Luck, or Fate, or the Big Man's Will -- whatever it is -- means everything in life. Today is Memorial Day, which was called Decoration Day before WW II since families decorated the graves of fallen soldiers with flags, and I always recall how close my father came to becoming one of the honored, which, of course, would have meant no me and now middle sister.
Dad was stationed in Texas in late September of 1944. Mom had gone back to NYC, pregnant with my oldest sister, who would be born in January of 1945. Dad was down -- he was being shipped out for Europe the following morning, after weapons training -- WW II was raging, and the final battles were on.
He went to the PX, or post exchange, and everyone there was in T shirts on the scorching night. Dad met a fellow Landsman at the bar -- their two Bronx or Brooklyn accents called to each other. I wish dearly I knew the other man's name, as he saved our family, but when I tried to research Dad's records during 1944 in the Army, learned that a huge fire at a storage facility in St. Louis in the 60s destroyed them.
Anyway, the two NYC Jews drank some beers. The other fellow was a bit older, and a college grad, which Dad later told me ought to have tipped him off that the fellow wasn't a mere Private grunt like Dad was. The fellow asked why Dad was so down, and Dad said he was shipping out tomorrow, had a pit in his stomach feeling that he would never meet his baby, due in a few months, and -- well -- was that reason enough?
The older fellow agreed, and said that was the hell of War, but each had to do his duty. By then, news of Hitler's atrocities against our people were coming out. Oh, Dad agreed -- clearly he was going to do his duty, but was still allowed to feel bereft about his likely fate.
The two men went to leave, and the older fellow put on his shirt. Dad was aghast -- the man was a high ranking officer! Dad stumbled, "Uh, Lt. Colonel, I had no idea!" The older man looked around, and said "We're a couple of NYC Jews in rural Texas. We're Hy and Max (a name I chose to give him). The older man wished Dad well, and they parted.
Early the next day, Dad lined up in front of the aircraft transport. The names were read, and the soldiers boarded. But when it got to Dad, the fellow said "Wait. Order change for you -- by Lt. Colonel Ginsberg (again a name I created). No Europe for you -- back to California."
Wow. Dad turned around, went to the train, and finished out his service stateside. The Paul Harvey "rest of the story was the next Summer. He ran into someone from their Texas Unit, and the fellow grew pale, saying "But you're DEAD!" Dad said obviously wasn't. The fellow explained that casualties in their Unit were 95% -- at the Battle of the Bulge.
Dad was very bright and funny, but not fleet of foot. I have to think his chances of surviving in that cursed, now holy, forest, were nil.
Dad told me this tale 30 years later, when I was in junior high, and learning about WW II. He had no idea who the officer was.
But I realized you need to be lucky, or blessed, to survive this life.
Being a Jew in Texas saved my Dad. Being a Jew in Poland killed most of Wifey's family, along with 6 million others. But my in laws were on the correct side of that steep bell curve -- they somehow survived.
So on this Memorial Day, I reflect on all of those who gave all, and thank the Big Man that my beloved father was not one of them. Talk about a close call...
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