2009 May

Brutality Begets Brutality, That’s Why Torture is Not OK — An American POW’s Story

May 12, 2009 By Barbara 1 Comment

By Barbara Falconer Newhall

A couple of weeks ago, I posted the story of a man who survived a brutal forced march across Germany during World War II.

Since then, the Pew Research Center released the results of a survey revealing that a full forty-nine percent of the U.S. population believe that torture can often or sometimes be justified. I’d like that forty-nine percent to take a hard look at Robert Tharratt’s story.

Know anybody in that forty-nine percent? Pls send them this link.

Here’s the post:

When Airman Robert Tharratt’s B-17 bomber was shot down over Nuremberg during World War II, he parachuted to safety only to be captured by a gang of Hitler Youth brandishing knives. The boys were wearing lederhosen, the traditional leather shorts worn by German men.

Robert’s months of captivity were followed by a brutal forced march across Germany. Fifteen hundred out of six thousand POW’s died on the march. When Robert was finally liberated in 1945, he weighed 109 pounds. He spent the following weeks recuperating in a military hospital near Halle, Germany, with two of his POW camp buddies. This story, an excerpt from the book I’m working on, Finding Holy: True Stories of Religion and Spirituality in America, is from Robert’s time in Halle.

Robert tells his story here in his own words:

“After two weeks [in the hospital], we were allowed to go outdoors and walk around. A river ran through the middle of town. Art, Lou and I decided to go across and get a look at downtown Halle. We stood on a small pier with other people, waiting for a rowboat to shuttle us across. We had just finished lunch and I was carrying an orange. A German boy about fourteen years old came up to me, pointed at my orange, and said, ‘Bitte.’ He wanted me to give him my orange. He wasn’t being pushy or anything, he just wanted the orange.

“He didn’t have the Hitler Youth shirt on, but he was wearing lederhosen. I recognized the britches, they were strictly Hitler Youth, and everything came back to me. The starvation, the death threats, the Hitler Youth waving their knives at me.

“‘Nichts.” I told him. “‘Raus!”

“The people on the pier looked at me like, ‘He’s just a kid. Give him the orange.’ The boy kept pestering me.

” ‘Raus!’ I said. ‘Get out of here!’

“The boy still wouldn’t leave me alone, so I pushed him out of my way, and he fell in the river. Everybody on the pier started jabbering off at me in German. I couldn’t understand what they were saying and I didn’t care.

“I looked right at them. ‘Kriegsgefangene!‘I screamed. ‘Prisoner of war! Kriegsgefangene!’

“They shut up and backed away. One of the men reached down to the boy and pulled him up on the pier. The boy ran off, soaking wet. When the rowboat arrived, Lou, Art and I climbed in. There was plenty of room in the boat for more people, but nobody else got in. Nobody wanted to cross the river with me.”

It was decades before Robert could forgive his German captors – and Germans in general — for the cruelty he suffered during his wartime imprisonment. I’m wondering, how much bitterness has our government’s recent policy of torture unleashed in the Arab world and beyond?

Halle, Germany, today with castle and Salle River c 2009 Stadt Halle, Salle

Halle, Germany, today with castle and the Salle River c 2009 Stadt Halle, Salle

Filed Under: A Case of the Human Condition Tagged With: arab, B-17, bush torture policy, Finding Holy, forced march, Halle Germany, Hitler Youth, muslim, pew forum, prisoner of war, Robert Tharratt, World War II

The Writing Room: Writer’s Block and the Toxic “Reader”

May 11, 2009 By Barbara Leave a Comment

By Barbara Falconer Newhall

Writer’s block? Not my problem. At least, that’s what I thought until I read Jane Anne Staw’s book, Unstuck: A Supportive and Practical Guide to Working Through Writer’s Block.

During my many years as a newspaper reporter, it was sit down, write, meet the deadline or find some other line of work. End of story.

So, when I bought Jane Anne Staw’s book a couple years ago, I did so, not because I thought I needed it, but as a favor to Jane Anne. I’ve bought dozens of books by friends and acquaintances over the years on the theory that when I get a book published it will be pay back time. (Right, Jane Anne?)

In other words, I bought, but did not read, Jane Anne’s book.

Then, last December, crashing around the house, looking for something to take with me on our family road trip, I spotted Jane Anne’s unread book, reproaching me from its bookshelf. I grabbed it up, headed for the car and took my assigned place (as the shortest in the family) in the back seat behind Peter (the tallest in the family), who was riding shotgun with the seat pushed back.

Things got boring somewhere along the 10 between West Hollywood and Joshua Tree National Park. So I pulled Unstuck out from under a pile of wet umbrellas and began to read.

To my surprise, writer’s block as Jane Anne describes it, is not always simple primal terror at the sight of a blank page. Writer’s block can be subtle.

It can be the nagging sense that I don’t have the right to write, that my thoughts are not as important as Marilynne Robinson’s , say, or Richard Ford’s.

It can be the belief that successful writers never procrastinate, never blush with embarrassment at what they’ve just written, never rewrite the same sentence eighteen times before throwing up their hands and going into the kitchen to do something useful, like empty the dishwasher.

It can be assuming that someone like Anne Lamott sits calmly at the keyboard while the limpid prose flows from her fingertips – when actually the real Anne Lamott probably rewrites sentences seventeen times, maybe eighteen until she finally gets it right on the nineteenth, and then the next day gets out of bed, has a cup of coffee, and ditches number nineteen for number twelve.

These are good tips from Jane Anne. But the most important lesson I learned between West Hollywood and Joshua Tree, was how important it is be aware of what kind of reader we are writing to. We need to make sure it’s a friendly reader. In my case, not the English department professor at the University of Michigan, but someone nice – one of my sisters-in-law, my college roommate, the friendly woman sitting next to me in the shoe department at Nordstrom.

Somebody who likes and appreciates me – like you, right? (You’ve gotten this far. I’m putting you down for a yes.)

Bottom line, Jane Anne Staw’s book is a godsend for writers who are stuck and know it. It’s also a great read – okay, a godsend – for people like me who need a deeper understanding of themselves as writers. And maybe don’t know it.

How about you? Any tips for curing writer’s block you’d like to share?

Unstuck: A Supportive and Practical Guide to Working Through Writer’s Block, by Jane Anne Staw, Ph.D., 2003, St. Martin’s Press, $23.95.

Filed Under: Book Openers, The Writing Room Tagged With: anne lamott, ideal reader, jane anne staw, joshua tree, marilynne robinson, richard ford, unstuck, west hollywood, writer's block, writing tips

The Writing Room: Writing About Your Mother? — Words of Caution from Lori Gottlieb

May 10, 2009 By Barbara Leave a Comment

By Barbara Falconer Newhall

Planning to write about your mother? You might reconsider after reading Lori Gottlieb’s essay in today’s New York Times Book Review. Lori has talked to a number of women who have written about their mothers — and believe me there are consequences.

Or, maybe you’re writing about yourself as a mother. If that’s the case don’t miss the reviews out this week of Ayelet Waldman’s new book, the confessional Bad Mother: A Chronicle of Maternal Crimes, Minor Calamities, and Occasional Moments of Grace (Doubleday, $24.95).

Filed Under: Book Openers, The Writing Room Tagged With: ayelet waldman, bad mother, lori gottlieb, new york times book review

A Case of the Human Condition: Death is the Only Guarantee

May 8, 2009 By Barbara Leave a Comment

My daughter Christina and her friend Amanda at Children's Fairyland, Oakland. c 1988 B.F. Newhall

By Barbara Falconer Newhall

The Oakland Tribune, June 3, 1987

My 13-year-old compact sprang a leak in its transmission. I spread a piece of cardboard beneath it, like a bandage, to collect the transmission fluid.

“You might want to consider giving up on it,” Larry said gently. “It will cost $400 or $500 to fix.”

Larry has been repairing my little sedan for five years now. He understands how I feel.

My sister-in-law has a van that I covet. It has seatbelts for seven – just the thing for the kindergarten carpool. Maybe it is time to let go of my sedan.

Bodies should be more like cars. When they fail, you should be able to trade them in. It isn’t fair that some of us are required to interrupt our lives midstream just because the machinery has broken down.

There ought to be some sort of 72-year warranty, a guarantee that each of us will be permitted, at the very least, to live out our allotted life expectancies before we step through those Pearly Gates.

Our neighbor on the uphill side stopped by a few months ago. There was a bounce in his walk and just the hint of a smile on his face. This was something new. He had been sick and under the weather lately.

He told us he was getting his affairs in order, deeding his house over to his children. The doctors had X-rayed and found cancer of the colon. They would operate on Monday.

“It’s OK,” he reassured us. “I’m 79. I’ve lived my life.”

Our uphill neighbor is a widower. He spends his days in his tool room, building things. He paints his house himself. By the time he finishes the last wall, it is time to begin again. Every few years, he works his way around to our side of his house and we watch as he struggles with ropes, ladders and buckets of paint.

Monday night, we called his son. The tumor had been removed. The prognosis was excellent. We were delighted, but wondered whether our uphill neighbor would be as pleased. He would have to get out the ladders and go back to painting his house.

I saw Bethany over at Alta Bates Hospital a couple of years ago.

She was thin and her head was covered with an elaborate scarf. I caught sight of her name on a lab slip. Otherwise, I would not have recognized her.

I was at the hospital because I was trying to get pregnant just one more time. Bethany had Hodgkin’s disease.

She was going to have a bone marrow transplant. “It’s my last hope,” she said softly.

Bethany was keeping a journal of her experiences as a cancer patient. She carried it around with her like a life preserver.

No, I did not become pregnant. And, no, Bethany did not survive. She was 32.

Amanda’s mother told me she was going over to San Francisco to buy a wig.

She knew just where to go. This was her second go-around with chemotherapy for breast cancer. The chemotherapy would cause her hair to fall out soon. She wanted to be ready.

Amanda is 3.

It would be easier letting go of this life, if we could just know for sure what lies on the other side of those Pearly Gates. Sometimes I believe in God. I feel Him right there next to me. But that is only sometimes.’

Miriam believes most all the time. She reads the Bible every day.

She earns her living taking care of old people. She cleans their houses, feeds them lunch, helps them to the bathroom and cleans up after them when they don’t make it.

She and Mrs. L. used to talk about God. Mrs. L. was 95, the widow of a university professor, and now very frail.

Hers had been the life of an intellectual. She had filled her days with books, lovely clothes and an elegant house and garden.

When Miriam talked about God, Mrs. L. listened, but she could not make herself believe. As Mrs. L. grew weaker, Miriam did her best to prepare her for the moment of death.

“If you see Jesus,” she told her, “grab Him.”

Mrs. L. remained skeptical.

Miriam was summoned to the hospital one Sunday night. Mrs. L. was dying. She had no children, and the relatives who would inherit her house and considerable estate lived scattered across the country. She wanted Miriam.

For 24 hours, Miriam sat with Mrs. L., holding her hand, unable to ease her panic.

Finally, Monday night, Mrs. L. sat straight up in bed, eyes wide open, then fell back onto her pillows. Minutes later, she died.

Miriam thinks that, in that moment, Mrs. L. saw Him. But she is not certain. Not even Miriam is certain.

I prefer to think about my new van. Picking it out will be fun. And if it gets into a crash, the insurance company will buy me a new one.

A lot of people have gone out of my life since I wrote this column back in 1988. Beverly, Bethany and my uphill neighbor are gone. So is my father and quite a number of aunts, uncles and cousins. I miss them all. But it’s nice to sit here in my writing room, remembering them. I have that, don’t I?

Filed Under: A Case of the Human Condition Tagged With: amanda rose, beverly rose, breast cancer, children's fairyland, colon cancer, death, god, heaven, hodgkins lymphoma, mothers death, oakland, orphan

GodsBigBlog: Kids and Money — Saving It, Spending It, Sharing It

May 6, 2009 By Barbara Leave a Comment

Three Cups, by Mark St. Germain, is illustrated by April Willy.

"Three Cups," a children's book by Mark St. Germain and April Willy.

By Barbara Falconer Newhall

Looking for a way to teach generosity and life-long charitable giving to the children in your family? Author Mark St.Germain and artist April Willy have a suggestion: The next time you give your children an allowance, give each of them three cups. One for savings, one for spending — and one for charity.

How much to put in each cup? Now, that should get everybody in the family talking. Let us know how the conversation goes at your house.

Three Cups, written by Mark St. Germain, illustrated by April Willy, 2007, Three Cups, LLC.