Christmas Eve at the Oakland Army Terminal

After being excused for the day from the Oakland Army Terminal, I flagged down a cab and asked the driver to take me to Sather Gate, the main entrance to the University of California campus at Berkeley. That neighborhood had plenty of stores including a men’s store where I bought pajamas; then to a drug store for a tooth brush, tooth paste, a razor, and shaving cream. Then to the tricky part of my haphazard plan: where to sleep?

There were few students around; most had left for the Christmas holiday. The fraternity I had belonged to at Stanford had a chapter a Cal — hopefully one of the members stayed on the campus during the Christmas break. I found the fraternity and rang the door bell while trying to remember the secret handshake that I had thought was ridiculous.

I walked behind the house; a light was shining on the second floor, a man approached the window and looked out. I yelled at him; he looked down, opened the window and, in an accent I couldn’t place, he said, “What do you want?”

“I need a place to sleep tonight and…”

“I don’t take in tramps,” he said and started to shut the window.

“Hey, wait, wait. Do I look like a tramp?”

He turned away to put on his glasses and said, “You don’t. And you don’t look dangerous either. Meet me at the front door.”

He opened the door and introduced himself, “I’m Ykaaov Cohen. Americans call me Jake, shortened from Jacob. Can you tell where I’m from?”

“From your name and accent, I’m guessing Israel?”

“Bingo,” he said. “And I’m not going home for Christmas.”

“It’s a long trip for a holiday I don’t imagine you celebrate.”

He laughed, “I’ve found out that many American Jews go to the movies on Christmas Day and eat dinner at Chinese restaurants.”

“That’s how I understand they spend Christmas,” I said. “Now about my predicament…”

“Come inside, how about a beer?”

I followed him into the kitchen. I assumed that Jake liked Czech beer as the fridge was full of Pilsner Urquell. “Love one, or maybe a dozen or so. I think Czech beers are some of the best in the world: tasty, not over carbonated, and they go down easily. Too easy actually.”

“My grandparents came from Prague. My grandfather went to Berlin for a conference in 1937. He came home and said that the Germans had gone crazy, and they had to get out. It took them a year, but they moved to what became Israel.”

“Your grandfather had the foresight that many leaders — the British and French in particular — ignored when they handed over Czechoslovakia to the Nazis. What did your grandfather do?”

“He taught at the university, psychology.” He changed the subject, “What brought you to Berkeley?”

“Today was a pre-draft physical in Oakland — long, tedious and being yelled at.”

“Armies are all the same; I was in the Israeli Army — tanks,” he said and handed me a beer. “Back to your predicament?”

I explained my situation, focused on the reciprocal agreements that national fraternities have with each other. He understood and said that I could bed down for the night in one of the rooms, and he would show me where the bed linens were stored. I thanked him and asked if he was a member of the fraternity.

He replied, “The university officials thought an infusion of an adult might sooth the juvenile hormones that run wild in this place. The men, I mean boys, call this joint the animal house. If they keep pushing it, they’ll be tossed out of here — not the best first step into adulthood.”

“How do you get any studying done?”

“I go the library or use the laboratory. I’m completing a PhD in biology.”

“Why don’t I take you out for supper?”

“A bunch of us Israelis are having an informal gathering this evening. Food from home. Not actually from home, we bought most of the food from a nearby Arab restaurant. But plenty of beer, and all of us speak English. If you know of good movies that are playing and good local Chinese restaurants, that would be helpful.”

The gathering was in a living room of a small apartment building that looked out to a back yard. I had never had Middle Eastern food until that day and discovered that I enjoyed humus, tabouli salad, and falafel. The main course was grilled lamb from a brick barbeque pit in the back yard. Dessert was apple strudel from a local bakery. I didn’t ask why we were having a German dessert but assumed that the European dietary strings had not been entirely cut.

The gathering was a mixed group of about twenty people who were facing a major holiday with religious undertones that were foreign to them. I sensed homesickness; they were somewhat forlorn and dependant on one another. The lamb was delicious, but the overall mood was changing from a forced joviality to a stoic and uncomfortable resignation. More or less, I felt the same. A light rain had started that did not help.

An attractive woman who was studying mathematics asked me about Santa Claus. I was explaining that the original Saint Nicholas was the Bishop of a Greek seaport town on the west coast of what would become Turkey. He lived in the second century and, I think, he enjoyed giving gifts and performing miracles. She was getting bored; so I asked her about the mathematics she was studying. She perked up a little, but I had no idea of what she was talking about.

She stopped, thought for a moment, and said, “You look confused like you haven’t understood what I’ve been saying? I assume that math isn’t your cup of tea, right?”

“I’m terrible at math and get nervous even talking about it. And I’ve got an early appointment tomorrow morning. It was nice meeting you.” We shook hands.

I told Jake that I was leaving, and he gave me an extra key. I thanked the hosts and walked back to the fraternity, found an alarm clock, and set it for 5:00 AM the next morning, Christmas Eve Day. No wonder I was out of sorts.

In the morning I took a cab back to the Oakland Army Terminal and found my group from the Napa Draft Board. Once again we were herded into two examining rooms where our hearing and vision were checked. Not a single one of us failed either test. Afterwards we were led to what was once a gymnasium and were told where to sit in the bleachers on the eastside of the gym. There were several groups of men from other draft boards; we were told not to talk to each other. On the floor were several tent-like offices where a doctor would review our files and test results. We were sitting facing the G through L tent.

A Navy chief and a Marine sergeant approached the microphone and faced us. The chief asked if there were volunteers for the Navy; a great many hands went up. The volunteers followed the chief to another room where he would begin processing them. The Marine sergeant asked for volunteers; not a single hand went up.

Scheduled by our draft boards, we were told that we would line up in front of the appropriate tents when our draft board was called. Napa would be one of the last. I spent the morning sleeping and watching potential draftees come and go. One fellow came out of a tent; a fellow from his draft board shouted, “Hey, Jim, what’s your classification?”

Jim said, “1-Y. The Russians have to be in Seattle before I’m called up. Want to know why?” The other guy nodded, Jim pointed to his face, “Zits. I’m not kidding — zits. I’m eating chocolate until this lousy war is over.”

After lunch, Napa was called to line up. The doctor I saw seemed to be in his late sixties. He seemed bored and anxious to go home and start on the eggnogs. I told him about my back and failing the OCS physical. As I was talking he became annoyed as he sorted through the stack of files in front of him.

“Your name is Stephen E. Jordan, right?

“That’s right.”

“There’s no file here with your name on it. I’ll notify your draft board that your file is MIA — Missing in Action. Until this mess gets sorted out, I guess you’re classified as 1-A and ready to go. Oh, ah, Merry Christmas.”