TWO IRISHMEN AND A JEW MEET AT A BAR....(with Adolph Hitler's fork)

TWO IRISHMEN AND A JEW MEET AT A BAR….

(with Adolph Hitler’s fork)

One fine spring early afternoon in the mid 1980’s, I was at one of my favorite saloons checking with one of my financial advisors (he was pouring me a Johnny Walker Black & water), and discussing the world in general with others of his clients similarly gathered. One such was a fellow-Irishman, John Van Buren Sullivan (then retired, since deceased) who had run New York’s most successful radio station WNEW, in fact the most successful in the country, and had gone on to be the first president of the media giant Metromedia. Further in his past, he had been a WWII wartime correspondent in Europe (I forget for whom - it may’ve been Stars & Stripes) and was with the Allied forces when they entered Berlin. Jack Sullivan and I had become quite good friends over the years and I enjoyed listening to him talk about his experiences working with the radio and television people, but I was always most interested in his wartime stories, particularly the one about Hitler’s bunker in Berlin.

Somehow, Jack had managed to be among the first people to enter Hitler’s bunker after it had been uncovered and der Fuhrer’s suicide announced to a grateful world. Knowing a good thing when he saw it and recognizing the opportunity to grab a piece of history, Jack was able to make off with a doormat emblazoned with the Third Reich’s symbol (the German eagle), along with about a dozen pieces of silver flatware (knives, forks and spoons) with der Fuhrer’s initials (A.H.) engraved on each piece.

So, years later on that spring early afternoon more than twenty years ago, Jack brought a small snapshot of the doormat and one set (knife, fork and spoon) of Hitler’s engraved silver to the bar at ‘21’ to show me what he’d been talking about. First he showed me the small color Polaroid he’d taken of the mat, an eagle with wings spread and standing with talons grabbing the Nazi swastika. It was a little frightening to recall what that symbol had stood for. Then he took a small velvet pouch out of his pocket and handed me the three engraved pieces. At first I was fascinated as I handled them, rubbing my fingers over the ‘A.H.’ that had been cut into each the shaft of each piece, wondering which one of history’s most murderous henchmen might have actually used the utensils I now held in my hands. Then I felt a chill as I realized that Hitler himself most probably had held them, or even Eva Braun, playfully feeding her ‘liebchen’ a forkful of spaetzle. I gave them back to Jack, thanking him for showing them to me, and he returned them to the pouch and pocketed them. I really didn’t know what else to say so our conversation soon drifted off into other subjects.

It was getting to be about one o’clock so I invited him to lunch with me at another of my favorite places, Sardi’s Bar & Restaurant in the theatrical district, a place he had also visited many times (The media conglomerate he had run, Metromedia, also published Playbill). When we walked into Sardi’s I saw that, not surprisingly, there were several people at the bar whom I knew. In particular, Bob Freeman, a close friend and long-time drinking companion with whom I shared ownership of the far left corner of the bar. Bob was a proud Jew, I was a proud Irishman, and we regularly traded insults about each other’s heritage and the prototypical predilections of our respective tribes. After Bob embraced me (he was a larger than life, emotional man) I introduced Jack Sullivan to him. They were both about the same age and, while I was Korea, they had both served in WWII, and I was sure they’d get on together. Bob told Billy the bartender to give us both a drink and, as we waited for the largesse, I fleshed out the introductions, giving some background on the Irishman to the Jew, and vice versa. Then, as we drank, I continued my description of Sullivan’s background, finally getting to Berlin.

At this point, I got cute, too cute. I told Freeman only that Sullivan had gotten into Hitler’s bunker and taken a few souvenirs. Without specifying anything, I asked Sullivan to give me his pouch. I slid out one piece (it happened to be a fork) and handed it to Freeman with no explanation. He glanced at the fork in his hand and looked back at me with a quizzical, “So?”. I told him it was one of Sullivan’s souvenirs from Hitler’s bunker and that he should turn it over and look at the engraved initials on the shaft. When he saw the “A.H.” and it quickly sunk in as to what he was holding and who else might have held it in the past, he shrieked and threw his hand in the air, the fork flying out of his grasp and clattering across the tiled floor, startling everyone at the bar as well as those in the foyer waiting for tables. I should have known better. Just a few hours earlier, as an Irishman, I had felt a chill as I began to realize what I was holding and who might have held it years ago in 1945. Freeman, the Jew, didn’t feel a chill, he felt the flames of hell. I was stupid not to realize that my Jewish friend just might have a more troubled reaction than I did.

Not really knowing what to do, I chased down Hitler’s fork, wiped it off with my handkerchief, and slipped it back to Jack Sullivan. Even my fellow-Irishman expressed his disapproval, giving me a withering look as he placed the fork back into the pouch and jammed it into his pocket and out of sight. Sullivan’s dirty look, on top of Freeman’s fevered reaction to what I’d done, made me realize how insensitive I’d been. It had been a mere 40 years since the defeat of Nazi Germany and, while the memory of history’s most inhumane gang of bullies and cutthroats still lingered, it was more like a fuzzy daguerreotype than a clearly defined digital image. Society at large, particularly the cosseted citizens of Fortress America (including myself), was quickly forgetting that evil does exist throughout the world and, like the poor, will always be with us. And, if my behavior was any indication, so would stupidity.

Happily for me, the disapproval of my Irish friend and the disappointment of my Jewish friend were both short-lived and slowly dissipated over lunch. I insisted that they both be my guests. Sullivan was ready to bolt but acquiesced as he saw Freeman hugging me, forgiving me and reaffirming our friendship (I did say that he was a more than slightly emotional human being). The three of us walked out from the bar, leaving behind an uncomprehending bartender and his extremely puzzled customers. We were led to our corner booth and, as equanimity slowly crept back into our little group, Sardi’s linguine with clam sauce for the two Irishmen, a Chicken Salad for the Jew and a bottle of wine erased the specter of Hitler’s fork.

I often think about that day and my own insensitivity, especially as I consider the significantly increased levels of complacency and denial that exist today. Some politicians too easily brand their opponents as ‘Nazi’s’, with no recognition of what that term really connotes. There are constant reminders of evil all around us and yet we find ourselves berated by the proponents of ‘moral equivalency’ whenever we dare cry, “beware!”

Forgive me for sermonizing. What started out to be a remembrance of two old friends, an illustration of how one man’s souvenir, through another man’s thoughtlessness, can become another man’s nightmare, has somehow morphed into a diatribe. However, in the final analysis, I’m sure both my Irish friend and my Jewish friend would appreciate this Irishman's sense of contrition and might be nodding their heads in approval.