“And yet he is, after all, a Deputy Assistant Secretary of the Party,” 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.”
Alter 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 São 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.