Just after eleven, his mother pleaded tiredness and excused herself, leaving Jason and his father alone for the first time in ten years.
Jason was the first to speak. “Dad, I know how much I must have hurt you and Mom —”
“No,” his father interrupted. “If there are going to be any apologies, let me go first. I was wrong not to respect your convictions.”
“Please, Dad.”
“No, let me finish. You’ve taught me a lesson about our heritage. I realize that it’s possible to be one-hundred-percent American and at the same time still be a Jew. The Six Day War was a catalyst for a lot of people like me. There was such a sudden outburst of pride.…” He paused.
Jason did not know what to say. His father’s voice lowered as he continued.
“Then, of course, I knew you were in the thick of it and I was worried as hell.” He raised his head, “Oh God, son, I’m glad you made it through so we could have this talk.”
The two embraced.
Eva and the boys were waiting when his plane landed in Tel Aviv. As they hugged and kissed, little Ben asked, “Daddy, did you bring us any presents?”
“You bet I did, Benjy. But the best one will be coming here in October.”
“What’s that?”
“A grandma and a grandpa.”
“Come on in,” Richard Nixon called to George Keller. “You can use a little exercise.”
It was a hot day in August 1973, at the Western White House, in San Clemente, California. The President was conferring with Kissinger as they sat waist deep in the shallow end of the swimming pool. George Keller was seated nearby, taking notes as Henry called them out. (“Be sure I call Pompidou at 0700 GMT.”)
Nixon again repeated his invitation to George.
“I’m afraid I can’t, Mr. President, thank you,” George replied awkwardly. “In fact, I didn’t even bring a suit along.”
At which Nixon turned to Kissinger and joked, “Henry, don’t tell me this boy of yours can’t swim.”
“Oh, he most certainly can, Mr. President. In fact, he couldn’t have gotten his college diploma without being able to swim fifty yards.”
Dr. K. always scrupulously avoided saying the word Harvard unless absolutely necessary. Nixon had a phobia about that institution, dating from the time he was on Joe McCarthy’s investigating committee (and in fact, its president, Derek Bok, was on the current White House “enemies list”).
“Well, okay,” the President replied. “But, George, I want you to promise me you’ll do a few laps before dinner. I need my team to be in tip-top shape.”
“Yes, sir, Mr. President,” he replied. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to go back to my room and type up some of these memos.”
George dutifully gathered up his papers, zipped them into an attaché case, and strode to the guest cottage where the various White House aides were billeted.
He could not have been at his desk for more than five minutes when Kissinger, wearing a terrycloth robe, entered without even knocking.
“George,” he said excitedly, “you won’t believe what the President just did.”
“Is it good or bad?”
“Well, that depends on your vantage point, my boy,” said Kissinger, a smile beginning to cross his face. “He’s just asked me to become Secretary of State.”
“Gosh, Henry, congratulations.”
“Listen, can I use your phone? I’d like to call my parents and tell them.”
At 11:06 A.M. on September 22, in the East Room of the White House, Dr. Henry A. Kissinger took the oath of office and assumed the duties of the fifty-sixth American Secretary of State.
George Keller was privileged to be among the few nonmedia people present at the swearing-in. For he was joining the new Secretary as a Special Assistant.
Kissinger’s short remarks of gratitude were spoken from the heart. “There is no other country in the world where it is conceivable that a man of my origin could be standing here next to the President of the United States….”
George could not keep from hoping that America would also offer unlimited opportunity to a man of his origin.
“Henry, can I have a few seconds of your time?”
The new Secretary of State looked up from his desk and replied affably, “Certainly, George. What unsolvable new crisis do you wish to bring to my attention?”
“It’s not a crisis exactly, it’s more of a puzzle. You know I’ve always been liaising with Andreyev at the Russian Embassy —”
“Of course. Our best friend with the enemy.”
“Well, he’s invited me to lunch at Sans Souci.”
“Good.” Kissinger smiled. “At least we’re still salvaging a few meals from what’s left of détente.”
“Seriously, Henry,” George responded, “he wants to introduce me to their new Cultural Attaché.”
“Ah yes,” Kissinger replied with his near-photographic memory. “Fellow named Yakushkin.”
George nodded. “What do you think he wants?”
“That, my dear boy, is precisely what I expect you to find out. But will you take a word of advice from your old professor?”
“Certainly,” said George.
“Try their aiguillettes de canard. They cook them in cassis.”
It is a Washington paradox. Under other circumstances it might be decried as giving aid and comfort — and in this case, haute cuisine — to the enemy. But in America’s capital city they call it “gastronomic diplomacy.”
Some of the President’s men, like Haldeman and Ehrlichman, were regular clients of the Sans Souci, by far the best restaurant within walking distance of the White House. And they were fully accustomed to seeing high government officials (and even middle-rankers like George) sit down to dine with representatives of the nation that was supposed to be their mortal enemy.
This was not the first such meal in George Keller’s government experience. Though he could not fathom why, the Russian Embassy seemed to have taken a particular liking to him. At first he thought it was because of his fluency in their language. And yet all their conversations were held in English. And not even in hushed tones.
Still, always following the ground rules, he would furnish the FBI with a “Memorandum of Conversation” detailing the topics covered in each dialogue he had.
Far from arousing suspicion, the esteem in which the Soviets seemed to hold George actually raised his stature. For there were strategists at the State Department and the CIA who thought he might one day be useful in sniffing out a potential Communist defector.
It was a nice day, so George walked across Pennsylvania Avenue and down 17th Street to the restaurant.
Andreyev, middle-aged and bald, in a typical shapeless gray Russian suit, waved him over to the table, where a younger man, wearing a blue blazer and striped tie, rose to shake his hand.
“Dmitri Yakushkin, this is George Keller,” said Andreyev. He then added jocularly, “Be nice to him. He knows more about Eastern Europe than we do.”
“I’ll be on my best behavior,” said the diplomat in impeccable English.
George could not help but think, My God, his accent is almost as good as mine.
“What would you prefer to drink,” Andreyev asked, “Bloody Mary or champagne cocktail?”
“Since they have excellent Russian vodka here, I’ll have a Bloody Mary.”
Andreyev raised three fingers to the Maître d’, who simply nodded, having no need for further elucidation.
The conversation was extremely cordial and exceptionally superficial. George sat there waiting for the hidden zinger.