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Words & ReflectionsA Neighbor Wonders About Her Role as a Media Source‘Had my attempt to honor dear friends actually caused harm?’By Audrey McCollumTears well up as I start writingthis—sadness and horror surgethrough a veil of persisting disbelief.On Saturday, January 27, my husband,Bob, our daughter, Cindy, herhusband, John, and I gathered arounda gently bubbling cheese fondue incelebration of Bob’s 76th birthday. Aswe toasted his future, someonepounded on our door. When Cindyflung it open, a Dartmouth Collegeprofessor—almost incoherent—begged for help. She had gone to ournearest neighbors for dinner and foundthem, Half and Susanne Zantop, collapsedon a bloodied floor.Cindy and Bob, a physician, spedover while I called 911. Then I waited,wondering what had befallen our cherishedfriends and whether my familywas in danger, too. I waited until mydread spurred me to phone the oneperson who might tell me something—the Sunday editor of our regional newspaper,the Valley News. Since I wroteoccasional features for the paper, Iknew about scanners that monitor policecommunications.“Steve, something awful has happenednext door; have you heard anythingon the scanner?”“No,” he said. “Oh, wait a minute.”Silence, then his somber voice.“They are saying ‘two down at 115Trescott.’” “Down” is police talk fordead, I think he added.An eternity passed. I looked out thedoor every few minutes, as though Icould will Bob and Cindy back. Then Isaw them dragging along the driveway,heads bowed, shoulders slumped. Apoliceman walked behind them, butwhen I rushed out calling, “Don’t tellme they’re dead,” he turned away.“Mom, come in the house,” Cindysaid, and she told me Half and Susannehad been murdered.We went through robotic motionsuntil the Valley News editor phoned toask if I would give an interview. Withouthesitation, I agreed. I wanted toshield Bob and Cindy, who could barelyspeak. And I believe in the mission ofthe press: to inquire, to inform, tofoster understanding.In 1945, I was the editor in chief ofmy college newspaper, aiming for acareer in journalism. But my mother’spuzzling psychiatric illness steered myinquisitive mind toward psychologyinstead. I practiced psychotherapy for50 years, but continued writing, too.My Valley News editor was a strict mentor,insisting on clarity and accuracy inevery phrase. His high standards, alongwith daily perusal of the Valley Newsand The New York Times, shaped myconfidence in the press.“I’m sorry to have to ask you aboutthis,” the reporter said when he arrived.“It’s really alright,” I reassured him.Me, the mom, me, the therapist, me,the fellow writer. Me, still strangelycomposed.His story, published the next morning,was factual and dignified. Thatday, requests for interviews began comingin by phone, e-mail, fax and byknocks on our door—we finally lostcount at 47.“Mom, write a statement to handout to the media,” Cindy advised beforeshe and John left for home, butthat sounded too mechanical. I wantedto honor Half and Susanne with spontaneous,heartfelt words.At five a.m. on January 29, the technicalcrew for “Good Morning America”began setting up satellite connections.At 8:15 that morning, Bob and I werebeing interviewed live.“Ms. McCollum, you were friends ofthe Zantops, you’ve been neighborsfor a number of years. Tell us somethingabout them, if you would,” saidJack Ford, the host.“A few minutes ago, they were describedas active members of theDartmouth community,” I said. “Theywere, in fact, active members of theworld, and I think for that reason theloss is an international loss, a tragedyfor the world. What I mean by that is—partly because of their background asGermans, their learning about theHolocaust, their awareness of what canhappen to a country if the citizenry arecomplacent about what goes on—theywere passionately involved in everyaspect of life. They were politicallyextremely aware, astute; they were catalysts;they energized a wide circle ofcolleagues and friends to learn aboutthe political process, to learn about thesignificant issues—to get out and vote.And they became citizens of the U.S.only three years ago after agonizingover it because they were deeply rootedin Germany.”Jack Ford broke in: “It sounds likeit’s not an understatement to describethem as beloved members of theDartmouth community.” He didn’t getit. This intelligent, experienced newsmandidn’t comprehend. I poundedthe sofa in frustration.But when I viewed the tape as Iprepared to write this article, I saw himglancing at his watch, perhaps scarcelyhearing my words. Yet he had allowedme one minute, 16 seconds for mymessage. I thank him for that.In contrast, we worked with “Dateline”for five and a half hours, resultingin a glimpse of my tearful face and veryfew words. Other interviews werescheduled, cancelled, rescheduled,then some shows were never aired. Ididn’t see all the coverage, but in termsof my aim of portraying two remarkablepeople, our grueling TV timeseemed mostly squandered.86 Nieman Reports / Fall 2001