James Sherman had every reason to believe he was staying put, right here in St. Louis. In February 1944, he passed his military exam but figured, at 32, married with two kids, he wasn’t going anywhere. Then came May 12—a date that would become a Sherman family legend.
According to conversations his son Steve had with him years later, May 12, 1944, marked three pivotal moments: the day Sherman was inducted into the U.S. Navy, the day he left for the Great Lakes Naval Training Station and the day the Selective Service changed its draft rules—exempting men over 30 with two children. That afternoon, his oldest son Allen turned 6 years old.
In dozens of letters he sent home during his service, Sherman wrote openly about his concerns—being away from his family, the impact on his businesses and whether antisemitism would follow him into the military.
“My father now had much to worry about,” said Steve Sherman. “How was he and his family going to handle him being away for an indefinite period of time? How was he going to handle boot camp when some of the other draftees were nearly half his age? How were the two businesses in which he was involved going to manage without him? And was being Jewish in the Navy going to be an issue?”
Had his paperwork been delayed by even a few hours, Sherman might have avoided service entirely. Bad luck? Bad timing? Or just another twist of fate?
Within hours, he was on a train bound for the Great Lakes Naval Training Station, leaving behind his wife, Dorothy, their two boys and the world he knew. Within weeks, he was preparing for war. Within months, he was 5,000 miles away in Pearl Harbor, staring down the biggest question of his life—how do you hold on to being Jewish in the U.S. Navy?
The answer, as it turned out, came in an unlikely place: a Passover seder on a naval base in the middle of the Pacific.
A St. Louis connection
Sherman wasn’t a fresh-faced 18-year-old enlistee. He was a husband, a father and a businessman drafted at a moment when the rules were literally changing under his feet. But his journey didn’t start in Hawaii or even Missouri—it started in Ukraine, where he survived anti-Jewish pogroms as a child before immigrating to the U.S.
“He told me he didn’t really have issues being Jewish in boot camp,” said Steve Sherman. “Since they were quite busy each day and very tired at night, there wasn’t much time for that. Also, since there were no major Jewish holidays during the boot camp period, very few people knew he was Jewish.”
Later that year, Sherman arrived at Pearl Harbor and quickly realized that holding on to Jewish traditions in the Navy wasn’t going to be easy. There weren’t kosher kitchens. There weren’t chaplains everywhere. And there definitely weren’t many fellow Jews.
But one man was working behind the scenes to change that. N.T. Mendelson, a St. Louis community leader at the YMHA (Young Men’s Hebrew Association), made it his mission to keep Jewish servicemen connected. Through letters, updates and community organizing, he helped soldiers know where their fellow Jews were stationed—a wartime version of Jewish geography that made the world feel just a little smaller. For guys like Sherman, that connection meant everything.
“One thing that boosted his morale was being able to attend Rosh Hashanah services,” Steve recalled. “At the evening service, sitting not too far away, was Jack Sirkus, a friend from home. Jack was able to join my father for the Kol Nidrei services on Yom Kippur. My father was just happy that he was able to fast.”
A seder to remember
The biggest morale boost came a few months later.
By March 1945, the war in Europe was grinding to a close, but the Pacific campaign raged on. And then came a rare piece of good news: there would be a Passover seder at Pearl Harbor.
Sherman didn’t expect much. He assumed it would be a short service—maybe some prayers, maybe a few dozen guys showing up. Instead, he walked into a gathering of more than 1,500 Jewish soldiers, WAVES (Women Accepted for Volunteer Emergency Service, part of the U.S. Navy Reserve) and military spouses.
“He had no idea what was coming,” Steve said. “He thought it was just going to be services. But it turned out to be a full seder, dinner and all.”
Everyone found a small booklet at their place, containing a welcoming letter from Chaplain Lt. Commander Julius Mark and the menu for the seder. For Jewish soldiers who had gone months—sometimes years—without celebrating holidays properly, this was more than just a meal. It was a connection to home, to history and to the very reason they were fighting.
“My father was amazed at the turnout,” Steve said. “There must have been 1,500 people.”
Sherman saved the program. Four small printed pages—date, time, menu and a note of thanks to the National Jewish Welfare Board. Nearly eight decades later, it remains one of the few physical traces of what it meant to be Jewish in uniform in the Pacific. For Sherman, it wasn’t just a meal. It was proof that tradition could survive anything—even war.
Why this story matters 80 years later
Passover is about survival. It’s about remembering who we are, even in exile. And for Jewish soldiers in World War II, that was personal.
“The war wasn’t over yet,” Steve said. “But for my father and the other Jewish soldiers, this was a moment to feel like themselves again.”
Sherman’s letters, now preserved in St. Louis, capture a moment when Jewish service members reclaimed something sacred—against all odds, in the middle of war.
And maybe, just maybe, that’s the real Passover story: not just an escape from Pharaoh, but the never-ending fight to keep tradition alive no matter where we are.
After the war
James Sherman returned to St. Louis and was officially discharged from the Navy in early 1946. At his brother’s urging, he entered the clothing business—a decision that would define the rest of his career. He worked well into his 70s, finally retiring at 73. He and his wife, Dorothy, raised their family in University City, traveled in retirement and proudly watched their grandchildren graduate from college.
He died in 1991, just after his 80th birthday. His story—told through nearly 900 letters saved from the war—lives on today through the words of his son, and one unforgettable seder.
