other things we do in life.
I
t was late January 1973. George Keller stood on the steps outside the Georgetown Law Center. -At the stroke of noon, students began to pour out of the
building. Among them was Catherine Fitzgerald, whom he diffidently approached. - -
"Cathy-"
"Goodbye, George," she answered, turning away.
"Wait, please. Can't we just talk for a few minutes?" m
not in the mood for even sixty seconds of prevarication, Dr. Keller."
She started to walk off briskly.
He hurried to catch up with her. -"Please, Cathy," he said urgently. "If America and North Vietnam can make peace, why can't we?"
She whirled and demanded, "George, now that you and Henry
have your cease-fire, you're international heroes. Why bother with the one person in the world who still thinks you're a worm?"
"Precisely because you're the only person who matters to me.
"Do you really expect me to believe that bulishit?"
"I would hope you would at least give me a chance - to convince you. I mean, you're practically a lawyer. Even criminals are entitled to speak in their own defense. Will you have coffee with me?"
She sighed. "All right, but just one cup."
"How did you know where to find me?" she asked. "Are you bugging my phone?"
He shook his head in consternation. "Give me a break, Cathy. I asked one of your old friends at N SC,"
"If they were friends of mine they should also have told you I didn't want to see you."
Like his diplomatic mentor, George was an indefatigable
negotiator.
"Look, Cathy." He began a new tack. "I know I've been callous. Dishonest, even. But I've learned my lesson, really I have. All these lonely months I've done nothing but castigate myself for not trusting you."
"To be honest," she replied, in a tone that was for the first time not hostile, "you barely even trust yourself. That's your problem, George."
"Aren't you willing to believe a person can change in three years?"
"I'd have to see it to believe it," she replied.
"Will you at least let me try to show you?" he pleaded.
She drained her coffee quickly and stood up. "Listen, I've got some important exams to study for. If you're really serious, call me early next month and I can meet you without worrying about torts and contracts."
"Fair enough," he replied. "Can I walk you to the library?"
"I think it would be better if you didn't. You and Henry are still pretty much persona non grata on campus:"
They began to see each other again. First at weekly intervals-both of them guarding their emotions. But gradually, Cathy had to acknowledge to herself that George was making a genuine effort to right the wrongs of their earlier relationship.
For the first time, he spoke -openly about- his childhood. About what it meant to leave a country that he loved. About arriving in a strange new land without -a relative or friend, barely able to say ten words in the language. About his desperate yearning to fit in. It was, however, a selective disclosure. For he only briefly mentioned that he had "a pretty poor" relationship with his father. And did not
mention Aniko at all.
To make her understand his instinctive caution when
dealing with others, he told of his first, bewildering days in America, Of being in constant fear. And his still latent paranoia that there were spies everywhere.
In short, he told the truth-if not the whole truth. And his partial candor enabled Cathy to let herself care once more. -
"Who's your best friend, George?" she asked as they were
taking a Sunday-afternoon stroll.
"I don't know," he replied offhandedly. "I guess I've never had one really."
"Not even as a child?"
"No, 1 was always a lone wolf. I'm just not gregarious."
She paused and then said gently, '~You know, it's a paradox. We've been lovers for a long time now but we're not friends yet. At least, you don't regard me as one."
"Of course, I do," he protested.
"You'd make a lousy witness, Dr. Keller. You've just changed your testimony under my cross-examination. You started out by saying you didn't have a best friend."
"What am I?" he asked good-humoredly. "A guinea pig for your courtroom technique?"
"No, George, you're my friend. And I want to be yours."
"Cathy, you're the most wonderful girl I've ever met.
I just can't fathom why you care so much for an iceberg like me.
"To begin with, you've got an electrifying mind. You also happen to be a very attractive man. And, most of all, you
- bring out something in me that wants to make you happy." He stopped walking and put his arms around her. "Cathy," he said affectionately, "I love you."
"No," she whispered. "You- don't yet. But you will." Cathy graduated from law school that June and passed the Maryland Bar exam, which would enable her to practice in
Washington, D.C., six months thereafter. Despite lucrative and interesting offers ranging from government work to private industry (women professionals were very much in demand in 1973), she chose to join the consumer advocates colloquially known as Nader's Raiders.
"Why do you want to work with such a cockeyed organization?" George asked in a tone midway between
amusement and amazement. "I mean, you could so easily get a job in the Attorney General's office."
"Look, George," she explained, "despite being Washington born and bred, I'm still an optimist. But I'm not crazy enough anymore to think I can improve things on a global scale. My quixotic days ended when I left NSC. At least with Ralph's group we can do some tangible good, and sometimes I can actually see the faces of the people I help."
"It's amazing," he said with affectionate admiration,
"you're the most idealistic person I've ever met."
- "Well, you're the most pragmatic."
"That's what makes us a good match. We're like Jack
Sprat."
"Except that they were married," she replied.
"No comment." He smiled.
"You don't have to," she answered knowingly. "One morning you're going to wake up, realize what an asset I'd be for your career, and ask me."
"Is that how you think I base all my decisions?"
"Yes. And that's probably the only thing that would keep you from asking me.""What?"
"The fact that I actually know what makes you tick."
S
uccess illumined Danny Rossi like a halo. He was rich and famous. His life overflowed with praise, his den with trophies-and his bed with beauties. He had everything a man could want.
Except a marriage.
One evening in the early spring of 1973 when his chauffeur met him at the airport, Danny urged him to drive as quickly as he could to Bryn Mawr. He rushed into the house to announce his latest coup: he had been offered the directorship of the~Los Angeles Philharmonic. In fact, the orchestra wanted him so badly that they had agreed to his keeping the Philadelphia job as well. He would be a transcontinental conductor.
"That's super, Daddy," Sylvie cried. "Does it mean we'll be moving out to California?"
"Well, it might be good to get away from the snow and ice. But we'll really have to let your mom decide."
He looked at Maria. She was stone-faced. And said nothing.
"Hey, what's the matter, darling?" he asked at dinner, when the kids were gone.
"Danny," she said slowly, "we've got to talk."
"You mean about California?"
"No. About 'Miss Rona.'"
"Who?"
"Please, Danny, don't play the ingenue. Her column is
- syndicated even in a hick town like Philadelphia."
"Well, what slimy rumor is she spreading now?"
"Oh, nothing scandalous," Maria replied sarcastically.
"Just a little tidbit about a 'famous composer-pianist whispering sweet nothings to Raquel Welch at a Malibu restaurant.'
"Do you really believe that kind of crap?"
"The only thing I'm not sure of is whether that item came from her press agent or yours."
"Wait a minute-"
"No, maestro," she retorted. "This time you listen. All
these years I've tried to look the other way because I
felt it was somehow my fault, I mean that you have to have your little affairs because I was inexperienced and couldn't satisfy you. But why do you have to do it so damn publicly? You've already proved your manhood to the whole world-why haven't you proved it to yourself?" -
There was a - pause. Then Danny asked calmly, "What suddenly brought this on?"
"It's not sudden. I've just finally reached the end of my very long rope." -
"Maria, we've been through this before. - I've never claimed to be a Boy Scout. - But I still think I'm a good
husband. I mean, I take care of you and the kids, don't I?"
"Every way but emotionally. Your, daughters are starved
for attention, which I can only assume you haven't noticed. And I dread the moment they first see your name in a gossip column." - -
Danny had two concerts to conduct the next day, so he tried to mollify her. "Darling, you know there's only one person in the world I really love, don't you?"
"Of course," she retorted. "Yourself." And then added wearily, "Look, I simply can't take it anymore."
There was another pause. "Are you asking for a divorce?" She grew angry again. "That's what any woman in her right mind would want, isn't it? But we're Catholic-at least I still am. And besides, it would devastate the girls."
"So where does that leave us?"
"In separate bedrooms," she replied. -
He looked at her incredulously. "You can't be serious. You don't mean that our sex life is over?"
"With each other, anyway."
Her innuendo threw Danny off balance. "Do you mean you intend to have affairs?"
"Can you give me one good reason why I shouldn't?"
He was about to say, You're a wife and mother. But then,
he was a husband and father. Still, he was furious. "Maria, you can't do this to me. You can't."
"Danny, whether I can or I can't is not for you to judge. And whether I do or I don't is not for you to know."
B
y the spring of 1972, Jason Gilbert had taken part in so
many operations of Sayaret Matkal that Zvi insisted he take a sabbatical to- "relearn what normal life is all
about."
He went back to the kibbutz and finally began to get close to his two sons, Joshua, now five, and three-year-old Ben. He discovered that he could derive joy from family life
and even from tinkering in the garage.
"What are you doing to that truck, Daddy? Is it very
-broken?"
Jason looked up fi'om under the hood to greet his firstborn. "It isn't really broken at all, Josh. I'm doing what in America is called 'souping it up.'
The little - boy laughed. "That sounds so funny-feeding soup to a machine."
"No, chabibi. it's just a way of saying 'make it go faster.' Want a lesson?"
"Yes, please."
Jason lifted the boy high into the air and held him over
the exposed entrails of the vehicle. "See that? It's what's known as a carburetor-m'ayed. It mixes the air and the gas
For the next three afternoons, Jason lovingly introduced his elder son to the arcana of automotive engineering.