re-main at Harvard. For he himself had more use for soldiers to man the advance guard of his own career. Hence, by placing George with his long-time patrons, the Rockefellers, he had an ally he could count on in the "real world."
In June 1963, George Keller not only received his
doctorate but-and perhaps of greater importance-took the oath of fealty to the U.S. Constitution. Thus officially becoming
a proud and patriotic American.
The granting of his citizenship was to him a kind of
late-. arriving birth certificate. By this time he had not only secured his future, he had all but suppressed his past.
It was almost as if he had never been Hungarian. Or had never had a father or a mother. Or a sister. Or a fiancée named Aniko. Only once in a great while did he have a nightmare about being lost in a blinding snow storm, not being able to find his way home. He had even conscientiously avoided reading the Hungarian press, except when it was absolutely necessary for his course work. He was like Athena in Greek mythology, sprung full-grown from the forehead of Zeus. Only in George's case his creator was Henry Kissinger.
And so -George Keller set out for New York-in some eyes
the greatest city in the world. But, in his view, merely a suburb of Washington.
His philosophy in acquiring a new wardrobe was based on
the personal theory that if a garment was tailor-made it had to be better. He found out who had been the late President Kennedy's tailor and ordered several new suits in every
"distinguished" color. -
In fact, he became something of a sartorial proselytizer.
He would even chide Andrew, whom he occasionally met at the New York Harvard Club either for lunch or squash, "Eliot, I can't for the life of me fathom why you still buy off the rack. After all, you're an up-and-coming banker."
"I'm only just a trainee," his classmate would counter affably. "Besides, we New England Yankees are indoctrinated to be thrifty." -
He did not mention, nor did George with his impeccable sense of tact, that two years before, upon turning
twenty-five, Andrew had come into a trust fund of several million dollars.
There were other advantages to working for the Rockefeller organization. For example, access to unobtainable concert and theater tickets. Not to mention bright, pulchritudinous young women who also worked in Room 5600.
George enthusiastically took advantage of all these opportunities. He reveled in the glittering first nights at the opera and important theatrical events. He had house seats when Fonteyn and Nureyev first danced the young Russian's version of Swan Lake in America. Indeed, when Danny Rossi played the Bartok Second Piano Concerto with the New York Philharmonic, George was sitting in the Rockefeller family
box with Sally Bates, the governor's charming and beautiful assistant for urban affairs.
As Danny strode on stage, George could not keep himself
from whispering to Sally, "This is like old home week for me. Bartok is Hungarian. And Rossi is a Harvardman. He and I were classmates."
"Do you know him personally?" she inquired, most impressed. -
"We were both in Eliot House," George replied evasively.
"Oh, that's exciting. Can we go backstage and meet him afterward?"
"Uh-I don't think we should," he backtracked as suavely as possible. "I mean, Danny's always exhausted after he performs. Some other time." -
The normally staid atmosphere of Room 5600 seemed electrified during those days in 1964 when Nelson- Rockefeller-was making his bid for the Republican presidential nomination. Kissinger was there so 'often that George wondered how he managed to teach his classes. - Nominally, Henry was on the Rockefeller staff as foreign policy adviser. But he delegated to George the drafting of the position papers, while he himself huddled in the inner
sanctuary with Rocky to discuss the strategy of the campaign. George went along with the entourage to the Republican Convention in San Francisco. And even after their patron lost the nomination to Barry Goldwater, he stayed on to assist Kissinger in writing the foreign-policy planks of the party platform.
On Election Night, George and Henry stood in a corner of
the subdued hotel ballroom watching each return increase the
magnitude of their candidate's crushing defeat at the hands of Lyndon Johnson.
"Well, Henry, I guess that's the end of the ball game."
"Not at all, George, not at all." -
"What dO you mean? They're swamping us nearly two to one."
"Not us," Kissinger replied. "Only Senator Goldwater. Just remember the Democrats will also need expert advice." Inwardly George thought his old teacher was merely putting up a brave front. Kissinger would be relegated to the classroom just as he would be to Room 5600,
And yet, three years later, while Lyndon Johnson stood helplessly mired in the pernicious swamps of the Vietnam war, a chubby, bespectacled Harvard government professor presented himself in the office of Secretary of Defense Robert
McNamara. The academic offered to relay secret messages via certain French contacts to Ho Chi Minh, the North Vietnamese leader.
The Pentagon was impressed. And, to the surprise of many,
but certainly not to the professor, they agreed to make Henry
Kissinger their secret envoy. -
Of course, George ultimately guessed what games the master strategist was playing by interpreting the "slips" that Kissinger would make in their conversations.
Once when they were chatting about food, Henry said, "I
had the most superb coquilles at Prunier the other night."
"Where's that?" inquired George.
"Oh, Paris," he answered quite offhandedly. "I was over for a few hours to. . . give a paper."
George sifted for the nuggets of truth. Clearly, Kissinger was now involved in some kind of covert negotiations on behalf of the U.S. government.
But he still could not grasp why a Democratic
administration should choose a relatively unknown professor who had actually worked against them in the previous campaign. Didn't they have contacts of their own? Why Henry? When Kissinger's role finally became public knowledge,
George dared to ask what made him think his audacious offer would even be taken seriously.
"Well," Henry replied, "I could fob you off with a quote from Clausewitz On War. But if you want the unvarnished
truth, I just thought I'd give it a shot. There were only two possible answers, so I had a fifty-fifty chance."
"Oh," said George Keller in monosyllabic awe. And thought, This man is a genius.
In direct contrast to the sophisticated Realpolitik of George's mentor was the naive sentimentality of his first Harvard roommate. Often, at lunch, Andrew would seek George's diagnosis of the malady that was infecting the nation. In early June 1968, he was absolutely distraught.
"George, what's happening to this country? I mean, has the war drained off all our sanity? Why are we killing each
other? It's barely two months since they shot Martin Luther King-and now Bobby Kennedy. Can you explain any of this madness?" -
George replied with cool academic detachment, "I think these are all signs that the Republicans will win iii November."
But whatever Kissinger was doing on those secret Paris journeys, it was clearly not enough. The Vietnam conflict grew worse. Among its casualties was Lyndon Johnson himself, who, worn- down by the onslaught of protests, chose not to
seek reelection. Thus leaving the bombing to an unscarred and less-heartsick leader.
In a sense, LBJ was handing the presidency to Richard
Nixon. For this canny politician did not need the advice of brilliant strategists like Kissinger and his young assistant Keller. Common sense told him that a simple promise to end the war would sweep him into office.
Andit did.
It also swept George out of Rockefeller Center. His disappointment at the thought of not being able to see those Renoirs and van Goghs every morning was somewhat mitigated by the fact that, although his new working quarters would be cramped and airless, they were at least well located.
In the White House basement, fifty yards from the National
Security Adviser, Henry Kissinger.
B
roadway musicals are never better than on the first day of rehearsal. This is the moment when the authors themselves read through the play, singing the lyrics in their fresh, unadulterated form.
When Stu and Danny finished their two-man show, the cast clapped enthusiastically. Sir John Chalcott, the director, rose to make some inaugural remarks.
"I think all of us here recognize what a superbly written piece of theater we've just heard. It is our duty as professionals to live up to the authors' intentions. All our efforts in the next six weeks will be bent in that direction."
Polite applause.
Zero Mostel now stood up. "This is not your ordinary
Broadway dreck. I honestly think James Joyce would have respected what Stu and Danny have done. And, guys-we're going to knock our kishkes out for you."
More applause.
Sir John turned - to the leading lady and inquired, "Miss
Hamilton, would you care to say a word or two?" She did.
Honoring her director by affecting what she thought was an English accent, she remarked, "Can either Mr. Kingsley or the celebrated Mr. Rossi explain to me why Mr. Mostel gets to
sing the final numb~r?"
This was hardly what Sir John had expected. But his cast
did not seem at all surprised. They merely turned to hear the authors' explanation.
Danny got up from the piano and took a few steps toward the table around which the cast was gathered.
"Look, Miss Hamilton, this is our concept. Stu and I want to emphasize Joyce's theme of Stephen looking for his lost
father and Bloom for his dead son. We feel the real emotional pull is between the two of them."
"But surely, Mr. Rossi, the novel itself ends with Molly's soliloquy. Why are you mutilating a classic for what I assume is the sake of Mr. Mostel's ego?"
Before Danny could reply, the male lead offered a laconic comment.
"Bulishit."
In an accent now more aristocratic than ever, Theora
Ham-ilton turned to her costar and said sternly, "Mr. Mostel, such
vulgarity is unworthy of the professional you aspire to be." To which Zero simply replied, "Bullshit."
Sir John Chalcott rose again.
"Miss Hamilton, ladies and gentlemen, I'm sure none of us here is unfamiliar with Joyce's masterpiece. And for that very reason we can appreciate how ingeniously our authors have captured its spirit. You do, after all, have a musical version of the soliloquy when you sing 'Roses and Fire and Sunset' in the penultimate scene. I think the slight
modification of putting Zero's duet last works better for the stage. Call it justifiable artistic license."
"I still think I should sing a reprise just before the curtain,"
she replied. "After all, who are the public flocking to see if not Theora Hamilton?"
To which Zero Mostel answered, "Zero Mostel."
The First Lady of the American musical theater turned again to her costar and said, in an accent by no means English, "Bullshit."
Rehearsals had begun.
Six weeks later, prior to leaving for Boston they did a run-through in New York. Afterward Edgar Waldorf reported that the group of invited professionals had all been laudatory about the project. Some indeed had confessed to
being moved to tears by the lovely duet that concluded the play.
Danny and Stuart embraced warmly.
"Just think," the poet enthused, "we'll be starting our triumphal march in the shadow of Harvard Yard. Doesn't that give it an extra kick?"
"Yeah, it really does,"
"Hey," Stuart suggested, "do you and Maria want to take
the train up with me and Nina? We could all hold each other's hands."
"Thanks, but Maria's going to stay in Philly. She gets sort of nervous at these things. I'm going home over the
weekend to conduct two concerts and I'll fly up Sunday night. We can meet for a drink in my suite at The Ritz."
'~Great. But listen, Danny. I know I've told you before