On Veterans Day [by Stacey Lehman]

My dad landed on Omaha beach, not as part of the first wave, thank god, or I probably wouldn't be here, but later, to clean up.  He went on to fight in the Battle of the Bulge and to liberate a concentration camp. Like so many others, he enlisted, a tough street kid from the Bronx, the child of Eastern European immigrants.  During boot camp, he was court-martialed for striking an officer who called him a dirty kike.  Though he was acquitted, he got shipped out soon after without having completed his training.
    I don't know much about his service, not because he was particularly reticent but because he died suddenly at 50, before I was mature enough to imagine my parents had lives worth learning about. How I regret that I never asked him about those years. Anyone who has tried to get WWII military records knows that a fire destroyed many of them. All I have are the things he carried, a French-English dictionary, a guide to Europe, and, oddly, a copy of Don Quixote, in Spanish. Several years ago, I gathered these mementos together and along with a few photographs asked Star Black, the brilliant poet, photographer, and collage artist to make something of them. A few weeks later she presented me with three collages, one of which is shown here. That's my dad in the middle, looking handsome, and so young! In the upper left is a page from his guidebook in which he wrote a list of the places he fought his way through, ending with "and a funeral in some god-forsaken place."

The picture on the right is of his dog tag, which I recently discovered while cleaning out my mother's place after she died. My father's name was Hyman Horowitz. When he and his brothers returned from the War, they believed they would have an easier time finding work if their names weren't "so Jewish." Thus, Hyman became Huy, and Horowitz became Harwood. 

One of the more moving accounts of life as an infantryman during WWII can be found in Roll Me Over, by Raymond Gantter. Ganttner was a teacher who decided to turn down his third deferment. He was unfit for officer status so he joined the infantry as a private. His service was almost identical to that of my father's. Here's a passage: 

It is the slow piling up of fear that is so intolerable. Fear moves swiftly in battle, strikes hard with each shell, each new danger, and as long as there's action, you don't have time to be frightened.  But this is a slow fear, heavy and stomach filling.  Slow, slow . . all your movements are careful and slow, and pain is slow and fear is slow and the beat of your heart is the only rapid rhythm of the night . . . a muttering drum easily punctured and stilled.

Comments

[Joanna C. Migdal]

This is a heartfelt tribute to your Dad's service...it's very vivid as well. I 'pinched' the collage you had created in his memory..it's so striking to see his face and surrounding mementos!

[Jamie Katz]

Stacey—
There have been times in my life when I thought things were tough and I wondered how I would endure. You know those moments. Then I would think about this: infantrymen in the Battle of the Bulge, isolated, dug in against unknown odds, freezing their asses off in too-thin overcoats and worn combat boots, stewing in their own filth, eardrums aching from constant bombardment, knowing that a terrible enemy was trying very hard to annihilate them, not knowing if it would ever end or if this was the end, knowing only, as Raymond Gantter wrote, that "fear is slow and the beat of your heart is the only rapid rhythm of the night." And then I would know that whatever I was facing was nothing compared to what your father survived. So, thank you, Hyman Horowitz, and thank you, Stacey, for reminding us.