It seems that Ruth saw herself as someone who was not necessarily always ambitious but just made the best of her situation. She summarized: “Looking back, I never did initiate that much—I just never let an opportunity slip. I was kind of Johnny-on-the-spot. And it was always sort of, what if it goes wrong? Well, so what. I just didn’t worry about results too much.”2 In her stories in all their myriad forms, she seemed to be revealing her own maxims:
Read ferociously.
Read everyone who is forbidden.
Jump off the train if you don’t like its direction.
Wonder who will read your diary.
Hope that no one reads your diary.
Meet what comes.
Your life is a battle, your peace a victory.
Don’t tolerate mediocrity.
Life must be faced with a certain amount of realism.
Contribute your time, effort, and ability to stave off the course of madness.
Throw elaborate parties with punch named after yourself.
Fight bureaucracy with sheer will, perseverance, and hard politicking.
Get the most material to the most people.
There is nothing, nothing, nothing that can ever substitute for personal observation and creative thinking.
Sway the fools, and get the right thing done without offending the fools.
Call it collecting, not hoarding.
The stuff you hang on to for all these years will turn out to be of value to somebody.
Be future oriented.
Take the time to sit awhile.
I’ve thought a lot about what Ruth would think about all this: a book about her life, written by another librarian after she died. Surely she would be pleased that she had crafted her life stories so well that a younger person, me, would be mesmerized by their epic nature. She might be horrified, on the other hand, that an obsessive researcher would diligently uncover every scrap of paper left behind that had anything on it even tangentially related to her. I’d like to think that even though Ruth was a masterful storyteller who sometimes told white lies, there were also times in her life when she told uncomfortable truths that no one wants to hear, even today. I hope she would be happy to know that her epic life is now immortalized in its own book. And I hope that this book will find a place on a shelf next to others that have changed so many lives. That includes yours.
Acknowledgments
Although most nonfiction books have one author listed on the cover, we know that we didn’t do it alone. Writing this book was a group effort, and I am honored to have gotten to know so many generous people along the way that I never would have met otherwise.
I’d like to thank the librarians and archivists who assisted me with uncovering hundreds of sources related to the life of Ruth Rappaport. I would especially like to thank those at the United States Holocaust Memorial Museum, the US Army Heritage and Education Center, the University of Washington, the University of California, Berkeley, the University of Minnesota, the Center for Jewish History, the Zurich Central Library, the Swiss Federal Archives, the Leipzig City Archives, the Saxony State Archives, the National Archives and Records Administration, and the Library of Congress. I know how hard you work, how underpaid you are, and that the work you do is often invisible. I hope that Ruth has inspired you to keep going. This book is for you.
A big thanks goes to my agent, Priya Doraswamy, and my editor, Erin Calligan Mooney, who took a chance on both me and Ruth. While I was at a Biographers International Organization conference, Greg Krauss saw on my name tag that I was from DC and asked if I’d like to join a biography writing group. Month after month for three years, our ragtag group met up—over a plethora of snacks and drinks—to circulate chapter drafts, share research tips, and discuss politics. Greg, Jennifer Cockburn, Avis Bohlen, Ray Palmer, Tom Benjey, and Carolyn Carr provided the pseudo-deadlines and feedback I needed to push forward and actually put words down on paper.
My feeble attempts to learn German didn’t get me very far. Through a team of interpreters and translators, both paid and volunteer, Ruth’s letters and diary slowly emerged from a complete puzzle into a brilliantly written, hilarious, and heartbreaking chronicle of her teenage and young adult life. Thanks to Gudrun Durmon, Maria Mueller, Johanna Rodda, Elke Müller, and Katherine Schober of SK Translations for bringing those crucial documents to life. Thank you to the Hadassah-Brandeis Institute for awarding me a grant to fund the translation of Ruth’s diaries. Another big thanks goes to Colin Torres and Lisa Monhoff for finishing research for me at NYU and Berkeley.
I am indebted to Ruth’s family, friends, and coworkers, who were willing to share their memories, both good and bad, of her with me. Over coffee at the LC cafeteria or over email and the phone from thousands of miles away, they trusted me with not only their stories but also photos and letters from Ruth that they had the foresight not to toss into the garbage. I hope I’ve captured the Ruth that they remember and have surprised them with the Ruth they never knew. Thanks to Guy Rosner, Mark Rubinstein, Gladys Rubinstein, Michael Rubinstein, Hillel Cohn, Sig Cohen, Laurie Solnik, Nell Strickland, Bill Sittig, A. A. Allison, Peter Young, Ann Kelsey, Arlene Luster, Nolan Dehner, Floyd Zula, Darro Wiley, Kay Elsasser, Thompson Yee, Mary K. D. Pietris, Kersti Blumenthal, Shirley Loo, Catherine Hiebert Kerst, Gabe Horchler, Raymond Gamble, and Ben Zuras. I’d like to also thank the Vietnam veterans who took my survey on what they read there and those who personally shared their experiences with me.
I am lucky to have been raised in a family that loves reading and writing. From the beginning, my parents and brothers have both encouraged m
e to write this book and been bored to tears at times by my nonstop talk of Ruth. Thanks to my father, Bill Stewart, who always told me I should write more; my stepmother, Lorie Stewart, who helped with translations of Ruth’s diaries and edited drafts; and my stepfather, Richard LaViolette, who will talk anyone’s ear off about this book. My aunt Beverly Rude and cousin Anne Boyd Rioux helped with research and edited my drafts. My brothers Nick and Austin and their families always make me laugh and remind me to not take myself too seriously. Two of my oldest friends, Samantha Parkes and Karissa Haugeberg, have been cheerleaders throughout the process and gave me top-notch feedback. My boyfriend, Greg Marsh, patiently corrected my grammar in every draft for six long years. Alice LaViolette is not just my mom, but also my first librarian hero. Through endless late-night phone calls, research trips, and daily emails, she has been my de facto research assistant, and most importantly, she taught me how to be a better librarian.
Everyone that I worked with at LC supported and encouraged my efforts to write this book. My six years working at the ISSN Center and American Folklife Center were a wild ride through the joys of cataloging and the chaos of pulling off, by the seat of our pants, remarkable public programs. Both at LC and many other institutions, I have worked under mentors who have guided and shaped me into a better historian and archivist while also showing me how to think on my feet and get things done. They include Leslie Schwalm, Kären Mason, Janet Weaver, Linda Geisler, Esther Simpson, Kevin Gardner, Guha Shankar, Todd Harvey, David Taylor, Steve Winnick, Jennifer Cutting, Cathy Kerst, Ann Hoog, Judith Gray, Nikki Saylor, Betsy Peterson, Senator Barbara Mikulski, and Susan Irwin. Thanks especially to my library pals LaShawn Blake, Rick Fitzgerald, Erik Bergstrom, Marcia Segal, Valda Morris, Jon Gold, Bert Lyons, Megan Harris, Maya Lerman, Eric Wolfson, Julia Kim, Melissa Lindberg, and Ashley-Dior Thomas for encouraging me to write this book, and the friendship you’ve given me with a whole lot of beer, pizza, and baseball games.