39 Whitehall Street
September 27, 1951 Cheeks salted by tears, throats clogged by dread, a sorrowful good-bye, and then he was outside the door.
Small octagonal brown tiles formed the number 2 surrounded by contrasting white octagonals. It would be quite some time before he left his footprints on the second floor of this tenement.
Two floors down, he passed the mailbox where he received a secret decoder badge for two Ralston box tops. Where he received a paperback dictionary for ten Planter Peanuts wrappers. Where he received four tickets to watch the broadcast of The Shadow at the New Amsterdam Theater in Manhattan.
Down the three-step stoop, and into the street he went where he sat with the boys after a hectic punchball game.
Oh! There’s Mr. Tekula, our janitor collecting his empty garbage barrels. Is he sober enough to say, goodbye? Never mind, he hates the tenants..
Standing before him, across Boston Road, occupying an entire block, was the art-deco city landmark, Hermann Ridder Jr. H.S. Where his mother had a fairly good attendance record after being called by his teacher for throwing water-soaked toilet paper from the gym locker window at a passing insurance salesman. For telling his home room teacher that he doesn’t look into her pocketbook, don’t look into my wallet. Where his general science teacher told his mother to take a bat and hit him over the head with it. Where his rowdy senior class decided to wear maroon bowties to call attention to their individuality.
His gym class uniform was to be a white t-shirt and black shorts with a red stripe along the side (Hermann Ridder’s colors). Now, he’ll be dressed in an olive-drab uniform to defend South Korea from Kim Il sung’s army. All he knew about Korea was that they had a very good marathon runner many years ago.
Across the street from Hermann Ridder, on E. 172 St. was Gitelson’s kosher deli. Gitelson’s, where the boys completed their stickball game with pastrami-on-club sandwiches, a Coke and French fries. Gitelson’s where he was waiting to meet his buddy and fellow draftee, Dave Sohmer.
He and Dave were unemployed in 1948. Competing in the job market with World War II vets left them on the bench. Now they were getting off the bench and into an exciting game; a more exciting game, The Korean War.
It was 7:00 AM. He and Dave joined the workers heading towards the E. 174 St. subway station. At the base of the station, where he and his father were customers, was a newspaper stand owned by a handicapped World War II vet.
“I haven’t seen you in quite a while. Where were you?” asked the vet.
“I passed my physical. We’re leaving for the army today.”
Pointing to his lost forearm he said,
“Don’t be a hero.”
He and Dave entered a crowded subway train. He grabbed one of the porcelain handles for the standees. As the train rocked and sped, he recalled sitting on a seat of a subway car yearning for the day he was fit to reach those handles. Now that he could reach them, he was fit to go to war.
Finally, 39 Whitehall St., The building where he was to take his physical. The building that launched thousands off to war, and the thousands that would never return.
for the complete story read: Cold Ground’s Been My Bed: A Korean War Memoir by Daniel Wolfe.
danielwolfebooks@aol.com