‘Never forget’: Sid Stein keeps legacy alive for war hero brothers

It was the day Stein learned his beloved big brother, Hyman “Bubba” Stein, had been killed in France.

It was August 1944, in the thick of World War II. Telegrams beginning with the stilted but heart-stopping phrase, “I regret to inform you,” were arriving at families’ homes with horrible frequency.

Not once, but twice, Stein’s family received them with trembling hands. They were brief messages that tore their world apart.

The first one bore news that Hyman, who had stormed Omaha Beach on D-Day, died after stepping on a land mine on his 23rd birthday. Eight months later the second arrived. His older brother Morris was felled by a sniper’s bullet as he led his platoon through a jungle in the Philippines in April 1945.

“My parents never got over it,” said Stein. “My father loved this country but was bitter that the war took his boys away.”

Stein was only 6 when his brothers joined the growing military machine; Morris to officer’s school and Hyman to boot camp. As he grew older, Stein’s efforts to recall anything about his heroic siblings was akin to peering into a black hole.

“There’s absolutely nothing I can remember back then,” he said, speaking at a Gwinnett County coffee shop. “All I knew was they were killed.”

The full emotional impact of his brothers’ ultimate sacrifice wouldn’t wash over him until decades later.

Credit: Ben Gray

Credit: Ben Gray

Quest for information

A 40-year career as a textile salesman brought Stein to Atlanta, where he and his wife raised a family, leaving him little time or opportunity to ponder the fate of his brothers.

Then one day, their Purple Hearts fell into his hands.

The medals had been given to a cousin, who died in 2010, and his widow passed them on to Stein. By then retired, Stein’s interest was piqued. Already a fan of World War II history and military movies, he morphed into an avid student of the war. He joined the Atlanta World War II Roundtable, a group organized in 1986 to discuss and study the conflict and to share the experiences of war veterans. He read widely.

Painstaking research on Morris and Hyman brought a more detailed and nuanced picture into focus.

“Everybody said they were natural-born leaders,” said Stein. They were respectful family members and hard workers. Both quite handsome. And they were popular among their peers — especially with young female contemporaries.

“My father said that all the ladies were calling him, and that’s why he sent Morris to military school in Columbia, Tennessee, in the ninth grade,” said Stein.

And they were patriotic — perhaps to a fault. After his younger brother’s death, Morris was offered the opportunity to transfer stateside. He refused, saying he was part of a bigger job that needed to be finished.

Stein’s quest for knowledge hit some bumps along the road. All those who had directly known the pair had since died. He gleaned what little information he could from his niece, the daughter of his sister Lillian, who was close to both Morris and Hyman.

“And this guy called me from Mt. Pleasant and told me his brother was Morris’ best friend,” said Stein. That also helped flesh out a picture.

Researching middle Tennessee newspapers produced a handful of articles about the Steins. He also found a 1944 letter a Pennsylvania woman had written to “the wife or mother of Private Hyman Stein.” Enclosed was a Harrisburg newspaper picture of Stein and two buddies taking a shower utilizing a piece of captured German equipment.

But perhaps the most significant discovery was a cache of letters his brothers had sent to their sister from overseas.

In an era before Zoom, texting and Facebook, letters were a vital lifeline between combat theaters and nervous families back home. They were treated like gold, reverentially read and re-read and carefully passed on to other family members and friends.

Their historical importance nowadays assumes special significance, said Kim Guise, senior curator at the National World War II Museum in New Orleans.

“They are such an amazing source of personal insight,” said Guise. “They get to the heart of what people were thinking and hoping for and dreaming for, so they’re a valuable source of how we interpret the American experience in World War II.”

So valuable was that connection that the museum is putting a few hundred of their collection of thousands of donated war-era letters in the spotlight.

A new permanent exhibit entitled “Mail Call” opens Nov. 10 as part of a larger multimedia immersive display. It will examine all facets of the war’s mail.

“Just to know people were out there thinking about you and hoping for you to come home” was crucial, Guise said.

Credit: Ben Gray

Credit: Ben Gray

Letters home

Scribbled hastily, sometimes from foxholes or on flight decks, letters from the frontlines ran the gamut from ordinary tidbits about the weather to observations about the rigors of war.

The ordinary:

June 26, somewhere in France: I am writing to you from sunny France, where it is raining like hell. About the only time we see the sun is between rains.

It’s interesting to hear about all those young girls marrying (at home) because they were all still going to high school when I left. I’m beginning to realize that I have been away from home for a long time. I suppose the next thing I hear from you, (his sister) you will be getting married.

— Hyman Stein

And this from one from officer training school.

1942, Fort Benning, Georgia: I’m supposed to graduate in four weeks from this Thursday. Margaret Sludsky (his girlfriend) wants to come down but she can’t come by herself. Why don’t you (his sister) come down with her?

I have to know pretty soon so I can make reservations for you two to stay here. Columbus is overcrowded so it’s impossible to get a hotel.

—Morris Stein

And there were the gripes about living conditions and the food.

July (1944) France: There isn’t much to write about over here because the same thing happens every day. I hear guns firing when I go to sleep and I hear them when I wake up. They sound all right when they’re our guns but the German guns don’t sound so good.

—Hyman Stein

The brothers also penned shout-outs to and inquiries about friends and family as they hoped for morale-raising tidbits. And there were yearnings about the comforts of home.

August 6, 1943, Somewhere in Sicily: You have asked me if there was anything you could send me. I’d like a piece of custard, some ice cream and a big hamburger. I suppose you can’t send them so I will wait until I get home and I’ll let you make them for me.

—Hyman Stein

Letters home largely didn’t mention the elephant in the room: The ever-present possibility that any soldier’s day could be the last, or that they could be captured. Very good reasons for that existed, said those who have studied the conflict.

“War is a nasty, ugly business,” said Pete Mecca, a Vietnam veteran who heads the Atlanta WW II Roundtable. “There’s no glory in a war. If you find someone who’s bragging about their duty, they’re probably lying. It’s that simple.”

Guise said those overseas tended to avoid the darker, sometimes gruesome, details of military life, not wanting to worry anxious relatives back in the U.S. By the same token, those stateside didn’t want to burden their loved ones in the European and Pacific theaters with messy accounts of domestic strife.

“Sometimes you’d have to read between the lines to find those messages,” Guise said.

Interestingly, “they wrote about the mail itself, with more than a few letters beginning with ‘I got three letters from you today’ or ‘I haven’t received any mail from you in a week. What’s happening?’” she said.

Aug. 6, 1943, Somewhere in Italy: I’ve received about five letters from you in the past week and was really glad to get them. I received the picture of you (his sister) and the picture folder you sent. They were all good and the one of you was especially good.”

—Hyman Stein

Sometimes weeks, even months, would elapse between a letter being slid into an envelope and its reaching a pockmarked battlefield or quiet residential street. There were logistical issues, with time and effort required to pin down a soldier’s location.

“You think the mail is messed up now,” said Tim Gray, president and founder of the World War II Foundation in New England, “try catching up to a soldier in constant battle moving across the country. That’s why they were so glad to get mail when it finally caught up with them, especially those in the Pacific because they were fighting on these small islands.”

Censorship also led to delays. Mail would languish in warehouses waiting for military censors to turn their flinty-eyed scrutiny on it, removing any references to specific military movements or locations. No sense tipping off the enemy.

More than a few families and soldiers came up with ways to evade that fervor for secrecy, Gray added.

“Some of them had these little codes that would go back and forth not giving away specific locations or battle plans but using keywords giving a little more information about where they were in the world.”

The upshot: The letters were sanitized, with little mention of violence. But sometimes, shocking news came through. Among the letters in Stein’s possession is one sent by a friend of Morris’.

Philippines, June 7, 1945: Morris led his platoon on a patrol to locate a route of forward advance… while crossing a small stream a Jap sniper opened fire and Morris fell. If it’s any consolation, one of Morris squad leaders killed the sniper. He received immediate medical attention but to no avail. He died almost immediately.

If there’s anything I can do, please let me know.

—George Bookman

And there was this from a fellow Jewish infantryman who served as an acting chaplain on Negros island, where Morris was fighting.

Somewhere in the Philippines, 3 May, 1945: We were in different outfits. However, it was my heartbreaking duty to recite the burial service of our faith for him. It was as dignified as possible under the circumstances. And (he) now sleeps quietly in a beautiful Army cemetery not far from the sea.

—Lt. Samuel Jacobs

“My parents were just heartbroken,” recalled Stein. So much so that they gave away all of the brothers’ possessions and refused to talk about them even after the bodies of both were returned in 1948 and 1949 and buried in a Nashville Jewish cemetery.

Keeping the legacy alive

Overwhelmed with emotion by the things he learned about his brothers, Stein “would tell their story to friends, family, anyone who would listen,” he said.

One day, a conversation with a journalist prompted him to start sharing what he’d learned with a bigger audience.

Armed with war photos, newspaper clippings, his brothers’ Purple Hearts and other memorabilia such as a bullet-riddled German helmet, Stein made dozens of speeches in the community, many of them surrounding Memorial and Veterans Day observances. Some came through the non-profit Senior University. Others resulted from his penchant for marketing and self-promotion. He wasn’t shy about getting the word out to civic, professional and church groups.

“It just came naturally,” said Stein, who had no formal training in public speaking. The vivid accounts and strong narrative flowed straight from his heart. Reflective silence, misty eyes and a flurry of questions typically followed. “I got a standing ovation from (a group of retired) FBI agents,” he recalled.

Equally telling were the reactions of audience members who buttonholed him afterwards.

There was the elderly Thai woman who recounted how her house had been destroyed by a Japanese bomb and who fervently thanked him for telling the story of Morris Stein’s Pacific service. Another time, speaking at a care home, a 100-year-old resident told Stein he’d known one of the brothers in the service.

Advancing arthritis has put the brakes on Stein’s public appearances, but his deep, musical Tennessee drawl takes on a no-nonsense timbre as he explains his commitment to bringing his brothers’ heroism to life.

“I don’t think we should ever forget them,” he said firmly. “They sacrificed their lives so we can live in freedom today. The waste of human potential was unbelievable. It’s like the Holocaust. We should never forget.”