The other evening, my 8-year-old daughter asked me if my father was my hero.
"No," I replied, without giving it much thought.
"But he saved your life!" she argued. That was true - when I was a child, he gave me artificial respiration after I stopped breathing once.
"And I love him very much," I told her truthfully. "But he's not my hero because I don't respect him."
My blunt words surprised me almost as much as they did her. And I've spent the last few days trying to figure out what they meant and why they tumbled out so readily.
When I was my daughter's age, and for many years afterwards, my father
was my hero. Smart, handsome, funny, hard-working, honest, and devoted to my mom and our family, he was perfect in my adoring eyes.
The first in his family to go to college, my dad had risen from his lower-middle-class (often verging on poor) background to become a successful and prosperous businessman who worked for IBM for 32 years before retiring. He and my mom managed to send me and my brother to top-tier boarding schools and first-rate private universities while still maintaining our family's standard of living - we were never rich, but we were always very comfortable.
My father's life is truly the American dream come true: Rags to riches. Up by his boot-straps. Hard work rewarded. An honest day's work for an honest day's pay. These are the values he instilled in me by his example.
Politically, my parents have long been moderate Republicans. Although like many young Catholics in 1960, my parents voted for John F. Kennedy, they have been Republicans for as long as I can remember. However, they never talked about politics or world events when I was growing up. I remember asking my dad what he thought of the Vietnam war, and he told me he was "ignoring it." If Watergate affected them in any way, they did not show it to us kids - it was barely a blip on my radar, an annoyance primarily because it pre-empted the TV shows I wanted to watch during the summer of 1974.
In short, although my parents were nominal Republicans, they were not engaged in politics as I grew up. But that changed when they moved to Texas. In 1998, my parents sold their home in Connecticut for five times what they had paid for it and retired in prosperity to a gated golf community outside Austin, close to my family.
Quickly they assimilated into their new community, participating in golf tournaments, attending weekly cocktail parties, taking part in garden and book and dinner and ballroom dancing groups, and joining the Republican Men's and Women's clubs. I was glad they had found all these avenues for their social energies.
Well, I don't know if y'all have noticed it, but Republicans in Texas are a wee bit more enthusiastic about their politics than their peers in New England. And my parents soon became more enthusiastic too. In fact, after a year or two, my mother was appointed Treasurer of the Republican Women's club, and my dad became the Republican precinct chair in his district.
For the 2000 presidential election, my parents were in Republican heaven. My dad wore a little gold star on his lapel to show he was a Bush supporter. They were delegates to the state convention. They took tours of the Texas Governer's mansion, went to fund-raising dinners, got to meet political luminaries from across the GOP spectrum, and received so many "signed" pictures of George'n'Laura from the Republican National Committee that they took to giving them to our kids as souvenirs.
Although my husband and I are both Democrats, we took this all in stride. We let our kids ride on the Republican Women's Club float and wave flags with my mom during the Fourth of July parade. We all talked politics over dinner, but it was friendly, not combative. Their politics were different than ours, but our values were basically the same. We all wanted what was best for our country - we just disagreed on what "best" might be.
My dad worked incredibly hard as a precinct chair during the 2000 election, cross-referencing lists of registered voters against voting histories to find the undiscovered Republicans, calling them and visiting them to get them to vote, checking daily who had voted early and following up with those who lagged. Texas was already going to vote for Bush, but my dad made sure his precinct did so overwhelmingly. Although I did not like the candidate he supported, I admired his diligence and industry as a precinct chair.
So, fast-forward four years. My parents were somewhat less enthusiastic in their Republican-ness, particularly my mother. She quit as Treasurer of the Republican Women's Club and somehow found it too hard to make most of the meetings. She opposed the war, she thought No Child Left Behind was a disaster, she even admitted to me that she too was a Mother Opposing Bush. Dad remained a member of the Republican Men's Club and a Republican precinct chair, but he said he was focusing his energies on local candidates only. They both sounded doubtful about voting for Bush-Cheney at all.
But they still gave to GWB and got mechanically-signed photos for their support. Dad still wore his little gold Texas star lapel pin. They still went to fund-raising events for Republican candidates, and Dad still worked his precinct, handing out Bush-Cheney '04 signs and bumper stickers, making calls to bring out the Republican voters.
For those of you who have been wondering what my long and rambling family history has to do with Auschwitz, this is almost the point where the title of my diary comes into play - but first I must make another digression into personal history...
Over fifteen years ago, I held a job in the travel industry where I worked on site with corporate groups on incentive trips. My role was to ensure that all the details of the trip for the participants went smoothly, and that our client contacts were kept happy. So one time I worked on a program in Miami for a major automobile manufacturer. Unlike most programs (which were held in deluxe hotels), for this one we stayed in a condo community. As part of the program, there was a buffet held one night around the condo community's pool area. The area was cordoned off in advance, notices were posted for the residents, and we travel directors working the event were given strict instructions not to let the condo residents come into the event.
I didn't even think twice about this order. I was used to keeping the public out of our private events. People were naturally curious about the lavish banquet they saw taking place in their own backyard, but I politely redirected them away from the pool area with the phrase, "I'm sorry, this area is closed for a private party."
Most of the residents were polite even if disappointed. But one man kept trying to sneak into the event. As I cruised the pool area, I kept finding him at the buffet table, trying to fill a plate for himself, or at the bar trying to order a drink. My client contacts made their displeasure known about his being there, so I confronted him five or six times, each time politely (but firmly) requesting that he leave the party. Finally, he snapped at me, "You would have pulled the switch at Auschwitz!"
Shocked, all I could think to say was, "No, I wouldn't have, but you still need to leave this party." He finally left and stopped trying to crash the party, but I have never forgotten what he said.
At first I thought his remark was hilarious and I repeated it for years as a funny anecdote from my travel director days. But in the past few years, it has resonated deeper within me. In fact it has haunted me.
I am 1/4 German, through my father's side. The man who said I would have pulled the switch at Auschwitz was Jewish.
As a travel director refusing entrance to this man, I was doing my job. My clients had demanded we keep the residents out, and I was simply following their wishes. This man was not starving so what I was doing was not inhumane. But I didn't question why my clients were so adament about keeping him out. It didn't cross my mind that my clients were being anti-Semitic, keeping the Jewish residents away from all the non-Jewish car dealers on the trip. I just knew I needed to do as I was told, as I was paid to do. I was following orders.
I am a hard worker. I am loyal to my employer. If I had lived in Nazi Germany, would I have pulled the switch at Auschwitz? Would I have worked as a cog in the Nazi machine, just doing my job, ignoring the loss of human life because I wasn't responsible for it directly?
And would my father? He was a company man through-and-through. When, in the early 80's, I asked him why IBM did business in South Africa despite apartheid, he snapped at me, "Because our first name is International and our middle name is Business." To me, this was a glib rationalization, but to him this was reason enough.
My father is still a company man. Only now the company is Republicans, Inc. My dad is only a cog in the machinery, a small player in a larger national disgrace. He knows the Republican party as it is currently configured is not the same party he supported 40 years ago. He rationalizes that he is only interested in helping the local Republican candidates, but through his active support as a precinct chair, he strengthens the national party.
And that is why, when my 8-year-old daughter wanted to know if my dad was my hero, I said he was not.
He used to be.
But now, based on his actions, I do not respect him. I am fairly certain I would not have pulled the switch at Auschwitz. But I am not so sure about my father.