REMEMBERING THE YEAR: 1945

Al Koch
November 2025

What follows is a snippet of life experienced in 1945. Admittedly, these memories are more than eight decades in the past and may show signs of cognitive erosion; but I am hopeful and trust the crux of the story still has the clarity and resonance of what occurred and conveys the meaningfulness of these events.

In 1945, I was four years old. My two older brothers were students at Sacred Heart School on Laporte Avenue, in Whiting. My oldest brother, Norman, was in sixth grade, and my middle brother, Ronald, was in second grade. Later that year, I would become a kindergarten dropout, and my sister Barbara was born.

From January of 1938 to June of 1946, our family of six, (I was born on Tuesday, January 21, 1941), lived in a garage flat on Robertsdale’s Lincoln Avenue’s 1900 block, three houses from the alley that paralleled 119th Street. The russet all-brick garage apartment was located at the rear of the property, adjacent to, and south of, the landlord’s matching brick house, with a side drive accessible from Lincoln Avenue.

The garage’s interior lower level featured a single car garage on the south side, directly in line with the driveway. Centered against the garages inside brick wall, was a sharply inclined stairway leading to the above living quarters consisting of a parlor, a small front entrance alcove, kitchen, pantry, bathroom, and two bedrooms—one large and one the size of two horizontal phone booths.

On the north side, just inside the ground level entrance were laundry tubs. Toward the back--the boiler-furnace and coal bin.  Deliveries of coal were received via a top hinged metal chute in the garage’s west brick alley wall between Lincoln and Superior Avenues.

The property featured a cyclone-fenced backyard.  And even though there was an outside wood staircase to the second floor living quarters, rarely did anyone use it, preferring instead, the garage’s ground level front entrance and inside stairway to the apartment. The space underneath the exterior stairway sheltered a small sandbox for outside playtime; however, during wartime, it was repurposed with a secure enclosure for chickens, providing eggs, soup-stock, and dinner table entrees.

A large parcel of property on the north side of the alley parallel to 119th Street was vacant save for two bookend buildings: the Nazarene Church, located at 1046 119th Street, two doors west of Lincoln Avenue’s east corner, and a grocery storefront/apartment building on the southeast corner of Superior Avenue.  Both properties faced 119th Street.  Shortly after the beginning of World War II, in the spring of ‘42, the vacant lot became home to Victory Gardens planted and tended by nearby Lincoln and Superior Avenue residents. Level with the alley, but well below 119th Street’s sidewalk; one had to traverse an inclined soil bank to access 119th Street.

There were six rectangular-shaped gardens, approximately 12 feet wide and 15 feet long.  A trough, the size and depth of a bowling alley’s gutter/channel, bordered the perimeter of each plot to catch run-off water that was redirected to the growing vegetables. The minister of the Nazarene Church demonstrated ecumenical kindness by providing a lengthy garden hose and access to an outside faucet that neighbors used to facilitate daily waterings of garden plantings.

Although each garden belonged to a particular neighbor, weeding, watering, and care was tended to by all the neighborhood residents.  A variety of vegetables showcased the taste and versatility of the individual household. Carrots, green peppers, tomatoes, eggplant, onions, cucumbers, zucchini, squash, radishes, beets, beans, peas, a variety of herbs, lettuce, turnips, and kohl-rabi.   Items like corn, pumpkins, potatoes, watermelon, etc., took up too much garden space and were purchased at a local food store.

Garden soil was well nourished with peelings and remnants from vegetables, fish, and fruits. Most organic refuse, like coffee grounds, were turned into the garden’s soil for added nutrients.  Resident’s kids weeded and watered daily. After returning home, the young “gardeners” reported the status of their “crops.”  Victory Gardens became a symbol of neighborhood patriotism, cooperation, commitment, dedication, diligence, and American-can do.  Residents willingly shared garden bounty with one another, in exchange for homemade noodles, sausage, baked goods, and bread. One neighbor had a backyard smoke house and traded smoked bacon for staples of a tasty garden salad. Ohers bartered garden produce for ration stamps.

In addition to the Victory Gardens, I remember going with my oldest brother collecting cooking grease for the war effort.  We’d stop at each neighborhood house asking for donations.  Dozens of cans from vegetables and coffee were filled with bacon grease, lard, and other cooking oils. When our Radio Flyer red wagon was full, we’d take the suet and tallow to a collection area, usually a church or place of business. It made us feel like we helped the troops.

Once a month, the Hoosier Theater would place a wooden bin in front by the ticket window.  People would donate metal items, pots, pans, cooking sheets, and pieces of scrap metal and place them in the bin. Each donor would receive a free pass to the show. Other times, residents collected rubber: tires, inner tubes, hoses, etc., for the war effort.

Directly across 119th Street from the Victory Gardens was St. John the Baptist Convent and School. The dark red brick multi-story building housed the nuns on the upper floor, classrooms on the second floor, and a ground level hall for related events and gatherings. The building was set back from the street which allowed an open area for the school’s playground.  The parish’s properties: playground, school/convent, rectory, and church were bordered with Oslo Style black ornamental wrought iron fencing, decorated with finial shaped tops.  Just inside the playground’s entrance was a water fountain where playground children could quench their thirst.

The first time I visited the playground and convent I was three years old. Mom took me with her to vote for President Franklin Delano Roosevelt in 1944.  The polling place was inside the convent/school’s main floor.  After a brief exchange of words between my mom and a voting official, I was allowed to go with her inside the voting booth. (To guard against voting fraud, only one person at a time was allowed in the booth.) Mom convinced the poll monitor that I would not jeopardize the veracity of her vote and was given permission to accompany her behind the curtain.

 As mom closed the curtain, all that was visible beneath the hem were shoes of other voters waiting in line. Later, my older brother would take me across the street to join neighborhood kids on the playground, always under the watchful eyes of parish nuns who watched goings-on from upper convent windows.

On Thursday, April 12, 1945, just 82 days into his fourth term as President, Franklin Delano Roosevelt, died of a cerebral hemorrhage at the Little White House in Warm Springs, Georgia. The 32nd President of the United States was 63.  Vice-President, Harry S. Truman, took the oath of office that same day. Unbeknownst at that time, less than a month later, Germany would surrender, ending the European hostilities of World War II.

I learned early that the telephone was solely for grown-ups. Our telephone was on a small table by the apartment’s front door, adjacent to the parlor where I spent the greater portion of the day.  I knew from watching mom show my brother Ronald, when I started school, mom would teach me how to use the phone.  When lifting the receiver to make a call, one heard the voice of the telephone operator.  She’d ask: “Number Please” Then you would tell her the number you wanted to call.

 These were the days before dial or push button telephones. Our phone was on a six-person party line, and occasionally when you picked up the handset/receiver to make a call, one of the other party-line people would be talking.  Unless it was a very important call or an emergency, you politely hung up and waited a few minutes before trying your call again.  Private lines were several years in the future, so phone patrons were required to be courteous, cooperative and polite. Eavesdropping and clandestine listening to someone’s telephone conversations or gossiping was frowned upon.   At that time, telephones were a series of numbers and letters.  Our phone number was Whiting 86-J.

If there was an emergency, one would lift the handset and rapidly push the switch hook several times. The switch hook was an electrical connection which signaled the operators via flashing light and/or sound. This indicated if the handset was on-hook, disconnected, or off-hook. Telephone pranksters who misused the telephone were appropriately reprimanded and scolded by switchboard operators.

 I knew when the phone rang, I would wait until Mom went to answer. My Dad was at work, my two brothers in school, so there was no reason for me to touch the phone, I ignored the ringing.  At that time, Mom was five months with child.  (We were not allowed to use the word pregnant). But that is exactly what she was.

It was a beautiful warm sunny afternoon in May.  Mom was in the kitchen making noodle dough, and I was in the parlor playing with a wind-up tractor I received as a birthday present in January.  The telephone began to ring.  On the third ring, Mom told me to answer the phone while she washed her hands. I let the tractor go under the sofa and went to answer the telephone. As the fourth ring faded, I picked up the receiver and said “Hello.”   It was my dad calling from the Personnel Office at Standard Oil. “Babe, let me talk to mom.”  (My dad never called me by my given name. It was either “Babe” or “Doc.”)  By this time mom was drying her hands using her apron. I handed her the receiver and said: “Dad.”

She listened for less than a minute, and the call ended. She hung up the phone and went back to the kitchen.   A few minutes later, without the egg-flour soiled apron, mom took me with her to St. John’s church.  Inside, we walked past the display of Honor Roll parishioners currently serving in the military and stopped at an alcove filled with vigil lights.  Mom put some coins in the offering box and lit one of the vigil candles. We knelt on the kneeler for a few moments praying silently. More parishioners arrived to meditate and quietly prayed in thankfulness for answered prayers. Several minutes later, holding her hand, we walked back home.

Later, at supper, with my older brothers and myself, mom and dad talked about the war ending in Europe. I realized that was what the phone call earlier that afternoon was about. Radio newsmen dubbed the victory in Europe, V-E Day!

For the record, Germany surrendered, Tuesday, May 8, 1945. However, the war in the Pacific against the Japanese would continue for three more months until mid-August.  Following the dropping of two Atomic Bomb, on Japan’s Nagasaki and Hiroshima, the Japanese unconditionally surrendered on August 14, 1945, V-J Day, Victory over Japan.  World War II was over. Ironically, The Second World War began with the bombing of Pearl Harbor on Sunday, December 7, 1941, and ended with the official Japanese signing the unconditional surrender on the USS Missouri, Sunday, September 2, 1945.  Nationwide celebrations that began on August 14, continued well past Labor Day.  Victorious US military service personnel were coming home to a well-deserved welcome!

Throughout the land, on Sunday, September 2nd, the sound of ringing bells filled the air. From church steeples, college and university campuses, and public buildings, their joyful soniferous message conveyed: Peace!  At Sacred Heart Church, pastor, Monsignor George Moorman’s homily, delivered from the pulpit were words of prayerful thanksgiving, hope, and peace. At the end of Mass, the choir and congregation joined in singing God Bless America. Walking back home, countless American flags were on display furling and unfurling from commercial flag poles, neighborhood porches and front yards.

Twelve days later, on Sunday, August 26, mom gave birth to my sister at St. Catherine Hospital in East Chicago, Indiana.

In the hospital, a few days after she was born, my baby sister was injured in the maternity ward. She received trauma to one shoulder and developed a bone infection called osteomyelitis.  This resulted in an extended hospital stay for both my mom and baby sister.  She was in jeopardy of losing her arm as the infection was spreading rapidly. Thankfully, a drug discovered in 1928 and used extensively by military medics and doctors during World War II, in both the European and Pacific Theaters of war, called Penicillin, was effective in destroying the infective Staphylococcus Aureus bacteria.   An aggressive regiment of Penicillin stopped the infection and allowed the bone to heal.  By mid-September, the hospital stays of both my mom and baby sister ended and they came home.

Although the hospitalization ended, my sister required close monitoring and follow-up care. Extra space in the garage apartment was at a premium, as my mom kept my sister close by in a small crib while she was in the kitchen.  I became mom’s helper.  Although a few months less than five years of age, I was expected to do small tasks: checking on my sister in the crib, getting mom an item from the pantry’s cabinet, moving a blanket or towel mom needed.  A helper of sorts.

When mom made noodle soup, it was a multi-day project. She began by rolling sheets of flour egg-dough and draped them over the back of several kitchen chairs to dry.  Then, one at a time, she would cut the sheets into strips around two inches wide.  She never measured with a ruler, she “eyeballed” the space and sliced. She’d arrange the strips into stacks of an inch and deftly cut the noodle dough to a desired width. She put the cut noodles into a clean linen pillowcase and hung them on a pantry cabinet handle to dry, curl, and stiffen.

During wartime, mom’s homemade soup was made with vegetables grown in our victory garden and chicken broth. The small sand box under the outdoor stairway was converted into a chicken coop. Three chickens were kept for eggs, soup-stock, and dinner table entrees. However, even though the war ended, neighbors decided to keep their garden until the fall weather set in.  We did, too. Although we maintained the victory garden, the under-the-stairs chicken coop enclosure was no longer in operation. It had been returned to the sandbox play area. So, in lieu of chicken broth, mom decided to use beef bone stock.

In the early afternoon of a beautiful September day, with my baby sister napping, my mom told me she was sending me on an errand. I liked doing stuff for mom while my brothers were at school. When she needed vegetables from the garden, she’d watch me go across the alley to the victory garden to pick carrots used in the soup. Usually, four carrots. If the carrots were not ready for picking, she’d wait until my oldest brother came home from school and sent him to the corner grocery store at 119th and Superior Avenue for a nine-cent bunch of carrots. On occasion she sent me to Condes’ grocery store on 119th Street between Lincoln and Atchison Avenues for laundry items like Argo Starch needed for my Dad’s white shirts. But this errand was more involved than plucking veggies from the garden or going to Condes’. Mom was sending me to Charley Shimala’s Grocery Store located on the corner of 119th and Stanton Avenue, across the street from George Rogers Clark School. I knew exactly where Shimala’s Grocery store was located, but only vaguely remembered Clark School.  On several occasions, before my sister was born, mom and I walked from our flat to Shimala’s for groceries.  However, as recently as the past August, my visits to Shimala’s had nothing to do with groceries.

Both my brothers were visiting Grandma Koch.  She lived on Oliver Street with my two aunts, and uncle in the house my grandpa built in the late 1800s.  Mom took me to Clark School in mid-August to register for kindergarten. A couple of days later when she sent me unescorted to get familiar with the way to and from school, I got confused, lost and wound up on Davis Avenue. A lady found me crying on the street and took me to Shimala’s. Mr. Shimala knew my mom and dad and remembered me being in the store with my mom, so he called her.

In full maternity bloom, a couple of weeks before giving birth to my sister, she had to walk from Lincoln Avenue to Stanton Avenue.  She was not a happy camper.  A couple of days later, a second solo attempt, I again tried to get familiar with the way to and from school.  Same thing happened.  Mom’s second trek to Shimala’s to rescue her traumatized offspring postponed my starting school.  I became a kindergarten dropout. Years later, I thought about what happened and felt that if the kindergarten classes were held at Shimala’s, I would’ve had perfect attendance!

After Labor Day, with both my brothers back in school, and while keeping a close eye on my baby sister as she regained her health, mom sent me to Shimala’s. Her note requested two “good sized” beef bones and asked Mr. Shimala to put the cost on the book until Friday, Standard Oil Company’s payday.  She pinned the note on my sweater and sent her little helper on his way.

As an almost five-year old, I confidently went out of the back yard gate toward the victory gardens across the alley.  Cutting between the gardens, I climbed the gravel incline to 119th Street.  It was the quickest route to 119th Street.  For the record, I struggled with allergies and asthma, was physically overweight, clumsy, stuttered, and immature.

With Mom’s note securely pinned to my sweater, my arms were free to help keep my balance as I traversed the uneven terrain of “Victory Garden” lot toward 119th.  Once on the concrete sidewalk, I walked trying to avoid the unevenness of certain concrete sections of the sidewalk.  It was a cool, sunny afternoon.  Kids were in school, and motor traffic on 119th was light.  

Crossing Superior, Westpark, and Lake Avenues were uneventful.  A bit winded from the four-block walk, I tugged on Shimala’s front door, opened it and went inside. I was the only person in the store, save for Mr. Shimala.  When he saw me, I pointed to the pinned note.  He unpinned it and read the message and walked to the meat section at the back of the store.  I waited in front of the glass counter displaying the various cuts of meat.

In less than a minute, Mr. Shimala handed me a brown paper bag containing two large beef bones wrapped in white paper.   He rolled the top of the bag tightly and handed it to me.  “Here, Albert, tell your mother, Hello.” He walked with me to the front of the store, opened the door and made sure I was headed home in the right direction. I was proud of myself. The return walk home was familiar, and my confidence soared.

I was on cruise control. Lake and Wespark Avenues were behind me. Everything went fine until Superior Avenue.  I had just passed the corner grocery store and could see the familiar victory gardens when I felt something brushing up again my corduroys.  Startled, I jumped and yelled.  It was a large, long-haired brown dog. Its open mouth revealed menacing teeth, an elongated purple tongue flopping side-to-side dripping saliva. The dog smelled the beef bones from Charley’s market and was zeroing in on the brown bag I was carrying. I panicked.  Jerking the bag and holding it as high as I could, the dog made another attempt to snatch the bones away.

I was terrified! I ran down the embankment to the victory gardens. Luckily, one of the neighbors was watering the vegetables in her garden, heard my yells, and quickly turned the hose on the dog, soaking dog, bone bag, and me. I held the bag above my head just out of the jumping dog’s reach and was shy of grabbing the prize.

With guardian angel assistance guiding the overweight, asthmatic, stuttering, three-foot tall wheeze bag, I kept focused and ran for home. Gasping for breath, I opened the alley’s fenced gate and the garage apartment’s entrance door. (To this day, I do not remember how I did that.)

I quickly climbed the stairs and opened the door. Mom looked at her soaked shopper and asked: What Happened? I blurted out something about a neighbor watering; never mentioning the dog. Mom simultaneously took the wet bag of beef bones from me and put them on the kitchen table and told me to go into the bathroom. She brought me clean clothes, underwear and outerwear. Now safe and dry, the soup making continued.

I was so thankful for the life-saving neighbor who soaked the dog, beef bones, and myself. I never told my brothers, mom, or dad what happened. What I learned was being really scared can make you wet your pants!

Before the third week of September, the under-the-stairway sand box was again converted into a coop.  Not for chickens, but for a turkey.  My parents thought it would be a good idea to raise our own Thanksgiving turkey.  At the Whiting poultry store on Steiber Street, Mom and my oldest brother selected a Tom turkey about 10 weeks old.  They figured it would be “ready” by Thanksgiving, November 22nd.   They were told a Tom turkey needed between 18 and 22 weeks to mature. They returned home with the young Tom and an 8-week supply of turkey feed.

The bird had free range in the small, fenced back yard. But it was also visible to neighborhood dogs who agitated it with threat-sounding barking.  But regardless of frequent canine antics, offset with an abundance of diligent care and feeding, the turkey fulfilled its intended purpose. Thanksgiving dinner and several days of turkey leftovers and dressing were delicious.

 A month later, several Christmas tree ornaments showcased some of the turkey’s distinctive feathers. However, those ornaments would be carefully wrapped in tissue paper and stored in a cardboard box for another time, as there was no Christmas tree in our parlor.

I was four and a half years old.  Even at that young age I knew money was scarce. Our family of 6 lived above a garage and space was limited. My middle brother and I shared a diminutive bedroom adjacent to the kitchen. It had been a tough year for our family. My baby sister’s near-fatal infection and the medical bills incurred to save her life had drained the meager savings my parents had managed to tuck away.

New clothes were out of the question, so everything I wore was a mended-up or hand-me-down from an older brother. (I was glad I did not have an older sister, although I would have looked great in blue chiffon).  The four-room flat where we lived was crowded and cramped. But now at Christmas, it seemed empty because there weren’t any ornaments, lights, or tree. Soup became the main staple of our diet. Meat was a commodity that only occasionally visited our dinner table.  Even with the back yard chickens and Thanksgiving turkey, it was a struggle to keep meat in the diet.

Countless times I watched my mother prepare the dough she made into noodles for the soup. Beef bones, along with chicken parts Colonel Sanders would have rejected, were used as stock for the broth. A few sliced garden carrots were added to garnish the liquid meal.

The night before Christmas was special. We were allowed to stay up until 9 o’clock, a full hour past our normal bedtime. Just before we got under the covers we knelt at bedside and said our nighttime prayers. Either Mom or Dad would kneel alongside and guide us through the words they had taught us. This night we prayed with Dad.

After prayers, because it was Christmas Eve, the small bed lamp remained on so Mom could read to us the story of Jesus’ birth. After pulling up the covers, I snuggled in my warm bed loved and cared for, listening to the plight of Mary and Joseph. I tried to understand why no one would let them enter the inn. Knowing how cold it was outside my bedroom window, I shivered just thinking about Mary and Joseph having to sleep in a stable on beds of straw. I knew I wouldn’t like being outside in the darkness with nowhere to go and with no one to take care of me. I pulled the covers tightly under my chin.

Somewhere between the Birth of Jesus and the arrival of the Magi, I drifted off to sleep listening to Mom’s soothing, peaceful voice. Dreamily, I often had the feeling that someone hugged me. Then, in what seemed like a moment, I was awakened simultaneously by my brother shaking the bed, and Big Crosby’s voice coming from the Crosley radio in the kitchen. Excitedly, I went into the parlor to see if jolly St. Nick had stopped by.

I ran to where I had pinned my stocking the night before by the front door so Santa would easily find it. Sure enough, inside that mended sock was an orange and one red apple. The single gift left by Santa was a Monopoly game that my two older brothers and I were to share. I can still see my brother’s appreciative smiles as we unfolded the game board and set up the pieces.  But the most treasured gift that Christmas was seeing my sister getting stronger and healthier each day.

That was a long time ago. Today, my family has changed. My Dad died in 1965, a few months after I was married. He’s gone more than 60 years, and I still miss him.

After Dad passed, Mom moved into a smaller house.  Living alone, she often made soup. She still sliced in the carrots but now used more respectable parts of the chicken. The one convenience she accepted was the noodles. No longer homemade, they were store bought. Mom passed away in 1990.  When both my parents passed away, I felt orphaned.

My two older brothers have also passed on. My younger sister and I keep family in our hearts. I tell you this because memories are part of our life. Each day I remember my parents and brothers in prayerful petition. My Mom was orphaned at age four and had a difficult childhood. Although she lived with seven different families, no one adopted her, she was a kept child. She dropped out of high school in her sophomore year, went to work in Chicago and was on her own at age sixteen. Her Faith in God became her strength.

The two most valuable lessons my parents taught their children were the necessity and value of prayer, and a strong work ethic. By word and example, they instilled essential qualities of character: trust, honor, respect, and responsibility.  

As years accumulate and the parade of season continues, I wonder what moments our children will choose for their memories, and what treasures they’ll keep in their heart. I hope theirs are as meaningful as mine.

 1945 was a memorable year.  As I said, money was scarce. Our family scrimped, struggled, and survived.  In many ways, nineteen forty-five was the sparsest Christmas we ever shared as a family. But it’s the one I most remember. It was the best Christmas, the best one of all.

AFTERWORD

Every year is a gift from Heaven.  An allotment of days provided so we can learn, grow, and live. It is also a chance to do better, to try, problem-solve, work, struggle, fail, cope, achieve, and appreciate the gift of life.  And, most importantly, prayerfully thank Heaven to be living in the United States of America.

The specks and slivers of hometown events illustrated herein by word and image are encapsulated within the time allotted to the year nineteen forty-five. Together, they celebrate and convey the resonance of life: change, passage, resilience, spirit, struggles, achievement, treasure, and sacredness of life.

Nineteen Forty-Five was truly a historical year. April 12, eighty-two days after Franklin Delano Roosevelt was elected to an unprecedented fourth term as President of the United States the previous November, dies at age 63. Harry S. Truman becomes President.  Adolph Hitler dies by his own hand, April 30.  Germany surrenders to Allied Forces on May 8. The war in Europe is over. The Nuclear Age is born in Alamogordo, New Mexico, July 16, with the successful test of the atomic bomb.

President Truman authorizes the use of the atomic bomb against Japan: Nagasaki and Hiroshima are destroyed. Japan unconditionally surrenders, August 14. The formal ceremonial surrender takes place aboard the USS Missouri, on Sunday, September 2, 1945.  World War II is over.

Radio voices of Gabriel Heatter, Edward R. Murrow, Dorothy Thompson, Lowell Thomas, William Shirer, Walter Winchell, and a host of correspondents kept America informed about the status of the war.  FDR’s thirty “Fireside Chats,” (from 1933-1944), served to reassure and build trust throughout the United States and foster a sense of unity.  His war message to Congress and the nation on December 8, 1941, was one of the most listened radio broadcasts.  (A framed recording of that address, Columbia Record #36516, is a treasured keepsake.)

A partial list of military leaders of the United States. Generals: Dwight Eisenhower, George Patton, Douglas MacArthur, Omar Bradley, and George Marshall, in concert with Naval Admirals, William Leathy, John Hall, William Halsey, Chester Nimitz, and the millions of military men and women, citizen soldiers, who answered the call and served during World War II. The casualties of war are staggering both militarily and at home. Physical, mental, and emotional trauma left indelible lifelong maladies as America adjusted to post-war conditions.

One of the fringe benefits of Heaven’s gift is our memory. Each of us captures moments, milestones, and memories from our life’s journey.  These treasures need to be shared because of a common bond, we are all teachers, we learn from one another. In a wonderfully mysterious way, ordinary minutes become extraordinary moments to remember. Savor the moments, treasure the memories.