Finding Dad: From "Love Child" to Daughter (20 page)

Soozie and I operated like a stealth military unit, rushing Dad’s limp sleeping body into the ambulance on a scorching hot July day. A team of state troopers escorted us to Dad’s home in Jamestown, making sure we wouldn’t get stuck in beach traffic.

I called Dennis, who was on the way to the hospital with his mother, Marilyn, and told them to turn around, “I need you to meet us at my dad’s house; we’re taking him home.”

“Okay, what do you need me to do?”

“Clear out his office, the hospice nurses need a place to set up a bed.”

My adrenaline was pumping as Soozie and I held on to either side of dad’s stretcher. I leaned down and whispered in his ear. “You’re going to be okay, Dad. You’re going home, just like you wanted.”

Dad and Soozie’s seaside house sat on top of a hill, overlooking Naragansett Bay, and the only way in was up a flight of stairs. It took the strength of several men to carefully move the stretcher up the steep stairs and into his study, where they placed his unconscious body onto the bed the hospice nurses had provided. I willed myself not to collapse in a pool of tears. It seemed like just yesterday when we’d shared our first hello.

I didn’t know what to do next. I’d never seen anyone die before, and I could only think of reading
Tuesday’s with Morrie
, by Mitch Albom, where he talked about how the dying needed you talk to them, love them, and witness the end of their life. I wanted to do all that for Dad. We called up one of his dearest friends, Nuala Pell, the widow of the late Senator Claiborne Pell to let her know the end was near, and she rushed over to say a final goodbye. Mrs. Pell was the embodiment of graciousness, and it was good to see her kind face as we let her have a moment alone with Dad. After she left, it seemed Dad was slipping further away.

“What do we do now?” I asked the hospice nurse.

“Just wait. The end will probably be here soon, his breathing is getting slow. Is he waiting for anyone?”

“What do you mean?”

“Sometimes they hang on waiting to say goodbye.”

”My two other brothers, Peter and Stuart, weren’t able to catch flights in time, but Tracy and his daughter, Fifi, are here.”

“Maybe you should call the others—the hearing is the last thing to go.”

I went back into the study where we were all holding vigil around Dad.

Tracy and I took the nurses advice and used his cell phone to call Stuart, pressing the phone against Dad’s ear so he could say his final goodbyes. Though Dad’s eyes were closed, I felt sure he heard his son’s loving words. We did the same with Peter. And finally Soozie’s son, Max, called in to give his tearful farewell. When it was over, all we could do was wait.

“Dad, we’re all here, and we love you,” I said, stroking his beautiful hair.

Soozie whispered, “Just relax, sweetheart, your mom and dad are waiting for you. I know your dad and you didn’t always get along but he’s much nicer over there, plus your crew from the war is waiting.” Her daughter, Heather, stroked her back trying to comfort Soozie.

As the intervals between his breaths grew longer, we waited, wondering each time if it was his last one. “Dad, you made us a family, and we promise to always take care of each other and Soozie. It’s okay for you to go.” My tears dripped on his cheek.

On July 21, 2011, Dad took his final breath. At the same time, the outside door blew open and a picture flew off the wall. We instantly knew he had just left the Earth with his trademark gusto.

We were all stunned silent. The door was one they never used, and there was no wind on this hot-humid afternoon.

“I guess they came and got him,” Tracy said, gazing at the blown-open door.

Soozie’s son-in-law, Ray, shook his head in dismay. “If I hadn’t seen this myself, I wouldn’t have believed it.”

Tears streamed down Soozie’s face while she caressed Dad’s cheek. “He must have found the light.”

Sure, I believed in an afterlife, but until this moment I had never witnessed such a powerful example of it. I hugged my Dad’s still-warm body and silently thanked him for the signs.

As if the door blowing open wasn’t enough, Dad was sending us signs with numbers—91, in particular. He was 91 years old, it was 91 degrees out, and when we looked for a blanket to cover him, we found one someone had sent him as a thank you gift with an American bald eagle and the number 91 in the corner, signifying the year he took office. I felt comforted—as if Dad was watching over us.

“I can’t believe the 91’s. It just can’t be a coincidence,” Tracy said, looking baffled.

But we all agreed, and knew it would always be a special number for all of us.

My reporter brain helped me put my grieving on pause, as I realized I needed to help Dad get the sendoff he deserved.

“We need to work up a family statement for the press,” I said to Dennis.

“You write it,” he said, putting his hand on my shoulder, “and I’ll notify the TV stations and the newspaper.”

As I sat down to write, it came to me easily,

“Former Governor Bruce Sundlun died peacefully tonight at his home in Jamestown. He was surrounded by his loving family. As a husband, father, and grandfather he was our North Star. We are deeply grateful for his love and lessons throughout our lives.”

Dad was my North Star, and I feared the sky would never look as bright without him here. But I wanted to be strong for him. I wanted to make sure we made him proud. I’d like to think we did.

A few moments after Dennis released the statement, the local evening news announced the breaking story that former Governor Bruce Sundlun had died. Since TV stations prepare for moments like these years in advance, the anchors were able to toss in an in depth story on Dad’s life. We all watched the newscast and joked that Dad died at the perfect time to be the lead on the evening news.

As news spread, close friends and dignitaries started to call to express their condolences. The then-Congressman Patrick Kennedy considered my father to be one of his mentors and made sure to race to the house before my father’s body was taken away.

Exhausted from such an emotionally draining day, I drove to my home in Newport, eager to hug my children and lean on Dennis, who had gone home to be with them, and gather strength for the funeral. Pulling into my driveway, I saw a bright red cardinal sitting on the walkway. When I woke up the next morning, the red bird was the first thing I saw again. I told Soozie when she called to firm up plans for the funeral, and she told me how she kept noticing red cardinals on her path as well. Soozie and I took the cardinal to be a clear sign from Dad, but didn’t quite understand the meaning. I now know after doing some research the cardinal symbolizes the highest most important thing in our lives, and Dad was certainly that for me. I still see the cardinal all the time, and know it’s Dad fluttering by to say “hey, baby.”

Dad’s former staff banded together to handle the news reports and the logistics of the kind of funeral we knew Dad would have wanted. The flags flew at half-staff, and his body would lie in state at the Capitol, followed by a public funeral service for the hundreds who would come to mourn him, complete with a military fly over organized by his former legal counsel, Michael Bucci.

Stuart and Peter were on the way, and we would all meet at the funeral home in the morning with Soozie to discuss more details with Rabbi Leslie Gutterman, at Temple Beth El in Providence. Rabbi Gutterman had been a close friend of my father’s and was fond of kidding my dad: “Bruce, don’t be ashamed you’re Jewish, it’s bad enough
we’re
ashamed you’re Jewish!”

Though my father wasn’t very religious, he was committed to honoring his heritage, especially since he’d escaped from the Nazis. He had been president of the temple, following in the footsteps of my grandfather, Walter, who’d held the post before him. Rabbi Gutterman insisted on making sure proper Jewish traditions were observed at my father’s funeral. He didn’t want a media circus, and nixed the idea of playing Frank Sinatra’s “I Did It My Way.”

“It’s fine for the party afterward, but we can’t do that during the funeral,” he told me firmly.

“But, Rabbi, we have to, it’s the only thing my father specifically asked for, and I think we have to honor his wishes.”

With a little more coaxing, Rabbi Gutterman agreed to have the organ play the instrumental version of the song, and he would tell the mourners it was my father’s wish.

He remained insistent that there be no TV cameras, and I didn’t push. Though later, Barbara Cottam, Dad’s former press secretary, called to tell us Rabbi Gutterman gave in to having one camera in the temple, since all three television stations planned to broadcast the funeral live. My brothers, Soozie, and I couldn’t help but laugh at the thought that Dad must still be pulling strings from the other side.

My brothers and I all agreed to give a brief eulogy, so we could each give our unique reflections of our larger-than-life father. Soozie was understandably too upset to speak, but her children, Max and Heather, wanted to say a few words in her place.

My brothers did a fabulous job of tugging at heart strings and even making people laugh. Tracy opened his eulogy with, “I am Dad’s oldest child—or at least we think so…” inviting a laugh out of the crowd.

Stuart recalled a story of when he tried to give Dad a massage. “Stop that, I like the tension.”

Peter spoke of Dad’s unbelievable accomplishments. “I don’t know anyone who has done the body of work Dad has.”

Each gave beautiful speeches, without shedding a tear—I knew I couldn’t do that. I walked up to the podium, trembling at the thought of bearing my soul on live TV in front of dignitaries, my closest friends, family, and co-workers.

I joked about Dad calling me his new baby out on the campaign trail when we first met, and about following in his footsteps as a broadcaster. But my voice wavered as I neared the end of my notes, and teardrops dampened the ink as they rolled off my nose. “Dad, you were so big in life, that I know, even in death, you won’t stop leading us, which is good because I’m lost without you.”

I let the pent up tears flow quietly as I took my seat next to Dennis and squeezed Helena’s hand to assure her mommy was okay. Then, I listened to Heather and Max talk together about what a force he was in their lives, too. “He truly changed my mother’s life…he was loving, passionate, and there was never a dull moment…”

Max said, “You did your best because that’s what he expected of you, and he made you better because of it…”

Next came an incredible speech by Senator Sheldon Whitehouse: “He was irrepressible, impatient, imperial, unstoppable, combative, frustrating, willful, constantly threw caution to the wind, impossible to keep up with, he drove us nuts, and we loved him. We loved him because he was bold and brave…”

Sheldon captured my father’s essence, and the crowd applauded, knowing Dad would have loved the celebration of his life.

As we walked out past the rows of National Guardsmen standing at attention and saluted my father’s flag draped casket, we were struck by a license plate in front of us with just the number 91 on it. We all agreed Dad was letting us know we had made him proud. Dad must have been beaming in heaven. He was the lead story on every newscast, and the next morning the nation’s biggest newspapers wrote lengthy obituaries, listing his numerous accomplishments.
The New York Times
headline read, “Rhode Island Governor with Flair, Dies at 91.”

The article used a picture of the two of us laughing at my wedding, and went on to say, “Mr. Sundlun cut a larger than life figure that seemed inversely proportional to the size of his state.”

Sean Daly, one of my father’s all-time favorite local news reporters, gave a live report, saying. “The funeral was as big, and as bold, and as honest as the man himself.”

He ended his piece with Helena blowing a kiss as the hearse drove away, an image I will always treasure.

A few days later, with the official mourning over, it was now time for me to go back on TV—the first step in “my life must go on” phase.

My co-host, Scot, hugged me, “You ready?”

I nodded. “I’ll have to be.”

We usually start the show with some fun stories about our weekend, but we ended up taking up most of our first block talking about the funeral. “It was hands down the best funeral I have ever been to, and I left loving your dad,” Scot said as we showed pictures and clips from the service.

After the commercial break, we moved on to other stories, then suddenly the lights in the studio went out leaving us completely in the dark.

In five years of doing the show, I can’t remember ever having to stop for something like this.

A crew member yelled out, “There’s something wrong with light number 91.”

Scot and I sat stunned. Really? Number 91?

“Kara’s dad just wants us to keep talking about him,” Scot joked.

Dad let me know he was with me on my first day back.

  
22
Full Circle in His Footsteps

Jabbeke, Belgium: September 19, 2013

Just when I thought I had cried enough and learned all I needed to about my dad, the Universe sent me the lesson of compassion. How can we understand another’s plight until we walk in their shoes?

The World War II Foundation had decided to produce a documentary film on my father’s heroic escape from Nazi territory. The founder, Tim Gray, wanted me to travel to Belgium to retrace Dad’s steps so he could tell the story through my perspective. Dad was showing me the final puzzle piece to who he was.

Traveling with a photographer and producer, we arrived at the Brussels train station after a long journey from Boston through Paris. The documentary was about my father, but I had no idea how this experience of escaping the Nazis would open my eyes to truly understanding him. I scanned the pick-up area near outside the train station for Luc Packo. He was the Belgian who had spent his life recording the history of my father’s crew aboard the
Damn Yankee
, the B-17 Flying Fortress that crashed into Luc’s small village of Jabbeke, near Brugge, on December 1, 1943. I had no idea that I was about to meet a man who seemed to love my father as much as I did.

“Kara, Kara,” he called from somewhere near the taxi stand where I was waiting.

My jet-lagged eyes searched the crowd of well-dressed Europeans bustling around the station and found Luc, a tall, strong stocky man with blonde hair and crystal blue eyes walking toward me with his son Jens, equally tall and blonde.

I hugged each of them. “Thank you so much for helping us with the film. We are so grateful you will help us tell my father’s story.”

His voice was heavy with emotion. “It is my honor. I have deep respect for your father, so this is an honor for me and my family.”

I introduced Luc to the crew, Tim Gray, the chairman of the World War II Foundation and the producer of the film, and Jim Karpeichik, the photographer. We then got into Luc’s small SUV and began the journey to retrace my father’s steps.

The weather was raw, with a wet chill in the air and grey skies. We were all relieved to be in the hands of our guide, Luc, as we relaxed in the backseat.

Luc looked at me through the rearview mirror. “You know you look like your father.”

I smiled. “Yes, I am told that a lot. Thanks.”

My being here made all the sense in the world. This was my father’s story. But I couldn’t understand why Luc was so excited to give up four days of his life to be our tour guide. “Luc, how did you become so interested in the story of the
Damn Yankee
?” I asked.

“Since I was a boy of twelve, I would go to the field in my village and search for pieces of your father’s plane. It has become my passion to tell the story of the Americans like your father who liberated our people. We have him to thank for our freedom.”

Though Luc was born in 1964, a generation after World War II, his life pivoted around the history of that time. For all these years, he had gone to the field where my father’s plane crashed and collected remains of the plane: screws, nuts, bolts, pieces of Plexiglas. Sometimes the years of searching would bring a great find, like a broken off piece of the pilot’s radio that my father might have worn. Though Luc made a living working in a metal factory, his life revolved around researching how the Americans liberated Belgium from the poverty and slave labor camps imposed by the Germans. Specifically, he told me of his fascination with my father’s plane,
Damn Yankee
, and its crew.

This man, who had no personal connection to my father, had devoted his life, money, and vacation time to honoring Dad and his crew. As a young American who had never witnessed war on my land, the deep gratitude he had for Americans was deeply moving.

Entering Jabbeke, the roads turned into a cobblestone ribbon that wound its way to picturesque Belgian homes with their tile roofs, sculpted boxwood hedges, and manicured yards. I looked out at the beautiful countryside, trying to imagine my father searching for help. Cows grazed lazily in the green pastures, a perfect reflection of the relaxed way the Europeans lived. There was such natural beauty here, and I was instantly taken by the unhurried pace and peace here. It was a stark contrast to my American urge to rush and check my cell phone.

Luc pulled up in front of the historic Haeneveld Hotel. “I hope you like where I have chosen for you. It is my favorite hotel in my village.”

“I love it,” I said, instantly charmed. “It’s really beautiful. Thank you so much.”

Tim and Jim were raring to go, so after a quick break to check in and dump our luggage, we set out to survey the town for places where we needed to shoot.

One of our first stops was the first Catholic church my father went to in Brugge the night he escaped. My father had always told me the Catholic church saved his life because, after the crash, he escaped the Nazis by stealing bicycles and going from church to church across Europe. “When I was in high school, my track coach told me some day I’d be in trouble and that I should find a priest. If he couldn’t help me, then he’d know someone who could.”

While Tim and Jim surveyed the area, I went inside the chapel to light a candle for my father. In that moment, I could feel him with me.
What do I need to learn here?
I wondered? My father’s war stories had always seemed so unreal, like a fantasy about another world so different from mine, but now standing in the very same church my father had seventy years earlier, his journey was coming to life for me. I tried to see it through his eyes and imagined my father’s relief at the priest’s offer to help him by connecting him to the Resistance. My father had told me that every church was the same; the priest would bring in a low level criminal, like a thief or a prostitute, to help him because they knew how to avoid the Germans. Since he had no papers, he couldn’t travel by car. Since he stood out as an American, he couldn’t be seen in public, so he had to get creative.

I still remember the story: “I learned pretty quickly the women bought bread at the same time every day. While they went into the bakery, I would steal a tall woman’s bicycle and ride away as fast as I could to the next town.”

He traveled this way all the way through Belgium and France, and finally made it safely to neutral Switzerland.

Instead of going home and enjoying his freedom, he showed his true warrior DNA by joining the Resistance to continue fighting the Germans. As fate would have it, he ended up in the mountains with Allen Dulles, who’d recruited him, and became a spy for the Office of Strategic Services, which was the precursor to the CIA.

Even though I’d known all this before, it finally struck me, standing in this church where he’d stood so many years ago, that Dad’s early resolve to fight matched the force he’d used on me at first by trying to battle my existence, or his responsibility to me. His nature was to fight, and he’d spent a lifetime building up coats of armor around his heart. It served him well to survive the war, but those barriers prevented him from accepting love in his life. The casualties of that pattern had been his five marriages, and my growing up fatherless.

I suddenly felt his presence:
“Kara, you had to teach me how to open my heart.”

While the crew continued to get shots for the film, my own script was being written. I was trying to fill in my own blanks and understand my father—what made him the man he was before I knew him.

The next morning, we headed out early to the place I was most looking forward to—the field where my father’s plane crashed. Jim got the camera ready as I put on my microphone and headed out into the field with Luc.

“Your father’s plane started coming in over there,” he said pointing to an adjacent cornfield. “Five men had already died, he told the other four to bail out.”

I imagined my father in a crashing plane all alone, and cringed.

“Unfortunately,” Luc continued, “the men landed right where German soldiers were doing military exercises, and they were all captured. Your father bailed out here, and by the time his parachute opened, he was nearly on the ground, and he was hurt and bleeding.”

“What happened next?” I asked, clinging to his every word.

“A farmer and a man from the Resistance were in the field and helped your father bury his parachute. They knew the Germans would be looking for him.”

“What would have happened to them if they got caught?’

“They would have been executed for helping an American.”

It was just so hard to take in, how strangers risked their own lives so my father could live.

“Your father had no time, the Germans were coming, and he needed to hide.”

I remembered what happened next, because Dad had told me this part of the story himself: “I remembered Edgar Allen Poe’s
The Purloined Letter
and hiding things in plain sight, so I dug myself in between two furrows in the field and blended in with the landscape.”

According to Luc, that flash of inspiration likely saved his life.

“He lay there until dark, wounded on his shoulder from the flak. The Germans passed right by him, but they didn’t see him.”

My dam of professionalism evaporated in front of the camera, and tears erupted down my cheeks, making it hard for me to speak. “He must have been so scared,” I sobbed. “It makes me so sad to think he was bleeding all alone in a ditch, not knowing what happened to his crew.”

Sadness coursed through me. Standing in the very field where he’d landed and hid, I understood why he rarely talked about his experiences. Facing death does that to a person.

Luc wrapped his big arms around me. I knew the cameras were still rolling, but I felt like Dad was standing next to me, reliving it all. It was a lot to absorb.

I took a minute to regroup, then asked him to tell me what happened after my father came out of hiding.

“He saw two young boys carrying a wagon with leaves and realized he’d frightened them because he was big and bloodied. He won them over by giving one of the boys some gum and the other, his pocket knife. ‘English, English,’ your father said. The boys pointed to a nearby barn and your father went running. He met a tool salesman man at the gate who motioned for him to go inside, knowing the people who lived there would help him. He banged on the door, and the man of the house let him in, much to the chagrin of his pregnant wife, who was screaming at him for putting her family in danger, and for messing up her clean floors.” Luc stopped and let out a small chuckle. “Anyway, despite her anger, she went to work on your father’s wounds.”

“I remember this part,” I told Luc. “Dad told me about it, saying she scrubbed his wounds with alcohol and a toothbrush. He swore he could still feel the pain.”

“Tomorrow I take you there,” Luc said. “You can meet the man who was at the gate.”

“I can’t wait to thank him for saving his life,” I said. How many people got the chance to personally thank someone for being brave enough to get involved? This was an honor—a debt I could never repay.

Luc guided me to the field to look for pieces of the wreckage from my father’s plane. “I find something every time I come.”

It seemed unrealistic that we would discover something right then with cameras rolling—that would be too perfect. “Come on, Dad, help me find a piece of your plane today to bring home,” I said laughing, but secretly praying for his help.

At that very moment, Luc stooped down to grab something from the dirt. “Plexiglas. This is from your father’s plane. The windows and windshield of the B-17 were made of Plexiglas.” He grabbed a piece of regular glass to show me the difference. “You see this is shiny and not from the plane. This is Plexiglas, so it must come from the
Damn Yankee
.”

I fingered the tiny fragment in my hand, moving it about to catch the light. I held it out, so Jim could get a shot of it. “Thanks Dad,” I whispered. “I knew you’d want me to have that.”

It was becoming clear to me that my trip was multi-faceted. We were sent to do a story on my father’s crash and harrowing journey to safety, but the human side to his fight came crashing in on me. Dad’s stories had always taken on a romanticized tone of glory when briefly told around the dinner table. But here, I could feel his fear, his determination, wondering if he’d make it home alive.

Here, I suddenly understood why I’d had to wage a battle to make him open up to me. Fighting from a place of fear was natural for him. Coming from a lighter place of love wasn’t within his comfort zone. Just like he would flinch if you came up behind him, or refused to sit in a restaurant with his back to the door, his fears had manifested into a massive defense system, and I was seeing where at least part of that fear was born. My tears for his twenty-three-year-old self birthed a new path of compassion for him in my own heart. We had already grown to love each other, and I had forgiven him long before, but now I
understood
him in a way I had not been able to before.

As humans, we are shaped by our experiences, and our reactions are formed by what we face. My father had learned at an early age to circumvent the heart and react from his place of fight or flight. This forcefulness had helped him in war and in business, but it had failed him in matters of the heart, where vulnerability is required.

While I was trying to internalize my newfound view of my father, my oldest brother Tracy arrived. He had decided last minute to join us in Belgium, knowing the chance to retrace our father’s steps was a once in a lifetime experience.

Luc couldn’t take his eyes off Tracy. “Oh my, you look so much like your father.”

“Yes, except I’m not as smart and have less hair,” Tracy said, laughing.

The truth was, he was brilliant, just like Dad, but was much warmer and less intimidating. I wondered how Tracy felt, standing in the very place that made his father a hero and had shaped him into the tough demanding father Tracy had spent a lifetime trying please.

Before I had the chance to ask, Luc showed Tracy the monument with the names of everyone who’d died in the crash, and I could see the emotion well up in his eyes. The monument’s inscription was written in Dutch. “Can you read it for me, please?”