An Orthodox GI Fights

This May was the 75^th anniversary of VE (Victory in Europe) Day. On May 5, 1945, four days after Lag b’Omer, Nazi Germany surrendered unconditionally to General Eisenhower, the Allied Supreme Commander, ending the Second World War and the Holocaust. The Russians, understandably miffed, insisted on their own surrender ceremony, which took place a few days later. The German army and the German government ceased to exit. The entire country was occupied by the American, Russian, British, and French armies. As Jews, the end of the War left mixed feelings of joy and sorrow, joy at the destruction of Hitler and his Germany, sorrow at the six million korbanos. All of subsequent history has played out in the shadow of the Second World War.

Recently, I had occasion to read a dissertation about Jewish GIs in World War Two and the phenomenon of gittei milchama, the conditional divorce traditionally issued by Jewish soldiers to their wives to protect them from becoming agunos in the event the soldier became MIA, missing-in-action. A footnote in the dissertation referenced an article published in 1949 by a frum Jewish soldier named Gottfried Neuberger (no relation to the Baltimore Neubergers; I asked), describing his experiences trying to observe Torah and mitzvos in the American Army during the war. This soldier was not in the front lines, but he was not far behind, as you shall read. I was surprised I had never heard of this article or this author, and I think his experiences will be of interest to the readers of the Where What When, bringing out one aspect of that momentous conflict nearly eight decades ago. There were a fair number of GIs who, like this author, struggled (with uneven success) with the challenges of keeping mitzvos and avoiding aveiros in the armed forces of the United States, and this article, reprinted with kind permission of Commentary magazine, is a tribute to them, as we contemplate this historic anniversary.  DK   

An Orthodox GI Fights a War

by Gottfried Neuburger

It started at once, in the improvised mess hall in the crowded induction center in Grand Central Palace. A corporal stood at the end of the chow line and looked at the large, flat metal tray I was holding.

“What’s the matter? Are you sick?”

The large compartments of the tray were empty. In one of the small spaces in a corner was a helping of fruit salad, flanked by two slices of bread. The only other item was a cup of black coffee.

“No,” I said, “I’m on a diet.”

“You won’t last long with that kind of a diet.”

I did not answer him, but I feared he was right. That very thought had worried me ever since General Watson had reassured me in a letter from the White House in 1940: “The President is personally concerned that every possible consideration be given to the moral and physical welfare of our Jewish soldiers….” And again a few weeks later, “The President feels certain that the religious interests of your people will not be seriously jeopardized and that in due time a means will be found to meet the situation….”

Well, the truth was that no means had been found. Thousands of soldiers found themselves faced with dilemmas of conscience in regard to Sabbath observance, dietary laws, and the innumerable other problems arising daily, indeed almost hourly, from the conflict between religious observance and military duty. Many solutions had been proposed, but all in the end had been rejected as impracticable. Kosher food kitchens, for instance, would be feasible only if there were separate Jewish units. Nobody wanted that – there was to be no “Jewish brigade” in the U.S. Army.

Of course, the problem was not a new one. The saintly Chofetz Chaim had written a special book, Camp of Israel, on the subject of religious observance in the modern army. Still, all decisions had to be made individually, from case to case, from day to day. Fortunately there were certain rules we could go by. Under no circumstances was the Sabbath to be desecrated voluntarily or for private, non-military purposes. Sometimes it was possible to volunteer for Sunday duty in order to be off on Saturday. It was also SOP (standard operating procedure) to volunteer for KP and similar duties on Christmas and other Christian holidays. Above all, we knew one thing: We had to be especially conscientious soldiers at all times. Nobody was going to be able to accuse us of using religion as a means of “gold-bricking.”

And it worked. The corporal in Grand Central Palace was wrong after all. Enlisted men and officers kept the “diet,” with modifications due to country or season, through North Africa and France and the Pacific, in the infantry and the combat engineers and the service units, in the army and in the navy. Strangely enough, or perhaps not so strangely, these men were not the target of anti-Semitism; they were – at least as long as the fighting lasted – treated by other soldiers and superiors alike with respect and consideration.

*  *  *

The whistle blew and the lights went on. In a moment the room was full of noise. One half of the platoon slept on this upper floor of the barracks, the two rows of bunks lined up carefully to a fraction of an inch. On my right was Pop, the fat Yugoslav, on my left, Wung from Chinatown. On the opposite side was Otto Meyer from Yorkville, formerly a member of the Reichswehr, who had proved to be a crack shot on the rifle range.

In five minutes the first sergeant would come up and turn over, with a slight motion of one of his giant arms, each bunk still occupied by a sleeping soldier. We had 15 minutes from the whistle to reveille. The washroom with the dozen basins was crowded with men waiting in line for a chance to shave in front of the mirrors. Others were running up and down the narrow wooden stairs.

I put on my drab-green army underwear, then my arba kanfos and the uniform shirt and trousers. The upper floor was almost empty now. The boys knew that I shaved upstairs because I was not permitted to use a razor blade. I carried around a little arsenal of electric plugs, extension cords, and transformers to solve this problem of shaving. You never knew in the army where you were going next, and so I had to be prepared for all eventualities. So far there had been no trouble. In the “tent city” at Fort Dix, on the troop train down South, and now in the infantry training center of Camp Wheeler, I had always found some electric connection where one of my plugs would fit. I put the cord of my shaver into the extra outlet I had screwed in above the light bulb next to my bunk. After a few minutes I rushed downstairs, just in time for the platoon sergeant’s stentorian “Fall in!” Then came “’Pany, ‘ten-tion!” “Report!” On this cold December morning in Georgia it was still dark and the stars were shining peacefully and brightly above the shivering soldiers in their heavy overcoats.

Now the men were running back into the barracks to get their mess gear. On days like this I had to reverse the usual order: I ate breakfast while it was still dark and said the morning prayers afterwards. I entered the mess hall through the KP entrance. In the little storage room I picked out an orange and two raw carrots. The mess sergeant had given me the run of the space where the kitchen supplies were stacked in sacks, baskets, and bins. The company did not lose anything on the deal. A man who did not eat any meat or milk or butter, whose only cooked food was potatoes or eggs boiled in the shell whenever they happened to be on the menu, such a man – though his reasons were obscure – could have an extra can of salmon or some extra apples any day he wanted them.

Putting on my little black skull cap, I poured water over my hands and said the blessing “Al netilas yadayim.” Taking the cap off, I walked quickly to my corner seat. That was also SOP: In each army mess hall I picked a corner seat, with my back to the wall. Though I could wear my little cap during the meals, it had to be done without any unnecessary attention – nobody was allowed to wear a uniform cap or helmet in any mess hall. Seated, I slid the cap on again and said the blessing, “Who bringeth bread forth from the earth.”

There wasn’t much time; first formation was at eight o’clock. For “us” it was always a race against time in the army. I got back to my bunk, saw to it that the sheets had the proper corners and that the blanket was flat and tight without any wrinkles. Then I covered my head with the tallis, said the blessing, put the prayer shawl down over shoulders and back, took the cubicle coverings off the tefilin – Otto Meyer always regarded these tiny velvet-lined coverings as “idols” I was praying to – and put the leather straps of the phylacteries around my head and left arm and hand (Deuteronomy 6: 8). I could say only part of the prayers; the remainder would be said during the lunch period. After all, I could not risk being caught in the middle of Shemoneh Esre when the company was marching off.

*  *  *

We were fully aware of the fact that we had to compromise continually. If there ever was an emergency permitting temporary religious adjustments, this war was it. The task was to hold infractions of religious observance to a minimum while keeping military efficiency at a maximum.

Saturday afternoons the camp was empty. Everybody, except the “charge of quarters,” KP’s, latrine orderlies, and the fellows in the guardhouse, took off. I had the whole battalion area for myself. I could not leave till sundown because I could neither sign nor carry my pass till then, and of course I could not have taken any money, even bus fare, with me. Every Sunday, however, was a sort of chol hamoed. Within commuting distance of most camps there was usually a small town that had at least one Jewish grocery store. There we feasted on smoked fish and salami and Rokeach soups. As soldiers we had no stamps for these rationed goods, but the local Jewish Welfare Board representatives usually had some extra stamps for “institutional” purposes.

Another year went by, filled to overflowing with change and experiences: The Jewish intelligence colonel who performed a Purim miracle, the joy of feeling the instant response of the controls of a Piper Cub or Taylorcraft, the reckless boys of the armored division. Then, in a different key, the STAR Center of ASTP (Army Specialized Training Program) in New York – with real mezuzos on the doors of the sleeping quarters – the labyrinth of the Pentagon, the cloak and dagger corridors of the Office of Strategic Services, the staid halls of the Catholic School of Foreign Service – expressive of the desire to move the clock of history back to the pre-Protestant era.

And all this time the nagging thought, “How are you going to manage when you get overseas?”

*  *  *

The troop transport SS Alexander had docked an hour ago. The quay was deserted except for a handful of dock workers and some British MPs. Now the soldiers were coming off the gangplanks, lugging their overstuffed duffel bags on their shoulders or dragging them on the ground. As if this were not enough, some of us carried an additional small wooden case.

Perspiring and near collapse, we paid little attention to the stark ruins of Liverpool’s blitzed port or to the winged figure atop its tallest building. Oh, to be a civilian and call for a taxi or a porter. As it was, there weren’t even any army trucks. Each of us held on doggedly to his case. This was the evening before Passover and in the precious box we had some matzos, a few cans of gefilte fish, and even a bottle of Passover wine. (The chaplains in Camp Myles Standish and Boston port of embarkation had been more than thoughtful.) With the extraordinary luck of having an Orthodox chaplain on board we probably broke the U.S. Army record by having a minyan three times daily, with a few services in English thrown in for good measure.

There happened to be an unusually high percentage of Jews in this new outfit. Many of these boys, even though they were not very strict otherwise, wanted to have matzos for Passover, but there was only enough for a few. The chaplain, unfortunately, was not going to be with us any more, and so I made up my mind to try to get the seasonal “bread” for all in the regiment who wanted it.

My company was billeted in Didsbury. Everything and everybody was new – officers, cadre, and men. Even the TO (table of organization) was not yet established. As a matter of fact, this was the first American division to be formed on foreign soil. Under the circumstances it looked almost impossible to interest the military hierarchy in the matzos problem.

The newly assigned company commander proved to be open-minded on the subject. (He was a Syrian and knew a little bit about “oriental” affairs.) There was nothing he could do, but he gave me permission to see the regimental adjutant. The adjutant had other worries that morning. So he was glad when I offered to attend to everything myself. Within less than an hour I had a jeep and authorization to drive within the city limits of Manchester. Before noon I had located a large supply of matzos at the local Red Cross club, where it had been deposited for just such an emergency.

I loaded the big cartons into the back of the jeep. All the other companies, I found out, ate in Nissen huts like ours. During the next few hours I drove through Manchester, with a map of the city and a list of company locations in my lap, and left one box with each mess sergeant. There was no time for formal announcements or orderly procedure. I simply told each mess sergeant to place the box in a conspicuous place near the end of the chow line. Only those who had taken no bread were to be permitted to take matzos; otherwise there would be nothing left for those who wanted it most.

During the course of the day I had been introduced to a prominent member of the Manchester Jewish community. His wife offered to furnish me with egg, bone, herbs, and charoses , and I accepted gratefully. When I came home to my billet, a little worn out but happy, the landlady, the charming wife of a director of the municipal gas works, invited me to the family supper table. I had to express regrets that I could not accept even a cup of tea just then, during our “Easter week.” I don’t think the dear lady quite understood; she thought this was some quaint American custom. She also politely agreed to put out the light in my room at ten o’clock. When I finally sat down to my Seder meal, I found that only one ingredient was missing: after just spending 10 days on the Atlantic Ocean I had no salt water.

*  *  *

Lieutenant Banks cursed, but after a few moments he fell asleep again. His bedroll was directly in front of the jeep. I was curled in the driver’s seat and in my dreams had stepped on the starter, scaring him momentarily. It was pitch dark. Even the six-by-sixes (army trucks) on the nearby Redball highway drove with blackout lights.

Tonight was the birthday of the world. Tomorrow humankind would be judged for the past; each individual’s fate would be inscribed for the future. “Who shall live, and who shall die, who shall find rest, and who shall be restless….”

Our convoy drove on at dawn. At the first 10-minute break I ran into the woods across a muddy field. Under my arm I clutched the shofar that I had brought along from England. Today the ram’s horn would not be sounded the customary hundred, or even 30, times, but the first day of Rosh Hashanah was not to pass entirely without tekiyas shofar. So I stood under the trees and blew the traditional tunes of tekiya, shevarim, teru’a. Some birds stirred in the nearby bushes – I doubt that it was applause; I wasn’t that good.

A few hours later we arrived at the new seat of division headquarters, in the sprawling modern castle at one end of a large artificial lake. Companies and detachments were assigned areas in the surrounding forest-covered hills where they were to pitch their tents.

If we were to have a New Year’s service for the second evening of Rosh Hashanah, immediate action was needed. I dumped my things in the newly-built tent and, taking only my carbine along, went up to the castle. Near G-I (personnel, plans, and operations) I found a desk and a few olive-colored trunks with marks showing that they belonged to a chaplain. Half an hour later I found him: a tall, blond, friendly captain from the Middle West. He was a Protestant.

The message center was just being organized, and field-telephone connection with the various company headquarters had not yet been established. Each company, however, had a little box at the message center which the company runners emptied at regular intervals. Through these, the companies were instructed to announce at supper that Jewish services would be held at the foot of the cascades near the castle that evening. We had 12 men at the open air services. Sergeant Berman was an excellent chazan. The headlights of an ambulance provided illumination. Next morning there were about twice as many participants, some of them with prayer book and tallis. There was only one thing we did not have: a Sefer Torah.

Rochefort sur Ivelines, the tiny, sleepy village next to the castle grounds, was not very far from Paris. We knew that we would not move out into forward areas immediately, and so, a few days after Rosh Hashanah, the chaplain’s jeep was on the way to Paris in quest of a Sefer Torah. On the trip I warned the captain that we would have to be very careful in the transport of the sacred scroll, and that if we, heaven forbid, dropped it, we would have to fast for 40 days. The dignified and recently liberated gentlemen at the Consistoire Israélite were delighted when they heard of our request. We were referred to one of the smaller synagogues, and there, the wife of the sexton led us to the Ark. She told me to take out the scroll. “It is not woman’s privilege to hold the scroll,” she said.

In the center of our castle there was a tremendous room, probably intended for use as a ballroom by the previous owners. I asked for permission to use it for Yom Kippur services, but I did so hesitatingly. Suppose only a handful of men came to the services! At Kol Nidre, however, the room was crowded to capacity: Two hundred officers and men were there. We had enough army prayer books to go around and everything went nicely. Next day, the services started early and lasted till nightfall. The Protestant chaplain preached the sermon in the evening and in the morning; he may not have proclaimed any chidushim (novel rabbinical thoughts) but he touched everyone’s heart.

*  *  *

On the trip back to Paris the scroll was returned but we had a new problem, so I paid a visit to the chief of Jewish chaplains in the ETO at SHAEF offices near the Champs Elysées. And Major Nadich had just what we wanted. I explained to our Protestant chaplain the meaning of lulav, hadassa, and esrog. Now we needed only two more things for the Feast of Tabernacles: aravos to complete the four components of the harvest symbol, and a sukkah.

A little search along the waters around Rochefort soon produced the proper kind of willow twigs, but building the tabernacle was a little more complicated. In the first place, there was the question of location; it had to be in a secluded spot so as to prevent damage to it by soldiers unaware of its purpose. On the other hand, the schach could not be under any overhanging trees. Finally we found an appropriate space in some dense shrubbery near the lake. In the meantime Corporal Lester had found some doors lying around in a cellar of the castle. We picked out three large ones and a smaller one and rammed them into the soft ground at right angles. Presently we had a sukkah with three-and-a-half walls and an entrance. Moreover, two of the doors had glass panels, thus giving us the additional luxury of windows. With trees all around, the schach was constructed in a matter of minutes.

*  *  *

The local Civil Affairs detachment of the U.S. Army consisted of a captain, two lieutenants, and six enlisted men. Their territory coincided roughly with that of the Belgian canton of which the village of St. Vith was the seat and center. All afternoon, the tanks and half-tracks of the 7^th Armored Division had rumbled south to the hard-pressed sector of St. Vith, where German Panzer formations appeared to be getting the upper hand in their attempt to break through to the Meuse. Then, toward evening, an ever-increasing flood of refugees had pressed into town from the east, led by the burgomaster of Malmdy, all good, loyal Belgians anxious not to fall into the hands of the SS. There was little we could do for them, beyond some comforting words and vague expressions of hope. Although it was not our fault, we felt very guilty. Only a little while ago we had been admired by these people as liberators, and now we prepared to abandon them and leave them to their fate.

They knew what was in store for them. During the afternoon I had bought some more candles because the next day would be the last day of Chanukah. When I had asked the storekeeper for the price, she burst into tears and refused to take any money. “What good is money now? Tomorrow we shall all be dead, killed by the boches (Germans).”

For at least a week we had known that a German counterattack was being prepared, ever since they had caught those four Nazi paratroopers in monk’s clothing around Bastogne. On my own – there were never directives in matters of this kind – I had stopped giving passes to forward areas, and only the day before I had searched the woods around the villa, where the people from the German-speaking borderland were quartered, for paratroopers. Now we sat in the blacked-out rooms of the Hotel de Ville, 50 yards from the bridge over the Amblève. Every half hour I called the near-by units on the field telephone. Each time one more failed to answer; either the line had been broken or they had pulled out, more likely both. It was a chaotic situation. The higher echelons refused to give explicit orders to retreat. They didn’t know any more – possibly less – about the local situation than we did. In effect, each unit was left to make its own decision. For the moment we could only wait for whatever the night and fate might bring.

The eight lights and the shammes flickered and played strange shadows on the walls. I thought of the Chanukah two years before, when I had lit the candles in the Jewish chaplain’s office with the permission of his Greek-Catholic assistant. (The chaplain had been away up north at chaplains’ school.) The T/5 with the Greek name probably was unaware that these lights symbolized Israel’s struggle against Hellenism, Jerusalem’s fight against the spirit of Olympia.

A heavy mine explosion in the immediate neighborhood jarred the windows. Some vehicle must have run into the mine barrier on the bridge. That would probably rip out four or five yards in the center of the span. The last line of possible retreat for American elements on the other side of the water was cut off in any event. The next thing to come across would probably be a Tiger tank. At 2 a.m. I called the MPs stationed at the far end of the village near the railroad station. There was no answer. So they too had taken off. That left us, three officers and six men, with nothing heavier than a carbine, against the attacking Panzer corps, as far as this locality was concerned. A few hours later, we too pulled back with the rest. The words of Al hanissim, the special prayer for Chanukah, tumbled poignantly through my head. “…Thou hast delivered the strong into the hand of the weak and the many into the hand of the few and the unclean into the hand of the clean and the evil ones into the hand of the just and the wicked ones into the hand of those who practice Thy law….”

At 7 a.m. the Waffen SS entered the village.

A few days later the houses west of the Ambléave were in American hands again. But the Germans had made “good use” of their short-lived occupation. In a last convulsion of senseless mass murder they had killed civilians indiscriminately: women, old men, children. It had nothing to do with military strategy. It was just a way of staging a mad, perverse, and cruel Goetterdaemmerung. A few weeks later, the fields and forests on the hills and ridges of the Ardennes were filled with bodies of thousands upon thousands of dead German soldiers.

In my memory there is recorded the hopeless outcry of the storekeeper who had sold me the candles, the flicker of the candles in the darkened room that Chanukah eve, and the ever reassuring prophecy of Al hanissimn.

*  *  *

Our Military Government detachment had shrunk. During the campaign across Germany and during the critical period of the first few weeks in our own district, it consisted of the same six men with but one officer, a second lieutenant. I was the only one who spoke and understood German and who knew Europe, Germany, and the Nazis. So it was only natural that the lieutenant and I had come to a tacit understanding. On the one hand, I was to do most of the essential work of the detachment; on the other, I had complete freedom of action.

All this and many other official duties did not leave much time for private affairs. But on Sundays I sometimes drove to Frankfurt, in the confiscated car of the former Nazi chief of the Saar region, to see the displaced persons (DP) section of Shaef in the I.G. Farben building. The JDC representative was still waiting in France for permission to enter Germany and, aside from some Jewish soldiers, the Jewish DPs in Germany had no official representation, such as the Allied nations supplied for their nationals, and practically no liaison with the Allied armies. German officials considered the Jews as foreigners, many army officers in the field considered them as nationals of their former countries, whether this happened to be Russia, Poland, or Germany. And so the Jews were left in between, often without food or shelter, even refused admission to DP camps or mistreated by their own “co-nationals,” always without official spokesmen or recognized “channels.” Some of the Jewish chaplains courageously cut across red tape and regulations in order to assist these unfortunate ones, but as a rule it was up to individual Jewish soldiers in the American army to do what they could on their own initiative. Other soldiers, stationed in England, improvised a food-package program with the very efficient and generous aid of the British Chief Rabbi’s Religious Emergency Council.

One of the Jewish chaplains had left me an inheritance of a group of young Jewish DPs, and it was with them that I spent most of my free time. For them I ordered rebuilt the 300-year-old local synagogue which had been converted into a stable-like dungeon by the Nazis. Most of the 14 Jewish cemeteries in the district, incidentally, had been desecrated. In our own town, there was a modern cemetery and an old one. The latter was, typically enough, situated in the narrow space between the outer and inner city walls, the only place where the Jews had been permitted to bury their dead during medieval times. Here the Nazis had added a special touch: they converted the Jewish graves into air-raid bunkers.

*  *  *

It took several months to finish the synagogue. The leading artisans were summoned to plan and complete the work. The graceful lines of benches and almemor (tribune in the middle of the synagogue), the fancy metal artwork of lamps and candelabra, the multicolored windows, the black and gold filigree of the ornamental fence on the women’s gallery, all combined to give the new house of worship a charming and intimate beauty. The Germans could not revive the hundreds of Jews who had lived in the district; the least they could do was to assist in building this monument to their memory.

After some deliberation, it was decided that the most fitting ceremony for the dedication of the new synagogue would be to hold a bar mitzva ceremony for Shmuel. Shmuel hakatan (the little one), as we called him, was an exception to the common rule: he had never been in a concentration camp. His parents, before being led away to camp and death, had sent their two youngest children away to pose as Volksdeutsche (German peasants). “Never speak Yiddish as long as the Nazis are in power; never forget even for one moment that you are Jews.” Little Shmuel had done as he was told. At the ripe old age of 10 he was transported to Germany to work for a farmer who treated him like another piece of cattle.

Shmuel, now 14 years old, was happily reunited with his sister, two years his senior, and it was high time that some belated ceremony was arranged for his bar mitzva.

The crowd that gathered was as unusual as the occasion. There were a score or so of Polish-Jewish DPs, an “Aryan” Jew and his daughters, two half-Jews, a Christian widow whose Jewish husband had perished, and seven Americans, stationed nearby.

The seuda (festival dinner) did not have all the trimmings, and those who participated were somewhat limited in their choice of gifts. There was nothing lacking, however, in the spirit, and everybody, including Shmuel, had an extremely good time. Then someone asked for the customary speech. Shmuel rose to deliver the shortest bar mitzva address I have ever heard, but I don’t think anyone of those present will forget it. We moved from the room into the main hall of the synagogue. When we were all seated, Shmuel went up to the pulpit. He all but disappeared behind it and only the upper half of his small dark face was visible.

“Ich bet as der tatn un di mame shoyen herunter fun himel un sehen as ir sun vert bar mitzva haint un soln si wisn as main shvester un ich sin geblibn gute yiden di ganse yoren un mir vern imer asoi blaibn. (I pray that my mother and father may look down from heaven and see that their son is bar mitzva today, and may they know that my sister and I have remained good Jews and will always remain so.)”

*  *  *

By the end of the summer the detachment had grown again and it was much larger than ever before. There was not very much to do now, but there were many officers, headed by the newly appointed lieutenant-colonel.

To the colonel, the Germans were all “krauts” and there was little difference between one who had been eight years in a concentration camp and one who had been a Nazi official. The latter, though, would usually be more welcome; at least he would know how to address an officer. And then the Nazis were much more helpful. They had the best houses in town, and most of them had good liquor.

The DPs, by comparison, were a no-good bunch. There was nothing one could get out of them; they always came up with demands and complaints. Small wonder then that the colonel’s private secretary was a former SS girl, or that ex-SS trooper Friedrich had recently “acquired” eight cars and trucks with which he monopolized the local transport business. Friedrich got all the gasoline he needed because he was a useful man, and he would organize discreet excursions into Bavaria or to Berlin which resulted in a nice profit for certain officers and in the sending of large cases, filled with very special merchandise, to some address in the United States.

It was a sad state of affairs but, as it happened, quite in key with the particular Jewish season: first the beginning of the Three Weeks, then the Nine Days, and finally the saddest of all days, Tisha b’Av. I did not mind fasting for 24 hours on that day, and nobody except, of course, my private cook, a French DP, would know anything about that. But there was an additional problem.

The rule not to wear leather shoes on Tisha b’Av or Yom Kippur was not always easy to observe. The previous Yom Kippur in France I had found a solution by finally locating a pair of large straw slippers in a little country store opposite the ancient moat and gate of Dourdan. But I had lost my duffel bag during the battle of the Bulge, and now I had to go on a shopping tour once again.

The stores were sold out. Leather shoes had been scarce in Germany for a long time, and all substitutes – tennis shoes, sandals, and slippers – were snatched up as soon as they appeared on the market. Finally, with luck and persistence, I bought a pair somewhere near my size. The shoes were just what I wanted, but they had one great disadvantage: They were of a bright, shining blue, about the color of the “Y” swimming pool back in New York.

I decided to stay in my office all day on Tisha b’Av so that the colonel would have no chance to notice my shoes. At about 11 a.m. my phone rang. On the Sabbath my German secretary answered the phone for me, saying I had stepped out of the room for a moment. I had forgotten, however, to take this precaution now and I picked up the phone.

It was the colonel. “Come right down to my office and bring the statistics on DPs.”

My uniform shoes were far away, in our quarters up on the hill. I wished I had brought them along, I wished I hadn’t answered the phone, I wished….

Anyway I had to go. If I walked quickly to his desk, maybe he wouldn’t notice anything.

I opened the door to his office. Unfortunately, there was a visiting officer in the room, so I had to be formal and come to attention. The colonel’s first glance was towards my feet. He could not believe his eyes. Such things just didn’t happen in his detachment. Then, with an embarrassed glance towards the other officer, he asked, “What’s the matter with your uniform, sergeant?”

“Nothing, sir.”

At the moment, it seemed impossible to explain. The colonel’s face grew red.

“Since when does the army uniform include blue shoes?”

“It doesn’t, sir.”

The colonel made a last attempt to control himself. “Then why do you wear these circus shoes, sergeant?”

I had to answer something, but I could not see that it much mattered what I said. The colonel did not go for a thing like this, especially with a visitor present.

“There is a Jewish holiday today, sir.”

Again the colonel glanced towards his guest. “I never heard of such a thing. The Jewish holidays are in September or October.”

“Jerusalem was destroyed 2,000 years ago.”

The colonel exploded. He roared at the top of his voice: “What the hell has that got to do with your shoes?”

As I tried to formulate a simple and speedy explanation, I had visions of being “busted,” court-martialed, or both.

Just then the other officer intervened. “The sergeant is right, colonel. I know what he is referring to.”

For the first time I looked at the visitor, and saw that he wore the two tablets of the law on the lapel of his uniform. My sigh of relief almost lifted me out of my shoes.

*  *  *

Many thousands of soldiers had similar problems in both World Wars; and now, with the draft, there is a new crop of “conscientious non-objectors.” These newcomers, too, will be on their own. They will have the opportunity to serve the Law, to earn the right to live in accordance with the dictates of their conscience by exemplary performance of their military duties. In so doing they will not only earn that right but also win the respect of their fellow soldiers.

When I left the army, nice civilian suits were hard to get and white shirts were as rare as nylons. So I decided to wear my uniform for some more weeks, and being now a civilian, I had it checked for shatnes. It did not contain any forbidden materials.

Reprinted with permission from Commentary magazine, March 1949.