Finding Uncle Isidor

In 2014, Rabbi Dr. Jacob J. Schacter led a Jewish History tour in Europe with a group of American Jews. It was June 6, D-Day, and a member of the group suggested an unscheduled stop at the Normandy American Cemetery. While taking in the enormity of the cemetery and the expanse of unending rows of white, Latin cross grave markers, he noted that the occasional break in the symmetry of markers for a Star of David marker seemed abnormally low. He surmised that, given that approximately 2.5 percent of the American army was composed of Jews, there should have been more Star of David markers. He filed the thought away.

Back in New York some weeks later, Rabbi Schacter happened to meet his close friend, Shalom Lamm, a businessman and military historian by training. Rabbi Schacter shared his observation with Shalom, and, over the course of two years trying to understand why there were fewer Stars of David than they expected, the two agreed it was possible that there could be Jewish soldiers who, only by mistake after the battles of World War II, had been buried beneath the Latin cross. The two men decided to test their hypothesis.

With no precedent to follow, they scoured lists of soldiers at Normandy looking for names on markers that seemed Jewish but were marked with crosses. Identifying the descendants of these soldiers was the next step, followed by contacting those descendants and confirming the genealogical relationship. They brought in a third partner to the effort, Steve Lamar, a competent amateur genealogist. Even after making the family connection, the American Battle Monuments Commission, responsible for maintaining all American military cemeteries worldwide, had to be contacted, and the case had to be made for the marker switch.

The third World War II soldier that the men identified was Private Benjamin Garadetsky. In the summer of 2018, his marker was the first to be changed from the Latin cross to the Star of David. And Operation Benjamin was born. The focus of the organization has since broadened to both World War I and World War II Jewish soldiers.

A miracle unfolds

In March 2026, during nine weeks of frequent hospitalizations arising from the side effects of chemotherapy for a rare abdominal adenocarcinoma, my phone rang one afternoon. The caller’s country code was 972, which means Israel. The voice was unfamiliar. “Hi,” said the caller. “My name is Shalom Lamm, and I’m calling from Jerusalem. Would you by any chance happen to be the son of Ruth Katzenstein?” I immediately responded, somewhat curious, “Yes, I am; she was my mother. She passed away in October of 2023 in Boston. Why do you ask?”

I had no idea what to expect for the next part of this conversation. “Well,” continued Shalom, “I am calling you from an organization called Operation Benjamin. We think we’ve identified a relative of your mother’s. His name is Isidor Katzenstein, your mother’s uncle. He was a World War I infantryman fighting for the German army in the Battle of the Somme, was gravely wounded, captured as a POW by the French, treated in a military field hospital, and succumbed to his wounds in October of 1918.”

He continued, “We know that he was temporarily buried near the hospital in Cugny, France, and, after the war, was later moved to a German military cemetery in St. Quentin.”

All I could think at this point was that my mother had never spoken of Uncle Isidor, and that a miracle was unfolding in my life and in the lives of my siblings. Then came a simple request from Shalom, “If you would be willing to write a short letter to us authorizing us to act on your behalf with the relevant authorities, we would like to add a tombstone with a Magen David to your maternal great-uncle’s grave. Finally, he said that when we have the approvals, you and your family are more than welcome to join us in France for the marker ceremony.”

I asked Shalom if he was related to Rabbi Norman Lamm, a giant of the American Jewish community and someone with whom I had interacted over the years through both Yeshiva University and the Synagogue Council of Massachusetts, and he said yes – he was Rabbi Lamm’s son. That answer sealed the deal. I told Shalom that I would send him the authorization letter that same day, and I did.

I contacted each of my siblings, Shais and Shoshana, who live in Israel, and my youngest brother, David, who lives in Baltimore. Each was astounded to hear this news and asked to be kept in the loop as preparations developed. We received access to a detailed dossier, painstakingly and lovingly prepared by Stefan Schweitzer of Bonn (a volunteer for the German War Graves Commission/Volksbund and a collaborator with Operation Benjamin) that chronicles the genealogical and military story of Isidor.

Some weeks later, I received an email from Operation Benjamin stating that the marker ceremony would take place on Friday, July 3, 2026, at the St. Quentin German Military Cemetery. It was time to make plans. I worked closely with my oncology team at Dana Farber, as now that I was in a new set of alternate-week chemotherapy treatments, the only way that I could plan to attend was if the week of July 3 was a recovery week. Through the kindness of God, that week was already planned as a recovery week. I made travel plans to fly from Boston to Paris. My brother David and his wife, Wendy, also planned to attend, coming from Baltimore.

Family history

Isidor Katzenstein was born on December 3, 1899, in the village of Wehrda, Germany, to Jakob and Betty Katzenstein. He was one of 6 children. His parents are the last two Jews buried in the Wehrda cemetery. His older sister Selma, her husband, and children were murdered in Auschwitz. His younger sister Meta, who was never married, was murdered in Auschwitz. His younger brother, Adolf, died by accidental drowning at a young age.

His older brother, Julius, was married to Bertha (Stern) and, together with two young daughters, Ruth (my mother) and Sylvia (living today in Riverdale, New York), was able to emigrate, via Hamburg, to America, settling into the German enclave in Washington Heights in New York City. The middle sister, Regina, together with her daughter, Betty (living today in Boca Raton, Florida), and Arthur, escaped to Holland, spent time in the Westerbork detention camp, left the camp under false papers, traveled to Sweden, and then made their way to Washington Heights using papers provided by her older brother Julius.

Isidor served as a Musketier (Musketeer) in the 11^th Company, Reserve Infantry Regiment No. 71, 22^nd Reserve Division in the 43^rd Reserve Infantry Brigade. He was wounded in battle on October 18, 1918, and died in a French field hospital on October 24, 1918, only a few short weeks before his country, Germany, signed the armistice agreement.

The final salute

Erev Shabbat, July 3, 2026 (18 Tamuz), was a sunny, warm day at the St. Quentin German Military Cemetery. Following a series of ceremonial remarks by visiting dignitaries and seven ceremonies for other fallen soldiers, the moment arrived for the unveiling of the marker for Isidor.

There it was – a tombstone for Isidor – with a Magen David at its top. After 108 years, I had the privilege of singing the Kel Maleh prayer for the soul of the departed for him. With no knowledge of what his Hebrew name had been, I assigned him the name Yitzchak (common in Germany for men called Isidor). It was emotionally difficult to make it through the entire prayer.

I made brief remarks about this miraculous event – pointing out that the name Yitzchak symbolizes the future-looking nature of the Jewish people. Of the three Biblical patriarchs, only his name is in the future tense. While we, as a Jewish people, pay particular attention every day to past events and our rich history (both positive and tragic), we are also resolute in being optimistic for each upcoming day. Not only are we positive about our Jewish future, but we are joyful about what is in store for us through the kindnesses of God. “Yitzchak,” I said, “We are happy to be standing alongside you as you are welcomed back to the Jewish people.”

The small stones placed atop the tombstone symbolize our being there for Isidor. The stones were collected in Eretz Yisrael by a young girl and brought to France for this occasion. It’s beautiful to note that Isidor’s tombstone is now adorned with small pieces of the Jewish homeland.

Our mission included a new ceremony, the Final Salute (Der Letzte Gruß). What an emotional moment, standing in the valley of the shadow of death, and having a current German officer, Captain Jens Schrader, honor his Jewish comrade from a century ago in an elongated moment of silence, dignity, and respect.

From beginning to end, the miracle of discovering Isidor Katzenstein still gives me goosebumps. So many things had to happen in sequential order, from Rabbi Schacter’s hunch to the development of an organization, from the discovery of Isidor’s name on a Latin cross in a German military ceremony in France to the call to me and the marker ceremony.

Of course, it is true that human beings have the capacity to be tremendously kind to one another, and there is no end to the wonderful blessings in our lives. But this event in our family’s life and in the trajectory of the Jewish people, wherever they may be in this world, was clearly in the hands of Hashem.

For that, I am forever grateful.

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The author is grateful to Shalom Lamm for his critical review of the posting prior to publication.

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