I rarely think of my uncle, but in the past few weeks he’s entered my consciousness more times than he ever has before. I never knew him. He fell in battle in the First World War, fighting in the British Army. He was 18. He had tried to join up since he was 16, but was rejected – twice – because he was too young. When he reached 18, he went to the Recruiting Office again, and this time he was accepted. A few weeks later, on June 1, 1918, he fell in the Battle of Arras, France, and was buried there.
It’s not hard to guess why Uncle Harold – Tzvi ben Aharon – has been occupying my mind at this time. It would be more accurate to say that he has been sharing my mind with those of our soldiers who have fallen in battle since Israel went to war on October 7, Simchat Torah. Most of those soldiers whose sense of purpose, bravery, and heroism became instant legends were also in their late teens or early twenties.
They had scarcely begun their lives. I look at their photographs, in color, either online, or in the newspaper, and see dynamic youths, proud in their uniforms, looking as if they’re raring to go, to get on with their army service and then carve out a life for themselves. The photographs often show them laughing with fellow soldiers, or with a group of friends.
These young men are all dressed in uniform, but there the physical similarity between them ends. Some wear kippot, some have long peyot, some are close shaven, others have very long hair – they’re a cross section of Israeli society. And of course, each has his own attitudes, beliefs, opinions. They could be friends of my grandchildren, one already in the army, another waiting for his call-up next month.
My eyes tear up each morning when the name of another soldier fallen in battle is announced on the 6 a.m. news. “The family has been informed,” is the terse statement. My imagination has already enacted the scene too many times. The knock on the door in the middle of the night. The door opened by the father. Subdued voices. The soldier’s mother comes to see what it’s all about. No explanation is necessary, she understands, instantly. Their lives have changed forever.
Like the lives of my grandparents, Betsy and Harry Franks, when they were informed of the death of their eldest son. I have a faded sepia photograph of Harold in his uniform standing to the side of his mother, who is seated next to her husband. Harold is a tall, good-looking young man, his eyes shining, his face exuding confidence, smiling. In contrast, his father’s face is grave and unsmiling; his mother is sitting stiffly, upright, eyes dull, the expression on her face intimating the bad news she knows will arrive.
Nowadays, news is almost instant, and access widespread. We know the names of the latest casualties as soon as their families have been notified.
At the end of the First World War, things were very different. I have no idea how much time elapsed between my uncle’s death in battle and his parents getting to know that their son had been killed. I think of them sitting shiva perhaps weeks after his death.
Uncle Harold was buried in the Arras Cemetery, in northwest France. More than 40 years later, my cousin made her way to his grave. She described to me the huge number of graves there, “as far as the eye could see.” Very few had a Magen David engraved on them. I don’t know if his parents were ever able to visit their son’s grave.
To honor his memory, there is a small memorial stone next to the matzeiva of my grandmother in Urmston Jewish Cemetery, Manchester, UK. It reads, “In loving memory of Harold (Tzvi ben Aharon) who lies buried in France, June 1, 1918.”
I wonder with whom Private Harold Franks served, far from home. If there were other Jews in his battalion. Jewish young men were encouraged by Jewish organizations to join the army in order to show their loyalty to King and country. I wonder who accompanied him on his last journey on earth. I know it was no one from his family or any of his friends, but I hope there were some Jews with him, perhaps even a Jewish army chaplain.
When I was a child, our family davened in the Manchester Great Synagogue, where my grandparents had married. Sitting in the ladies’ gallery with my mother, my eyes almost of their own accord were riveted by a large wooden memorial board high up to the left of the Aron Kodesh. The few lines of Hebrew were translated into English:
“In ever grateful memory of the sons of this congregation who laid down their lives in defence of their King and country in the Great War, 1914-1918” followed by a list of 14 names, Private Harold Franks – Tzvi ben Aharon – being among them.
More than a century ago. I never knew him, but several times a year – when yizkor is recited – his is one of the names I list to give tzedaka so that he will have everlasting rest in Gan Eden.
