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Portraits of veterans

Just a boy from Bayonne

 
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Army service and a landmine changed everything for Fort Lee man
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Huertgen Forest, November 1944; the battle there was both devastating and inconclusive. Bundesarchiv, Bild 183-J28303 / CC-BY-SA

It’s easy to say that what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.

Sometimes it might even be true.

Martin Weinberger, who now lives in Fort Lee, was born in Bayonne on November 28, 1923; he turns 90 at the end of this month. Although his father came from New York, his mother, too, was born into the once-vibrant Hudson County Jewish community.

In 1939, the 16-year-old Martin entered NYU. He was in the Reserve Officers Training Corps for his first two years — an NYU requirement for male students in the immediate prewar era — and then he chose to continue in ROTC through graduation.

“I majored in liberal arts, but as the time grew closer to senior year, all that any of us ever thought about was going into service,” Mr. Weinberger recalled. “We didn’t pay much attention to our studies. Some of us were premed or prelaw, and they did, but not the rest of us.

“This was a just war — later it turned out to be the last just war,” he continued. “Everyone was gung-ho about going to war.”

Normally, four-year ROTC students would graduate college as second lieutenants, but by 1943 that had changed, and Mr. Weinberger found himself at Fort Benning, Ga., in basic training; he was not commissioned until he had completed it. Three months later, training done, he was assigned to the 75th Army division, which was on maneuvers in Louisiana.

Basic training was the first time he had ever lived away from home; the only times he’d slept out of his house was when he’d visited his grandparents. He had lived at home throughout college — it was a major trek to go between Bayonne and NYU’s uptown campus, in the Bronx, but he could sleep in his own bed every night.

And then there was the strange authority of his position.

“You have to understand that I was a second lieutenant at 20 years of age,” Mr. Weinberger said. “Everybody was much older than I was. I had people who were 30 years old, and older, coming to me with their troubles.

“I didn’t even know those troubles existed, much less how to deal with them,” he added ruefully.

Instead of staying with the 75th division, Mr. Weinberger was sent to England as a replacement to fill an opening in the 8th Infantry Division. The invasion of Omaha Beach was on June 6; three weeks later, the 8th went in.

“There was a lull between the time we landed and the middle of July, and then a big push started,” he said. “On the first day of that push, I was shot by a German soldier who I thought was surrendering.

“He was a lone soldier in the middle of the field, walking toward us, holding a rifle over his head.

“I assumed he was surrendering.”

Weinberger was wrong.

“I turned to my radio operator, and said, ‘When he comes in, take his rifle and bring him back to headquarters.’

“The next thing I knew, he shot me.”

The wound, to his buttocks, normally would have been painful, but not dangerous, but because the bullet first hit and then ricocheted off a dirty shovel Mr. Weinberger had been carrying before it penetrated him, doctors were worried about infection. He was sent to England — there were no closer surgical facilities. He later rejoined his unit in Luxembourg.

And the German who shot him? “He didn’t last for more than a few seconds,” Mr. Weinberger said. “Everybody opened fire. My whole platoon was lined up along the hedgerow, and as soon as he shot they fired.”

A few months after he returned to active duty, his division replaced the 29th division in Huertgen Forest in Germany.

“It was one of the worse campaigns of the war,” Mr. Weinberger said. “There is very little mention of it, because the Battle of the Bulge was shortly after it, but it was terrible. There was terrible loss of life; incredible loss of life. The division we replaced was decimated — no, it was more than decimated. And we took a terrible beating as well.”

The battle, in fact, was the longest fought on German soil during World War II. It was also the longest single battle that the U.S. Army has ever fought. Reports say that 33,000 Americans and 28,000 Germans were killed or wounded. It is not clear who won; the fact that the fight was inconclusive and the death toll astronomic has led to the conclusion that the Allies lost.

That soon became academic for Mr. Weinberger.

“Right after Thanksgiving we were ordered to advance,” he said. “We had been ordered to advance three or four times, and each time we met very heavy fire. This time, it was incredibly bad. It is hard — it is impossible — to describe the constant bombardment. And this is in heavy forest.

“We took terrible casualties.

“My company was down 50 percent by the second week. The whole operation was ill-conceived. There was no reason to be fighting in the forest. We should have bypassed it, and let the Air Force bomb it — but that’s not how it works.

“A day or two after Thanksgiving, we were ordered to advance, and my forward squad called back, saying they had reached barbed wire,” he continued. “I said, ‘Let me come up.’

“And as I walked up, I said, ‘Be careful. There might be mines.’

“And as I said that, I stepped on one.”

Martin Weinberger’s leg was mangled beyond repair.

“I had to be brought down to the road — we were on top of the hill. It had been raining, and it was cold.

“My medic was two steps behind me, and he gave me a shot of morphine immediately. Still, it was a terrible trip, just getting down to the aid station.

“And that,” he concluded, “is the story of my life.”

He was taken to a hospital in Verviers, Belgium, where his leg was amputated. “That was on November 27,” he said. “On the 28th, I became 21 years of age. That was not a great birthday.”

When he was strong enough to be sent home, the Army sent Mr. Weinberger to Lawson General Hospital in Atlanta for recuperation. “I was to have the Army record for the longest-staying single amputee, because I turned out to be a very slow healer,” he said. “I finally got to go in June of 1946. I was in the hospital longer than some of my doctors had been doctors.

“I was very anxious to get out. I really had had enough of military service, and of the hospital. I wanted to get back and start my life.”

He did. He earned an MBA at NYU, got married, and worked in an advertising agency, Riedel and Freed; among other accounts, the Clifton-based firm worked on Dwight Eisenhower’s presidential campaigns in New Jersey. He and his wife moved to Teaneck; about eight years ago he moved to Fort Lee.

There was nothing particularly Jewish that characterized his Army career, Mr. Weinberger said. He was used to a certain background level of anti-Semitism. “When I lived in Bayonne, on many Mondays I got beaten up because in the Sunday sermon the kids had been told that the Jews killed Christ. And I was a 90-pound weakling as a youngster.

“My company commander and my battalion commander were very anti-Semitic, and made no bones about it, but I gave as well as I got.”

There is no question that the army changed his life. Certainly it changed his body. Much of it was terrible, but some of it was not. “I really had been a weakling. I lived at home. And then I really grew up, very rapidly.

“I learned a lot. It prepared me for life,” Mr. Weinberger said.

 

More on: Portraits of veterans

 
 
 

Veterans day wounds

The day after my 18th birthday, my father took me to a place called the Customs House in Baltimore. It was September 29, 1971, and I was there to register with the Selective Service.

A lady with silver grey curly hair and a darkly colored print dress, whose badge said she was Mrs. Lieb, asked me in businesslike tones why my birth certificate spelled my first name Phillip with two ls but I filled out the SS application as Philip with one l.

I didn’t know that my birth certificate had that error. Neither did my father. Mrs. Lieb raised a perfectly arched eyebrow. I guess she was worried that I was trying in my own way to evade the draft.

 
 

He knew what he wanted

Camp counselor guided Bergen teen to ROTC and an army career

From the time he was in his early teens, Benjamin Glasgall, who grew up in Harrington Park, knew exactly what he wanted to do when he grew up.

Other kids might have gone through their fireman and policeman stages or aim themselves at law or medicine, or — given that this was the 1980s, at the wads of money wafting from the towers of Wall Street — but not Ben.

He didn’t even want to be politician, even though when he got to high school, at Northern Valley in Old Tappan, the large shadow cast by the fairly-recent-graduate and all-around superman Corey Booker, in defiance of all laws of physics, still was visible.

No, Ben wanted to be a soldier.

 
 

A chaplain’s calling

Pastoral work in the USAF led rabbi into life as a counselor

A certain kind of impersonal authority comes with some positions — just for argument’s sake, say that position is as a Jewish Air Force chaplain.

Then there’s the kind of authority that someone — say, perhaps, a Jewish Air Force chaplain — grows into.

That was the experience of Rabbi Reuben E. Gross — now Dr. Gross, of Teaneck, and then Lt. Gross, of the United States Air Force — as he served as chaplain in the Philippines. His was a peacetime stint — he was in the Philippines just before the just-begun Vietnam war caused the United States to bring what it called advisors there to oversee that conflict.

 
 

Shot down over Belgium

Local man remembers the uncle he never knew

“I saw tracers hitting the front part of our ship,” recounted Sergeant Beverly Geyer in his formal debriefing. “It must have hit our controls, for the plane fell over on one wing. We were heavily hit in the oil tanks. Oil and pieces of wing came flying by me. The navigator called and wanted to know what was popping. The pilot ordered us to bail out.”

And there are the details of the mission.

The B-17 that Bernie flew was known as “The Flying Fortress.” The Air Force had hoped that its defenses — including many machine guns — and its high altitude would let it fly safely through Nazi airspace. The reality was less kind to the pilots.

 
 
 
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Bus, bomb, book

Local reporter investigates personal and political repercussions

According to Jewish tradition, every person is an entire world.

The death of any one person is the disappearance of that world, and all the other touching, interlocking worlds are left infinitely poorer.

Mike Kelly of Teaneck, a columnist for the Bergen Record, has been in a small room with a man who killed 46 people in three separate bombings. A man who obliterated 46 separate worlds. And who seems to be proud of it.

Mr. Kelly has written a book, “The Bus On Jaffa Road,” that focuses on one of those bombings, the one on the Jaffa Road in Jerusalem in 1996 that killed 26 people, including Sara Duker, also of Teaneck, and Matthew Eisenfeld, her boyfriend, who came from West Hartford, Connecticut. He also focuses on Steven Flatow of South Orange, whose daughter Alisa was killed in another bus bombing the year before, and who was instrumental in the story as it unfolded.

 

At the heart of Touro

Alan Kadish leads America’s largest Jewish university

Few children, if any, dream of growing up to become university presidents.

Dr. Alan Kadish of Teaneck certainly didn’t.

Instead, the childhood dream that led him to the presidency of Touro University began with the death of a beloved uncle.

“My mother’s brother, a strapping man in his 50s, had a sudden cardiac death when I was 15,” Dr. Kadish, 58, remembered.

“That was a problem I wanted to study.”

Alan Kadish, the son of a father from the Lower East Side and a mother from Vienna, went to Yeshiva University’s MTA high school. He then attended Columbia University, where he majored in biochemistry, and he followed that with a medical degree from Yeshiva University’s Albert Einstein College. His specialty, of course, was cardiology: helping to prevent and treat heart attacks. After a residency at Brigham and Women’s Hospital in Boston, he took a fellowship at the Hospital of the University of Pennsylvania.

 

The father of Jewish Home Family retires

Charles Berkowitz, visionary creator of compassionate services for the elderly, looks back

In 1970, when Charles P. Berkowitz of Glen Rock became assistant administrator at the Jewish Home and Rehabilitation Center in Jersey City, President Nixon was sending troops to Cambodia, antiwar riots were roiling college campuses, and the New York Marathon was making its debut.

Chuck Berkowitz, just 29 at the time, already had a vision far beyond that decade. He anticipated and implemented forward-thinking approaches to elder care that have earned him many awards and approbations in the past 44 years.

At the Jewish Home’s annual gala dinner last Sunday at the Rockleigh Country Club, he was feted upon his retirement as president and CEO of the Jewish Home Family, a position he held since June 2009. He became CEO of the Jersey City site in 1982. The facility, founded in 1915 as the Hebrew Orphans Home of Hudson County, moved to Rockleigh in 2001 as Hudson’s Jewish population declined.

 

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A time to mourn

Remembering Rabbi David Feldman

There were about 1,000 people at Rabbi David Feldman’s funeral.

There are many things to say about Rabbi Feldman, who died last Friday at 85, but that statistic is a good place to start.

David Michael Feldman was a pastoral rabbi, a scholar, a medical ethicist, a serious and authentic Jew, a formal and generous and devoted family man, and the rabbi emeritus of the Jewish Center of Teaneck.

And he was beloved.

 

A time to mourn

Too many funerals

As the sun set last Yom Kippur, Dr. Lawrence David Zigelman stood next to his ailing 94-year-old father, Rabbi Abraham Zigelman, and recited every word of the closing Ne’ilah prayer aloud with him in the back of the sanctuary at the Young Israel of Fort Lee.

When the synagogue’s rabbi, Neil Winkler, asked his best friend why he had done this, Dr. Zigelman responded, “I don’t know how many more Ne’ilahs I will have with my father,” Rabbi Winkler recalled.

It was, in fact, the final Ne’ilah that either man would recite.

The Zigelman family is reeling from the deaths of father and son just 12 days apart — the 66-year-old pediatrician on November 7 and the retired pulpit rabbi on November 19. They now lie side by side in Jerusalem’s Har Hamenuchot cemetery.

 

From Assyria to Iberia

Even in prophetic period, Israelites were part of the larger world, local Assyriologist says

We Jews are used to thinking of the ancient land of Israel as set in the middle of vast stretches of desert, and of the Israelites as living more or less alone there, relatively unaffected by their neighbors.

Yes, there were skirmishes with neighbors, occasional raids down from the hill country, some fights over borders, but on the whole Israel was separate, the undisputed center of its world.

Well, that’s not really true, according to Dr. Ira Spar of Suffern, N.Y. Dr. Spar, who is a professor of ancient studies at Ramapo College of New Jersey in Mahwah, is also the Metropolitan Museum of Art’s research Assyriologist. (Isn’t that the most wonderful job title?) In that capacity, he is part of a team that put together “Assyria to Iberia at the Dawn of the Classical Age,” an exhibit on display at the Met until January 4.

 
 
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