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The Passing of a GI Joe
Medal of Honor recipient Tibor Rubin wanted to show that Jews could fight as well as die.
December 11, 2015
Peter Collier
Our country lost a hero last Saturday (December 5), a hero it acquired along the way, when Tibor RubinââTed,â as he liked to be called because that was his âAmerican nameââdied. His birth certificate said he was 86, but by his own calculation he was actually a little younger than that since he believed that he had a second birthday when he arrived in America 67 years ago.
Tedâs story is one of the most remarkable in U.S. military history. It is a story of daring and determination not quite like any other. It is a story given flesh and bones by simple human decency.
Voluble and mordantly funny, Rubin, a thick and powerful man even in old age and still speaking an immigrantâs eccentric English, told me about it a few years ago during a couple of interviews I conducted with him for a book I was doing on the Medal of Honor.
The story begins in Hungary where he was born in 1929 in the small town of Paszto. His family were Jews, but this didnât matter to their neighborsânot yet, anyhow. âWe have a beautiful life there,â Rubin said. âWe didnât bother nobody and nobody bothered us.â
As World War II approached, things changed as the Hungarian government, Hitlerâs ally, passed a series of anti-Jewish measures imitating those the Nazis had used in laying down a foundation for the Holocaust. When he was 13 and they sensed that night was falling, Rubinâs parents sent him to Budapest in the hope that he would be absorbed by the big city. He survived on his own for a couple of years, but when the round up came, he couldnât hide. He was arrested and packed with hundreds of others into cattle cars headed for the Mauthausen camp in Austria. He never forgot the German commandantâs chilling greeting upon their arrival there: âYou Jews, none of you are going to get out of here alive.â
The rest of his family were arrested too, although It was several years before he learned what happened to them. His father (a hero in the Austria-Hungarian Army in World War I who had been captured by the Russians and spent several years in one of their prisons) died at Buchenwald. His mother and two sisters were sent to Auschwitz. While being processed there, the youngest of the two girls, 10 year old Elonja, was taken away and put into a line headed for the crematorium. His mother, who had been selected for forced labor, ran to join the girl, yelling back at her older daughter (who would survive to tell the story), âIâll go with Elonja. She shouldnât have to die alone.â
Emaciated and diseased, Rubin managed to survive until May 5, 1945, when Malthausen was liberated by the U.S. 11th Armored Division. âWhen they picked me up I was a sack of bones,â he told me. âI was covered with lice and it didnât seem that I could live.â Fed and given medical attention, he slowly returned to the world of the living. During his recovery, he was sustained by the image of the American soldiers breaking down the gates of the death camp: âNow I have a debt to pay. I make a promise. If, Lord help me, I ever go to America, Iâm gonna be a GI Joe.â
...
The Passing of a GI Joe
The Passing of a GI Joe
Medal of Honor recipient Tibor Rubin wanted to show that Jews could fight as well as die.
December 11, 2015
Peter Collier
Our country lost a hero last Saturday (December 5), a hero it acquired along the way, when Tibor RubinââTed,â as he liked to be called because that was his âAmerican nameââdied. His birth certificate said he was 86, but by his own calculation he was actually a little younger than that since he believed that he had a second birthday when he arrived in America 67 years ago.
Tedâs story is one of the most remarkable in U.S. military history. It is a story of daring and determination not quite like any other. It is a story given flesh and bones by simple human decency.
Voluble and mordantly funny, Rubin, a thick and powerful man even in old age and still speaking an immigrantâs eccentric English, told me about it a few years ago during a couple of interviews I conducted with him for a book I was doing on the Medal of Honor.
The story begins in Hungary where he was born in 1929 in the small town of Paszto. His family were Jews, but this didnât matter to their neighborsânot yet, anyhow. âWe have a beautiful life there,â Rubin said. âWe didnât bother nobody and nobody bothered us.â
As World War II approached, things changed as the Hungarian government, Hitlerâs ally, passed a series of anti-Jewish measures imitating those the Nazis had used in laying down a foundation for the Holocaust. When he was 13 and they sensed that night was falling, Rubinâs parents sent him to Budapest in the hope that he would be absorbed by the big city. He survived on his own for a couple of years, but when the round up came, he couldnât hide. He was arrested and packed with hundreds of others into cattle cars headed for the Mauthausen camp in Austria. He never forgot the German commandantâs chilling greeting upon their arrival there: âYou Jews, none of you are going to get out of here alive.â
The rest of his family were arrested too, although It was several years before he learned what happened to them. His father (a hero in the Austria-Hungarian Army in World War I who had been captured by the Russians and spent several years in one of their prisons) died at Buchenwald. His mother and two sisters were sent to Auschwitz. While being processed there, the youngest of the two girls, 10 year old Elonja, was taken away and put into a line headed for the crematorium. His mother, who had been selected for forced labor, ran to join the girl, yelling back at her older daughter (who would survive to tell the story), âIâll go with Elonja. She shouldnât have to die alone.â
Emaciated and diseased, Rubin managed to survive until May 5, 1945, when Malthausen was liberated by the U.S. 11th Armored Division. âWhen they picked me up I was a sack of bones,â he told me. âI was covered with lice and it didnât seem that I could live.â Fed and given medical attention, he slowly returned to the world of the living. During his recovery, he was sustained by the image of the American soldiers breaking down the gates of the death camp: âNow I have a debt to pay. I make a promise. If, Lord help me, I ever go to America, Iâm gonna be a GI Joe.â
...
The Passing of a GI Joe