Turning Point

Late on the afternoon of July 2nd, 1863, Brigadier General Gouverneur K. Warren, chief engineering officer of the Army of the Potomac, ascended the 170 foot promontory known as Little Round Top and surveyed the panoramic scene spread out below him.

After the previous day's furious battle -- during which its advance corps, the Fifth and Eleventh, had gamely fended off surprise attacks from massed Confederates bearing down upon it from the north and northwest -- the Union Army was now strung out like a large inverted fishhook -- curving north and west around Culp's Hill and Cemetery Hill just south of the town of Gettysburg, Pennsylvania, and then plunging two miles further south along Cemetery Ridge, barely reaching Little Round Top.

Directly opposite, snaking in parallel and entrenched half a mile away atop Seminary Ridge, lay the enemy -- elements of which "were marching rapidly forward . . . in long lines with confident strides, to strike a powerful blow at the exposed left of the Union forces." (Trulock, p. 128) General Daniel Sickles, the notorious one-legged New York politician, had inexplicably abandoned the original line and moved his Third Corps into a dangerous salient in the aptly-named Devil's Den.

Warren was astounded to find Little Round Top occupied by a mere detachment of the Signal Corps. "He ordered a cannon to drop a shell into the woods to the south; when it exploded, he saw the gleam of southern bayonets shimmering in the sun," (Perry, p. 219) and realized Sickles would soon be outflanked. He dispatched a courier to Fifth Corps Commander George Sykes -- who was coming up to reinforce Sickles -- urging him to send a brigade to Little Round Top.

Sykes's own message to his First Division was intercepted by Third Brigade Commander Strong Vincent, who rode ahead to reconnoiter the elevation, instantly apprehended its importance, and ordered his troops across the valley separating Devil's Den and Little Round Top. "As they began to climb the lower levels of the rocky, forbidding incline, shells came crashing around," scattering three brothers of the 20th Maine Regiment, Tom, John, and, its commander, Colonel Joshua Chamberlain; their mother had already lost one son two years ago, and, warned Joshua, "another such shot might make it hard for her." (Trulock, pp. 130, 132)

In fact, as the brigade's four regiments fell in line, the 20th Maine found itself last, "facing south and slightly west toward the steep and heavily wooded Big Round Top." (Trulock, p. 132) "Strong Vincent came up to give Chamberlain his orders. 'I place you here,' he said firmly. 'This is the left of the Union line. You are to hold this ground at all hazards.' " (Perry, p. 219)

Implicit in these words were the military consequences of failure. "The Confederates would seize the Round Top heights, gain the rear of the whole Union position . . . and 'roll up' the Federal line to the north," opening the way to Washington, Baltimore, and Philadelphia." (Trulock, p. 133)

For Joshua Chamberlain, "this would be the day that his country's destiny would depend on his creativity, courage, and leadership, and upon the discipline, bravery, and tenacity of his officers and men." (Trulock, p. 142) He formed his regiment "right by file into line" -- a complicated, time-consuming alignment that enabled "the men on the right, nearest the direction of the oncoming enemy, successively to be faced to the front, ready to load and fire their weapons first" (Trulock, p. 133) -- and awaited his fate.

On they came, Texans and Alabamians falling heavily upon the embattled brigade, their fire moving around to the left until the 20th Maine was engaged all along its line. Within minutes, from a large rock near the center and about fifteen feet to the rear, Chamberlain saw a column of Confederate soldiers passing rapidly further to the left in preparation for an attack on his flank and rear. It was Colonel William Oates and his 15th Alabama regiment; after an arduous twenty-five mile march which had taken them to the crest of Big Round Top -- the key, thought Oates, to a Confederate victory -- they had been ordered to abandon the vantage point and advance.

Since changing his front would relinquish too much of the higher defensive ground he needed, Chamberlain ordered his men to "refuse the line" -- to sidestep to the left and rear, doubling the length of the line and bending it back at nearly a right angle to its original placement. It was a particularly difficult movement due to the rough and sloping terrain, but was implemented with such energy and precision that even the Colonel marveled at the performance. Hours of "study, discipline, and training . . . together with indomitable resolution and character, were paying handsome dividends." (Trulock, p. 143)

Expecting minimal resistance, the charging Confederates were met with a withering, destructive blast. Yet they did not stop, coming to within ten paces of the Union line before retiring, only to be replaced by fresh forces. "The pressure was intense; the blue line of soldiers would be driven back a few yards and then would push ahead with a huge effort to regain the ground." (Trulock, p. 144)

"The edge of the fight rolled backward and forward like a wave," wrote Chamberlain years later. "The two lines met and broke and mingled in the shock. The crush of musketry gave way to cuts and thrusts, grapplings and wrestlings. The conflict swayed to and fro, with wild whirlpools and eddies . . . How men held on, each one knows -- not I. But manhood commands admiration." (Trulock, pp. 144-145)

Fatigue and terrible losses took their toll on both sides. After nearly two hours, half of the regiment's left wing was down and one-third were dead or badly wounded; the remainder were virtually out of ammunition. As he saw the Confederates fading back, as if girding for a final powerful onslaught, Chamberlain, outnumbered two-to-one, knew he could not withstand another assault.

Remembering his order to "hold the ground at all hazards," fearing himself almost surrounded, he discerned through the fog of battle that "only a desperate chance was left." (Trulock. p147) "It was imperative to strike before we were struck by this overwhelming force in a hand-to-hand fight, which we could not probably have withstood or survived," he wrote. (Perry, p. 224). He ordered his left to wheel forward to straighten the line, and his men to "fix their bayonets."

"The sudden sight of two hundred screaming soldiers surging down the slope brandishing their sharply pointed blades of steel struck terror in the hearts" of their opponents. "Many raised their hands in surrender at once, while some fled to the flank and others to the rear." A second line broke against the regiment's wide swinging arc. Having lost half his officers and men, Colonel Oates gave the signal for retreat; his men "ran like a herd of wild cattle," but not far or fast enough for four hundred to evade capture. (Trulock, pp. 148-149.)

Reclaiming the summit of Big Round Top, Oates collapsed in exhaustion. "There never were better fighters than the 20th Maine and their gallant Colonel," he wrote years later. "His skill and persistence and the great bravery of his men saved Little Round Top and the Army of the Potomac from defeat." (Perry, p. 225)

Oates, of course, may be overstating the case. No one can say if the Battle of Gettysburg, or the War, would have followed a different course had the 20th Maine not held its ground. Perhaps reinforcements would have stemmed the tide. Perhaps the Confederates would have been too expended to pursue their advantage. Even a total rout might not have been enough to forestall the inevitable. After all, the Army of the Potomac always managed to resurrect itself from the ashes of each humiliating Lee-inflicted whipping -- and, one thousand miles to the west, Ulysses S. Grant was inexorably moving South.

And yet, on another level, the Battle of Little Round Top was an indisputable turning point, a transforming life occurrence, a supreme leadership moment -- for at least one man: Colonel Joshua Chamberlain. Placed by chance at a most critical time and place, lacking the seasoning of regular army officers, commanding a regiment of volunteers, drawing on mysterious reserves of courage and judgment, he acted with calmness, decisiveness, and inspiration -- arranging his men in the most efficient formation, executing a difficult sidestep maneuver, and when all seemed lost, unleashing a bayonet charge.

Who was this unlikely hero?

A native of Maine, he obtained his undergraduate and graduate degrees from Bowdoin College and trained at Bangor Theological Seminary. An enlightening and warmly applauded Master's Oration on "Law and Liberty" earned him a seat on the faculty of his alma mater, first in rhetoric, later in modern languages, where he watched from afar but with grave concern the unfolding drama of sectional discord.

A long-suppressed spirit of adventure, the political heresy of secession -- an insult to the flag of the nation, he wrote (Perry, pp. 118-119) -- and a sense of duty that each man must sacrifice his "dearest personal interests . . . and be placed at his proper post," (Trulock, p. 8) spurred him to write to Governor Israel Washburn and offer himself for a commission in a newly-formed regiment. In doing so, he defied the wishes of his father -- who declared the raging conflict "not our war" -- of his wife -- who preferred the quiet comfort of college life -- and of his conservative colleagues at Bowdoin -- who feared losing control of the administration should he vacate his position and vindictively reported that he was "no fighter, only a mild-mannered common student." (Trulock, pp. 8-11)

Exercising a two-year leave of absence he had been awarded for study in Europe, on August 8th, 1862, he accepted his appointment as Lieutenant Colonel and second-in-command of the 20th Maine Infantry Regiment.

For the next ten months, these fresh-faced recruits languished in obscurity. Held in reserve at Antietam, they received their baptism of fire in a brief rear guard engagement at a Potomac River ford, during which Chamberlain had the first of several horses shot out from under him. They spent two harrowing days and a frigid night under a deadly Confederate barrage at the base of a stone wall in Fredericksburg. Much to Chamberlain's chagrin, they were sidelined during the Battle of Chancellorsville, sick and quarantined by a spoiled batch of smallpox vaccine.

Then came their legendary stand at Gettysburg.

Chamberlain's remarkable triumph earned him a promotion to brigade commander. After seeing limited action in Grant's Overland Campaign, he was severely wounded leading a futile attack against the Petersburg fortress -- he refused General Meade's initial order and requested verbal confirmation -- but returned to combat after surgery and a miraculous recovery. He was instrumental in controlling the battlefield at Quaker Road and in breaking the Confederate line at Five Forks.

Recognizing in him a mirror image of his own simple dignity, General Grant selected Chamberlain to preside at the surrender and parade of the Confederate Army at Appomattox Court House. During the ceremony, "as the grey ranks marched forward to stack their arms and flags, Chamberlain ordered his soldiers, arrayed in the field behind him, to 'shift arms' -- a stark and unmistakable salute to the southern army." (Perry, p. 296)

In 1867, the famous war veteran was elected Governor of Maine for the first of four successive one-year terms. From 1870 to 1880 he served as President of Bowdoin College. He authored a history of Maine and two volumes of personal reminiscences. In 1893, he was awarded the Medal of Honor for his conduct at Gettysburg. The citation commended him for "His daring heroism and great tenacity in holding his position on Little Round Top against repeated assaults and in carrying the advanced position on Great Round Top."

The compelling metamorphosis of Joshua Chamberlain resonates with me for several reasons: its Civil War context; its archetypal rite of passage narrative; and, most significantly, its application to my own leadership moment, which, while not congealed in the crucible of war nor nearly as perilous, similarly impacted my character and career.

My father had a magnetic, effusive, dominating personality which, combined with an entrepreneurial passion and a shrewd understanding of human nature, enabled him to take hold of his family furniture business and nurture it from a six-store enterprise into a regional chain. Although I joined the company in 1970 and moved progressively through the ranks from stock clerk to salesman to store manager to area supervisor (some cynics might assert I soared straight to the top), I much preferred to concentrate in areas where my introverted and cerebral ego could wallow in comfort -- merchandising, advertising, and inventory control.

When he died in 1989 and the CEO mantle passed to me, I blithely assumed that I could continue the same detached modus operandi and delegate primary operational and personnel responsibilities to a long-term employee who already held a key management position.

For a time -- two or three years -- this arrangement seemed to work well -- or maybe I just wanted it to work -- before thickening clouds of discontent began casting dark shadows over the Schewel footprint. Unchecked by my own or my father's authority, this individual became increasingly enamored of the power he could accumulate and exert, at times jeopardizing company solidarity and morale in pursuit of his own ambition and self-aggrandizement. A culture of fear and intimidation permeated the atmosphere, demotivating employees and impairing customer service.

Even when repeatedly apprised of this abusive behavior, I was unwilling to act -- doubting my own abilities, preferring the safe and easy course to a road less-traveled.

Finally, several incidents made it clear that this oppressive situation was no longer tolerable; either this individual would have to go, or I would be faced with an outright mutiny.

In spite of the enthusiastic example of Donald Trump, firing someone is not a pleasant exercise -- although I will admit that practice toughens one's skin. Not only is the bearer of bad tidings depriving another of his livelihood, he is implying that he is a failure. In some respects, the former has also failed, by having made an unwise hire or promotion, or by having been unable to to coach or train his subordinate to an acceptable level of performance.

Ultimately, however, the company's well-being must outweigh all other considerations, especially in a case like this where the person involved had such a far-reaching, poisonous influence.

Once the decision was made, I hurried to consummate it, jumping in my car on an auspicious Friday morning and racing to Charlottesville where he had traveled that day on a visit. Just as I arrived, I saw him leaving, and, grabbing his attention -- this was before cell phones -- frantically waved him back to the store. Since he took it calmly and stoically, maybe he wasn't all that surprised when I directed him to a quiet setting away from the office, looked him squarely in the eye, and said with a hint of regret, "We've a good long run together -- about twenty years -- but it's just not working out now. It's time for a change."

Suddenly, a tremendous weight was lifted from my shoulders, with surprising, rejuvenating consequences. My dismissal of this executive who had been so disliked and distrusted, whom many regarded as my surrogate -- since through paralysis and procrastination, I had appeared to condone his arrogance -- fostered a new respect for me. Cast adrift in a sea of expediency, I grasped the tiller and began to steer with a burgeoning dexterity, discovering (or manufacturing) talents and skills I never knew I possessed, taking on duties I never thought myself suited for, maturing into a reluctant chieftain (to quote a friend), a confident decision-maker, an empathetic counselor.

Which indicates to me that more leaders are made -- forged in the conflagration of circumstance -- than born.

Nevertheless, the pre-war biography of Joshua Chamberlain suggests that certain elements of character may be essential to the process -- and offers a prescriptive formula to aspiring students, regardless of their field or profession.

First, a leader, through force of will and persistence, masters his deficiencies and overcomes personal obstacles along the journey to success. As a child, Chamberlain had a propensity to stammer badly when required to pronounce words beginning with the letters p, b, and t. This impediment made his life so miserable that he spoke as little as possible, compounding his natural shyness. He conquered his problem by scanning ahead for troublesome words when reading a text and by speaking in a rhythmic sing-song verse in conversation.

Although his stammer returned at times -- for example, during his Bowdoin graduation address, when he nearly collapsed in mortification -- he eventually became an orator of great eloquence and power.

Years later he wrote that this accomplishment affected his "habits and perhaps character, and the indirect effects of it may have reached into the whole of his life." (Trulock, p. 41)

For many years I had an aversion, even a fear, of public speaking, which I overcame by realizing that, if I wrote out every word of my speech and practiced it several times, I could deliver it with authority, emotion, and sincerity.

Second, a leader stretches himself to attain a goal that is a continually moving target. From the day he wrote to the Governor of Maine requesting a commission, Joshua Chamberlain -- empowered by the righteousness of the Union Cause, despising the idleness of the sidelines, embracing the fury of the battlefield -- sought not the glory of war but the honor of patriotic service. Nothing irritated him more than his Chancellorsville quarantine. He returned to duty at Petersburg five months after his near-mortal wound, still unable to mount a horse unassisted or walk a hundred yards.

His courage and determination were reflected in the loyalty of his men, who, wrote one, "were not afraid to follow you or go wherever you order them to go, having implicit confidence in your judgment and ability as a commander."

Third, the leader sets an example by his work ethic. He understands the complexities of the task at hand, and does not demand more of his team than he does of himself.

During their march through Fredericksburg, his men encountered a high board fence blocking their path and, with shot and shell exploding all around them, were ordered to take it down. When they hesitated, apprehensive in the midst of their first battle, Colonel Chamberlain leaped forward to dismantle the barrier, calling, "Do you want me to do it?" He was quickly joined by his embarrassed soldiers. (Trulock, p. 95)

Later, these same men reported to Chamberlain's brother: "We've got as good a colonel as is in the Army of the Potomac. He is full of military brass but considerate and don't treat men like dogs . . . He don't say 'Go boys' but 'Come.' Would you believe he had some breastworks to throw up, and what does he do but offcoat and go to it himself."

Fourth, the leader's thirst for knowledge is never satiated, nor can it be, since change is constant and the competition (or the enemy, in military terms) resilient. A teacher and scholar prior to the war, Chamberlain was imbued with the intellectual curiosity and studious disposition that would facilitate his progress.

In his letter to the Governor of Maine, he wrote: "I have always been interested in military matters, and what I do not know in that line, I know how to learn." (Trulock, p. 8) True to his word, Chamberlain labored to absorb the intricacies of command, writing his wife after six weeks under arms, "I study, I tell you, every military work I can find." (Trulock, p. 77)

In winter camp, after the Battle of Fredericksburg, he prevailed upon some fellow officers who were West Point graduates to start an evening school for volunteers like him to teach them all aspects of field command. Perhaps it was during these sessions, or from one of his texts, that he was introduced to the "right by file into line" formation, or the "refuse the line" maneuver.

Fifth, the leader prepares himself and his associates for the challenges and opportunities of an unknown future. After his regiment's initial action at the Battle of Antietam, Chamberlain and his superior officer drilled their men religiously in order to inculcate the discipline that would make them an effective fighting force -- because study, training, discipline, were the "soul of armies," as well as "the soul of power in all intelligence," and offered a man his best chance for success in all his endeavors.

Or, as Chamberlain declared at the Gettysburg battlefield dedication in 1889: "We know not of the future and cannot plan for it much. But we can hold our spirits and bodies so pure and high, we may cherish such thoughts and ideals, and dream such dreams of lofty purpose, that we can determine and know what manner of men we will be whenever the hour strikes that calls to noble action. " (Trulock, p. 143)

And finally, when the hour strikes, the leader is a man of action.

At the critical moment of the Battle of Little Round Top, depleted of men and ammunition, instructed to hold his position at all costs, believing that he would be driven from that position should he wait for another Confederate attack, staring at a fatal stasis or a desperate gamble, Joshua Chamberlain willed himself forward.

In doing so, he overcame the natural laziness or inertia of the human psyche, its innate tendency to accept the status quo, the familiar, the known quantity. He overcame the resistance to change from which issues inaction rather than action. He overcame fear -- not necessarily the fear of dying in battle, but the fear of making the wrong decision and the consequent fear of failure.

Furthermore, his action engendered a wave of success for his men to follow, giving them confidence in his leadership, and sparked a revelation, for he knew then he had the ability to inspire them to greatness.

As do so many of us, if, when a turning point arrives, we choose to rise up, act boldly, and claim our rightful leadership roles; in doing so, we will make meaningful, necessary, and lasting contributions to our families, our professions, and our communities.

REFERENCES

Perry, Mark. Conceived in Liberty: Joshua Chamberlain, William Oates, and the American Civil War. New York: Penguin Books, 1999.

Shaara, Michael. The Killer Angels. New York: The Random House Ballantine Publishing Group, 1996.

Trulock, Alice Rains. In the Hands of Providence: Joshua Chamberlain and the American Civil War. Chapel Hill, North Carolina: The University of North Carolina Press, 1992.

The Most Interesting Spot

Should Mr. Jefferson resurrect himself as miraculously as his summer retreat at Poplar Forest has risen from the ashes, I suspect he would find this Lynchburg spot as interesting as it was two hundred years ago, but for different reasons -- not the least of which would be the dominating presence of the sprawling religious and educational complex perched to the southeast atop the rechristened Liberty Mountain; while the patriotic appellation would undoubtedly resonate with the Founding Father, reconciling its ubiquitous evangelism with his rationalist deism would be more problematic.

In fact, the subtle attractions of this "city unto itself" -- so labeled for its relative isolation, which was confirmed years ago by its loss of an interstate highway, and more recently, of its Delta Connection to Atlanta -- are both timeless and evolving, and reflect a similar juxtaposition of contradictions: a refreshing quality of life that conjoins urban sophistication and rural simplicity; involved citizens, conservative and progressive, who interact with admirable civility and bipartisanship for the benefit of the body politic; a community whose socio-economic stratification is counterbalanced by a populace imbued with generosity and compassion; and the unsurpassed beauty of its topographical, seasonal, and floral variety.

Today the dogwoods are blooming. Like resplendent bridesmaids in their shimmering pink and white regalia, they shadow me along Langhorne Road, Rivermont Avenue, even Main Street, during my brief but bittersweet ten-minute commute to and from work, time enough, alas, to enjoy only three country ballads on XM Channel 16, The Highway.

Actually, these days I try to avoid Rivermont Avenue and its sister bridge, where unsightly orange cones, blinking barricades, jarring potholes, ravenous front-end loaders, and grizzled workmen pockmark the formerly pristine thoroughfare that meanders leisurely through a gauntlet of five majestic churches and skirts the intimidating red-brick wall and shaded facade of Randolph College on its way Downtown.

Fortunately, my alternate route -- past the imposing Pearson Cancer Center, the towering new wing of the Lynchburg General Hospital, stately E. C. Glass High School, and the string of small shops and abandoned buildings lining Twelfth Street -- is equally efficient, and in fact deposits me squarely in the back parking lot of the Downtown YMCA (now being ecumenically marketed as simply the "Y"). There, since a chronic knee injury terminated my thirty-five year running career eighteen months ago, I find solace and invigoration in fifty strenuous minutes on a Precor elliptical machine, or in twenty-five plus some moderate weight lifting, or in a rare (no more than once a week) one-mile swim.

The locker room is like an Old Boys Club, where every morning I see the same eclectic assortment of determined faces and perspiring bodies in various stages of exhaustion and deshabille, all earnestly striving, like me, to stave off the inevitable onset of senility and immobility: Calvin, flossing his teeth; Curt, amazingly spry at ninety years old; John, toting his pressed and spotless attorney's suit in its protective clothes bag; my friend Jimmy giving me a "blog" shout out; Tulane, geriatrics entrepreneur, always cheerful even on the most gloomy of days; and dear Nate, who wanders amiably through the aerobics and weight rooms, calling every one by name and wishing him or her a great day, like a Wal-Mart greeter.

This venerable landmark teetered on the brink of financial ruin twenty-five years ago; a reenergized volunteer board, spearheaded by longtime member RCW, who couldn't stomach the forfeiture of his beloved racquetball courts, stabilized the situation, negotiated a conciliatory workout arrangement with sympathetic banker SJT, and recruited a talented, aggressive CEO. Its spectacular resurgence culminated in the construction of a 50,000 sq. ft. state-of-the-art suburban branch -- funded by a $7.5 million capital campaign, twenty per cent of which was provided by the WEJ family for which it is named. Enough was left over to refurbish the Downtown facility, which is no less refined, more intimate, and still offers free towel service.

From the Y it's only two blocks to my office, or to the charming White Hart Cafe (which has captured the attention of travel writers for both the New York Times and the Washington Post) for a cup of Counter Culture black java. Most days this winter it's been mild enough to walk those two blocks -- I never wear an overcoat -- with hardly more than twelve inches of snow accumulating in toto, vanquishing any concerns that last year's back-to-back blizzards were no more than an aberration, as was the oppressive heat wave that followed in their wake.

While many snowbirds prefer the sultry monotony of the Sunny South -- and flock there at the first chill in the air -- who can deny the cyclical pleasantness of Central Virginia's temperate climate? Seasonal extremes never linger long enough to be any more irritating than one of our infrequent traffic jams, and merely whet the appetite for the next quadrant on the calendar; and even winter's most frigid days, and summer's most sweltering, wax and wane like the phases of the moon, prompting this oft-repeated witticism: If you don't like the weather, just wait thirty minutes.

The Downtown where I have been a forty-year fixture is experiencing a revival of sorts -- although my own vantage point has been somewhat handicapped by the absence of a window in my office, despite my exalted position as CEO.

Defying occasional protests from self-interested suburbanites, the City Fathers -- whom I define as successive iterations of our seven-member City Council -- have exhibited commendable courage and vision over the past thirty years in investing significant public funds in a variety of projects -- like the Community Market, its earliest and, looking back, perhaps its most essential seed -- and in encouraging and subsidizing a number of private developments, through grants, guarantees, and tax credits -- like the Market's twin anchor, the original Radisson (now the Holiday Inn Select) and the laudable, luxurious, but precariously leveraged, boutique Craddock Terry Hotel.

The latter houses two respectable dining establishments -- Shoemaker's, which recently reduced its prices but not its quality, its upscale aspirations surrendering to the local pocketbook, and Waterstone Pizza, whose microbrewery has made it a preferred bar stop.

Neighborhood competition is daunting -- from the savory recipes of the master chefs at Main Street Eatery and Bull Branch (both of which have been around ten to fifteen years) to the casual but dependable fare at the Depot Grill, Market on Main, Robin Alexander, and Jimmy on the James (all relative upstarts, less then five years old), to a smattering of smaller, mostly-for-lunch, Mexican, Chinese, Indian, salad and sandwich shops.

In the latter category I include the aforementioned White Hart, where the homemade potato soup and four-grilled cheeses on whole wheat bread are a viable alternative to my daily brown-bagged peanut butter and jelly and carrots, and the Starlight Cafe, located on Fifth Street in a former bus station, where spicy huevos rancheros and sugar-sprinkled French toast are the best options for a dress-down Sunday brunch.

Sadly, Lynchburg's six-month experiment in emulating the New York Club Scene, City Views -- complete with a lighted dance floor, low-slung white leather couches, and a breathtaking view from its roost atop the Bank of the James skyscraper -- came to an ignominious end when the firm of curmudgeonly lawyers ensconced on the floor below detected a clause in its lease forbidding such frivolity and ruthlessly padlocked the doors.

Day and night these places are luring fun lovers and dilettantes Downtown. Despite a dearth of bona fide shopping opportunities -- except for furniture, of course -- and the glaring absences of a drug and grocery store, some have chosen to put down roots in any number of loft apartments that have spontaneously sprung to life.

Taking advantage of tax credits and bargain prices, stimulated by the success of Riverviews, which has morphed from an artists' coop into a general residence, ambitious entrepreneurs have transformed the streetscape, restoring many deteriorating properties to their ancient grandeur. The most audacious of these has, from a command post in his corner barber shop, annexed one whole city block, given it an extreme makeover, and is now poised to conquer another.

Beyond the inner city, within ten miles of my home, are enough restaurants -- all independent -- to overcome any single man's culinary ineptitude: four Italian, three Mexican, two Chinese, and one American original (and barely digestible). But the one my Hyundai Genesis hones in on most often -- at least once or twice a week -- is Oakwood Country Club, not just for the grouper, tuna, or veggie quesadillas, which always taste good to me -- although, truthfully, my palate is not the most discriminating -- but also, as my eighty-five-year-old mother astutely observed, for the conviviality.

Once a thriving hub of social and recreational activity, sporting a roster of five hundred plus, and my father's favorite watering hole (a bronze plaque engraved with his name hangs among others in the bar's Memorial Corner), this grande dame of the Avenue fell prey to a proliferation of dining and drinking alternatives (most of which required no dues), to a status (mostly perceived) and golf course (all too real) decidedly inferior to those of its more rural competitor, and, frankly, to poor management. When a redesign of the golf course failed to boost the membership rolls, a crushing debt burden forced the Club into bankruptcy.

Intent on developing the valuable golf property, an investor group bought the assets at auction; ownership and management of the Club devolved on senior dynamo JLA, who, at an age when most of her ilk have settled into a leisurely retirement, has warmed to her task with a graceful determination, revitalizing the operation, restoring its credibility, corralling new members, and manifesting a contagious exuberance. With friends and acquaintances circulating through the bar and grill room, Friday nights have the buzz of a cocktail party; eighty members enjoyed a festive Mardi Gras buffet; over one hundred and fifty turned out for corned beef and cabbage and live Irish ditties on St. Patrick's Day.

Long known as a tennis club, Oakwood's spacious back terrace overlooks its ten outdoor and two indoor courts -- the perfect setting for the Pro-Am Tournament the Club has hosted every June since the mid-sixties. As for me, I gave up the game -- and all competitive sports -- years ago after an opponent launched an eighty-mile-per-hour projectile at my most sensitive body parts during a friendly mixed doubles contest. I have since restricted myself to more solitary pursuits, like swallowing (before compelled to quit) full or half doses of the ten mile course that traverses the hilly terrain from E. C. Glass High School to Riverside Park and back, and passes one block from the house I now live in.

About forty years ago, when a running frenzy swept the nation, a local guru convinced insurance mogul GTS -- whom, legend has it, had been, two hundred pounds ago, a youthful track star himself -- to underwrite a road race, and felicitously chose this glorious, if not challenging, route. It became another Lynchburg signature event, capturing the imagination of the community and drawing upwards of 5000 devotees, including some of championship caliber, before competition and economics threw up roadblocks almost as insuperable as Farm Basket Hill. In recent years new leadership has nurtured a modest comeback, securing sponsorship dollars, trumpeting its one-mile and four-mile co-races, and importing celebrity spokespersons, like Andre Agassi and Steffi Graf.

If one prefers cycling -- or must resort to it -- or is persuaded by a female friend that it is a mode of conditioning both effective and companionable, the entrance to the Blackwater Creek Bikeway -- which follows the creek 6.5 miles along an abandoned railroad bed to Downtown and across the James River to Percival's Isle -- is a scant five minutes away -- by bike. If veterans tout the incomparable joys of nature viewed from the seat of a bicycle and the wind in one's face, this novice prefers to keep his attention firmly fixed on the path before him, as objects become larger much faster than anticipated.

After a heart-pumping diversion, an honest (or not) day's work, an oxymoronic pleasant afternoon of golf, or a sumptuous meal, a plethora of cultural opportunities beckons the curious and the adventurous -- besides, of course, the tedious fare of raunchy comedy, simpering romanticism, fatuous melodrama, and cartoon violence regularly on display at the three local multiplex cinemas. (I've seen four movies in two years: The Blind Side, It's Complicated, Tangled, and The King's Speech.)

Three weekends ago, if one were so inclined, he could have been enraptured by the harmonious hymns of the American Boychoir at the First Presbyterian Church on Friday, awed by the E. C. Glass Theater performing Phantom of the Opera on Saturday, and enchanted by a touring production of The Barber of Seville on Sunday -- provided he could get tickets, which we couldn't for the denouement, thus foiling a potential hat trick. on Saturday, and enchanted by a touring production of The Barber of Seville on Sunday -- provided he could get tickets, which we couldn't for the denouement, thus foiling a potential hat trick.

Actually, E. C. Glass -- where director JAA has fashioned a mini-Broadway empire of world-class proportions -- preempted its crosstown rival, unveiling its Phantom three weeks before Liberty University's mirror image will make its own ghostly debut. Arriving thirty minutes prior to the notorious crash of the chandelier, JSG and I are dumfounded at being banished to the balcony -- this in an auditorium that seats 2000, for a show for which there are six performances. Unfortunately, from this distance, while the special effects and costumes are stunning, and the adolescent voices powerful and intense, to a first-time viewer like me, the storyline is confusing, the words mostly unintelligible, and the atmosphere -- well -- a little too operatic.

Thus, indeed, The Barber of Seville may have worn out my weekend. More palatable are these classical musical dramas in small servings, as was the case at the Opera on the James Cabaret gala, where Italian festivity, fine wine, authentic cuisine, and Puccini selections drew four hundred patrons, validating founder DBN's intuition that there is more to the Lynchburg music scene than Country and Western and Gospel.

A week earlier, another cultural phenomenon, The Ellington, celebrated its twenty-eighth anniversary, with dinner, dancing, and the usual live auction of donated vacation giveaways, art works, and catered dinner parties. The Ellington is a former Little Theater playhouse rescued from oblivion by a group of jazz, blues, and rock and roll aficionados, headed by HRL, "the Duke," and now a small showcase for local, regional, and national acts. It's a "home-built exercise in civic excellence," in the exquisite diction of the exuberant auctioneer, who is none other than JFD, the proprietor of -- and nightly entertainment at -- Jimmy on the James. JSG and I go alone, but, as is often the case, run into some folks we know.

Backing up another week, we discover two professional comedians posing as amateurs and playing to a packed house (granted, admission is free and seating is limited) at another Downtown reclamation project, the Renaissance Theater. The cast is well-known to us: CJC, gastroenterologist, real estate developer, and free-wheeling master of ceremonies, who is exercising unusual restraint tonight by adhering to a script, and WJB, versatile musician, actor, humorist, and director, who recently made his operatic debut in The Barber of Seville. It's "Saturday Night Live," as the dynamic duo rolls out its rollicking repertoire, part original, part borrowed, with the raucous insolence of George Carlin (a schoolmate of CJC) and the fluent repartee of Abbott and Costello; in their grand finale, they render the absurd frenzy of "Who's on First" without a misstep, according to one spectator, who has apparently memorized it himself.

Three blocks away, another Downtown prize is celebrating its tenth anniversary -- the Amazement Square Children's Museum, doubly deserving of its name, first for the delight it engenders in the youthful patrons who wander through its magical hallways, and secondly for the disbelief their elders harbor that it ever came to pass. But it did -- thanks to some extraordinary fundraising by its founding board, especially DMW and JKC, the latter a genuine hero whose gentle demeanor cloaks a resolute persuasiveness, and to the genius and vision of Director MAS, whose imagination permeates every nook and cranny of this rehabilitated warehouse and every novel event he devises to keep its budget balanced.

Sadly, Lynchburg's Historic Academy Theater has not been so fortunate and remains in a perilous state of limbo -- despite the tireless efforts of a dedicated corps of volunteers, including YMCA notable RCW. While angels abound in Central Virginia, and indeed have showered over $10 million on this tarnished jewel, almost as much is still needed, and the clock is ticking. Restoration of this architectural treasure and establishing it once again as an elite center for the performing arts and a tourist destination would solidify Lynchburg's cultural Renaissance and be a boon to the local economy.

This morning at the Holiday Inn Select, under the sobering gaze of the Academy shell, which sits idly across the street, about four hundred supporters turn out for a United Way Awards breakfast. While the recession and a fluid corporate landscape -- where the loss of a major player can be devastating -- have taken their toll, leaving the 2010 campaign five per cent shy of its $3.4 million goal, the enthusiasm of resourceful CEO MOM never falters. Alabama transplants with the accents to prove it, she and her husband moved here years ago to peddle Buicks and Pontiacs and wisely bailed out just before the crash. Having enmeshed herself in the non-profit network, she leaped to the helm of the United Way ship when it became vacant and is steering it deftly through turbulent waters. Needless to say, many lives -- 58,000 served through thirty-eight agencies -- depend on its safe passage.

I am particularly aware of the good work of two of these agencies, having sat on their Boards for ten years: The Family Alliance and The Salvation Army. The first counsels, assists, and educates families and individuals in the areas of financial management, interpersonal relationships, pregnancy, parenting, and substance abuse, and has thrived under the inspired leadership of CEO TMP. Ever alert to the needs of the community and to opportunities for growth, he has brought professionalism and entrepreneurship to the social service mission. I applaud him for espousing and embracing a merger with The Presbyterian Home and Family Services; this bold action, an admirable model for the nonprofit industry, demonstrates how a perceived common purpose and potential administrative efficiencies can overcome egos and territoriality.

In fact, today I transition smoothly from the United Way Breakfast to lunch at the Presbyterian Home, to hear a presentation on Ways to Work, an Alliance program which makes car loans available to low-income persons who otherwise could not obtain them.

The Salvation Army is recognized worldwide for efficiently delivering a variety of services: emergency shelter for men, women, and children; food and clothing, and rent and utility subsidies; breakfast and dinner 365 days a year; and child care for infants and special needs children. If I have been less than diligent in attending Advisory Board meetings (except when I was Chairman), I did follow the legacies of my father and grandfather in helping raise $5 million to build a new Center of Hope. That dream would never have come to fruition without the gifted oversight of Major DCC (who has since received a well-deserved promotion and moved on to another assignment) -- a man who exuded joy in every encounter, whose faith in his Creator and love for his fellowman were uncompromising and infectious, and whose confidence, empathy, and charm were irresistible to prospective donors.

A few blocks away another hidden gem illuminates an old Fort Hill neighborhood. While Lynchburg boasts a highly-regarded public school system and a number of first-rate private schools, thirty years ago educator LGR recognized that a more specialized curriculum might be necessary for some children for whom traditional methods of instruction were ineffective and with a few friends and benefactors founded New Vistas School. It flourishes to this day, a lifeline to those who might otherwise slip through the academic cracks, enabling their success.

Beyond the classroom, the school is well-known for its fundraising Feast, hosted in May by Lynchburg legend and retired construction magnate, ACC, on his gorgeous cattle farm in Bedford County at the foot of the Blue Ridge Mountains. There, about a dozen Cookin' Fools purchase, cook, serve, and early the next morning clean up the scraps of all the slow-roasted beef, pork, chicken, mixed vegetables, and homemade chili beans two hundred eatin' fools can consume.

Across town, in a small office building in the city's ten-year-old mixed use planned neighborhood -- where an abundance of vacant commercial space is a depressing testament to its poor design -- retired banker SCF administers The Greater Lynchburg Community Trust, a $25 million aggregate of restricted, designated, and unrestricted funds, from which grants are made twice a year to support regional nonprofits. From my seat on the Distribution Committee, buried under reams of financial data and persuasive case statements, baffled by requests from $3000 to $30,000, I make the unconventional decision to apply a modicum of logic to an irrational process and award our limited funds in equal amounts, which, once the predictability becomes apparent, elicits inquisitive looks and a few chuckles from my colleagues.

On the fourth Monday of every month (except for brief respites in August and December, unless a special meeting is called, which it usually is), Lynchburg's Best and Brightest gather either in the Craddock Auditorium at the Virginia Baptist Hospital (VBH) or the Dolan Conference Center at the Lynchburg General Hospital (LGH), enjoy the finest catered meal the resident chefs can concoct -- in other words, not your usual hospital fare -- and deliberate the present and future of the $600 million business known as Centra Health -- although the preferred public designation now omits the surname, probably to align better with its bold new circular emblem, whose muted blue-green-mauve colors and flowing lines are not so subtly suggestive of the region's hills and rivers.

In the front of the room, orchestrating the presentations and power points like a symphony conductor, from his opening prayer to his profuse apology for exceeding his two-and-a-half hour time limit, is the architect -- to quote the search consultant charged with the unenviable task of finding a successor -- of this vast enterprise, its twenty-five-year tenured CEO, the indefatigable GWD. From his presence at the creation, the merger of VBH and LGH, he has never accepted less than its current status as a nationally-respected model of quality and efficiency -- assembling an executive team and physician network equally committed to excellence (every time), expertly navigating his Titanic through the treacherous shoals of regulatory compliance and relentless change, and setting an example to aspiring leaders everywhere by acting consistently with integrity, transparency, sensitivity, and good humor.

Around the elongated rectangular table, other local luminaries light up the night: KSW, Board Chair, whose distinguished career as corporate attorney lends both weight and wisdom to his gavel; RWF, retired banker, former Chair, always a voice of common sense and optimism, and a faithful and grateful celebrant of the good work of others; CWP, whose thorough comprehension and penetrating analysis of every issue leaves no doubt as to his credentials as a highly-sought executive and consultant in the field of nuclear energy; WPS, insurance executive, who invariably elucidates the implications of an action or decision with a perfectly-pitched observation or question; and cardiologist TWN, who courageously and impartially balances physician interests against those of the hospital and the general community, often sacrificing the former for the latter.

Central Virginia's health is in good hands.

And these are only a handful of the hundreds who have made this special spot interesting enough for me to have found contentment and fulfillment here for sixty years. The list of remarkable individuals, selfless volunteers, quiet philanthropists, active humanitarians, concerned citizens, and loyal friends is endless.

Because Lynchburg is a place large enough to offer a multitude of opportunities -- to play, to work, to serve -- yet small enough for almost anyone to be accessible, it has been my good fortune to have made contact with a few of these champions. Being a prominent businessman hasn't hurt; yet I wouldn't say it's a prerequisite. Witness our current mayor -- a relative newcomer and an executive in a nonprofit.

Although I didn't see or hear it, I'm sure that her recent State of the City Address was buoyant and hopeful, predicting a bright and promising future to all who reside here. Even if it's an attitude politicians are compelled to assume, it's also her nature. Contrary to my own habitual view that the glass is half empty, in this case I might have to agree with her. Because in a place with so many heroes and heroines, which is the real reason we love it so much -- far surpassing the climate, the scenery, the entertainment, the flora and fauna -- how could it be otherwise?

History Day

For the past few months I've been following the progress of a seventh-grade friend of mine, AEG (actually -- one of her favorite words -- she's the daughter of a friend, JSG), laboring over History Day.

It's a more interactive and individualistic exposure to history than the the rote regurgitation of facts from a textbook that my generation was raised on, and one which should hardly have been so novel to me, since, when I asked my own son if he had ever participated, he reminded me with a look of condescending impatience of his award-winning video (twenty years ago) on the architecture of Lynchburg.

Drawing on a specific theme -- this year it's "Debate and Diplomacy in History: Successes, Failures, Consequences" -- the student selects a topic, conducts his own research, and creates a paper, performance, documentary, exhibit, or web site, which must consist of not only a description of an event but also an analysis of it.

Fortunately for AEG, her mother "loves History Day," and, like an eager scuba diver, immersed herself in the uncharted waters from the day the former deposited her bright red informational folder on the kitchen counter, flashed her rosy-cheeked grin, rolled her soulful green eyes, and emitted a silent thought bubble: "What now?"

Adding to the pressure was a daunting family tradition. One brother had earned a ticket to the National Finals by assuming the persona of Isaac Stern speaking and performing at Carnegie Hall. Another would have followed in his wake had he not, in a stunning burst of honesty, nobly admitted never having read the entire Uncle Tom's Cabin novel upon which his original one-man docudrama was based.

If one learns nothing else, it's how to follow directions, since the rules for History Day are both extensive and exhaustive -- at least twenty-five depending on the format, specifying such minutia as exhibit size, time limits, type size, and page-numbering.

Entries must clearly relate to the theme and possess historical importance -- thus eliminating one of my favorite debates, the struggle for baseball free agency. They must include a title page, an annotated bibliography identifying primary and secondary sources (the difference between which I did not learn until high school), and a 500-word process paper.

As many as four students may team up; having always been suspicious of group study, I'm pleased to see that all of them "must be involved in research and interpretation," although I'm not sure how this is monitored, other than by the Honor System.

Parents are permitted to help in the one area their children could most help them: typing.

After several days of diplomacy, debate, and anxiety, AEG, whose popularity makes her a much sought-after coworker, decides to take the solo route, loath to reject and disappoint any of the classmates clamoring for her many talents, particularly theatrics. Besides, she has a resourceful partner already -- her enthusiastic mother.

The next order of business is to select a topic. While I'm not sure if originality is permissible, certainly the proffered list of about eighty includes a surfeit of juicy possibilities. The art is to find one broad enough to be significant yet restrictive enough to be manageable, given its inherent constraints.

As we peruse the titles -- I've been enlisted as a consultant -- some fail the first test, carrying too little weight (The Purchase of Alaska, Setting Silver/Gold Standards of 1896, The Pure Food and Drug Act, The Release of Francis Gary Powers), while others don't pass the second, too expansive in detail and implications for a seventh-grader to explicate adequately (The Federal Reserve Act, Brown v. Board of Education, The Six-Day War, Diplomacy at Versailles 1919).

Scrolling down, I'm startled by two, then three, Holocaust-related suggestions -- Finding Guilt: Judgment at Nuremberg; Debating the Final Solution: Wannsee; and Raoul Wallenburg: Negotiating for Lives.

"Raoul Wallenberg. Do you know who he was?" I inquire of mother and daughter, who stare at me like two lovely deer caught in the headlights. "He saved thousands of Jews during World War II. You can look him up on my blog -- and lots of other places." In fact, he had surfaced a few months ago when I was researching a Sphex Club paper on America's feeble response to the Holocaust.

"Raoul Wallenberg was a Swedish businessman who volunteered to go to Budapest, Hungary, in 1944 under the auspices of President Roosevelt's War Refugee Board. Most accounts credit him with rescuing 100,000 Jews from deportation and certain death."

A little googling piques their interest and confirms my report. Further discussion leads us all to the conclusion that here is a topic ideally suited to the parameters of History Day.

The Holocaust is the signature genocide of a century that witnessed too many of them. In researching it, AEG will be exposed not only to its unrelenting horror -- the subjugation and extermination of an isolated ethnic group -- but also to a redeeming display of heroism against overwhelming odds.

This is diplomacy of the highest order, yet conducted at a frenzied pace, in a surreal environment, as Wallenburg negotiates for human lives, employing a wide variety of techniques, occasionally legitimate, more often bogus: bargaining, threatening, posturing, lying, falsifying documents.

A secondary theme emerges, simplistic yet powerful: how one man, by choosing to act, forcefully, courageously, selflessly, can make a difference, belying the professed helplessness and vacuous rhetoric of the establishment.

Finally, since History Day seeks to invigorate what might otherwise be dry recitations of the past, the appropriate mode of presentation is self-evident: the testimonial, or personal revelation, whether by letter, journal, or oral narrative, of a Holocaust victim who owes her survival to Raoul Wallenberg.

And so, after providing some essential background material, let me assume the role of a triumphant seventh grader and submit my own version of her History Day production, while reassuring my faithful readers that she has indeed completed hers, in a succinct 500 words compared to my own habitually lengthy exposition.

Born in 1912, Raoul Wallenberg was heir to a long line of Swedish statesmen, bishops, diplomats, militarists, and financiers. (Morse, p. 362) His father having died three months before his birth (his mother later remarried), he fell under the tutelage of his paternal grandfather, Gustav, ambassador to Japan and later Turkey. Raoul acquiesced to his grandfather's wish that he pursue a career in commerce, but only after earning a degree in architecture at the University of Michigan. A classmate there remembered him as "a talented yet modest person who showed great insight in finding simple solutions to complex problems." (Bierman, p. 21)

With his grandfather's influence, he found work selling building materials, timber, and chemicals in Cape Town, Africa -- where one partner described him as a "splendid organizer" whose "ability to carry on negotiations has been made use of to the fullest" -- and later in Haifa, Palestine -- where he encountered a number of young Jews fleeing Nazi Germany. (Bierman, pp. 23-24)

Gustav died in 1937, granting the young man a greater degree of independence. He went to work for a Jewish refugee in the import-export business who needed "a reliable Gentile who could travel freely in Europe and the Nazi-occupied countries." It was on such business trips to France, Germany, and Hungary that Wallenberg witnessed the brutal effects of Nazi anti-Semitism. (Bierman, p. 26)

His friends at the time have testified that he was appalled by the horror he saw and "frustrated by his inability to do anything about it." One said "he seemed depressed. I had the feeling he wanted to do something more worthwhile with his life." He told his half-sister he wanted to emulate Pimpernel Smith, the absent-minded professor who rescued dozens of victims from the Nazis in the film of the same name. (Bierman, pp. 27-29)

By the spring of 1944, Hungary was sheltering 760,000 Jewish refugees and natives, who had been spared the gas chambers by the lenient regency of Admiral Miklos von Horthy, a German ally but a reluctant accessory to mass murder. In March, Hitler, infuriated by Horthy's procrastination, intervened, forced the appointment of a more militant government, and, two months later, initiated large-scale deportations under the personal supervision of Adolph Eichmann. Between May 14th and July 7th, 430,000 Jews were shipped to Auschwitz aboard 148 trains; the remaining 230,000 awaited Eichmann's final twenty-four hour blitz, which would complete, in his words, "a deportation surpassing in magnitude every preceding one." (Bierman, p. 39)

World opinion mobilized in defense of the Hungarian Jews. Pope Pius XV urged Horthy to intervene and warned he would excommunicate the Nazi accomplices. (Morse, p. 353) President Roosevelt threatened to bomb Hungary and promised retribution after the war. The International Committee of the Red Cross appealed to Horthy and "the chivalrous tradition of the great Hungarian people." (Morse, p. 362) King Gustav V of Sweden, conscious of his country's high reputation in humanitarian matters, protested "the extraordinarily harsh methods" and implored Horthy to "take measures to save those who still remained." (Fenyvesi, p. 8)

Recognizing that Germany was destined for defeat, Horthy ordered a halt to the deportations.

Saving the surviving remnant became the top priority of President Roosevelt's newly-formed War Refugee Board (WRB). When Gustav agreed to expand his diplomatic and consular staffs in Hungary, the task of recruiting a suitable envoy fell to Ivar Olsen, the WRB's representative in Sweden. Among the prominent Swedish Jews convened by Olsen to advise him was Raoul Wallenberg's business partner, Koloman Lauer; he cited Wallenberg's quick wits, energy, courage, and compassion in endorsing him for the job. (Bierman, p. 31)

Wallenberg was determined not to be hamstrung in his mission by bureaucratic protocols or red tape. Among the conditions which he insisted upon, all of which were approved by the Foreign Office, were: a free hand to use any methods he saw fit, including bribery; empowerment to deal directly with any persons he wished, including enemies of the regime and members of the Hungarian government; and authorization to grant asylum in Legation-owned buildings to persons holding Swedish protective passes. (Bierman, p. 33)

Wallenberg arrived in Budapest on July 9,1944; his passenger train "quite probably crossed paths en route with the twenty-nine cattle cars transporting the last batch of Hungary's provincial Jews to Auschwitz." (Bierman, p.39) His unparalleled accomplishments during those last desperate months of the war are legendary. Among those who witnessed the exceptionalism of this "Righteous Gentile" was Anna Goldman, a thirteen-year old survivor, whose oral testimony is herein transcribed for History Day.

Day after day, we often think, "What have we done to deserve to be treated this way? Why do the Nazis hate us so much?" (Fenyvesi, p. 37) They make us wear yellow stars. They take away our telephones, our bicycles, our appliances, even my mother's wedding ring. They herd us into ghettos, where no one can go in or out and everything is forbidden. But the most awful thing of all is that the punishment for everything is death. People are beaten until they reveal where their possessions are hidden. Others are locked into wagons, eighty at a time, given one pail of water, and left to suffocate in the terrible heat. (Bierman, pp. 45-47)

We think, "It cannot go on like this. God is bound to send someone to help us." (Fenyvesi, p. 37) And He does.

His name is Raoul Wallenberg.

I have seen him myself a few times. He is tall, slender, very good-looking, with dark hair and fine features -- not your typical blond-haired, blue-eyed Swede. He has the manner of a European patrician, superior in every way, and projects an air of authority. (Fenyvesi, p. 39)

Before his arrival, a few lucky Jews with demonstrable business or family ties to Sweden were able to obtain protective passes indicating they were awaiting emigration or travel. One day a friend shows me an impressive-looking Schutz-Pass; it is "printed in yellow and blue, embellished with the triple crown of the Royal Swedish government, and dotted with seals, stamps, a photo, and signatures," almost like it has been designed by an artist. "After being reduced to mere things by all the measures and propaganda against us, it makes me feel like a real human being," she says. (Bierman, p. 52)

Wallenberg uses bribery, blackmail, and skillful negotiating to convince the Hungarian Ministry to increase its initial authorization of these passes from 1500 to eventually 20,000; his success encourages other legations to follow suit. I see friends with Spanish passports and Swiss passports. One is baptized in an air raid shelter. Another escapes with her family to Palestine using documents issued by the Papal Nuncio. Imagine that: Hungarian Jews transformed overnight into Swedes, Spaniards, Roman Catholics.

They say the man never sleeps. He throws himself at his task with the same zeal, energy, and organizational efficiency that his demon counterpart exhibits in pursuing his own murderous agenda. (Bierman, p. 53) In a few short weeks, Wallenberg has wrought miracles: setting up hospitals, nurseries, and soup kitchens; purchasing food, clothing, and medicine; accumulating a staff of four hundred; and coordinating the rescue and relief efforts of all the neutral missions. (Morse, p. 364)

Even though the trains have stopped, we never feel safe. Walking the streets, we stay close to the walls because we never know when we might be accosted by a policeman accusing us of hiding our yellow stars. (Bierman, p. 64) One day a strange girl about my age turns up in the neighborhood with the words "war whore" tattooed on her arm; she is too ashamed and traumatized to tell us what happened to her after she was kidnapped three days ago. (Bierman, p. 54)

A rumor flies through the ghetto that one million Jews (Where are they?) will be ransomed for ten thousand trucks and other non-lethal war material; if it were ever true -- unlikely, when one considers Eichmann's monomaniacal blood lust -- the Russians veto it, staunchly opposed to supplying their enemy.

The Horthy government, emboldened by the collapse of neighboring Romania and the advancing Allied armies, demands and secures the withdrawal of Eichmann and his Kommandos from Budapest. It also manages to prevent the transfer of all able-bodied Jews in the city to nearby work camps, where the back-breaking labor and undernourishment portend certain death. (Bierman, p. 70)

October 15th is a day of excruciating emotional turmoil. With the Russian army rapidly approaching, Admiral Horthy broadcasts a proclamation that the war is over. "This is the moment we have been waiting for after so many terrible months . . . It seems incredible . . . that we can now go out into the streets, cast off our yellow stars, and look for our relatives." Bierman, pp. 73-74)

Within hours, however, a different, ominous voice is heard. The Germans storm across the city, kidnap Horthy's son, and, holding him hostage, intimidate the Hungarian ruler into surrendering to them, abdicating his position, and fleeing the country. Their surrogate Arrow Cross party takes control, headed by the fanatical anti-Semite, Ferenc Szalasi. "The next day Eichmann returns to Budapest in triumph." (Bierman, p. 75)

Now Szalasi's thugs roam the street, looking for Jews to kill. Some -- as many as 13,000, eventually -- find refuge in one of the thirty-two apartment buildings Wallenberg has begged, borrowed, and rented, where the Swedish flag flies overhead like a beacon of hope, food and medicine are stashed in every corner, and forty doctors stand by to inoculate newcomers against typhoid and cholera. (Morse, p. 367) "The Swede is now Budapest's number one landlord." (Fenyvesi, p. 46)

When Hungarian gendarmes try to force their way into one of these safe houses with orders to seize all able-bodied men, Wallenberg bars the entrance. "Nonsense," he says. "This is Swedish territory. You have no right to be on these premises . . . By agreement between the Royal Swedish Government and the Royal Hungarian Government, these men are specifically exempted from labor levies . . . If you want to take them, you will have to shoot me first." The gendarmes leave empty-handed. (Bierman, p. 92)

A bizarre negotiation with the Arrow Cross government saves more lives. When Interior Minister Vajna announces the illegitimacy of Jews belonging to the Roman Catholic or Lutheran churches and the invalidity of foreign passports and letters of safe conduct, Wallenberg persuades Foreign Minister Kemeny to rescind the directive -- appealing to the sympathies of his wife, who is of Jewish birth, and to the regime's desire for international recognition. (Bierman, p. 77)

When, despite a shortage of equipment, the Auschwitz-bound trains begin rolling again, the resourceful rescuer chases them down. "How dare you attempt to remove these people who are under the protection of the Royal Swedish legation?" he demands of the lieutenant in charge, who produces his orders and a list of prisoners. "Your list cannot possibly include Jews who hold Swedish passports. And if it does, someone has made a grievous mistake, and he will pay for it," says Wallenberg. He brandishes his own list, and gets his wards off the train. (Bierman, p. 92)

At Kelenfold, on the western outskirts of Budapest, a deportation center, he flaunts his Swedish credentials and plunges into the crowd, "waving documents and shouting, 'You -- Mr. Katz! Mr. Berger! We have your papers!' The names don't matter, of course. Most of them are just made up. He hands out documents to those nearby," and snatches anyone who flashes a driver's license or ration card. "In the confusion, even people who have nothing are able to slip away." (Fenyvesi, pp. 47-48)

At the Jozsefvaros Railway Station, he brushes past an SS officer, climbs up on the roof of the train, and begins thrusting protective passes through the unsealed doors. The Arrow Cross men shout at him to desist and then open fire, deliberately aiming over his head, so as not to hit him. Wallenberg calmly orders all those with passports to disembark and leads them to a caravan of cars parked nearby, past their dumfounded captors. (Bierman, p. 91)

Weary of contesting the German Army for every locomotive and cattle car, Eichmann, resolute as ever, conceives the diabolical plan of deporting the remaining Jews on foot -- 120 miles to the Austrian border. In the bitter cold of late November, my mother and I fall in among thirty thousand refugees (one fifth will die en route) straggling down the highway, ragged, starving, exhausted, many so old they can hardly crawl. Whipped on by Hungarian guards, those who falter or fall are shot. (Morse, p. 368)

"The conditions are frightful. We walk twenty miles a day in freezing rain . . . One night we stop in a square in the middle of a village, and lay down to rest, without shelter. . . In the morning some of the older women are dead." (Bierman, p. 80)

When we reach the frontier, I manage to slip away to a barn where hundreds of women claiming to hold Swedish passports are being held. "A few days later I hear a great commotion among the women. 'It's Wallenberg,' they say. . . Dozens cluster around him, crying 'Save us, save us.' "

"How handsome he looks -- and how clean -- in his leather coat and hat, like he's from another world . . . Why does he bother with such wretched creatures as we . . . He says: 'Please, you must forgive me, but I cannot help you all. I can only provide certificates for a hundred of you . . . I feel I have a mission to save the Jewish nation and so I must rescue the young ones first' . . . He adds my name to his list. After a day or two, the hundred of us whose names have been recorded are put on a train bound for Budapest." (Bierman, pp. 81-82)

After my rescue, the Hungarian Fascists come to the house where I am staying and kidnap several women. They are taken to the river, expecting the worst, when a car arrives, and out steps Wallenberg. Confronting the Arrow Cross guards, he argues that the women are under his protection. "He has incredible charisma, great personal authority -- because there is absolutely nothing behind him, nothing to back him up . . . The guards can shoot him in the street and no one will know. Instead, they relent and let the women go." (Bierman, p. 89)

Somehow he has intuited that "he can order high-ranking Germans around by raising his voice just a little and giving it the right firmness." When Germans cannot read the rank on someone's shoulders, because he's wearing civilian clothes, and fear he may have been sent by Hitler or Himmler, they prefer to obey orders. (Fenyvesi, p. 49)

What's extraordinary is the absolutely convincing power of his behavior. When his personal driver is arrested by the Arrow Cross, he drives straight to their headquarters, marches inside, demands his release, and within minutes emerges with the man in tow. (Bierman, p. 90)

Some say Wallenberg is not a brave man, that he is always the first to seek shelter during an air raid. But when it is a question of saving lives, he never hesitates, acting boldly and fearlessly, even though the risk is much greater. (Fenyvesi, p. 52)

One miracle the imperturbable Wallenberg cannot consummate is to deflect Eichmann from his path of destruction. During a chance encounter, the saint invites the sinner to dine with him. After the "pleasures of good food, fine wine, and inconsequential chatter," he launches an attack on the Nazi doctrine, predicting the total defeat of its adherents. Eichmann responds, but his "propaganda phrases sound hollow compared with Wallenberg's intelligent reasoning. Finally he says, 'I admit you are right, Herr Wallenberg. I have never believed in Nazism, as such, but it has given me power and wealth. I know this pleasant life of mine will soon be over.' " (Bierman, pp. 99-100)

Nevertheless, he resolves to "obey his orders from Berlin and exercise his power harshly enough so that he may prolong his respite for some time." He warns Wallenberg that he will do his utmost to stop him, and that his Swedish passport will not protect him should Eichmann decide to have him removed; after all, "accidents do happen, even to a neutral diplomat" (Bierman, p. 100) -- including a car bombing and a truck ramming, both of which fail to harm their intended victim.

Despite his bluster at the dinner party, Eichmann flees Budapest on December 23rd, leaving orders with the Arrow Cross and the German Army to liquidate the 100,000 surviving Jews.

The first phase of the final act involves the transfer on foot of 25,000 Jews from the International Ghetto to the General Ghetto, where 75,000 are already on the verge of starvation. Wallenberg bribes Arrow Cross officials to cancel this order in exchange for Swedish food supplies and protective passes.

Now our fate lies in the hands of SS General August Schmidthuber. Wallenberg sends word to Schmidthuber that he will hold the General personally responsible for any massacre and see to it that he is hanged as a war criminal. With the Russians' arrival imminent, Schmidthuber realizes he has no time to find Wallenberg and silence him. "His nerve breaks. He picks up the telephone and instructs his men that under no circumstances are the ghetto killings to take place." Our defiant warrior claims his final victory. (Bierman, p. 116)

When the smoke clears, twenty-five thousand more of our brothers and sisters emerge from their hiding places in Gentile homes, monasteries, convents, and church cellars; they too owe their lives to the prodigious efforts of this brave and kind man.

Wallenberg himself was not so fortunate. Believing his best hope for securing emergency food and medical supplies for the decimated Jewish community was the Russian Army, he gathered his personal belongings and the rest of his funds, and on January 17th, 1945, left with his driver and a Russian escort for its headquarters in Debrecen, 120 miles to the east. He was never seen or heard from again.

Because of his association with the War Refugee Board and the known affiliation of his sponsor, Ivar Olsen with the U.S. espionage agency, the Office of Strategic Services, the Russians suspected him of being a spy. Whether he was or not, "the fact that he was a heroic rescuer of Jews only strengthened the Soviet determination to get him. They hated heroes . . . and probably laughed when he told them he saved Jews because he believed in humanity." Moreover, as a first step toward communizing Hungary, they were systematically eliminating foreign influences, and regarded him as an American imperialist agent. (Fenyvesi, p. 71)

Since 1941, well-intentioned statesmen had wrung their hands in frustration, affirming a proper measure of compassion, bemoaning the Jewish tragedy, and lamenting their inability to stay the executioner's sword. While it is true that Hungary presented a uniquely receptive environment, who can say if another person would have seized the day as Wallenberg did, or what factors in his personality drove him so relentlessly in his self-imposed crusade?

Undoubtedly, he was courageous, steadfast, and unselfish -- to a point seldom associated with "real, living people" -- and motivated by a simple belief in goodness and a desire to foil evil, a natural humanitarian sympathetic to the weak and downtrodden. (Fenyvesi, pp. 50-51)

But beyond that, he embraced his mission as an opportunity to exercise his individuality, to shatter his family's traditional commercial boundaries. He exulted in an unprecedented freedom of action. "He could operate outside the narrowly defined laws of any one country or community . . . Though posted as a diplomat, he ignored the restrictions of that code-bound profession. He himself would determine what was right." In a universe of moral inversion, anything that saved lives -- lying, bluffing, forging documents -- was permissible. (Fenyvesi, p.52)

The Jews of Budapest named a street for Raoul Wallenberg. There was little more they could do to express their gratitude, since he had disappeared into the vastness of the Soviet Union. But the Israelite Congregation of Pest, where the Swedish safe houses had been located, paid him this tribute:

"We witnessed the redemption of prisoners and the relief of suffering when Mr. Wallenberg came among the persecuted to help. In a superhuman effort, not yielding to fatigue and exposing himself to all sorts of dangers, he brought home children who had been dragged away and he liberated parents. We saw him give food to the starving and aid to the ailing . . . He was a righteous man." (Morse, pp. 373-374)

REFERENCES

Bierman, John. Righteous Gentile: The Story of Raoul Wallenberg, Missing Hero of the Holocaust. New York: The Viking Press, 1981.

Fenyvesi, Charles. When Angels Fooled the World: Rescuers of Jews in Wartime Hungary. Madison, Wisconsin: The University of Wisconsin Press, 2003.

Morse, Arthur D. While Six Million Died: A Chronicle of American Apathy. New York: Random House, 1967.

Destination Wedding

Although it certainly sounded like one when I named the place and the occasion and was duly congratulated, this wasn't really a destination wedding, if one subscribes to the technical definition, which purports that the nuptial site be some exotic distant locale, foreign to both bride and groom and requiring complicated (and expensive) travel arrangements by all invitees.

If the truth be told, my daughter's wedding, which took place five months ago, would more accurately qualify, luring as it did one hundred friends and family members to the remote hamlet of Haverhill, New Hampshire, there to be enchanted by its pastoral, rural beauty and breath-taking mountain vistas, the place where her affianced had spent many a languid summer visiting his grandmother, one of its 5000 residents. The minor problem of how to get there in less than eight hours flying and driving was easily solved by the Schewel contingent of eight indulging in a rare extravagance and chartering a private jet.

In this case, however, the destination -- Santo Domingo in the Dominican Republic -- was chosen not for its tropical charm -- a refreshing antidote to winter's early wrath -- nor its tourist appeal but because it was, in fact, the birthplace and home of my son Matthew's fiancee, Patricia Rodriguez, whose parents -- esteemed, genteel professionals -- would consider nothing less than the finest traditional celebration for their oldest daughter and the first to wed.

Like champagne from an uncorked bottle, they erupted impromptu, two weddings in one year, which, while not entirely unexpected -- both Sara 32 and Matthew 28 had been courting their respective significant others for some time -- still retained elements of surprise. After all, despite one's paternal intimacy, which may be more wishful thinking than reality, no one really knows when, if ever, these affairs will be consummated, at least in a legal sense, especially in a family where both parents and five aunts and uncles have bequeathed to their offspring an intimidating and dispiriting legacy of divorce.

Nevertheless, omnia vincit amor, and within three months of Sara's receiving a ring from her beau Nate -- at the finish line of the Philadelphia Marathon, no less, which they crossed in unison, signifying perhaps the arduous nature of the marriage compact -- Matthew boldly produced one of his own, on Valentine's Day. He may have been spurred to action by his Dominican girl friend's admonition that "engagement is the happiest day in a Latino's life" and her resourceful emergency flight to Washington, D. C., ostensibly to nurse his bruised ego and a broken wrist back to health after a nasty bicycle spill.

In defiance of the conventional wisdom that long-distance relationships are doomed to fail, this valiant couple confronted and conquered periods of prolonged separation. When the two met at a conference four years ago, both were teaching in bilingual elementary school programs, he in Durham, N. C., she in Greenville. After Matthew moved to Washington, D. C., to embark on his journalism career, four-hour drives each way became the norm as the two alternated weekend rendezvous. When the renewal of Patricia's visa fell prey to bureaucratic carelessness and she was exiled to the DR, reunions became fewer, farther apart, and more costly. Thank goodness for Skype.

And when the two decided to tie the proverbial knot -- confirming the adage that "absence makes the heart grow fonder," and not of someone else, as a cynical friend of mine was quick to observe (actually she was quoting her grandmother) -- they learned that navigating the murky waters of the State Department is a slow, treacherous, frustrating process, typified by its culmination, a five-hour wait for a ten-minute interview at the Embassy in Santo Domingo. The subsequent issuing of Patricia's fiancee visa was a Pyrrhic victory, however, since the U. S. Government's perverse logic forbade her return to the DR -- should she choose to leave to visit her betrothed -- even for her own wedding unless married in the States in a civil ceremony.

By a stroke of luck, the eleven Lynchburgers (including me, my mother, my friend JSG, my sister, my brother-in-law, their two children, and my brother and his three children) who board their Delta Regional Jet at 6:00 AM on December 28th, bound for Atlanta and the Dominican Republic, manage to avoid such inconveniences. Well, almost.

Upon checking in, I am subjected to another tiresome example of how an ubiquitous Big Brother is watching out for me (and three hundred million other Americans). The agent is required to verify my credit card, and when the numbers don't match -- since I lost my card two months ago and had to get a new one -- she has to cancel and reissue the three tickets purchased with the old one. Says my niece Esther: "Someone used Marc Schewel's credit card to buy a ticket for Marc Schewel. I wonder who it was."

Our return flight, reservations for which were made long before the axe fell, is scheduled for January 2nd, which, while not the last Delta flight into Lynchburg, is only one whisker-thin day shy of the distressing termination of the Atlanta Connection. It's as if an angry god has swooped down from the friendly skies and erased our fair city from the map. (And he even has the audacity to email me a customer satisfaction survey after I am safely home.)

By the time we are in the air at 6:30 AM, it's already been a long day. At 3:30 my stepdaughter Kali called the house (a second alarm, as if I needed one). She and her sister Adrienne had missed their flight from New York due to a blizzard, had driven all night to Lynchburg to pick up their passports and warm-weather clothes, and were halfway to Charlotte to embark from there to the DR -- minus Adrienne's formal dress which she had left at her mother's apartment. Would I go by and pick it up? "Sure," I said, with bleary-eyed exasperation, assuming I can find it in the middle of the night, having never set sight on my ex-wife's residence. Fortunately I was spared the adventure when, just as I was pulling out of the driveway, Kali called back with the gratifying news that Adrienne had another dress she could wear.

Ten minutes underway my mother implored me to go back to her house for her reading glasses. Then, at the airport, how could I, a dutiful son, deny her request to carry her cumbersome overcoat out to the parked car, only to find out, after clearing security, that I had to go back to search the pockets for her boarding passes -- which meant off and on with the shoes again, as if this suspicious character had inseminated them with explosives during his mysterious disappearance.

For an eighty-five-year-old woman my mother travels well; she just occasionally forgets things, like trading her seat next to mine for JSG's, the number of which I wrote clearly on her boarding pass. When she has to reverse course and walk back up the aisle against a swarm of incoming passengers, she looks like a goldfish caught in a tidal wave.

Otherwise our three-hour flight from Atlanta to Santo Domingo and immigration into the DR are uneventful. (Every one has to pay a $10 tourist fee.) Since one never knows when the local currency might be useful or necessary, I decide to convert $100 into Dominican pesos; at thirty-one per dollar, my wallet bulges with over three thousand, and I feel like a rich man. A vast disillusionment sets in, however, when I discover that most Dominicans have no faith in Mr. Bernanke's efforts to devalue the dollar and prefer it to the peso.

With eighteen family members and a dozen other out-of-towners now in unfamiliar territory, Matthew has procured (at a cost of course which Dad is underwriting) a forty-passenger bus, which meets us at the airport and conveys us to our four-star accommodations at the Melia Hotel and Casino, a sprawling complex set amidst similar establishments on a long thoroughfare fronting the harbor.

After four hours in the air, I conclude that our brief bus ride through the crowded streets of Santo Domingo, dodging and muscling past hordes of automobiles, trucks, and motor scooters, the imperturbable drivers of which, swept up in a frenzied game of chicken, are serenely oblivious not only to each other but to the infrequent signs and signals that flash by, is much more harrowing than any takeoff, turbulence, or touchdown -- that is until JSG and I venture out to cross the highway for a leisurely stroll along the waterfront. An impenetrable stampede of motor power thunders by, bunched like Nascar racers on restart, changing lanes with no margin for error, daring foolhardy pedestrians (like us) to risk disaster.

Sadly, the scene is depressing. Noise and exhaust pollute the atmosphere. The late afternoon sun shimmers on the blue-green water and scattered whitecaps, but the beach is narrow, rocky, and littered with paper trash and plastic containers. Ever the critic, I instruct JSG that the city would be better served by dispatching half of the superfluous police officers idly patrolling the premises to clean-up duty.

A few hours later, it's time to Meet the . . . Rodriguezes. Their spacious stucco villa -- about twenty minutes from our hotel -- protected by an iron gate, is tucked into an elite neighborhood that requires our dexterous driver to coax his unwieldy vehicle around tight corners, up steep inclines, and across deep gullies, eliciting groans of protest from the overworked transmission.

My son's imminent in-laws, Julio and Josefina, have graciously opened their home to the entire Schewel clan for a delightful Dominican repast on the eve of the wedding -- substituting their exceptional hospitality for the customary rehearsal dinner sponsored by the groom's parents.

Julio, or more respectfully, Don Julio, according to my older son David, is tall, courtly, and animated; attired in khaki slacks and a casual shirt that matches his Roman crown of white hair (I have chosen stripes and a blue blazer, the proper uniform of a Virginia Don), he and Josefina, equally regal in a full-length patterned dress, greet us at the door and direct us through the living room, where Josefina's elderly mother, confined to a wheelchair, smiles and whispers a few words of welcome.

Don Julio is a Renaissance man. Seventy-five years old, he is the chief medical officer at Santo Domingo's major hospital while continuing to practice and teach pediatrics. He is an amateur historian, having published works on the Trujillo regime, maintains a web site on the subject, and writes a weekly column in a local newspaper. He is an avid baseball fan and an accomplished bridge player. And, as I am about to discover, he knows how to throw a party.

The patio where we congregate is surrounded on three sides by a fifty-foot ivy-covered wall. In the center is a large orchid garden featuring two dozen varieties of the seductive flower; more protrude from the rising greenery. Josefina, says Patricia, is the resident horticulturist, the heritage of her rural origins. Not to be outdone by her husband, she trained as a pharmacist and a physician, but had her career swamped by five children before she could launch it.

In this exquisite setting -- which our host apologizes for, since at 19* C (61* F), it's the coldest night in two years, but not nearly as cold as the two weeks he spent in Wisconsin -- we meet his family of achievers -- dazzling women, handsome men, all friendly, effusive, and charming, fluent in English, current or future doctors, dentists, executives -- sip the Dominican cocktail of choice, rum and coke or whiskey (scotch) and water; and partake of a sumptuous buffet spread out in the dining room: lettuce, tomato, and avocado salad, a hearty stew (sancocho) stocked with chicken, beef, and pork, eggplant lasagna, sweet potatoes, and a fruit custard.


Apparently, the vivacious, black-haired beauty who has won my son's heart is a source of humor for her family. "What do you think of Patricia in the States?" asks one of her brothers, as if there are some things about her I should know. Turning to baseball, a favorite Dominican topic, he lauds the Nationals for signing Jason Werth to replace Adam Dunn, who "strikes out too much." He supplies me with ammunition for a toast when he tells me that Patricia doesn't know that much about baseball and was frantically texting him for information when I took Matthew and her to a game -- the first time I met her, a presumed baseball savant.

Poor Patricia. "She's the worst driver in the family," says Julio, when his turn comes, recalling an accident in North Carolina and one closer to home when she tendered this irrefutable defense: 'That pole wasn't supposed to be there."

The next day JSG and I discover the pleasures of a Dominican coffee as bold as espresso and Presidente beer served ice-cold, sandwiched around a visit to the Colonial City. After pawning off 350 pesos on a cab driver (he wanted dollars, ten of them), we spurn the imprecations of an official guide who thrusts his laminated badge in our faces to verify his credibility and offers us a forty-five minute tour for thirty dollars.

Maybe we shouldn't have been so cavalier -- and penurious. We spot the Cathedral of Santa Marie la Menos, the oldest in the New World, from where we are standing and amble through, but after that we find ourselves on a pedestrian mall lined with small restaurants, souvenir shops, and street vendors. Most enticing are primitive oils of native women and colorful produce, which can be had for $30 to $130, depending on one's negotiating skills, and tantalizing concoctions of "mamajuana," which, when mixed with rum, is guaranteed to cure the common cold, alleviate the pain of gout, and enhance sexual potency. We settle for frozen yogurt.

Matthew's wedding takes place that evening in another church, Regina Angelorum, not far from our afternoon excursion. A crash course in the catechism and a signed oath to raise his children Catholic have been sufficient to neutralize his Jewish roots. We're on Dominican time now, so even though the invitation reads "half past seven," the Wedding Party (in its own Wedding Bus) and the guests don't arrive until 8:00 PM.

I am a little apprehensive about my role in the ceremony since there's been no rehearsal and I won't understand a word that is spoken. Matthew informs me that, after escorting Josefina down the aisle -- in a new tuxedo no less, having finally consigned my thirty-year-old antique to the dustbin of memories, the frayed veteran of innumerable weddings, including at least one, possibly two, of my own -- I am to do what the Rodriguezes do.

Five chairs are arranged on either side of the altar -- the first time I have ever seen that -- and when Josefina takes a seat on the bride's side, I follow suit facing her beside Matthew's mother (my first ex-wife) and her husband. I'd prefer to be next to him since he's Catholic and could coach me at crucial moments.

Matthew -- all 6'2" of his gangling arms, legs, and torso lathered up in black (tux) and white (tie) -- and his older brother, his best man, race down the aisle like thoroughbreds let loose. And then, here comes the bride, escorted by Don Julio, at a more leisurely, practiced pace, and well she should, resplendent in a flowing white dress layered with lace, ruffles, pleats, and crinolines, trailing a six-foot train, which commands the constant attention of her bridesmaid sister. And then the priest -- solemn and smiling, serious and jovial, robust and humble -- begins.


It's in Spanish of course, and there are no interpreters or subtitles; other than a few "Jesu's" which penetrate my language barrier, the prayers, prescriptions, blessings, and sermons soar right over my head -- to heaven -- which they may just as well have done had they been in English. Afterward Matthew tells me that the priest carefully explains to his congregants why this service is different -- a lot different -- from what they are accustomed to: one of the participants is Jewish. As are his parents.

I am guilty of one faux pas and come perilously close to another. Midway through, mirroring the Rodriguezes, I rise to greet my companions on the altar; when I assume they're saying "Congratulations," Matthew corrects me to "Peace be with you." And when the Rodriguezes, padre y madre, step forward to take communion, following instructions, I fall in line, until my ex-wife's husband, the Catholic, waves me off like a hockey goalie protecting his net. Of course, I know better.

If I had tasted the wine and wafer, I could never have denied it, since every minute of action and dialogue is being recorded for posterity -- in triplicate. Like paparazzi stalking British royalty, two videographers and a photographer with a dedicated light-man circle the altar, capturing every nuance of expression of bride, groom, (and parent) from a multitude of angles. Their output may even surpass the six hundred images from the couple's prenuptial photo shoot, so sequential they can be scrolled through like an animated movie.

Twenty family members are summoned to the altar to sign a witness book (a relic of a bygone pre-digital era), including me, who somehow ends up shoulder to shoulder with the priest as he delivers the benediction. As the celebrants parade down the aisle, one mystery is solved; the source of the harmonious hymns we have enjoyed: a four-piece combo seated in the back row and a honey-tongued female vocalist.


By this time it's 9:30. We board the Wedding Bus for quick transport to the Museo de las Casas Reales. Inside the lobby, to the silvery tones of dueling violinists, the bride, groom, and parents form a receiving line, a gauntlet of "felicitaciones" and "gracias," through which all one hundred fifty guests must pass, shaking hands, hugging, and kissing (cheek-to-cheek).

Around 10:00 we adjourn to the lighted courtyard, find a seat at one of the fifteen tables, lift a spot of champagne, and absorb the scene: the tropical foliage, the festive decorations, the large imported dance floor, the fifteen-piece band nestled in the shadows, the bar and buffet peeking from behind a stone portico.

On display at each formal place setting are a chocolate coin wrapped in gold foil inscribed "Matthew and Patricia" and a gift-wrapped doll, each one unique, "a manifestation of Dominican expression," faceless, representing "the union of three races: Native, African, and European, reason thus the Dominicans have no defined phenotypic characteristic."


The band starts up, and, after the newlyweds' first dance, like metal rods drawn to a magnet, the entire entourage rushes to the stage and unleashes a powerful Caribbean rhythm. Bodies are packed in tighter than a Dominican traffic jam.

In the dense crowd I intuit that a basic rock-and-roll step and some vigorous hip-shaking will do as well as anything. My fledgling daughter-in-law pays me the ultimate compliment: "For a gringo, you sure know how to dance." Lights flicker, cameras flash, the pulse quickens, the flesh dampens. The Beat Goes On. It's after 11:00 but still not time to eat.

Taking a break, I strike up a conversation with an unfamiliar American -- his generous girth a telltale sign -- Dr. Robert G. He introduces himself as "the token Jew" ("Not tonight," says my brother), a longtime friend of Don Julio and the DR's Medical Examiner, a position he has held since 1983. Before that, he was the Forensic Pathologist to the Attorney-General of the United States.

"And what does such a person do?" I ask, my exposure to the profession limited to the exploits of Kay Scarpetta, Patricia Cornwell's literary creation. "Well," says Dr. G., "investigate incidents like the explosion of Pan Am 103, the Oklahoma City bombing, and the death of Saddam Hussein's son."

We were warned by Patricia that dinner wouldn't be served until 11:00; actually, it's not until 11:45, but well worth waiting for: strawberry, mushroom, and shrimp salads; tomatoes and mozzarella salad; cheese ravioli; mashed potato casserole; roasted pig; assorted pastries and petit fours for dessert; and a four-foot tall five-layer birthday cake (well, at least it looked like one).


The band starts up again -- but not for us. Six professional dancers, male and female, flaunting bright red and yellow costumes, burst to the stage to demonstrate some authentic and intricate Dominican footwork, much to the delight and appreciation of an enthusiastic, slightly inebriated audience.


Straw hats and glow sticks magically appear; it's Club Rave as the party goers reclaim the floor; bathed in alternating strobe lights, they jerk and twitch in robotic stop-action. A half-full drink glass becomes the center of attention as crazed dancers, including my mother, see how low they can go. In a tribute to the gringos, Rock Around the Clock, YMCA, and Tell Me More blast from the loudspeakers, and then Hava Nagila, the Jewish folk song; two chairs are hustled to the stage and Matthew and Patricia are hoisted to the starry heavens.


A Night to Remember -- and it's not even New Year's Eve -- which comes a scant forty-eight hours later.

By this time, with hardly any sleep -- when we left the party at 2:00 AM, it was still going on -- we have packed our bags and boarded our bus for transport to our second Dominican destination: the Ocean Blue Resort in Punta Cana, where, in a contemporary variation of the traditional practice, the Schewel family and a few of their friends will honeymoon with the bride and groom.

If I had any doubts that driving in the DR is risky business, they were unanimously resolved in the affirmative during this three-and-a-half hour ride (and back three days later). It's every man, vehicle, and horse for himself; fortunately, our six-wheeled beast presents an imposing -- though hardly invincible -- obstacle to its diminutive -- though still fearless -- road rivals. Our impatient driver shakes them off like pesky flies as he bullies past them on blind hills and corners, sometimes running three abreast on a two-lane road.

There are no speed limits in the DR, only speed bumps or speed gullies; they announce with a vengeance the approach, main street, and exit of every town in our path, strain our axles and transmission, but enable me to spot a neighborhood of meubles stores -- the only Spanish word I know, furniture.

Our escort tries to distract us with an on-board movie, the Jeff Bridges comedy-drama, The Fisher King; it's tolerable, but when he switches to an ear-splitting prison revolt abomination in Spanish with subtitles, I ask him to turn the volume down (twice) since only he and the driver can understand it. But just about the time I start to doze off the bus hits a speed bump or blasts its horn at an errant motor scooter.

Our all-inclusive resort boasts the usual amenities: all you can drink; unlimited buffets for breakfast, lunch, and dinner; two swimming pools the size of football fields; a broad beach stocked with canopied chaises; and mediocre entertainment. Our mini-vacation has its share of memorable -- and forgettable -- moments.


Upon my checking in, the concierge whisks me aside, peruses my officious-looking blue blazer, respectfully inquires, "Aren't you with the Embassy?" -- and tries to sell me an upgrade. (I'm already paying $160 per night per person.)

I probably should have acquiesced since it may have garnered me (and a few others) entrance to one of the five seated dining establishments -- Mexican, Caribbean, Italian, American casual, American beef -- which never had any reservations available, no matter what time of day one called. (I suspect all the food came from the same kitchen anyway.)

When I ask my daughter Sara if she and her husband would like to join JSG and me for the Dominican Las Vegas Revue, she references a similar show at the Riu Palace in Playa del Carmen, Mexico, and says, "I'd rather read a book," a good choice, since the recorded music sounds like it's coming from a cave and the choreography doesn't meet high school standards.

With the fitness center barely large enough to accommodate its lone treadmill and stationary bicycle, our exercise regimen is relegated to long walks on the beach; the sight of a few topless fifty-somethings hardly compensates for spraining my foot in the porous sand or soaking my athletic shoes in the incoming tide when I wear them to ease the pain.

Some practical joker pours vodka in a plastic water bottle and leaves it on a dining room table; who should take a swallow but JSG?

One morning at breakfast I am entranced by the dexterity of a grill man cracking eggs one-handed and allowing only the whites to dribble out.

In anticipation of an upcoming resolution, I splurge at the New Year's Eve dessert bar, a huge spread of tables filling the hotel lobby and covered with yule logs the size of tree trunks, white and dark chocolate truffles, mousses in chocolate shells, cookies, dried fruit, nougats, apple pastries, marshmallows, pralines, eclairs, gelatins, meringues, a gingerbread house, and chocolate-carved leaves, castles, turtles, and dogs.


After sampling too many, we join several hundred other revelers in the courtyard behind the lobby for our second extravaganza in three nights, ringing in 2011 with more dancing, more alcohol, a bilingual countdown, an explosion of fireworks, and -- Prince-like -- the release of a flock of doves. May Peace Be With You.

Two days later, it's back to reality. As we board our plane to Atlanta, the flight attendant takes one look at the weary Schewel family and says we are the grumpiest travelers she's ever seen (or at least since her last flight). And why shouldn't we be? We've endured another three-hour bus ride (which left forty minutes late -- unless you're on Dominican time), one-and-a-half hours in line to check-in, and four security screenings (including an x-ray and a hand search of our carry ons and a body frisk), and we're leaving 19*C weather for 19*F.

But there are rewards: no more chauffeurs, a home-cooked meal, workouts at the YMCA, and it's safe to drink the water. Happy New Year.