A long time ago, February 1942 to be precise, I joined a group of the Young Hadassah Girls en route to an army camp in Texas. We rode on a chartered bus together with our rabbi and some of the girls’ mothers.
Our mission was to meet and socialize with Jewish soldiers stationed at the camp — Camp Bowie in Brownwood to be exact. Many young men were far away from home and we were to bring a box lunch, eat at the club and dance the afternoon away. As fate smiled at me, my escort for the day turned out to be a tall, handsome Texan. Before the day was over, he had proposed and said he was coming to meet my folks in Waco within the next few weeks. I said nothing; words would have failed me if I had tried.
Needless to say, he was sent across country before the month was out with the 36th Infantry Division. They were among the first soldiers to land in North Africa and were then shipped to Salerno, Italy, where the Germans were waiting. He was captured and remained a prisoner-of-war for almost two years.
In June 1945, I received a phone call from him. He said he was in California and coming to San Francisco the next day to marry me. I was completely confused and befuddled but welcomed the returning hero. He announced if I didn’t marry him, he would move into our house and stay there the rest of his life.
Ten days later we were married at Fort Mason by a Jewish chaplain and the next day we boarded a train for Texas, where I spent the next 10 years of my life. I was very much a bohemian in those days. Despite my mother’s protest, I insisted on being married in black.