Monday, April 6, 2020

The Rise and Fall of the Third Reich by William L. Shirer

The Third Reich which was born on January 30, 1933, Hitler boasted, would endure for a thousand years, and in Nazi parlance it was often referred to as the “Thousand-Year Reich.” It lasted twelve years and four months, but in that flicker of time, as history goes, it caused an eruption on this earth more violent and shattering than any previously experienced, raising the German people to heights of power they had not known in more than a millennium, making them at one time the masters of Europe from the Atlantic to the Volga, from the North Cape to the Mediterranean, and then plunging them to the depths of destruction and desolation at the end of a world war which their nation had cold-bloodedly provoked and during which it instituted a reign of terror over the conquered peoples which, in its calculated butchery of human life and the human spirit, outdid all the savage oppressions of the previous ages.

That is a tight summary of Shirer’s thousand-page masterpiece. In commenting on it I fear I can only scratch the surface. It is one of those books, I think, that every thinking person should read. Here are some of the reactions I had to it.

The Rise

One of the best parts of the book is the description of how Hitler’s Nazi party came to power in Germany in the first place. There were several key factors that are often overlooked by casual history. The first is that the very institutions that comprised German society were either broken or, as is the case with the German Army, not subservient to the democratic government.

As a state within a state [the German Army] maintained its independence of the national government. Under the Weimar Constitution the Army could have been subordinated to the cabinet and Parliament, as the military establishments of the other Western democracies were. But it was not. Nor was the officer corps purged of its monarchist, antirepublican frame of mind. A few Socialist leaders such as Scheidemann and Grzesinski urged “democratizing” the armed forces. They saw the danger of handing the Army back to the officers of the old authoritarian, imperialist tradition. But they were successfully opposed not only by the generals but by their fellow Socialists, led by the Minister of Defense, Noske. This proletarian minister of the Republic openly boasted that we wanted to revive “the proud soldier memories of the World War.” The failure of the duly elected government to build a new Army that would be faithful to its own democratic spirit and subordinate to the cabinet and the Reichstag was a fatal mistake for the Republic, as time would tell.

And the Army was not the only institution that was improperly aligned with Germany’s attempt at republican democracy in the years after the disastrous First World War.

There was the judiciary:

The administrators of the law became one of the centers of the counterrevolution, perverting justice for reactionary political ends. “It is impossible to escape the conclusion,” the historian Franz L. Neumann declared, “that political justice is the blackest page in the life of the German Republic.” After the Kapp putsch in 1920 the government charged 705 persons with high treason; only one, the police president of Berlin, received a sentence -- five years of “honorary confinement.” When the state of Prussia withdrew his pension the Supreme Court ordered it restored. A German court in December 1926 awarded General von Luettwitz, the military leader of the Kapp putsch, back payment of his pension to cover the period when he was a rebel against the government and also the five years that he was a fugitive from justice in Hungary.

Yet hundreds of German liberals were sentenced to long prison terms on charges of treason because they revealed or denounced in the press or by speech the Army’s constant violations of the Versailles Treaty. The treason laws were ruthlessly applied to the supporters of the Republic; those on the Right who tried to overthrow it, as Adolf Hitler was soon to learn, got off either free or with the lightest of sentences. Even the assassins, if they were of the Right and their victims democrats, were leniently treated by the courts or, as often happened, helped to escape from the custody of the courts by Army officers and right-wing extremists.

Wait. Let’s take a pause there. Imagine that. Revolutionaries assassinate government officials, and the courts, because they are sympathetic to the militaristic and authoritarian impulses that inspired the assassins, only slap them on the wrist. Too frequently, I think, modern Americans accuse one side or the other in a political dispute of being Nazis, or of seeking to bring about a new “Nazi Germany” in our country. Conditions like this one with the German courts show, I think, how unrealistic some of those screeds are.

And speaking of that, there was also the currency:

The [German] mark, as we have seen, had begun to slide in 1921, when it dropped to 75 to the dollar; the next year it fell to 400 and by the beginning of 1923 to 7,000. Already in the fall of 1922 the German government had asked the Allies to grant a moratorium on reparation payments [forced on them by the Treaty of Versailles that ended the First World War]. This the French government of Poincare had bluntly refused. When Germany defaulted in deliveries of timber, the hardheaded French Premier, who had been the wartime President of France, ordered French troops to occupy the Ruhr. The industrial heart of Germany, which, after the loss of Upper Silesia to Poland, furnished the Reich with four fifths of its coal and steel production, was cut off from the rest of the country.

This paralyzing blow to Germany’s economy united the people momentarily as they had not been united since 1914. The workers of the Ruhr declared a general strike and received financial support from the government in Berlin, which called for a campaign of passive resistance. With the help of the Army, sabotage and guerrilla warfare were organized. The French countered with arrests, deportations and even death sentences. But not a wheel in the Ruhr turned.

The strangulation of Germany’s economy hastened the final plunge of the mark. On the occupation of the Ruhr in January 1923, it fell to 18,000 to the dollar; by July 1 it had dropped to 160,000; by August 1 to a million. By November, when Hitler thought his hour had struck, it took four billion marks to buy a dollar, and thereafter the figures became trillions. German currency had become utterly worthless. Purchasing power of salaries and wages was reduced to zero. The life savings of the middle classes and the working classes were wiped out. But something even more important was destroyed: the faith of the people in the economic structure of German society. What good were the standards and practices of such a society, which encouraged savings and investment and solemnly promised a safe return from them and then defaulted? Was this not a fraud upon the people?

This default, and this loss of confidence, would ultimately have a fatal impact on the German republic.

And was not the democratic Republic, which had surrendered to the enemy and accepted the burden of reparations, to blame for the disaster? Unfortunately for its survival, the Republic did bear a responsibility. The inflation could have been halted by merely balancing the budget -- a difficult but not impossible feat. Adequate taxation might have achieved this, but the new government did not dare to tax adequately. After all, the cost of the war -- 164 billion marks -- had been met not even in part by direct taxation but 93 billions of it by war loans, 29 billions out of Treasury bills and the rest by increasing the issue of paper money. Instead of drastically raising taxes on those who could pay, the republican government actually reduced them in 1921.

From then on, goaded by the big industrialists and landlords, who stood to gain though the masses of the people were financially ruined, the government deliberately let the mark tumble in order to free the State of its public debts, to escape from paying reparations and to sabotage the French in the Ruhr. Moreover, the destruction of the currency enabled German heavy industry to wipe out its indebtedness by refunding its obligations in worthless marks. The General Staff, disguised as the “Truppenamt” (Office of Troops) to evade the peace treaty which supposedly had outlawed it, took notice that the fall of the mark wiped out the war debts and thus left Germany financially unencumbered for a new war.

The masses of the people, however, did not realize how much the industrial tycoons, the Army and the State were benefitting from the ruin of the currency. All they knew was that a large bank account could not buy a straggly bunch of carrots, a half peck of potatoes, a few ounces of sugar, a pound of flour. They knew that as individuals they were bankrupt. And they knew hunger when it gnawed at them, as it did daily. In their misery and hopelessness they made the Republic the scapegoat for all that had happened.

This is all before Hitler. He would make use of this situation and these realities in order to orchestrate his rise to power, but the staircase that he would ascend had been built long before he arrived on the scene and, frankly, by people who should have known better. Let the following words sink it. Industrial tycoons, the Army, and the State, conspiring against the people to purposely ruin their currency. No wonder Germany had such a historical inheritance of intolerance and mistrust.

To the lack of political and dynastic unity was added, in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, the disaster of religious differences which followed the Reformation. There is not space in this book to recount adequately the immense influence of Martin Luther, the Saxon peasant who became an Augustinian monk that launched the German Reformation, had on Germans and their subsequent history. But it many be said, in passing, that this towering but erratic genius, this savage anti-Semite and hater of Rome, who combined in his tempestuous character so many of the best and worst qualities of the German -- the coarseness, the boisterousness, the fanaticism, the intolerance, the violence, but also the honesty, the simplicity, the self-scrutiny, the passion for learning and for music and for poetry and for righteousness in the eyes of God, left a mark on the life of the Germans, for both good and bad, more indelible, more fateful, than was wrought by any other single individual before or since. Through his sermons and his magnificent translation of the Bible, Luther created the modern German language, aroused in the people not only a new Protestant vision of Christianity but a fervent German nationalism and taught them, at least in religion, the supremacy of the individual conscience. But tragically for them, Luther’s siding with the princes in the peasant risings, which he had largely inspired, and his passion for political autocracy ensured a mindless and provincial political absolutism which reduced the vast majority of the German people to poverty, to a horrible torpor and a demeaning subservience. Even worse perhaps, it helped to perpetuate and indeed sharpen the hopeless divisions not only between classes but also between the various dynastic and political groupings of the German people. It doomed for centuries the possibility of the unification of Germany.

Let’s take a moment to reflect on Shirer’s prose above. Its dense in many ways, but beautiful in so many more. There’s a lot packed into every paragraph (the one just quoted demonstrating Shirer’s deep understanding of German culture and its underpinnings), but I suppose that’s what makes this book so worth reading (and perhaps re-reading).

But back to this strange and complex situation -- a failing democracy, undermined from within by the very institutions meant to defend it, all operating in a historical milieu of militant and self-styled religious and political division -- was broken any way you look at it. And into this comes the second factor behind the Nazi’s rise to power, often overlooked by casual history. It is a kind of one-two punch of the failures of democracy. First up, factions.

No class or group or party in Germany could escape its share of responsibility for the abandonment of the democratic Republic and the advent of Adolf Hitler. The cardinal error of the Germans who opposed Nazism was their failure to unite against it. At the crest of their popular strength, in July 1932, the National Socialists had attained but 37 per cent of the vote. But the 63 per cent of the German people who expressed their opposition to Hitler were much too divided and shortsighted to combine against a common danger which they must have known would overwhelm them unless they united, however temporarily, to stamp it out.

There were too many political parties in the German Republic, each vying with all the others for a slightly larger small piece of the overall pie. The differences between them were esoteric, but bitterly defended and fought. One case in point, the Communists.

The Communists, at the behest of Moscow, were committed to the last to the silly idea of first destroying the Social Democrats, the Socialist trade unions and what middle-class democratic forces there were, on the dubious theory that although this would lead to a Nazi regime it would be only temporary and would bring inevitably the collapse of capitalism, after which the Communists would take over and establish the dictatorship of the proletariat. Fascism, in the Bolshevik Marxist view, represented the last stage of a dying capitalism; after that, the Communist deluge!

In such an environment dozens of ministers, each representing a faction barely eking into double digit support, can literally be a step or two away from ultimate power. Constitutional separation of powers become opaque, or, as the second punch demonstrates, dismissed entirely.

Adolf Hitler was made Chancellor of Germany, one of the three balancing positions of power in the German Republic -- the other two being the office of the President (a kind of sovereign for the country, made manifest in the person of Paul von Hindenburg) and the Reichstag (the true legislative branch, what Americans would call the Congress). From that position, Hitler was able to get the Reichstag to pass an emergency powers act, in which the Chancellor and his cabinet would be given exclusive legislative powers for a period of four years. The dismal state of the German Republic demanded it, more than just Hitler argued. The Reichstag was too divided and too factionalized to respond with firmness and alacrity to the multiple emergencies facing the nation. It was a bold gambit, but it made some sense in the moment that existed, and the act was passed by a vote of 441 to 84.

Thus was parliamentary democracy finally interred in Germany. Except for the arrests of the Communists and some of the Social Democratic deputies, it was all done quite legally, though accompanied by terror. Parliament had turned over its constitutional authority to Hitler and thereby committed suicide, though its body lingered on in an embalmed state to the very end of the Third Reich, serving infrequently as a sounding board from some of Hitler’s thunderous pronunciamentos, its members henceforth hand-picked by the Nazi Party, for there were to be no more real elections. It was this Enabling Act alone which formed the legal basis for Hitler’s dictatorship. From March 23, 1933, on, Hitler was the dictator of the Reich, freed of any restraint by Parliament or, for all practical purposes, by the weary old President.

And, initially -- at least to a German people who had so long suffered under broken institutions and a forced inferiority in the community of nations -- that seemed like it might have actually been a good idea.

When Hitler addressed the Reichstag on January 30, 1934, he could look back on a year of achievement without parallel in German history. Within twelve months he had overthrown the Weimar Republic, substituted his personal dictatorship for its democracy, destroyed all the political parties but his own, smashed the state governments and the parliaments and unified and defederalized the Reich, wiped out the labor unions, stamped out democratic associations of any kind, driven the Jews out of public and professional life, abolished freedom of speech and of the press, stifled the independence of the courts and “co-ordinated” under Nazi rule the political, economic, cultural and social life of an ancient and cultivated people. For all these accomplishments and for his resolute action in foreign affairs, which took Germany out of the concert of nations at Geneva, and proclaimed German insistence on being treated as an equal among the great powers, he was backed, as the autumn plebiscite and election had shown, by the overwhelming majority of the German people.

That’s how the Nazis came to power and how they solidified their support and loyalty from the German people. And most of it, according to the jurisprudence of the day, was done legally. Throughout everything that was to come, Hitler maintained at least the appearance of constitutional legality.

Though the Weimar Republic was destroyed, the Weimar Constitution was never formally abrogated by Hitler. Indeed -- and ironically -- Hitler based the “legality” of his rule on the despised republican constitution. Thus thousands of decreed laws -- there were no others in the Third Reich -- were explicitly based on the emergency presidential decree of February 28, 1933, for the Protection of the People and the State, which Hindenburg, under Article 48 of the constitution, had signed. It will be remembered that the aged President was bamboozled into signing the decree the day after the Reichstag fire when Hitler assured him that there was grave danger of a Communist revolution. The decree, which suspended all civil rights, remained in force throughout the time of the Third Reich, enabling the Fuehrer to rule by a sort of continual martial law.

The Enabling Act, too, which the Reichstag had voted on March 24, 1933, and by which it handed over its legislative functions to the Nazi government, was the second pillar in the “constitutionality” of Hitler’s rule. Each four years thereafter it was dutifully prolonged for another four-year period by a rubber-stamp Reichstag, for it never occurred to the dictator to abolish this once democratic institution but only to make it nondemocratic. It met only a dozen times up to the war, “enacted” only four laws, held no debates or votes and never heard any speeches expect those made by Hitler.

Life in the Third Reich

One of the most compelling sections of Shirer’s book is the chapter he titled “Life in the Third Reich: 1933-37.”

What the Hitler government envisioned for Germany was clearly set out in a thirty-point program for the “National Reich Church” … A few of its thirty articles convey the essentials:

1. The National Reich Church of Germany categorically claims the exclusive right and the exclusive power to control all churches within the borders of the Reich: it declares these to be national churches of the German Reich.

5. The National Church is determined to exterminate irrevocably … the strange and foreign Christian faiths imported into Germany in the ill-omened year 800.

7. The National Church has no scribes, pastors, chaplains or priests, but National Reich orators are to speak in them.

13. The National Church demands immediate cessation of the publishing and dissemination of the Bible in Germany …

14. The National Church declares that to it, and therefore to the German nation, it has been decided that the Fuehrer’s Mein Kampf is the greatest of all documents. It … not only contains the greatest but it embodies the purest and truest ethics for the present and future of our nation.

18. The National Church will clear away from its altars all crucifixes, Bibles and pictures of saints.

19. On the altars there must be nothing but Mein Kampf (to the German nation and to God the most sacred book) and to the left of the altar a sword.

30. On the day of its foundation, the Christain Cross must be removed from all churches, cathedrals and chapels … and it must be superseded by the only unconquerable symbol, the swastika.

I’ve heard a lot of people debate whether Hitler was a Christian or an atheist, and I can see why some might use the above to argue for the side that he was a non-believer. But the more striking point to me is that while Hitler may not have thought of himself as a Christian, he evidently thought of himself as a God.

The emphasis on Mein Kampf is especially noteworthy. Because another amazing thing about Adolf Hitler -- he never hid what his real plan for Germany was. Indeed, he wrote it all down in his magnum opus.

Not every German who bought a copy of Mein Kampf necessarily read it. I have heard many a Nazi stalwart complain that it was hard going and not a few admit -- in private -- that they were never able to get through to the end of its 782 turgid pages. But it might be argued that had more non-Nazi Germans read it before 1933 and had the foreign statesmen of the world perused it carefully while there still was time, both Germany and the world might have been saved from catastrophe. For whatever other accusations can be made against Adolf Hitler, no one can accuse him of not putting down in writing exactly the kind of Germany he intended to make if he ever came to power and the kind of world he meant to create by armed German conquest. The blueprint of the Third Reich and, what is more, of the barbaric New Order which Hitler inflicted on conquered Europe in the triumphant years between 1939 and 1945 is set down in all its appalling crudity at great length and in detail between the covers of this revealing book.

But the larger point is how much life in Germany became the ideology of the Nazi Party an its unconquerable leader, Adolf Hitler. As reflected in the above excerpt about the churches, the dogma of the party took over every aspect of life in Germany -- the press, the work setting, the family unit, the social structure and gathering. Under such a relentless reordering of reality, even foreign journalists like Shirer found himself questioning himself.

I myself was to experience how easily one is taken in by a lying and censored press and radio in a totalitarian state. Though unlike most Germans I had daily access to foreign newspapers, especially those of London, Paris and Zurich, which arrived the day after publication, and though I listened regularly to the BBC and other foreign broadcasts, my job necessitated the spending of many hours a day in combing the German press, checking the German radio, conferring with Nazi officials and going to party meetings. It was surprising and sometimes consternating to find that notwithstanding the opportunities I had to learn the facts and despite one’s inherent distrust of what one learned from Nazi sources, a steady diet over the years of falsifications and distortions made a certain impression on one’s mind and often misled it. No one who has not lived for years in a totalitarian land can possibly conceive how difficult it is to escape the dread consequences of a regime’s calculated and incessant propaganda. Often in a German home or office or sometimes in a casual conversation with a stranger in a restaurant, a beer hall, a cafe, I would meet with the most outlandish assertions from seemingly educated and intelligent persons. It was obvious that they were parroting some piece of nonsense they had heard on the radio or read in the newspapers. Sometimes one was tempted to say as much, but on such occasions one was met with such a stare of incredulity, such a shock of silence, as if one had blasphemed the Almighty, that one realized how useless it was even to try to make contact with a mind which had become warped and for whom the facts of life had become what Hitler and Goebbels, with their cynical disregard for truth, said they were.

I don’t normally like to do this, and I’m not saying that I’m living in a totalitarian state, but the last half of that excerpt could just as easily be said in some sections of 2010s America as it was of 1930s Germany.

War

What follows, of course, is war. In the next several hundred pages Shirer does historian’s work in describing and documenting every significant action of Hitler and his Nazi government, both diplomatic and militaristic. Things follow a regular pattern. Austria, Czechoslovakia, Poland -- it starts with Hitler expressing concern for the German populations living inside these strange borders, many of them created in the haste and ill-thought that accompanied the end of what is not yet called the First World War. All ethnic Germans, he will claim belong to and are under the protection of the German Reich, regardless of where they live. And then, after propagandizing oppression and atrocities committed against these ethnic German by these foreign governments, Nazi troops march in to rescue and protect them. And, of course, the Nazi troops don’t leave. Instead, they topple governments and absorb the now undisputed territory officially into the German Reich.

But throughout Shirer’s meticulous description of these events something is missing. Given his reliance on the official records and newspaper reports of these times, the madness that must have already been consuming Adolf Hitler is entirely missing from this part of the narrative. Political and military maneuvers, after all, can seem entirely logical and appropriate once one accepts the premise under which they are driven. And, of course, Hitler’s premise -- that ethnic Germans were being oppressed by the illegitimate governments under which they lived -- was no more true that the “fact” that Mein Kampf was the most sacred book to God and to the German nation.

Madness

And, eventually, madness is what many in the Nazi military would come to understand actually drove their Fuehrer. As he pushed harder and harder for new conquests -- over Denmark, Norway, France, Britain, even, eventually, his ally Russia -- the military commanders would push back, would object, and slowly, one by one, be removed or eliminated by the madman who held absolute power over them and their nation.

The former Vienna vagabond and ex-corporal was now head of state, Minister of War, Supreme Commander of the Armed Forces and Commander in Chief of the Army. The generals, as [General Franz] Halder complained -- in his diary -- were now merely postmen purveying Hitler’s orders based on Hitler’s singular conception of strategy.

This is what happens, I joked in the margin next to that paragraph, when you’re a leader that can’t work with people. They disappoint you. You replace them. Their replacement disappoints you. You replace them. The second replacement disappoints you. Eventually, you stop replacing people and just take on the jobs yourself, thinking it’s the only way for things to get done correctly, and not realizing that the problem isn’t them, it’s you.

We can make jokes about that, but in the case of Adolf Hitler, it’s not funny in the slightest.

Actually the megalomaniacal dictator would soon make himself something even greater, legalizing a power never before held by any man -- emperor, king or president -- in the experience of the German Reichs. On April 26, 1942, he had his rubber-stamp Reichstag pass a law which gave him absolute power of life and death over every German and simply suspended any laws which might stand in the way of this. The words of the law have to be read to be believed.

“...In the present war, in which the German people are faced with a struggle for their existence or their annihilation, the Fuehrer must have all the rights postulated by him which serve to further or achieve victory. Therefore -- without being bound by existing legal regulations -- in his capacity as Leader of the nation, Supreme Commander of the Armed Forces, Head of Government and supreme executive chief, as Supreme Justice and Leader of the Party -- the Fuehrer must be in a position to force with all means at his disposal every German, if necessary, whether he be common soldier or officer, low or high official or judge, leading or subordinate official of the party, worker or employer -- to fulfill his duties. In case of violation of these duties, the Fuehrer is entitled after conscientious examination, regardless of so-called well-deserved rights, to mete out due punishment and to remove the offender from his post, rank and position without introducing prescribed procedures.”

Truly Adolf Hitler had become not only the Leader of Germany but the Law. Not even in medieval times nor further back in the barbarous tribal days had any German arrogated such tyrannical power, nominal and legal as well as actual, to himself.

That’s right. If you people won’t follow my orders, I’ll have the right and power to kill you. That’s how much of a genius I am!

And, very interesting, as Hitler chewed through the generals as World War II was coming to its close, his perspective on what was needed in such tough military times could be excellently summed up in this excerpt taken from that same diary of General Franz Halder.

Later the Chief of the General Staff, whose own days at his post were now numbered, would come back to this scene and write:

“Hitler’s decisions had ceased to have anything in common with the principles of strategy and operations as they have been recognized for generations past. They were the product of a violent nature following its momentary impulses, which recognized no limits to possibility and which made its wish-dreams the father of its acts…”

As to what he called the Supreme Commander’s “pathological overestimation of his own strength and criminal underestimation of the enemy’s,” Halder later told a story:

“Once when a quite objective report was read to him showing that still in 1942 Stalin would be able to muster from one to one and a quarter million fresh troops in the region north of Stalingrad and west of the Volga, not to mention half a million men in the Caucasus, and which provided proof that Russian output of front-line tanks amounted to at least 1,200 a month, Hitler flew at the man who was reading with clenched fists and foam in the corners of his mouth and forbade him to read any more of such idiotic twaddle.”

“You didn’t have to have the gift of a prophet,” says Halder, “to foresee what would happen when Stalin unleashed those million and a half troops against Stalingrad and the Don flank. I pointed this out to Hitler very clearly. The result was the dismissal of the Chief of the Army General Staff.”

This took place on September 24. Already on the ninth, upon being told by Keitel that Field Marshal List, who had the overall command of the armies in the Caucasus, had been sacked, Halder learned that he would be the next to go. The Fuehrer, he was told, had become convinced that he “was no longer equal to the psychic demands of his position.” Hitler explained this is greater detail to his General Staff Chief at the farewell meeting on the twenty-fourth.

“You and I have been suffering from nerves. Half of my nervous exhaustion is due to you. It is not worth it to go on. We need National Socialist ardor now, not professional ability. I cannot expect this of an officer of the old school such as you.”

“So spoke,” Halder commented later, “not a responsible warlord but a political fanatic.”

Indeed. We need National Socialist ardor now, not professional ability. That, in essence, is all you need to know about both the rise and fall of the Third Reich.

Stalingrad

Want more proof? Read this.

On the morning of January 8, 1943, three young Red Army officers, bearing a white flag, entered the German lines on the northern perimeter of Stalingrad and presented General Paulus with an ultimatum from General Rokossovski, commander of the Soviet forces on the Don front. After reminding him that his army was cut off and could not be relieved or kept supplied from the air, the note said:

“The situation of your troops is desperate. They are suffering from hunger, sickness and cold. The cruel Russian winter has scarcely yet begun. Hard frosts, cold winds and blizzards still lie ahead. Your soldiers are unprovided with winter clothing and are living in appalling sanitary conditions … Your situation is hopeless, and any further resistance senseless.

“In view of [this] and in order to avoid unnecessary bloodshed, we propose that you accept the following terms of surrender…

Not unlike the note Grant sent Lee at Appomattox.

They were honorable terms. All prisoners would be given “normal rations.” The wounded, sick and frostbitten would receive medical treatment. All prisoners could retain their badges of rank, decorations and personal belongings. Paulus was given twenty-four hours to reply.

And not unlike the terms Grant offered. Could the officers, I wonder, keep their horses? How would Paulus respond?

He immediately radioed the text of the ultimatum to Hitler and asked for freedom of action. His request was curtly dismissed by the Supreme warlord. Twenty-four hours after the expiration of the time limit on the demand for surrender, on the morning of January 10, the Russians opened the last phase of the Battle of Stalingrad with an artillery bombardment from five thousand guns.

The fighting was bitter and bloody. Both sides fought with incredible bravery and recklessness over the frozen wasteland of the city’s rubble -- but not for long. Within six days the German pocket had been reduced by half, to an area fifteen miles long and nine miles deep at its widest. By January 24 it had been split in two and the last small emergency airstrip lost. The planes which had brought in some supplies, especially medicines for the sick and wounded, and which had flown out 29,000 hospital cases, could no longer land.

Once more the Russians gave their courageous enemy a chance to surrender. Soviet emissaries arrived at the German lines on January 24 with a new offer. Again Paulus, torn between his duty to obey the mad Fuehrer and his obligation to save his own surviving troops from annihilation, appealed to Hitler.

“Troops without ammunition,” he radioed on the twenty-fourth, “or food … Effective command no longer possible … 18,000 wounded without any supplies or dressings or drugs … Further defense senseless. Collapse inevitable. Army requests immediate permission to surrender in order to save lives of remaining troops.”

Hitler’s answer has been preserved.

“Surrender is forbidden. Sixth Army will hold their positions to the last man and the last round and by their heroic endurance will make an unforgettable contribution toward the establishment of a defensive front and the salvation of the Western world.”

It’s an interesting line for a commander to contemplate. To ask men to do more than what the men themselves think they can do. Lee did it, most notably, and most tragically, on the third day at Gettysburg. But Lee had something by this time Hitler did not. The love of his men.

The Western world! It was a bitter pill for the men of the Sixth Army who had fought against that world in France and Flanders but a short time ago.

Further resistance was not only senseless and futile but impossible, and as the month of January 1943 approached its end the epic battle wore itself out, expiring like the flame of an expended candle which sputters and dies. By January 28 what was left of a once great army was split into three small pockets, in the southern one of which General Paulus had his headquarters in the cellar of the ruins of the once thriving Univermag department store. According to one eyewitness the commander in chief sat on his camp bed in a darkened corner in a state of near collapse.

He was scarcely in the mood, nor were his soldiers, to appreciate the flood of congratulatory radiograms that now began to pour in. Goering, who had whiled away a good part of the winter in sunny Italy, strutting about in his great fur coat and fingering his jewels, sent a radio message on January 28.

“The fight put up by the Sixth Army will go down in history, and future generations will speak proudly of a Langemarck of daredeviltry, and Alcazar of tenacity, a Narvik of courage and a Stalingrad of self-sacrifice.”

Nor were they cheered when on the last evening, January 30, 1943, the tenth anniversary of the Nazis’ coming to power, they listened to the fat Reich Marshal’s bombastic broadcast.

“A thousand years hence Germans will speak of this battle [of Stalingrad] with reverence and awe, and will remember that in spite of everything Germany’s ultimate victory was decided there … In years to come it will be said of the heroic battle on the Volga: When you come to Germany, say that you have seen us lying at Stalingrad, as our honor and our leaders ordained that we should, for the greater glory of Germany.”

The glory and the horrible agony of the Sixth Army had now come to an end. On January 30, Paulus radioed Hitler: “Final collapse cannot be delayed more than twenty-four hours.”

This signal prompted the Supreme Commander to shower a series of promotions on the doomed officers in Stalingrad, apparently in the hope that such honors would strengthen their resolve to die gloriously at their bloody posts. “There is no record in military history of a German Field Marshal being taken prisoner,” Hitler remarked to Jodl, and thereupon conferred on Paulus, by radio, the coveted marshal’s baton. Some 117 other officers were jumped up a grade. It was a macabre gesture.

The end itself was anticlimactic. Late on the last day of January, Paulus got off his final message to headquarters.

“The Sixth Army, true to their oath and conscious of the lofty importance of their mission, have held their position to the last man and the last round for the Fuehrer and Fatherland unto the end.”

A curiously-worded message. Given how demoralized and near collapse Paulus was, one might believe that the note was a subtle poke in Hitler’s eye. But perhaps not. Given how near the end he was, it might very well have been sincere, since at that desperate point, the Fuehrer and the Fatherland might very well have been all that Paulus had left.

At 7:45 P.M. the radio operator at Sixth Army headquarters sent a last message on his own: “The Russians are at the door of our bunker. We are destroying our equipment.” He added that letters “CL” -- the international wireless code signifying “This station will no longer transmit.”

There was no last-minute fighting at headquarters. Paulus and his staff did not hold out to the last man. A squad of Russians led by a junior officer peered into the commander in chief’s darkened hole in the cellar. The Russians demanded surrender and the Sixth Army’s chief of staff, General Schmidt, accepted. Paulus sat dejected on his camp bed. When Schmidt addressed him -- “May I ask the Field Marshal if there is anything more to be said?” -- Paulus was too weary to answer.

Farther north a small German pocket, containing all that was left of two panzer and four infantry divisions, still held out in the ruins of a tractor factory. On the night of February 1 it received a message from Hitler’s headquarters.

“The German people expect you to do your duty exactly as did the troops holding the southern fortress. Every day and every hour that you continue to fight facilitates the building of a new front.”

This, at least, contains a kind of brutal practicality. And it, too, was met with another curiously-worded message -- the only kind of could be offered in the circumstances that the Supreme Commander had engineered.

Just before noon on February 2, this group surrendered after a last message to the Supreme Commander: “...Have fought to the last man against vastly superior forces. Long live Germany!”

Silence at last settled on the snow-covered, blood-spattered shambles of the battlefield. At 2:46 P.M. on February 2, a German reconnaissance plane flew high over the city and radioed back: “No sign of any fighting at Stalingrad.”

By that time 91,000 German soldiers, including twenty-four generals, half-starved, frostbitten, many of them wounded, all of them dazed and broken, were hobbling over the ice and snow, clutching their blood-caked blankets over their heads against the 24-degrees-below-zero cold toward the dreary, frozen prisoner-of-war camps of Siberia. Except for some 20,000 Rumanians and the 29,000 wounded who had been evacuated by air they were all that was left of a conquering army that had numbered 285,000 men two months before. The rest had been slaughtered. And of those 91,000 Germans who began the weary march into captivity that winter day, only 5,000 were destined ever to see the Fatherland again.

Meanwhile back in the well-heated headquarters in East Prussia the Nazi warlord, whose stubbornness and stupidity were responsible for this disaster, berated his generals at Stalingrad for not knowing how and when to die. The records of a conference held by Hitler at OKW with his generals in February 1 survive and shed enlightenment on the nature of the German dictator at this trying period in his life and that of his Army and country.

“They have surrendered there -- formally and absolutely. Otherwise they would have closed ranks, formed a hedgehog, and shot themselves with their last bullet … The man [Paulus] should have shot himself just as the old commanders who threw themselves on their swords when they saw that the cause was lost … Even Varus gave his slave the order: ‘Now kill me!’”

Hitler’s venom toward Paulus for deciding to live became more poisonous as he ranted on.

“You have to imagine: he’ll be brought to Moscow -- and imagine that rat-trap there. There he will sign anything. He’ll make confessions, make proclamations -- you’ll see. They will now walk down the slope of spiritual bankruptcy to its lowest depths … You’ll see -- it won’t be a week before Seydlitz and Schmidt and even Paulus are talking over the radio … They are going to be put into the Lublanka, and there the rats will eat them. How can one be so cowardly? I don’t understand it …

“What is life? Life is the Nation. The individual must die anyway. Beyond the life of the individual is the Nation. But how can anyone be afraid of this moment of death, with which he can free himself from this misery, if his duty doesn’t chain him to this Vale of Tears. Na!

“ … So many people have to die, and then a man like that besmirches the heroism of so many others at the last minute. He could have freed himself from all sorrow and ascended into eternity and national immortality, but he prefers to go to Moscow! …

“What hurts me most, personally, is that I still promoted him to field marshal. I wanted to give him this final satisfaction. That’s the last field marshal I shall appoint in this war. You musn’t count your chickens before they’re hatched.”

There followed a brief exchange between Hitler and General Zeitzler on how to break the news of the surrender to the German people. On February 3, three days after the act, OKW issued a special communique:

“The battle of Stalingrad has ended. True to their oath to fight to the last breath, the Sixth Army under the exemplary leadership of Field Marshal Paulus has been overcome by the superiority of the enemy and by the unfavorable circumstances confronting our forces.”

The reading of the communique over the German radio was preceded by the roll of muffled drums and followed by the playing of the second movement of Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony. Hitler proclaimed four days of national mourning. All theaters, movies and variety halls were closed until it was over.

This is what happens to megalomania. It feeds and feeds and feeds until it can only feed on itself.

Horror

Shirer wisely uses the proceedings and transcripts of the Nuremberg trials as one of his chief source materials for his thousand-page dissertation on the Third Reich. And some of the information found there is downright chilling.

“ … My foreman and I went directly to the pits. I heard rifle shots in quick succession from behind one of the earth mounds. The people who had got off the trucks -- men, women and children of all ages -- had to undress upon the order of an S.S. man, who carried a riding or dog whip. They had to put down their clothes in fixed places, sorted according to shoes, top clothing and underclothing. I saw a heap of shoes of about 800 to 1,000 pairs, great piles of under-linen and clothing.

“Without screaming or weeping these people undressed, stood around in family groups, kissed each other, said farewells and waited for a sign from another S.S. man, who stood near the pit, also with a whip in his hand. During the fifteen minutes that I stood near the pit I heard no complaint or plea for mercy …

“An old woman with snow-white hair was holding a one-year-old child in her arms and singing to it and tickling it. The child was cooing with delight. The parents were looking on with tears in their eyes. The father was holding the hand of a boy about 10 years old and speaking to him softly; the boy was fighting his tears. The father pointed to the sky, stroked his head and seemed to explain something to him.

“At that moment the S.S. man at the pit shouted something to his comrade. The latter counted off about twenty persons and instructed them to go behind the earth mound … I well remember a girl, slim and with black hair, who, as she passed close to me, pointed to herself and said: ‘twenty-three years old.’

“I walked around the mound and found myself confronted by a tremendous grave. People were closely wedged together and lying on top of each other so that only their heads were visible. Nearly all had blood running over their shoulders from their heads. Some of the people were still moving. Some were lifting their arms and turning their heads to show that they were still alive. The pit was already two-thirds full. I estimated that it contained about a thousand people. I looked for the man who did the shooting. He was an S.S. man, who sat at the edge of the narrow end of the pit, his feet dangling into the pit. He had a tommy gun on his knees and was smoking a cigarette.

“The people, completely naked, went down some steps and clambered over the heads of the people lying there to the place to which the S.S. man directed them. They lay down in front of the dead or wounded people; some caressed those who were still alive and spoke to them in a low voice. Then I heard a series of shots. I looked into the pit and saw that the bodies were twitching or the heads lying already motionless on top of the bodies that lay beneath them. Blood was running from their necks.

“The next batch was approaching already. They went down into the pit, lined themselves up against the previous victims and were shot.”

I’m sure I’m not the first to say it. That men could be so methodical, both in their slaughter and in their sacrifice, is a horror from beginning to end, now and forever.

But, somehow even worse, is this.

There had been, the records show, some lively competition among German businessmen to procure orders for building these death and disposal contraptions and for furnishing the lethal blue crystals. The firm of I. A. Topf and Sons of Erfurt, manufacturers of heating equipment, won out in its bid for the crematoria at Auschwitz. The story of its business enterprise was revealed in a voluminous correspondence found in the records of the camp. A letter from the firm dated February 12, 1943, gives the tenor.

“To the Central Construction Office of the S.S. and Police, Auschwitz:

“Subject: Crematoria 2 and 3 for the camp.

“We acknowledge receipt of your order for five triple furnaces, including two electric elevators for raising the corpses and one emergency elevator. A practical installation for stoking coal was also ordered and one for transporting the ashes.”

The correspondence of two other firms engaged in the crematorium business popped up at the Nuremberg trials. The disposal of the corpses at a number of Nazi camps had attracted commercial competition. One of the oldest German companies in the field offered its drawings for crematoria to be built at a large S.S. camp in Belgrade.

“For putting the bodies into the furnace, we suggest simply a metal fork moving on cylinders.

“Each furnace will have an oven measuring only 24 by 18 inches, as coffins will not be used. For transporting the corpses from the storage points to the furnaces we suggest using light carts on wheels, and we enclose diagrams of these drawn to scale.”

Another firm, C. H. Kori, also sought the Belgrade business, emphasizing its great experience in this field since it had already constructed four furnaces for Dachau and five for Lublin, which, it said, had given “full satisfaction in practice.”

“Following our verbal discussion regarding the delivery of equipment of simple construction for the burning of bodies, we are submitting plans for our perfected cremation ovens which operate with coal and which have hitherto given full satisfaction.

“We suggest two crematoria furnaces for the building planned, but we advise you to make further inquiries to make sure that two ovens will be sufficient for your requirements.

“We guarantee the effectiveness of the cremation ovens as well as their durability, the use of the best material and our faultless workmanship.

“Awaiting your further word, we will be at your service.

“Heil Hitler!

“C. H. Kori, G.M.B.H.”

Heil, Hitler, indeed. The whole society was pressed to this incredible and genocidal task, businessmen embracing it as they would any other kind of government contract. But...

In the end even the strenuous efforts of German free enterprise, using the best material and providing faultless workmanship, proved inadequate for burning the corpses. The well-constructed crematoria fell far behind at a number of camps but especially at Auschwitz in 1944 when as many as 6,000 bodies … had to be burned daily. For instance, in forty-six days during the summer of 1944 between 250,000 and 300,000 Hungarian Jews alone were done to death at this camp. Even the gas chambers fell behind and resort was made to mass shootings in the Einsatzkommando style. The bodies were simply thrown into ditches and burned, many of them only partly, and then earth was bulldozed over them. The camp commanders complained toward the end that the crematoria had proved not only inadequate but “uneconomical.”

Perhaps capitalism is not up to the task of mass murder. For that, perhaps only National Socialist ardor will do.

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This post first appeared on Eric Lanke's blog, an association executive and author. You can follow him on Twitter @ericlanke or contact him at eric.lanke@gmail.com.


Monday, March 30, 2020

Dragons - Chapter 33 (DRAFT)

We were there for another hour, Bethany and me, stuffing tickets and ribbons into envelopes with the rest of the junior staff members. We got some surprised looks when we first came over and asked how we could help, none of them likely suspecting that we’d ever do anything so far beneath our station. And I have to admit it felt odd, running counter as it did to Mary’s rigid hierarchy of tasks and the people meant to perform them. But at the same time it felt right, as if, by sharing their work, we were communicating something more clearly than words ever could, something much more meaningful than Gerald’s suggested gesture of letting them knock off early.

“What?” Caroline said when I first approached her. “You want what?”

“A stack of tickets,” I said. “Or ribbons. Whatever needs to be done.”

She looked at me blankly for several seconds, as if I was speaking a foreign language.

Bethany stepped forward and gently took a piece of paper out of her hand. “What’s this?” she asked, looking down at it. “The list of people that need VIP ribbons? Where are those?”

Caroline continued to stare at us silently, her eyes flitting between me and Bethany as if a single wrong word would plunge her into the abyss.

I took a stack of gold ribbons out of Caroline’s other hand, her warm fingers yielding and releasing them to my care without question. “These are them,” I said to Bethany, then, “we’ll finish with these,” to Caroline. “Go start on something else.”

She stood motionless, as if waiting for the miracle that had fallen out of the sky to sweep her off to the great beyond.

“Go on,” I said gently, the way you might talk to a child trying to ride a bike for the first time. “You can do it.”

Bethany and I worked side by side with the junior staff until the work was done and we could legitimately call it quits without anything extraordinary waiting for us in the morning. I felt strangely happy, picking my way through the envelopes and stuffing little ribbons and slips of paper inside, satisfied with the simple mechanics of the task and the way progress could be easily and objectively measured. To help keep my mind occupied I began to cogitate on some of the names I saw—some of them familiar and some of them not—members of the organization we served, thousands of them lined up in neat alphabetical order. They were from all over the world, dozens of nationalities equalized in large manila envelopes, their names printed on white labels in the upper right-hand corner.

Bethany was working next to me and at one point I elbowed her in the ribs.

“Look,” I said quietly, holding one of the envelopes so she could see the label. “Anastasia Amarosa. It’s kind of musical isn’t it?”

“Mmm mmm,” she said in assent. “I know her. She serves on one of our grant review committees. She’s nice.”

“What about this one?” I said, pulling out an envelope I had seen a few minutes ago. “Mert Aassen. Do you know him?”

“No.”

“That’s not musical at all. Mert Aassen. That sounds like something you need to cook really well before you eat it.”

Bethany laughed, doing the best she could to hide it behind her hand.

“What about this one?”

I looked up. One of the junior staff farther on down the row had spoken. His name was Jeff Hatchler. He worked for Angie, I think. A couple of other staff looked horrified, aghast probably that he had dared intrude on a private conversation between two of the bosses, but Jeff was smiling in his gap-toothed way, like we were all in this together.

He held up an envelope. Knowing he was too far away for anyone to read the label, he spoke as if announcing someone at court.

“Surender Viswani. Isn’t that what the Wicked Witch of the West wrote in the sky over Emerald City?”

There was some stifled laughter among the group, more nervous than genuine.

I reacted instinctively. “That’s nothing,” I said, moving down the row and clawing for an envelope I had seen while stuffing committee chair ribbons. When I found it, I held it up just as Jeff had done.

“I think this is the new Wookie ambassador in the Imperial Senate—Karnen Baratawidjaja.”

The laughter was more genuine now.

But Jeff was not the kind of guy to be outdone. I could see it in his eyes, a relentless mirth that itched to infect everything he did, including something as soul-sucking as stuffing reg packets in the air-conditioned concourse of a Miami Beach hotel.

“This one needs no introduction,” he said, as he held up yet another envelope. “Bengt Weeke.”

“Bent Weekie?” I said, before he could tack on his own joke. “That reminds me of something that happened on my honeymoon.”

The laughter was slow in coming on that one, but my delivery was ribald, and as my meaning became clear the snorts and guffaws that followed were no longer polite, but deep and heartfelt. They were all laughing, I saw, or smiling at least; Caroline also staring at me with disbelieving eyes. It certainly wasn’t the kind of crack a supervisor should make, I realized retrospectively, but it was out and no one seemed offended by it. Besides, after the day I’d had, I didn’t much care.

“I always knew there was something crooked about you,” Jeff said good-naturedly, as if we were partners in a vaudeville act.

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“Dragons” is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. For more information, go here.

This post first appeared on Eric Lanke's blog, an association executive and author. You can follow him on Twitter @ericlanke or contact him at eric.lanke@gmail.com.

Image Source
http://lres.com/heres-why-amcs-need-to-pay-close-attention-to-looming-regulatory-changes/businessman-in-the-middle-of-a-labyrinth/

Monday, March 23, 2020

Sachiko by Caren Stelson

In many ways, this a remarkable book. It certainly tells a remarkable story.

August 9, 1945, began like any other day for six-year-old Sachiko. Her country was at war, she didn’t have enough to eat. At 11:01 a.m., she was playing outdoors with four other children. Moments later, those children were all dead. An atomic bomb had exploded just half a mile away.

In the days and months that followed, Sachiko lost family members, her hair fell out, she woke screaming in the night. When she was finally well enough to start school, other children bullied her. Through it all, she sought to understand what had happened, finding strength in the writings of Helen Keller, Gandhi, and Martin Luther King Jr.

Based on extensive interviews with Sachiko Yasui, Caren Stelson shares the true story of a young girl who survived the atomic bomb and chronicles her long journey to find peace. Sachiko’s story offers readers a remarkable new perspective on the final moments of World War II -- and their aftermath.

That’s from the front flap of the book jacket. And it’s a faithful description of the book I read. One of the things I found remarkable was how prescient those last few words were. Sachiko’s story offers readers a remarkable new perspective on the final moments of World War II -- and their aftermath.

Let’s begin here.

Sachiko’s brother Ichiro, and eventually Sachiko, Misa [her baby sister], Mother, Father, and Uncle, suffered from radiation sickness, which few at the time understood. People who were exposed to the radiation often showed few or no signs of illness at first. The symptoms came in stages. Thirst, weakness, nausea, fever, diarrhea, and vomiting were the first signs of radiation sickness. Three to six weeks later, more symptoms appeared: hair loss; bleeding gums; listlessness; and a prolonged, elevated fever of 104℉. Purple spots dotted the skin, indicating internal bleeding. Painful sores in the mouth and throat were also common, making swallowing difficult. Infections often set in, further weakening a person’s condition and leading to delirium and death -- or to a long, painful recovery.

Awful. But here’s the remarkable part.

The scientists who had developed the atomic bomb were unaware of the effects of full-body radiation exposure. They had not conducted any tests on the potential impact of radiation on humans. Nor had the US military tried to develop medical treatment for radiation exposure before the bombs were dropped. Doctors offered what treatments they could. Radiation sickness would continue to perplex doctors in the months and years to come.

They were unaware of the effects of full-body radiation exposure.

One thing I enjoyed about Stelson’s writing was how sparse and economical it is. She is dealing with a very difficult and painful subject, and my sense is that she labored over each and every word of her often short and descriptive sentences. She not only wants to get it right, she wants every word she uses to count.

And in that context, the idea that the scientists -- not the bureaucrats or the elected officials, but the scientists -- were unaware of the effects the bomb would have on the population that survived its dropping is as jaw-dropping as it must be true.

But, of course, it wasn’t just the scientists who were ignorant.

Every day after school, Sachiko ran home, crying. She could not find the words to tell Mother about the teasing -- the bullying -- how much it hurt to be picked on for things that could not be helped. How could she explain her dizziness? Her inability to stand during the morning assemblies. Her lack of concentration. Her loneliness. Her envy of other children’s laughter. She had no words to describe her anguish.

Besides, Mother had her own struggles.

So did Father.

And Misa.

“Why can’t you understand anything?” Sachiko’s teacher tapped her fingers on her desk. “Tell me, why?” Even the teacher couldn’t make sense of Sachiko’s behavior.

In truth, how could the teacher understand what Sachiko had been through? Under US occupation, the government strictly enforced censorship. No word was to seep out about the sickening and often deadly effects of radiation on the human body. Censorship agents carefully reviewed newspapers, magazines, movies, books, and scientific studies. Any criticism of, information about, or photos of the use and impact of the atomic bomb were deleted or blackened out. Even the Japanese characters for genshi bakudan, “atomic bomb,” could not be printed.

And there was more than just a media blackout. Note Stelson’s use of the term “scientific studies” in her list of items that were subject to censorship. Prior to the dropping of the bomb, scientists were unaware of the effects of full-body radiation exposure. After the bomb was dropped, they stopped being unaware. Indeed, they seemed to make a careful study of it.

In 1946 President Truman ordered the establishment of the Atomic Bomb Casualty Commission (ABCC). The goal of the commission was for American doctors to go to Japan to observe and track the lifelong effects of radiation on atomic bomb survivors. Along with Japanese physicians, the American doctors examined survivors, asked questions about their atomic bomb experiences, calculated the distance they were from the hypocenter, and charted medical observations.

Over the years, ABCC doctors documented the thick, itchy, and painful keloids that had healed over the thermal burns of the hibakusha [survivors of the bombing]. They observed cataracts in damaged eyes and noted birth defects in the children born in the months after the bombing. And they diagnosed cancers: skin cancer, lung cancer, stomach cancer, breast cancer, liver cancer, thyroid cancer, and leukemia.

But there’s of course one painful twist. None of this information was to be made public.

Under ABCC rules, American physicians were not permitted to share their growing database of clinical knowledge with Japanese physicians nor were ABCC doctors allowed to treat their patients’ illnesses. They were there simply to collect information. Hibakusha felt deep distrust of American ABCC doctors. With no offers of medical treatment, many hibakusha felt the ABCC had reduced them to numbers on a chart rather than people in need of help.

What I find remarkable about all this is not what some might construe as malice or arrogance. There may indeed be some malice or arrogance in the minds of those who pushed and approved the use of atomic weapons in World War II. But, if so, that is only one facet of a multifaceted phenomenon, and it should not be viewed in isolation of the other facets.

No, what I find remarkable is the fact that something of such phenomenal and inscrutable power was used at all. That something with such far-reaching effects, even though those effects were evidently unknown at the time of use, should have been used at all. Was the power of the bomb so far beyond human understanding that no words of caution could have been expressed that would have curtailed its use until it was better understood?

It makes me wonder how little we know about other forces we unleash on the world today, and how, like those scientists, bureaucrats, and elected officials in 1945, we may unwittingly be causing far-reaching effects because we can only view what we do today through the paradigm of the past. The atomic bomb was, after all, called a bomb, as if it had anything in common with the ordinance that had been dropped out of airplanes since those aerial vehicles had been invented.

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This post first appeared on Eric Lanke's blog, an association executive and author. You can follow him on Twitter @ericlanke or contact him at eric.lanke@gmail.com.


Monday, March 16, 2020

Dragons - Chapter 32 (DRAFT)

After hanging up I realized that my original reason for calling—to get advice on the kind of puzzle book to get for Jacob—had gone unanswered. I thought about calling back, but saw how late it was getting, and decided instead to get myself over to the registration desk. I left the bookstore without picking something up for my son.

The walk back to our conference hotel was a short one, the warm night air mixing pleasantly with a cool sea breeze and making me think of places I’d rather be. When I got to the hotel I marched right through the marble-pillared lobby and up a wide staircase, an immense sea mural of playful dolphins and ethereal jellyfish wrapping around the curving wall to my left, and into the hotel’s dedicated convention space. Two ballrooms, fifteen breakout rooms, a grand concourse for receptions overlooking the ocean, and two dedicated registration desks—everything decorated with the same seashell-shaped wall sconces, pearl-drop and oyster-shell chandeliers, and acres of teal and peach convention carpet, repeating the same interlocking design of starfish and coral to infinity. A group of our staff people were clustered in one of the registration spaces, their fingers combing through thousands of registration envelopes, alphabetized in a long buffet line of much-abused copy paper boxes. Standing off to one side, speaking softly to each other, like prison bosses worried about trouble on the chain gang, were Gerald and Bethany.

“How goes it here?” I asked, nodding a hello to each of them.

“Well, we’re getting there,” Bethany said, smiling like I had brought her an award for maintaining a positive attitude in the face of adversity. “It was a little dicey there for a while, but things are getting put straight now.”

“What?” I asked. “What happened?”

“The freight was late,” Gerald said. “The hotel had everything set for us this morning, but the boxes we shipped from the office weren’t here.”

I looked at the long line of cardboard boxes, dirty and battered from their long trip across the country. “When did they arrive?”

Gerald looked at his watch. “A little over two hours ago.”

“What?!” I cried, looking at my own watch. It was twenty minutes to nine. “What time did everyone get here this morning?”

“A little after eight,” Gerald said. He was smiling, too, but not in the way Bethany was. Bethany looked satisfied, as if pleased for finally getting a chaotic situation under control. But Gerald looked sardonically amused, like a professional auditor, whose job was to find the errors but not fix any of them.

I did the math in my head. “What did everyone do for ten hours?”

Gerald shrugged. “We drank a lot of coffee and took turns going to the can.”

“It wasn’t so bad,” Bethany said quickly, obviously trying to soften the blow. “The computers were working, so we were able to make most of the changes and print all the corrected tickets. We’re just putting them all in the right packets now.”

I looked back at the row of people hunched over the row of boxes. They were all junior staff—Caroline Abernathy and people like her—and they were all combing through the misshapen envelopes into which we had stuffed each attendee’s name badge, ribbons, and session tickets. It was a system designed with the convenience of the attendee in mind. Stroll up to the registration desk, give us your name, and we’ll hand you a catalog-sized envelope with everything you need for the conference inside. It kept lines at the on-site registration desk to a minimum, but it required weeks worth of effort back in the office, weeks when hundreds if not thousands of changes to the registration records were coming in. Given the lead time necessary to create the envelopes—or “reg packets,” as we called them—there was never a time when we could just print the materials, stuff the envelopes, and be done with them. No, for the last few weeks before the conference we were running daily batches of corrected tickets and badges, and constantly going into the packets, loosely alphabetized in discarded copy paper boxes on long tables set up in our multi-purpose room, to remove old materials and insert new ones. The junior staff assigned to such thankless work usually developed a condition we called “packet finger,” nails and cuticles torn and sometimes bloodied by brushing repetitively by all the envelope flaps. Indeed, nearly every staff person now working feverishly to stuff the last remaining items before tomorrow’s grand opening had band-aids on at least one of their fingertips.

“Has anybody eaten anything?” I asked, trying not to calculate all the wasted staff hours.

“We had the hotel bring down some lunch around one o’clock,” Gerald said. “But no one’s had dinner yet.”

“Should we go get some?” I asked quietly, remembering Mary’s lie to Eleanor about me taking the staff out for a celebratory dinner. I knew such a thing would never fly, that unless I took everybody to Burger King I could never get away with expensing such an extravagance. But it felt like I should do something.

“I think everybody here would just prefer to finish the job,” Bethany said. “I heard Caroline and a few of the others talking about going out afterwards, but I think most will want to get a quiet bite and then go to sleep. Tomorrow’s going to be a big day.”

Going out meant going to the bars and clubs—probably a foolish thing to do on the night before the start of the convention, but I kept my mouth shut. I looked over at Caroline and her eyes flipped up momentarily, her fingers still walking through the ‘H’s below. Our eyes met briefly and she gave me a look I could only describe as equal parts apprehension and mistrust. I tried to silently reassure her, but she turned back down to her bandaged fingers.

“This is seriously fucked up, Alan.”

It was Gerald. He wasn’t angry, but his tone sought to make a point.

“I know,” I said, not taking my eyes off Caroline and remembering the way Don had humiliated her and made her cry.

“There are better ways to do this,” he went on, speaking softly but insistently. “There are vendors that handle this kind of thing—registration for large conferences. Making our people do this is a waste of their talent and the client’s money.”

“I know,” I said again. He was right. This was stupid. Anyone standing here could see that. I had just arrived, but Gerald had been watching the madness for ten hours.

“Are you going to do something about it?”

It was a good question. I knew something certainly should be done about it, but I didn’t know what. I had talked to Mary about it before, and it seemed like this was the way she wanted things. A vendor couldn’t be trusted to get everything right. For some members this was the one interaction they had with staff all year. It was an essential part of the client service pledge we have made to the organization. Sitting in her palatial office surrounded by her stolen treasures these bogus reasons were persuasive, delivered, as they were, by all the force of her authority and with the veneer of character. They were obvious, incontrovertible, the very foundation of the business model that drove our success. But standing there looking at the human misery they caused, those reasons were empty, baseless, and cruel.

I didn’t immediately understand it—this incongruity of thought that manifested with changes in time and place—and wondered naively how I could explain it to Gerald when I couldn’t even explain it to myself. Too bad I hadn’t yet learned the simple rule that a boss was under no obligation to answer every question asked of him.

“I don’t know if I can.”

It was the truth, but sometimes the truth should keep its damn mouth shut. Gerald looked at me dismissively, his eyebrows lifting and his nose turning down so he could peer at me over the top of his designer eyewear.

“I see,” he said with a tone of profound disappointment, as if I had just failed some colossal test.

“What would you have me do, Gerald? You know where Mary stands on this.”

“Maybe you should bring her down here? Let her see for herself how ridiculous this all is.”

“She’ll be here tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow will be too late,” he said bitterly. “By tomorrow everything she sees will convince her she is right.”

“Then what should I do?”

Gerald stood silently for a moment, an idea clearly creasing the corners of his eyes, but his lips wrestling with some unwillingness to share it.

“Tell them to stop,” he said eventually.

“What?”

“Tell them to stop. Let’s call it a night. Whatever still needs doing they can finish in the morning.”

I traded a look with Bethany, wanting confirmation that I had heard Gerald correctly and her assessment of how feasible such a suggestion was. Her doubtful look told me everything I needed to know.

“How much is there left to do?” I asked.

“Does it matter?” Gerald snapped.

“Of course it matters. If they’re almost done, they might as well finish.”

“They’re not almost done,” Gerald said quickly, as if he was making it up on the spot. “There are hours of work left to do. They could work all night and they wouldn’t finish it.”

I looked at Bethany again for the same kind of confirmation, and she gave me the same doubtful look.

“Does that change anything, Alan?” Gerald said. “Come on, call it a night. They’ve worked long enough.”

At the time I didn’t know what Gerald was trying to do. The nearest I could figure, he was worried about staff morale, that he thought working people all night long on such a menial task degraded them, and that maybe they would work better and harder in the morning if we showed them a little bit of our humanity tonight. But if so, then Gerald was clearly overplaying his hand, pretending there was an impossible amount of work left for them to do. Even I could see that there wasn’t, and at my side was Bethany, wordlessly and dutifully reinforcing my perspective. Muscling on through and getting it done seemed like the wiser course of action.

It was another rookie mistake. By that time I should have known not to take people like Gerald at their word.

“They’re almost finished,” I said. “Let’s pitch in and help them get it done.”

“Oh, Jesus Christ!” Gerald said, throwing up his hands. “You do whatever you want. I’m out of here.”

He stormed away, making a huff loud enough for all the junior staff to hear. I looked over and saw a few brave heads peek up, but most of them kept their noses down in their work.

“What’s up his ass?” I asked Bethany under my breath.

She shook her head. “He’s been grumpy all day.”

“Well, whatever,” I said, dismissing Gerald from my mind. It had been a long day, and I figured I could give him till the morning to apologize. “Let’s go help them finish.”

“Okay, boss.”

+ + +

“Dragons” is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. For more information, go here.

This post first appeared on Eric Lanke's blog, an association executive and author. You can follow him on Twitter @ericlanke or contact him at eric.lanke@gmail.com.

Image Source
http://lres.com/heres-why-amcs-need-to-pay-close-attention-to-looming-regulatory-changes/businessman-in-the-middle-of-a-labyrinth/

Monday, March 9, 2020

Black House by Stephen King and Peter Straub

I don’t remember much about this one. No dogeared pages and nothing scribbled in any of the margins -- so I guess I didn’t find much either remarkable or objectionable.

I do remember trying to figure out which parts were written by Stephen King and which parts were written by Peter Straub. And although I’ve read plenty of King, I don’t think I’ve read any other Straub; so eventually, I think I gave up the quest. Whatever didn’t seem King-like, was probably Straubian.

But what parts didn’t feel King-like? Well, the opening two paragraphs, for one.

Right here and now, as an old friend used to say, we are in the fluid present, where clear-sightedness never guarantees perfect vision. Here: about two hundred feet, the height of a gliding eagle, above Wisconsin’s far western edge, where the vagaries of the Mississippi River declare a natural border. Now: an early Friday morning in mid-July a few years into both a new century and a new millennium, their wayward courses so hidden that a blind man had a better chance of seeing what lies ahead than you or I. Right here and now, the hour is just past six A.M., and the sun stands low in the cloudless eastern sky, a fat, confident yellow-white ball advancing as ever for the first time toward the future and leaving in its wake the steadily accumulating past, which darkness as it recedes, making blind men of us all.

Below, the early sun touches the river’s wide, soft ripples with molten highlights. Sunlight glints from the tracks of the Burlington Northern Santa Fe Railroad running between the riverbank and the backs of the shabby two-story houses along County Road Oo, known as Nailhouse Row, the lowest point of the comfortable-looking little town extending uphill and eastward beneath us. At this moment in the Coulee County, life seems to be holding its breath. The motionless air around us carries such remarkable purity and sweetness that you might imagine a man could smell a radish pulled out of the ground a mile away.

That ain’t any kind of Stephen King I ever read. Ayuh.

+ + +

This post first appeared on Eric Lanke's blog, an association executive and author. You can follow him on Twitter @ericlanke or contact him at eric.lanke@gmail.com.


Monday, March 2, 2020

Dragons - Chapter 31 (DRAFT)

Five minutes later I was leaving the hotel and turning back onto the main drag. All the talk about dinner had reminded me of how hungry I was, so I looked up and down the street to see if there were any nearby options. The burger joint or taco place I saw—their lighted signs glowing brightly in the warm night air—was all I probably had time for, but something else caught my eye. It was a bookstore; one of those national chains with a coffee shop and lots of comfy chairs inside. It seemed out of place among the surf and souvenir shops, and maybe that’s why it struck me. It made me think of the one back home at the neighborhood mall. I took Jacob there sometimes. It had an extensive children’s section on the second floor, and a wooden train table for the kids to play with while their parents picked out books they felt were age-appropriate and supportive of whatever brand of spiritual or ethical beliefs they ascribed to.

The thoughts occurred to me in a chain, one linked to the next like the magnetic couplings between the wooden train cars I knew I’d find inside. I had to bring something home for Jacob, and instead of sifting through mountains of plastic junk at the souvenir shops, I could get him a book—maybe something like the picture search book we had looked at the night before I left, or something filled with other kinds of puzzles. It was such a compelling idea that I forgot momentarily about the burrito dinner calling my name, as well as the supervisory chore at the conference registration desk that wasn’t. I turned and starting walking towards the bookstore with happy thoughts of Jacob and I working together on puzzles dancing in my head.

Inside the aroma of sand and surf gave way to coffee beans and bindery glue, a familiar scent that seemed to transport me, as if the sliding glass doors were a magical portal capable of transcending time and space. The decor was identical to the store back home, identical, I knew, to hundreds of other stores across the United States. Caricatures of famous authors were framed on the walls—mostly nineteenth and early twentieth century, names everyone knows but no one reads—looking down on a labyrinth of wooden tables and laminate shelves, each with a tasteful sign bearing some generic category of books—subjects like history, fiction and poetry squared off against weight loss, sports and gardening, as if it was reasonable to put such topics on equal footing. It was filled with quiet people, shuffling between the rows and stealing a few paragraphs out of random tomes they had pulled off the shelves. In our modern world I suppose it was what passed for a temple, a cookie-cutter one, dedicated not to the sum of human knowledge but to the information people will pay $8.95 a title for, and only then if it’s on sale.

The children’s section was identical to the one I took Jacob to—the train table surrounded by the same display of wooden toys, and the books organized both by subject and by age. I found the shelf stuffed with puzzle books and was overwhelmed by their sheer number. There were picture search books like Jacob’s on every subject imaginable, and hundreds of other options, from sticker books and coloring books to word searches and crossword puzzles.

It was bewildering. Maybe it was the drinks I had poured on my empty stomach, or the disorientation that always came with travel and lack of sleep, but I just couldn’t decide what to get. I wanted something challenging, something Jacob and I could do together, but not too challenging, something he wouldn’t shrink from, something that would nurture that inner genius I so desperately wanted him to reveal. Pulling out my cell phone, I decided to call back home and see what Jenny thought. The phone rang six times before it picked up.

“Yes? Hello? Who is it?” Jenny sounded breathless, as if she had run for the phone.

“Jenny?”

“Yes?” she said into the phone, and then, with her mouth away from the receiver, she barked at someone like a drill sergeant. “Put it down, mister! Right now!”

“Jenny?”

“Yes! Who is it?”

“It’s me, Alan. What’s going on?”

“Alan! It’s your goddamn son. He’s driving me out of my mind.”

“What is he—”

“Jacob! No! Oh my god!”

Then the phone must have fallen out of her hand because I heard the shuffling of fabric against the ear piece and a loud thump as it hit the floor. Jenny’s frantic shouting and Jacob’s screaming echoed in my ear as if from a great distance.

“Jenny!” I called into the phone, knowing she had left and couldn’t hear, but needing to say something all the same. Looking around to assess what kind of scene I would create if I started shouting, I lowered my voice only slightly. “Jenny, what the hell is going on?”

No response. I waited, the phone pressed hotly against my ear and a finger stuck in the opposite organ, straining hard to pick up every auditory clue. I was angry, viscerally so, but held it in check out of courtesy for the bookstore patrons surrounding me. Jenny’s final intelligible comment—oh my god—seemed to fill my world. It had been desperate, as if something not just frustrating but tragic had happened. My thoughts ran wild. Jacob was hurt, he had cut himself and was bleeding all over the floor. Or he had found some matches and had set the house on fire. Or he had hurt Jenny or the baby in some way, striking out in blind fury and hitting her in some tender spot. I couldn’t tell. The thumps, shrieks and footfalls I heard weren’t enough to piece anything together, and here I was, two thousand miles away in a bookstore in Miami Beach.

What the fuck am I doing here? I thought absently, staring blankly at the puzzle books arrayed before me. Entertaining a pack of influentials while my real life was destroying itself back home. And for what? A paycheck? A career? A chance to do something important? Did any of that stuff even matter?

It was a long and frustrating wait for Jenny to come back on the line. I almost hung up twice, figuring she could call me back when the crisis had passed, but both times decided not to, afraid I would involuntarily hurl the phone against the wall. Instead, I closed my eyes and started counting the slow and measured breaths I forced myself to take.

“Alan? Are you still there?”

“Yes,” I said, with renewed calmness. “What happened?”

“It’s Jacob.”

“I know it’s Jacob.” I was a stone. At the bottom of a forgotten well. “What’s he done?”

“He’s wild, Alan. He’s out of control. He doesn’t listen to me when you’re not here.”

“Jenny,” I said measuredly. “What just happened? You dropped the phone and said, ‘oh my god.’ Is Jacob all right?”

“You need to talk to him, Alan. You need to make him listen to me.”

It was like she wasn’t even hearing me, like I was just the buzzing of an annoying insect in her ear. Every time I said something, she just spoke more loudly.

“Put him on.”

“He’s always like this when you travel. Something happens to him when you leave. It’s like he turns into a monster.”

“Okay. Let me talk to him.”

“Christ, he makes me so angry! It’s like he’s looking to cause trouble. He won’t do anything I tell him to do.”

“Jenny! Put him on and let me talk to him.”

“Here, just a minute.” And then with the phone away from her mouth, “Jacob! Come here and talk to your father!”

“No!” I heard Jacob say, as if curled up in the corner, a voice like the yip of a wild dog, raised on the streets and alleyways, subservient to nothing but its own need for dominance.

“You get over here right now, young man. You need to talk to your father.”

“I don’t want to!”

“I don’t care what you want, mister! You’re going to talk to him.”

Then I heard Jenny’s heavy tread across the room and when Jacob began to scream, I imagined her grabbing him by the arm and twisting it.

“Take this phone, Jacob! Take this phone and talk to him!”

“Jenny,” I said, a sickness creeping into my stomach. “Forget it, honey. I’ll call back later when he’s calmed down.”

She couldn’t hear me. The phone wasn’t even next to her ear. The way Jacob’s cries suddenly amplified, she must have been pushing the receiver against his face.

“Jenny,” I said helplessly, wanting to shout but knowing it wouldn’t do any good. Nothing I could do from that distance would have any positive effect. “Jenny, it’s all right.”

“Talk to him, goddammit! Or so help me, I’m throwing all your trains in the garbage!”

That must have got Jacob’s attention. Threatening his treasured possessions usually did.

“Hello, Daddy,” he said feebly, as if defeated.

“Hi, buddy,” I said as pleasantly as I could. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing.”

“Why is Mommy upset?”

“What?”

“Why is Mommy upset?” I repeated, more loudly.

“I don’t know.”

“Did you do something to make her angry?”

“What?”

“I said, did you do something to make her angry?” Could he not hear me?

“No.”

He must have, I knew, but he wasn’t likely to tell me. He may not even know, I realized. Sometimes it seemed like cause and effect didn’t work in Jacob’s world, or at least like he had a faulty understanding as to how they were connected. The way he faced life, it was as if the good and bad things that happened were the capricious acts of a trickster god, wholly unconnected from his behavior in any way.

“You must have done something,” I coaxed, knowing that unless I figured out what he had done, there wasn’t any remote parenting I could do. “Why else would she be so angry?”

“Daddy?” A new tone in his voice, like he hadn’t heard me again and was starting his own line of inquiry.

I sighed. “Yeah, buddy?”

“Where are you?”

“I’m in Miami. I told you that yesterday.” Yesterday, right? It already felt like a month.

“When are you coming home?”

Now he was hard to hear. I closed my eyes and plugged a finger back into my free ear. “Not for a while, buddy. Not for a while. Can you be a good boy for Mommy while I’m gone?”

“What?”

I heard the static this time. “Can you be a good boy for Mommy?!”

“Uh huh.”

What that a yes or a no? I wasn’t sure. “I really need you to. I need you to do what Mommy says. Can you do that for me, buddy?”

“Uh huh.”

It was the best I was going to get. I was just a tinny little voice in his ear. Ten minutes from now, would he even remember anything I said?

“I love you, buddy.”

“Okay. Bye!”

His farewell was said with the receiver falling away from his mouth, as if now that the obligatory conversation with Dad was over he could get back to the more serious business of tormenting his mother. The way his voice faded away I wondered if the ten-minute estimation I had just made wasn’t optimistic.

“What did you tell him?” It was Jenny, back on the phone and insistent.

“What?”

“Jacob,” she clarified. “What did you tell him?”

“What do you mean? I told him to behave.”

“That’s it? What about the way he’s treating me?”

“Jenny, I don’t know how he’s treating you. I’m in Miami, remember?”

“Go!” Jenny said suddenly, obviously to Jacob and not me. “Go play!”

“Jenny?”

“Jacob! Stop climbing on me! Go in the other room and play!”

Another rustle of fabric and a thump like the phone fell to the ground again. I heard Jacob cry and then launch into full-throated wails that faded as he either ran or was carried away. Then Jenny was hollering from far away, telling Jacob to stay put until Mommy was done, and then a door slamming as if the house was empty, and angry footfalls coming back to the phone.

“Alan? Alan! Are you still there?”

I took a deep breath. “Yes, I am.”

“I really need you to talk to your son. Get him to stop acting this way.”

“Jenny,” I said with forced serenity, conscious again of the bookstore patrons around me. “I did just talk to him. I don’t know what you think I can accomplish from here.”

“Well, you have to do something. He won’t listen to me.”

And then the farcical enormity of it all struck me, pushed me over the edge, and I flew into a rage. “Goddammit, Jenny! What the fuck do you expect me to do? I’m two thousand miles away in the children’s section of a goddamn Barnes and Noble, trying to mediate a dispute between a grown woman and a four-year-old boy.” My eye caught a teenage girl with orange hair on the other side of the bookshelf wrinkling her diamond-studded nose at me. I gave her a look like she was the one acting crazy. “And my cell phone keeps losing its goddamn signal. Can you even hear what I’m saying? You sure as fuck don’t act like it.”

“What did you say?”

I'd heard the static on the line during my tirade, but I had pushed right on through anyway. Now, I didn’t have the energy to repeat it.

“You’re just going to have to deal with him. There’s only so much I can do from here.”

“But I don’t know what I’m doing, Alan,” she said, a note a desperation coming into her voice. “He just won’t listen! Am I doing something wrong?”

“Lower your expectations,” I said glibly, like a radio show psychologist used to diagnosing problems over the air. “You’re both perfectionists and are bound to butt heads. When I’m not there, seek compromise instead of obedience. You may find what you’re fighting over has an easy solution if you each just give a little. You’re the adult. Take the high road.”

There was silence on the line. At first I thought the call had been dropped, but then I could hear Jacob’s muffled wailing echoing in the background and something else, much closer, like the coughing of an old carburetor.

“Jenny? Are you crying?”

Breath hitching in. “Y-y-yes...”

Oh, sweet Jesus, she’s crying. “Honey, don’t cry. What are you crying about?”

“I don’t know how to do this, Alan,” she confessed angrily. “I don’t know how to be his mother and now we’ve got a second one on the way.”

She sounded lost. At her wit’s end. Ready to give up. Part of me was angry, convinced that she had the far easier job between the two of us, but her misery touched me and I could feel my heart fluttering in my chest. I didn’t know what to say.

“Jenny… I’m sorry… but you’ve got to hold it together. I just got here. I can’t come home and help you with this.”

“I know.”

“Stop trying so hard. You’re his mother. He loves you—more than me, anyway.”

“Oh, is it a contest now?”

It was a barb, meant to set us off into an argument, but I didn’t take the bait. “That’s not how I meant it. Just go easy with him. What are you two fighting about anyway?”

“It’s time for him to brush his teeth,” she said through her sniffles and tears.

I waited for more. “And?”

“And he doesn’t want to do it.”

“So? Skip it tonight.”

“Alan!” she said, as if I had suggested she cut off one of his fingers. “He has to brush his teeth!”

“Fine,” I said, switching gears and knowing the idea of not brushing your teeth before going to bed was as wild to Jenny as the idea of climbing into bed with muddy boots. “Then ask him when he wants to brush his teeth.”

“What?”

“Give him a choice. Brush your teeth before or after you put your pajamas on.”

“He’s already got his pajamas on.”

“Oh Christ, Jenny, I’m not going to playbook this one for you. Make him a deal. Let him decide when he brushes his teeth. Or sweeten the pot. Tell him after he brushes you’ll read him one of his favorite books. Just don’t order him to do something and expect immediate compliance. Nobody likes that. Especially not children with genes from you and me. Okay?”

“Okay.”

I felt like I was talking to a member of my staff. “Has he stopped crying yet?”

She paused, as if holding the phone away from her ear to listen. “I think so.”

“Good. Give him a few more minutes to calm down and then go in there a talk to him.” I paused, consciously softening my tone. “What about you? Are you all right?”

“I’ve stopped crying if that’s what you mean.”

I expected as much. Her acerbic tone had returned in full force. When she spoke I imagined her wiping a finger under each eye and looking up at the ceiling like she did when she was done crying and ready to move onto the next thing. “I love you, honey.”

“I love you, too.”

+ + +

“Dragons” is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. For more information, go here.

This post first appeared on Eric Lanke's blog, an association executive and author. You can follow him on Twitter @ericlanke or contact him at eric.lanke@gmail.com.

Image Source
http://lres.com/heres-why-amcs-need-to-pay-close-attention-to-looming-regulatory-changes/businessman-in-the-middle-of-a-labyrinth/