words. But I was overjoyed. The chief physician, after his exami-nation

of me, said I was the healthiest specimen he had seen and

the admitting Lieutenant said she was certain I was OCS (Officer’s

Candidate School) material. On January 8, 1943, the official letter

arrived. I was to report to Fort Oglethorpe, Georgia for a six and a

half week basic training course starting on January 28. My heart

pounded as I contemplated my new adventure.

On a cold dismal Sunday morning with menacing dark clouds

hovering, Mom, Dad, my younger sister Marilyn, and our Rabbi

piled into my father’s automobile. The weather matched the de-meanor

of the long faces of my parents and the Rabbi. Only 16-

year-old Marilyn, who was sure I would be killing Nazis soon,

shared a sense of my zeal.

"Drive faster, faster," I wanted to scream at my father. God,

what if I missed my train? I was getting a headache listening to

Dad and Rabbi Rosenthal making trite conversation about the lo-cal

activities in our synagogue. I shut my eyes to blot out their

talk. The grand adventure that loomed ahead was uppermost in

my mind. One day they would all be proud of this Jewish gal who

served when her country needed her. I took a deep breath, deter-mined

not to let their attitude dampen my exuberance.

"Neet, you’ll carry a gun, won’t you?" Marilyn asked excit-edly.

I smiled inwardly. Dad’s shoulders tensed. I was sure he was

going to have conniptions, but, thank God, not a sound.

"No, Mar, I doubt it. I’m going to release a man for active

duty. I won’t be fighting."

Mom sitting between both of us on the back seat patted my

hand. "Nita, darling, you won’t go overseas either? You prom-ised?"