In the Shadow of the White House

by Jo Haldeman

  December 1970

  At twenty-four, Larry Higby is twenty years younger than Bob. They have an intense working relationship similar to Bob’s with the president, with one major exception—Larry and Bob are personal friends. When nothing else is going on, they eat lunch together in Bob’s office, using the time to get caught up. Bob’s standing order from the Mess is a meat patty, cottage cheese with a slice of canned pineapple, Ry-Krisp, and a glass of Constant Comment iced tea.

  Thursday, December 3, is one of those rare occasions when Bob and Larry can put aside work and enjoy a casual evening together with their wives. We are in New York City, where Bob attended an earlier meeting of the executive board of the Kennedy Center. The four of us enjoy a leisurely dinner and the theater, where we see Applause, starring Lauren Bacall.

  The following evening, after the president addresses the National Association of Manufacturers, we assemble on the rooftop of an office building in lower Manhattan to wait for the helicopter to transport us back to Air Force One. The night is unseasonably warm, and a light breeze makes it feel almost tropical. A full moon looms low on the horizon. Below us, on my right, I can see the twinkling Christmas lights of midtown, and on my left, the black void of Wall Street. For a brief moment, the chopper hovers, silhouetted against the giant orange moon. The sight is breathtaking.

  “Wow!” Bob exclaims.

  “It’s magical,” I say in wonder.

  Overboard

  Ever since the inauguration, Bob has kept a diary. Up until recently, he wrote in longhand, filling the pages of several journals with his neat, slanted handwriting. Now he uses a Dictaphone to record his daily entries onto cassettes. Generally, he dictates late at night in his upstairs study, and I can hear the soft drone of his steady, flat monotone as I read in bed.

  Two years ago, Bob Rutland, a historian and former neighbor, wrote to Bob, begging him “to record carefully in a diary each day of your association in the White House… You have the opportunity to tell historians the side issues…”

  Bob wrote back a letter, consisting of two sentences. “I agree with you, and I will do it. Thank you for your wise counsel.”

  Bob never talks about his diary. Only a handful of people know that he’s keeping one, and no one has seen what he has written. Writing is a chore for him, but he’s good at documentation. His written word is just as clear and straightforward as when he speaks. He always says that it’s up to the communicator to get his message across. If others fail to understand, the communicator has only himself to blame.

  Bob’s journals and cassettes are being stored at the White House for safekeeping. Sometimes I wonder what will happen to them when Bob retires. Although he has no intention of writing a book, I’m sure Bob Rutland was right when he wrote that historians would find the diaries of the chief of staff invaluable.

  ◆

  A week before Christmas, the temperature drops and there’s a light snowfall. After Bob puts the lights on our Christmas tree, the children and I join him to decorate it. Suddenly rock music comes blasting through the two living room speakers. Overpowering the Christmas carols coming from the music box in the revolving tree base, it startles everyone but Susan. Home for Christmas vacation, she has brought the newly released album Jesus Christ Superstar. The honky-tonk strains of “Herod’s Song” replace “Silent Night.” Soon, I find myself humming along, as Herod asks Jesus to “prove to me that you’re no fool; walk across my swimming pool.”

  On Christmas Eve, we join our neighbors for carols at the base of a huge lighted tree in the center of Kenwood. We dress formally for dinner and then change again for the midnight service at Washington National Cathedral.

  As we are opening our gifts on Christmas morning, the White House phone rings. When Bob leaps up to answer it, my heart falls. This is family time, and I can’t imagine why anyone would be calling. Bob is smiling when he rejoins us in the living room.

  “That was the president,” he says, smiling. “He wanted to wish everyone a Merry Christmas. Then he told me to take five minutes off anytime I wanted to today.”

  January 1971

  It’s the first day of the New Year. Peering out the bedroom window, I’m enthralled. Bright sunlight glistens on a blanket of fresh snow. Every bush and tree is jacketed in white; there’s no sign of our front walk or the road. We had planned to spend the weekend at Camp David with the Ehrlichmans, but the heavy snowfall makes the drive impossible. Fortunately, our two families are able to hitch a ride on a government helicopter leaving from the Pentagon.

  Snow swirls around us as we land in two feet of powder on the playing field at the presidential retreat. Once we are “berthed,” eleven Ehrlichmans and Haldemans spend most of our time outside. We drive bright yellow snowmobiles, slide down hills on saucers and toboggans, have snowball fights, and take long walks.

  The Nixons are also here, but you would never know it. Bob repeats his warning about their need for privacy, and he makes it very clear that we are staff, and staff is to stay out of sight when the first family is around. After a three-hour meeting with the president, Bob reports that Nixon has remained in Aspen since he arrived and has no idea how beautiful the snow is. When Jeanne hears this, she suggests that we ask Pat, Tricia, and Julie to join us for a walk. Bob dismisses the idea with a swift Haldeman look.

  ◆

  After spending a few days at Camp David, the first family decides to fly out to the Western White House. Of course, this means that Bob has to go, too, and I accompany him. Within forty-eight hours of leaving the snowy presidential mountain retreat, the two of us are basking in the sun in Palm Springs. We are staying with Non at Smoke Tree Ranch, while the Nixons are in San Clemente. It’s a working vacation for Bob, and once again the White House phone connects the president to his chief of staff.

  Late morning on January 9, Bob is stretched out on a chaise by the pool with the White House phone at his side. Beads of sweat glisten through his closely cropped crew cut. Reaching for his ever-present yellow pad and felt tip pen, he places a call.

  “Happy Birthday, Mr. President. Any special plans for today?” Bob pauses to listen, and a frown creeps across his face. “I’m sorry to hear that. I agree…it was a stupid idea.” Another pause. “Don’t worry about it, sir. It won’t do much harm. Just forget it and have a great day.”

  “What was that about?” Non asks as soon as Bob hangs up.

  “The president was talked into taking a walk along the beach as a photo-op for his birthday,” Bob explains.

  “What’s wrong with that?” Non questions.

  “He’s worried because he was wearing his dress shoes.”

  Envisioning the president plodding through wet sand in his black wingtips, I feel sorry for him. Undoubtedly the press will contrast this scene to photos of the charismatic Jack Kennedy, barefoot, in rolled up khakis, tossing a football on the beach with his handsome family.

  ◆

  January 20, 1971, is the second anniversary of the president’s inauguration, and Bob steadfastly maintains that Nixon is capable of becoming one of history’s greatest leaders. The president has a brilliant mind and an unbelievable grasp of global affairs. Bob believes in him and serves him with his whole heart. I respect this total dedication, even though I think that he sometimes carries his loyalty to extremes.

  On January 29, I accompany Bob and a few White House staff members on Air Force One to the Virgin Islands, where the president will spend a long weekend at Caneel Bay, the Rockefeller resort. In the meantime, I have been invited to join our friends George and Kathleen Bell on their forty-five-foot yacht, the Sarabande.

  During the day, the Bells and I sail from island to island, swimming and snorkeling in hidden bays. At night, we anchor in the shelter of a cove and sleep on the boat. Sunday afternoon, Bob and Larry join us. Bob is “on call,” and the Army Signal Corps will contact him via shortwave radio if he�
�s needed. He and Larry are both eager to take turns skippering, and soon the five of us are flying along on a run with billowing sails.

  Suddenly, a lot of static and a garbled message come over the radio. I make out the words “Searchlight” and “Welcome.” Bob tenses up. He considers a call from the president urgent, and he asks George to return to Caneel Bay immediately.

  George jibes the Sarabande and reverses our course. The boat heels, and we’re doused with saltwater. Bob’s fingers drum on the deck, while Larry’s right leg nervously jiggles. When we enter the protective cove of Caneel Bay, the wind dies. Drifting about a hundred yards offshore, Bob becomes frustrated and decides there’s a faster way to make it to land. He thanks the Bells, walks to the bow of the boat, and dives into the water. Larry follows. Swimming as hard as they can, they finally reach the beach, where they run for their parked jeep. There is a cloud of dust as they speed away and disappear into a grove of tamarind trees. Kathleen and George are speechless.

  It doesn’t take long for the press to get wind of Bob’s “dramatic leap overboard and heroic swim.” The Washington Post writes, “The Bob Haldemans were on the Sarabande…when the Nixons were at Caneel. They had sailed for only three hours when Haldeman’s squawk box began to beep. To save time, the ever-needed assistant, who’s the picture of crew cut vitality, jumped overboard and swam back.”

  Once again, I’m reminded of one of Patrick Anderson’s quotes. “The aide must be willing to subject himself to another man’s interests…to be permanently number two…” As number two, Bob’s time, thoughts, and actions are totally focused on number one: President Richard Nixon.

  February 1971

  On our return to Washington, people tease Bob about his “heroic” swim and dedication to the president. As the center of attention, he joins in the camaraderie, ignoring me. His indifference hurts, and I feel insecure and alone. I wonder if any of the other White House wives experience similar feelings.

  On Thursday, February 4, Governor Nelson Rockefeller is giving a dinner party for this wife, Happy. Hoping to make her feel more at home in Washington, “Rocky” invites ten guests to their thirty-acre estate on Foxhall Road.

  Unfortunately, the party fails to accomplish its objective. Instead of revolving around Happy, the evening is all about her square-jawed, patrician husband. At the dinner table, Rocky and his male friends dominate the conversation, which focuses on revenue sharing, government reorganization, and how to gain nonpartisan support for the president. Seated at the other end of the table, Happy doesn’t say much and looks miserable.

  After dinner, the men remain seated, while cigars and brandy are served. The wives “retire” to the living room. With only the women surrounding her, Happy finally becomes talkative. At 10:00 p.m., she abruptly stands and announces that she’s going to bed. With that, our hostess strides past her guests and leaves the room.

  As Happy climbs the stairs, we can hear Henry Kissinger’s distinctive voice coming from the dining room. “Rocky, why don’t you just buy Happy that chateau in France?”

  Another male voice adds, “That should make Happy happy.”

  The remark is followed by laughter. It’s sad. Financially, politically, and socially, Happy is a woman who has it all. But Happy is clearly missing something that money can’t buy.

  Many women in Washington are married to prominent men. I’m beginning to see that some are able to make their marriages work, while others are not. It’s a challenge.

  Can You Keep a Secret?

  In February, Richard Nixon’s popularity falls to a new low. For the first time, his approval rating in the Gallup Poll has slipped to 50 percent, and a Harris Poll gives Senator Edmund Muskie of Maine the lead over Nixon in a trial run for the presidency. Bob remains unruffled as he continues to reassure the president. Always upbeat and never dwelling on the downside, he buoys Nixon up in a steady, cheerful voice. Although I have my moments of frustration, I’m proud of the job Bob is doing, and I believe that Nixon can accomplish great things in a second term.

  The news in general is not good. Unemployment hits a ten-year high. The Vietnam War drags on, and many strongly believe that it is “morally wrong.” Heroin use in the military is way up. In Saigon, a US Air Force officer is given a three-year sentence for smoking marijuana, and many military units are plagued with racial unrest. The SALT talks with Russia are stalemated. And to top it off, at the Bob Hope Classic Golf Tournament Vice President Agnew’s first two shots go wild and hit three spectators.

  Early Tuesday morning, February 9, Los Angeles is hit by a 6.6 earthquake, the biggest in thirty-eight years. I get the news while volunteering at the Junior League Thrift Shop in Georgetown. Phone lines are down in Southern California, and I can’t reach anyone in the family. Out of desperation, I ask the White House operators for their help. In no time, I’m talking to my mother, followed by Bob’s mother. The large, plate glass window in my father’s office shattered, covering his desk with glass. The elevators stopped working in Non’s high-rise condominium on Wilshire Boulevard. After carrying her canary in its cage down sixteen flights of stairs, she vows to find another place to live.

  ◆

  February 19 is our twenty-second wedding anniversary. I spend the morning volunteering at Juvenile Hall, where once a week I help file the casework for an overworked probation officer. In the evening, Bob and I dine on soft-shell crabs and creamed spinach at Rive Gauche in Georgetown. When dessert comes, he wishes me a Happy Anniversary and hands me a small, beautifully wrapped box. I am delighted with his gift—a gold charm of the White House. When we were first engaged, he gave me a bracelet with a single charm, a church. Since then, he has added others to commemorate the birth of each child, as well as birthdays, anniversaries, trips, and other milestones in our marriage.

  After dinner, we have tickets for John and Abigail, which is playing at Ford’s Theater. Several times during the performance, I find myself empathizing with Abigail. Although she and John have a strong relationship, his driving interest in the politics of our young country puts demands on their marriage.

  Our row empties during intermission, but Bob and I remain seated. We talk about the play, which leads to a discussion of the White House. Leaning in, he asks if I can keep a secret. I nod, eager to hear what he has to say.

  “A couple of days ago, the president had the Secret Service install a taping system in the Oval Office and the Cabinet Room.” Bob’s voice is low. “You can’t tell anyone. The only people who know about it are the president, Larry, Alex Butterfield, and me.”

  “Why’d he do it?” I ask, looking at him in amazement. All I can think of is how adamant Nixon had been about having President Johnson’s recording system removed.

  “Johnson’s been pushing him to do it,” Bob explains. “LBJ’s been working on his memoir, and he says that his recorded conversations are invaluable. They’re an indisputable source.”

  Bob stands to let a man cross in front of him on his way to his seat. Once reseated, Bob continues. “Both Kennedy and Johnson used a hidden switch to tape conversations, but President Nixon’s too mechanically inept for that.” Bob laughs. “The poor Secret Service guys had to figure out something else. They finally installed a system that’s voice-activated.”

  Others file back to their seats as I mull over all that Bob has shared with me. The houselights dim, and the play resumes.

  Bob, We Need to Talk

  March 1971

  The first Sunday in March, the weather is raw. An icy wind cuts through the naked limbs of the cherry trees, and their giant arms twist slowly back and forth. It feels good to be in the den with a fire crackling in the fireplace.

  Seated at the round table in the corner, I write two letters—one to Mom and Dad and one to Non. I correspond with them every week, sharing the many interesting events that are a part of the privileged life I lead. I know they hang on every word. And yet, I d
on’t write everything. I don’t reveal the things Bob tells me in confidence, like the White House taping system. And I don’t share the growing concerns I’m having about my relationship with Bob.

  Although Bob can be very thoughtful on special occasions, like our anniversary, it’s not easy to live with him on a day-to-day basis. He is becoming more abrupt with me and frequently treats me with indifference. I try to keep things running smoothly by remaining in the background.

  I keep my feelings bottled up inside me, but I am reaching my breaking point. I have even wondered what Bob would do if I took the children and returned to California. It’s a crazy thought, and I catch myself. Don’t be foolish, Jo. Bob warned you that his attention would be focused on the president. It’s only for a limited time. Focus on and appreciate the extraordinary lifestyle that he’s providing for you.

  ◆

  I save everything I see about Bob in magazines and newspapers and paste it in my scrapbooks. At first there was very little, but recently there have been more frequent references to him. Several quotes resonate with me as they describe Bob’s dedication to the president.

  Bob Haldeman, at 44, is lean, un-faddishly crew cut, and tanned (a result of his thirst for sunshine). When he breaks into a hungry grin, he can charm, but more often he appears formidable and preoccupied… He hates small talk… Despite Haldeman’s penchant for bluntness, the younger members of the staff approach him by first name and seem to dote on him.

  —Christopher S. Wren, Look

  Haldeman is indispensable to the president; his loyalty quotient is measureless.

  —Bryce Harlow, counselor to the president

  Above all else, Haldeman lets you know that his total commitment is to serve the president…not the press or the politicians or the public.

  —Dom Bonafede, CPR Journal

  “He’s the perfect alter ego,” an old associate said. “It’s almost as if Haldeman ceased to exist when Nixon took office.” Given this relationship, nothing counts except guarding the president’s serenity and carrying out the president’s wishes.