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July 27, 2007
World’s End
About 20 years ago, global financial markets were buoyant and real estate prices were soaring. Edelman’s London office had been a phenomenal success since its inception in 1967. Its offices, located in a former royal’s home near Hyde Park Corner, overlooked the park and were right in the middle of the action. The then chief executive of the unit, confronted by a rent review that would have escalated costs by 50%, made the decision to relocate the firm’s 100 people to Chelsea, well out on the King’s Road, to a neighborhood known as World’s End. It was a 15 minute ride to the closest subway stop and certainly far away from clients and the media. In the decade that followed, the business shrank to half of its former size and Edelman dropped out of the Top 10 in the market.
It is facile to suggest that our problems in the UK during that period were exclusively related to real estate. But for PR firms, decisions about location that are based solely on cost are simply not intelligent. We are in a people business; attracting and retaining the best and brightest is the whole game. If premises are shabby and badly overcrowded, the company will not be able to compete.
I know this from bitter personal experience. While I was general manager, Edelman NY moved in the early 80s to 1775 Broadway. We grew far more quickly than expected and by the end of the lease term, we had people sitting on each other’s laps. We lost promising talent because they could be more comfortable elsewhere. My personal low-light; mice ate the chocolate covered cholesterol lowering tablets that we were to send out to media for client Warner-Lambert (may their arteries be unclogged forever).
We are at a point in the real estate cycle where rents are climbing inexorably, to unprecedented levels. This is forcing companies to behave irrationally. For example, Ernst & Young has decided that its PR professionals should be relocated from the Midtown Manhattan headquarters to suburban New Jersey. This will not work. Nor will “hoteling” where multiple professionals utilize the same work spaces because of frequent travel, tele-commuting and work at the client’s location.
Our business relies on proximity to media and the ability to interact with culture. We will not succeed in a suburban office park because our product is intangible. Mitch Markson, our global creative director, just walked in here with an idea for a client campaign. I gave him two or three more concepts in a five minute interaction. My mind is influenced by events of the last 12 hours, including going to an the avant-garde production of Richard III in which a disabled man plays a sympathetic villain, my early-morning subway ride, what I see out of the window in Times Square and my discussion with an Italian PR man teaching at a US university. We are part of the world of expression.
I know that we all have to make money at the end of the day. So we will have to face a future of smaller offices, less square foot per person and more open plan architecture akin to a newsroom. Where we work is as important to the end product as how we work. I would appreciate your comments as always.
Posted by Edelman at 12:58 PM
Comments
yes, it is location, location, location. Or martini media....being in the right place, at the right time with the right client. I don't think the future is more people working in a smaller space. I think the industry is moving to fewer people working in the premium space - at least that's how it is panning out in Holland, where we have enough connectivity via broadband to do a lot of things, but nothing beats face2face brainstorming. Hotelling and banning to the suburbs is simply false economy.
Posted by: Jonathan Marks at July 30, 2007 1:40 PM
It is people, people, people. Not just how many work in the office, but how many (and how many different onces) are around.
Enjoyed this post.
Cheers.
Rajesh
Posted by: Rajesh at August 12, 2007 2:08 AM
A reciprocal issue that I am worried about is where will the young employees, artists, writers, actors and academics that fuel our experience and ideas in midtown Manhattan be able to find affordable housing ? Increasingly employees are facing 45 minute to 1 hour+ commutes on crumbling and unreliable infrastructure in order to have somehwhat affordable housing and an interesting job. I wonder if when my firm's lease is up if there is value in looking at places like Williamsburg not to save money but to be more convenient for new talent and closer to new ideas.
Posted by: steve rabin at August 13, 2007 6:06 PM
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| TrackBackJuly 17, 2007
We Are What We Repeatedly Do
The Shorenstein Center on Press, Politics and Public Policy at the JFK School of Government at Harvard University released a study last week on media consumption patterns of American teens, young adults and older adults, titled “Young People and News.” The report is an invaluable guide to those of us in the PR business, trying to reach readers and viewers with our clients’ stories.
Here are a few of the important conclusions from the special report:
1) Wide Generational Gap-Media consumption patterns are now determined by age and education, not by education alone. According to the report, “age and education are now equally powerful predictors of respondents’ news exposure. Studies of only a few decades ago showed that education was highly correlated with news use whereas age was not.” A third to 60% of teens and a fourth to 50% of young adults pay little or no attention to daily news coverage.
2) Division of Attention—In prior periods, people who “followed the news in one medium were more likely to follow it elsewhere. (Now) the level of citizens’ attention to news in one medium is a weak predictor of how much news they will obtain from other media.” There is now a “division of attention” among various media, so that consumers of news “if they have an interest will find a television or Internet outlet for it but not necessarily both. The news has its place…and mediums, too, have their place or no place. A person might read the newspaper for public affairs coverage, watch television for entertainment or a dozen other content and medium combinations.”
3) Less Recall—Only 40% of respondents who “claimed exposure to a story actually knew the factual element (with guessing taken into account). Older respondents were more aware of both soft and hard news stories but the gap is larger on hard news. Among teens, awareness of hard news stories was “a whopping thirty percentage points below that of older adults and 17 points below on soft news stories.”
4) Source of News— The number one medium for all three age groups for “first seeing the news story” is television, with radio and newspaper lagging badly. Local newscasts and cable news networks were the most important sources for older adults on “first to see news”, with substantial drop-off in younger generations. The websites of national news organizations score highest among teens and young adults on this metric. Twenty eight percent of teens said they first were exposed to a story by hearing about it from another person, compared to 12% for young adults and 4% for older adults (Note: this confirms power of person like yourself in the Edelman Trust Barometer as the single most credible source of information in most countries).
5) Frequency and Depth of Exposure—Teens are exposed much less often to mainstream media of all types than older adults and somewhat less exposed than young adults. For example, 57% of older adults watch national TV news every day versus 31% of teens. Teen consumption patterns also differ in depth of exposure, with only 33% watching most or all of a local TV newscast, versus the 64% of older adults who watch all or most of the local newscast.
Here are a few thoughts on how this study bears on the world of PR. Our job is to earn reader/viewer exposure to news. It is clear that we will have to tell our stories differently, incorporating video, adapting to a more short-form style. The change must be in more than format; our stories will have to embrace larger trends (note success of our work for Trojan, the condom makers, who seek to change the conversation about sex in the US). We will have to go new gathering places such as MySpace to inform the hubs of discussion, providing the option to engage, not just receive information.
We cannot afford to have “media simply reinforce existing interests rather than create new ones.” We need an educated and involved populace for a vital democratic system in which free enterprise prospers. The report concludes with a quote from Aristotle’s Ethos, “We are what we repeatedly do.” We have to win back the next generation to media with compelling content, ease of use and a voice in the outcome.
Posted by Edelman at 2:09 PM
Comments
Richard,
Brands will face an increasing challenge in the future to reach this new media fragmented generation. Anyone in the industry (or who is a parent like I am) has had a front row seat to the continuing disconnection between current events / daily news consumption and the next generation. I'm actually a bit surprised the number of teens watching TV newscasts is still over 30%, as stated in the study. This issue obviously has bigger implications for our society beyond just media consumption trends. Thanks for the overview.
Posted by: Mike Spataro at July 17, 2007 11:14 PM
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| TrackBackJuly 11, 2007
Two Suitcases
I attended a dinner in New York City last night, sponsored by the International Business Leaders Forum (IBLF), a London-based non-governmental organization (disclosure: I am the new chairman of the IBLF in North America) dedicated to the proposition that business is “at the heart of sustainable development.” There were some important observations during the dinner, which may be of use to all of us giving advice on these kinds of issues.
The most remarkable story was told by Mr. K.V. Kamath, the CEO of ICICI Bank, a large Indian financial institution. He said that his bank is pursuing business in rural India by sending out financial executives with two suitcases a marriage of old and new India. The first contains a folding table and two folding chairs. The second has a wireless-enabled PC, a camera and a biometric device that records fingerprint impressions. In this way, the bank is able to offer microfinance to farmers, a direct deposit mechanism for factory workers and credit facilities for small purchases such as food. “We are actually leap-frogging technology—we are using a higher tech approach in the rural areas because it makes sense to do business that way. We cannot afford branch banks there; we create a virtual branch, adjacent to a cell tower.”
Alan Hassenfeld, chairman of Hasbro, made a fundamental point about working effectively along the global supply chain. “We cannot drive the local manufacturers in China crazy with all kinds of different specifications. In one factory, I noticed that there were different dirt marks for the lighting appliances, at 8, 8 ½ feet and 9 feet. That was because individual company top brass would come on a semi-annual visit and the manufacturer would change the height per the contract with each of them.” The toy industry has persuaded manufacturers, brand holders, and global retailers to sign a code of conduct on labor standards, a collective action that has been advised and approved by major NGOs.
Jane Nelson of the IBLF and the JFK School of Government at Harvard, noted the importance of individual leadership at companies. “The Prince of Wales, founding sponsor of the IBLF, recognized early on the need for champions at the top of companies. She added that the IBLF works CSR into government economic development strategies, such as the Vietnam Business Links initiative on Footwear.
The role of business in solving these greater societal issues depends on the acceptance of the premise that private enterprise needs to make money on these ventures, said Sunil Mittal, CEO of Bharti Enterprises, the large Indian cellular telephone player. “There is profitable business to be done in rural India,” he said. “Thirty five percent of the produce grown locally goes to waste. We need to build new roads, have new trucks, and make farmers aware of prices at local markets. All of this can be done by entrepreneurs.” Mr. Mittal went on to say that in his country, “the aspiration levels are up. We have a small window in time in which to give children the capacity to participate in the economy through education. Fully half of those living in poverty in India are children. We need to give them skills.”
Robert Davies, founder of IBLF and global CEO, is an inspirational man who believes that real change will be initiated by the private sector. His parting words to the group last night suggested that business has a real profit opportunity in the less developed part of the world and responsibility for solving key issues from climate change to HIV AIDS. But he noted that business must conduct its affairs transparently, with cooperation from civil society and to work along side government. There is an all-important job here for public relations, to make the case for private sector leadership, then keeping all stakeholders informed throughout the process.
Posted by Edelman at 3:33 PM
Comments
I fully agree with your insightful perspective, actually there is a similar thread at Frontier Blog
( http://www.hwswworld.com/wp )
Posted by: Edward at July 16, 2007 12:44 AM
While there is lots to be done, rural India is going through the same transformation that urban India is. I have seen bits of that change and it is fascinating to see farmers leverage technology to monitor weather and seed accordingly, send soil for tests, get payments through electronic transfers and use smart cards to withdraw many. Just a few surface shits, so much more beneath.
Cheers
R
Posted by: Rajesh at August 12, 2007 2:15 AM
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| TrackBackJuly 5, 2007
A Journey with Purpose
Martin Becker, who survived four terrible years as a teenage prisoner in Auschwitz- Birkenau, returned to the death camp yesterday with his only child, his daughter Gail, her husband John, and their two young sons, Josh and Eli. I came along with my two younger daughters, Tory and Amanda, and our good friend Mitch Markson (Mitch, Gail and I work together at Edelman). Mr. Becker, now 80, returned at the request of his daughter, so that her children would understand their grandfather’s ordeal and would pass the story along to future generations.
As you walk out of the Auschwitz museum and into the courtyard, the infamous entrance to the camp looms ahead, with the motto, “Arbeit Macht Frei,” loosely translated work liberates your soul. Assorted red brick buildings that housed slave labor for the nearby work camps give the false impression of normality, a faux representation of a university campus. We walk into the structures, totally unprepared for the horrors within. In successive chambers are the detritus of those who were harried from their homes, shipped in cattle cars without food or water for days on end, then in many cases were killed on their first day. There was an exhibit of human hair, eight picture windows wide, now all turned grey except for a locket of bright red hair, which one can imagine on a freckle-faced child. The stacks of eyeglasses, all wire-rimmed, are jumbled in another window, adjacent to the collection of leather valises, with names on the side like Epstein, Schwartz, and Cohen for easy identification.
We then came to Crematorium #1, a squat building about half the size of a football field. This was an experimental facility, where various forms of chemical asphyxiation were used, from carbon monoxide to the eventual winner, Zyklon B gas. You walk through the doors of death from the undressing area outside to the “showers”, a rectangular room in total darkness, except for the two small openings to the sky, where SS officers poured their deadly poison, then closed the lid on the prisoners, who survived between one and 20 minutes. Mr. Becker walked us to the cremation chamber next door and pointed to the ovens, with rails to facilitate easy movement of the corpses on trolleys.
Then he told us this chilling tale. “I had to pull out the gold teeth from the dead people. I had to be very careful never to miss any fillings. The Germans took my friend Eric, from Belgium, and threw him directly into the ovens because he missed a gold tooth. I had a pair of pliers and opened up the jaws to take the teeth. I did this every day for four years. The Hungarians had the most gold teeth.”
Terribly shaken, our group went on to Birkenau, the enormous death trap that you can have nightmares about for the rest of your life. It is vast, an abattoir reminiscent of the Chicago Stock Yards. The twin train lines went right through the main gate into the central courtyard. “This is where the SS doctors did the selection,” Mr. Becker said. “To the left went those who were to work, to the right those who would be executed immediately.” He went on to say that both of his parents, his father the dentist, his mother the violinist and her parents were sent to the right, while he and his brother went to the left. He did not understand what happened until he asked a few days later about the fate of the transport from Sachenhausen. He came to this camp from Sachenhausen prison camp in Germany in 1941.
We then went to Barracks #4, where Mr. Becker lived for his entire time in Birkenau, a rectangular building of plain brown wood that must have provided the most minimal possible shelter for its inhabitants. He walked slowly to a bunk part way along the left wall, gently felt the middle bunk and said, “Yes. Here is where I slept with four other men. I remember one night the man next to me was very cold. In the morning he was dead. We had to take him outside to the crematorium.” He told us that some nights he slept on top of the brick kiln that was the only source of heat in the winter. “I remember that I got bread from men who were too sick to eat it. It was the only way to survive; to hope that you found a piece of potato in the soup, to eat it as quickly as you could.”
He remembered clearly the day in January, 1945 that the Russians liberated his camp. “I saw them outside of the fence. The SS had blown up the crematoriums to hide their crimes a few days earlier. Then they left some guards to finish us off but the SS decided to save their own skins and run away. When the Russians came in, I was too weak to run to them. A Jewish officer in the Russian Army was kind to me, fed me. I weighed only 55 pounds by then.”
Our final stop on this day was Crematorium #2 and #3, at the back end of the complex. All that remains is a twisted mass of bricks and metal, but at the back of Crematorium #2, totally intact, is the set of stairs down into the undressing room. “This is the way I walked every day, “said Mr. Becker, “I remember the metal plates on the side of the wall because I touched them every morning on the way in. I walked through this area through the gas chamber to the area next to the ovens, because that is where I worked.” He recalled the constant hunger that tormented him. “It did not matter to me whether it was hot or cold. We were hungry.” He then turned to my friend Mitch, whom he called Moshe, and said, “I don’t know whether you would have made it here, Moshe. You are so cultured and kind.”
We walked a short distance to Crematorium #3, passing a monument to the martyrs, with Mr. Becker grasping the hands of his daughter and her oldest son, Joshua. The inscription on the monument, written in several languages, says, “For ever let this be a cry of despair and a warning to humanity.” We put on our yarmulkes to say Kaddish for Mr. Becker’s family. Gail has a photo of her grandparents, so young and proud, which she places next to three candles that we light in their honor. He raises his hands to the sky and weeping with all of us, says his prayers, then walks away, telling all of us, “I will never come back to this place of evil. I have come to remember my family and now it is finished.”
Martin Becker left Auschwitz-Birkenau after liberation and made his way back to his home town of Karlsruhe, Germany. He waited for friends and family to return but nobody did. He was given money by the Jewish Federation to fund his trip to New York. He served for three years in the US Army in Korea, where he saw action against the Chinese Army, and then settled in San Francisco, where he lives today, still working in the food industry where he built a successful canned-good distribution business.
Elie Wiesel, a fellow survivor of Auschwitz-Birkenau, in the introduction to his book, “Night,” writes, “For in the end, it is all about memory, its sources and its magnitude and of course its consequences. For the survivor who chooses to testify, it is clear his duty is to bear witness for the dead and for the living.” Martin Becker, for all of us who made this Journey of Purpose with you, especially your two grandsons, you have given us a Mitzvah, a special memory that we will be sure to relate to all whom we encounter. We are joined with you forever in preserving this vital piece of history, so that it never happens again.
Amanda Edelman and Martin Becker at Crematorium #2 at Birkenau
Richard Edelman at Birkenau Fence Line
Posted by Edelman at 9:19 AM
Comments
Richard:
Thank you for taking the time to transfer your experience to us so eloquently so we can also experience it. The positive aspect of this, I suppose, is a reminder that life is sacred and we are blessed to be alive and active and we should be grateful for all we have. I can't imagine going through life with that experience imprinted on my mind. But Martin Becker is one of the lucky ones. He survived.
Mark
Posted by: Mark Rose at July 6, 2007 12:06 PM
Richard and Gail-
I just wanted to say thank you for sharing this intimately personal experience so widely. It’s a testament to character and to some extent duty.
I worked in the Atlanta and San Francisco offices of Edelman, and though my journey would take me to different places, I feel compelled to stay connected and this is just another example of why that’s so.
Once again, I appreciate the fact that you have looked beyond the call of campaigns and clients for a conversation that should never and will never be silenced. To that end, I’ll share my personal favorite passage for Elie Wiesel’s important book, Night, that I carried with me as I toured Auschwitz and Birkenau in 2001:
“Never shall I forget that night, the first night in camp, which has turned my life into one long night, seven times cursed and seven times sealed. Never shall I forget that smoke. Never shall I forget the little faces of the children, whose bodies I saw turned into wreaths of smoke beneath a silent blue sky.
Never shall I forget those flames which consumed my faith forever.
Never shall I forget that nocturnal silence which deprived me, for all eternity, of the desire to live. Never shall I forget those moments which murdered my God and my soul and turned my dreams to dust. Never shall I forget these things, even if I am condemned to live as long as God Himself. Never. “
Should my journey bring me back to Edelman, it is due to a sense of family, values and purpose that strives to be something bigger than we are.
In great respect,
-Eric Glass
Posted by: Eric Glass at July 6, 2007 12:07 PM
Richard:
Thank you for sharing this powerful and moving story.
Thomas
Posted by: Thomas graham at July 10, 2007 4:25 PM
Mr. Edelman:
Your article is very touching. Thank you for sharing this experience with us.
Regards,
Roberto
Posted by: Roberto Grad at July 11, 2007 12:46 PM
Hello Richard,
I recently read your July 5 blog posting, “A Journey with Purpose.” Thank you for sharing your experience.
Back in 1992, I attended a trip called the March of the Living, where we visited Poland to commemorate Holocaust Remembrance Day and then traveled to Israel where we celebrated Israeli Independence Day. I was only 15 at the time, but the experience had a profound effect on me. Yes, it was important to see first-hand what happened during the Holocaust and share those experiences with others so its memory will live on and not be forgotten. It also made me extremely proud to be Jewish…seeing the horror of what happened to the Jewish people and what came of that…the creation of Israel. I’ll have to look for the speech I gave to my congregation after my trip during Rosh Hashanah services.
Anyway, thanks again.
Jason
Posted by: Jason Rosenthal at July 30, 2007 9:17 AM
I just read your blog entry about your trip to Auschwitz with Gail and her father. I literally had to get a kleenex to wipe my eyes when I finished. An amazing story and an amazing experience. Thank you for sharing it.
Posted by: Don Spetner at August 21, 2007 4:46 PM
This reminds me of my friend's Dani's grandfather, Moshe Garbarz who also survived in Auschwitz. Maybe they know each other.
Moshe Garbarz's story:
http://www.biblio.com/details.php?dcx=116157957&aid=frg
Thank you for sharing this...
Posted by: philippe at August 28, 2007 3:09 PM
Dear Richard,
I am keeping you in my prayers in a very special way during these
days of Passover.
At the risk of sending you something you might have seen long ago,
here is a most powerful story. I hope you enjoy it.
With kind regards,
Fred
August 1942. Piotrkow, Poland. The sky was gloomy that morning as we
waited anxiously. All the men, women and children of Piotrkow's
Jewish ghetto had been herded into a square. Word had gotten around
that we were being moved. My father had only recently died from
typhus, which had ran rampant through the crowded ghetto. My greatest
fear was that our family would be separated.
'Whatever you do,' Isidore, my eldest brother, whispered to me,
'don't tell them your age. Say you're sixteen'. I was tall for a boy
of 11, so I could pull it off. That way I might be deemed valuable as
a worker. An SS man approached me, boots clicking against the
cobblestones. He looked me up and down, then asked my age. 'Sixteen,'
I said. He directed me to the left, where my three brothers and other
healthy young men already stood.
My mother was motioned to the right with the other women, children,
sick and elderly people. I whispered to Isidore, 'Why?' He didn't
answer. I ran to Mama's side and said I wanted to stay with her.
'No,' she said sternly. 'Get away. Don't be a nuisance. Go with your
brothers.' She had never spoken so harshly before. But I understood:
She was protecting me. She loved me so much that, just this once, she
pretended not to. It was the last I ever saw of her.
My brothers and I were transported in a cattle car to Germany. We
arrived at the Buchenwald concentration camp one night weeks later
and were led into a crowded barrack. The next day, we were issued
uniforms and identification numbers. 'Don't call me Herman anymore.'
I said to my brothers. 'Call me 94983..'
I was put to work in the camp's crematorium, loading the dead into a
hand-cranked elevator. I, too, felt dead. Hardened, I had become a
number. Soon, my brothers and I were sent to Schlieben, one of
Buchenwald's sub-camps near Berlin. One morning I thought I heard my
mother's voice Son, she said softly but clearly, I am sending you an
angel. Then I woke up. Just a dream. A beautiful dream. But in this
place there could be no angels. There was only work. And hunger. And
fear.
A couple of days later, I was walking around the camp, around the
barracks, near the barbed-wire fence where the guards could not
easily see. I was alone. On the other side of the fence, I spotted
someone: a young girl with light, almost luminous curls. She was half-
hidden behind a birch tree. I glanced around to make sure no one saw
me. I called to her softly in German.
'Do you have something to eat?' She didn't understand. I inched
closer to the fence and repeated question in Polish. She stepped
forward.. I was thin and gaunt, with rags wrapped around my feet, but
the girl looked unafraid. In her eyes, I saw life. She pulled an
apple from her woolen jacket and threw it over the fence. I grabbed
the fruit and, as I started to run away, I heard her say faintly,
'I'll see you tomorrow.'
I returned to the same spot by the fence at the same time every day.
She was always there with something for me to eat - a hunk of bread
or, better yet, an apple. We didn't dare speak or linger. To be
caught would mean death for us both. I didn't know anything about her
just a kind farm girl except that she understood Polish. What was her
name? Why was she risking her life for me? Hope was in such short
supply, and this girl on the other side of the fence gave me some, as
nourishing in its way as the bread and apples.
Nearly seven months later, my brothers and I were crammed into a coal
car and shipped to Theresienstadt camp in Czechoslovakia.. 'Don't
return,' I told the girl that day. 'We're leaving.' I turned toward
the barracks and didn't look back, didn't even say good-bye to the
girl whose name I'd never learned, the girl with the apples.
We were in Theresienstadt for three months. The war was winding down
and Allied forces were closing in, yet my fate seemed sealed. On May
10, 1945, I was scheduled to die in the gas chamber at 10:00 AM. In
the quiet of dawn, I tried to prepare myself. So many times death
seemed ready to claim me, but somehow I'd survived. Now, it was over.
I thought of my parents. At least, I thought, we will be reunited.
At 8 A.M. there was a commotion. I heard shouts, and saw people
running every which way through camp. I caught up with my brothers.
Russian troops had liberated the camp! The gates swung open. Everyone
was running, so I did too.
Amazingly, all of my brothers had survived; I'm not sure how. But I
knew that the girl with the apples had been the key to my survival.
In a place where evil seemed triumphant, one person's goodness had
saved my life, had given me hope in a place where there was none. My
mother had promised to send me an angel, and the angel had come.
Eventually I made my way to England where I was sponsored by a Jewish
charity, put up in a hostel with other boys who had survived the
Holocaust and trained in electronics. Then I came to America, where
my brother Sam had already moved. I served in the U. S. Army during
the Korean War, and returned to New York City after two years. By
August 1957 I'd opened my own electronics repair shop. I was starting
to settle in.
One day, my friend Sid who I knew from England called me. 'I've got a
date. She's got a Polish friend. Let's double date.' A blind date?
Nah, that wasn't for me. But Sid kept pestering me, and a few days
later we headed up to the Bronx to pick up his date and her friend
Roma. I had to admit, for a blind date this wasn't so bad. Roma was a
nurse at a Bronx hospital. She was kind and smart. Beautiful, too,
with swirling brown curls and green, almond-shaped eyes that sparkled
with life.
The four of us drove out to Coney Island. Roma was easy to talk to,
easy to be with. Turned out she was wary of blind dates too! We were
both just doing our friends a favor. We took a stroll on the
boardwalk, enjoying the salty Atlantic breeze, and then had dinner by
the shore. I couldn't remember having a better time.
We piled back into Sid's car, Roma and I sharing the backseat. As
European Jews who had survived the war, we were aware that much had
been left unsaid between us. She broached the subject, 'Where were
you,' she asked softly, 'during the war?' 'The camps,' I said, the
terrible memories still vivid, the irreparable loss. I had tried to
forget.. But you can never forget.
She nodded. 'My family was hiding on a farm in Germany, not far from
Berlin,' she told me. 'My father knew a priest, and he got us Aryan
papers.' I imagined how she must have suffered too, fear, a constant
companion. And yet here we were, both survivors, in a new world.
'There was a camp next to the farm.' Roma continued. 'I saw a boy
there and I would throw him apples every day.'
What an amazing coincidence that she had helped some other boy. 'What
did he look like? I asked. He was tall, Skinny, and Hungry. I must
have seen him every day for six months.' My heart was racing. I
couldn't believe it. This couldn't be. 'Did he tell you one day not
to come back because he was leaving Schlieben?' Roma looked at me in
amazement. 'Yes,' That was me! ' I was ready to burst with joy and
awe, flooded with emotions. I couldn't believe it … My angel.
'I'm not letting you go.' I said to Roma. And in the back of the car
on that blind date, I proposed to her. I didn't want to wait. 'You're
crazy!' she said. But she invited me to meet her parents for Shabbat
dinner the following week. There was so much I looked forward to
learning about Roma, but the most important things I always knew: her
steadfastness, her goodness. For many months, in the worst of
circumstances, she had come to the fence and given me hope. Now that
I'd found her again, I could never let her go.
That day, she said yes. And I kept my word. After nearly 50 years of
marriage, two children and three grandchildren I have never let her go.
This is a true story and you can find out more by Googling Herman
Rosenblat as he was bar mitzvahed at age 75. This story is being made
into a movie called The Fence.
Posted by: Fred Dolan at March 21, 2008 6:02 PM