A Ritchie Boy Read online

  FACING RABBI ZELKOWITZ, Eli and Tasa stood side by side, their hands tightly clasped, under a simple linen chuppah in the temple’s small chapel. A sheer nylon veil covered Tasa’s face, held on by a headband covered in delicate daisies. Her thick black hair, pulled behind her ears, hung down her back, smoothed under at the bottom. A delicate corsage of pink roses accented her jacket, a similar spray of flowers worn by her mother and aunt. Eli, like all the men, wore a simple white carnation on his lapel.

  Lily, Bart, Halina, and Salomon each held one of the four poles that supported the canopy. They stood before a room full of guests, all seated in wooden folding chairs, the men in their best suits—single- and double-breasted with stylish ties—the women in silk blouses and velvet skirts, flowered dresses, or tailored dress suits. The women grasped their husbands’ hands or held white handkerchiefs tight in anticipation.

  The rabbi murmured his initial words, clearly intending them only for Tasa and Eli. Eleanor’s lens captured their clasped hands, and then she drew back the camera’s focus as Rabbi Zelkowitz pronounced the ancient and binding vow that Eli and Tasa repeated, “Ani ledodi vedodi li”—“I am my beloved’s, and my beloved is mine.” Her camera clicked as they stared into each other’s eyes when the rabbi pronounced them man and wife. As they kissed, cheers of “Mazel tov!” erupted. The couple pulled apart, Tasa blushing, taking hold of Eli’s hand. Click.

  Rabbi Zelkowitz spoke directly to the congregation. “In our tradition, even the most joyous moment cannot exist without a thought of something painful shattering the happiness like fragile glass.” He placed a linen-wrapped glass beneath Eli’s feet. Eleanor caught a clear view of Eli’s face just then, absorbed in this significant act. As he stomped on the symbolic token, she took her shot. More cheers of “Mazel tov!”

  Each guest in the receiving line held Tasa, then Eli, in an emotional hug, their eyes moist as they congratulated the newlyweds. Eleanor snapped pictures of the wedding onlookers as she unobtrusively made her way around the room. Being a photographer is observing so much of life’s ups and downs, she thought. It is the joy that is harder to hold tight than the sorrow.

  As the wedding party and their guests moved from the chapel to the adjacent social hall, Eleanor motioned for Eli’s Army friends to pose with the groom. Four men in their midtwenties who could pass for brothers appeared in her viewfinder. They wore similar double-breasted suits and cuffed pants, all devilishly handsome with dark wavy hair and bad-boy grins. She couldn’t help smiling as she thought of all the tricks and secrets these soldiers must have shared during their brief but intense stint together in wartime.

  Eli was approached by John Brandeis, leaving Eleanor with Eli’s three friends.

  “You’re the photojournalist with the Plain Dealer. Eleanor Weiss, right? I’m Henry White.” Henry held out his hand while Eleanor let her camera hang at her waist, thankful the neck strap kept moments like these from being awkward. “Meet my buddies Max Schultz and Bobby Saltman.”

  She noticed Max held a trumpet and Bobby a harmonica. “Nice to directly meet all of you. But you’re not part of the band, are you?” She looked across the room to where an instrumental group—a violinist, a bassist, a saxophonist, and a singer—was setting up.

  “We told Eli we wanted to play at his wedding. He heard enough of us over the nights at Camp Ritchie. Music was our emotional safety zone.” Max toyed with his tuning slide as he spoke. “We practiced last night with this group and again a few hours ago so we could hold our own. Right, Bobby?”

  “Yep. But we gotta go over now. Nice meeting you, Miss Weiss.”

  As Max and Bobby hurried off, Henry stayed put. Eleanor detected slight German accents in all of the Ritchie boys except Henry. “We could be relatives, you know?” Henry offered. When she responded with a puzzled look, he quickly added, “My parents changed our name from Weiss to White when they came over from Berlin after the Great War. I grew up in Queens. Tough neighborhood, pretty anti-Semitic. Name change never protected me.”

  Eleanor hadn’t felt discrimination growing up in Cleveland, but she was also almost fifteen years older than Henry, and the times had been different then. She may have been one of very few Jewish students at the University of Missouri, and she ran around with students like herself—single-minded about learning everything there was to know about photography. Her job at the paper was similarly secular in nature. As she was about to reply, the musicians began tuning their instruments, and she excused herself to get back to work.

  She moved toward the center of the room and snapped a photograph just as Tasa and Eli strode onto the dance floor. She captured the split second the musicians nodded to each other and began playing “Until,” a song the singer announced was picked by Eli for the occasion. It was one Eleanor had heard Tommy Dorsey sing. She snapped the loving family and friends standing close around them. She wished she could record the words that melted into the intimate space as the lovers, now husband and wife, held each other close.

  You were sent from heaven just for me, and you are oh so heavenly. Until there is no moon above, there’s no such thing as love, I’ll love but you.

  Everyone clapped as the band segued into Tasa’s pick. Eleanor recognized “It’s Magic,” from the film Romance on the High Seas that she saw last year, sung by a new actress named Doris Day.

  You sigh, the song begins. You speak and I hear violins. It’s magic. … When I am in your arms, when we walk hand in hand, the world becomes a wonderland. It’s magic.

  How else can I explain those rainbows when there is no rain. It’s magic.

  Why do I tell myself these things that happen are all really true when in my heart I know the magic is my love for you?

  She felt a hand on her arm and turned to face Henry White again. “You gotta join me in at least one dance.” He lifted Eleanor’s camera over her head, still connected by her neck strap, placed it on an empty table, and whisked her onto the dance floor, but only after she had snapped shots of the six couples doing a fox-trot alongside the newlyweds: both sets of proud parents, along with the Eisens, the Munis, Emma and Simon Goldstein, and Hershel and Rebecca.

  As Henry spun Eleanor on the floor, she reminded him she was nearly old enough to be his mother while silently admiring his youthful charm and confidence. As the band paused between songs, the dancers dispersed. Eleanor grabbed her camera and moved around the social hall. She wanted to capture all the connections and gestures and love in the room. As the band resumed with a jazzy Benny Goodman number, she watched nine-year-old Umberto Muni pulling five-year-old Franny Eisen around the dance floor, their respective parents giggling as they looked on. Click. Arthur Zeidl and John Brandeis were engrossed in conversation, first serious, then breaking into laughter. Brandeis’s gold watch chain sparkled in the light coming through the west window just as he appeared to be looking straight through her camera in pure glee. Click.

  The music got louder as Tasa and Eli were pushed toward the center of the floor, the crowd tightly surrounding them, clapping wildly.

  A STRETCH OF DANCING consumed the celebrants until, finally, the crowd seemed to catch their collective breaths and the two sets of parents stepped to the center of the room to speak. Lila gestured for Halina and Salomon, as the bride’s parents, to offer the first toast. Salomon took his wife’s hand and cleared his throat.

  “Halina and I were separated for five years during the war. The Soviets had deported her to Siberia. Neither of us knew the other was alive, but we never lost our love or our hope.” Salomon locked eyes with Halina, then turned back to the onlookers. “We wish for Tasa and Eli a love that withstands all of life’s challenges, and a life whose challenges are bearable.” The crowd lifted their glasses and, in unison, cried “L’Chaim!”

  Lila moved forward, her arm in Bart’s. “Family is what is most important, what is most valuable.” She nodded toward her cousin Arthur. “Arthur and I—our mothers were twin sisters—so we grew up very close. Arthur left Vienna fo
r Shanghai, and a short time later, Bart and I escaped with Eli to America. Despite ten years of separation, we’ve resumed our close relationship. And Bart and I have found a family in the friends we’ve made in Columbus.” Lila turned to Bart, raising her glass. “We wish for Tasa and Eli to always be surrounded by family and friends.”

  Bart nodded in agreement and spoke slowly. “Nothing ever stopped Eli. He adjusted to whatever life handed him. Eli turns lemons into lemonade.” The cliché mixed with Bart’s heavy accent and broken English brought on much laughter. “I wish for Eli and Tasa that this will always be how they approach life’s Kampfe.” He looked to Lila and she translated—“struggles”—just as Eleanor snapped another shot.

  With the toasts finished, everyone crowded the bountiful buffet table—covered by platters of brisket, lox, potato latkes, steamed cabbage, macaroni salad, and loaf after loaf of challah. When it was time for the cake, Eli and Tasa walked to the table displaying the multi-layered creation. Tasa looked over at Halina, who nodded for her to go ahead. Eleanor snapped their moment of hesitation, and again snapped the instant Tasa slid a knife into the yellow-iced, chocolate indulgence. She focused on Tasa’s face through her viewfinder and snapped just as Tasa pursed her lips while forking a large piece into Eli’s mouth.

  As slices of cake were distributed, the music rose again in the background. Eleanor snapped a shot of Max on trumpet and Bobby on harmonica right before the singer joined in, her voice full, crooning the lyrics to Sinatra’s “But None Like You.”

  The world is full of people, but none like you. They’re ordinary people, but none like you. How far away is yesterday before you came along …

  It was time for Tasa and Eli to speak. Eli nodded to Tasa, and it became clear who would address their family and friends first. With her arm tightly coiled inside Eli’s elbow, Tasa began. “Make no mistake. This fix-up by Aunt Norah and Uncle Levi last September was obvious to me, but I ignored it. At first.” She turned toward Eli. “Boy, this has been a whirlwind affair!” Laughter erupted.

  “As I was saying, they certainly didn’t drive halfway across the country just to say hello. And let’s hope they could have found a babysitter within this wonderful Columbus community to watch Franny without bringing me back with them. But I was ready for a change and welcomed the chance to attend university again.” She paused and gulped in a breath before continuing. “Then, the moment I met Eli, just days after I arrived, I knew.” Her voice cracked as she turned to Eli. Eleanor was aware that Tasa had had a love affair during the war—Lila had told her Tasa planned to marry the young man, but he was killed in the Battle of Berlin. Tasa choked out her next words. “I never thought I’d fall in love again.”

  Eleanor’s camera caught Eli’s eyes, glued to Tasa as she spoke, and then again when he tenderly reached for her. Following the brief murmurs and chants of “L’Chaim,” Eli stepped forward. He began by tracing his life from Vienna to New York to Columbus, to wartime, and back to Columbus to meet the love of his life.

  “I’ve been lucky in my life so far to have such strong relationships. First and foremost, with my family and extended family and those no longer with us. But even as a tormented kid in Vienna, I had a friend, a non-Jewish boy who stood up for me at every turn, even at his own peril. My only regret is that Toby was left in Vienna, likely with no choice but to fight with the German forces, something he would have found abhorrent.” He paused, his eyes becoming glassy. Eleanor clicked.

  “When my family moved to Columbus, we were taken in by the Goldsteins—generous and loving people—and I was lucky to gain another wonderful friend, Hershel.” Eli paused, his eyes singling Hershel out from the crowd. “He taught me everything I know today.”

  There was laughter, with Hershel calling back, “I would say the same of you, Eli!” Eli beamed as he shared how the two would go to the movies so he could improve his English, and to get a better sense of the colloquialisms. “I know my mother’s Viennese baking helped me make and keep lots of friends.” More laughter, more shutter clicks.

  Eli spoke about the confidence he gained as an American soldier, which taught him he could face tough situations; that he had the good fortune to see places and form bonds with people he would never have met otherwise, “some of whom I was thrown together with at Camp Ritchie and are with us today.” All eyes went toward Max, Henry, and Bobby. “I was proud I could serve the United States in the capacity I did. America gave me my freedom, thanks to several here today …” Zelda and Giorgio Muni stood with John Brandeis and his wife, and all eyes, grateful eyes, took them in, as did Eleanor’s camera. “I was able to give back by fighting for that freedom.

  “Much of what happened in my life, like that of my family and Tasa and her family, came from factors outside my control. Today is different. Tasa is the person I choose to spend the rest of my life with, the one I want to plan my world around.”

  THE BLACK-AND-WHITE photograph, at first glance, reveals a young couple in their midtwenties. She wears a white short-sleeved, round-collared knit top and shorts, and she clutches a purse. He sports an open-collared light shirt, the sleeves rolled above his elbows, dark slacks. The woman semi-reclines amid blades of grass and ferns, her right arm molding around the man’s left knee. Her dark, peaceful eyes gaze directly into the camera, her full lips turn slightly upward. The man kneels behind her, his eyes cast on her face, his arm tenderly around her shoulder, blanketed by a lock of her black hair as he cups her ear in his hand. His other arm rests along his right thigh, his fingers curling under the knee he plants on the ground. There’s a harmony to the couple’s pose, like birds singing side by side on a sturdy tree branch. A slight shadow throws its image across their exposed skin from the ferns and shrubs that surround them. Their heads tilt left, their faces parallel, hers just below his.

  Eleanor’s eyes lingered on her composition a few moments longer. She’d shot it the day after Tasa and Eli’s wedding. It was part of a series she sold to Life magazine, with the blessings of all involved.

  By then, she’d understood how serendipitous their union actually was. Two young European immigrants, each from a different country—those countries fighting the same enemy—who found one another in the middle of America. But the essence of her photo narrative was an American soldier who had grown up in Vienna, escaped persecution thanks to someone who vouched for his family, and returned to the theater of war to fight for his new country. She included many candid shots of the four Camp Ritchie boys from the wedding but was able to contrast those with a few Eli had provided of them in uniform. The coda of her series was how the soldier came back home to find the love of his life, and how both—Eli and Tasa—set down the roots for the future they’d lost in childhood. Reflected in this final photograph.

  She shuffled through several pictures she hadn’t included in the spread for the magazine. There was the moment after they were pronounced man and wife, when Tasa took hold of Eli’s hand. The one where Eli and Tasa strode for the first time onto the dance floor together. That shot of Tasa pursing her lips while forking a big bite of cake into Eli’s open mouth.

  She paused at one particular photograph, a lump rising in her throat. There it was. The crisp image of Eli the instant he stomped on a linen-wrapped glass, Tasa and the two sets of parents watching intently in the background, both joy and suffering, in equal measures, etching their faces.

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  ONE AFTERNOON IN 2014, as I sat on the couch in my parents’ apartment, my dad handed me a letter. I opened the folded sheet and stopped at the salutation.

  “Why did they call you a Ritchie Boy?” I asked.

  “You knew I trained at Camp Ritchie,” he reminded me.

  Of course, I did. As a trained journalist, I had recorded the rich family history from both my immigrant parents decades earlier: my mother growing up in eastern Poland, my father in Vienna. I knew so much but never made the connection that my father’s training at Camp Ritchie in Maryland meant there was a na
me for him: that he was a Ritchie Boy, one of thousands of young, mostly Jewish men who understood the German language and culture, who were recruited to train at Camp Ritchie where the US Army centralized its intelligence operations, and who worked undercover on the European front to help the Allies win World War II.

  After I read that letter and realized my dad was part of something much bigger, I immediately began to research online and found a documentary about the Ritchie Boys. I watched it with my dad. It drove home to me what these young men were giving back to their newly adopted country and how indebted we are to them. I also began to think about the touchpoints my dad had shared with me decades earlier. About his journey from one homeland to another. About his journey from boyhood to manhood.

  So, while A Ritchie Boy, which begins in 1938, is about a Jewish soldier named Eli Stoff fighting in World War II, it’s also about the circumstances and people Eli encounters: from Vienna to New York, from Ohio to Maryland, and from a Paris suburb called Le Vésinet in the midst of war to the Midwest, where Eli returns to set down his roots.

  A Ritchie Boy is an immigrant story, a family drama rooted in persecution, and a human narrative about this powerful network of Jewish soldiers, most no longer living but each given a special name.

  My father is the inspiration for this fictional story. He, too, grew up in anti-Semitic Vienna in the 1920s and ’30s, was a teenage immigrant adjusting to life in the Midwest as World War II began, and became a young man recruited and trained by the US Army as a military intelligence officer fighting the very enemy he barely escaped in 1938. His journey, and that of the fictional Eli Stoff, represents thousands who have arrived on our shores, and continue to arrive, as they contribute to our collective freedoms.

  Indeed, I am thankful to all those who sacrificed for our country. And I am deeply grateful to my parents and grandparents of blessed memory. I have kept them alive in my memories and in the stories I tell.