by Neil Maresca
Ironically, it was this very trait of unremarkability that he now lamented that would make him attractive to the panel of interviewers he was soon to face in the next room. Lucas would have been amazed to find out that Professor Washburn had remarked upon it positively in his letter of recommendation, noting it, along with his intelligence, mastery of languages, and boundless patriotism, as a characteristic that would ensure his success as a Student Ambassador.
The door opened and another young man exited without making eye contact. After what seemed to be a long time, a severe-looking woman with a grey-brown bun stuck her head out of the door and solemnly intoned, “Peter Cameron.”
The nattily-dressed young man smiled, rose from his seat and confidently strode across the floor. He nodded a smile and gave Lucas a “thumbs up” just before entering. Lucas was confused. Was Peter Cameron attempting to be friendly or sarcastic? Was the ‘thumbs up’ a gesture of supreme confidence or hint of insecurity, a small chink in the armor of calm assurance in which he seemed to be clothed?
The door closed and the room was once again still. The young woman who had stolen looks at Peter Cameron closed her magazine, no longer able to keep up the pretense of reading. She fidgeted a bit with her outfit, a navy blue jacket, white silk blouse and matching blue skirt—very professional, very conservative. It showed nothing of the young woman’s physique, nor gave any hint to her character. Lucas thought her pretty. She fidgeted some more, changed her sitting position several times, looked around the room and made eye contact with Lucas, but did not smile. He thought she was on the verge of tears and wondered if she were going to get up and leave, but just as he thought she was about to break, the door swung open again and Peter Cameron walked out, nodded pleasantly at Lucas, mouthed a silent, “Good Luck,” and went on his way, the young woman’s eyes following his every step.
The door closed behind him, and once again, as before, the waiting room fell into silence until, as before, the severe woman with the bun opened the door and called out, “Kaitlyn Porter.” That was it, no “Miss” no “If you please,” or anything to soften the summons, merely “Kaitlyn Porter.”
The young woman in the blue outfit fairly jumped to attention, knocking the magazine which she had left closed on her lap to the floor. “Yes maam,” she said while trying to gather up her briefcase in one hand and pick up the fallen magazine with the other.
“Leave it,” the severe woman said as the girl fumbled. Lucas saw defeat and shame on Kaitlyn Porter’s face, and felt himself getting angry. After she had entered the room and the severe woman had closed the door, Lucas got up from his seat, picked up the magazine and placed it on a table.
After a time, the door opened once more and Miss Porter exited without a glance in any direction. The process continued several more times until no one was left in the waiting room except Lucas. He sat alone, reconciled to the fact that his dreams had been dashed. He had been left to last—the message was obvious. He had been waiting for more than five hours. He was angry. He didn’t like the severe woman; he didn’t like the way he had been treated. If they weren’t interested in him, why didn’t they just say so? Why put him through this? He thought about his mother, and he became madder still. She would be crushed—and the money wasted on this stupid suit! He rose from his seat, not knowing why, wanting to rip the suit off his back, wanting to punch the severe woman in the nose, wanting to kick that horrible door down, storm inside and tell whoever was in there what a bunch of lousy bastards they were. But before he could do any of those things, the door opened and the next-to-last applicant left. The severe woman didn’t close the door behind him, but instead smiled at Lucas and offered an apology for the long wait.
“Would you come in please, Mister Hamilton?” she asked, and motioned him through the open door.
Lucas entered a drab, smoke-filled, non-descript room. The white walls had yellowed from too many nicotine-fueled meetings such as this one; the one window, which on one side of the room looked out onto South-West Fourth Street was closed and draped; An American flag hung from a pole in the corner that tipped precipitously forward; the only wall decoration consisted of two large framed pictures, one of President Eisenhower, and the other of Secretary of State John Foster Dulles.
Four middle-aged men were standing and stretching behind a rectangular table that seemed to have been brought into this room specifically for this occasion. The table was littered with papers, half-filled water glasses and over-filled ashtrays. To Lucas, who didn’t smoke, the atmosphere felt toxic, but the men seemed not to notice. They chatted among themselves and took no notice of Lucas who sat in the only chair in the room available to him, an uncomfortable wooden folding chair facing the table. Lucas looked around. The severe woman was gone. The men gradually took notice of Lucas and returned to their seats. Nobody spoke for a few minutes while the man to the right of center, an older, white-haired man with a distinctly military bearing, shuffled through some papers.
Lucas thought the situation had the feel of an interrogation instead of an interview, and had he realized the irony, he might have walked out at that point. But of course he had no more ability to see the future than anybody else, so he sat patiently and waited as the panel members composed themselves for the interview.
The paper shuffling continued for an inordinately long time. Lucas, who had been annoyed and angry before at being made to wait so long, now began to think the entire episode comic. He sat, patiently waiting for the old men to find their papers. He could have walked out—he had long before concluded that it had been a monumental waste of time—or he could have told them what fools he thought they all were, but he didn’t, choosing instead—for what reason he couldn’t have said—to wait it out.
Finally, the white-haired man looked at him, and said simply, “You have done well. You will make an excellent Ambassador.”
To say that Lucas was astounded would be an understatement. He was struck dumb. He opened and closed his mouth several times in an attempt to speak but nothing came out. The men at the table were all looking at him and smiling, one was chuckling. Lucas didn’t know whether he should be ecstatically happy or angry. He was leaning toward angry when the white-haired man spoke again, this time adopting a fatherly tone.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “You must feel terribly put upon, but if you can be patient a little longer, I can explain.”
“Please do,” was all Lucas said in reply, and that seemed to please the men even more.
The white-haired man introduced himself as John Mauer, Associate Director for Educational Affairs. He then introduced the other members of the committee, but the names went past Lucas too quickly for him to remember; besides, his head was spinning so quickly trying to absorb all of the day’s events that he really wasn’t concentrating. Mauer explained that they had all discussed his application in depth prior to inviting him to Washington. ‘We’ve seen your test results, reviewed your accomplishments, and read your letters of recommendation,” he said. “You wouldn’t have made it this far if you weren’t qualified to be an Ambassador. But the paperwork doesn’t tell us about you,” and he laid a heavy stress on the word ‘you’, emphasizing it with a finger pointed right at Lucas.
“You will be representing the United States of America, and we,” this time placing the stress on the ‘we’ and opening his arms to indicate that the members of the panel were included, “we have to make sure that only the finest examples of our nation’s youth are chosen. So we placed you under stress to see how you would respond—and you responded extremely well. As an ambassador, you will always have to remember that what you do, what you say—indeed, every action you take will be scrutinized and criticized by the people around you, not all of them friendly to the United States. It is more important to listen than to speak, to observe the manners and customs of your hosts, and adapt yourself to them, and most of all, to control your anger, and temper your speech. You must give no cause for offense. So you see, we had to test you, and
as I said before, you responded extremely well.”
Lucas sat in the uncomfortable chair looking at the four men smiling back at him. It was obviously his turn to speak. He decided against telling him what he thought of the exercise, and said instead, “Thank you. It’s an honor. What happens next?”
Chapter 5
December, 1956
The Willard Hotel
Washington, DC
Lucas gave his mother a big hug. She had been crying, tears of joy. “I’m so proud of you, my son,” she whispered as she clung tightly to him. Lucas, who was six-two, had to bend down to hear his five-foot, four-inch mother. “Imagine, the President of the United States!” His father stood by silently while Sasha had her moment with her son, and when she had had her fill, he stepped forward, shook his adopted son’s hand and uttered a simple, “Well, done, son.” Harold Hamilton was the opposite of his wife Sasha. Where she was emotional, outgoing and effusive, he was taciturn and reserved. Lucas noticed that, in addition to wearing a suit that had to have been purchased especially for this occasion, his father was wearing his combat ribbons and two medals that Lucas had never seen before—a Purple Heart and a Bronze Star. Lucas almost blurted out, “Where did you get those?” but he knew without asking that his father must have earned them as an infantryman in World War II. Nor was he surprised that his father had never mentioned being wounded, or being awarded a Bronze Star. Like many others of his generation, he had come home from the war, put his ribbons and memories away, and gone to work. Lucas resembled his adoptive father in that regard. He rarely looked back or complained, and always stayed focused on what needed to be done. Pointing at his father’s decorations, he said, “Well done yourself.”
Before they could get much further into their conversation, a little man with a polka-dot bowtie popped out of the crowd. “Well, Lucas, what did you think of the ceremony?” he asked.
“Professor Washburn!” Lucas exclaimed, “What are you doing here? I didn’t expect to see you.”
“A courtesy invitation—I have friends in high places.” The smile on his face suggested that he was joking, but Lucas had his doubts. Professor Washburn was considered among the world’s leading experts on the Soviet Union. It wouldn’t have surprised Lucas in the least if he did have friends in high places.
“But these must be your parents,” he said, turning both his smile and his attention onto Harold and Sasha Hamilton.
“Oh my God! I’m so sorry! Mom, Dad, This is Professor Washburn.”
The elder Hamiltons stood smiling at the eminent professor. Harold extended his hand politely, while Sasha gripped the professor’s hand in both of hers and shook it rapidly, thanking him over and over again for helping her son. Washburn protested that it was his pleasure, that Lucas had earned this honor, and he was happy to have been able to help.
“But tell me,” he said, altering his smile into an expression of concern, “How are you?”
“How am I?” asked a puzzled Sasha.
“Yes, Lucas has told me that you are Hungarian. Surely the events of the last month must be upsetting to you.” Washburn was referring to the tragedy that had recently taken place in Hungary. On October 23rd, the Hungarians revolted against the Russian occupation and ousted the communist government, replacing it with a ‘democratic republic,’ led by Imre Nagy. For a few giddy weeks the Hungarians celebrated their freedom only to have it crushed on November 4th when the Russians brought tanks into Budapest, while Eisenhower and the Western allies did nothing to stop them. Nagy was arrested, thousands of Hungarians died, and thousands more simply disappeared.
“You don’t still have family there, I hope,” Washburn asked as he led Sasha to a seat.
Sasha teared up, touched by both the Professor’s concern and the thought of the suffering of the Hungarian people. “I don’t know Professor. I was sent to school in France before the war began. I married Monsieur Carol, Lucas’ father, when I was quite young, and never returned to Hungary. My husband was killed by the Germans, and Lucas and I survived as best we could until we made our escape to England, where through God’s good grace I met Harold. I suppose I have some relatives someplace in Hungary, but if so, I would have no idea who they are or where they are.”
The lie came easily to Sasha’s lips. It was the story she had been telling since she and Lucas had escaped from Budapest in 1944. Harold looked on sympathetically, concerned, as always, for his wife’s suffering, and eager to help her forget her difficult past.
Professor Washburn listened intently to Sasha’s tale. He took her hand in his, and offered his condolences on the death of her first husband, apologized for resurrecting painful memories, then added, “But surely, you must be concerned about the fate of your parents?”
Sasha glanced quickly at Lucas who was looking, not at her, but at Professor Washburn. “My family disowned me when I married Monsieur Carol, Professor. I have accepted that I am dead to them, and so they must be to me as well.”
“I am sorry to hear that Mrs. Hamilton. But at least you had the good fortune to escape the Germans. Frankly, I am amazed. How did you manage it?”
“God preserved us,” She said, blessing herself as she spoke.
Washburn patted her hands and rose from where he had been sitting opposite her. Harold moved to her side. “May He continue to preserve you,” he said softly. Then, turning to Lucas, he added, “Come with me. “There’s someone I want you to meet.”
The Professor led Lucas away from his parents toward a knot of people gathered around a young man whom Lucas immediately recognized as Peter Cameron. They had passed each other in the hallway prior to the ceremony, but there was much too much hustle and bustle to allow conversation. They had nodded to each other, but not spoken.
“Wait here,” Washburn said. He walked over to the gaggle of people and extracted Peter Cameron. ‘This is the person I wanted you to meet,” Washburn said to Lucas. Lucas Hamilton, meet Peter Cameron.”
“We met before, Professor,” Hamilton said, “although we have not been formally introduced. Our paths crossed in the interview process, and of course, backstage.”
“Well, I want you two to become good friends. My professional reputation rests on your shoulders.”
“How is that,” Lucas asked.
“I recommended both of you, and if you flop, my career as a talent scout is over.”
“If I have to sing and dance, I’m afraid your career will be a very short one,” Hamilton quipped.
“You two stay here and get acquainted,” Washburn said. “There’s someone else I need to find.”
Washburn dissolved into the crowd, leaving Lucas and Peter Cameron alone.
Lucas felt completely out of place standing in the middle of the opulent Willard Hotel ballroom with Peter Cameron. Despite the fact that he was two inches taller than Cameron, he felt small. Peter had that effect on Lucas. He was so smooth, so self-confident, so polished that Lucas felt inferior in every way. Cameron seemed to sense Lucas’ unease. He put a friendly hand on Lucas’ shoulder and quietly guided him away from the center of the room to a less conspicuous corner conveniently close to the bar. “What are you drinking?” he asked Lucas as they walked. “I’m dying of thirst. I thought I would feint if Eisenhower spoke any longer. I love the guy, but—really—have you ever heard a more boring speaker.”
Lucas’ only response was a faint and ineffectual objection to moving. “But the Professor wanted us to wait here,” he said as he let himself be led away by Cameron. Upon arriving at the bar, Lucas ordered club soda, it being far too early in the day for him to drink. He scanned the room nervously, looking first for his parents, whom he felt he had abandoned, and then for Professor Washburn whose command he felt he had disobeyed. He quickly located both—his parents standing quietly to the side, their eyes glued on their son, watching his every move with evident pride, and Washburn, coming toward him with a middle-aged man of military bearing at his side.
