Letter Home
My father, Milton Zolotow, enlisted in the Army during World War II when he was told that they needed mapmakers in New Jersey and that with his background in commercial art the map making division would want his skills. Instead, the day he enlisted, he and the other recruits were put aboard train whose destination was Camp Chaffee, Arkansas, for basic training to become members of an elite force of soldiers in a tank battalion under General George Patton.
After completing basic training, he was shipped to North Africa—he never said where—and from there he wrote his family a long letter about a very interesting Jewish holiday (Rosh Hashana) he spent with members of the Jewish community who lived in a big city near his base. He also sent home a small portfolio of drawings he made of people he saw in that community.
The letter is typed, so very legible, but the paper it is on is old and crumbling. The drawings aren’t in the best condition, either, and they all have glue stains on them because at one point someone glued them to picture board for an exhibition. What I decided to do when I found the letter was to transcribe it and scan some of the drawings that I found in a portfolio as the best way of preserving them and sharing them with family members.
But I really think the letter is so fascinating and also raises so many important issues about the Jewish diaspora and the state of the world back then that I thought I might as well share the letter and some of the drawings on my blog.
In today’s post, I’ll just give you the opening paragraphs of the letter, and if you want to read the full letter and see more drawings, you can go here.
In today’s post, I’ll just give you the opening paragraphs of the letter, and if you want to read the full letter and see more drawings, you can go here.
LETTER HOME
Dear Folks:
Spent Rosh Hashana in a big African town and it is a day I shall never forget. I had been learning to know these people from the outside, but before that day, had never come so close to understanding their lives.
I went to the largest synagogue and after a few minutes rushed outside to sketch some of the wonderful things I had seen. Two boys approached me and asked if I were Jewish. I was then handed a copy of a G.I. Siddur and asked to read from it. I stumbled through a couple of words and the littlest kid picked up and rattled off about three minutes of minchah from memory.
The kids invited me to dinner at their home and introduced themselves. The small one was named Maurice. I dubbed him Moish; he was six and smart as a whip.
On the way to their home he recited his lessons in French, Hebrew and sang Moroccan songs for me. The home was in the “off limits” area, the vilest slum I have ever seen. I stumbled through a dark alley and found myself led into a dark room with a table inside. I was in the quarters of a family of six and the size of the room was like the one Eleanore used to use.
For the rest of this letter and to see more drawings, go here.
I went to the largest synagogue and after a few minutes rushed outside to sketch some of the wonderful things I had seen. Two boys approached me and asked if I were Jewish. I was then handed a copy of a G.I. Siddur and asked to read from it. I stumbled through a couple of words and the littlest kid picked up and rattled off about three minutes of minchah from memory.
The kids invited me to dinner at their home and introduced themselves. The small one was named Maurice. I dubbed him Moish; he was six and smart as a whip.
On the way to their home he recited his lessons in French, Hebrew and sang Moroccan songs for me. The home was in the “off limits” area, the vilest slum I have ever seen. I stumbled through a dark alley and found myself led into a dark room with a table inside. I was in the quarters of a family of six and the size of the room was like the one Eleanore used to use.
For the rest of this letter and to see more drawings, go here.
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