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GENESSA -- A Memory of Lady G's Father!
My Dad, the Vet
by Gail M Feldman My father never talked much about his army days. I have pictures of him in uniform; I also have a packet of letters he received, mostly from persons of the female persuasion (including his sister, my Aunt Molly, and at least one cousin), during his service. What I don't have is any memory of his regaling friends and/or family with tales, tall or otherwise, of the war years. I knew he was a vet; he had his college education, and we bought our home, on the V.A. bill! I remember one of our rare family dinners during which, instead of yelling at one or all of us for some real or imagined crime, Dad declared, "I've been thinking about it, and I've decided, I really think we shouldn't be in Vietnam." I don't believe we had ever discussed Vietnam, at the dinner table or elsewhere (maybe he and Mom had, but as a family we were always in each other's hair; I think I would've known. Then again, they were close in ways we kids couldn't have guessed, especially since they fought tooth and nail. Mom told me, after Dad's death, that no matter how badly they had fought during the day, or night, when they got into bed, Dad always wanted to hold hands. We couldn't have known that.) I got out of the family's hair to an extent by going away to Fairleigh Dickinson University in Madison, New Jersey, living on campus and coming home to Maryland only for holidays. My Dad drove me up to school after every holiday. We didn't talk for the first hour; there had always been some horrible blow-up involving Mom, and we were both mad. It's hard, though, to maintain an enraged silence for four and a half hours, so we eventually got over it and achieved some of our best bonding. (I remember reading to him from Ian Fleming's James Bond novels during one or more of those trips; he must have thought me mad. I was: spy-mad.) The rides home were even better, since we started out without Mom and thus without any battles. After three and a half years at FDU, I dropped out and joined the work force back home in the Washington, D.C. metropolitan area, but after a short time I decided to complete my B.A. part-time, while continuing to work. Some of the time I lived with my folks in Maryland and some of the time I had my own digs, first in Maryland and then in Virginia. Even when I lived in Virginia, my father picked me up once or twice a week at the American University (where I attended classes after work) in Georgetown and drove me home. It was during one of these drives that I said to him, "Dad, you never told me what you did in the war." He told me he had been too young -- only 17 -- the first time he tried to sign up, and 4F at any rate because of his poor eyesight (which had convinced his parents and teachers alike that he had been a slow-witted child; he was, in fact, quite intelligent -- just hadn't been able to see the blackboard -- but doubted his own intellect for the rest of his life as a result of this misreading). He was frustrated not to be let in; like every Jewish kid, he wanted (he said) to go kill Hitler personally. A little later in the war I guess the Army was desperate enough to take him, and off he went to Southampton, England, to prepare for D-Day, or so I suppose. He was vague about that. He did tell me he ended up on a train, guarding German prisoners of war (apparently destined, ultimately for a Texas prison camp). "They were young," said my Dad. "Maybe 16, or 17, some of them. Some looked younger." One prisoner put up a brave front. "See that one over there? I can lick him with my little fingers!" My dad, being Jewish, knew enough Yiddish to understand simple German. He approached the boy. "Oh yeah?" (Okay, so it wasn't a brilliant remark; it did the job. The kid settled down.) "It was then," Dad told me, "that I realized that war was stupid. Kids fighting kids. And I didn't want to do it anymore." A week passed. We may or may not have spoken on the phone during the week; we both had jobs, we both had lives. The next time we met, he asked me how class had gone, I told him, and then we sat in silence for a few moments. Then I said, "Dad, you never told me what you were wearing." "Khaki," he replied, without hesitation. Then he gasped. "Oh my God. I understood what you meant!" We both laughed but I think it really did freak him out a little. I still think of it as another rare moment of bonding. I guess even short road trips were our best setting for that. Despite his bloodlust regarding Herr Schickelgruber, Dad was not, at heart a soldier. He served his country even after deciding that war was dumb; he didn't desert. He was lucky enough not to be wounded or killed. He was honorably discharged, made proper use of the benefits he had earned, and moved on to a completely civilian, if not always civil, life. I remember addressing him once, in anger, as "Sir." He exploded: "Don't call me 'Sir'! This isn't the Army!" Dad died in 1995, while I was still in Japan. I missed his funeral. Eleven months later, when, in accordance with Jewish tradition, it was time to place the headstone on his grave, that object arrived... with a cross on it. My mother called the Veteran's Administration, outraged. "Oh yeah," admitted the young clerk who answered the phone. "It does say here he should have a Star of 'Davis.'" The stone was, at the V.A.'s expense of course, returned and recarved with a proper Mogen David. When Mom died in 1997, the gravediggers had a little problem. It seems Dad had rolled over in his grave (was it something we said?) His casket was now occupying part of his own grave and part of the spot where hers should have been. (Both had been donated by my mother's father, my Grandpop Jack, who, having purchased them, suddenly decided cremation was a better option.) The cemetery management apologized profusely and provided two new spots. They couldn't dig Dad up in time for Mom's funeral but that twice-carved headstone, at least, was moved. For better and for worse -- and there was a lot of each -- in sickness and in health -- and there was more of the former than of the latter -- even after death did briefly part them, they remain together. Perhaps, especially given Dad's post mortum restlessness, they're even holding hands.   |
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