they grew older, they discovered what a wise and wonderful confidant she could be.
Years ago, my friends and my brothers’ friends had discovered this quality in our Mom, and they often stopped by Murph’s for a private chat with her. She would guide them through their recent heartaches, advise them on employment, and inspire them to seek solutions to their problems. Years later, as her grandchildren grew, they too would stop at the store to have long discussions with their Bubbie. They brought their friends, and soon a new generation of young people sought her counsel. She would listen patiently, and they knew beyond doubt that she would always be discreet, never revealing their confidences to anyone. This kind of trust is rare in teenagers, but Bubbie Goldstein was an exception to every rule.
Mother was eulogized by five rabbis, including our beloved Rabbi Goldberger. Though she had little money and had been unassuming all her life, she was given the honors of a notable. Our family had no idea of the extent of her reach and how many people she had helped in her lifetime. Now those people were coming forward—huge numbers of men and women who came to the shiva, telling story after story that amazed even us. As word of her demise rippled outward, letters started arriving. At least fifty people whose names were totally unfamiliar to us wrote to tell us of the extraordinary things she had done for them, what a caring person she was, that she was one of the kindest and most unusual people they had ever met.
And Mother had saved a few surprises for me too. All of her life, she worked so hard at the store that I wanted to help her out financially once I was able. Though she continued to work, I gave her a check every week so she would know that s
he could retire whenever the time was right. It wasn’t until she died that I realized that she had never cashed any of my checks.
One of her most poignant posthumous gifts hearkened back to my childhood. When I was a youngster, my parents spoke Yiddish—the traditional tongue of Eastern European Jews—so my brothers and I would learn the language of our heritage. Mother would take us to see Yiddish movies, seat us in the back of the theater (so we wouldn’t disturb anyone), and then translate the dialogue. In Yiddish, there is an expression for everything, words of wisdom as well as silly sayings, and Mother used them all. “A fool is half a prophet,” she would murmur mysteriously, leaving us to figure out what that meant. Although I never learned to speak Yiddish, I memorized many of the colorful expressions, folk songs, and words or wisdom.
Toward the end of her life, I asked her to write down all of these expressions so I could learn them. She said she would try. I forgot about it. But Mother always kept a promise. After her death, we found a little notebook in her handwriting titled “For Ivan.” It was a list of transliterated Yiddish expressions, with full translations.
Two months after Mother’s death, we took our planned trip to Israel. My friend Dave and I visited my grandfather’s grave, a moving experience for us both. As I anticipated, treading on the holy soil of Israel made me feel even more rooted to my ancestors and their religious lifestyle. We promised ourselves we would come back to explore Israel again, and we returned to Denver inspired to further study our heritage.
Moving steadily into a more religious lifestyle did not mean that we would abandon our cherished friends, however. My army buddy Andy Urda and I kept our friendship intact, as we had always known we would. As prisoners, we had fixated on what life would be like after the war. He said he had a job waiting for him when he got back to the Ford Motor Company steel plant in Michigan—and he did. Over the years, Andy and his family visited us in Denver, we took trips together, and our wives and children became close friends.
On the Urdas’ first trip to Denver, we had a barbecue at our house, and my mother and brothers were invited to meet Andy and his family. Andy’s wish to meet Mother finally materialized. He spent the entire evening talking to Mother, and it was like he had been reunited with a person he had always known.
Though we were in contact every few months, we didn’t talk about the war. I wanted to forget it, and Andy had never quite got over the trauma we endured. He never slept a peaceful night and was in psychiatric treatment for the rest of his life. I was not aware of the depth of his agony until his children revealed it to me, but I did know that we were still bonded together at many levels. One night in 1979, June and I were going to the theater, and I told her that I had a strong urge to call Andy. But we were in a hurry, and she suggested that I call him tomorrow. The next day, before I could call, the phone rang. It was Andy’s daughter, Alene.
“Ivan, I don’t know how to tell you this . . .”
“It’s about your father! Something happened to Andy, didn’t it?”
“Why, yes. How did you know?”
“What happened? Can I speak to him?”
“Ivan, my dad had open-heart surgery yesterday and . . . and he died on the table.”
“I wish I had known he was having the surgery.”
“That’s my fault, Ivan—I’m so sorry! The night before, he said to me, ‘I’ve got to call Ivan,’ and I told him ‘Call tomorrow, when the surgery is over.’ It’s my fault he didn’t call—Dad really wanted you to know!”
“In a way, I did know. Don’t worry yourself about it. He was a good man and a true friend. He was a brave man too. You know, he never let the Germans know how much he was suffering, always stood up as straight as he could, always tried to look like he was fine. He felt that he represented all Americans, and he had to prove that we’re not weaklings or complainers. He carried himself like a hero, Alene.”
“I know. I think you understood him better than anybody.”
“I’ll miss him terribly. Thank you for making this difficult phone call. Please give my condolences to Helen, Andrea, and Greg.”
That night, during dinner, our family talked about Andy and his family. The conversation evoked suppressed and forgotten memories of our shared captivity. When the family went to bed, I sat in the dark living room for hours, thinking about Andy, and our desperate survival, our conversations, our joy at liberation, our bond. In four months, we had become one, and now a part of me had died. I felt that the last vestige of my war experience was now gone.
But that was not quite true. In March 1983, June and I were preparing to go to Israel to spend Passover with our son David, by now a Jerusalem resident with his own family. There were so many details I had to take care of at work, and I was in the middle a very hectic day. My secretary buzzed me and said that I had a call waiting on line two. The caller wouldn’t identify himself, but insisted that it was very important. I picked up the phone, and an unfamiliar voice asked, “Is this Ivan Goldstein?”
“Yes. Who is this?”
“A voice from your past. Where were you thirty-eight years ago this coming Wednesday?”
“I am not that fast at math, and I have no idea; you tell me.”
“Nineteen forty-five.”
“I was still in the army.”
“Correct. And do you know what annual event will take place eight days from tonight?”
I thought to myself, who is this joker? I don’t have time to play games. But I tried to keep from being rude. The voice said, “Think. What’s on your calendar?”
“It will be the first night of Passover.”
“Correct. Now where were you on the first day of Passover, 1945?”
“You tell me!” I exploded.
“You were in Stalag XII A, in Limburg, Germany. That’s when you were liberated, though you didn’t know what day it was.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I was with you.”
A cold chill went through me.
“The name is Schwartz,” he said at length, “Murray Schwartz. I was with you in the prison camp and also the hospitals after liberation.”
“I . . . I’m sorry. I remember very little about what happened. I don’t even remember your name.”
“Oh, I know,” he answered gently, “you were very sick, but you talked a lot in the hospital.”
Could it be? Was this the other American who shared the sick room with Andy and me?
“You’re the guy who yelled ‘The Americans are here!’”
“Yes.”
June and I met with Murray and his wife in New York before our flight to Tel Aviv. During the long dinner, he filled in details and events of my last days at Stalag XII A and the early days at the hospital: things I could never recollect on my own. The more he spoke about his war experiences, the more apparent it was that they had become a critical part of his present life. Instead of leaving memories behind him, as I had, he seemed almost obsessed with reliving them. He told me that he had been back to Germany four times and had retraced his steps as a prisoner. His research on the subject was endless, and he collected photos and memorabilia of the era. I discovered that people react to bad experiences in many different ways.
It was fascinating to learn, however, that the date of our liberation was Thursday, March 29, 1945, on the Hebrew calendar the fifteenth of Nisan, the first day of Passover. Every year at the Seder, Jews recount the numerous instances of release from bondage that miraculously occurred on that date throughout our long history. Ever since my talk with Murray, in my mind I have gratefully added the liberation of Stalag XII A to the list.
But other than that annual thanksgiving, I felt that the fewer reminders there were, the better. The horrors of my war experiences were hard to forget but even harder to remember. After speaking with Murray, I felt sure that the war was now out of my life for good. There was no way I could have expected another astonishing relic to reappear, but it did—for out of the mists of time emerged none
other than my old tank, the Barracuda.
CHAPTER 14
The Return of Barracuda
THE UNCANNY STORY BEGINS in 1947, when the landscape of Europe was covered with destroyed army vehicles. Villagers and scrap dealers came with acetylene torches and cut up whatever they could find to be sold as scrap metal. An American M4 Sherman tank sat rusting in a meadow pond in Millomont, Belgium. Mr. Denis, the owner of the meadow, was afraid that cutting up the tank would contaminate the ecology of his natural spring. The government removed the severely damaged tank intact and gave it to the people of Bastogne, recognizing that the nearby town had become a famous symbol of resistance in the Battle of the Bulge.
Mounted on a pedestal in McAuliffe Square, it was a monument to the bravery of the American forces that liberated the town from the German grip in that deadly winter of 1945. It was revered as a memorial to the victory of good over evil, a symbol of freedom.
The Barracuda, now serving as a memorial to the Battle of the Bulge, 1944–1945, stands in Bastogne’s McAuliffe Square.
For nearly fifty years, tourists from around the world came with their cameras and took triumphant pictures in front of this monument without knowing any details of its role in the Bulge. They looked at the gaping hole slashed by Nazi shells through the thick armor plating on its left flank and at another puncture at the rear of the tank, and they wondered if the men in this tank had survived. Identifying markings had been erased by time and weather. To which Army unit did the tank belong? Who were the men who had manned it during its last desperate moments in battle?
A good many rumors circulated from time to time. Some said that the 4th Armored Division broke through the German defense of Bastogne, and this was the first tank, Lieutenant Boggess’ tank. Others said it was undoubtedly the tank that General George Patton himself rode in when he entered Bastogne. Dramatic tales such as these, true or not, sheathed the tank in glory.
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