A Chicago Story by Libby Fischer Hellmann

LUCY BURDETTE: Today, a big Red welcome to our good friend, Libby Fischer Hellmann!

LIBBY FISCHER HELLMANN: Hi, Reds. It’s great to be back. 

My latest Georgia Davis thriller, DoubleBlind, came out last month.  It’s doing well, even though it’s the 6th in the series. I was going to write about keeping a series fresh, but decided to do that on my own blog. You can find it here, and I hope you’ll check out the book.

But today I wanted to write about something else. I’m going to a formal wedding tonight down at the Palmer House. Have you ever been there? The lobby ceiling is fantastic, and I talk about it—and its history in DoubleBlind.

In fact, the ceiling reminded me of a Chicago story that occurred soon after I moved from DC to Chicago in the fall of 1977. At the time I was looking for a job in broadcast news (Which turned out not to happen, but that’s another story). I’m still not sure who told me about it, but I stayed at the Belden-Stratford, an apartment-hotel in the middle of Lincoln Park, which at the time, housed one of the best Mandarin restaurants in Chicago, the Dragon Inn. 

But I digress.

The Belden-Stratford wasn’t an assisted living facility, but you might have mistaken it for one. Formerly an elegant hotel, but it had faded into a dusty, dingy, place with frayed carpets, and cracked leather furniture. I booked it for a month, spending my time going on interviews, working freelance, and seeing the sights of Chicago. I would get back to the hotel around four, and would be greeted by a phalanx of senior citizens lounging on chairs and sofas in the lobby. They would stare at me as I swung through the door. Most of them looked vacant, some sad, and no one smiled. I would make a beeline for the elevator. 

One day, though, one of the women did smile at me, and I decided to sit next to her. She must have been well into her eighties, she looked frumpy, and she walked with a cane. We started to chat about this and that… nothing important, just passing the time of day. She asked me why I was staying there, and I told her. I asked her how long she’d lived there, and she told me. I was about to say goodbye and go up to my room when she said. “You’re probably too young, but do you happen to know who Benny Goodman was?”

Now, you need to know my late father was a party animal. He was the guy everyone wanted to be around when the music started and the drinks were flying. Along with Frank Sinatra and Ella Fitzgerald, he had all of Benny Goodman albums. In fact, at least once a week, usually on Saturday nights, the strains of Benny’s clarinet or Ella’s perfect soprano or some other Swing/Big Band would float upstairs as I was trying to fall asleep.  I told the woman. 

She grinned. “Well, I’m Benny Goodman’s sister.”

Once I put my jaw back in alignment, she said, “Come with me, sweetie.”

We went up to her small, cramped apartment. Every available inch of wall space was covered with framed photos and newspaper clippings. Other mementos spilled onto end tables next to china figurine miniatures, lace doilies, and other tchotchkes. All of them were a memorial to her brother. 

Photos of him playing with Gene Krupa and Harry James at the Blackhawk restaurant… album covers (some the same as my father’s)… family photos taken in the Maxwell Street area where they grew up – there were twelve siblings – and one photo of their father, who died before his time in a traffic accident.  

I looked through everything. Then I asked if I could bring my camera down so I could take pictures of the pictures for my father. 

“I have a better idea,” she said (To this day I can’t remember her first name… my bad). “How would you like a photo?”

She gave me a picture of Benny, Gene Krupa, and Harry James. It was a candid, and they were rehearsing. She didn’t know where. I do remember two of them (don’t recall which ones) had cigarettes burning. 

I sent my father the photo the next day. 

That was my first “Chicago” moment, not particularly exciting or memorable except to me. A piece of Chicago’s past had been shared with me, and I felt a bond with the city, its history, and the talent nurtured on the shores of Lake Michigan. 

That was over 40 years ago. Benny and his sister are long gone. So is my father. But during the few moments I spent in her apartment, something registered—a sister who was inordinately proud of her brother and was able to tell the tale to a younger person who appreciated it. 

It was a special moment, and I knew from that day forward that I belonged in Chicago.  I was going to live here. Maybe I’d even tell this story one day.