A very oddly emotional thing happened today. I don't typically blog about oddly emotional things, believing them generally better kept to myself and my family and friends, but this one happened in the context of my work, which I do blog about. So here goes.
Over the past year I've become quite interested in the role that lawyers played in planning and implementing the Japanese American internment. (There were lawyers
everywhere in the internment program.) Each of the ten War Relocation Authority ("WRA") camps for Japanese Americans had a law office staffed by a caucasian "Project Attorney" and a handful of Japanese American internees who were either lawyers or what today we'd call "paralegals." The Project Attorneys were, by and large, New Deal liberals, often Interior Department attorneys, cast into the strange role of overseeing a program of racial incarceration.

The Project Attorney at the Poston Relocation Center in Arizona (about which I recently wrote in
this paper) was a man named Theodore H. Haas. Over the past several months I feel I've gotten to know him well. He was a vivid and prolific writer, filing weekly 12- to 15-page single-spaced typewritten reports with the WRA's home office in Washington, DC. Unlike the Project Attorneys at other camps, who kept their reports short and focused on specific legal issues, Haas filled his reports with all sorts of details about camp life. He was funny and self-deprecating, sometimes disarmingly honest, observant of details that other camp administrators overlooked, deeply patriotic yet often agonized by the racism of the program he had a hand in administering. A Jew keenly aware of his own minority status, Haas felt a kinship with the interned Japanese Americans around him. He was troubled by digestive problems and had to leave camp for Los Angeles on more than one occasion for lengthy medical treatment. He was a loner, unmarried, a fitful sleeper, compulsively dedicated to his work.
After leaving Poston he went on to become a passionate champion for American Indians in his capacity as Chief Counsel for the Office of Indian Affairs.
I plan to write about Haas and a handful of other internment lawyers this coming spring.
Today I managed to track down someone who knew Haas well--UCLA anthropologist Walter Goldschmidt, a spry 92-year-old who travelled throughout southeast Alaska with Haas in the 1940s interviewing native southeastern Alaskans about their lives and land. Together the men produced
a groundbreaking book about native land rights that was recently reprinted by the University of Washington Press.

The first thing Goldschmidt told me was that Ted Haas committed suicide in June of 1959, at the age of 54. He threw himself to his death from the Calvert Street Bridge in Washington, DC, into a thicket in Rock Creek Park 300 feet below. (After speaking to Goldschmidt, I found Haas's obituary, left, in the New York Times.)
This news hit me like a body blow. I am astonished at the intensity of my reaction. This is a man who died 45 years ago, and whom I never met. The only way I know him is from reading two years' worth of professional correspondence he left behind.
I never would have imagined I could feel such grief for someone who died before I was born. Obviously I must have identified with Ted Haas in more powerful ways than I realized.