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Guess Who's Coming to Seder? Dewinter's Tale.

THE NEW REPUBLIC

GUESS WHO'S COMING TO SEDER.

Dewinter's Tale

by Sarah Wildman
Post date: 01.11.07
Issue date: 01.22.07

On a balmy day in Antwerp's medieval city center, not far from the offices of Vlaams Belang, the right-wing Flemish nationalist party, the boulevards were crowded. At a clogged artery on a main thoroughfare, as the light turned, a tram pulled away and a van driven by an orthodox Jew--side curls and black yarmulke visible--became stuck in the pedestrian crossing. Walkers, annoyed, muttered to themselves. And then, from the back of the crush, a group of teenage boys began to yell, "Fucking, fucking yood!" and to bang their fists on the car. 

It was just the sort of incident that riles Filip Dewinter, the 44-year-old leader of Vlaams Belang. Dewinter's party, like its far-right counterparts across Europe, has a long history of racism and xenophobia.

But sitting in his office, filled with sleek Italian-style furniture and overseen by a massive Rubens painting of Nicholas Rockox, a mayor of Antwerp in the mid-seventeenth century, Dewinter's anger takes a surprising turn. "We should stand with the Jewish community, and we should do everything possible to protect them," he says. "Jewish values are European values!" Then he launches into an earnest plea for Jews to come home to his extreme-right--"right-wing," he gently corrects--party. 

Dewinter is at the forefront of Europe's new philosemitic far right. Along with his French homologue, Marine Le Pen, daughter of Holocaust minimizer and Front National leader Jean-Marie Le Pen, Dewinter has spent the last few years proclaiming his support for Jews and championing their rights. No matter that Vlaams Belang's founders were Nazi collaborators or, simply, that the idea of the Jew as "European" is itself a novelty for his base constituency. Since 2003, Dewinter has loudly and consistently spoken out against attacks on Jews--calling Judaism a "pillar of European society" to Time magazine and condemning anti-Semitism and, very specifically, anti-Zionism, to Haaretz and New York Jewish Week. This fall, when elections fell on Sukkot and religious Jews would have missed going to the polls, it was Dewinter's party that helped collect their proxy ballots. In October, he promised the press he would bring in one-third of the Jewish vote on Election Day and told Haaretz that Jews were his "brothers in arms." This may seem like a positive development, but Dewinter's newfound love of the Jewish people conceals some very un-brotherly motives. 

 

Filip Dewinter has been committed to the far-right Flemish cause since his teens. Born in the tourist-friendly town of Bruges, Dewinter moved to Antwerp to attend university at 18 and quickly became active in radical Flemish separatism, founding the student movement that became aligned with Vlaams Blok, an extreme-right Flemish nationalist party formed in the late '70s. Known for his militant views and brawls with liberal students, Dewinter was eventually groomed for office by the founder of Vlaams Blok, Karel Dillen, a man infamous in European anti-racism circles for translating the works of French neofascist Maurice Bardèche into Flemish. With Dillen's urging, Dewinter became, at 25, Belgium's youngest-ever Parliamentarian. By the early '90s, Vlaams Blok was winning big in Antwerp and worrying mainstream politicians. "We loudly say what people quietly think," Dewinter would say. 

Under Dewinter's leadership, Vlaams Blok continued its xenophobic positioning. In 2002, Dewinter and his colleagues ran on the platform "Eigen Volk Eerst!": "Our People First!" The slogan, also the title of a book Dewinter wrote in 1989, appeared to echo the 1930s mantra of Flemish fascist nationalists, "Antwerp is Ours! Jews Out!" Posters were festooned with images of a broom (sweeping out bad elements), another '30s image. That same year, Dewinter publicly called for Austrian Nazi sympathizer Jörg Haider, the former leader of the controversial Freedom Party, to lead a Europe-wide far-right movement. 

But, unlike his far-right counterparts in other European countries, Dewinter carefully refrained from anti-Semitic rhetoric. The targets of his ire were Islamic immigrants. Like France, Belgium had welcomed North African Muslim workers in the 1960s and the early '70s. When the work dried up, the workers stayed, encouraging family members to join them. By the '90s, Vlaams Blok was calling for wholesale deportations of unemployed immigrants, ending political asylum, and getting tough on crime--code for a moratorium on immigration. "In the beginning, their topics were mainly turning around Flemish nationalism, Flemish extremism, and the drive for the independence of Flanders," says Claude Marinower, a Jewish Antwerp parliamentarian with the Liberal Party. "Their breakthrough came when they switched priorities to foreigners and whatever has to do with foreigners and fear of foreigners." 

At the same time, Dewinter also began to court Jews. His theory was simple: If Jews were targeted, especially by Muslim immigrants, then Jews and the far right were "natural allies." In 2003, he began condemning violence against Jews by North African youth--which had increased after the second intifada--and linking it to his party's advocacy of an end to immigration and deportation of illegal immigrants. "We are seeing the first pogroms in Belgium since World War II," Dewinter told the Daily Telegraph that year. "How can this be happening in a democratic country? We've got the most left-wing citizenship laws in Europe that let people have nationality after three years, even if they come illegally." 

In 2004, the Belgian Court officially dismantled Vlaams Blok for incitement and racism. But Vlaams Belang, its successor, rose days later from its ashes. The party has toned down the anti-immigrant rhetoric--as Cas Mudde, a University of Antwerp political scientist, puts it, "Vlaams Belang rarely still mentions immigration or immigrants in its posters because there is no one in this country who doesn't know that the Vlaams Belang is against immigrants"--but the party's leadership and goals remain, more or less, the same. Violence against Jews is still useful fodder for campaign promises and evidence of the Islamic threat. 

Dewinter's commitment to protect Belgium's Jews poses a tempting proposition. In the last six years, they have suffered a marked increase in attacks, including physical assaults and the firebombing of synagogues. In one recent incident, a gang of young North Africans attacked a group of Jewish teenagers, repeatedly stabbing one boy and leaving him with a punctured lung. And, for years, many Jews have been uncomfortable with the way their liberal representatives talk about, and relate to, Israel--a concern that Dewinter has shown he is acutely aware of. "Socialists and Greens are Israel's most dangerous foes in Europe," he e-mailed me, echoing previous statements he has made to Jewish constituents and to the press. "They even tend to identify Israel and Zionism with Nazism." 

In November, Gidon Van Emden, an Antwerp-based policy officer of a liberal Jewish group, praised Dewinter's message. "The current coalition of socialists, liberals and Greens have done too little to combat the anti-Semitism and racism that are still found here," Van Emden wrote in the Jerusalem Post. "Dewinter has done a fabulous job of looking respectable to the Jews, taking consistently pro-Israel stances and creating good contacts with certain rabbis in the community." 

 

But, in her cheerfully light-filled townhouse, surrounded by books she has penned on children in the Holocaust and Belgian Jewry, Brussels Liberal Party Parliamentarian Viviane Teitelbaum Hirsch is worried. Before the election, an Antwerp Jewish women's group invited her to explain why it should not vote for Vlaams Belang. "To the Jews of Antwerp, I always say the first victims of the extreme right are the Muslims. But the next ones on the list are the Jews," she warns. "And I find it very scary. As a European." 

Indeed, Dewinter is a model of respect when it comes to discussing Jews--"Israel is an island of democracy and free speech," he tells me. "We should support them much more than we are doing now"--but a fiery bigot when it comes to Muslims. "If you visit some of our neighborhoods, you would think you are in the casbah of Marrakech, not in a Western European town anymore!" Dewinter practically shouts during my visit. "You can't integrate or assimilate a whole community who sticks together, who has nothing to do with our life, our civilization! At least an important minority of them despises us," Dewinter continues, catching his breath. "And if Turkey becomes a member of the European Union? Well!" he laughs. "Jews," on the other hand, "are a part of European culture." 

But Teitelbaum Hirsch is not the only Jewish leader who is concerned by what she sees as Dewinter's championing of Jews as a way to spread hatred against Muslims. "Jewish people have suffered in their blood and flesh where racism can bring you," M.P. Marinower says, leaning back in a leather chair, his face pouchy and tired. Marinower's father survived Bergen-Belsen but died of a heart attack shortly thereafter. "How could a Jew be in favor of a party condemned for racism? And condemned specifically for ... ostracizing a part of society?" Agrees Teitelbaum Hirsch, "I think we have to act strongly to be the guardians of democracy," she says of both the Jews and the liberal parties, "and never leave any important principle to be defended by the extreme right, because we know their way of caring for it is not sincere." 

Dewinter's critics also point out that his wooing of Antwerp's 15,000 Jews is a crass political calculation. Since the terrorist attacks in New York, Madrid, and London, xenophobia--especially against Muslim immigrants--has become an acceptable European cultural anxiety. Seizing an opening created by liberal and mainstream conservative politicians who have panicked in the face of failed integration policies, the far right's newfound love for Jews is designed to exploit this ever-expanding group of anxious voters. 

It also helps Vlaams Belang rehabilitate its extremist image. Since 1991, every other party in Belgium, in a cordone sanitaire, has prevented Dewinter's party from joining government coalitions. But a widely publicized endorsement from a strategically placed rabbi--or, better yet, an invitation to Israel--could be their ticket to political legitimacy. Formerly fascist Italian parliamentarian Gianfranco Fini followed this path and emerged, rehabilitated, after touching down in the Holy Land in 2003. In that vein, France's Marine Le Pen has made pandering statements like Dewinter's, including a promise that the Jewish community "can count on us to defend it." "Vlaams Belang and the Front National are trying to become mainstream parties," says Jean-Yves Camus, a Paris-based researcher and expert on xenophobia in political discourse. "This is a big change. You still see [openly] anti-Semitic parties, but they are fringe movements." 

As a political strategy, philosemitism seems to have worked for Vlaams Belang. On October 8, 2006, Dewinter led his party to win some 33.5 percent of Antwerp votes. Vlaams Belang picked up voters in the suburbs and gained everywhere else around Flanders. "The Vlaams Belang did extremely well," says Mudde, the political scientist. "It almost doubled its seats in local councils." 

Exit polls don't ask for religious affiliation in Belgium. But voters lulled by Dewinter into believing his far-right party truly embraces Jews may be chagrined to hear what he is planning. Next year, Vlaams Belang will form a coalition in the European Parliament with two unapologetically anti-Semitic far-right Eastern European parties: Ataka, from Bulgaria, and the Greater Romanian Party. His face falls when his allies' anti-Semitic demagoguery is mentioned. "I am not happy about it," Dewinter declares, peeved by the turn of the conversation. "I don't have anything to do with it. Look, we have a large Jewish community in Antwerp, and we have very good relations with them, and I have always had a lot of respect for the Jewish community." He runs his fingers nervously through his hair and pivots the conversation back to his core message: "Because Jewish values are European values! And Jewish civilization is one of the roots of Western civilization. Rome, Greece, Enlightenment, and Jewish-Christian values. Those are the key words of our European civilization."

Sarah Wildman was until recently an assistant editor at TNR.

 

RACISM AND ISRAELI SOCCER. FOR READER'S DIGEST

This is a feature I wrote for Reader's Digest about an Israeli Arab soccer star, racism in soccer, and the complicated politics of sport.

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Paris' Dirty Secret

Paris' Dirty Secret
(Cover of the Jerusalem Report, November 1, 2004)

Sarah Wildman, Paris

The building is unexpectedly beautiful. Nestled in the heart of Paris' vibrant and crowded 10th arrondissement, 85-87 rue du Faubourg Saint-Martin is a completely restored and rehabilitated turn-of-the-20th-century structure, with soaring arched windows. It was once home to Lévitan, the first Parisian furniture store to market its wares to the masses, an Ikea for the 30s. A legacy from the department store remains above the entrance: Shiny blue and gold tiles in a mosaic façade spell out "Aux classes laborieuses," "To the laboring classes." The building stood empty for years, windowless, with a parking garage on its lower levels, until 2000 when the directors of BETC Euro RSCG, the largest advertising agency in France, gutted the interior and lovingly put it back together.

"I was so pleased to find this building, there were so many positive discoveries," BETC director Rémi Babinet says, sitting in a color-coded work pod (we were in "rouge"), at the core of the building. The mosaic inscription, which had been covered with an obscuring layer of grime, was one such find. Not to mention "the space, the volume, the strength of the building, the neighborhood." It was perfect. That is, until a young historian named Jean-Marc Dreyfus approached the company last spring.

Their beautiful building, Dreyfus quietly told them, was not just a forgotten symbol of working-class Paris. The Nazis, who occupied the city in June 1940, also took to the structure, with its subterranean garage built to hold truckloads of goods, and wide spaces created specifically for displaying furniture. From July 1943 until August 1944, Lévitan was transformed from what had been a Jewish-owned department store into a Jewish slave-labor camp. Jews interned there were forced to catalogue, sort and pack the goods looted from the apartments of Jews who had been deported to concentration camps. "It was a shock," says Babinet, who admits he had heard a few unsubstantiated rumors from neighbors (Lévitan was returned to the family of its original owners after the war and then sold). He hadn't given them too much credence. "It was a reminder that there are few spaces where this tragedy was not experienced. It was a reminder that everywhere there are these shocks from the past. And people have the habit of forgetting."

The shock was not Babinet's alone. There were two other, equally unknown, Jewish slave-labor camps in the heart of the city during the occupation: Austerlitz, a storage house near the eponymous train station in the 13th arrondissement that was torn down at the end of the war and is now a construction site, and Bassano, in a magnificent town house from the mid-19th century, on the street of the same name in the chic 16th. For 13 months during the war, the three camps held a total of between 800 and 1,000 Jews who had been classified as temporarily "non-deportable." During their internment, they were forced to assist the Nazis loot the Jews of France. Hundreds of trainloads of goods were dispatched into the Reich, carrying the contents of nearly 40,000 apartments from Paris alone and the belongings of the 76,000 French Jews who perished at the hands of the Nazis.

When Dreyfus and his colleague Sarah Gensburger announced their discoveries, the strange graffiti that architects had found four years ago in the attic of Bassano, now home to the men's haute couture house Smalto, suddenly became clear: It was the Jews marking off their time.

Thousands of pages have been written on the history of France during World War II. There are the stories of resistance, of collaboration, of the deportation of Jews and the transit camps they passed through. There are volumes refuting the mythology, advanced in the immediate post-war years by Charles de Gaulle, that France was a nation of resistors. But until last November, when Dreyfus, a 35-year-old Holocaust historian, and Sarah Gensburger, a 27-year-old sociologist finishing her PhD, published the simply titled but shattering book, "Des Camps Dans Paris," almost no one had talked about these three camps, right in the heart of the capital. They, and the depredatory purpose they fulfilled, were simply overlooked.

The publication of the meticulously detailed history of the three camps filled what the authors aptly call a "hole" in the memory of the city. It is an academic book, but it was reviewed in nearly every French newspaper, many of the articles focusing on gaps in memory and history. The tabloid France Soir wondered how it was possible that so much was known on the deportations, but nothing on camps in the center of the city. "Why this silence?" asked the conservative daily Le Figaro. "Did you know this?" asked Le Nouvel Observateur, the highbrow weekly.

Indeed, how was it possible that three camps in the center of Paris were, literally, forgotten? And why did it take a freelance historian and a grad student to dig up the truth?

The camps' absence in the history books speaks to the way the Holocaust has been studied: Both the stories we tell and the hierarchy of victimization that underlies those narratives. But, ultimately, the reason that Paris forgot the names of the camps in its midst reaches back to their very purpose: The were meant to erase memory. And they were very successful.

Dreyfus and Gensburger began investigating the camps in October of 2001, after they were approached by a small group of survivors of Austerlitz, Lévitan and Bassano, who had spent four years searching for a historian to tell their story. Turned down by the big names at French research centers, the survivors had tracked down Dreyfus and Gensburger through the United States Holocaust Memorial Museum in Washington, D.C.

In the late 1990s, these survivors, and their children, formed the last amicale, or survivors group, in France. During the war, they had defied classification: Most were either half-Jews or Jews in mixed marriages; a few of them were fully Jewish, but had escaped the initial rounds of deportations with help from Christians or false papers, or more rarely, because they had special skills the Nazis needed. After the war, they came to believe that their experience of anxiety, deprivation and labor didn't match up to the terror, death and starvation experienced by those who had survived the extermination camps. So, while their experience was devastating psychologically -- sorting the entire contents of apartment after apartment made very clear to these Jews that the people whose goods they were handling were not expected to return -- it was deemed unseemly to discuss it. They had a pudeur, to use the word often mentioned by the survivors, a modesty, a reticence, to bring up their internment in the same breath as that of the survivors of the death camps.

That began to change in the mid-1990s, when a German journalist wrote a story claiming there had been a camp buried beneath the new Bibliothèque nationale de France, François Mitterand, near Gare D'Austerlitz. (The location proved to be wrong.) When even a subsequent short article in a French newspaper failed to generate wider interest, the survivors of Austerlitz, Lévitan and Bassano realized that if they didn't find someone to write the history, it would be lost.

By the time they found him, Jean-Marc Dreyfus, a specialist in aryanization and pillaging of Jewish goods, had just returned from a year at Harvard and several months at the Holocaust museum in Washington. He had just begun a two-year stint at the Task Force for International Cooperation on Holocaust Education, Remembrance and Research at the Foreign Ministry and was finishing up his first book. Sarah Gensburger was midway through her dissertation at the prestigious L'Ecole des Hautes Etudes en Sciences Sociales (EHESS) on "righteous gentiles" (those who helped Jews) in the collective memory of France, Belgium and Israel. She had met Dreyfus in Washington, where she too had spent time at the Holocaust museum.

While they were intrigued by the survivors' stories, Dreyfus and Gensburger were doubtful as to whether they would actually find any relevant documents or anyone to interview, outside of the few former internees who had contacted them. Since they both were involved in other projects, this investigation would have to be researched and written up late at night and on weekends, without guarantee of remuneration. Nevertheless, they decided to work together. Dreyfus took on the archival work on the administrative and economic aspects of the camp operations, and Gensburger agreed to gather the oral history and research daily life in the camps.

The two were able to get a rough idea from the survivors, but they couldn't answer some essential questions. How, for example, did the furniture get from the apartments to the camps? Who received the goods once they arrived in the Reich? Who was in charge? Who were the inmates? And what was the volume and value of material handled through these places? Histories of the Nazi and German army hierarchy that ran Paris didn't help. Most of the archives had been burned when the Germans fled in 1944.

To understand how the camps functioned, Dreyfus, a slim man with a bald pate and an impish quality that belies his seriousness, spent a year petitioning for entrance to the infamously inaccessible national military archives in the small town of Le Blanc, about 300 kilometers from Paris. When he finally was admitted, he was allowed in only with a pencil and paper -- he could not photocopy or remove any items from the archives. Yet, by reading the transcripts of a1950 lawsuit regarding Jewish property from the 40s, he was able to piece together that the stolen Jewish property was initially supposed to have been routed to the Eastern front -- to German settlers in the occupied areas of Ukraine, for example -- but was in fact transported to the Reich, where it was distributed to German families who needed furniture, dishes and all manner of household goods because their homes had been hit in Allied bombings.

To trace how entire households were so briskly and efficiently cleared and sorted, Dreyfus contacted the French professional movers' union, an organization around in the 40s that still exists today. "The movers were very open," he says. "No one had had the idea to go to them. And the guy [on the phone] said to me, 'Oh, it's good, we have all the archives of World War II.'" The archives included the moving orders that implicated nearly all of the moving companies in Paris in the looting operation.

Meanwhile, Gensburger went about establishing the patterns of daily life in the camps by reading through the unindexed, and unexplored archives of the UGIF, the Union Générale des Israélites de France, the closest thing France had to a Judenrat, the Jewish council that worked closely with the Germans, established in 1941 in cooperation with the authorities. The Germans didn't feed the inmates; the UGIF did. UGIF officers also kept tabs on what was happening in the camps.

Gensburger even found documentation that corroborated a bizarre story told by one survivor: At Bassano, in addition to the sorting of personal effects, Jews were made to run a macabre, slave version of an haute couture shop, an atelier, for the wives and mistresses of German officers and officials.

Together, the two developed a picture of what had taken place. The operation at Austerlitz, Lévitan and Bassano was part of what was called the Aktion Möbel, or Furniture Action. It worked something like this: When a Jewish family was taken from their apartment -- usually to the Drancy detention camp prior to deportation -- they were told to leave their pets with neighbors and their keys with the building manager. The moving companies, hired by the German authorities, would come soon afterward to the apartment and empty it. The trucks would arrive at the downtown camps, and groups of Jews interned there would unload the boxes, open them, and sort the contents into sections: linens, dishes, flatware, glasses, bedding, armoires, beds, tables, chairs and so on. The interior of the camps looked like a department store: rows of items, catalogued, separated and sorted. Another unit would pack crates to be shipped into Germany. Throughout, dignitaries of the Reich would skim off the top. The wife of the German director of the operation, a man named baron Kurt von Behr, would come by now and again and roll up her sleeves to see what she could take for herself. All personal effects -- school notebooks, photographs, letters -- were burned.

Survivors spoke to Gensburger of seeing photographs of people they knew, of furniture they recognized. "They understood, after a while, that what they were handling symbolized the final desperation of so many people," says Gensburger, who is model-tall and wears clear, frameless glasses. "The Aktion M was, of course, one more way to make money and take advantage of Jews, but also a way to be sure that any kind of Jewish existence was destroyed." Furniture was useful, but "all the family pictures, the letters and so on? They burned it. So it was gone forever."

Gensburger crisscrossed France, tracking down and interviewing survivors, but many were reluctant to speak. The prisoners at Austerlitz, Lévitan and Bassano were what the Germans called mischlinge or half-Jews, as well as Jews who were married to Aryans, and the Jewish wives of prisoners of war (there was a general Wehrmacht order to implement The Hague Convention with regard to POWs). They had been selected and set aside to be dealt with in the second phase of the Final Solution. This was another reason for the "hole" in memory. Highly assimilated, these Jews, upon the war's end, quickly faded back into French society. They never reached out to a Jewish community that many never felt a part of anyway. Jean Levi, an 85-year-old former internee of Austerlitz whose wife was Catholic, told me he made Gensburger promise not to talk of Judaism in his interview. "[I said], 'Don't come to see me as a Jew, come to see me as a human being,'" he says stridently, before checking to see if that might offend me.

The hole created by their identity was magnified by a sense of guilt. Those who might have spoken had long been chastened by the weight of knowing the horrors they had escaped, while others had not. "There was a plan to deport them to the East," Dreyfus says, "and 20 percent were deported." But most were liberated in August 1944, when the Allies marched into Paris.

Immediately after the Allies arrived, two stories on the camps appeared in the small Resistance newspapers. But, then, Dreyfus explains, "in April 1945, the Americans opened the camps, the concentration camps, the real camps, with all the headlines and pictures. And the survivors of the Paris camps stopped talking, because they realized that their experiences were not comparable to the Shoah itself, to the death camps." The survivors of Austerlitz, Lévitan and Bassano withdrew into themselves. Gensburger felt it in the interviews: "They did not feel it was legitimate to speak of their own 'small and not very important story' when they saw that most of the community had been deported and died in the gas chambers." Denise Weill, secretary of the survivors association that contacted Dreyfus and Gensburger, saw this attitude among French academics as well. "The sentiment was," she says, "'they went there, they came back, and it's not that important,' compared to what the rest went through."

"For 60 years I didn't speak about what happened here," JeanLevi says a few moments after we meet. We are upstairs at the famous Café de Flore on Boulevard St. Germain. He is white-haired and impeccably dressed, down to a silk kerchief in his breast pocket. "We were reticent," recalls the former clothing factory owner. "The Paris camps were not as hard." Later he says they were simply "not dramatic."

Levi had had a small taste of the difference: After his arrest in 1943, he spent the winter in Drancy, the notorious transit camp 15 kilometers from Paris. It was cold, wet, horrendously crowded and infested with insects. Then there was a small "selection" and Levi brought forward papers proving his wife was Catholic. He was transferred to Austerlitz.

Austerlitz was not easy, but it was better. He could receive mail; it was censored, but he had contact. His wife would roll up tiny letters like cigarettes and stuff them into the collars of shirts she sent him so he could have unfiltered news of the outside world. He had more food than at Drancy. He started a theater group among the internees, and they would put on plays. Occasionally, he could even receive visitors. He slept shoulder to shoulder with his fellow inmates and it was uncomfortable, but terrible, he realized after the war, was relative.

Because he was young and strong, Levi would sometimes be sent out of the camp on moving missions. From time to time, for example, hundreds of pianos would be dropped off at a loading station to be catalogued. Levi would know in advance that he was to be on this crew, and he would have his wife secretly meet him. They would have sex under the pianos. He was, after all, only 24.

"Women in their respective departments did the packing," wrote internee Yvonne Klug in an unpublished memoir sent to me by her nephew, Ed Francell. Klug was actually an American citizen, albeit born and raised in Paris, who had married a French Catholic man. She was put in household goods. "It was a rather unpopular place," she wrote, "because we had to clean and wash all that arrived. Often we had the impression that the people had been arrested in the midst of a meal, for the saucepans were sticky and dirty and so were the plates."

Some former prisoners impressed upon me that they tried, in their own small ways, to sabotage the looting effort. They attempted to ruin some of the nicer items, breaking glasses, ripping clothing, or breaking something small inside a piano, so that the Germans would not be able to enjoy them. Levi says they would place armoires in such a way as to ensure they would tip over once the train moved. Dreyfus found an angry letter from Germany: Too much was arriving broken.

Even so, sabotage was tempered by the ever present threat of deportation. "We were 'lent' by the Gestapo to that labor camp," wrote Klug, "which meant the Gestapo could take us back any time they wished." (Klug herself was deported to Auschwitz in one of the arbitrary selections that took place from time to time in the Paris labor camps, but survived. She died in 1972.) Levi tells of his own narrow escape from deportation: On a day he spent in the camp infirmary, his entire work gang was shipped off to Drancy, and then to Auschwitz, after one man sneaked onto a moving van and escaped. Levi was spared.

In the postwar years, internees recognized that they had all been spared. "What happened elsewhere was much more tragic than this prison," says Bernard Behr, who was sent from Drancy to Austerlitz because his mother was not Jewish. At 18, Behr was one of the youngest inmates. "This was a working prison, where the most tragic thing about it was the fear that if someone escaped, then everyone would be deported." Behr insists again and again that this wasn't the most important thing to ever happen to him. And yet he bought 30 copies of the Dreyfus and Gensburger book, one for each of his closest friends and family members.

Survivors took great pains to downplay their personal stories to me. So did Serge Klarsfeld, the famous Nazi hunter. "It was not a tragedy," he said dismissively. "The tragedy was that [nearly] 80,000 Jews of France perished and the French state was an accomplice of the Nazis."

But if they were loath to relate their personal tales, half a century after liberation the survivors were determined that the story of Lévitan, Austerlitz and Bassano should not remain untold. Getting French academics to agree wasn't easy. "I don't think it's so important if you want a large picture of what the Shoah was in France, but it's a part of the story that had to be told," said Andre Kaspi, author of the 1997 book, "The Jews During the Occupation," and a history professor at the Sorbonne. Other academics had the same response: The pillaging and aryanization of Jewish goods was a secondary consequence of Nazi policy. Yet, Kaspi calls "Des Camps Dans Paris" a "valuable" book.

Kaspi echoes the sentiment of other historians, who are eager to point out that the absence of this history was not a failure of scholarship, but a biproduct of research that prioritized death over property. "History is not a process where everything is done immediately," explains Henry Rousso, director of the contemporary history program at the respected National Center for Scientific Research (CNRS), and the author of several major works on the Vichy and collective memory in France. "When you look at this book, you understand that the Nazis wanted to destroy any trace of the Jewish existence in the world. The discoveries about the madness of the Nazis, the barbarian aspects of the Nazis are not finished. We will find more and more in the future."

What we choose to remember of the Holocaust is necessarily contextualized: The primary, the essential, task was the documentation of murder. But Dreyfus and Gensburger argue that this hardly negates the importance of these camps. If anything, Austerlitz, Lévitan and Bassano provide three-dimensionality to the years the Germans occupied Paris, a fuller sense of the pervasive Nazification of the city. These camps were a systemized, routinized, methodical method of excising the Jewish presence.

"The Holocaust is not only about killing people," says Radu Ioanid, director of the International Archival Programs Division at the Center for Advanced Holocaust Studies, based at the Holocaust museum in Washington. "It's about taking away their rights, about isolating them, about making them powerless." Part of isolating people is rendering them propertyless. Part of isolating people is negating their very existence.

Only in the last decade and a half has the focus of the historiography, and the headlines, shifted to include the looting of artwork and bank accounts. Now historians are turning to the property of average people.

In France, the first task was writing the history of those deported -- 76,000, of whom only 2,500 returned. The next step was overcoming what Henry Rousso has called the "Vichy Syndrome," the way the French as a people reconciled themselves to the history of occupation and collaboration. It was only in 1995 that French President Jacques Chirac reversed that legacy of Charles de Gaulle and embraced national responsibility for the period. In 1997, then-prime minister Alain Juppé created a commission to study the systematic despoiling of French Jewry and the post-war process of indemnification. But while the reports, published four years ago, were thorough in analyzing the aryanization of Jewish businesses and banking, what Dreyfus and Gensburger revealed is what happened to the possessions of regular people. "The aryanization was studied only in the second phase in Holocaust studies," explains Renee Poznanski, director of the political science department at Ben-Gurion University, and an expert on Jewish life in France during the Holocaust. " Jean-Marc is [one of] the first to really get into that. And it's not disconnected from the zeitgeist." This was about the small details of daily life, what happened to the plate they ate on, the bed they slept in, the clothes they wore.

"You know that the persecutions and Final Solution took place in Paris," says Gensburger, "but you know that it was in Drancy or Compiègne or Rivesalte." These were the major internment and transit camps of France, but though Drancy is only 15 kilometers from Paris, it is a world away. Living in Paris, it would be very, very easy never to set foot in Drancy. Austerlitz, Lévitan and Bassano, on the other hand, are in "the heart of Paris and Paris is the city of culture, of light, tourism, beauty -- of everything," adds Dreyfus. "It's impossible to have the Shoah in the middle of Paris. It is difficult to accept," he says.

"The Germans chose the building because it was discreet," says Dreyfus. We are on a tour of Lévitan with Miranda Salt, a sleekly dressed PR manager from the advertising agency that now occupies the building. "It's such a bright, optimistic space," says Salt as she takes us through the main hall. "You have to imagine," says Dreyfus, ignoring her, "that this was full of inmates. And they had the feeling that they were being swallowed" by the boxes that surrounded them.

Salt presses on and takes us to the rooftop terrace. It offers an unobstructed, 365-degree view of Paris. The night's light is purple and you can see the Eiffel Tower. The prisoners, Dreyfus explains, "were not allowed to approach the few windows that existed then. But once a week they could walk on the terrace."

We can see the tops of buildings and into a few top-floor apartments. Last spring Sarah Gensburger put up ads in buildings surrounding Lévitan asking if anyone knew its history. Two women contacted her. They said they lived on the top floor of an adjacent building, and had seen Jews walking the terrace wearing the yellow star. They knew of the camp. It took 60 years for the world to know as well.

November 1, 2004

The New Republic, Portrait of a Lady: August 20, 2001

The New Republic

August 20, 2001

SECTION: Cover Story

LENGTH: 3877 words

HEADLINE: Portrait of a Lady ;
How Laura Bush conquered feminism.

BYLINE: By Sarah Wildman

BODY:
On an oppressively humid day in late July, a slew of female aides in Crayola-colored suits scurry under the stained-glass windows of Georgetown University's Gaston Hall. They are preparing for the White House Summit on Early Childhood Cognitive Development, a conference highlighting "First Lady Laura Bush's Education Initiatives." An hour and a half after the media arrive, Laura Bush steps up to the podium. Wearing a candy-apple-red suit and speaking in her confident Texas drawl, she recites letters she and the president have received from kids desperate to learn, telling the audience that "the years from the crib to the classroom represent a period of intense language and cognitive growth." And then, her introduction complete, the first lady steps aside--and says nary a word for the rest of the conference. For nine hours over two days, the speakers discuss the intricacies of early learning, an issue with which the first lady has identified herself more than any other. But Laura doesn't interject a comment, raise an objection, or even ask a question. She listens in silence.

It's a strange way to host a conference. But then, over the last few decades, the position of first lady has become an awfully strange job. Historically, the role was largely private. Neither Bess Truman nor Mamie Eisenhower gave political speeches, press conferences, or radio broadcasts--let alone presided over televised conferences on education policy. Indeed, while Bess slunk off unimpeded to pout in Independence and Mamie spent thousands of dollars on the first couple's retreat in Gettysburg, Laura Bush crinkled brows across the capital when she spent two weeks early in her husband's presidency buying linens for the family's Crawford ranch. Increased media scrutiny accounts for part of the shift, but so does feminism. Today most Americans expect the first lady to have a public persona: to have independent talents and issues that she pursues for the good of the country. Even the National Federation of Republican Women wouldn't accept a first lady like Mamie, who boasted that "Ike runs the country and I turn the lamb chops."

But this has made the job harder, not easier. Before feminism, it was brutally constricting; today it's simply impossible. The twenty-first century first lady must be poised. Polished but not slick. Accessible but not intimate. Smart but not ambitious. Motivated, interested, an advocate--but never political. Beautiful but uncaring about her appearance. Happy. She must retain her own identity but negate it where it diverges from her husband's. And if a first lady appears unhappy with those requirements, even a little, she weakens the administration and is pilloried not only by its enemies but by its friends.

Laura Bush resolves this conundrum by filling all these contradictory expectations simultaneously. Or, more accurately, by allowing them to fill her. Depending on whose account you read, she's a quiet intellectual, a career woman, a stay-at-home mom, a teacher, an empowered woman, or a society wife. She was deeply committed to her career as an educator and felt no pressure to marry; yet she left the classroom more than two decades ago without a backward glance. She is an intellectual--a voracious reader-- yet she appears to have no dark, subversive, or even complex thoughts. She is totally fulfilled by her husband, although he seems uninterested in, or ignorant of, her intellectual and literary pursuits. She is passionate about education yet offers no opinions that don't shadow her husband's. She is the Play-Doh first lady: Mold her into whatever shape you want, then stamp her back down into a pile of putty for her next audience. Is it a pleasant existence? Probably not. It's certainly not an honest one. But for a public figure absurdly caught between society's conflicting notions of what women should be, it's a way to survive.

First ladies weren't always forced into such contortions. Until 1960 the first lady was important for social functions, for rearing the first family, and for presenting the president as a family man. But she wasn't required, or allowed, to be outspoken about issues. The job was never enjoyable; Martha Washington called herself a "state prisoner." But it was straightforward.

Eleanor Roosevelt was an exception: FDR's disability helped make her an essential part of the White House operation. But with Bess Truman and Mamie Eisenhower, the first lady's role became private once again. It was not until 1960 that an administration discovered the first lady's public relations potential. Jacqueline Bouvier Kennedy provided glamour, family connections, and a multilingual education to a family that, for all its wealth, still craved old-money respectability. Her disdain for the average American would have ruined her in today's media maelstrom--witness the backlash against Nancy Reagan when she tried to follow Jackie's example 20 years later. But in an era when life in the White House was the subject more of curiosity than of scrutiny--and when the presidency itself inspired awe, not casual derision--Jackie was worshiped. Thousands copied her hair and clothing styles. When she refurbished the White House, showcasing historic preservation and the arts, she won accolades. She performed "woman's work," albeit a society woman's work, and, for an America just waking up from the 1950s, that was enough.

But, as the '60s wore on, conventional notions of femininity gave way to feminism, and it was only a matter of time before those changed expectations infiltrated the White House. Increasingly, first ladies had to twist themselves into knots to meet modern ideas of what women could be, without exceeding the traditional bounds still enforced by large swaths of society--all under the increasingly intrusive eye of the public. Lady Bird Johnson, the first to try on this role, may have fared the best. Lady Bird's "actions rarely sparked criticism or controversy," writes Myra Gutin in The President's Partner: The First Lady in the Twentieth Century. "However, even though she did advocate projects that were safe, and was not an initiator, these criticisms are tempered by all that she did accomplish." She is widely cited as a catalyst for the modern environmental movement, and she pushed Lyndon subtly to the left. "Man, Lady Bird was just shrewd," sighs George Washington University Professor Allida Black. "She lobbied people behind the scenes and played a key role in Head Start as well as a crucial role in keeping the South in line after Johnson signed the Civil Rights Act." The first first lady to campaign without her husband, Lady Bird braved a whistle-stop tour of the South at a moment when her husband's programs were least popular. Lady Bird spoke of her "Southern birth, kinfolk, and memories" while pleading that it would be a "bottomless tragedy for our country to be racially divided."

Still, Lady Bird's outspoken defense of her husband's policies was tolerated precisely because they were his policies. A president who can't control his wife is seen as a president who can't control the country, as soon became apparent. In the summer of 1975, Betty Ford, in an interview on "60 Minutes," spoke frankly about sex, her relationship with her husband, drugs, abortion, and her children. Asked what she would do if her teenage daughter, Susan, had "an affair," the first lady said she "wouldn't be surprised" because "she's a perfectly normal human being like all young girls, and if she wanted to continue I would certainly counsel and advise her on the subject." The first lady admitted "all" her children had "tried marijuana" and that she probably would have, too, had she come of age in the '70s. Later that summer, the first lady told McCall's magazine that she wanted to have sex "as often as possible" and boasted that she "got a woman in the Cabinet" and was "working on getting a woman on the Supreme Court." "Mrs. Ford's candor may have killed her husband's chances of winning in 1976," writes historian Gil Troy in Mr. and Mrs. President: From the Trumans to the Clintons.

Rosalynn Carter came to the White House determined to be an activist first lady--particularly on mental health issues. But by then feminism's advance had made the balance between advocacy and wifely duties all but untenable. After Rosalynn toured Latin America on behalf of her husband in 1977, Judy Woodruff, then of NBC, sniffed, "You were handed an assignment simply because you were the wife of the president--isn't that kind of a setback for the women's movement?" Rosalynn was stuck: not feminist enough for feminists, too feminist for those who feared them. Her presence in Cabinet meetings provoked harsh criticism: When the president fired several of his Cabinet members in midsummer 1979, Rosalynn's defense of the purge prompted Republicans to dub her "Lady Macbeth," as though she were responsible for the shake-up. To defuse the situation, Rosalynn defensively told The Washington Post: "I sat in on the meetings. I don't say 'Do this' or 'Do that.' I don't ever do that to him. We just discuss things. I'm a wife. I like to know what's happening. I have never been interested in detail of policy and legislation." Her image as an adviser, she insisted, was "exaggerated."

Ultimately, of course, it was Hillary Clinton who exposed the agony of the office. After eight years and innumerable versions of Hillary Clinton, one sentiment can be distilled from every profile written about the former first lady: a distinct sense of discomfort. Too much of a feminist to be just a presidential accessory, she was a dubious feminist icon all the same. After staunchly retaining her maiden name for the first half of her professional career, she suddenly--and expediently--let it slip into second place behind her husband's, where it disappeared and reappeared throughout her husband's tenure in public office. Changing her image, her motivations, and her title (partner? co-president? first lady?) left her open to attack. No one knew quite what to do with her. The first first lady with a graduate degree, refusing to back away from a life of accomplishments? Or a battered and torn tarpaulin, badly shielding her husband's indiscretions?

The difference between the outgoing first lady and the incoming one was painfully obvious at their meeting in December: Hillary in her now-trademark black pantsuit, Laura in a terrible purple plaid number, looking like nothing so much as country mouse. When Laura later announced that the two women spoke about "everything" from "closets to ways to raise children in the White House," some interpreted it as a sign that the role of first lady was being returned to its pre-Hillary, pre-feminist roots. But it's not that simple. Much as they would deny it, Laura and the people around her are careful not to stray too far from the trail Hillary blazed. "Laura is inching toward a third way," says historian Troy; she's "not a feminist first lady but also isn't quite the throwback. She somehow exudes confidence and power, $(which$) makes it difficult to caricature her as some kind of dishrag first lady. That's where she's succeeded."

This carefully managed image of Laura Bush begins with a core, undisputed narrative, related in nearly every media profile by the same set of family friends and White House insiders. The daughter of a homemaker and a homebuilder, Laura hails from "unpretentious folks" in Midland, Texas, where children ran in the street until twilight, when they returned home to unlocked doors. Laura's was a storybook upbringing marred only, as all have breathlessly reported, by an eerie brush with death not long after her seventeenth birthday. (She ran a stop sign, inadvertently killing a friend.) Not long after, Laura left Midland for Southern Methodist University, where she was part of the "cusp" generation whose rebellion went no further than smoking Winstons and wearing peasant blouses. She then spent ten years teaching, earning a graduate degree in library science, and ostensibly not caring if she married or not.

It's an ideal setup: blank. Just enough to feel like she's within reach, not nearly enough to pin her down. And from there, profilers are allowed--indeed encouraged--to see in Laura Bush whatever they see lacking in her husband. Listen to Bush adviser Karl Rove, gushing to Vogue: "$(W$)hat people don't realize is that this is a woman of enormous strength. You have to be, I suspect, to be married to a Bush." In this telling, Laura is not an incidental but an essential ingredient of the Bush political machine. W., we're told, would never have made it to the White House without Laura's down-home insistence that he choose her or the bottle. She's the frontier wife, a babe on each hip, telling the man she fiercely loves that he better put down that Jack Daniels or walk right out that door. W.'s history of carousing and clowning (not so terribly unlike her second graders) was smoothed, "mellowed," by Laura--a role she has continued to play, according to her part-time biographers, in the White House. "Bushieeeee," she'll say with a warning lilt if his clowning goes too far. We heard it in her speech at the Republican convention when applause from the floor went on too long. "That's enough," Laura said sternly to her flock. Ah, we can all sigh. Laura will keep her mothering hand on our teenage president.

Yet equally important is Laura's demure refusal to confirm her centrality to the story--which leaves its true import open to interpretation, softening the image for those who might read it as a sign of presidential weakness or hidden female authority. "The ultimatum was an exaggeration," she told Harper's Bazaar. "I think that was a joke... $(W$)hen somebody gives up drinking, they're the ones who do it; they're the ones who deserve the credit." The Bazaar piece subtly shifts the iconography of this first lady back to a supporting role. In it, Doro Koch, W.'s sister, confirms, "She teases him a lot. She'll say, 'You're completely wrong.' She'll correct him, but not seriously." Adds Lynne Cheney, "She has no compulsion to put all of her accomplishments on the table... She doesn't feel a need to be anybody but who she is."

It's all part of the balancing act: a strong mothering figure but not just a mother, a traditional wife but also a contemporary woman. When Katie Couric asked Laura, within hours of the inauguration, if she was a "very traditional woman," Laura balked. "I don't think that's really exactly fair," she responded, "I've had traditional--jobs that were traditionally women's jobs... I had the luxury of staying home and raising my children... That was really what I wanted to do, was to be at home with them. But I also think that I've been a very contemporary woman in a lot of ways. I had a career for a number of years. I didn't marry George until I was in my thirties. I worked on issues always that are very, very important to me, either working as a teacher or librarian or working as a volunteer or working as the first lady of my state. And so I think I'm both ways."

Both ways, indeed. Although she was a stay-at-home mom, the Bush camp reminds reporters at every turn that Laura spent ten years in the classroom. "One of the things we really admire about Mrs. Bush," Noelia Rodriguez, Laura's press secretary, told CNN last week, "is that she's very much a contemporary woman. She had a career before she was married. She married ... in her early thirties, then had her children later." Phrases like "a teacher by training" are often tacked to Laura's name, simultaneously providing feminine bona fides and a weightiness the Bush camp appears to think "housewife" and "full-time mom" do not. It seems to have worked. Paul Burka, who profiled Laura for Texas Monthly, told Chris Matthews in April that, even though "she hasn't taught anything for years and years," teaching is a "big deal to her." Laura herself has told interviewers that "I've always done what traditional women do" but adds that she's also done what she "always wanted." In other words, nothing forced her to abandon her career for domesticity. She chose to.

The problem, of course, is that when you line up all these statements side by side, they conflict. By all accounts, it was Laura Bush's dream to teach. "Growing up, I practiced teaching on my dolls," she told Cokie Roberts in May, using the same line she employed at the Republican convention in August. "I'd line them up in rows for the day's lessons. Years later, our daughters did the same thing. We used to joke that the Bush family had the best-educated dolls in America." It's an anecdote recounted in a dozen profiles, all highlighting Laura's lifelong commitment to education. Indeed, according to the profiles, she never worried during her professional days about being a 30-year-old single woman in a conservative Texas town. "I never once heard her say, 'I wish I could find someone I wanted to marry,'" her oldest friend, Regan Gammon, told The Washington Post during the campaign. Her work was enough. But when she met George W. (marrying him a mere three months later), she gave up teaching faster than her former students emptied the classroom at the final bell. And she hasn't regretted her decision for an instant because, as a housewife, she has been utterly fulfilled.

And that's not the only perplexity. Consider another image beneficial to the Bush camp: Laura as a sophisticate, a cosmopolitan. She backpacked through 17 countries the year after college, we are informed; in subsequent years she has spent countless hours in museums and libraries. On her first trip to Europe as first lady, she was reportedly enraptured by her encounters with centuries-old books. Her comments to the rector of a library in Belgium--"It's so beautiful. I am myself a librarian, so I love libraries in particular"--were among the few made public to her waiting media entourage. British newspapers, anticipating the first couple's second tour, dug around and discovered that Laura had spent the summer of 1971 in England on a teaching exchange trip.

Again, it's a politically useful tableau. She is someone who, one would think, would otherwise not find George W. compelling. (Can you picture W. spending time in a library anywhere, let alone in a country where most of the books aren't in English?) Ergo, if Laura finds George W. fulfilling, he must have something more to offer than the bumbling, parochial presentation we see day to day. Her years immersed in the Western canon subtly counteract the image of her husband as shallow and glib. As Dan Quayle showed, it is critical that a male politician suspected of being dim-witted not have a dim-witted wife. And yet, for all the seriousness that Laura's reading brings to her husband's persona, she never expresses a controversial or sophisticated idea about the great books she has thought so much about. She is a deep thinker utterly free of the dark angst or subversive notions that might come from such contemplation. Take her favorite moment in literature, the "Grand Inquisitor" chapter of Dostoevsky's The Brothers Karamazov. Asked about this ambiguous and unsettling passage--in which Christ returns to earth only to be arrested as a heretic and threatened with burning at the stake--Laura replied bafflingly, "It's about life, and it's about death, and it's about Christ. I find it really reassuring."

But it is when Laura Bush makes her tepid forays into the world of policy and politics that the tension between her competing images--between the conflicting expectations that so bedeviled her predecessors--is most salient. She has called herself a "Republican by marriage," even admitting to Oprah Winfrey that, had she not married "43," she has "wondered if $(she$) would have voted for the first President Bush--number 41." Like all Laura propaganda, it's a carefully planned admission, allowing us a false sense of intimacy. It shouts to soccer moms: Her husband's policies may make us shudder, but the pillow talk in the living quarters tempers the man.

Or does it? In a "Today" show interview last January, Laura expressed support for leaving Roe v. Wade untouched. Many liberals were relieved, interpreting her admission as a white flag to pro-choice Americans. (It took years for Nancy Reagan and Barbara Bush to reveal the same inclination.) But, queried on that ostensibly candid moment, she has retreated from any suggestion that her personal views matter. She told Oprah that she and George W. "agree on nearly every issue." Pressed further, Laura assured America that the first couple "never sit around and discuss policy" because "the last thing George wants to do is come home and talk about politics with me after he has talked about that all day." When Paula Zahn asked Laura, "What's the best advice you think you've given your husband since you've come to Washington?" Laura demurred with a silly, unlikely nonanswer that surely pleased the conservative audience on Fox News: "Let's see, I don't know. Cut his hair or something. I don't give him a lot of advice. I don't want him to give me a lot of advice. We don't really give each other a lot of advice. I hope that we give each other a lot more support than advice." To Wolf Blitzer she said, "I think wives have to be just a little bit careful about giving their husbands all of their opinions."

On education, Laura has cultivated the role of public advocate, burnishing her husband's reputation as someone personally committed to the issue. This in turn has led her to endorse such unassailable projects as Teach for America, Reading Is Fundamental, and Troops to Teachers. But Bush's budget proposed eliminating federal funding for Reading Is Fundamental--and Laura, of course, expressed no dissent. Members of Teach for America, angered by education budget cuts, wore anti-Laura stickers at the organization's March conference in California. "I was not elected and George was," Laura has said, "I would never want to undermine him in any way... $(Being the first lady$) gives me the opportunity to further his policy initiatives on education, which I'm going to do. As first lady, one of my roles is to support his policies." Even, apparently, when those policies run counter to her own feelings.

And yet neither she nor her husband has suffered from these contradictions. A poll released last week by the Pew Research Center shows Laura with a 64 percent favorability rating. Although Hillary Clinton enjoyed a 60 percent favorability rating at the same point in her tenure, she was, according to Pew, a "far more divisive figure." Listening (and not listening) to Laura at Georgetown last week, it was pretty obvious why. Hillary forced the issue, fighting against the limitations and contradictions of her role, trying to carve out a public identity true to her private self--through her struggles, implicitly asking us to make up our minds about a woman's proper role in society. Laura Bush, by contrast, does not try to answer that question. She does not even acknowledge it. Which, deep down, may be exactly what we want.

second word is Gracias which means she's either an incredibly polite girl or spending more time in Spanish than in English. Or both.

Departures

Download DEPd_UK_04_DCX_MADRID2 

A pdf of my Departures story

 

3 minutes to SOTU. Waiting on Don't Ask, Don't Tell. Michelle looks fabulous, of course.

Rust Belt Blues

I've owned this blog for years now, dormant and untended to.  I've decided to tentatively dip my toe back in the water of daily blogging, something I haven't done since blogging for the American Prospect in the middle of the last decade. 

Reading today's "This Land" column by Dan Barry - about the movement of the NCR corporation from Dayton,Ohio to Atlanta reminded me of this piece I wrote early on in my time at the New Republic.  I'll repost here, as TNR no longer has online archives.

My grandmother was still alive when I wrote this, though ailing, like her city.  Unlike her husband, who I've written about more extensively, my grandmother was raised in the Northeast, by immigrant parents, and, though she traveled extensively - from Morocco to Japan to Peru and beyond - it was Pittsfield, Ma and its neighboring, lakeshore community, Lanesboro, that she called home.

Pittsfield somehow has avoided the posh Berkshire summer hoards, though even Pittsfield is changing now. In truth, it's a beautiful city with stately turn-of-the-last century homes set against the Berkshire mountains.  But it struggles, still.

The New Republic

MARCH 6, 2000

City Limits

BYLINE: Sarah Wildman(Copyright 2000, The New Republic)

SECTION: Pg. 46

LENGTH: 1758 words

HIGHLIGHT: Pittsfield Diarist

During the sundaymorning talk shows, a barrage of General Electric commercials drive home the company's corporate message: "We're a good neighbor." G.E. employees and retirees, one ad tells us, will spend more than a million hours this year doing community service. But none of the glossy spots--invariably showing beautiful people, presumably G.E. employees, teaching disadvantaged children to read and dance--mention the countless hours the company will spend this year dredging up pollutants in Pittsfield, Massachusetts.

growing up, i always thought it odd that my grandparents lived in Pittsfield. Technically, the city is in the Berkshires, a region renowned for gorgeous mountains, crystalline lakes, Tanglewood, the Williamstown Theater Festival, and Jacob's Pillow. But "summer in the Berkshires," as the tourist brochures read, doesn't come to Pittsfield. The downtown is dead, empty of pedestrians and consumer life. "Red Lobster comes to Pittsfield and closes," one local restaurateur observed to a trade magazine in 1998. "What does that tell you?"

it wasn't always this way. in 1903 G.E. purchased its first building in Pittsfield, and for the next 70 years the company--and the city--prospered. Pittsfield became a center for G.E.'s transformer, plastic, and defense industries. At its height, during World War II, the company's Pittsfield plant employed close to 14,000 people; in the '50s, three of every four town workers were employed by G.E. "Graduate from high school on Friday," the saying went, "start working at G.E. on Monday." And G.E.'s high wages made Pittsfield a prosperous place. Photographs from the '50s show North Street, today a desolate strip of boarded-up buildings, alive with activity: spanking new sedans cruise the streets, shoppers crowd the sidewalks, and merchandise fills every storefront window. A few blocks away was the train station--an architectural gem modeled after the old Pennsylvania Station in New York City- -through which hundreds of travelers passed each day. It has since been torn down.

but in the '70s g.e.'s eye began to wander. As foreign competition increased and prices for raw materials rose, the company began to shift its operations to the nonunion South, where production costs were lower. By the early '90s, G.E. had shuttered all but one plant in Pittsfield. The company now employs about 700 people, a mere five percent of its wartime high.

a pretty typical story, really. Over the past three decades, vast chunks of industry have moved from the Rust Belt to the Sun Belt. While G.E. may have shown a lack of loyalty, corporate willingness to shed unprofitable plants is at least part of the reason for America's recent manufacturing revival. What G.E. did to Pittsfield would have been sad but hardly criminal, except for one thing: pollutants. In 1977, the Environmental Protection Agency revealed that the Housatonic River (which runs through Pittsfield) and the town's groundwater were heavily contaminated with polychlorinated biphenyls, or PCBs.  Fill contaminated with the chemicals was used by the city to build everything from schoolyards and playgrounds to backyards. PCBs were one of G. E.'s ultramodern tools: nonflammable fluids used as insulation in electric transformers. G.E. workers had been, quite literally, knee-deep in the stuff from the late '20s until 1977, when its use was outlawed. That year, the EPA declared that PCBs were probable carcinogens with definitive noncancer health effects that included liver and nervous-system damage. They were also thought to cause developmental abnormalities, including lower IQs, in fetuses and young children.

the neighborly thing to do, of course, would have been for G.E. to clean up the mess it made. After all, there was ample evidence of the damage PCBs had wrought in Pittsfield. One study revealed that children exposed for just one summer to a stretch of the Housatonic "face d noncancer risks 200 times higher than the hazard-index level EPA considers safe." G.E.'s industrial park, which the company had abandoned, was so contaminated that no other industry could move into it. And 130 residential properties were found to have alarming levels of PCBs. But G.E. didn't do the neighborly thing. Although the company stopped using PCBs when the EPA outlawed them, G.E. didn't take sufficient measures to prevent the pollutants underneath its plant from seeping into the groundwater and nearby river. When the EPA proposed designating Pittsfield a "Super Fund" cleanup site, the company threatened to close its one remaining local office. Officially, G.E. was just looking out for Pittsfield--Super Fund status, it claimed, would "saddle the city unnecessarily with the stigma." But, in reality, it was G.E. that didn't want to fork over hundreds of millions of dollars for cleanup, or the stigma an EPA designation would create. A company with one of the highest market capitalizations of any U.S. corporation was crying poverty.

g.e.'s hard line divided pittsfield. In 28 full-page ads in the local newspaper, The Berkshire Eagle, the company continued to deny its responsibility for decontamination.The city's business community, worried that publicity about the pollution might further damage Pittsfield's already depressed economy, warned community activists to keep quiet. Meanwhile, activists working to hold G.E. accountable for the PCBs split into two groups: one worried about making Pittsfield safe for homeowners, while the other was primarily concerned with cleaning up the river. Various attempts to remodel Pittsfield into a Berkshires tourist attraction--like the neighboring towns of Lenox and Great Barrington--foundered. Right now, Pittsfield's most promising redevelopment plan comes from folksinger Arlo Guthrie, who wants to open a nightclub and restaurant in the abandoned downtown.

last october, 22 years after the pollution was first revealed, G.E. signed what residents hope is the first of many cleanup deals. The company agreed to begin dredging the first two of the 55 miles of the Housatonic that are contaminated by PCBs; G.E. estimates this will take about $150 million, but some believe the cleanup may eventually reach $800 million. And the October environmental agreement only covers the pollution of east Pittsfield. In December the EPA announced that west Pittsfield, long thought to be free from pollutants, was similarly contaminated. "We're going to have to take a look at the findings," said one G.E. spokesman, "and review the data before we can draw any conclusions"--as if the pollutants could have come from any other source.

my grandfather died in 1990. but my grandmother still lives in Pittsfield. If you ask her, she'll happily recall the days when she went to the Pittsfield station to take the train to New York or fought the crowds on North Street to get into stores. But she doesn't venture out too much anymore.  She tells me, "I'm not the gal I used to be." Neither is Pittsfield.

LOAD-DATE: March 1, 2000

Rust Belt Blues

I've owned this blog for years now, dormant and untended to.  I've decided to tentatively dip my toe back in the water of daily blogging, something I haven't done since blogging for the American Prospect in the middle of the last decade. 

Reading today's "This Land" column by Dan Barry - about the movement of the NCR corporation from Dayton,Ohio to Atlanta reminded me of this piece I wrote early on in my time at the New Republic.  I'll repost here, as TNR no longer has online archives.

My grandmother was still alive when I wrote this, though ailing, like her city.  Unlike her husband, who I've written about more extensively, my grandmother was raised in the Northeast, by immigrant parents, and, though she traveled extensively - from Morocco to Japan to Peru and beyond - it was Pittsfield, Ma and its neighboring, lakeshore community, Lanesboro, that she called home.

Pittsfield somehow has avoided the posh Berkshire summer hoards, though even Pittsfield is changing now. In truth, it's a beautiful city with stately turn-of-the-last century homes set against the Berkshire mountatins.  But it struggles, still.

The New Republic

 

MARCH 6, 2000

 

City Limits

 

BYLINE: Sarah Wildman(Copyright 2000, The New Republic)

 

SECTION: Pg. 46

 

LENGTH: 1758 words

 

HIGHLIGHT: Pittsfield Diarist

 

 

During the sundaymorning talk shows, a barrage of General Electric commercials drive home the company's corporate message: "We're a good neighbor." G.E. employees and retirees, one ad tells us, will spend more than a million hours this year doing community service. But none of the glossy spots--invariably showing beautiful people, presumably G.E. employees, teaching disadvantaged children to read and dance--mention the countless hours the company will spend this year dredging up pollutants in Pittsfield, Massachusetts.

growing up, i always thought it odd that my grandparents lived in Pittsfield. Technically, the city is in the Berkshires, a region renowned for gorgeous mountains, crystalline lakes, Tanglewood, the Williamstown Theater Festival, and Jacob's Pillow. But "summer in the Berkshires," as the tourist brochures read, doesn't come to Pittsfield. The downtown is dead, empty of pedestrians and consumer life. "Red Lobster comes to Pittsfield and closes," one local restaurateur observed to a trade magazine in 1998. "What does that tell you?"

it wasn't always this way. in 1903 G.E. purchased its first building in Pittsfield, and for the next 70 years the company--and the city--prospered. Pittsfield became a center for G.E.'s transformer, plastic, and defense industries. At its height, during World War II, the company's Pittsfield plant employed close to 14,000 people; in the '50s, three of every four town workers were employed by G.E. "Graduate from high school on Friday," the saying went, "start working at G.E. on Monday." And G.E.'s high wages made Pittsfield a prosperous place. Photographs from the '50s show North Street, today a desolate strip of boarded-up buildings, alive with activity: spanking new sedans cruise the streets, shoppers crowd the sidewalks, and merchandise fills every storefront window. A few blocks away was the train station--an architectural gem modeled after the old Pennsylvania Station in New York City- -through which hundreds of travelers passed each day. It has since been torn down.

but in the '70s g.e.'s eye began to wander. As foreign competition increased and prices for raw materials rose, the company began to shift its operations to the nonunion South, where production costs were lower. By the early '90s, G.E. had shuttered all but one plant in Pittsfield. The company now employs about 700 people, a mere five percent of its wartime high.

a pretty typical story, really. Over the past three decades, vast chunks of industry have moved from the Rust Belt to the Sun Belt. While G.E. may have shown a lack of loyalty, corporate willingness to shed unprofitable plants is at least part of the reason for America's recent manufacturing revival. What G.E. did to Pittsfield would have been sad but hardly criminal, except for one thing: pollutants. In 1977, the Environmental Protection Agency revealed that the Housatonic River (which runs through Pittsfield) and the town's groundwater were heavily contaminated with polychlorinated biphenyls, or PCBs.  Fill contaminated with the chemicals was used by the city to build everything from schoolyards and playgrounds to backyards. PCBs were one of G. E.'s ultramodern tools: nonflammable fluids used as insulation in electric transformers. G.E. workers had been, quite literally, knee-deep in the stuff from the late '20s until 1977, when its use was outlawed. That year, the EPA declared that PCBs were probable carcinogens with definitive noncancer health effects that included liver and nervous-system damage. They were also thought to cause developmental abnormalities, including lower IQs, in fetuses and young children.

the neighborly thing to do, of course, would have been for G.E. to clean up the mess it made. After all, there was ample evidence of the damage PCBs had wrought in Pittsfield. One study revealed that children exposed for just one summer to a stretch of the Housatonic "face d noncancer risks 200 times higher than the hazard-index level EPA considers safe." G.E.'s industrial park, which the company had abandoned, was so contaminated that no other industry could move into it. And 130 residential properties were found to have alarming levels of PCBs. But G.E. didn't do the neighborly thing. Although the company stopped using PCBs when the EPA outlawed them, G.E. didn't take sufficient measures to prevent the pollutants underneath its plant from seeping into the groundwater and nearby river. When the EPA proposed designating Pittsfield a "Super Fund" cleanup site, the company threatened to close its one remaining local office. Officially, G.E. was just looking out for Pittsfield--Super Fund status, it claimed, would "saddle the city unnecessarily with the stigma." But, in reality, it was G.E. that didn't want to fork over hundreds of millions of dollars for cleanup, or the stigma an EPA designation would create. A company with one of the highest market capitalizations of any U.S. corporation was crying poverty.

g.e.'s hard line divided pittsfield. In 28 full-page ads in the local newspaper, The Berkshire Eagle, the company continued to deny its responsibility for decontamination.The city's business community, worried that publicity about the pollution might further damage Pittsfield's already depressed economy, warned community activists to keep quiet. Meanwhile, activists working to hold G.E. accountable for the PCBs split into two groups: one worried about making Pittsfield safe for homeowners, while the other was primarily concerned with cleaning up the river. Various attempts to remodel Pittsfield into a Berkshires tourist attraction--like the neighboring towns of Lenox and Great Barrington--foundered. Right now, Pittsfield's most promising redevelopment plan comes from folksinger Arlo Guthrie, who wants to open a nightclub and restaurant in the abandoned downtown.

last october, 22 years after the pollution was first revealed, G.E. signed what residents hope is the first of many cleanup deals. The company agreed to begin dredging the first two of the 55 miles of the Housatonic that are contaminated by PCBs; G.E. estimates this will take about $150 million, but some believe the cleanup may eventually reach $800 million. And the October environmental agreement only covers the pollution of east Pittsfield. In December the EPA announced that west Pittsfield, long thought to be free from pollutants, was similarly contaminated. "We're going to have to take a look at the findings," said one G.E. spokesman, "and review the data before we can draw any conclusions"--as if the pollutants could have come from any other source.

my grandfather died in 1990. but my grandmother still lives in Pittsfield. If you ask her, she'll happily recall the days when she went to the Pittsfield station to take the train to New York or fought the crowds on North Street to get into stores. But she doesn't venture out too much anymore.  She tells me, "I'm not the gal I used to be." Neither is Pittsfield.

 

LOAD-DATE: March 1, 2000