The Class

  It was such a little thing to do. In years to come he would resent acting out of false bravado. This was not ancient Athens. He was not Socrates. So why the hell should he drink hemlock for some small-time football star? What lofty principle would be served by failing Jastrow?

  No, he told himself. Our whole future’s at stake. This is for self-preservation.

  He took his pen and in the space by Jastrow’s name hastily scribbled—“C.”

  And en route home he dropped the grades in Barnes Hall.

  As he entered, he could hear Sara in the bedroom speaking to someone on the telephone. At this hour?

  He walked to the open door. She was so engrossed in conversation that she didn’t notice his arrival.

  “I just don’t know what else to do,” she was saying plaintively. “This is such a blow for Ted, and I can’t seem to help him.…”

  She paused to listen. He still did not signal his presence.

  “Oh would you?” she then said eagerly. “I think that might really help.”

  Who is she talking to? With whom is she sharing our most intimate secrets?

  “I’m home, Sara,” he said quietly.

  She looked up, smiled, and then immediately ended her phone call. “Oh, the man of the house just entered. Thanks for everything. I’ll call you in the morning.” And she quickly hung up and hurried over to kiss him. “How do you feel, darling? Can I get you a bite of something?”

  “I wouldn’t mind a beer,” Ted answered tersely.

  As they headed for the kitchen, he asked calmly but with an unmistakable edge of disapproval, “With what member of the community were you sharing our little moral crisis?”

  “Oh, Ted, I’m so glad I don’t have to wait to tell you. I’ve just had a long talk with Daddy.”

  She opened the fridge, took out two beers, and handed one to him.

  “Why did he have to know about this?” Ted asked.

  “Because I thought he could help, and he can. He knows Whitney Vanderbilt—who’s as heavy a Canterbury alumnus as there is. Daddy’s sure he can get him to step in and help us out. Isn’t that great?”

  Ted felt his anger mounting.

  “So you went running to Daddy with our problem. My problem, to be precise. I find that slightly disloyal, to say the least.”

  She was stunned.

  “Disloyal? For God’s sake, Ted, you were suicidal when you left here. I would have done anything to help you—even strangle Tony Thatcher with my bare hands. I don’t see why you’re not overjoyed that my father actually has the power to help us.…”

  Her voice trailed off as she began to realize how furious he was.

  “Sara, you shouldn’t have done this without asking me. I mean, am I or am I not the man in the family?”

  “What the hell does this have to do with gender? Do you want to go down in flames just to preserve your masculine ego?”

  Ted exploded. “Goddamn you, Sara!” And slammed his beer bottle so violently on the kitchen counter that it shattered.

  Before either of them could speak, frightened sobs and shouts of “Mommy!” began to emanate from little Ted’s bedroom.

  For another moment they just glared at each other. Finally she whispered, “I’d better go to him.”

  It took Sara nearly twenty minutes to lull her fearful six-year-old back to sleep. When she returned to the kitchen she saw that Ted had cleaned up and disposed of the broken glass. She walked into the living room. He was seated, facing the fire, a glass of scotch in his hand. He did not turn when he heard her approach.

  “Do you want to talk?” she asked calmly.

  Still with his back to her, he said tersely, “I gave Jastrow a C.”

  By now she had guessed as much. And knew she had to suppress—or at least postpone—her anger.

  “Ted,” she began softly, “it was for you to decide. I just wish you’d trusted me enough to share the pain of compromise.”

  He sat like a statue, unresponsive.

  “Look, I said I’d stick by you. And if staying at Canterbury means that much to you, we’ll pay the price. We can be happy anywhere as long as we keep together.”

  “You think I was a coward, don’t you?” he murmured.

  “No, Ted,” she answered. “I was just as scared as you. I shouldn’t have tried to make you into some Sophoclean hero. I mean, life is full of compromises, and what you did is pretty minuscule in the scheme of things.”

  He still did not turn. She walked up behind him and placed her hands gently at the base of his neck. Her touch brought a surge of comfort.

  “Sara,” he whispered, “I sat there all evening wondering what the hell to do about it. And then something said to me that bucking the system would be like King Lear raging against the winds. It would have meant risking everything we worked for, everything we want to do.…”

  “It’s over now, Ted,” she said softly, “so just forget it.”

  “You know I can’t. I never will.” He paused, then added, “And you won’t either.”

  Inwardly she knew that he was right.

  The National Security Council had existed, at least in name, since 1947. But it was only after 1969—when Richard Nixon named Henry A. Kissinger to lead this advisory group—that it began to impinge upon and gradually usurp some of the powers of the Department of State.

  Most of this was attributable to Kissinger’s brilliance and resourcefulness. But he also benefited from what, in geopolitical terms, might be called first-strike capability at access to the President.

  The Secretary of State has his headquarters in an imposing building on Twenty-first Street and Virginia Avenue, but the head of the NSC works out of a windowless warren in the bowels of the White House itself. Thus, though William Rogers may have had the cabinet post and trappings of office, Henry Kissinger had the President’s ear.

  To assist in building a power base in the National Security Council, Henry had brought along several of his Harvard students, many of whom he had long been grooming. Of these, George Keller was by far the most gifted. And, paradoxically, had the hardest time being cleared for security.

  No Kafka victim was ever grilled as relentlessly as George was questioned by the FBI. It was all polite, of course. But, as the agents kept emphasizing, when you are checking someone for the highest security level, the fate of the nation lies in your thoroughness.

  First he had filled out an exhaustive written questionnaire asking his name, any former names, and all the addresses he had ever lived at since he was born. Also the sources of all the income he had ever earned. Moreover, they demanded as many names as possible of Americans who could testify to his loyalty. George offered Kissinger, Professor Finley, and Andrew Eliot. All of whom, he later learned, were personally visited by the Bureau.

  But during his oral interview, when questions were repeated again and again by the two agents, he began to grow upset.

  “Gentlemen, I must have told you a dozen times. I can’t be sure that I didn’t live in one place or another when I was two years old. I hope you can appreciate that.”

  “We do, sir,” the senior FBI man said tonelessly. “But I hope you appreciate the sensitive position you’re in. When a candidate still has relatives back there the possibility for blackmail can’t be ignored. And you still have—what, Dr. Keller,—a father—?”

  “And a sister,” George quickly repeated for the millionth time. “And as I told you gentlemen, I haven’t seen them since October 1956.”

  “Still, you are aware that your father is a high official in the Hungarian People’s Government, are you not?”

  “I only know what I read in the papers,” George replied. “And that, gentlemen, is part of my duties as an East European area expert. Yes, it’s true that Istvan Kolozsdi” (he was unable to pronounce the words my father) “has been kicked upstairs, as you might put it. But the jobs he has held are absolutely insignificant.”

  “And yet he is, after all, a Deputy Assistant Secretary of the Par
ty,” countered the senior agent.

  George laughed derisively. “You could be too, sir. In Hungary they hand that title around like candy.”

  “Then what you’re saying is that your father is not that important. Is that so, Dr. Keller?”

  “Precisely. He’s what you might call a successful failure.”

  Some of the queries were not unexpected.

  “What do you think of communism?” gave George the opportunity for an eloquent tirade against the various Marxist regimes of Eastern Europe. A speech that, he sensed, considerably impressed his interviewers.

  And yet, even after an entire day of talking, one question startled him.

  “Do you love your father, Dr. Keller?”

  George suddenly grew tense. Inexplicably, he was at a loss for words.

  “Do you love your father?” the agent repeated.

  George groped for a suitable response: “He stands for a repressive political system, one which I have dedicated my life to opposing. I cannot but loathe such an individual.”

  The FBI men shifted impatiently in their chairs. The senior officer then commented, “Dr. Keller, we asked you a personal question and you gave us a political answer. Now I know it’s getting late and we’ve been here a long time. But if you don’t mind, sir, I’d like to hear you address yourself to that question again. Do you love your father?”

  Why was he having such trouble giving them a simple “no”?

  “Look,” he said in a confidential tone, “can I say something off the record?”

  “Please feel free, sir.”

  “The truth is, I hate that man. He treated me like a dog from the day I was born. I detest Istvan Kolozsdi as a human being. Now, if I can answer on the record—please. I have no affection whatsoever for my father. Is that clear enough for you, gentlemen?”

  “Yes, Dr. Keller. I think that about wraps it up. Thank you for your patience.”

  After they left, George fell into a sudden depression. Not really worrying about his security clearance. Kissinger had forewarned him that the FBI was pretty severe with foreign-born candidates.

  No, it was that last question. He had thought that he no longer had any feelings at all for his father. But never had he been obliged to testify on record, “I swear I do not love my father.”

  Was it totally true?

  A long-forgotten childhood memory suddenly surfaced from his psyche, catching him completely unaware.

  “Why are you crying, Father—is it for Mama?”

  “Yes, boy. To love someone is terrible. It brings such pain.”

  “But, Father, I love you.”

  “Then you’re a little fool. Get out and let me be.”

  Most of the staff of the National Security Council was headquartered in large, airy, colonial-style rooms on the second floor of the Executive Office Building, an historic structure within the White House compound. (“It’s like being on campus again,” George remarked to an assistant.)

  The little rooms along the NSC corridor contained bright young specialists in diplomacy, defense, and various geographical areas of the world. They toiled long hours in the service of their country and their own advancement.

  But George was singled out from the very beginning. He was given office space—though little of it—right in the White House basement, where his boss could hale him into conference at all times of the day. And even well into the night.

  He was also only steps away from the two most vital scenes of governmental deliberations, the Oval Office and the Situation Room, that airless cubicle sometimes referred to as “a sauna for world crises.”

  Though George’s twenty-five-thousand-dollar salary was somewhat less than he had received in New York, he was still able to rent a small apartment in Town Square Towers, a few minutes drive from the White House—especially at 7:00 A.M., when he usually arrived.

  Even Kissinger’s influence did not extend to getting parking places. Therefore, as a junior aide, George had to leave his car in the government lot beneath the Washington Monument, then walk north and cross Constitution Avenue to reach the White House gate.

  Actually, it was a rare occasion in his long and busy day that he got to see some of the other NSC staffers who worked across the way in the EOB. For Henry made enormous demands of his team. His insatiable appetite for information of all sorts was such that they rarely had the chance to leave their desks, even to go downstairs to the cafeteria for lunch.

  No one worked later than Kissinger himself. And George made sure that he never left his office until Henry passed by and wished him good night.

  George had no social life at all. Indeed, the entire staff in the EOB worked themselves to such exhaustion that they barely had the strength to drive home. There were many burnouts even among the whiz kids in their middle twenties.

  One of George’s tasks was assisting Kissinger to recruit bright, new faces—which would very shortly become pale, tired faces—for the National Security Council staff.

  Early that first spring, he interviewed a young graduate of Georgetown for a job in the Latin American section. She had excellent qualifications: an honors degree in Spanish and Portuguese, as well as several letters from Republican party officials reminding the White House boys how important a Washington lawyer her father was.

  George was nonetheless determined to grill her severely. He felt too strong a loyalty to Kissinger to allow party politics to impinge upon the important work they were doing. If this girl turned out to be some flighty social type, they would farm her out to some senator’s office.

  The fact that Catherine Fitzgerald was blond and attractive confirmed his prejudgment that an empty-headed debutante was being foisted on them. But then she genuinely confounded him. Not merely with her credentials and obvious intelligence, but with her experience as well. She had spent two years with the Peace Corps in Latin America, and had worked three summers during college for a bank in Sāo Paulo to perfect her Portuguese.

  George’s evaluation was positive, and Catherine Fitzgerald was hired to work for the National Security Council.

  After that, he passed her occasionally in the corridors while following up something for Henry with people in the EOB. But otherwise he gave her no thought. He was too immersed with helping Kissinger solve the jigsaw puzzle called world politics.

  That is, until late one icy winter evening, when he left the West Wing of the White House and was heading for the gate. He glanced over to check whose office lights were still on in the EOB and caught sight of her emerging from the entrance.

  “Miss Fitzgerald,” he said jokingly, “don’t tell me that you’re going home so early?”

  “Oh hi, Dr. Keller.” She sighed wearily. “You know that actually isn’t a joke. This is the first time I’ve left the office before midnight.”

  “I’ll be sure to tell the boss,” said George.

  “Don’t bother. I’m not bucking for promotion,” she replied. “I only wish he’d hire one or two more aides for my department. Some people around here think South America is just a suburb of Mexico.”

  George smiled. “Is your car parked over by the Monument?”

  She nodded.

  “So’s mine. I’ll walk you over. We can protect each other from the muggers.”

  Crossing Constitution Avenue, George looked at Cathy and a surprising thought occurred to him.

  This person is a girl. She’s not bad-looking. No, in fact, she’s fairly pretty. And I haven’t even had a social conversation since I ve been in Washington. With so many hours of hard work behind him, his conscience allowed him to ask if she would like to have a drink.

  “Fine,” she replied, “but only if it’s coffee.”

  George then suggested several spots in fashionable Georgetown that he’d heard of and wanted to check out.

  “Oh no,” she answered pleasantly, “I don’t feel up to facing the jeunesse dorée of Washington. Why don’t we just drive to my place and have coffee there?”

  “
Okay,” George replied. “You lead and I’ll follow.”

  She lived alone on South Royal Street in Old Town Alexandria—an attractive three-room walk-up.

  As she fussed with an espresso machine, George studied the posters on her wall. They were mostly colorful souvenirs from her Latin American travels. Except for one, which piqued his curiosity.

  “Say, Cathy,” he asked, pointing to the large white-and-blue placard that had pride of place over her sofa, “is that some kind of joke?”

  “Oh, you mean my antinuclear artwork?” she responded blithely. “No, I was actually pretty active in the antiwar movement in college. I was even in a couple of big marches.”

  “Then I don’t understand—”

  “What? How I got the NSC job? Or why I wanted it?”

  “Both, I guess.”

  “Well,” she said, sitting down beside him and handing him a cup, “to begin with, this is a free country and I’m not ashamed to say I think we’re wrong to be in Vietnam. On the other hand, I obviously don’t advocate the violent overthrow of the government, or I wouldn’t have gotten security clearance. Ergo, you might say I’m an idealist who wants to work for change within the system.”

  “Very noble,” George responded. “Are there many others like you in the NSC corridor?”

  “One or two.” She smiled. “But I’m certainly not going to name any names to ‘Kissinger’s shadow.’ ”

  She stopped herself, suddenly embarrassed.

  “Is that what they call me—‘Kissinger’s shadow’?”

  “Well, you two are pretty inseparable. I suppose it’s just a little jealousy on the part of those of us who work across the tracks. I mean, somebody mentioned that you were probably the youngest guy with an actual office in the White House.”

  “What else do they say?” George coaxed.

  “You’re putting me on the spot. Can’t we change the subject?”

  “Yes, but only if you let me guess what the other staffers think of me. My intuition says they consider me conceited, arrogant, and ruthless.”

  He looked at her for a response.