Anna Nessy Perlberg was born in Czechoslovakia. Her mother, Julia Nessy, was an opera singer, and her entire family was devoted to the arts. Her father was Jewish, and when Hitler seized Prague in 1939 she and her two older brothers and their parents left their beloved city for New York.

Anna met her poet husband Mark when they both were students at Columbia. They were married in 1953, and a few years later Mark took a job with Time Magazine that sent him to its Chicago bureau. Anna found work in education and social work. Her last stint was as Director of Blind Service Association (a Chicago non-profit I cherish), and years after retiring she enrolled in one of the memoir-writing classes I lead. Here’s a story she read in class about her first years in Chicago.

by Anna Nessy Perlberg

Anna Nessy Perlberg reads from The House in Prague. Photo by: Diana Phillips, courtesy Lincoln Park Village

It was the middle fifties, and Mark and I had just moved to Chicago. My mother was with us for the holiday. The Czech conductor Rafael Kubelik was also in Chicago. He learned that mother was visiting us and so he came to visit her at our house.

He and mother had concertized together and although there was a difference in their ages — mother was quite a bit older than he — they were good friends.

When he arrived, they embraced and mother introduced Mark and me to him. Then they started to speak in Czech and to recall old times. Suddenly, Kubelik put his face in his hands, saying “It’s almost Christmas Eve, and I don’t have a vanocka.” Vanocka is the Czech version of the German stollen — a sweet cake-like bread, filled with almonds and raisins.

Kubelik looked so sad. Mark and I stared at him and then looked at each other. Simultaneously we had the same thought. After a minute or so, we excused ourselves, saying that we had an errand we’d almost forgotten, but that we’d be back.

We jumped in our car and drove to the Czech section of town on Cermak Street, a street, by the way, that was named after Anton Cermak, an immigrant from an area in Austria-Hungary that is now part of the Czech Republic. (Cermak was mayor of Chicago from 1931 until 1933, when he was at an appearance with Franklin Delano Roosevelt and died from an assassin’s bullet intended for the President-elect.)

in the 1950s there were three Czech bakeries on Cermak. The first one was all sold out of vanockas. Same for the second one. But the third had one left. When we told the Czech saleslady for whom our vanocka was intended, she wrapped it with special care and put a huge red ribbon around it.

Then back in the car and to our neighborhood. We were pretty sure that Kubelik had already left our house, but he had told Mother where he was staying. We drove to the Belden-Stratford Hotel, and told the people at the desk that we had a special delivery for Mr. Kubelik. They sent us up to his room.

Golden Alley Press published The House in Prague.

We knocked and when he opened the door, I said “Vesele Vanoce” (Merry Christmas) and we handed him the vanocka. He was surprised, then understood and hugged us both.

I think of it now, and like to remember that on that occasion Mark and I made someone special feel especially happy with a simple gift of a loaf of special Christmas bread.

The House in Prague, Anna Nessy Perlberg’s memoir of leaving Prague in 1939 and making a new Life in America, was Published this past summer. With immigration in the news, her story is very timely – her publisher, Golden Alley Press, says Anna’s book allows readers to “witness the family’s escape and voyage to Ellis Island and Anna’s struggle to become an American girl in a city teeming with immigrants and prejudice.”

Last week’s writing prompt was “Happy Camper.”. After explaining that the phrase is American slang for a happy, contented person, I asked the writers in my memoir classes to think of a happy time in their lives. “Picture the setting, where you were, the sounds, what it smelled like, the feeling in the air,” I said. “Show readers what it was about that time that made you feel so good.”

Writers can take my prompts any direction they choose. If they preferred focusing on the camp part of the prompt, they could write about being in the military, a camp they attended as a child, how it felt sending a child off to camp, or an experience visiting a camp somewhere.

Annelore took the prompt quite literally, describing how the Volkswagen Westphalia Camper Van she and her husband Roy bought in 1969 became a member of the family. Annelore interviewed the people who phoned her when, after 50+ years of service, her family finally put their beloved VW van up for sale. “One woman told me she’d be keeping it outside,” Annelore said, slapping the table in disgust. “Can you believe that?” The man in Indianapolis who passed the audition drove the VW back later to show Annelore and Roy — and their children and grandchildren — how he’d refurbished the van after his purchase. Seeing their treasured VW in such good shape made Annelore , you guessed it: a happy camper.

We heard stories of Girl Scout camp, of day camps, camping at national parks, camping on honeymoons, but the camp Brigitte attended was far different than any of the others.

Born in Czechoslovakia and raised in West Germany after World War II, Brigitte went away to camp in 1947, when she was only five years old. “In those post-war years, summer camp in Germany was provided free of charge to boost children’s health,” she wrote. . “There hadn’t been enough to eat, although my parents always provided for us children first. Still, all I remember from that first summer camp is all the food we ate.”

Other writers used the slang interpretation of “happy camper” to write about a time when all seemed right in the world. , I was especially moved by those who wrote about blissful moments in the here and now. Audrey wrote about hearing a TED Talk on the radio last week called Older People are Happier. She heard a lot of her own thoughts and feelings in what social scientist Laura Carstensen had to say in that talk. “She talked about how older people’s goals change as they get older, we are less bothered by trivial matters, we are more appreciative of positives, we don’t focus on failures, and we are relieved of the burdens of the future,” Audrey wrote. “As death comes closer, older people focus more on life…that’s what matters.”

Donna sees her 75 years of life as a crazy quilt she spreads out from time to time to study the patterns. “Sometimes I see periods of joy and sometimes unbearable sadness,” she wrote, conceding that the quilt can not be corrected and ripped out to obliterate the mistakes. “These are stitched in forever. And along with the triumphs, they are indelible, like it or not.” Donna says thinking of life as a crazy quilt protects her and provides a “layer of contentment.”

The scene at Chicago Summer Dance.

Watching from the sidelines. I noticed a beautiful young dancer in a corner practicing tap moves. His concentration was total. I fall in love with anyone so totally absorbed in their art. His skill was professional and he was dressed as a dancer.

“I would love to dance with you if I can find a place to put my purse” I said, approaching. He indicated some bushes behind him, where he had his stuff.

Facing me, he looked into my eyes as he raised his hands to lightly engage mine. Contact, wonderful connection, sensing me and judging my ability through my hands and what they told him of my body. Serious and respectful. Where are you? What can you do? Do you understand this? A strong leader, comfortable, considerate – taking me with him. Making sure I had what I needed to respond. I have the swing vocabulary, but the most important elements in partner dancing are connection and lead and follow communication. As we gained confidence in each other, he began to smile and do shines. I didn’t try to copy but only to keep the time and be in the right place to support him. It was exhilarating,

At the end, I said, “Thank you, that made my evening. What is your name?”

“Mauricio”, he said. We shook hands and I walked away. His dark, intelligent face was not beautifully made, but his body and sensibility were eloquent. It was a blissful experience.

My husband Mike Knezovich and I have written posts about our writer friend Jean Thompson many times before – everything from the one I wrote about how she introduced herself to me decades ago from the barstool next to mine at Champaign’s Esquire Lounge to the one Mike wrote after Who Do You Love? (One of her collections of short stories) was nominated for a National Book Award.

Jean was in Chicago for the Printer’s Row Lit Fest last weekend. Her session was scheduled at the same time as the memorial service Mike mentioned in his Mondays with Mike post earlier this week so we didn’t go to hear her panel. Lorraine Schmall to the rescue! Lorraine is a writer in the weekly memoir class I lead in Printers Row. She went to Jean’s panel at the Lit Fest and reports in here for our Safe & Sound blog readers. Here’s Lorraine’s guest post:

By Lorraine Schmall

If you haven’t made it to Lit Fest, a/k/a The Printer’s Row Book Fair, mark it on your calendars for next year. This pageant of poetry and prose has been around since 1985, and it’s really fun.

From left to right, Julia Keller, Jean Thompson, and Vu Tran.

The crowd is happy because vendors give away a myriad of free shopping bags and sunglasses. There are a million gorgeous books, and they’re all on sale. There are writers hawking their work, and young optimists handing out pins that say “every poem is a revolution.” There’s food and drink. There are high-class live events featuring the two hundred some invited authors, like movie star Ethan Hawke, Gourmet Mag Editor Ruth Reichl, astronaut Buzz Aldrin, and Pulitzer Prize-Winning poet Tracy K. Smith.

It was ninety degrees all day Saturday but the streets were packed, and the bars were crowded: nothing like a short story and a Sangria.

I started my day with a session called “Do We Ever Escape the Past?” an intriguing question, but one left unanswered. The panel of superstar authors with Chicago connections chose to talk more about their art than psychology. But it was worthwhile, nonetheless.

Jean Thompson lives in Urbana and teaches at the U of I. She Poured out Her Heart is her twelfth book. She shared a dais with Julia Keller, a West-Virginia transplant who’s got a condo in Chicago, six best-selling books under her belt, and a Pulitzer Prize for writing (as a reporter for the Chicago Tribune) a “gripping, meticulously reconstructed account of a deadly 10-second tornado” near Starved Rock State Park. I remember the stories and got scared again just reading that in her bio.

Joining them was Vu Tran, born in war-scarred Viet Nam shortly after his father was airlifted out with the U.S. troops as Saigon fell. Vu is now a University of Chicago professor who has written a noir crime thriller featuring 1970’s Vietnamese refugees and an insider’s look at Las Vegas.

They were a stellar panel, all three with books positively reviewed in the New York Times, so they had a prestigious time slot –late morning — and a plush address: the Shedd Room at the Blake Hotel (many other authors had to carry on under tents in the mind-bending heat).

It was a fast hour and a half, listening to them. Funny Jean told us “It’s so much easier to write about bad sex than good sex. Everybody’s had that.” When asked if she starts her books with a plan, she said her characters created themselves. “This time I really wanted to write about higher love. But every day life and ordinary people got in the way.”

Jean’s biggest fan, humorist David Sedaris, claims “no one is beneath her interest…or beyond her reach.” I can’t wait to read her books.

It was exciting to meet Vu Tran, since I just came back from a visit to Viet Nam with my daughter. I assume his book will never be sold in his native country, which regulates speech and art as strictly as a red light camera controls us scofflaws. He said his first novel Dragonfish had a life of its own. “I didn’t know the ending until a week before I turned it into the publisher.” Not surprisingly, this brainy academic said all his characters suffer from a great deal of anxiety, like their creator. “That’s tough for them, but great for me because it’s fascinating to write about.”

Besides his neuroses, was anything else from his past in the book? “I was in a bad relationship at the time. All that menace and anxiety fell onto the pages of my book.”

Julia Keller, a television and radio commentator, was an upbeat moderator, who is happy that people write, read, and love books. “Print is back!” she crowed. She ended the session by quoting Phil Ochs, when she ruminated about why anybody would try to write at a time in history when all hell seems to be breaking loose: “In a time of such ugliness, the true protest is beauty.”

Am I the only one having a hard time remembering that today is a Friday? That it’s December 25th? Christmas Day?

Above-freezing temperatures in Chicago today are making it feel more like opening day than Christmas day. My great-niece Floey and I celebrated birthdays this week that pretty much trumped (oh, that word!) Christmas. This past week two dear friends lost their mothers, too. We find ourselves reflecting more on their losses, and our losses, than we are on the “magic of the holidays.”

And then there’s this: We already celebrated Christmas with our extended family last Sunday. Shouldn’t Christmas be over by now?

About my extended family: All six of my brothers and sisters are grandparents. My oldest sister Bobbie and her husband Harry have three great-grandchildren. As Mike Knezovich likes to say, “It’s not a family, it’s a nation!” Buying Christmas presents for the entire Finke Nation is out of the question. So we pick names, and you have to make a gift for the person you choose.

The gifts were pretty outstanding this year, but the one our son Gus got from his Aunt Bev in Michigan was my favorite. Some back-story to explain the gift: my sister Bev’s son (Gus’ cousin Brian) came to the United States for a visit in August, 2015. Brian teaches English in Japan, he’s an accomplished photographer, and…he’s a Cubs fan. Anyone who follows this blog knows that Mike Knezovich is an ardent White Sox fan. The Cubs were playing the White Sox when Brian was In town. It was a given. They’d go to a game together.

The Cubs have a tradition: When the Cubs win, they fly a W flag at Wrigley Field. When they lose, they fly an L flag. Cub fans love waving their own W flags in the stands when they win, especially when they’re on the road. They don’t wave L flags when they lose, though.

When crazy ol’ Uncle Mike realized that White Sox all-star Chris Sale was likely to pitch on the day he’d be going to that game with Brian and family, he got what he calls “a brilliant and evil idea.” Mike went online, ordered an L flag (yes, they sell them), secretly folded it up and stuck it in his back pocket on game day. Mike’s Monday’s with Mike post about that game explains what happened in the ninth inning:

White Sox leading 3-0 after a dominating, 15-strikeout game by Chris Sale. Top of the ninth inning. Two out. I reach into my pocket. And then…a home run by Jorge Soler off our closer David Robertson. I took my hand out of my pocket.

A joyous Mike and a disbelieving Brian after the game (photo credit Bev Miller).

A nerve-wracking ninth inning for sure, but the Sox did end up winning, and with that, Mike reached back into his pocket again, and this time he unfurled the L flag –ordered just for this purpose. Five of our family members there at that game were Cub fans, but they took crazy Uncle Mike’s antic in stride. Once home, they described Uncle Mike parading the flag down the ramp as they exited the ballpark and unfurling it on the subway, too. “You wouldn’t believe how many people stopped and asked to take his picture!” they marveled. “He’s gonna be all over Facebook.” Cub fan Bev was one of those photographers, and for Gus’ Christmas gift she framed one photo in an “I heart Dad” picture frame.

Funny. Writing about all this, and thinking of Brian’s time with us in August, family coming from near and far to see him, the joy Aunt Bev put into taking and framing the photo for Gus, Mike’s hearty laugh when he opened Gus’ gift last Sunday,our upcoming train trip to Wisconsin to deliver the gift to Gus…I’m finally feeling the Christmas spirit.

Hard to imagine what our son and the very polite Brewer-fans who work with him will make of the photo when we hang it on Gus’ bedroom wall tomorrow, but I do know this for sure: Gus really does love his crazy old dad. And what a coincidence. So do I. Merry Christmas, everyone!

Remember the last mass shooting? It’s been a whole 10 days, which is seeming like a long time between such tragedies. (In fact, FBI stats put the average length between mass shootings, defined as resulting in four or more deaths, at two weeks.)

After each one, this Onion headline always springs to mind: No Way To Prevent This,’ Says Only Nation Where This Regularly Happens.

It does seem insane that we seem unable to change anything as these incidents pile up. I don’t have a lot original to say except that I support more public safety measures such as background checks for every fire arm sale, every where. I can’t promise it’ll stop things, but I believe it would help cut the number. And it would be worth trying, and worth the minor inconvenience.

But I also don’t think it’s just about guns. Even Michael Moore, who strongly supports stricter gun laws, acknowledged this in Bowling for Columbine. Canadians, as that film points out, love their guns, and they have a lot of them. But we don’t see the craziness from the Canucks. Clearly, there’s something different about the United States, and it isn’t a good different.

I read two or three things this past week that I found constructive and that connect our societal failures—and individual failures—to these horrible events.

One of them is by a blogger named Mark Manson. I can’t vouch for him overall, don’t know much about him, but I thought his thoughts here are worth everyone taking to heart. He suggests that in the predictable aftermath of each incident, we miss something: An excerpt:

And while we’re all fighting over whose pet cause is more right and more true and more noble, there’s likely another young man out there, maybe suicidally depressed, maybe paranoid and delusional, maybe a psychopath, and he’s researching guns and bombs and mapping out schools and recording videos and thinking every day about the anger and hate he feels for this world.

And no one is paying attention to him.

He notes that these onerous school slaughters—Virginia Tech, Sandy Hook, and on and on…they’re not impulsive outbursts. They’re well planned, often for months or more. The killers are methodical in their preparation. They’re alienated and very unhappy. They want to make a very big splash on their way out. And the killers almost always give off plenty of red flags well in advance.

That’s the Cliff’s Notes—the full piece is worth the read.

The other thing I read comes also from someone I know almost nothing about—a musician named Jonathan Byrd. He grew up using guns, travels a lot in other countries and has some pretty keen observations about what’s different between them and us. A snippet:

More interesting to this essay are other countries I’ve been to regularly: The Netherlands, Germany, Denmark, and Switzerland. Canada is notably similar in that there are a lot of guns, but not much gun violence compared to the U.S. Almost every grown man in Switzerland has an assault rifle issued by the military. They have gun festivals with shooting competitions for the kids.

All these countries also take care of their citizens.

The pieces differ substantially in their approach, but there is an intersection: How we treat one another here in the United States (pretty poorly) is at least a part of the problem. The Byrd piece happened to be a Facebook post that someone shared—about the most thoughtful thing I’ve ever seen on Facebook.

Anyway, you can read it here—and I hope you will.

Four more days and we’ll hit that two week mark.