In our family, politics and current events were the subject of constant conversation and, more important, action, which is why Rahm was able to hold his own with Bill Glass when the latter went into Archie Bunker mode. It also explains how we all knew, immediately, that the killing of four protesters in early May 1970 by Ohio National Guardsmen at Kent State University was a watershed moment.
Kent State made something snap inside many Americans, who decided they had to do something to protest. For us it meant joining our mother as she drove to Evanston to participate for four days in what would become a historic protest that shut down Northwestern University.
When we got to the campus students had already voted to strike and built four mock graves, with headstones, to call attention to the four students slain at Kent State. They had also barricaded Sheridan Road, which cut through the campus and was the main north/south route linking the wealthy North Shore suburbs to Chicago’s downtown and financial center. If nothing else, the barricades would force the powerful lawyers, executives, and bankers who commuted on Sheridan to recognize the protesters’ outrage over the Kent State killings, the Vietnam War, and the imperial presidency of Richard Nixon.
News reporters were working the barricades when my mother, Rahm, Ari, and I arrived to spend the better part of twenty-four hours, which included naps on the university lawn, standing with the students who sang songs, waving flags decorated with peace symbols, and blocking traffic in both directions. A bonfire was lit, and from time to time someone threw something symbolic into the flames. This was the era of burned draft cards, so this routine was almost to be expected. According to the Chicago Tribune, one young man from our village of Wilmette tossed in his New Trier High School diploma and his Boy Scout cap.
After we left, the Northwestern protest continued with performances of protest songs and a memorial service for the Kent State dead. The hard-core protesters, who wore red armbands and waved red flags, manned the blockade for about a week. We visited the blockade from time to time and noticed the crowd and enthusiasm dwindling, although the fortifications were improved by young men who used pickaxes and shovels to dig up asphalt and concrete and add it to the pile. On the other hand, the commuters who were inconvenienced got a little more upset every day. Evanston City Hall was flooded with complaints and every so often someone would drive up to the barricade, get out of his or her car, and try to argue for an end to the protest and a return to normal traffic flow.
These encounters marked some of the few moments when regular citizens on both sides of the debate over issues like Vietnam met face-to-face. One especially poignant exchange was reported in the Tribune by a young journalist named Philip Caputo, who had served in Vietnam as a marine and would become famous in 1977 with the publication of a memoir called Rumors of War. In 1970 Caputo reported what happened when “a burly man in working clothes” climbed on the barricade and tried to wrest an American flag out of the hands of a younger man whose long hair was “blowing in the wind.”
In the encounter that unfolded the older man was pushed aside as he explained that he had “fought for” the flag and insisted that the protesters had “no right to it.” They fell into a heated discussion in which the students tried to persuade him to join their movement because he was oppressed by the powers that be in ways that he did not understand. “I came to resist your movement!” he shouted at them. When someone in the crowd said, “You can’t talk to him,” the man seemed to give up. With his parting shot, however, he revealed a more personal element of his anger. As Caputo reported, he said, “And I can’t talk to you. All I can see is a lot of kids blowing the chance I never had.”
The idea that the student protesters did not appreciate what they had thanks to the American system they criticized so fiercely was emotionally resonant with a vast number of people who saw a generation blessed with more wealth and opportunity than any in history. The great paradox of this time of turmoil was that those who resented the long-haired strikers were correct, and so too were the protesting students. We were all living in an era of unprecedented wealth and freedom and optimism when minorities, the young, the old, and women were gaining rights and great access to power, and when there was a war on poverty. Where else would so much protest and criticism be tolerated and even sanctioned by many members of the elite? We were lucky to be living in a country that allowed us the comparative luxury of both education and free speech even as we waged a hot war in Vietnam and a Cold War against the ideology of communism.
But it was also true that change was coming too slowly for many, and that the radical critiques of our government and society often rang true. Too many people had suffered for too long as second-class citizens and blind patriotism wasn’t helpful to young men in their teens and twenties who faced the prospect of being drafted to fight a war that had been losing public support at an alarming rate. In 1965 a Gallup poll found that 61 percent supported the United States sending troops to Southeast Asia. By April 1970, this number was 34 percent. Clearly a lot of mothers and fathers agreed with their children who were marching in the streets.
While these antiwar protests polarized the country and there was a significant “silent majority,” as Nixon put it, who dissented, the protests activated many more people than even Occupy Wall Street has. For all the ease of today’s social media, the protests of the late 1960s and early 1970s were far larger. Maybe in part this was because the relative wealth made it easier. In part it could also be that people felt much more in control of their circumstances and secure about their future. In part, it could also be that the various Web outlets—blogs, Twitter, and the like—that provide a way to virtually protest drain away the felt need to physically protest.
For us Emanuels, engaging in protests seemed a natural and reasonable option regardless of whether our side won or lost, or whether any change was even possible. Ari was so inspired by the power of the people that he and Michael Alter called for a student strike against the lunchroom at Romona Elementary School. The little agitators organized a boycott that held until their demands for lower milk prices and the addition of bagels to the menu were met. With the perspective of time it seems likely that the adults involved were very purposeful in their response. As educators they saw something to be gained in rewarding the courage and organizational skills displayed by Ari and Michael. By negotiating with kids on the basis of mutual respect, they showed themselves to be gifted and understanding teachers, and proved that our generation truly was being given, as the man at the barricades said, “a chance that I never had.”
Twelve
CULTURAL STUDIES
For my father, travel was not a luxury. It was, he believed, absolutely necessary for an understanding of the world, and of oneself. When he went to Europe as a young student he discovered many things about himself—his ability to learn languages, his intellectual abilities, which had been well hidden, his leadership skills, and a remarkable capacity for adaptation and growth. With every border he crossed and every new idea he absorbed, he found himself dreaming bigger dreams—and happier. He wanted us to have the same experiences; my mother agreed. The only point of contention on the issue was Germany.
As a Jew who came of age during the Holocaust, my mother was uncomfortable with anything German, whether it was a kitchen knife or a Volkswagen car. The sound of the German language made her cringe and when travel to Europe was considered she made it clear that she would “never set foot” in Germany. My father, on the other hand, saw nothing wrong with passing through Germany on the way to Denmark if doing so saved you more than a thousand dollars on airfare to Europe.
The year was 1971 and my parents had decided that instead of going back to Israel for the summer we should see Scandinavia, particularly Denmark and Norway, countries no one in the family had been to. The cheapest way to cross the Atlantic was on Icelandair’s flights to Luxemburg. Every other option to fly a family of five would have cost a fortune. Of course Germany lies between Luxemburg and Denmark, and
so the only way to get from point A to point B involved a car ride across the land of my mother’s nightmares.
The argument about this problem raged for days and weeks. In the end, my father offered a compromise. We would fly at cut-rate prices, rent a car at the Luxemburg airport, load it with food and drink, and speed for the Danish border, which was roughly 360 miles away. If her bladder held, Marsha Emanuel’s feet would never touch German soil.
All went according to plan on the flight and after clearing customs we went to the rental car agency, where we picked up a four-door, pastel green Opel and zipped away in search of supplies. We crossed into Germany without a hitch.
Although we proceeded in silence, because of my mother’s anger, the first few hours of the drive went better than expected. Near Bremen my father announced he needed to pee, stretch his legs, and eat lunch. As he slowed the car and steered to a roadside rest area, he said we could have something to eat. We four males got out of the car. Our father opened a tin of sardines, cut up some tomatoes, cucumber, cheese, and bread, and we ate.
In the front passenger seat my mother looked out the window in stony silence. When the meal ended we got back into the car. Our father told us to buckle our seat belts and reached for the ignition key. He twisted it to the start position, and nothing happened. No revving. No clickety-clack. Nothing.
He turned the key off and then switched it to the start position again. This time he pumped his foot a bit on the accelerator. Again, silence. The engine did not turn over. After some muttering about flooding the engine and a long, pregnant pause, the third attempt brought the same: nothing. As is his tendency when mechanical things go awry, Benjamin Emanuel, MD, became a shrill, flustered, panicky guy who believed that somehow the car would respond to curses and threats.
My father had absolutely no aptitude for anything related to machines of any sort. When he opened the hood of a car, he saw an incomprehensible jumble of metal, rubber, and plastic. It was an odd kind of incompetence, given his acuity in making medical diagnoses. Like human beings, cars have systems for breathing, heating, and cooling, and even a nervous system that distributes electrical signals. My father recognized none of this.
Fortunately a roadside assistance phone was available and my father managed to summon a tow truck. The mechanic diagnosed a broken starter and determined that the car would have to be towed to the nearest city, Hamburg. By the time we got there the hour was late and we were told no mechanic would be available until the morning. We would have to stay overnight. The grand compromise on foot-setting in Germany was completely abrogated.
Finding ourselves in the center of the city, there was nothing for us to do but find someplace to sleep. Holding Rahm’s hand, my slightly panicked father led the rest of us to check out some of the nearby hotels. He led Rahm inside one, as my mother fumed outside with Ari and me standing near her. Inside, as Rahm would recall, a man who seemed to be a desk clerk emerged from a back room and my father immediately asked about accommodations. Rahm gazed into the bar off the lobby and noticed it was populated by several women who wore a whole lot of makeup and very little fabric. My father told the desk clerk he wanted “zwei Zimmer”—two rooms. The man behind the counter raised his eyebrows. Rahm began tugging at my father’s sleeve. Anxious and frustrated, my father shushed him and explained to the clerk that one of the rooms was for “der Kinder,” which meant the children. But before he agreed to pay for them, he said he wanted to check them out to see if they were suitable.
Listening to my father’s strange-sounding mix of Yiddish and German, the proprietor could not make sense of my father’s request. Whatever the desk man thought, he eventually decided that he was not going to accommodate my father, no matter what he asked. My father, hearing nothing but “Nein!” began to get a little panicky and impatient.
“Dad?” said Rahm again.
“Be quiet,” said my father.
“But Dad!” said Rahm, more forcefully.
“I said quiet!” shouted my dad.
Finally, with Rahm again tugging at his sleeve and his eyes adjusted to the light, my father could see that he had been trying to arrange for family accommodations at a bordello. He quickly turned and steered Rahm to the door. When they returned Rahm was grinning with sheer delight and my father, knowing that my mother was already severely irritated, struggled to deflect inquiries into his faux pas.
Once we settled into a hotel, we went in search of dinner. My father always taught us that in European cities the place to purchase the maximum amount of calories for the lowest possible cost was the main train station. The Hamburg station was an elegant old hall with a second-floor dining room overlooking the concourse. But we noticed none of it as we navigated the hall. Furious, my mother was silent and so were we. Eventually a waiter dressed in a black suit and white shirt brought us menus. My father used his pidgin German to order for us.
Sometime in the middle of the meal, a voice came over the loudspeaker to announce a train departure. “Achtung! Achtung!” My mother’s face turned white. In unison we dropped our forks, rose from our chairs, and hustled out of the station restaurant. Our collective reaction, more a reflex than anything conscious, reminded me how deep this anti-German feeling had been instilled in us.
Indeed, I didn’t return to Germany until the mid-1990s, when I was invited to present to a medical ethics conference and my rabbi at Harvard Hillel, himself a Holocaust survivor, insisted that I go to contribute to the flourishing of humanistic thought in Germany. There I was pleasantly surprised to find many people, from the middle-aged academics to graduate students, more open and apologetic about the Holocaust, and genuinely interested in my views as a Jew. In my experience—and to their credit—the Germans had engaged in a serious and reflective engagement with their culpability for my people’s deaths.
After an uneasy night in the hotel we picked up the car, which had been repaired with a new starter, and drove the short distance to the border with Denmark. There, at the crossing, Ari, Rahm, and I took special note of the many garishly decorated Danish sex shops with neon signs that invited travelers arriving from staid old Germany to come in for a good time.
In the summer of 1972 my mom, Rahm, and Ari went to Israel, mainly to see the Big Bangah and Sophie, our grandmother, who had, at last, managed to emigrate and settle south of Tel Aviv in a relatively poor neighborhood of Bat Yam. I got the “privilege” of living at home with my father for most of the summer while I did high school biology during summer school. Once the course ended, my father and I would take a trip together to Europe, just the two of us.
In Wilmette my father and I became like The Odd Couple. As Felix to his Oscar, I did most of the cleaning and cooking, becoming quite proficient in the art of backyard grilling. For his part my dad enjoyed the peace and quiet of nights free from the sound of boys fighting, and delighted in having full control over the TV.
When all the dissection and tests of my biology course ended, my father and I flew to Luxemburg and headed for Zurich, Switzerland. Our first stop would be at the home of Albert Richter, a physician my dad had known during his residency at Mount Sinai in Chicago. A religious Jew, Albert had depended on my dad to cover for him on Saturdays. This little arrangement helped them become close friends. In the late 1950s, Dr. Richter, a pediatrician, had returned to his home country to practice.
Following my father’s method, we traveled without a detailed plan and instead just stopped to take in interesting sights. As the sun began to go down we looked for a room with breakfast. My father always asked for just one bed, which we shared. He would call me “the propeller” because of my constant tossing and turning, which interrupted his slumber. Mind you, he was never bothered enough to pay for two beds.
Naturally, Oscar and Felix got on each other’s nerves from time to time. We bickered for hours during a drive from the French Riviera to Milan, where my father insisted we go see the great Gothic cathedral. Luck allowed us to reach the center of the city and park rig
ht next to the cathedral. My father ordered me to grab the camera and we hopped out of the car, locked our doors, and slammed them shut. In an instant my dad realized that he had left the keys in the ignition switch—with the car running. Since we had just topped-off the tank before entering Milan it could probably idle like that for half a day or more.
“Watch the camera!” my father shouted at me, his voice rising with panic.
He dashed across a wide boulevard and into a nearby department store, where the clerks were closing for their lunch break and afternoon naps. Crazed, my father grabbed two clothes hangers and ran out without paying for them. When he returned to the curb he paused for a moment to catch his breath and then proceeded, in his clumsy way, to fashion one of them into a long hook that might be snaked through the rubber gasket that sealed the car door.
Unfortunately the car was very well sealed and the wire was too thick and inflexible. As he struggled, my father—in his semi-panic and buried annoyance at himself—alternately explained what he was doing and shouted at me to find some way to help him.
Not surprisingly, my mechanically challenged father was not able to negotiate the hanger trick. Nevertheless, his antics did attract a veritable United Nations of onlookers, including Italians, Germans, French, North Africans, Swiss, and even an Israeli couple. Each one of these observers offered advice encapsulating their national character. For instance, the Italian fellow kept gesturing in a way that said, “Just smash the front window.” The Frenchman just slowly walked around the car examining it for a possible opportunity but never offering a useful suggestion.
After about an hour and a half, the serious German guy loosened the rubber around the vent window on the driver’s-side door. I was then able to snake my thin left arm inside to unlock the door. With the crowd laughing and applauding my father shouted at me, “Get in!”
Brothers Emanuel: A Memoir of an American Family Page 20