A survivor’s legacy

Sam Harris

     This job has a way of circling back on you. I covered the opening of the Illinois Holocaust Museum on April 19, 2009, and wrote about deciding whether or not to talk with the Nazis who were picketing the event. I listened to the speeches, but didn't go inside — I'd been to the United States Holocaust Memorial Museum in Washington in 1994. That was plenty. I finally visited Illinois's version in 2016, watching Chicago Police recruits get training there. 

     But when Rotary Magazine asked me to profile Holocaust Museum founder Sam Harris, I pulled the program from the opening — I have a good filing system — and there was Harris,  alongside Bill Clinton and future Gov. J.B. Pritzker. I was glad to meet Harris — to realize that the youngest holocaust survivors are still among us, a living link to the abyss — and to write this piece, which appears in the January issue of Rotary Magazine.    

    Sam Harris is passionate about it. He will meet you, even though he is 88 years old and uses a walker, in the somber industrial entrance of the museum he helped create, an institution dedicated to making sure the awful, important story that he lived is told, years after he is gone and his voice, among the dwindling firsthand accounts, is finally silenced.
     That wasn’t always the case.
     For many years Harris, a former insurance executive and a member of the Rotary Club of Northbrook, Illinois, didn’t want to talk about how the Nazis had come for him when he was a small boy. He didn’t want to talk about the terrible hunger. The fear. The machine guns. His murdered parents. The cattle cars. The concentration camps. It was old news, ancient history. What would be the point? He was an American now. First an American boy, living in Northbrook, a comfortable suburb north of Chicago. Then an American man who could choose for himself what to discuss. Or not discuss.
     His refusal went on for years. "I knew it troubled him, that it was all inside of him," says his wife of 62 years, Dede. "He just never spoke about his past. I could see it festering."
     The reluctance was complicated. He didn’t want people to feel sorry for him. And if he became successful, he wanted it to be because of who he was, not because of what happened to him, he explains, settling into a chair in the small but well-stocked library of his museum. If someone detected an accent and asked where he was from, he’d toss the question back: Where do you think I’m from? And if the person said "New York," Harris would say, "Yes, exactly! New York." Or if someone said, "Germany," he’d say, "Germany, yes, how did you know?" And smile.
     A trained social worker, Dede Harris eventually sat her husband down by a crackling fire one evening. "I asked him to tell the story," Dede recalls. "It seemed to have broken through that impasse. Once he was able to verbalize the feelings, he had to be open to other people."
     It began slowly. At a 1977 meeting of the Rotary Club of Wilmette, Illinois, Harris met a member, Rabbi William Frankel, who grew up in Vienna. Like Harris, Frankel had fled the Nazis, only he used his past as a springboard to a life of activism. Frankel had marched with the Rev. Martin Luther King Jr. during the U.S. Civil Rights Movement in the 1960s and was prominent in Catholic-Jewish outreach efforts. He befriended Harris and convinced him that he owed it to future generations to tell his story.
     Around that time, a group of neo-Nazis planned a demonstration in Skokie, a Chicago suburb that was half Jewish at the time and home to many Holocaust survivors. Though a lengthy legal battle prevented the demonstration, activists like Rabbi Frankel believed silence and inaction were no longer an option. Waiting and hoping while evil rises to its feet was never a smart strategy.
     Meanwhile, Arthur Butz, an associate professor of electrical engineering at Northwestern University in Evanston, about 10 miles from where Harris lived, published a book with the claim that the Holocaust was a myth perpetuated by the Allies and Zionists. Frankel called Harris to express his abhorrence of the book. "Sam, I know it’s hard for you, but it’s time for you to talk," Frankel urged him.
     In Frankel’s basement, the rabbi interviewed Harris on video camera. "And it was the first time really, I was able to talk," says Harris. "I said to myself, I’ll never do this again. But he showed this to everybody in the congregation. And it was packed. And then he passed that around to other rabbis. That was all because of Rotary."

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Here’s a resolution for you

     Have you broken your New Year’s resolution yet? Don’t feel bad. You’ve already endured, what? Three full days — 72 hours — laboring under whatever harsh regimen you’ve imposed upon yourself?
     Change is hard. We tend to revert to the person we are and have always been. Discipline sounds great, in theory. Then you get hungry ...
     No shame there. I was lucky this year, in that I didn’t make any personal resolutions. What would that be? I’ve kept off most of the 30 pounds I resolved to lose in 2010, in a diet shared here. I already gave up drinking, back in 2006. One day at a time...
     That doesn’t mean I didn’t make a resolution — I did, publicly, on X. (Can we stop calling it “the social media formerly known as Twitter”? Not yet?)
     This is what I wrote: “I hope you’ll consider joining me in my New Year’s resolution for 2024: to end the year living in the same free and open democracy that we started in. Like all goals worth achieving, it won’t be easy, requiring continuous hard work and focus. But nothing else is more important.”
     Turns out there were other Illinois personalities posting their resolutions, like failed Republican gubernatorial candidate Darren Bailey, now running in the GOP primary against incumbent U.S. Rep. Mike Bost (R-Ill.). Bailey tweeted a strange photo of himself doing a jigsaw puzzle at a table strewn with high-powered weaponry:
    “I’ll be here putting together this puzzle waiting for Pritzker to knock on my door and take my guns,” he tweeted at 7:47 p.m. on Dec. 31. “I will not comply.”
     He’s referring to the Illinois assault weapons ban that took effect Monday. Current owners are grandfathered in, but must register, and since Republicans hate anything that suggests collective public good — libraries, schools, vaccines — they are refusing registration as the next step of the jackboot repression of their precious selves they’re constantly conjuring then boo-hooing over. I’m surprised they wear pants in public because, you know, we’re told to.

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The party's over.

    "Holidays," "festivals" "celebrations," "Hanukkah," "Solstice," "Christmas," "New Year's" — there are so many terms for the serial occasions of forced gaiety that set in around mid-November and run until, well, today, when it all coasts to a sudden halt and we return to our ordinary lives.
     There should be a term. "Relief" comes to mind. Because while we had a pleasant Thanksgiving et al this year — very low key — I am somebody blessed with an enjoyable ordinary life, so always embrace its return. I like to work. I like to set my own schedule, not leap to dance because the calendar says it's Dance Day. (Although, now that I conjure it up, a Dance Day would be a welcome development. Just imagine it. People doing the Electric Slide down the street, to the train ... oh right. Not so many go to work anymore).

     Don't get me wrong. I love my family. Nothing makes me happier than vacuuming the house for a few days, preparing for their arrival. Though there is a certain stress as well. Relatives walk in the door or we walk in their doors. You're expected to say something. I usually come up with "Well, we're here," or "Hi, good to see you." Then we all stare at each other. 

     And parties — don't get me started. It's like standing in the middle of a room by yourself only the room is crowded. Really, there always comes a point where everybody is talking to everybody else and I'm somehow not part of any of the gaily chatting groups, but left wondering if it's okay to pull out my phone or, better yet, just back quietly out of the room. At least at home there's the dog. "I've got to walk Kitty!" I cry, to no one in particular, and no one in particular seems to notice when I grab her and bolt outside for the next half hour. I love our dog.
    I searched for the antonym of "holiday" into Google and it served up "work." I suppose most people make their livelihoods through drudgery. I can't imagine. That must be awful.  A few days ago I spent 45 minutes interviewing a singer/songwriter who lives on the coast of Scotland for an upcoming column. She was a very well-spoken, very smart person and I really only ended the conversation because I had enough material for three columns. We talked about creativity and aging and children. 

     "That was fun," I thought, hanging up. Writing the column will also be fun, as will seeing it published. So do I make my living by having fun? Not quite. It's still work, in that it requires effort and sometimes I have to do it when I don't particularly feel like it. But work is also something I enjoy far more than making small talk or cleaning up the dinner dishes after two dozen guests roll off to their homes.
      The parties and dinners have been thrown or attended, the last one being New Year's Day. "Nice to meet you..." I said, being introduced to someone. "...or to see you again if we've already met." Which could have led to an interesting conversation if she were looking for that. But she had already turned her attention elsewhere by the time I'd finished speaking, and I gratefully fled to another part of the room. Now we're home free for ... gee ... almost six weeks. Until the ticking bomb of Valentine's Day.
     

       

‘We’ve been trying to help:’ Legal community steps up for migrants

JuanCamilo Parrado

     “Hola, como esta?” says JuanCamilo Parrado, shortly after 8:30 a.m. on a recent Tuesday, standing before about 30 people — mostly couples, a few parents with young children — in a spartan government waiting room outside immigration court on the 15th floor of 55 E. Monroe. “Español? Si?”
     Having said hello, asked how everybody is doing — struggling to navigate a labyrinthine legal system in a new country in a language most only barely comprehend, thank you very much — and whether they speak Spanish, Parrado, a managing attorney at the National Immigrant Justice Center, uses that language to get down to business: informing them of their rights, as immigrants. To a hearing, to a lawyer at no expense to themselves, the chance to cross examination witnesses. To file an appeal.
     Though those rights have a way of colliding with reality.
     Around the corner, for instance, in Judge Gina Reynolds’ courtroom, immigrant Aslan Usmanov is waiting for the 9 a.m. hearing that he has a right to. But another right — to an interpreter — is proving difficult to fulfill.
     “What language are you holding for?” a disembodied voice asks from some kind of dial-in translation service.
     “Russian,” Reynolds says.
     “At this moment, we don’t have a Russian interpreter available,” the voice replies.
     The court system claims it is prepared to handle some 300 languages, with “in-person, video remote (Webex) and telephonic interpretation services,” though some languages are translated more readily than others.
     “They’re pretty good about it, though when it comes to finding the right dialect, it can be a real challenge,” said Mark L. Adkison, a lawyer with Adkison Law Offices, a family firm exclusively handling immigration work. “Creole and Yeruba can be tricky.”
     Reynolds shifts to the Spanish speakers in the courtroom — a pair of Venezuelan immigrants — and hears their cases while the Russian interpreter is tracked down. The judge is methodical, calm and painstaking.
     “If anyone has trouble with the earphones, let us know right away because everyone should understand everything being said,” Reynolds explains.

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"A man loves to review his own mind"

The flyleaf of my 2010 journal, when I was reading the Loeb Seneca and Boswell's "Life of Johnson"

     Ever since this column passed its first decade mark last July 1, I occasionally glance at what was written here 10 years ago. To remind myself, and sometimes post a memorable essay in the "10 years ago on EGD" section at the left side of the page.
    So yesterday, I noticed that, 10 years ago today, I wrote a longish essay on keeping a journal, on the occasion of embarking upon my 30th volume, "You do something for 30 years, you should ask yourself why." Which means tomorrow I open the 40th.
     What's the difference between 30 years of journals and 40? That's easy. There's certainly more spark to an endeavor in your early 50s than early 60s. Whatever I write now won't be as complicated, either because I've already said it once, or finally seen the value of brevity, or I'm simply tired. 

A.E. Housman's "The faintest of all
 human passions is the love of truth,"
alas will probably prove handy in 2024

 My handwriting certainly grows worse.   

     Since I don't want to replicate the piece, I glanced at a few journals, and quickly noticed an aspect completely overlooked at the close of 2013— not only did I write down my own thoughts, such as they were, and happenings of the day, but also record quotes from others I've stumbled upon, admired, thought might be useful, and wanted to hold onto for ready reference. 

     Grist for the mill. In the flyleaf of the journal for 2018 are two passages. One, a line from Brecht: "don't yet rejoice in his defeat, you men/Although the world stood up and stopped the bastard/the bitch that bore him is in heat again."
     Under it, a second quote: "He 'never did or thought of anything but deceiving people," credited to Canto VI p. 192 Dante's Divine Comedy."
     That was referring to Pope Alexander — Dante was a passionate hater of popes — but I hardly need to tell you who those quotes struck me as describing. Though I never had reason to use them, probably because I promptly forgot about them. It's so easy to forget stuff. That's why I write it down, hoping I'll stumble upon it again.

    The Brecht quote, by the way, is from a play, "The Resistible Rise of Arturo Ui" that I never saw or read. I must have lifted the quote, second hand, from The New Yorker probably, though looking at the following description of it, from a CSU production, makes me wish we could lure Bob Falls out of retirement — he stepped down from the Goodman in 2023 — to produce it: 

     "Brecht’s shudderingly accurate parallel between Hitler and his henchmen on the one hand, and the old crime lords of Chicago on the other, is a vigorous eye opener that was produced on Broadway with Christopher Plummer. The Cauliflower Trust in Chicago is in need of help and turns to a racketeer by the name of Arturo Ui to begin a 'protection' campaign. His henchmen look astonishingly like Goebbels and Goring. Their activities include 'accidental' fires and a St. Valentine’s Day massacre."

     Some of the quotes did inspire columns — the always-apt remark of Samuel Johnson about society being "held together by communication and information" was the starting off point for a column on Johnson six years later.

     And some turned into 2016's "Out of the Wreck I Rise: A Literary Companion to Recovery," written with Sara Bader, whose entire premise is that these dusty thoughts are useful in running an ordered life. Mental coins to rattle around in your pocket.

     Some years are blank, others full, like 2006, where I wrote, not on the flyleaf, but the page facing the title page: "Journalism is a fleeting thing, and the man who devotes his life to it writes his history in water," crediting H.L. Mencken, the exception who proves the rule. 

     Next to it, in the same vein: "But stay unregenerate. Life knocks the sauciness out of us soon enough," Clifford Odets, in "The Country Girl's Last Links,"no doubt again  found in The New Yorker. Plus a second Odets passage: "I am seething and swollen, lumpy, disordered and baffled, as if I were a woman fifteen months pregnant and unable to sleep or turn, crying aloud, 'Oh God, out, out, out!'"

    Well, that isn't very pleasant — remember in 2006, I was fresh in recovery, and writing "Drunkard," not to mention 30 pounds heavier than I am now, so that sounds about right. The last one, oddly, has no citation, just "Don't heed the distant calls and hold tightly to the golden door. There, beyond it, is hell, longed for." I'm sure Mr. Google can fix that. From "Solitude," by Rilke.

In places, as in the 1991 journey, it was easier
to just cut out than copy.

    Only two on 2003: "Dietrologia (Ital.) the art of finding dark motives behind obvious decisions," which seems a word we could use in 2024, and "Communications have reached their numbing roar," T.H. White, Making of the President 1960, p. 26. If that was true more than 60 years ago, how to describe the blinding wordstorm now? One hesitates to contribute a single additional syllable. But what choice is there, at this point?

     Okay enough. I think that will do, both for sharing not-quite-random quotes and trying to make sense of the year 2023 through words, a task we'll now leave to historians. On deck, 2024, speaking of history. I wish I had the foggiest idea how it'll unfold — my bet is it'll be 2020 on steroids. Or not. Whatever it becomes, dull it won't be, unfortunately. (Doesn't a dull year sound glorious about now?) Whatever is coming, we'll face it here together. Happy New Year. Don't drink and drive. See you tomorrow morning, bright and early.

 

 

Trump strangles puppy, popularity soars — The State of the Blog, 2023

Prince Edward Island, 2011 (Photo by Martin Cathrae, used with permission).

      Trying to hold 2023 in mind and comprehend the year before it slips into history, I picture an old truck, heavy, lumbering down a muddy road, big tires spinning in the ruts, ancient diesel engine shrieking. Moving forward, sorta, shuddering, fishtailing, sliding sideways here, lurching forward there. Making slow and spattered progress.
    Along the route, the monthly blog highlights:
     In January, I tried to put the rise of Artificial Intelligence in context, not to mention eyeball the competition, with "Get your human generated content here!"  February saw the first of a series of stories marking the 75th anniversary of the newspaper with a look at long-departed colleagues, "Gather in the newsroom for a brief meeting."
    When COVID-19 hit in 2020, I told myself I wasn't going to spend the pandemic sitting on my ass in Northbrook, and wondered how to best contribute to our coverage. I decided, given my connections to hospitals and experience viewing operations, to try to convey medical aspects of fighting the pandemic, and marked the third anniversary of the arrival of COVID in March by surveying the maxxed out medical community in "We nearly broke the system," working again with my ace colleague, photographer Ashlee Rezin.
    In April, in the constant quest to include voices not often heard in the media, we met Antonio Cox, AIDS patient, in "I'm glad I got HIV."
    In May, we greeted new mayor Brandon Johnson by thinking about his inauguration speech, "Weighing 'the soul of Chicago.'" I figured somebody should. After pestering Lori Ligthtfoot, for naught, I've decided to step back, let Johnson serve out his term, and hope for better luck next time. Though this year I did skip the middleman and interviewed Chicago Teachers Union president Stacy Davis Gates. A fun talk — always better to talk to the puppeteer instead of the puppet. But even that didn't result in anything printable. 
    June was a good month. On the 17th, we visited the John Deere combine plant in East Moline, in a 2,100 word essay on farming and technology — the story originally ran in Crain's Chicago Business. Then two days later, perhaps my favorite story of the year, "A visit to cat heaven," aka Fat Cat Rescue, again with Ashlee, who'll I'll always remember carefully moving  among the mewing, cat-strewn landscape murmuring, "Best. Assignment. Ever."
    July brought the most-read post of the year — and the third most read, ever — "Wrangle carts, earn quarters," which I thought was a trifle about visiting a certain discount supermarket for the first time. That was before it hit the significance distortion field of Reddit, where it got a million hits, I am told, among the army of Aldi fanatics, who damned me as if I had murdered a child for marveling over the cart system and clucking at the inferior products on sale. A reminder that sometimes social media is like going outside for a stroll only to be killed by a mob outraged at the kind of socks you're wearing.
     In August I wrote "What I can't say anymore," alerting readers to a dynamic I fear is going to be an increasing problem as 2024 unfolds — the Sun-Times' hesitancy to weigh in forcefully on political candidates, for fear of endangering their 501(c)3 charitable status by "endorsing" someone. I feel that is not only over-cautious, but also a betrayal of our beloved country for money, and plan to push back against it as hard as I can. 
    In September, I used a recent trip to Copenhagen to offer one of those out-of-left field posts I find so engaging and hope maybe you do too, Danish Notes #1 — Spiral City.
    The brutal Oct. 7 Hamas attack on Israel was the jarring event of the year, and here the independence of the blog proved vital. Both in allowing me to immediately react, that day, with "War in the Middle East" And to disseminate, a few days later, "How does this end," when my leash was yanked a second time, when a single complaint from some unnamed person within the organization was enough to keep the column from being printed in the physical newspaper, despite my willingness to make changes. Though it was permitted to remain online, I believe because it had gone up before somebody disapproved of ... well, I never did get a good reason out of anybody. I tried pointing out that the purpose of my column is to raise valid issues and provoke thought and conversation, not make the staff feel good about themselves. That opinion did not carry the day, alas. As I often tell people, I just work there; I don't run the place.
    I didn't interact with Chicago politics as much as I should in 2023, so in November honored my old pal Ed Burke's downfall by actually reading the rules he broke, in "C'mon guys, read the ethics code."
    Bringing us to this month where, in my continual quest to neither risk endorsing anybody nor  tread on the tender sensibilities of colleagues, I spent two days featuring Delightful Pastries, the first being "Baking bread with Dobra Bielinski." The bread was very good, and if I'm going to become the trifles beat reporter, I might as well enjoy myself.
    Thank you again for another year. Specifically, thanks to John O'Rourke, Grizz 65, Clark St., Coey and all the other regular readers and faithful commenters who pointed out at least 100 errors and allowed me to look more thorough than I actually am. Thank you to the Sun-Times for tolerating me on staff for 36 years and, if we both can stand each other, perhaps three or four more. Thank you to Marc Schulman, who insisted that Eli's Cheesecake sponsor the blog for the 11th consecutive year. If you haven't bought a cheesecake yet, well, get to it, right now, right here. When Edie and I were considering what treat, of all the conceivable delicacies in the world, we want to indulge in to mark New Year's Eve tomorrow, we settled on a slice of Eli's tiramisu cheesecake.
     The blog overall had 1.25 million hits this past year; I figure half of those actual human readers. The rest seem to be ... well, I'm really not sure. A device in China seizing on my URL like a dog grabbing a rubber toy and vigorously shaking. I picture a device the size of a microwave oven, only painted dirty white enamel, on some high shelf in a basement in Szechuan, vibrating madly, emitting a high hum, racking up hits on this blog for some purpose I just can't fathom.

    Not success in the usual definition of the term, but not bad either. Or, if it is bad, it's my bad, and I'll have to live with it. Acceptance is key to several realms of my life and I think, finally, I've come to embrace the idea that This Is It. I'm truly grateful it's something you find worthwhile and check in on, either regularly or now and again. Here's hoping you have a very Happy New Year. I'm looking forward to spending 2024 with you. If you're the type who makes resolutions, I hope you'll consider sharing mine: to usher out the upcoming year living in the same sort of democracy we enjoyed when 2024 began. One of those resolutions, like losing 30 pounds or writing a book, that won't just happen by itself, but requires continual attention, care and effort. I believe it's worth it.

Whoops! Mistakes, we’ve made a few in our 75-year history

     This is the final piece in the yearlong series I've been writing for the 75th anniversary of the Sun-Times. I'm proud to have thought up the topic of highlighting our errors, and proud that the paper happily — and prominently — published it. And grateful for my colleagues who spoke candidly about their mistakes, as all good journalists must do. The funny thing is, we were double-checking facts and pulling out flubs and typos until about 10 p.m. Thursday night. I think we got them all but really, if a mistake or two slipped by, well, that would be somehow fitting. 

    National party conventions do not respect deadlines. With their carefully planned spontaneous demonstrations and endless stem-winding speeches, the quadrennial presidential campaign gatherings are famous for running into the wee hours.
     Newspapers do not have that luxury. They must hit their deadlines. Particularly for their print editions. The presses are waiting. The trucks, waiting. If thousands of subscribers are to receive their newspapers at dawn, as expected — no, demanded — then those stories better be written on time and edited on time, so the presses can roll. On time. 

     On the evening of July 16, 1980, Republicans at Joe Louis Arena in Detroit argued over who would run as vice president with Ronald Reagan. Jack Kemp? George Bush? Or former President Gerald Ford? It was a choice designed to add political heft to a candidate whom many considered a lightweight, an actor, co-star of “Bedtime for Bonzo.” A consensus built.
     “I had guy after guy come up to me and say, ‘It’s all settled. It’s Reagan and Ford,’” recalled the nominee’s brother, Neil Reagan. “It’s signed, sealed and delivered. The governor has left the hotel with Ford.”
     Sun-Times reporters on the scene thought official word was coming at any moment.
     “People we have every reason to believe would have known,” said Ralph Otwell, the Sun-Times editor at the time. “It was a matter of going with a story a few minutes before it was made official or missing the edition and not getting the news to our home-delivery subscribers.”
     A decision was made. The row of mighty Goss presses in the basement of the Sun-Times Building at 401 N. Wabash roared to life, printing out 147,000 issues of the paper’s three-star edition with the headline, “It’s Reagan and Ford.”
     Only it wasn’t Reagan and Ford. George H.W. Bush was chosen to run and, eventually, win as Reagan’s vice president. An instant collector’s item was created, though without a gleeful president holding it up, the way Harry Truman displayed the Tribune’s notorious “DEWEY DEFEATS TRUMAN,” the Sun-Times gaffe didn’t become nearly as famous. Gerald Ford did frame a copy on his study wall.

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