A Ritchie Boy Page 9

  “You think Bevis will talk about football tonight?” Lenny yawned.

  “Are we keeping you up, Levine?” Kenny jabbed Lenny, and they all laughed. “How’d you get this jalopy, Stoff?”

  “I worked at a junkyard. Fixed engine blocks.” Eli put on his right blinker as they approached the temple. “Paid my tuition plus let me buy this cheap and rebuild it.” As a commuter student, he liked the idea of having a car, especially to haul around his friends on weekend nights like this. He thought the vehicle was a beauty despite Kenny’s wisecrack.

  The boys took their seats in the back of the synagogue. Eli scanned the crowd of students just as Hershel elbowed him, nodding toward several girls a few rows up on the right of the aisle. He’d seen a few of them around Hillel but didn’t know their names. Trying to ignore the whispers and snickers from his friends, he picked up the prayer book.

  After an abbreviated religious service, Rabbi Zelkowitz introduced President Bevis. To loud applause, Bevis approached the dais, his tall frame and erect posture making him appear younger than his fifty-seven years, despite a receding hairline. Bevis was well-liked, often seen talking with students on the Oval. Eli especially admired that he’d taught both law and business administration at Harvard, and that he had served in the First World War, in Army ordnance.

  As expected, the lecture began with football—accolades for last season’s winning team, the exceptional student athletes, the top-notch marching band—but quickly moved to the topic on everyone’s mind. Winning the war became the pressing goal of the entire campus community after the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor, Bevis reminded the audience. “Schools take their places alongside factories and training camps as necessary agencies of preparation for battle.” He acknowledged that the war was already dominating the life and priorities on campus. He announced that Ohio State was one of six schools to join the Midwest War Council, a college consortium to coordinate members’ war efforts and disseminate information. He quoted FDR, who’d predicted that 1943 carried the promise of a “very substantial advance along the roads that lead to Berlin, Rome, and Tokyo” and complimented the strong offensives by Soviet armies. Bevis noted that while FDR wouldn’t say where or when the next land strike in Europe would be, the president promised that the U.S., Britain, and the Soviet Union would “hit them from the air heavily and relentlessly.”

  As the students dispersed into the social hall, Lenny suggested they get in line for the fruit punch. Talk of the war surrounded them. Ahead someone was mentioning the ROTC training he saw that morning near University Hall. “They were using an anti-aircraft gun,” the student asserted.

  “I just read in The Lantern that the Soviets gained on all fronts and got the Nazis to retreat fifty miles,” Eli announced to no one in particular. “I think the war is turning in the Allies’ favor.” He felt uplifted by the lecture. As though victory might be around the corner, as though this war wasn’t as endless as the reports made it sound.

  “Look, I think we need to finish the job, not to mention ridding the world of anti-Semitism,” Kenny pronounced. As an engineering major, he would likely receive a deferment.

  “You saying there’s stuff going on here?” Lenny grabbed a glass mug and began filling it with punch.

  “You know I’m a member of the Ohio Staters,” Charlie said. “During one of our campus cleanups, we found a swastika painted on a wall outside the ZBT house.”

  “Don’t you think that’s an isolated case?” Hershel asked.

  “Not sure. I just saw something in the classifieds in The Lantern that made me wonder. Ad sought a male student—white and gentile, it said—to do odd jobs in exchange for a room and meals.” Charlie frowned. “There will always be people who are uncomfortable around those unlike them. Racism, anti-Semitism—it all stems from fear. That’s what I think.”

  “Hey, let’s mingle and leave all that for the real adults,” Hershel suggested. He took his mug and walked toward a tight circle of girls from AEPhi. Eli followed him.

  ELI DIDN’T WANT TO attend the “Music in Wartime” series alone. The OSU Symphony Orchestra was scheduled to perform the second Sunday afternoon in February in the men’s gymnasium. Sibelius and Schubert, two longtime favorites, got his attention. Now he had to get Hershel’s.

  “Rebecca might enjoy it. Ask her to come.”

  Hershel had met Rebecca Hoffman at the youth service reception, and he was clearly smitten. Eli reminded Hershel that Rebecca was a music major who played the cello, so he would score points for suggesting the outing. As it turned out, Rebecca asked to bring her friend, Elaine Friedman, who also loved concerts. The fact that the new series, directed by Rebecca’s beloved professor, Eugene Weigel, was dedicated to the Red Cross, the War Bond Campaign, and other patriotic causes made the appeal even stronger.

  After the concert, the four headed to the university bookstore in the east basement of Derby Hall. They forgot it was closed on weekends, but they passed a classroom in use this Sunday. The sign outside the door read: “Navy Recognition School.” Eli had heard about the intense training program when he donated blood at the High Street Red Cross headquarters. He explained that soldiers were being taught vision and perception exercises to help identify aircraft as enemy or friendly. Elaine cast an admiring glance Eli’s way. Pretending not to notice, he kept walking down the hall toward the exit door.

  They strode east through campus. Crossing the Oval, Hershel asked if they wanted to get a snack at the Ohio Union Grill.

  “That place is too noisy, and I can’t stand the smell around the cigar counter.” Rebecca scrunched up her nose for effect. “How about we get food at Hillel?”

  They passed several boys wearing freshman beanie caps. Elaine said she thought they looked silly. Rebecca observed there seemed to be fewer males on campus this year. They exhaled frosted air when they spoke.

  The student canteen at Hillel wasn’t busy. Eli ordered four bagels with cream cheese and four hot chocolates as the others scanned the event calendar on the message board behind them. “Sons of Liberty is showing upstairs at seven,” Rebecca announced. “Along with the usual short subjects on the war, of course.”

  “Why do they offer such obscure films?” Hershel asked as he took both his and Rebecca’s trays and set them down in a nearby booth.

  “Actually, it’s a 1939 American drama about a Polish-born American businessman named Haym Salomon,” Elaine explained. “He was the prime financier of the American side during the Revolutionary War against Great Britain.”

  When Hershel rolled his eyes, Eli felt he had to defend Elaine. “Only a history major would know these details. Hershel and I love going to movies.” He took a bite of his bagel.

  “And I’m taking world history this quarter.” She smiled gratefully at Eli. “I also happen to like films. Sons of Liberty won an Academy Award for Best Short Subject.”

  “Academy Award aside, I’d rather not wait an hour for that. We could head to the student union to get tickets to the Military Ball. It’s next Saturday night at the men’s gym.” This time it was Eli’s turn to eyeball Hershel, who was undaunted. “Tommy Tucker and his orchestra are playing, just three bucks including tax. ‘Dance Your Way to Victory’ theme. Sounds like a blast.”

  “I think it would be fun.” Rebecca pushed her plate away and slid her arm inside Hershel’s elbow.

  “So, let’s go.” Hershel was the first to get up, taking their trays to the counter.

  They grabbed their coats and returned to the early evening’s chill. “As long as we’re making plans, why don’t we go to the junior prom?” Eli was really asking Elaine but directed it to all of them. He was a member of Bucket and Dipper, the junior men’s honorary. His high grades and service with Student War Activity Volunteers got him in. “The junior and senior proms will be held together this year. And it was moved up to early March since so many enlisted reserves will likely leave school at the end of the quarter.”

  “I’d love to go with you, Eli
.” Elaine then turned to Rebecca. “We need dresses. I hear the Union now has a campus shop on High Street with reasonable prices. Want to head there after classes tomorrow?”

  ELI PULLED UP THE collar of his wool overcoat as he left Haggerty Hall for the Main Library to meet Hershel between classes. It was the first of March, the final week of winter quarter with the junior-senior prom that Friday night. Get in the moonlight mood at the final prom for the duration! the promotions exclaimed, with moonlight, instead of war, as the theme of the dance. A welcome respite, given the quickening pace of academic life in wartime, with classrooms filled from morning to late evening so students could take a full rotation of courses in nine instead of twelve months. Draft notices were trickling out, and many of Eli’s friends, except those in majors like premed or engineering or agriculture, had the jitters awaiting their orders.

  Eli read that Ohio State, like many land-grant universities, signed contracts with the War Department for Army Specialized Training Programs. The university hosted several for the military. They adjusted curriculum to fit the needs created by war. Specialized topics within engineering and science courses, management war training, and language classes in Russian and Japanese appeared for the first time, as did aeronautical meteorology, military geology, and the interpretation of maps for military purposes. Soldiers also studied medicine, veterinary medicine, and dentistry. There were so many soldiers on the Ohio State campus that the Army provided a shuttle between downtown’s Union Station, where the trains came in, and the stadium dormitories, where the cadets resided. As he approached University Hall, Eli stood aside when at least a hundred uniformed soldiers doing synchronized exercises marched past. The reality of the draft was always in front of him. It was just a matter of time before he and Hershel were part of it.

  Entering the library, Eli stopped outside the War Information Center on the first floor. A poster showing a wounded lieutenant staggering toward his comrades caught his eye. What are you doing for the war, brother? the poster asked. Another placard advertised the Red Cross Carnival, to be held that evening in the men’s gymnasium, the kickoff for a full campus fund drive to benefit the war effort. Admission was only fifty cents and entered the ticket holder into a drawing for two twenty-five-dollar war bonds as door prizes.

  Eli’s letter from the Draft Board had arrived two weeks earlier, a week after Hershel got his. When he came home that day, he found his parents tuned into a WOSU radio broadcast on the Mutual Network devoted to the works of Beethoven. The Fifth Symphony’s rhythmic opening phrase—“dit-dit-dit-dah”—cheerily welcomed him along with the official notice, which began, “Greetings …” As his father had prepared them all, “What will be, will be.” The draft order was not unexpected.

  And his physical was two days from now. Climbing the library stairs, he wondered about Hershel’s, which had taken place that morning. Eli avoided doctors in general, squeamish about medical exams, and he sought his friend’s assurances. He found Hershel in the adjacent study space. He set his satchel of books on the table. “Hey. You done studying yet?”

  “Just accounting test left to review. I’m good.”

  “So what happened?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “At your physical, nincompoop.”

  “Can you believe it? I got 4-F. Flat feet.”

  It took a few beats for Eli to grasp the significance of Hershel’s words. He stood still for a moment to catch his breath, to process the news. He felt happiness for Hershel in the next instant—happy that Hershel’s plans would not be disrupted by war, that Hershel’s future could move forward. But then he thought about his own situation and felt suddenly empty, unmoored. He’d be going overseas; he’d lose touch with Hershel for what could be years. He’d be far from his home and family.

  But he said none of this to Hershel. His default reaction was always to keep things light. “With those flat feet, I hope you’ll be able to handle Rebecca Friday night on the dance floor.”

  “OOOOH!” REBECCA SQUEALED IN delight as they stepped into a transformed gymnasium. Stars and half-moons, twinkly lights, and blue balloon centerpieces created a magical scene.

  Elaine lifted her gown hem as she maneuvered the two steps into the ballroom, Eli offering her his arm. The soft sounds of clarinets and trumpets played the familiar tune, “Moonglow,” as the two couples made their way inside, their eyes adjusting to the dimmer lighting.

  The fourteen-piece orchestra began playing “Life Goes to a Party” at full volume. At its conclusion, a shrill voice over the intercom introduced the junior and senior class presidents, along with their dates, for the first dance. “Sing, Sing, Sing” quickly followed, and the surrounding crowd of watchers were encouraged to join them out on the floor. Eli winked over at Hershel.

  The orchestra had a sensational style, bridging the gap between the extremes of sweet and swing—a combination of Glenn Miller and Benny Goodman. After Eli and Elaine and Hershel and Rebecca danced through “Moonlight Serenade” and “In the Mood,” they moved to the bar and dessert buffet, then found a table far enough from the dance floor where they could talk. Spring-quarter class choices briefly took over the conversation until they returned to the subject of war. Eli stayed quiet, forking a large bite of chocolate cake into his mouth. He’d passed his physical that morning and was thinking about that as Hershel broke his own news to Rebecca.

  “You’re not eligible? That’s a relief!” There were girls on campus who wouldn’t date boys who failed their physicals, but Rebecca wasn’t one of them. “I heard that a solid third are rejected for physical ailments—even a hernia or being hard of hearing are classified.”

  Eli told them he passed and quickly added, “You’re lucky Hershel didn’t step on your toes on the dance floor with those flat feet of his.”

  “You know you’re jealous, Eli,” Rebecca snapped back.

  “I admit, part of me wanted to be deferred. Kept thinking something could turn up in the physical and I might get a pass.” Eli took a deep breath before he continued. “But a bigger part of me wants to get back there to fight the bastards who took away my country. Frankly, I find it interesting that to Americans the war only started two years ago. For me it began in ’38, when my family had to escape from Vienna.”

  Eli looked over at Hershel, his face reddening as he realized how harsh his words sounded, sensing that Hershel was hurt. He’d never actually asked his friend how he felt about his deferment. Eli resolved to talk this through with Hershel, to apologize to him when they next were alone. For now, he took Elaine’s hand and guided her to the dance floor just as the orchestra began “March Winds and April Showers.”

  After Eli walked Elaine back to the AEPhi House, the roar of B-17s overhead reverberated through the black night. A shudder racked through his body. His draft letter provided his assignment: the 10th Mountain Division at Camp Hale in Colorado. But first, he’d report for basic training at the induction center in Fort Collins. He might only have two weeks left on campus.

  CAMP RITCHIE

  Early 1944

  DESPITE THE JANUARY CHILL, Henry White and his roommates gathered on their cabin’s bare porch. The Camp Ritchie grounds—six hundred acres hidden inside the woods of west-central Maryland, ringed by the soft peaks of the Blue Ridge Mountains—felt like a resort to Henry. After all, he came from Queens.

  The four—Henry, Bobby Saltman, Max Schultz, and Eli Stoff—were recent arrivals. They were about the same age—twenty, give or take. Drafted from college. But Henry was the only one born in the States. At first, all the foreign accents, especially German, made him feel peculiar, as if he’d landed in the wrong army. Yet he found it comfortable to be among several thousand servicemen. He was used to crowds.

  That morning, Henry was in line to register and get his barracks assignment when he found himself standing next to three guys wearing identical fatigues, their olive duffle bags strung across their shoulders. He thought they could be brothers—each about six feet tall
, solidly built, with dark hair and deep-set eyes. Eli introduced himself first, smiling with his entire face. Henry detected a German tinge in the way Eli pronounced Coolumbus, Ohio. Max and Bobby held out their hands in greeting—Max lived in Detroit, Bobby nearby in Washington, D.C. They had accents, too, but theirs were barely discernible. The four reached the front of the line as a unit. That’s how they wound up as roommates in Cabin One.

  Most everyone at Camp Ritchie possessed some knowledge of the German language and culture. Henry considered it a prerequisite of sorts—this ability to speak, or comprehend as he did, the language of the enemy. When it was discovered, recruits got routed to Camp Ritchie on secret orders. The officers at the Military Intelligence Training Center drilled the men until they emerged as interrogators of prisoners on the front line and counter-intelligence soldiers.

  After dropping off their belongings at their new living quarters, the four had headed to the mess hall. Henry felt an immediate ease and familiarity with his three cabin mates. Maybe it was that they were Jewish, as he was. He learned that at dinner, along with some details about their families and earlier lives. Henry was eager to hear more of their personal stories, sensing from their initial exchange a varying degree of persecution that brought each of them to America.

  That night, as he took in the quiet beauty of their surroundings, Henry offered a cigarette to Eli, then lit his own. He drew in the smoke, then leaned against the wood railing and looked up at a dark sky blanketed with shimmering stars, something he never saw in the city. When he lowered his eyes, he realized that Max was holding a trumpet.

  “You played long?” Henry glanced at the instrument.

  “Music runs in my family. My dad was first violin with the Detroit Symphony until two years ago. The orchestra’s been in a muddle since their national radio broadcasts on the Ford Symphony Hour were discontinued.” Max closed his lips on the mouthpiece, pulling out his tuning slide to get a pitch, then seamlessly began playing a jazz piece Henry couldn’t place. He watched Max’s dexterity as he fingered the valves, how the pitch went up and down when Max pushed and pulled the tuning slide. The tune was edgy and vibrant, the notes colliding in tension. Sort of how Henry had been feeling earlier.