The Day Hitler Died

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"Outside in the passageway, Dr. (Joseph) Goebbels, (Martin) Bormann and a few others waited. In a few moments a revolver shot was heard. They waited for a second one, but there was only silence. After a decent interval they quietly entered the fuehrer's quarters. They found the body of Adolf Hitler sprawled on the sofa dripping blood. He had shot himself in the mouth. At his side lay Eva Braun. Two revolvers had tumbled to the floor, but the bride had not used hers. She had swallowed poison."

William L. Shirer
The Rise and Fall of the Third Reich

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World War II and Adolf Hitler and the Nazis all came before my time so I only know what I have read or seen in documentaries.

It was real for my parents, though. They were not quite grown when the war began, not even when the war ended, but they were old enough to know who was fighting and what the stakes were.

And when the news that Hitler had committed suicide 70 years ago today reached them, they must have known that the war in Europe would be over soon.

I don't know if that means they felt the war in general was over — or if they realized that the war in the Pacific continued.

My guess is that, in 1945, most people who were old enough to remember Pearl Harbor knew there would still be a fight to finish in the Pacific. There was considerable angst about the prospect of an invasion of Japan — widely believed in April 1945 to be the only way to end the fighting but just as widely believed to be likely to claims hundreds of thousands of American lives in the process.

The Japanese were determined fighters, and no one thought they would go down easily. The invasion of Japan was expected to be won by whoever was the last man standing.

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But that was a matter to consider some other time. Seventy years ago today, Hitler was dead, and the German surrender was only days away.

Hitler's death, TIME magazine recalls, was shrouded in mystery.

"It wasn't immediately clear what had happened on April 30, 1945," wrote TIME. "This much the world knew: Adolf Hitler was gone, one way or another."

And Hitler had been at the core of Nazi Germany. The tide had turned against the Nazis — it was why Hitler committed suicide — and, when Hitler was gone, all motivation to continue fighting was gone, too.

Questions remain, though, about Hitler's final hours, even after seven decades. Was his suicide the last act of an irrational man who had been waiting vainly for the arrival of Nazi troops who never came? Or was it the cool, deliberate act of a man who had considered all the possible endings to the scenario and concluded suicide was the best choice? The people who were with him in the bunker insist they heard a single gunshot — and that Eva Braun's revolver was not fired. Papers in the Russians' files indicated that Hitler poisoned himself. Were both accounts true? Did Hitler shoot himself after (or while) biting down on the poison capsule? Or did someone else pull the trigger?

We'll probably never know — and it really doesn't matter, does it?

When It Rains, It Pours ...

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My friend, Brady, plays with my dog
(who died many years ago after running into
a street and being hit by a vehicle).

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Well, that's the saying, isn't it?

And I'm certainly feeling that way this week.

As I wrote yesterday, I learned that an old friend of the family died during the weekend. And then, a few hours later, I learned that the brother of one of my dearest friends, Brady (who can be seen in the attached picture), killed himself last night.

At this point, I don't know all the details. But I know Sam had a troubled life. His marriage had many bumpy spots — and, yes, I know that most marriages do, but his was complicated by the fact that his son shot and killed himself in the presence of Sam and his wife a few years back.

I know that was a difficult thing for Sam to come to terms with, but, in my last few conversations with Brady, he told me that Sam was handling things better and appeared to be more like the old Sam we all knew back in the day.

Appearances truly can be deceiving.

I've been away from Arkansas for a long time now, so I've been out of the loop on a lot of things that have happened there, but I presume that depression played major roles in the suicides of both Sam and his son.

Depression is a tricky thing. People struggle with it for all kinds of reasons so there is no one–size–fits–all remedy for it, nor is there a simple checklist of symptoms to watch for in making a diagnosis about depression.

In the last couple of years, I've heard reports of people who killed themselves and their families after losing their jobs in the recession — which led me to believe (and I still do) that a prolonged period of high unemployment in this country will be accompanied by a spike in the suicide rate.

But joblessness certainly isn't the only thing that depresses people and leads some to commit suicide.

Earlier this year, a member of my church killed herself. She was fairly new to the congregation and wasn't particularly well known, but, as the pastor told us one Sunday after she died, in hindsight he saw no red flags that anyone had missed. In fact, he had been deceived because, in her final weeks, things in her life seemed to be moving in a positive direction.

She wasn't unemployed. Whatever demons were tormenting her went with her to her grave.

A few months ago, I wrote about the suicide of the father of two of my childhood friends. He was in his mid–80s and, when I spoke to one of his sons a couple of years ago, had been in good health. His son told me at the time that his father had been working out in a local gym three times a week.

But his health apparently took a turn for the worst in the last year or so. When he took his life, he had been home from the hospital for only a few days.

All these recent suicides are a bit ironic, I guess, because I actually wrote about suicides last year, and I made the point at that time that people commit suicide for all kinds of reasons.

Sometimes the reasons aren't obvious. Life isn't a movie. People don't always leave notes that explain why they decided to take this step. Sometimes it's a burden that the folks left behind have to carry. For some, I suppose, it's too much to bear.

We've always known that some people handle adversity better than others do. I'm not an expert in mental health, but I wonder if there is some genetic factor involved. Maybe it's something that is missing in some people.

Perhaps that would explain a lot. But it wouldn't explain everything. Unfortunately, that is what the parents and siblings of a suicide probably need most — an explanation for why this happened.

I guess that is the greatest barrier to reaching a level of acceptance — not knowing why.

I know that, when my mother died, I heard a lot of people talk about "closure" as if it were the holy grail for mourners. It may be possible for some to achieve closure, but, in 15 years, I haven't found it — and I know why Mom died. I'm sure closure is even more elusive for those who lose loved ones to suicide.

My friend Brady has been through a lot. He was close to his brother, and I'm sure the days ahead will be tough for him, his family and his friends.

But Brady and I have known each other for many years. And if it is possible to achieve closure, he can do it.

News From Home

I grew up in Conway, Ark. It was a small town when I was a child, outwardly not much different from many towns in Arkansas in those days.

Today, it is at least five times, maybe six times, as large as it was then, and it is noteworthy for having been the home, even if for a short time, of some prominent people. Actress Mary Steenburgen, for example, went to college there. So did Scottie Pippen, who went on to play pro basketball with Michael Jordan. Football player Peyton Hillis was born and raised there, then attended my alma mater, the University of Arkansas. Last May, I wrote about Conway when Kris Allen was a finalist on American Idol.

But before any of those people came along, Conway was known — at least in Arkansas — as the home of Justice Jim Johnson.

Earlier today, an old friend of mine sent me an e–mail. Justice Jim died yesterday at the age of 85. Authorities are saying that he killed himself. Reportedly, he had had some health issues, and a rifle was found near his body.

When he was a young man, Justice Jim was an Arkansas Supreme Court justice. That's where the "Justice" part of his name came from. He had twin sons, Danny and David, who were my age and my almost–constant playmates. They lived just down the road from us so, when we were kids, it seemed the three of us were always at the Johnsons' house or mine.

Justice Jim was part of the state Supreme Court until 1966, when Orval Faubus chose not to seek another term as governor. Justice Jim sought and won the Democratic nomination for governor, and apparently, he did so using the segregationist rhetoric that was all too common among Southern Democrats at that time (I say "apparently" because I was too young to sit through or comprehend a politician's speech so I never, to my knowledge, heard anything he said during that campaign).

That fall, I enrolled in first grade. Justice Jim's sons were in my class, and the camera crews from the TV stations in Little Rock were on hand to film the event. The reporters were interested in seeing Justice Jim's sons in school with blacks.

I don't recall if Justice Jim was there or if his wife handled the matter of enrolling their sons. I just remember the disruptive influence those reporters and cameras had. The kids, as I remember, got along fine. Eventually, my first grade teacher had to shoo the adults away so she could get down to business with her pupils.

Later that year, Justice Jim lost the governor's race to Winthrop Rockefeller, the first Republican elected governor of Arkansas since Reconstruction.

In those days, Arkansas elected its governor to two–year terms so, two years later, Rockefeller ran for re–election. Once again, there was a Johnson in the race. Only this time, it was Justice Jim's wife, Virginia. She was unsuccessful in her race for the nomination, but she was a pioneer — the first woman to run for governor in Arkansas' history.

At the same time, Justice Jim challenged Sen. J.W. Fulbright, who was seeking re–election. Fulbright was nominated, then re–elected, and the Johnsons returned to their home in Conway. I can still remember walking through their home in those days and seeing leftover yard signs from their respective campaigns.

Justice Jim was an ally of George Wallace. I remember sitting at his kitchen table the day Wallace was shot and a reporter from the Arkansas Gazette called to get a quote. Justice Jim gave him one. It was a "dastardly act," he said. After he hung up the phone, he looked at his sons and me, grinned and said, "That sounded like a bad word, didn't it?"

Justice Jim and I seldom discussed politics. He knew that my parents didn't agree with most of what he said, and that was OK. He was protective of me like a son. He didn't say things to me that he knew would create a conflict in my young head. He only said things to me that he knew would be all right with my parents. He told me to do right. He told me to be respectful and to be fair. He was always courteous, the very image of a Southern gentleman, to my parents and me, indeed, to everyone with whom he came in contact.

And I have tried to follow his instructions and his example.

I've heard that Bill Clinton once told Justice Jim, "You make me ashamed to be from Arkansas." I never felt that way. I have always been proud to be from Arkansas, and Justice Jim was a big part of that. Not because of his politics, but because of the man he was.

I can't help but think of the ironies, though. Justice Jim, opponent of desegregation, dies during the first presidential term that was won by a black man.

If I had ever speculated about when it would all end for Justice Jim, I never would have expected that.

I certainly never would have predicted that he would die by his own hand.

But I don't judge him for the choices he made — or that were made for him.

A couple of years ago, I was talking to one of his sons on the phone. He was telling me that his father had changed, that he had been a product of the times in which he was born and raised and that he regretted some of the things he had said in the heat of his political battles. I tried to reassure my friend that I didn't hold any of his father's political statements against him, no matter how much I may have disagreed with him.

And I don't judge him for choosing the option he chose. I've never had the gift of being able to look into a man's head and heart and know the pressure he felt or the demons he fought.

I pray for his sons — Mark, David and Dan — that they will have the strength to endure this ordeal, coming only a few years after Virginia's death. I'm sure they will.

And I also pray that Justice Jim has found the peace that eluded him in life.

When's It Gonna Rain?

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My pastor's sermon yesterday reminded me of a movie.

Things that make me think often have that kind of influence on me. I don't know why that is. But that seems to be the way my mind works.

And the movie that came to my mind as I listened to my pastor's words was the movie "Leap of Faith," the story of a faith healer who, as it turns out, has little faith in his own ability to heal. In fact, his healing powers tend to be enhanced by the technology that is in the hands of his assistant.

In the movie, the traveling revival show is stranded in a bump–in–the–road kind of rural town in Kansas, a town that is crippled by high unemployment and a devastating drought that threatens to ruin the year's crops. Because times are so hard, the sheriff is reluctant to allow anything like a revival show in town that will separate the poor and the struggling from what little cash they have.

Nevertheless, the show is allowed to proceed, and, when the faith healer works the crowd with his assistant's help, he amazes everyone with his "knowledge" of things he couldn't possibly know. If you have never seen the movie, the video clip I have attached to this post will give you an idea of the kind of high–tech con game they were playing.

I couldn't find a clip of the scene that came to my mind during my pastor's sermon so I'll have to describe it to you. The faith healer's assistant, wearing a hidden microphone, goes out in the crowd and gets people to whisper their concerns to her; back on the stage, the faith healer hears everything with a hidden earpiece.

For the most part, the problems that are brought to the assistant seem to be routine, everyday problems. I don't mean to minimize them. I just mean to say that they're the kinds of problems that faith healers must encounter on a regular basis. Then — predictably, I suppose — the assistant comes upon a man in the audience who asks her, "When's it gonna rain?" The assistant says, "This man asks a question that is on the minds of everyone here."

So, when my pastor spoke of a Bible passage from Luke, in which fishermen had been casting their nets all night with nothing to show for it and were about to call it quits when Jesus encouraged them to try again, he used it as an opportunity to remind his listeners of the value of perseverance.

"How long?" is the question people ask. The context differs from one person to the next. It isn't even verbally expressed by some. But it's the question that is on all minds. And for many who ask it — or merely think it — everything else is on hold until there is an answer.

How long must we endure illness or hardship? How long before the economy improves? How long before there are jobs for the unemployed? How long must we sacrifice? How long must we defer our hopes and our dreams?

How long?

My pastor may be especially sensitive to this question right now. He was personally affected by the earthquake in Haiti because he served in missions there. Then, a week ago, a member of the congregation — a fairly new member, actually — committed suicide.

When I heard about the suicide, the first thing I wondered was whether she was unemployed. Being unemployed myself — and having worried about the danger posed by joblessness, as well as the stigma some people insist on attaching to decisions made by the isolated and the irrational, for more than a year — I guess it was only natural that it was the first thought that came to my mind.

But, apparently, she was not unemployed. Whatever drove her to end her life, joblessness was not behind it.

My pastor says he has concluded, from his conversations with her family members and those in the congregation who knew her, that no red flags were missed. We may never know why she killed herself.

People commit suicide for many reasons. And it is true that not everyone who attempts a suicide is successful. Sometimes that is by design. Sometimes it really is a "cry for help."

But some people reach the conclusion that there is no help for them, that no restorative rain is going to fall in their lives.

That's the crisis of confidence in America today. And I hope my prediction, that prolonged unemployment will lead to a spike in the suicide rate, will not come to pass.

As there always are these days, there are plenty of people in the media who hailed Friday's jobs report — which told us that the unemployment rate went down even though 20,000 jobs were lost — as an indicator that the economy is turning the corner. But there are few in the media, besides Bob Herbert of the New York Times, who will tell the truth. It is a truth that most incumbents don't want to hear because it speaks of years of sacrifice and hard work — and those aren't the things politicians like to talk about when they are asking for votes.

But what is the alternative? More deception? More talk about the American dream? If so, it better be good. For more and more Americans, the American dream is getting farther out of reach with each passing day.

When's it gonna rain?