Slaying victim's daughter fights death penalty

Cassopolis resident Ruth Klassen Andrews discusses her opposition to the death penalty, even though her mother, Helen Klassen, was slain 34 years ago by an unknown person. Andrews has written a letter to former Illinois Gov. George Ryan thanking him for commuting the death sentences of 167 state prisoners to life in prison. Tribune Photo/BARBARA ALLISON

CASSOPOLIS -- The day after outgoing Illinois Gov. George Ryan commuted the death sentences of 167 state prisoners to life in prison, Ruth Klassen Andrews, whose mother had been brutally slain, fired off a letter to Ryan.

It was a letter of thanks.

Although some might find Andrews' forgiving attitude difficult to comprehend, she has no problem expounding on a philosophy that flies in the face of "an eye for an eye.''

Simply put, the Cassopolis resident believes nothing good comes from an execution, whether it's state-sanctioned or not.

"When you execute somebody, they're gone, they don't suffer anymore,'' Andrews said. "The ones who suffer are their family members. I think we really are punishing the wrong people.''

It's almost certain none of the prisoners who had been on Illinois' death row had any connection with the death of Andrews' mother, Helen Klassen, whose slain, nude body was discovered in a bloodstained hallway in the family's Dunlap area home on March 12, 1969.

But even if they had, Andrews would still feel the same way.

"People will be committing murders in the future. What are we doing in our communities to prevent that?'' she asked. "That's what's important to me.''

The fact her mother's slaying remains unsolved has prevented Andrews and her family from finding closure.

All the family knows for certain is that 41-year-old Helen Klassen was strangled, sexually assaulted and shot multiple times.

The coordinator for the Cass County Human Services Coordinating Council at the Woodlands Behavioral Healthcare Network in Cassopolis, Andrews was a student at Concord High School when her mother was killed.

Her family, comprised of four sisters and the girls' father, Otto Klassen, who at the time was director of the Oaklawn Psychiatric Center, followed the Mennonite faith and practiced nonviolence.

Even before her mother was slain, Andrews said she had taken a stance against the death penalty.

But she experienced the same post-traumatic stress as many relatives of homicide victims. After enduring a period of shock and denial, Andrews became angry and developed a feeling of shame that lingered for years.

"When a child's mom is murdered, it's like the thing you like best in the world is destroyed,'' she says. "It's like the sun doesn't come up in the morning anymore.''

It would be nine or 10 years, she said, before the sun rose again.

"I just wasn't very enchanted with life as a whole. I was really different from what I'd been before,'' she said.

"I took it out on the people around me ... and I was self destructive. By self destructive, I mean reckless living. By the grace of God, I'm still alive.''

Andrews said her marriage followed by her pregnancy and the birth of her son, Alex, turned her life around.

She joined Alaska resident Bill Pelke's crusade against the death penalty, after her job at Woodlands put her in contact with inmates of Indiana prisons and the Cass County Jail.

She said her visits with prisoners helped convince her of the unfairness of the death-penalty system.

"If you survey people on death row, you'll find mostly people of color ... (who) have had trauma early in their lives they didn't deserve. They have more risk factors than the average person,'' she said.

In Pelke, the president and co-founder of the Journey of Hope program that targets death-penalty states, she found someone who could relate to her situation. Indiana and Illinois have the death penalty, as does the federal government. Michigan doesn't, nor does 10 other states and the District of Columbia.

Pelke's Journey of Hope Web site at http://www.journeyofhope.org/ recalls that his 78-year-old grandmother, Ruth, who taught Bible lessons to children in her Gary neighborhood, was stabbed to death in her home in 1985. When 16-year-old Paula Cooper, one of the four teenage girls accused of the crime, was sentenced to death, Pelke supported the sentence.

But he later forgave Cooper, began writing and visiting with her and worked to overturn her sentence. Today, she's serving a 60-year prison term.

Pelke was one of many members of Murder Victims Families for Reconciliation that Andrews met with in Chicago on Dec. 15, when the group made a videotape to send to Ryan expressing their support.

Also on hand was Mamie Mobley, an African American and the mother of Emmett Till who was just 14 when he was lynched in Mississippi in 1955.

His crime? Flirting with a white woman.

"She said she felt the whole state of Mississippi hated her,'' Andrews recalled. "She could have become bitter, but she didn't.

"She was one of the most graceful people I'd ever met.''

Andrews said making the videotape was one of Mobley's last acts. She died, shortly before Ryan handed down his historic decision.

Staff writer Lou Mumford:

(269) 687-7002