![]() I can more clearly hear the many dimensions of Uncle Sidney: Reading them turns up the volume on his voice. Multiple letters he wrote to Molley, an employee of the Jewish Y in Wilmington who corresponded with all of the local Jewish servicemen, have been preserved. And maybe, just maybe, I hear hope that all will be whole. And the final artifact of his life: his purple heart rests in a blue velvet box giving voice to his last moments. ![]() A shiny wooden heart pin with the word “Mom” engraved that he gave his mother is pristine. Navy pants, sweater, and hat remain in fine shape almost 80 years after he wore them. My attic also holds objects that help me hear his voice. The rest of the family will be fine.” Care for others is a theme seen throughout his letters. For example, in one letter, responding to his father’s request for Sidney’s opinion, he says, “Make the business decision that is best for you. They reveal his truly thoughtful ability to elevate the needs of another. A cardboard box, now stored in my attic, holds letters my grandmother saved and savored. ![]() And since I shared the same physical characteristics as him, his face was not only vivid to me, but it was also comforting.Īs I grew older, my powers increased, going beyond just seeing. His blue eyes, thick blonde hair, and full lips were recognizable because his pictures dotted our house in my early days in the 1960s. I could see him in heaven, seated on a bed, flanked by other good souls like his father. So it shouldn’t be surprising that at a young age, I found I could actually see Uncle Sidney. The impact he continued to have on my mother and grandmother, years after the telegram had come to their house saying he was shot in the Battle of Saipan, proved Uncle Sidney was very much still an animating-living presence. My grandmother’s eyes, crystal blue, rarely glistened as they should have with pure celebration. It took decades before the rightful Star of David was placed on his grave. Grieving, they spoke about him being buried with a cross on his grave in Honolulu because of a bureaucratic error. ![]() With love they spoke about him becoming a pharmacist mate, explaining in that role he was of the first to land on the island to help tend to the wounded. My grandmother, Esther, and my mother proudly talked about him volunteering to serve our country before he was called up. I learned this truth from the palpable joy and sorrow accompanying the stories told about my Uncle Sidney. I know that a person doesn’t need to breathe to be alive. But I am forever grateful that my mother, Rosalie, gave me her brother’s name. Bad mazel Good fortune, luck, and the Hebrew sign of the Zodiac. Jewish tradition cautions not to name a baby after someone who has had a short life. Cyd Beth.” I’m a girl with a guy’s name, not short for anything, but rather brimming with the decades of my own life story and the tragically short story of my uncle who was killed at the age of 19 in World War II. You might think I’d be offended to be queried about being “a girl with that name?” Or I’d be bothered by the conjecture that my name “must be short for something else.” Never!Īll comments are a welcomed invitation to say, “I was named for my Uncle Sidney. “Is that your real name?” That is the question I hear most often when first introduced. Israeli Independence Day: Yom Ha’Atzmaut.
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