Each of us has a few special people who come into our lives and because of their presence and their friendship make a difference. We prize them not only for the bonds we create with them but also for those occasional moments that are impossible to define but which are instinctively singular.

Such a very special friend died a few weeks ago. His death was not only sudden but came with the realization that with his passing I had lost a part of myself as well. His name was Harry Brack and those of you who happen to peruse my recent book about Winston Churchill will find his name inscribed on the dedication page.

Harry was a child of World War II, who grew up in London’s East End. He was also a survivor of the Blitz that devastated much of the city. During several of our many wonderful conversations over the years he would sometimes recount the nights he spent in the London Underground, the great transportation hub that became a giant air raid shelter for the citizenry of London during the war.

The imminent arrival of the Luftwaffe would be marked by the wail of air raid sirens blasting warnings to seek immediate shelter. One night, during a succession of nightly air raids, the sirens went off. It was the signal for Harry and his best friend to head for shelter in the London Underground, where thousands sat out the almost nightly air raids. It was not uncommon for as many as 177,000 Londoners to seek shelter in the Underground. But on this night for reasons he never fathomed his friend balked, stubbornly saying he was tired of spending the night on a jam-packed subway platform and would instead remain in his home. Harry tried without success to persuade his friend to change his mind before descending into a nearby station. My recollection is that he too was tempted by his friend’s belief in his immortality. His decision to seek shelter would prove life-altering.

The following morning when he emerged into the daylight Harry found only devastation and a smoking ruin where his friend’s home had once stood. It had taken a direct hit from a German bomb and nothing remained but a giant crater. It was an image that decades later remained as fresh in his mind as it had been on that awful day when his friend died. His deadly World War II experiences taught him a lot about the frailty of life.

As a young man not long after the war Harry was summoned to serve his country as a citizen soldier in the postwar British army in Egypt. Although he didn’t much care for the life of an ordinary private soldier he served his required time with honor, using the time to travel to Israel, the land of his ancestors.

After completing his military service Harry trained as a chartered surveyor and during a long and highly successful career in London later formed and ran his own business. His natural curiosity and interest in making the world a better place led to a parallel career as an elected counselor in the London Borough of Islington.

During his life Harry was many things: writer, poet, soldier, bon vivant, successful businessman, a politician (in the true meaning as one who cared more about doing the right thing than keeping his job), possessed of an intellect that I envied, and someone who thought everyone should have an understanding of the importance of history.

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