Honoring Czech Holocaust victims

My native city, Prague, has failed to honor properly those thousands of Czechs who were murdered by the Nazis in the Holocaust. Now, to rub salt into the wounds of those of us who lost family and friends, city fathers are considering giving permission to build a shopping center on the site of the place where most of these citizens were herded on their last day of freedom, before being transported to a concentration camp. I have written a short essay in opposition. It has been translated into Czech and published in a Prague magazine. Here is the English version and, for my Czech friends, the Czech version:

It was the morning of April 21, 1942. I was six years old, living on a farm in Kojetice u Prahy. I walked into the kitchen, hungry for breakfast, but I was confronted by a surprising sight. Standing near the door was my great-grandfather, Dĕdeček, dressed in a gray suit – not the normal attire worn on the farm. Standing on the floor next to him was a large brown suitcase. Stranger still was a yellow, six-pointed star sewn onto his jacket, with a word I had not seen before – Jude – at its center. I was confused.

“Where are you going, Dĕdečku?” I asked.

“I have to go away for a little while,” he lied. ”But don’t worry. I’ll see you again soon.”

Along with my mother and our farmer friends, the Tůmas, we climbed aboard a horse-drawn wagon and accompanied Dĕdeček to the Kojetice train station. To this day, my great-grandfather’s last words to Mother echo in my head and touch my soul:

“You take care of Otík (me) and yourself. I’m sure that something will be left here when it’s over and you’ll be able to start all over again.”

The train carried 82-year-old Gustav Neumann to Prague, where he and hundreds of other poor souls assembled near today’s Parkhotel. They spent the night trying to sleep on the cold ground. Early the next morning, they were transported to Terezín. A few months later, Dĕdeček boarded another train. It took him to Treblinka, where he was murdered immediately upon arrival.

A short time later, my grandmother, Otilie Hellerová from Kralupy, was standing in the same place near today’s Parkhotel, awaiting transport to Terezín. From there, she was taken to a Polish camp called Izbica, where the Nazis killed her.

More than twenty other members of our family – Hellers and Neumanns – followed. Always, their last touch of freedom was lost at that gate to hell, near Veletržný palác. Nearly 50,000 Czechoslovaks bid farewell to Prague, and to the lives they had once known, at that entrance to horror.

For me and for many Czechs whose relatives passed through this place, the area near Parkhotel is sacred ground. For us, it is as revered as the monument in Lidice and as hallowed as the graves of heroes in Czech history at the Vyšehrad cemetery. Yet today, it is identified only by a simple plaque, one which is easily overlooked by Czechs and unknown to Prague’s tourists.

Now, we are hearing, even here in America, that a shopping center will be built on this sacred ground and that there will be nothing left to commemorate the thousands of Czech victims of the Holocaust. This would be a shameful, disrespectful act – I might even call it a crime. In my view, regardless of the outcome of the current discussion, a true memorial – one similar to the beautiful and haunting monument to the children of Lidice – should be erected in the area. Only in this way will Czechs express their sorrow and show that they will never forget their less fortunate fellow citizens.

----------------------------

 

K uctění českých obětí

holocaustu

Bylo ráno 21. dubna 1942. Bylo mi šest a žil jsem na statku

v Kojeticích u Prahy. Měl jsem hlad a vešel jsem do kuchyně,
abych se nasnídal. V tom okamžiku se mi však naskytl
nečekaný pohled. U dveří stál můj pradědeček, kterému
jsme říkali dědeček, v šedém obleku – takové oblečení se
na statku běžně nenosilo. Na zemi stál velký hnědý kufr.
Ještě podivnější byla žlutá šesticípá hvězda, kterou měl přišitou
na saku. Uprostřed bylo napsáno slovo, které jsem
před tím nikdy neviděl – Jude. Byl jsem zmatený.

 „Kam jdeš, dědečku?“ zeptal jsem se.

„Musím na chvíli odjet,“ zalhal. „Ale neboj,
brzy se zase uvidíme.“

Společně s matkou a našimi přáteli z vesnice,
Tůmovými, jsme nasedli do koněm tažené
bryčky a doprovodili dědečka na kojetické
nádraží. Ještě dnes mi v hlavě i v duši zní
poslední slova, která pradědeček řekl mojí
mamince:

„Postarej se o Otíka (to jsem byl já) a o sebe.

Určitě tu něco zůstane, až bude po všem a vy
budete moct začít znovu.“

Vlak odvezl 82letého Gustava Neumanna

do Prahy, kde se on a další stovky ubohých
duší shromáždily na místě dnešního Parkhotelu.
Strávili tu noc, pokoušeli se usnout
na studené podlaze. Následujícího dne, brzy
ráno, byli transportováni do Terezína. O pár
měsíců později nastoupil dědeček do dalšího
vlaku. Ten ho odvezl do Treblinky, kde byl
ihned po příjezdu zavražděn.
Nedlouho poté stála na stejném místě, u dnešního
Parkhotelu, i moje babička Otilie Hellerová
z Kralup. I ona tu čekala na transport
do Terezína. Odtamtud ji pak odvezli do polského
tábora Izbica, kde ji nacisté zavraždili.

Více než dvacet dalších členů naší rodiny –

Hellerů a Neumannů – postupně následovalo.
Všichni přišli o poslední zbytek svobody
v této bráně do pekla, u Veletržního paláce.
Téměř 50 tisíc Čechoslováků se tady, u toho
vstupu do světa hrůzy, loučilo s Prahou a se
svými dosavadními životy.
Pro mě a pro mnoho Čechů, jejichž příbuzní
prošli tímto místem, je okolí Parkhotelu
posvátnou půdou. Je pro nás stejně pietním
místem jako památník v Lidicích nebo hroby
hrdinů české historie na Vyšehradě. A přece je
dnes na tomto místě pouze prostá pamětní deska,
kterou místní snadno přehlédnou, a turisté,
kteří přijíždějí do Prahy, o ní vůbec nevědí.

Teď se dokonce až k nám, do Ameriky,

doneslo, že na tomto posvátném místě
bude postaveno obchodní centrum a že tu
nezbude nic, co by připomínalo tisíce českých
obětí holocaustu. To by byl hanebný
a neuctivý čin. Snad bych jej mohl nazvat
přímo zločinem. Podle mého názoru, bez
ohledu na výsledek nyní probíhající diskuse,
by tu měl být vybudován skutečný památník
– podobný krásnému a naléhavému
pomníku lidických dětí. Jedině tak mohou
Češi vyjádřit svou lítost a ukázat, že nechtějí
nikdy zapomenout na své méně šťastné
spoluobčany.

 Charles Ota Heller, autor knihy Dlouhá cesta domů

(Mladá fronta, 2011)
Foto: Pavel Kuča

 

Upcoming book discussions and signings

Prague: My Long Journey Home
continues to generate a great deal of
interest, and my schedule of book
discussions and signings is filling up.

Here is a list of events coming up in
the near future:




Tuesday, February 26, 1:00 pm:                Heritage Harbour Women's Club,
                                                                        presentation followed by book-signing
                                                                        The Lodge, Heritage Harbour, Annapolis, MD

Thursday, March 28, 7:00 pm                   Anne Arundel Public Library Foundation and
                                                                        guest AA County book clubs
                                                                        presentation followed by book-signing
                                                                        Bay Ridge Wine & Spirits, Annapolis, MD

Sunday, April 7, 6:00 pm                          Dickinson College, Carlyle, PA
                                                                        presentation as part of Days of Remembrance

Friday, April 26, noon                               Peer Learning Partnership
                                                                        presentation to History Buffs, "Friday with Friends"
                                                                        Anne Arundel Community College, Arnold, MD
                                                                        CALT Building, Room 100

TEXAS BOOK TOUR (some events are still tentative):

Wednesday, May 1                                    Ft. Worth or Ennis, TX

Thursday, May 2                                       Czech Museum and Geneology Center, Temple, TX

Friday, May 3                                            Bush Library and Museum, College
                                                                        Station, TX

Saturday, May 4, noon - 4:00 pm              Czech Center Museum Houston                               
                                                                        presentation followed by book-signing
                                                                        Houston, TX

Sunday, May 5                                           Hostyn, TX

The Long-Haired Cowboy -- "Name-Droppings," Part 4

In my forthcoming memoir (second of a series), titled Ready, Fire, Aim! Tales of Entrepreneurial Terror, I describe encounters with various famous people. I hope you enjoyed the first three, "The Blonde-Haired Singer," "The Little Educator," and "The Rocket Scientist," and I hope you will like this one:

THE LONG-HAIRED COWBOY

             In the early 1960s, my Southern California employer – Douglas Aircraft Company – organized an after-work twilight golf league at a nearby two-course complex called Fox Hills/Baldwin Hills. As a newcomer to the game, I had the highest handicap on my four-man team, and each match was a learning experience for me. Every Thursday evening, I paired up with one of my teammates and we took on the two highest handicappers from another team.

            My golf game from those days does not deserve description, except to say that it was terrible. I swung and missed often and, when I managed to hit the ball, the little white dimpled sphere reacted in one of two ways: either it hopped forward like some crazed rabbit, never rising more than six inches off the ground or it soared toward the sky in a left-to-right arc resembling a gigantic banana, often left hiding behind a palm tree or mired inside shrubbery. My nine-hole scores were comparable to those achieved every weekend by golfers on the PGA Tour -- for 18 holes. But, I enjoyed the camaraderie of the game, and I was improving. Mostly, I looked forward to getting together with my teammates and opponents in the club’s bar at the end of each round.

            Every Thursday evening around twilight, we sat around a large semicircular bar and relived our adventures on the golf course. While my friends bragged about their 250-yard drives and 30-foot putts, I generally provided comic relief with stories about my slices into never-never land, shanks in the fairways, and futile attempts to escape from sand traps.

            One evening about a month into the season, a guy about my age, dressed in golf clothes like the rest of us but otherwise quite unlike us in appearance, sat down in the corner of the bar and ordered a beer. What attracted our stares was the length of his sandy hair. Close-cropped hair, particularly the crew-cut, was fashionable in 1961. The visitor defied the mode of the day with tresses nearly reaching his shoulders. He was alone and, as soon as he emptied his glass and paid the bartender, he departed. He reappeared the following Thursday as well and left just as quickly. When he took his customary seat for the third consecutive Thursday, I walked over to him.

            “Hi, my name is Charlie,” I said to him. “Why don’t you come over and join us?”

            “Yeah, hi. My name is Clint,” he replied. “I’d like that.”

            I introduced the handsome, rugged, soft-spoken guy to my friends, and he sat down on a stool on our side of the bar. He joined in the banter about our golf rounds, although it turned out that he played each Thursday afternoon alone and on the other course from the one we were playing that day. After that evening, Clint joined us at the bar whenever he encountered us there. During those times, the beer-drinking conversation never seemed to veer away from golf, and we knew as little about Clint as he did about us.

            One evening, my wife Sue and I were sitting on the living-room floor of our apartment in Santa Monica, watching one of television’s most popular shows on our 15-inch black-and-white screen, a weekly western saga called “Rawhide.” Several cowboys on horseback were driving a herd of cattle through a mountain pass. The camera panned the stampeding throng of cows and then, slowly, it zoomed in on the trail foreman. I jumped to my feet and stared at the image in disbelief.

            “Holy crap!” I screamed, startling Sue. “That’s Clint!”

            I explained to Sue that the guy playing Rowdy Yates was the same friendly, long-haired golfer who joined us for beers most Thursday evenings at Fox Hills. Judging by her questions, I knew that she had her doubts. The next morning at work, I told my teammates about my discovery. They too were skeptical, and they looked forward to proving me wrong by questioning Clint at our next get-together.

            As luck would have it – and as if Clint had had a premonition that his identity had been uncovered – he did not show up the following Thursday, or a week later, or the week after that. We never saw him again. The only good news was that my friends no longer doubted me. They tuned in to “Rawhide,” and they confirmed the fact that our drinking buddy had, in fact, been Clint Eastwood.

"Citizen Havel" film showing on February 7

 

 

                    

                    

“CITIZEN HAVEL” FILM AT MARYLAND HALL IN ANNAPOLIS, MARYLAND

THURSDAY, FEBRUARY 7, 7:00 PM, ROOM 308

ADMISSION IS FREE

I will be introducing this unique film of candid moments over a 12-year span of the life of the late President Václav Havel – playwright, essayist, dissident, prisoner, and one of the great democrats and movers and shakers in 20^th century European history. At the conclusion of the film, I will moderate an informal discussion of the movie, Havel, and the Czech Republic. I think you’ll find it interesting and enjoyable. “Citizen Havel” will be the first in a series of the 2013 Bridges to the World Film Festival, presented by World Artist Experiences.

I sincerely hope that you will be able to join me for this event. Please come early. There will be another event taking place at Maryland Hall that evening, and arriving a bit early will make parking easier for you.

Thanks for your interest, and don’t hesitate to contact me via my website, www.charlesoheller.com, if you need more information, and please invite anyone who might have an interest. Directions to Maryland Hall are available on its website, www.mdhallarts.org. 

I will be signing copies of my book, PRAGUE: MY LONG JOURNEY HOME, and the book will be available for purchase, after the event.                   

The Rocket Scientist -- "Name-Droppings," Part 3

In my forthcoming memoir (second of a series), titled Ready, Fire, Aim! Tales of Entrepreneurial Terror, I describe encounters with various famous people. I hope you enjoyed the first two, "The Blonde-Haired Singer" and "The Little Educator," and I hope you will like this one:

 

THE ROCKET SCIENTIST

 

            My so-called “office” at Douglas Aircraft Company was actually a few square feet of space within an immense hangar-like building which resembled an enormous classroom. The chief of our section, Adrain O’Neil, sat at a desk in front of the room, facing row upon row of desks at which his minions, nearly a hundred engineers, analyzed the structural integrity of rockets and spacecraft. As one of the few “rookies” in the summer of 1960, I wielded my slide rule near the back of the room.

            One morning, while eating breakfast prior to leaving home for work, I spotted an article on the second page of The Los Angeles Times. “Wernher Von Braun to Visit Southland,” read the headline. Reading further, I discovered that he would be visiting several of the area’s aerospace companies which were designing and building boosters and satellites that would constitute the genesis of America’s space program.

            Soon after I settled in for a day of computing stresses and deformations, Adrain O’Neal walked to the center of the room and rapped on a desk.

            “May I have your attention?” he requested. “We’re in for a special treat today. Around eleven o’clock this morning, the great Dr. Wernher von Braun will visit our Section. When he comes, I want all of you to stand and applaud and then come to the front of the room, where he will address us.”

            I looked around and saw smiles on the faces of my colleagues. Clearly, they felt honored to have been selected for a meeting with the world-renown rocket scientist. I buried my head in my work, pretending to analyze the stresses in the engine section of the Thor Delta rocket – my ongoing project. Instead, I closed my eyes and thought about my life as a child hiding from our German occupiers during World War II. I imagined five hundred German V-2 rockets raining terror upon the citizens of London, while their chief architect, Von Braun, sat in his office in Peenemunde, Germany, surrounded by thousands of slaves working around the clock to complete the construction of 1,500 ballistic missiles designed to bring England to her knees. Now, this man and his German team of technicians were on our side, running the American space program out of Huntsville, Alabama.

            I wanted to stand on top of my desk and to shout at my fellow engineers. But, I knew it would be futile. In my few years in the U.S., I had been shocked to discover that Americans, other than those who had personally fought so valiantly to liberate Europe, felt a strange kinship toward Germans. They seemed to hate the Japanese, their other major enemy in the war, but they appeared to have forgiven a nation which had killed millions of innocent people, as well as thousands of American GIs. I decided on my own silent protest.

            At exactly 11 a.m., a group of a dozen dignitaries, including Donald Douglas, Jr., and some local politicians, appeared at the front of our bullpen. From the vantage point of my desk, some hundred feet away, I saw that the center of everyone’s attention was a tall, distinguished-looking man with graying hair matching the color of his suit. Like an Army company when a general enters, the Strength Section of the Douglas Missiles and Space Systems Division came to attention. Then they applauded. All but one “soldier.”

            Pretending not to have noticed the commotion, I wrote nonsensical numbers and words on the quadrille pad in front of me. When my colleagues gathered around Von Braun and the visiting party, I pulled a brown bag out of the drawer of my desk and extracted a sandwich. While the leader of America’s space program gave my fellow engineers a pep talk in his German-accented English, I made a show of munching on a very European sandwich – hard salami and Swiss cheese with mustard, on rye bread. As I had hoped, I saw from the corner of my eye, heads turning toward me. On a couple of occasions, I thought that Von Braun spotted me over the heads of his audience.

After about twenty minutes, our visitors left and my colleagues returned to their respective desks. No one said a word to me, but my best friend, Don Griffin, smiled at me before he sat down in the row in front of me, indicating that he understood. Then, as I had expected, my boss approached.

“Charlie, can I talk to you a minute?”

“Sure,” I replied and followed him out into the hallway.

“What the hell was that all about?” he asked. “Don’t you realize that you just insulted the greatest rocket scientist in the world?”

“Adrain, do you know anything about my background?” I asked.

“Yeah, I heard.”

“Well, then, I hope you understand that I just insulted a goddamned Nazi murderer. I hope I didn’t cause you and Douglas any hardship, but I’ll be damned if I’m going to stand and applaud a bastard who killed or maimed nearly ten thousand Brits.”

With that, I walked back to my desk, where I finished my lunch.

 

"Name-Droppings," Part 2

A chapter in my forthcoming memoir (second of a trilogy) describes encounters with some famous people I have met during my life as a student, athlete, engineer, academic, entrepreneur, venture capitalist, and author. I hope you enjoyed Part 1, titled "The Blonde-Headed Singer," and I hope you will like Part 2:

THE LITTLE EDUCATOR

            In the late 1990s, while running the Dingman Center for Entrepreneurship at the University of Maryland, I developed a close working relationship with the National Business Incubator Association. Despite the word “National” in its name, the NBIA is an international organization of nearly 2,000 incubator professionals from 60 countries. These managers run facilities – called “incubators” and “accelerators” – which house and help entrepreneurial companies during their startup stages.

            Because of my experience in starting and running companies, managing a center which provided assistance to entrepreneurs, and my positions on several Maryland incubator boards, the NBIA selected me to design and deliver two-and-a-half-day workshops for incubator managers at its semi-annual fall institutes.
            Never being one to turn down an opportunity to earn a handsome consulting fee, I had traveled to Pasadena, California, Birmingham, Alabama, and Omaha, Nebraska, to talk about my favorite subject – entrepreneurship and venture creation. Now, I was in Tennessee, in a Chattanooga hotel, where I had just completed my fourth assignment. We finished at noon, and I was anxious to get to the airport for the trip home.
            I wheeled my suitcase outside the hotel to an awaiting shuttle. After the driver placed my bag in the luggage compartment, I climbed inside the van. I noticed that all the passengers were women, and that the first and second rows were filled. So, I made my way to the rear and took one of the two empty seats, next to the window.
            Despite the fact that the van was nearly full, we were not ready to leave. The driver stood outside, apparently waiting for one more person to fill the only empty seat – the one adjacent to mine. After ten or fifteen minutes, I began to get antsy. There were not many flights out of Chattanooga, and I had to make my connection in Charlotte. I was running out of time. Other passengers were becoming impatient, too, as was clearly discernable from the tone of their quiet conversations. Then, suddenly, discussion ceased as all eyes focused on the reason for our wait. A tiny woman – less than five feet tall, with light brown hair, wearing horn-rim glasses and a dark blue suit – came out of the hotel door, followed by a bellman, lugging a suitcase nearly as large as its owner. The driver helped the lady negotiate the steps with her short legs as she entered the van. She spotted the only vacant seat, made her way to the rear, and sat down next to me.
            “Hello,” I nodded.
            “Hello,” she responded as she made herself comfortable.
            Finally, the driver jumped in behind the wheel, started the engine, threw it into gear, and we were off to the airport. As we made our way out of the hotel area, my neighbor turned to me.
            “So, where are you headed?” she asked in German-accented English.
            “Home. I’m flying to Baltimore,” I said. “How about you?”
            “I’m heading home, too. I live in New York City.”
            After a few moments of silence, she resumed her small talk. I was not anxious to continue because I had noticed that our fellow passengers were turning their heads and listening to our conversation. But, I wanted to be polite and responsive.
            “What were you doing in Chattanooga?” she asked.
            “I was giving a seminar here at the hotel for the past three days,” I answered.
            “Really? I was down here giving seminars, too. Two days ago, I was at Duke University and yesterday, I was at the University of Tennessee,” she explained. “What was the subject of your seminar?”
            “Entrepreneurship,” I said. “I was teaching a bunch of managers of business incubators how to help companies during their startup period. Most of them have never run small companies, so they didn’t understand the difficult issues entrepreneurs face.”
            “Oh,” she said. “I’m a small businesswoman myself. I wish I could have learned from you before I started.”
            Now, I was getting interested and, despite my discomfort brought about by the eavesdropping women in front of us, I wanted to know more.
            “So, what about your seminars? What was the subject?” I asked. As soon as the words left my mouth, I could hear snickering throughout the van, and one woman burst out laughing.
            “What the hell is this all about?” I wondered.
            “Sex,” my neighbor answered. “I’m a psychosexual therapist.”
            Now I seemed to be only one in the van who was not laughing. I was perplexed, embarrassed, and at a loss for words. After a long pause, the woman stuck out her hand.
            “Hi. My name is Ruth Westheimer. What’s yours?”
            I shook hands with Ms. Westheimer and responded: “I’m Charlie Heller. It’s a pleasure to meet you.” Then, suddenly, the fog lifted from my brain. “Are you Dr. Ruth?”
            She laughed and clapped her hands. “Yes, I am. You’ve seen my show?”
            “I’m sorry, I haven’t,” I admitted. “But, I’ve seen you interviewed several times.”
            Now that the air was cleared, our fellow passengers seemed to lose interest in our conversation, and I felt more comfortable. Dr. Ruth was interested in my work at the Dingman Center and in my entrepreneurial career. When I told her about my passion for skiing, her face lit up.
            “I live for skiing,” she said. “One of the biggest benefits of my fame is that, whenever my husband and I want to go skiing, we have a limousine pick us up at our apartment in Manhattan, drive us to the airport, and a private airplane flies us to Colorado. It’s a tough life.”
            “I envy you,” I said, as I tried to imagine this little wisp of a woman bombing down a mogulled, black-diamond run at Aspen.
            “Where did you learn to ski?” she asked.
            I told her about starting at a very young age in Czechoslovakia, then having my skiing interrupted by the war, resuming again after my family was reunited, then not skiing again for some 15 years because I could not afford it after escaping to the United States. I explained that I was trying to make up for lost time and that my moonlighting career as a skiwriter allowed me to ski all over the U.S. and in Europe.
            “How about you?” I asked, wanting to know not only about her skiing, but about the source of her heavy Germanic accent.
            “I was born in Germany,” she explained. “But, actually, I started skiing in Switzerland.”
            She went on to tell me that she was born in Frankfurt a few years before Hitler’s ascent to power. Before the outbreak of the Second World War, her parents sent her to school in Switzerland. The great majority of the students were German Jews and, in the years that followed, the school became their orphanage. Most of the parents, including Ruth’s, perished in the Holocaust. I told Dr. Ruth about my own, and my family’s, travails during the war, and we seemed to bond instantly. After my initial embarrassment over the discovery of her profession, followed by intimidation caused by her celebrity persona, I became totally comfortable in her presence. She seemed to enjoy my company as much as I enjoyed hers.
            “What flight are you taking out of Chattanooga?” she asked as we approached the airport.
            “I’m flying to Charlotte, and I’ll connect there with a flight to Baltimore.,” I said.
            Once again, she clapped her hands and smiled. “That’s perfect. I’m on the flight to Charlotte, too. Let’s sit together.”
            The driver took Ruth’s bag to the curbside check-in and I followed with mine, while Ruth waited in the van. After tipping the driver, she joined me and we entered Chattanooga airport. Immediately, I discovered that I had been the only person in America – or at least in the state of Tennessee – who failed to recognize the famous Dr. Ruth. A guy working the Hertz rental car window literally jumped over the counter and ran up to Dr. Ruth to ask for her autograph. She obliged him and many others, as we made our way, ever so slowly, to the USAirways counter. I upgraded to first class so that I could sit with my new friend, and we began the walk to the gate, with a procession of autograph seekers in our wake. Finally, Ruth put her arm through mine, apologized to her fans, and asked me to walk faster to our airplane. Although I had discovered by now that Dr. Ruth was eight years older than I, I felt as though I was escorting my little sister to school. At six feet and one inch, I towered over her and had to bend down whenever she spoke. I was amazed at the commotion caused by this tiny package of energy walking beside me.
            Finally seated in the comfort of our first-class seats, we had privacy for the first time. Ruth told me how, after the war, she discovered that her family had been wiped out by the Nazis. Alone in the world, she and some friends traveled to Palestine, where she became a devout Zionist. She fought on the side of the Haganah for the independence of Israel and was wounded in battle. She emigrated to the U.S. via Paris, and eventually earned her master’s and doctoral degrees from Columbia University. In New York, she married a fellow Jewish refugee and ski enthusiast, Manfred.
            To my great relief, the subject of sex never came up in our conversation. Prior to landing in Charlotte, I told Ruth that my organization, the Dingman Center for Entrepreneurship, was organizing a national conference for women entrepreneurs, to be held at the University of Maryland the following year. I inquired if she might be interested in being the keynote speaker.
            “I’ll be happy to do it. But, I get a lot of money for speaking,” she said.
            “Ruth, we’re a nonprofit center, part of the university,” I replied. “I’m afraid that we can’t afford to pay very much.”
            She smiled and squeezed my arm: “For you, I’ll do it for free. Just give me the date as soon as you know it.”
            I was ecstatic. We parted in Charlotte, with the promise that we would continue our discussion when we came together in College Park. Sadly, it did not happen. When I returned to the Dingman Center the next day, I gathered my associate director and assistant director – both of them women, and in charge of organizing the upcoming conference. Excitedly, I told them about Dr. Westheimer’s offer to be keynote speaker – and to do it for nothing. I expected an enthusiastic response. Instead, the two women looked at one another and shook their heads in unison.
            “Dr. Ruth?” said one. “You must be kidding! We’d be a laughing stock. This is a serious conference for serious women entrepreneurs. Do you really think they’d want to hear about sex?”
            “No way,” said her companion.
            I argued, pointing out that Dr. Ruth’s fame would be a drawing card and that she is an entrepreneur in her own right. I got nowhere. Since I had given my colleagues the authority to manage the event, I had no choice but to accept their decision. My last communication with Ruth was a letter in which I lied by explaining that, unbeknownst to me, the organizers of the conference had already engaged a keynote speaker. I thanked her for her kind offer. I was truthful and sincere when I told her that I hoped that we would meet again soon. Unfortunately, that has not happened.

Charles Ota Heller: Baltimore radio and library appearances

Charles Ota Heller: Baltimore radio and library appearances

http://www.prattlibrary.org/locations/reisterstownroad/