After 82 years, a forgotten WWII recording is heading back to Wally Rosen’s family
Sometimes, the reason for storytelling really pays off.
When we first reported the story of a lost 1943 phonograph record—discovered by legendary broadcaster John Pertzborn at a Dogtown estate sale—it already felt like a small miracle. On that fragile disc, a young Jewish soldier named Wally Rosen had recorded a Mother’s Day message to his family in St. Louis while stationed at Camp Stoneman in Pittsburg, Calif.
Rosen spoke about missing his parents, congratulating relatives on an engagement and telling his sweetheart, June, that he couldn’t wait to marry her once he returned. His voice, clear and earnest despite the crackle of time, was a rare piece of personal history almost forgotten.
But the story wasn’t finished. Not even close.
A wave of tips—and one key clue
After the article ran, we received dozens of tips. Amateur digital sleuths, genealogy buffs and curious readers jumped in to help track down Wally’s descendants. But the key clue came from a name—and a memory.
One local reader took a close look at Rosen’s obituary and noticed a familiar-sounding name listed among the survivors. That name, it turned out, was linked to an iconic St. Louis restaurant.
That’s when I thought of Harley Hammerman.
Hammerman, a longtime friend and colleague, is a Jewish historian who chronicles the stories of St. Louis’s lost restaurants through his website and podcast “Lost Tables.” On a hunch, I emailed Hammerman to see if he recognized the name.
“I did see your article. It’s right up my alley!
“His daughter is Meredith Rosen Chancellor. She graduated from U City with my wife. She’ll probably see your article! Here’s her email address…”
Thanks to Hammerman’s sharp eye and deep community roots, we finally had a direct line.
And just like that, the story found its missing piece.
A daughter’s emotional reply
Soon after reaching out, I received a reply—not from Meredith directly, but from her husband, Jesse Chancellor.
“You have indeed reached Wally’s daughter, Meredith. I am her husband, writing to you initially on her behalf because she is so overcome with emotion that she cannot write you at this moment,” he said. “We would love to have the recording and will treasure it. I have been assembling the Rosen family history and the recording will be the centerpiece of it.”
When that email came through, I had to stop the meeting I was in to share the news with my colleagues. It was one of those rare moments that reminds you exactly why you became a storyteller in the first place.
I wasn’t surprised by Rosen Chancellor’s emotion. If anything, I was moved by it. After all, imagine opening a random email from a website in St. Louis—with a link to a story that has audio of your father’s young voice, recorded before you were even born. Overwhelming doesn’t even begin to cover it.
A personal delivery
And who doesn’t love a little twist of fate?
It just so happens that the Chancellors live in a small town outside Baltimore, Md.—just miles from where I’m headed on May 5 for a professional conference. Out of all the places, out of all the moments, somehow our paths are about to cross.
We’re still finalizing the details, but we’ve agreed to meet in person—so I can place the record in their hands myself. Not a package dropped off by a courier. Not a box lost in the mail.
Because mailing it just didn’t feel right.
Not for something this personal.
Not for something this sacred.
From St. Louis to Baltimore—and across generations
Wally Rosen’s voice traveled across a war, a country and decades of silence to find its way home. And now, fittingly, it will become part of the Rosen family’s living history—a centerpiece of what Jesse Chancellor called a 170-year journey that began with their ancestors in Mobile, Ala. and found deep roots in St. Louis.
There’s something profound about the idea that a message meant for Mother’s Day in 1943 could still have meaning today.
Something even a crackling, 78 rpm record could never erase.
