Questions crowded my mind like a stampede of wildebeest. It was 1943, and I had just been drafted into the American army. How would I face this war alone? Where would I be stationed? What did I need to know? Rabbi Minkowitz will have the answers! I took the stairs two at a time and pulled open the doors. The smell of stale tea and musty books led me to the Rabbi’s study. A glass teacup and a lone sugar cube shared the desk with a stack of papers and an olive green rotary phone. The Rabbi sprang from his high-backed birch swivel chair.
“Ahh, Sidney, good to be seeing you.”
I grasped his outstretched hand. His gentle face reminded me of my grandfather’s love.
“How will I travel on Shabbos, Rabbi Minkowitz? Shabbos!” I blurted, after we exchanged pleasantries.
Rabbi Minkowitz pulled a book from the shelf and motioned for me to sit. We studied Sefer Machne Yisrael together with the pertinent halachos.
“Remember, dina demalchusa dina?” asked Rabbi Minkowitz, eying the draft notice sticking out of my pocket. “Your orders are to report Friday night…”
“But…“
“That is my psak!”
I folded and unfolded my legs, staring at my fingers. Finally, I jumped up from my seat, like the bird in the old cuckoo clock.
“What about food? What will I eat in the service?”
“You can eat what they serve, but try not to eat meat. If you need the nutrition,” he said, wagging a finger at me, “If you might get sick vithout it, then eat the meat, but alvays leave a little over on your plate.” I filed his advice safely in my heart.
The Rabbi stood abruptly, peering out the window at the strawberry-streaked sky.
“Come, we don’t want to be late for Mincha and kabbalas Shabbos. We’ll continue talking later.”
I followed Rabbi Minkowitz into the sanctuary to greet the Shabbos queen. After davening, the Rabbi motioned for me to follow.
“Come, Sidney, it’s time to go.”
I looked around. The Young Israel of Avenue U wasn’t more than an old house – a few minyanim, a youth group – but for me it was a home away from home. And now I was leaving.
We walked together into the icy night. I was all of 18 years old, embarking on an unknown journey. But I was not alone.
“Yisimcha Elo-kim…May G-d bless you like Ephraim and Menashe.” I closed my eyes, the noises outside hushed, and a gust of wind carried the blessing to my heart.
I would miss all this. We embraced and promised to be in touch.
* * *
The bus lurched. I pressed my nose against the icy window. Grand Central Station’s sooty silhouette faded into the December sky. I sank into my seat like the gunmetal clouds drooping overhead. Goodbye Mama, goodbye Papa! Goodbye NYC!
Frosty winds greeted me at Camp Upton, in Yaphank, Long Island. I tightened my scarf, smothering my sudden longing, and charged into the Army induction center’s outstretched arms. The first week was a whirlwind of unpacking, inoculations, and uniform fittings. I became a serial number. My metal dog tags read, “Sidney Rosenberg, 18377079, H (for Hebrew).”
Life in Camp Upton fell into a humdrum routine. Basic training included daily drills on army etiquette, marching, weaponry, and bunk inspection. (Army discipline became second nature and I still make my bed with hospital corners and shine a mean shoe.) Fifty men crammed into the stark barracks, cots lined up in rows down the length of the room. Our platoon slept, ate, and learned together. We also did hours of physical fitness training as a unit. The goal was to think of ourselves less as an individual and more as an integral team player.
The mess hall, a rectangular barrack lined with long, narrow tables and benches served meals cafeteria style. Large barrels filled with boiling water steamed at the entrance. We sterilized each piece of our mess kit – plate, knife, fork, spoon, and cup – dunking the tin utensils and air drying them. Then we’d get on the chow line.
“Hey, Rosy, wait up.”
I slowed my pace. A soldier jogged over.
“Lemme get in line with you.” He slapped me on the back, jabbering nonstop.
“Hey, Rosy, you eating the meat today?”
I shook my head, no.
He stuck out his plate as I withdrew mine.
“Give him my portion,” I called to the guy on mess duty. I piled my plate with side dishes.
“Thanks, buddy,” my new friend saluted, balancing his tray on one hand.
I made a show of laughing. Silently, I thanked Rabbi Ze’ev Minkowitz, recalling our last conversation.
I never did eat meat in the army. I chose fruits and vegetables, cereals, and dairy instead. The other soldiers caught on to my interesting eating habits and took full advantage.
* * *
The days passed quickly, and Shabbos was on my mind. As the sun set on Friday evening, I made my way to the chapel. The room boasted a large Jewish star and some other Jewish paraphernalia. A three-panel tapestry depicting a set of luchos, two lions embracing menorahs, and the words “Zeh Hashaar Lashem” emblazoned in gold Hebrew lettering hung on the front wall to the right. A similar tapestry, portraying a Christian scene, hung on the left. Two large flags flanked the altar: the chapel flag (Christian or Jewish depending on the particular service) and the U.S. national flag. Most of the soldiers mingling were unaffiliated Jews. I shivered. So this is Shabbos in the Army, cold and sterile! I hadn’t expected much, but the reality hit like a raging river. I spotted one fellow whom I had seen earlier in the day coming off a bus, lugging a shopping bag. I introduced myself.
“Hi, there, I’m Rosenberg, from Brighton. You new?”
“Nah,” the fellow answered. “I’m actually stationed here – an engineer – working in the corps.” He lifted his cap, revealing a black yarmulke, and stuck out his hand: “Dinkels. Shalom aleichem, gut Shabbos!”
I clasped his hand in mine, glad to have met a fellow religious Jew.
“Sid, follow me.” Dinkels led me to his barracks. We walked between the rows of cots to the far end of the room. Two small candles twinkled in the corner. He opened his footlocker and pulled out a white cloth, wine, challah, and everything we would need for the Shabbos seuda. “Freshly imported from Boro Park,” he said.
He made Kiddush and Hamotzi, and passed around the food. We enjoyed a real oneg Shabbos together. The other Jewish kids who had tagged along looked on in wonder.
“I get plenty of ridicule for my ‘eccentric activities,’” he divulged as we partook of his largess, “but thank G-d, I am doing well.”
* * *
After a month in Camp Upton, I was transferred to an anti-aircraft battalion in East Hartford, Connecticut. Located on the second-highest spot in town, the Sunset Ridge Golf Club became a U.S. Army outpost in 1942. Anti-aircraft batteries were installed, and specially-trained soldiers were stationed on the highly-guarded grounds to protect the nearby Pratt and Whitney Company, manufacturers of military firearms and airplanes. The army secured maximum protection to prevent sabotage or foreign infiltration. It turned out to be precautionary. Thank G-d, there was no onsite provocation.
My stint in Connecticut proved fortuitous because of its close proximity to New York. I was able to go home for Shabbos on my day off. Having a minyan nearby was a novelty that I did not take for granted. The local rabbi welcomed me into his life like a long-lost son. When I slept over, a tap-tap-tap on the study door roused me from the daybed and called me for Shacharis. One Friday night, I tagged along to a memorable oneg Shabbos, filled with singing, noshing, and camaraderie. When asked to share a Torah thought, I humbly declined, raptly listening to the others’ wisdom instead.
The East Hartford shul was dated and musty. A rangy old, man, wearing a dark tail coat, white bowtie, and a stovepipe top hat caught my attention. He’d shuffle over, leaning on a knobby, oak cane. Caressing my cheek with a bony finger, he’d rasp, “Well, lookey here. A spanking young GI. Good luck, my boy, good luck!” And he’d hobble away to his seat in the back.
I spent some time in Connecticut and then was shipped out for basic training to Camp Croft located near Spartanburg, South Carolina. We slept in tents, 10 soldiers per tent. We were issued our first gun and taught how to fight. The camp’s mantra, “kill or be killed,” shook us out of our complacency.
Chaplain David Max Eichorn led Conservative/Reform style services. I woke up early each day, before the bugle call, to daven and put on tefillin. Only then did I begin my daily routine.
One day, in early Spring, I ventured into town on my day off. The bus rumbled past the camp’s rolling fields, alive with blue thimble and milkweed. An earthy smell filled the crisp morning. Noisy woodpeckers and garrulous thrush trilled in the tall oak trees. Even in town, I detected the odor of quickening life. I asked around and was surprised to learn that an Orthodox rabbi lived nearby. We met and took a liking to each other. Pesach was fast approaching and the rabbi’s invitation for the sedarim was cause for celebration.
On erev Yom Tov, I hitched my way to the rabbi’s house, excited about the upcoming holiday, not giving much thought to my unexplained leave of absence. The first two days were exhilarating. Motzei Yom Tov, the rebbetzin filled a rucksack with matza and some other essentials, and the rabbi loaded me into his Buick and drove me back to base.
I stole into camp, my nerves biting like killer ants. Punishments for being AWOL for less than three days could result in a penalty of confinement for a month. Reporting promptly to my summons, I stated my misdemeanor and readied myself for punishment. Major Ralph Praeger* ranted about punctuality, responsibility, and commitment. I readied myself for the gulag! Finally, he handed me my order. I was to pace in front of the office for six hours straight, my back loaded with a heavy pack. Whew! The major was Jewish, and he knew exactly why I went. His admonition rang in my ears. But he let me off easy.
It was humiliating, it was excruciating, it was hot! Such is life for a Jew in the Army.
* * *
Shavuos that year was on May 28-29. In anticipation, I had applied for a furlough for the Yom Tov and for the beginning of June 1944. Yom Tov came out on Shabbos/Sunday/Monday, and I was thrilled to spend a few days with family and friends. On Tuesday, June 6, the city buzzed with excitement. We exited shul after davening, and were swept into a sea of revelers. Radios blasted on street corners as children paraded down the street waving red, white, and blue streamers. The neighborhood rocked in celebration. Newspaper headlines screamed “Hitler’s Sea Wall Is Breached, Invaders Fighting Way Inland; New Allied Landings Are Made!” Allied forces had stormed the beaches of Normandy, in France, forcing a Nazi retreat.
D-Day became a turning point in the War, but news of American casualties marred our jubilance. I worried about the friends I had left behind. When I returned to camp after Yom Tov, I learned that my unit had been called up to replace the fallen soldiers at Normandy. I ran to the barracks, searching for my buddies.
No one was there! The men had already been shipped out. I couldn’t breathe. I stumbled to a bench and collapsed, my legs trembling. I was spared.
Thank you Hashem!
* * *
News of impending deployment jolted us like a typhoon on a torpid summer day. What a surprise that we were assigned to a civilian train. We traveled cross-country, enjoying our freedom for four days. The train boasted a luxury dining car, and our army-issued tickets gained us entry for free meals. Linen-clad tables were set with beautiful silverware and crystal glasses, and they were serviced by white-gloved waiters. While the others perused the menu, one of my chums ordered for me: “Give him two portions of cereal. He won’t eat much else!”
We disembarked at Fort Ord at Monterey Bay, near Carmel, on the California coast. The army post housed over 50,000 troops. We trained for deployment. I mingled with the Jewish soldiers. We tried to stick together whenever we could. Sam Eidelman,* the chaplain’s aide, introduced himself. He seemed to know a thing or two about emesseh Yiddishkeit. And he was a nice kid.
“Sidney, why not become an assistant chaplain? I mean, with your background you would be a perfect fit!”
“I’m just a primitive Jew, Sam…”
“Com’on. This way you stay safe. You’re local.”
His offer tempted me, and I mulled it over for a few days. I decided that it wasn’t for me and eventually dropped the idea. At the end, those guys were sent overseas anyway!
I was issued an official Army duffel bag, embossed with my personal details. We had to fit all of our belongings into that bag. We packed and planned for our voyage overseas. Finally, it was time to leave.
Our ship loomed in the port. One by one, our batteries marched on board. Surveying my tight quarters, I arranged my stuff and resolved to hang out above deck. I squeezed through a maze of soldiers and sailors, and stood by the rail watching the boisterous goings-on. Gusts of ocean air ruffled my shirt. I breathed in the freshness, beginning to relax.
As the foghorn blew, a fleet of diesel trucks roared up the dock, plumes of exhaust rising in great black clouds. The caravan backed toward the ship. Suddenly, the hatches flew open and a sea of chained men, led by armed guards, paraded up the gang plank. Once aboard, their chains were removed. I learned that the government sent these convicts to the front as a pardon deal. If they survived their dangerous missions, they would be set free. We had to be careful of those guys, so I always slept with one eye open. My hammock provided a cozy resting spot and I quite enjoyed the ride once I overcame my initial seasickness.
We finally made it to the Philippine Islands. Small landing boats greeted our ship. I heaved my duffle bag overboard, aiming for the boat below. Once my bag was safely stowed, I climbed down a narrow ladder, hugging the ship’s hull, jumped into the boat and was rowed to shore.
Military trucks transported us to our base in Manilla. I squinted under the glare of the strong sunlight. Army tents huddled in the muddy fields and fierce humidity. Ten to 15 soldiers were assigned to each tent. Pesky mosquitoes swarmed everywhere. In addition to DDT spraying, we draped a net over our cots to keep out the invasion at night.
Our camp was a replacement depot. As soldiers were killed or incapacitated on the Japanese front, our men would be called up to replace the casualties. It was a scary thought and a frightening place to be.
One day, I was sitting in my tent, taking in my surroundings. A group of officers walked by. I studied their retreating backs. Something clicked. That gait. I know that guy! I ran over to him.
“Herby Krupp? Is that you? What are you doing here?”
He grasped my hand warmly, the medals on his uniform sparkling in the sun. “Come see me, Sid, when you’re all set up.” He motioned toward a squat building off to his right, and gave me the thumbs up, the way he used to back in Hurleyville.
* * *
Suddenly, I was transported back to my childhood. It was summer, and the taxi’s horn blasted. We schlepped down to the “limousine,” Mama, Papa, Moe, and I, intent on stuffing our entire apartment into the car. Our destination – the Krupp family’s rambling rooming house in the Catskill Mountains. Two rooms and a bathroom became our “private quarters” for the season. There was a big wood-burning stove in the kitchen for communal use: thus the term “a kuchalein.” The well-to-do Krupps spent the summers with us in their private bungalow on premises. We loved Herby, the Krupp’s eldest son. Oh, the stories he told. Oh, the games he played. How we laughed and cried, running circles around his feet. The good ol’ days...
* * *
The memories played in my mind as I hummed my way to headquarters. A bored-looking secretary led me to Krupp. I found him in a smoke-filled room, perusing a magazine. He snubbed his cigarette against the wall and smiled, “Sidney!”
“Herby, whatcha doing…?”
He rolled his eyes.
“I was shipped here same as you – officer in the Quartermaster Corp.”
He swiped his sweaty forehead with a handkerchief.
“You type?”
“No, sir,” was my honest reply.
“Drat! No use getting yourself sent to the front. Could’a used you as my personal secretary.”
Well, that sounded good to me, only I couldn’t type and there was no way I could be his secretary. I eagerly waited to hear what he would say next.
“Kid, I’m gonna try my best.”
Herby spread his hands out on the desk.
“I have a friend, Jewish guy. He posts the names on the bulletin board, announcing the soldiers that are being sent out. I’m gonna see that he leaves your name off the list.”
“Thank you, Herby, old man.” I grabbed his shoulders, throwing him a mock kiss.
He winked conspiratorially. We shook hands, and I left, thanking G-d for the unexpected turn of events.
Things were status quo for a while. One day, Herby’s friend cornered me.
“Sidney, this can’t go on too much longer. Eventually, they are going to catch on. What’ya think we should do?”
I swapped at a mosquito.
“What can you do?” he asked.
“I can drive a car,” I announced proudly.
“Oh, by gosh! We’ll get you into the motor pool. That’ll keep you safe. Look out for your orders.”
I was transferred to the motor pool, the army taxi service, stationed in headquarters. Our makeshift barracks – an old cigar factory – exuded personality. It was austere but Army-style comfortable. The workload was light and varied. I chauffeured interesting characters, and took in the sights along the way, broadening my view of the War effort. We worked a 24-hour shift and then had two days off. This allowed me to arrange my schedule so that I didn’t have to work on Shabbos.
Once, a few lawyers piled into my jeep and directed me to the prison where they would interrogate Japanese POWs. The Japanese prisoners were short, skinny men. I saw them lugging huge garbage cans filled with water. It was quite a sight.
One day, I was summoned to Sgt. Griffin’s office. From behind the desk stepped a middle-aged hulk with shoulders as broad as the desktop. His Texan drawl, laced with undisguised hate, rankled like static on a broken FM radio.
“Rosenberg? Eh?”
I clenched my fists tightly behind my back.
His sapphire eyes gleamed between narrowed lids.
“How’d you like to do some…bubble dancing?”
Gulp!
“Kitchen patrol, anyone?” He leaned forward, a lion preparing to pounce.
I shrank back as his wicked gaze never flinched.
“Put that in your mess kit, kid!” he barked. And he turned on his heels without a backward glance.
Before I knew it, that anti-Semite had me transferred to the kitchen.
In the kitchen, I sensed a strange mixture of aloofness and reverence. People began talking to me with respect, they kept out of my way, and tried to get on my good side. At first, I was puzzled by this strange behavior. I soon found out that the kitchen was a punishing ground. The KP were known as a rough crowd, a mafia of sorts. To them, Sunday was sacrosanct: a party day. I offered to work Sunday, and they took my Saturday shift. The guys loved me for it and protected me like some sort of saint. I became known as one of the tough guys. It worked out well for me.
We cleaned pots and pans and served the food, cafeteria style. I had access to the pantry and took as much kosher foodstuff as I needed. In fact, I used to bring along industrial-size cans of fruits and vegetables when I went off-base for Shabbos. My hosts appreciated these wartime luxuries.
* * *
For the High Holidays, Chaplain Dudley Weinberg staged services at the shell-torn Rizal Stadium. I stood quietly in the back, where I noticed some others milling around. We grouped together, discussing options for an authentic Rosh Hashanah davening. Two civilians wearing yarmulkes approached our group.
“Name’s Ezra Toeg,” the older of the two said, offering his hand. “This is my brother, Ezekiel. Shalom.”
The brothers’ dark skin and tell-tale Asian features screamed native.
“A pleasure. Where are you heading for the prayer services?”
“We have a minyan in the JEC. Please join us.”
We davened with the Toegs for the Yamim Noraim. Our friendship blossomed, and I bonded with the extended family. Over many Shabbos meals, I drank in the Toegs’ fascinating history. Their prized race horse, Camanche, and their houseboat, named Flora, amazed me. Growing up in squalor as I did during the Great Depression, it was hard to imagine the opulence and security that the Baghdadi Sefardic Jews enjoyed in Shanghai. I was also amazed by their tenacity, religious integrity, chesed and emes.
By the early 1900s, Sefardic Jews had become business leaders in Shanghai. They built sprawling mansions with huge lawns and tennis courts, and employed servants and governesses. Ezra described the high culture, the elite clubs, polo matches, and paper hunts. The Toegs summered in the Rokosan Mountain Resort and traveled frequently on the Empress Line to Japan.
The Toeg estate boasted a private mikvah. Aslan Toeg, Ezra’s father, woke up early, davened, and then went horseback riding with the kids. After eating breakfast, he learned Chumash with the boys before heading out to work. They lived in fairy tale luxury.
A Russian refugee who had settled in Shanghai learned with Ezra. Rabbi Wallik was a mohel and a shochet. Ezra learned shechita from him, and this skill came to good use later in life. The family business, Woodcraft Works Limited, processed lumber for parquet floors and exquisite furniture veneers. They bought little islands all over the Pacific where exotic trees grow, and harvested the wood there. Being the oldest son, Ezra, together with his mother, was sent to oversee the work on the Island. He shechted fowl there, so they had fresh chicken to eat while on the island.
World events shook the Toegs’ idyllic life in the years leading up to World War II. Despite the upheaval, the family remained united and, during the early years of the war, lived together in the four-story Toeg residence. The Sefardic community that remained staunchly preserved its religious practices no matter the danger. Ezra’s family relocated to Manila, where they flourished and their business thrived. I will never forget the kindness that he and his family extended me during my galus in the Philippines.
I spent many hours in the Toeg home, riveted by Ezra’s tales. He was quite a character. Now, I, too, benefited from his shechita expertise. Ezra shechted fowl in his yard, and I ate chicken for the first time since I was shipped out.
We davened together with the Toegs in a minyan organized for shomrei Shabbos. A Brooklyn-born Orthodox army chaplain joined our minyan. There was also Arthur Simons, Dr. Lou Goldfarb, Butler, and Fineberg from Seattle, Washington. A cluster of refugees from the Nazis escaped to Manila. We met two shomer Shabbos families – the Holtzers and the Hirschauts – who also joined our religious group. Despite our cultural differences, we bonded like brothers. In fact, years later, Yashar Hirschaut became a renowned oncologist at Mount Sinai in New York City. Dr. Hirschaut treated my ailing wife with familial devotion.
In 1944, Japanese naval troops took over the large Temple Emil, and the five sifrei Torah were given to nearby Jewish families for safekeeping. The Holtzers rescued one large sefer Torah. When the fighting and bombing increased, the hounded refugees buried the Torah in their backyard. The Holtzers and Hirschauts found refuge in the Santa Mesa area. They lived in a big bombed out warehouse. It was one big room, so they strung blankets across the room for privacy. Eventually, the Holtzers returned to their apartment, but there was no electricity.
One Chanukah, we went to visit the Holtzers.
“Happy Chaunkah Sidney! What are you lugging there?”
I dumped a large sack onto the table. A few potatoes tumbled out. The children squealed and scooped up the booty. I rolled up my sleeves. “Mrs. Holtzer, we’ll help you fry up some potato pancakes.”
“Latkes, sounds delicious….” She licked her lips. Then, twirling her apron strings, she scanned the cooking area. “But a grater we don’t have. Vi azoi velin mir machen es?”
“Don’t worry, Mrs. Holtzer. One minute.” I ran outside and found a nail lying in the gutter. I came back in and grabbed a large can of peaches that I had brought from the mess hall. “Empty the peaches into a bowl and wash it out well,” I instructed.
The children gawked as I cleared the table, rolled open the tin can and poked holes in it with the sharp nail. Then we turned the tin upside down and…viola…a makeshift grater.
The latkes were delicious as are the memories of that special Chanukah.
Ezra also introduced us to Heshy Moscowitz, a young musmach of Torah Vodaath. After his draft, he volunteered as an infectious diseases medic. Heshy’s bona fide yeshiva-student status excited us like sparklers on a dark night. Our motley crew, held together by faith and friendship, strengthened each other until the end of the war.
The night before we were to be shipped back home, I visited the Toegs. Ezra served me a glass of tea with sugar. I inhaled: lemon and ginger. I popped the lone sugar cube into my mouth and sipped. The sweet warmth melted my heart, like the bracha of my Rabbi had so many years before.
Hashem was with me in the army. I was never alone as He guided me through the tough and lonely years. He is with me still.
Zisi Berkowitz is the granddaughter of Sidney Rosenberg and niece of Mrs. Feiga Oberstein.
Sources: essay by Esther Isaac, Toronto, Canada, 19 August 2010.
Escape to Manila by Frank Ephraim
*a pseudonym
