In the Shadow of the White House

by Jo Haldeman

  “The media’s building this up really big,” he says. “There’s a darn good chance there could be some violence.”

  Hank stays home, but the rest of us leave on Friday morning. Driving through the rural Maryland countryside, I find it hard to believe that I’m seeking refuge at the presidential retreat. Once we get there, I’m amazed at how removed I feel. No matter what goes on in the rest of the world, nothing ever seems to change at Camp David. It’s as if we were in a cocoon, and it’s comforting to be cared for by the overly solicitous staff. All we have to do is answer their questions: “What time would you like dinner served, ma’am? How would you like your steaks cooked tonight? What movie have you selected?”

  While eating dinner, I look over at our favorite steward, Pair. He stands erect, off to the side, waiting to serve the next course. I wonder what he thinks about the Vietnam War and the killings at Kent State. I would love to ask, but I don’t. An invisible line separates us, and my questions would only put him in an awkward position.

  Tonight, at 10:00 p.m., the president holds a televised press conference in the East Room of the White House. He has a lot riding on his performance, and Non, Peter, Ann, and I are glued to the television in Laurel’s tiny living room. The reporters ask about the incursion into Cambodia, the air strikes against North Vietnam, the “bums” remark, and the tragic killings at Kent State. Nixon’s answers are strong. He looks presidential and acts confident. His chin is slightly raised, but not enough to appear combative. His smile is relaxed, not forced.

  “This country is not headed for revolution,” the president states in a firm voice. “Students are trying to say they want peace, and they want to stop the killing. They say we ought to get out of Vietnam. I agree with everything that they are trying to accomplish.”

  When Bob calls later, he describes the performance as “masterful” and adds, “The president really zinged the press tonight.” He pauses. “You should see what’s going on in DC. The Mall’s covered with sleeping bags, and kids are swarming all over the place. The army has barricaded the White House with buses, and soldiers are sleeping in the halls at the EOB. It’s like a battle zone.”

  “You’d never know it here at Camp David,” I reply.

  The next morning, sunshine filters through the budding dogwood trees as I walk over to Laurel for breakfast. When Pair reports that everything is calm in Washington, Non, Peter, Ann, and I decide to return home. Once we are on the road, I turn on the radio to get the latest news report. What we hear is surreal. At 4:30 a.m., the president visited the Lincoln Memorial.

  “He did what?” Ann calls out from the back seat.

  “Shh,” Non says, turning up the volume.

  The report is sketchy. We learn that while the president was at the Memorial, he talked informally with some of the student demonstrators. A sophomore from Syracuse describes Nixon’s conversation as rambling and disjointed.

  I don’t hear from Bob all day and have to rely on news accounts to keep me informed. This evening, when I make a brief appearance at a neighborhood cocktail party, I’m sure the other guests think I have inside information on the president’s strange visit. I appreciate that no one mentions it. When Bob finally arrives home, he looks drained. I can hardly wait to hear what he has to say, but I know better than to push him. I hold back. But Non doesn’t. At the dinner table, she hits him head on.

  “Why’d the president visit the Lincoln Memorial this morning?” she asks immediately after our moment of silence.

  “All I can tell you is that he’s exhausted,” Bob says. “He couldn’t sleep and became sentimental looking out at the lighted monuments. Apparently he felt compelled to show Manolo the Lincoln Memorial at night, so he got a White House driver to take them there. No one else knew anything about it.”

  “How weird,” Peter comments.

  “It was weird,” Bob agrees. “But he’s done this type of thing before. Sometimes during the campaign, when he got overtired, he’d take off late at night. To make matters worse, when he’s run-down, his speech slurs, and it sounds like he’s been drinking.”

  I’m sure Bob wants to give a logical explanation for the president’s actions, but I’m surprised to hear him talk so candidly. He never reveals anything personal about Nixon.

  Bob tells us that John Ehrlichman called about 5:00 a.m. to inform him that the president was at the Memorial with Manolo. Bob took off as soon as he could, and by the time he caught up with the two of them, they were at the Capitol. Other staff members joined them, and everyone went to breakfast at the Mayflower. It was special for Nixon, who hadn’t eaten in a local restaurant since he and Pat had moved into the White House. When he left, the waitresses walked out with him and waved goodbye. Bob tried to talk him into taking a nap when they got back to the White House, but the president insisted on going over to the EOB to meet the soldiers, who had spent the night there.

  As he talks, Bob plays with his spoon. Slowly turning it over and over between his fingers, he says, “The president’s beat. Pooped. He’s got to get some rest. I think we’ve finally convinced him to go to Florida for a long weekend.”

  Our plates are empty, but we linger at the table. It’s been an unsettling day, but Bob stresses the fact that the president had reached out to the student demonstrators and wanted them to know they share the same goal, ending the war.

  Poor Nixon. He tries, but he can be so awkward at times. I’m beginning to think that he’s his own worst enemy.

  ◆

  Throughout these hectic days, Susan continues to stay in touch. She says she feels torn between empathizing with her fellow students and being respectful of her father and supportive of the Nixon administration.

  Hank remains solid in his support of the president. He attends a debate on Cambodia in the House of Representatives, interviews John Ehrlichman, and writes an article for the National Cathedral School paper. In the St. Albans Government Club, his argument in favor of the Cambodian incursion is so compelling six liberals walk out. The final vote is fourteen to eleven in favor of the conservatives.

  Nixon finally gets away for four days of rest and relaxation. But he’s too keyed up to take advantage of them. While Peter, Ann, and I enjoy the beach in front of Villa 74 at the Key Biscayne Hotel, Bob works. If he is not on the phone, he is meeting with the president. After selling their apartment in New York, the Nixons bought a house next door to Bebe Rebozo on the bay side of the key. Bob spends much of his time in this compound, screened from the road by a large hibiscus hedge.

  On our return flight to Washington, the president invites Henry, John, and Bob to come up to the front cabin, where he awards them “The Presidential Order of the Blue Heart.” In recognition of their “valor in times of stress,” Nixon gives each of them a small, blue fabric heart, which was handmade by Bebe’s girlfriend at Nixon’s request.

  On the surface, it’s a light moment, but it’s also symbolic of the deep allegiance these three men have to their president. They stood by him throughout the “bums” remark, the shootings at Kent State, the protests, and finally, the strange visit to the Lincoln Memorial.

  All the King’s Krauts

  In a special message to Congress on May 21, the president proposes the Emergency School Aid Act to assist in the desegregation of public schools. Public opinion is finally starting to rally behind the president. In New York City, construction workers break up an antiwar rally on Wall Street, and one hundred thousand people march in support of the US policy in Vietnam. The Senate finally confirms Nixon’s third nominee for the Supreme Court, Harry A. Blackmun.

  Six blacks die in race riots in Georgia, and police kill two students in Mississippi. Society in general remains unsettled. The Gallup Poll reports that 75 percent of those questioned feel the influence of religion is declining. Coed dorms have taken over on the campuses. Both sexes dress in ragged jeans, pierce their ears, wear heavy jewelry, and
wear their hair well below their shoulders. Pantsuits are “in” for women.

  When Bob is selected to receive UCLA’s Edward A. Dickson Alumnus of the Year Award, I’m proud of him. As a past president of the Alumni Association and former member of the Board of Regents, he has strong ties to the University. Five years ago, he headed the campaign to raise the first million dollars for the construction of Pauley Pavilion. On Saturday, May 23, he will be honored for having “demonstrated his devotion and interest in the University in a most distinguished way.”

  In working on his speech, Bob tries to find a subject that will be timely and have an impact. On our flight to California, he discusses a couple of ideas with me. Thumbing through Time, Newsweek, and U.S. News and World Report, I comment that all three magazines are featuring stories on the isolation of the president.

  “That’s it, Jo,” Bob exclaims. “I’ve got my talk.”

  The black tie dinner is held at the Century Plaza Hotel in Los Angeles. Walking up to the podium, Bob looks confident and at ease. He nods to a few people in the audience, thrusts his hands into his pockets, and begins.

  “I would like to depart from the traditional speech that is given on an occasion such as this, to share with you some thoughts I have on a subject about which I feel deeply and believe that you do too—the presidency of the United States.”

  Bob quickly gets down to the nitty-gritty of his subject. Comparing the “elusive secret command headquarters” of the Communists in Cambodia to the “Eastern Establishment media,” he explains that “the secret nerve center in the jungle labyrinth of Manhattan Island” is where an “enormously powerful group of men” gather every Sunday to decide what the media line will be for the coming week.

  Flashing a toothy smile, Bob is enjoying his tongue-in-cheek presentation. “Who could have known two months ago when this evening was planned, that this week—the week I make the only public speech I’ll probably make all year—would be ‘isolation of the president week’ and that the major media would be blaming me for that isolation?”

  Explaining the president’s decision-making process, Bob cites the polls showing that there is a two-to-one favorable margin of support for the incursion into Cambodia. He concludes, “Fortunately, both for him and for the world, the president is in far closer touch than that little group who selected ‘isolation of the president’ as this week’s password.”

  The applause is enthusiastic, and Bob eats it up. He looks pleased with himself, and I’m amazed. I can hardly believe that this is the same person who told me that he wanted to remain anonymous. It’s a touchy thing to make fun of the media, and I’m worried that he might have gone too far.

  It doesn’t take long for Bob’s name and face to appear in newsprint. The Washington Post features a cartoon on its editorial page with a smiling Haldeman, standing in front of a padlocked door to the Oval Office. To a group of discouraged-looking reporters, Bob is saying, “He’s not isolated—he just doesn’t want to see anybody!”

  June 1970

  The first week in June, Time magazine has Bob on its cover, along with Henry Kissinger, John Ehrlichman, and John Mitchell. A banner across the top identifies them as “Nixon’s Palace Guard.” In explaining how the White House staff operates, the article features the isolation of the president.

  Suddenly it is fashionable in Washington to fret and fulminate that a palace guard has separated Nixon from realities. In the White House, the key figures around the president are Staff Chief H. R. (Bob) Haldeman, Domestic Affairs Aide John Ehrlichman, and National Security Advisor Henry Kissinger. Because of…their closemouthed habits—the Teutonic trio is now known as “the Berlin Wall”… One administration official calls them “all the king’s Krauts”; another speaks of “the throne nursers”… Bob and John are widely called “Von Haldeman” and “Von Ehrlichman.”

  The article states that instead of having a sixty-button telephone console on his desk like Lyndon Johnson, Nixon has only three direct lines. These connect him to Bob, John, and Henry. According to Time, Bob and John “screen nearly every person admitted to the president’s lair,” as well as every piece of paper and every briefcase. I’m not surprised when I read, “Haldeman mocked the critics last week by announcing that the ‘new password’ among the eastern media was ‘isolation of the president.’”

  As I continue reading, I learn more specifics about Bob’s workday. Acting as the “city manager of the White House,” he “sees that things get done.” Bob starts each morning with a tightly run senior staff meeting. Later, he emerges from a meeting with the president with two to ten pages of notes. “He’s the only Nixon man who has no schedule of his own. His is shaped entirely by Nixon’s.”

  Bob takes the article in stride and laughs at the description of himself as “Von Haldeman,” a “throne nurser,” and one of the “king’s Krauts.” In general, he’s indifferent to references to his “glower, militaristic crew cut, and abrupt way of issuing orders.” However, I can see why some members of the White House staff are troubled by these references and would like him to soften his image.

  In an Associated Press article, Bob is given high marks for his “zero-defect philosophy of management.” He is described as a boss who demands as much of himself as he does of his dedicated team of workers. His “young and eager-to-please” office staff, most of whom are in their twenties, “is referred to as the ‘Beaver Patrol.’”

  An associate is quoted, “Haldeman is in the Oval Office so often he’s usually trying to get out while everyone else is trying to get in.” A columnist writes, “Proximity to the president is power.”

  There’s no way that Bob can remain anonymous now. With so much press coverage, he has become a public figure overnight. He no longer bothers to duck out of sight at news conferences, stand hidden in the wings at rallies, or sit in the back row at White House functions.

  I remember Patrick Anderson’s observation: “The scrutiny of the press will magnify both the aide’s virtues and his faults.” I wish they would provide a more balanced picture of Bob. I’m uncomfortable with the way his pragmatism, proximity, and power are being described. To me, his “zero-defect philosophy of management” results from his demand for perfection, rather than any attempt to gain power. I regret that his character, integrity, and sense of humor are rarely mentioned.

  May I?

  June is a transitional month in Washington, when the freshness of spring surrenders to the humidity of summer—or as Ann puts it, a time when “the air is thick.” In Kenwood, the cherry trees and azaleas have lost their blossoms, and the garden is a mass of green. Inside our home, the air conditioner automatically kicks in when the thermostat reaches eighty degrees.

  On Tuesday evening, June 9, Bob and I attend a small dinner party at the White House, honoring the Apollo 13 astronauts and their wives. Two months ago, the near-tragedy of their mission united our country. Tonight, just seventeen of us are seated at a single table in the State Dining Room, and the conversation is relaxed and chatty. No one mentions the aborted flight to the moon.

  Following coffee in the Blue Room, everyone walks out to the South Lawn, where the presidential helicopter waits to take the astronauts and their wives to Camp David. A marine in dress uniform stands at attention beside the steps leading up to the open door of the chopper. With Bob on one side of me and the president of the United States on the other, I have my back to the magnificent lighted façade of the White House. The night air is balmy, and a light breeze ruffles my hair as I look up at a sky blanketed with stars. Somewhere up there is the moon that these three men tried to reach. As they and their wives board the helicopter, I can sense Nixon straightening up. He solemnly raises his right hand and gives a crisp salute as the chopper slowly rises from the ground. It veers to the right and disappears.

  Our small group is left standing in a black void. No one breaks ranks until the low, guttural sounds of the whirling blades
can no longer be heard.

  ◆

  Four days later, six top staff members and their families spend the weekend at Camp David for a “White House mixer.” Bob is supposed to be with us, but after much vacillation, the president decides to go to Florida. Bob accompanies him.

  Although this is the seventh time that I’ve driven to Camp David, I miss the turnoff and end up in Pennsylvania. We arrive an hour later than planned. With so many of us here, every cabin is occupied, including Aspen, the president’s cabin. Susan and I are assigned to Tricia’s bedroom, and John and Jeanne Ehrlichman stay across the hall in the Nixons’ room. A large presidential seal hanging on the wall above the bed is disconcerting.

  While I’m unpacking, Bob calls from Key Biscayne. He sounds miserable. The weather is unbearably hot and humid, and he complains that last night he got “stuck” having to watch Patton for the second time with the president. Nixon is fascinated by the hard-driving World War II general and loves George C. Scott’s portrayal of him.

  I miss Bob. It’s hard not to have him here with me among all these families. I think the formal and disciplined Camp David staff is mortified to have seventeen children, ranging in age from four to twenty-three years, racing around. While the younger children play in the president’s kidney-shaped pool, the five college students—barefoot and dressed in hippie attire—strum guitars, cruise around in golf carts, and lounge on the porch of the presidential cottage. No one wants to go home on Monday morning, which dawns cold and rainy. The “White House mixer” is considered a great success.

  Bob returns home shortly after I do, and I’m eager to tell him about the weekend.

  “Want to hear about Camp David?” I ask, as he sorts through the mail in the kitchen.

  Preoccupied with an official-looking letter, Bob mumbles a barely audible, “Sure.”