Surviving the Reich Read online

  As Mother’s errand boys, we had the responsibility of taking expensive jewelry to repair shops and wholesale establishments. And we all pitched in to keep the front windows, display cases, and cabinets sparkling.

  The best part of working in the store was meeting unusual people. Whether tourists or Denverites, we were fascinated by them. With the diverse and eclectic knowledge of a prolific reader, Mother attracted a broad assortment of “regulars” to Murph’s. There was the peanut man, who sold small bags of roasted peanuts from his worn, brown leather suitcase. His expertise was politics, and he often lectured us on the world’s political situation. He felt so strongly about the Spanish Civil War that he went off to Spain to fight against Nationalist Gen. Francisco Franco, and for years afterward, he talked incessantly about his experiences there. Then there was Chief Hawkins, a Sioux Indian chief, who brought his homemade items to sell at our store. For hours, he and Mother would exchange information about Indian and Jewish histories and cultures. “I tell you, Ivan,” he would say, winking conspiratorially, “the Sioux must be one of the Lost Tribes of Israel. We’re so much alike!”

  “The Pickle Man” was always dressed in an old, tattered suit and a stained tie. Aged, but in robust health, he attributed his longevity to eating a dill pickle every day. His expertise was in antiques and fine art. He spent many hours a week in the public library researching this passion. The highlight of his life was securing a folder of original Daumier etchings.

  These are only a few of the many people whom my mother befriended. Inadvertently, she was teaching me one of the most valuable of lessons: never judge people by their dress or status in life. I learned to respect everyone, to feel empathy for every human being, to value the knowledge of others, and to respect their interests. It is only by being a living example of this ethic that you can teach others. Many people espouse these values; Mother lived them.

  She was our religious mentor, too. She had been born and raised in the religious Jewish community of Denver, and she persistently tried to pass on this precious heritage to us. It was not always easy to do this, for some assimilated members of our family derided religion and chided her for being old-fashioned. She stood up for Judaism as a way of life, keeping a kosher home and infusing our Sabbath with as much warmth and beauty as she could.

  Though not strictly observant (for she felt compelled to work on Saturdays), Mother made it a point to keep us surrounded by role models with clear Jewish convictions and practices. As we grew older, we considered it a privilege to prepare for Shabbos, and we all had chores to do. (My job was washing the floors, and I became quite an expert at it.) On Friday night, she would recite Kiddush, the prayer sanctifying this holy time, and then she’d serve one of her wonderful Shabbos meals. Who could refuse a second helping of stuffed helzel (chicken neck) with its rich, smooth dressing, or chicken soup with eggs and lima bean crisps?

  On Friday nights, we sang in the synagogue choir, an experience that enriched us in numerous ways for the rest of our lives. “You have good, strong voices like your father’s,” Mother would tell us, though we knew that her voice, too, was sweet and melodious. Singing with us at bedtime, she taught us dozens upon dozens of songs—snatches of everything from Eastern European lullabies to American folk songs to popular Broadway hits.

  Mom sent us to cheder, an afternoon Hebrew school that taught us the basics of reading Hebrew and prayers. Jerry would play hooky from cheder now and then, and you could be sure that our cousin Morton would report Jerry’s absence to his mother. She, in turn, would call our Mom, beginning the conversation with, “Did you know your son wasn’t in cheder today?” And Mother would take it from there, resorting to the tried-and-true method of spanking her errant son. Though I too would rather have been playing ball, I didn’t really mind Hebrew school. Some of the teachers were European, and they gave us a peek into the world they had come from—a world known to my great-grandparents, rich in folklore and sturdy in its beliefs.

  Great Uncle Israel Block had a profound influence on me. He is shown here on the porch swing of his home at 1854 Hooker Street.

  My great uncle, Israel Block, was married to my grandmother’s sister, Aunt Leah. Uncle Block (as we called him) was a Rabbi who taught at the cheder on the west side of Denver (the more religious area of Denver). They were childless. After my grandmother died and Zaidy left for Palestine, Uncle Block and Aunt Leah filled the role of grandparents for the three Goldstein boys growing up in Denver. We spent the Passover Seders at their home and ate festive meals in their sukkah (temporary dwelling) during the holiday of Sukkoth. Mother sent us to stay at the Blocks’ at every opportunity to supply us with a religious experience and feeling that was missing on the east side of Denver, and we absorbed some of Uncle Block’s intangible and firm commitment to Judaism.

  Left to right: Ivan, Maxie, and Jerry.

  But the solid core of ideals came from Mother. With wisdom inherited from her forefathers and mothers, she knew that the way to bind a child to enduring faith was to teach it at home—not preach, mind you. Mother didn’t lecture. She would take us for tours of her birthplace and the old neighborhood, the west side of Denver that was rich in shuls. It even had a shvitz, a steam bath that was nearly sacred territory to three generations. (Today, the Denver Broncos football team plays in the stadium built on that site. Could it be that some places are forever destined for sweat?) She would punctuate these visits with true stories—some funny, others poignant—colorful tales of what it was like to grow up at the turn of the century among workers and tradesmen, midwives and merchants, neighbors who were like family. She even told us about the chevra kaddisha, the burial society, where volunteers tenderly prepared the dead for burial, and how the entire community would mourn every family’s loss as their own. At bedtime, she would regale us with more stories—about her grandmother arriving in Denver in a covered wagon even before Colorado became a state; and about her father’s horse, Jack, who seemed to sense on Friday afternoons that soon it would be Shabbos and would gallop home extra fast. And she taught by example about what it means to be kind and caring; to share all you have with others; to trust in God to see you through the tough times.

  Despite the hard facts of her struggle, she had us convinced that life is fun, taking us to summer band concerts, museums, and shows. She laughed with us and allowed us the freedom to explore our world. She saw beauty in everything, and so did we.

  I had no idea how great her challenges were until an eye-opening incident occurred in my early teens. One summer evening, Jerry and I had been watching the semi-pro softball games at City Park. After the games, we decided to play ball with friends in the park. Mother would come home quite late from the store in the summers (for the tourist trade made it worth her while), and she naturally expected us to be home when she got there. But we lost track of time and got home after midnight. Mother was frantic. She had searched for her missing boys and called everyone we knew.

  When we walked in the door, all of her fears and anxieties poured out in a harangue so loud that it woke my uncle and aunt, who lived next door. I will never forget Uncle Harvey leaning out of his window and shouting, “Ida, stop yelling! We told you to put the kids in a home! You can’t raise them yourself!”

  We all froze, immobilized by his impetuous revelation. “Just go to bed,” Mom muttered to us, her head drooping. Till then, I had never known that after Father’s death she had stood up to intense family pressure to remarry and put us in an orphanage, a commonplace practice at the time. I hadn’t realized how desperate she was to raise us well, all by herself. Now it was all clear, and the sharpness of that moment cut through me, never to be forgotten.

  But when President Roosevelt declared war, my first thought was of what I owed my country, not my family. Like many of my friends, I wanted to enlist in the army, but Mother said no. She had lost her husband early in life, and she had no intention of risking her son.

  No was no.

  Instead, she urged me to e
nroll in college after my high school graduation in June 1942. As far as she was concerned, I could sit out the war in a classroom. I didn’t argue. The University of Denver admitted me as an art major, and I was truly glad to be able to develop my interests and talent. As most of the fellows had gone off to war, I was one of the few males on campus. Surrounded by girls in every class, I reasoned that maybe staying in school wasn’t so bad after all.

  CHAPTER 2

  Army Life

  AS THE WAR PRESSED ON, rationing became a way of life; conservation of useful materials was our national duty. Like all other Americans, the Goldsteins pitched in to the war effort. Ours has been called “The Greatest Generation,” for we had slogged through the Great Depression and readily took on whatever challenges faced us. We had been toughened and grown practical: we were accustomed to do without. So what if we had to limit meat, sugar, butter? You want fresh vegetables? Grow them in your victory garden! Like twenty million other Americans, we seeded and weeded and watered our backyard. And we managed.

  Citizens participated in conservation measures with deadly earnest. Because of food shortages, families were issued food-rationing stamps to be used at their grocery stores, redeeming them twice a week, on Tuesdays and Thursdays. Because cooking fat renderings could be used in the production of certain munitions, the public was asked to save their cooking fat wastes. Collection stations were in neighborhood grocery stores, and the grocers would collect and turn in the cans of fat. Because of the demands of this system, manpower at the stores would sometimes be unable to keep up with the volume of donations. One day I was passing by Miller’s, a local grocery chain store, when I noticed a sign posted on the front window. I always regretted not taking a photo of this sign, as it easily could have taken top prize in a competition. It read, “Ladies, please do not bring in your fat cans on Tuesdays or Thursdays, as our clerks cannot handle them.”

  Everyone listened intently to the radio and scanned the newspapers for an encouraging word from the front, soberly accepting the idea that winning the war was vital to the United States, to Europe, to all humanity. Never since has the vast majority of our population been fully supportive of a war.

  My draft notice came in the winter of 1942, but the army allowed me to postpone my induction until the end of the spring quarter. Today, patriotism is considered naïve. But back then, if your country called you, you went. Mother was beside herself. Though proud that I qualified for service, her heart was torn in two. We all knew that Hitler was perpetrating some kind of genocide on our people. We had heard horrible stories—stories that just couldn’t possibly be true—yet we didn’t dare ignore them. Most Americans, and certainly every Jew, felt that this evil must be defeated at all costs. But to send her Ivan into the fray?

  My original dog tags.

  There was no choice, of course. It was July 1943, the day before my induction. I went swimming with some friends and fell asleep poolside for hours in the sizzling Colorado sun. The sunburn was unimaginably painful. Looking back on it, I probably should have gone to a hospital, but we were accustomed to taking care of ourselves, and I was determined not to be delayed in going into the service the next day with my friends. Mother treated the burn all night long with her usual expertise and tenderness.

  Scalded red, with my skin stinging at the slightest touch, I reported for duty at Fort Logan Army Induction Center on the outskirts of Denver. During the next few days, we were fitted for uniforms, took IQ tests, got our GI haircuts, and attended classes and briefings. Superiors urged me to report to the infirmary to treat the sunburn, but I refused. I was given a two-day pass to say goodbye to my family, and when I returned to Fort Logan we received orders to ship out.

  I was now on a troop train bound for sunny and glamorous California. We were going to Camp Roberts, a huge newly constructed center for infantry and field artillery training located midway between Los Angeles and San Francisco. Did I particularly want artillery training? No, but unlike enlisted men, draftees were given no choices. The basic training was with 155mm howitzers (large, field artillery cannons) and the program was intense. We were put through grueling physical training designed to shape untrained, out-of-condition men into battle-ready soldiers. Completely occupied by day, at night I would fall into my bunk, totally exhausted. But on Sunday, our day off, homesickness would overtake me, and I would call home to talk to Mother.

  I remained there only until November; my career in the field artillery was ended by the creative kindness of the Jewish army chaplain. I had been attending Friday night services as regularly as possible, for my boyhood choir experience had grown into a love of the familiar liturgy and a longing for Jewish connections. Besides, we were given kosher salami sandwiches—an extra taste of home. The chaplain took a fatherly interest in the nineteen-year-old from Denver who loved to sing and was kind enough to recommend me for the Army Specialized Training Program (ASTP): eighteen months of college courses in languages, engineering, and meteorology. A few days before we were to receive our orders to ship out to the Pacific theater, orders came through for me to take the ASTP admissions test at Compton Junior College in Los Angeles. Somehow, I passed the entrance exams in engineering, and they sent me to the University of Oregon in Eugene.

  Private Ivan L. Goldstein.

  In the Army Specialized Training Program (ASTP) at the University of Oregon, 1943. Our country was at war, and it was only a matter of time before I would be sent overseas.

  This was nothing like army life—living in a beautiful dormitory room, on a gorgeous campus, eating special food. Compared to the army, it was like living in a country club. My roommate was a bright young man from Connecticut named Richard Grossman. Prior to induction, he had started college with plans to become a doctor and had taken most of the science courses that we were taking in the first semester at ASTP. This was merely review for him. We had been warned that students who did not pass with high grades would not be kept in the program, and he offered his help in tutoring, which I gratefully accepted. After the first three months, I passed the tests with good grades and was guaranteed the next three-month program. We were to receive a short furlough home before the new session started. Then came a sudden announcement that landed like a bombshell.

  The army was planning a major invasion in Europe, and military experts anticipated that the losses in human life would be heavy. ASTP was a luxury the army could no longer afford: It needed fighters, not college boys. The entire program was shut down in universities nationwide, and my pals and I—all engineering students—were sent to Camp Cooke, California, where a battle-ready division awaited us.

  We arrived by train on a Sunday, and I was assigned to Company B, 41st Tank Battalion, along with three other students: Jules Levine, Ted Hartman, and Wayne Van Dyke. A warm and close friendship between our foursome was to develop during our service. (Some fifty-five years later, an incredible event was to occur that would reunite the four of us.)

  Our first day of duty with Company B wouldn’t start until the next day, so I decided to go to the movie at the post theater. While standing in the ticket line, someone struck the back of my knees, almost knocking me to the ground. I swung around, arms up, ready to protect myself—only to see, with great surprise, my cousin Howard Greinetz, who had just arrived with his ASTP unit. Howard told me that in the last letter he received from Denver, his father wrote that our great-uncle Israel Block had died. The cheder rebbe, the loving uncle whose warm Jewish influence had enfolded me as a child and strengthened me as a young adult, would not be there for me anymore. I felt like an orphan once again.

  There was no time to grieve, however, for the next morning, we were assembled to be briefed by our company commander, the captain who would become my unrelenting foe and nemesis for the next eight and a half months—you could say, the bane of my army existence. The confrontations between the two of us were bitter and constant. My resolve was that he would not break me and I would become a good soldier despite his dislike toward me.


  We were hustled into a crash course in mastering the Sherman tank. We college kids were trained as bow gunners—the lowest job of the five positions in the tank, for we had the least training. For five months, we were schooled in the operation of this workhorse of a weapon. It was lighter than the German tanks, we were told, and could move faster. The bad news was that the thin armor surrounding us would never stand up to the powerful, piercing shells of the German tanks. So the name of the game was to outmaneuver the German tanks, disabling them before they could get a good shot at us. That was the theory.

  But before I would face the enemy, I had to deal with my more immediate problem. I surmised that the captain’s disdain for me was rooted deeper than a common resentment of raw recruits. I had seen that look before. In Denver, as in many other places, the local Catholic school taught that Jews were Christkillers, tacitly encouraging their students to bully Jewish children. They would walk around the neighborhood in groups and look for Jewish kids walking alone to challenge or attack. If one of these gangs found you, you had better be able to handle yourself. A Jew learned to run, fight, and judge which one was better at any given moment. In short, I had to learn to size up a situation quickly and to take care of myself, and the lesson turned out to be a critical one later in my life.

  But I was unprepared for such an attitude from my tank commander. Maybe it was the fact that, unlike others on the base, I didn’t hide my Jewish background and, in fact, was proud of it. Maybe it had nothing to do with the fact that I was Jewish, but more because I wasn’t afraid of him, or of anybody else, for that matter. Whatever the reason, the captain’s antipathy for me was unmistakable.