Rachel Seidman

This was my favorite photo of my father, Aaron, when I was a child.  My dad was 25-years-old when it was taken, and he had just recently enlisted in the army. It was 1942.  For him, enlisting was not only the patriotic thing to do, but also his duty, because he recognized that something dark and evil was happening to Jews in Europe.   

My dad grew up in New York and lived on the Lower East Side and in Brooklyn.  His parents were Polish Immigrants, and he was the youngest son born into a family of five.  Before he entered the army, he was something of an activist, fighting for the rights of workers.   

By the time I came along, the young man in that photo was a balding, paunchy 41-year-old man. He no longer had the smooth skin, the strong white teeth and the clear eyes you see here. He had suffered from malaria twice during the war and also had scars on his face and damage to his eyes from shrapnel wounds. His white teeth had yellowed, due to a smoking habit he picked up in the army.  The toes of his feet were uncomfortably curled under and yellowed.  I later realized that this must have been because he had slept in wet, cramped boots when in combat.

My dad did not talk about his experiences in the war very much.  And so, I like to remember him as that courageous and idealistic 25-year-old, who survived the war and returned home a hero.