by Jo Haldeman
As I’m about to leave the Rose Garden, I spot the Ehrlichmans at the other end. Wrapping his arm around Jeanne’s waist, John starts humming “Here Comes the Bride” as they walk in step. Following the white canvas runner, they stop at the rose-covered gazebo where Tricia and Ed had been married earlier. I grab Bob’s camera to film them as they feign reverence and recite their impromptu version of the marriage vows. As the three of us enter the West Wing, I notice that John still has his arm around Jeanne’s waist.
Bob shows up at his office half an hour later. He is pleased with the day. The wedding went without a hitch, and even the weather did what he wanted it to do.
Pentagon Papers and Peas
The following day, a major flap creates a big problem for John and Bob. While the Ehrlichman and Haldeman families cruise down the Potomac on board the Sequoia, the two men huddle together in deep discussion. A story in The New York Times consumes their attention. At lunch, they finally divulge what it’s all about.
“Something’s got to be done immediately,” John growls, as he and Bob join us in the dining room. “The Times and whoever illegally leaked the information should be hauled into court.” He rolls his eyes, and his eyebrows go way up like two dark, bushy exclamation points.
Bob explains that a seven-thousand-page classified document was stolen from the Pentagon—a study of the Vietnam War that Secretary of Defense McNamara commissioned in 1967.
Looking over the buffet table, loaded with platters of roast beef, lamb chops, peas, rice, various salads, and fresh fruit, I find it hard to get too excited over another government leak. Particularly one that predates this administration.
“These are Pentagon documents that have been turned over to the Times illegally,” Bob states. “Classified material should never be made public. Once that happens, it threatens everything else that’s classified. This is about national security.”
With a full plate, Bob turns from the table and starts to walk across the room. His foot catches on the piano bench. Pitching forward, he loses his grip on his plate. Sixteen of us freeze as we watch Bob’s lunch sail through the air like a Frisbee. With uncanny timing, a steward appears in the doorway. Standing ramrod straight, he extends his right arm and catches the “Frisbee” without even blinking. Calmly walking over to Bob, he hands him the plate.
“I believe this is your lunch, sir,” the steward says formally.
The food is intact—with the exception of the peas. They are all over the place, even on the piano keys. The incident breaks the tension of the Times story, and Bob and John relax during the rest of the cruise.
The press refers to the leaked report as the “Pentagon Papers,” and for the next week, the story continues to make headlines. The Washington Post and two other papers also obtain copies and start publishing them. The Justice Department issues a warrant for the arrest of Daniel Ellsberg, a former Pentagon aide, who stole the report and turned it over to the Times.
The Pentagon Papers continue to be the main focus of attention over the weekend of June 19, when we are in Key Biscayne. The weather is unbearably hot and sticky. In a three-hour meeting with the president, Bob swelters in a coat and tie, while Nixon, smoking a cigar, is in swim trunks and a sport shirt.
When Bob is free late in the afternoon, he’s eager to take a sail and rents a Sunfish. Unfortunately, the wind dies, leaving him becalmed. The eighty-degree ocean is glassy smooth, and Bob doesn’t get back to the villa until after dark. Sunburned and covered with patches of dried saltwater, he’s a pathetic sight.
On the return trip to Washington, Air Force One makes a stop in Atlantic City, New Jersey, where Nixon addresses a gathering of businessmen. I join the thousands of cheering spectators who line the sidewalk to watch as the presidential motorcade drives by. Suddenly, a slow-moving convertible sedan passes in front of me with Bob standing on the running board. Clutching his camera with both hands, he’s calmly filming the scene.
What Would the President Do
Without You?
July 1971
At 7:50 a.m., on Sunday, July 11, the White House phone rings in our bedroom at Bay Island. Bob answers it midway through brushing his teeth. Following a brief conversation, he turns to face me and announces, “Well, it’s all set. The president’s going to China.”
I am speechless. I can hardly comprehend what he’s telling me. Nixon hates the Communists. Why would he be going to China? No one goes to China. It’s been closed off from the rest of the world for at least twenty-five years.
Bob finishes brushing his teeth and steps back into the bedroom. “Henry’s been secretly meeting with the Chinese in Peking,” he explains. “The trip’s planned for early spring.”
The whole concept of a presidential trip to China is surreal to me. “Will you be going, too?”
“Yep,” he replies with a grin. “But you can’t say anything. It’ll be announced in four days.”
When the White House phone rings again, I slip out of the room. Bursting with excitement, I can hardly contain myself when I pass my father in the living room. With the American flag bunched up under his arm, he’s on his way out to the flagpole at the side of the house. Raising the flag is his daily ritual. This morning, a tremendous sense of patriotism sweeps over me as I watch Daddy. I’m proud to be an American. I have goose bumps thinking about Air Force One landing in China, knowing that Bob will be on it. This is one secret that’s hard to keep.
Speaking from the NBC studios in Burbank on Thursday, July 15, at 7:31 p.m., Nixon tells the world that the following statement is being read simultaneously in China:
…Premier Chou En-lai on behalf of the People’s Republic of China has extended an invitation to President Nixon to visit China at an appropriate date before May 1972. President Nixon has accepted the invitation with pleasure. The meeting…is to seek normalization of relations between the two countries and also to exchange views on questions of concern to the two sides.
Reaction from the press is immediate and positive. In Warsaw, the announcement is described as a “shocking somersault.” In Paris, Le Monde calls it “a great turning point in world politics.” In the US, the media uses words like, “stunning…unbelievable…historic…groundbreaking.”
Of course, Bay Island is abuzz over the news, and neighbors ask if Bob will be traveling with the president. Much to my surprise, some wonder if I, too, will be included in the presidential party.
August 1971
A month later, I’m sitting on the beach reading the Los Angeles Times when a story with the headline “Haldeman Wields Real Power” catches my attention. The article raises some interesting questions about Bob’s developing role as chief of staff.
Observers say the White House power behind the throne is H. R. Haldeman… Ordinarily a behind the scenes operator, the tall, crew cut Haldeman is emerging more and more in the open as the No. 1 man…Haldeman is in charge, whether at the White House or when the president is on the road. Few people get to see the president without his go-ahead. Most documents pass over his desk before they get to Nixon.
Haldeman seems to have staked out a command post similar to that of Sherman Adams when he ran the White House show for President Eisenhower…
The hot lash of some of Haldeman’s memos extends to the east side or first lady’s wing of the Executive Mansion. ‘He hires and fires,’ said one aide explaining the Haldeman power… Most of the palace guard are aware of the power Haldeman wields and they don’t dare buck him.
Spreading out his towel next to me, Bob flops down on his stomach. Looking over at him, I wonder how this can possibly be the “power behind the throne.” Although people in Washington are obsessed with power, I actually think that Bob is oblivious to it. At least, it’s not something for which he is consciously striving. As he has said, he uses the power that comes with his job to achieve the most good for the president.
“What would
the president do without you?” I ask, putting the paper aside.
“He’d probably bumble along,” Bob replies in a voice muffled by his towel.
Bob’s answer is lighthearted, but something about the references to his power makes me feel uneasy. A sightseeing boat pauses offshore. When the passengers wave, I wave back, glad to have the diversion.
Washington Daze
September 1971
September is a transitional month. One moment, I’m enjoying summer in California, and the next, I’m experiencing fall in Washington. Peter is starting the ninth grade and faces a series of orthodontist appointments. Now a seventh grader, Ann is happy to resume her weekly English riding lessons. Susan transfers as a junior from Stanford to the University of Minnesota, where she can be closer to her boyfriend, who is starting medical school there. As she has done in the past, she checks in every Sunday with a collect call home.
Hank gets a ride on a government Jet Star to California, where he is an incoming freshman at UCLA. When the Draft Extension Bill is signed into law this month, draft deferments for this year’s college freshmen are abolished. I agonize over the likelihood of Hank’s being called up for the army. I am torn between fully supporting the president’s policy on the war and living in fear of our son’s being sent to Vietnam.
The biggest social event this fall is the long-awaited opening of The John F. Kennedy Center for the Performing Arts on September 8. Although tickets to Leonard Bernstein’s production of Mass are at a premium, Bob and I have seats in the presidential box. Nixon refuses to go. The Kennedy/Camelot mystique irritates him, and Bob tells me that he wants to avoid “running into a batch of Kennedys” on opening night.
Standing in a crush of people in the lobby of the new $70 million Center, I’m not as impressed as I expected to be. Compared to the elegance of the Music Center in Los Angeles, the plain architecture is stark and lacks warmth. Henry Kissinger captures the scene perfectly when he looks up at the colored flags hanging from the ceiling and asks where the TWA ticket counter is located.
The Center has five theaters, and tonight’s performance is in the Opera House, where the carpet, walls, seats, and curtain are all red. The production is a spectacle, incorporating a symphony orchestra, rock band, recorded music, marching band, and chorus. At the end, as choir boys walk up the aisles singing “Peace Go with You,” the audience stands and sings along with them. When everyone starts holding hands, I watch with amusement as Bob deliberately thrusts his hands into his pockets. He doesn’t like participating in this sort of forced public display of sentimentality.
The press picks up on Bob’s attendance at the opening. In one article, he is mentioned as a VIP whose “crew cut and erect bearing convey unmistakable celebrity status if not instant recognition. When one young lady passed by, she asked, ‘Which astronaut is he?’”
Ten days later, when Bob and I are walking at Camp David, he tells me that the president asked him to describe our evening at the Kennedy Center. “He was really funny,” Bob says, pausing for me to collect a handful of fall leaves. “He said that if he’s assassinated, he wants Lawrence Welk to conduct the symphony orchestra playing Dante’s Inferno.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Sometimes the president can come up with some pretty strange stuff. The worst is, I’m not always sure if he’s serious or not.”
◆
On September 16, Bob gives a dinner party for his staff and their spouses on board the Sequoia while cruising down the Potomac. Following drinks outside on the deck, dinner is announced. The dining room table is set for twenty-two, and there are place cards. On my left, a young man with thinning, sandy-colored hair and horned-rimmed glasses slips into place and introduces himself.
“Hi, Jo. I’m John Dean.”
When John Ehrlichman was appointed domestic affairs advisor, Dean became the next White House counsel. Dressed in a tan gabardine suit and Gucci shoes, the thirty-one-year-old bachelor has been described by the press as “the one swinger on the staid White House staff.” He is a good conversationalist, and I enjoy talking with him. Seated on my right is Alex Butterfield, whom I’ve known since college. He and his wife Charlotte attended UCLA, where they used to double date with Bob and me.
A stiff breeze cuts across the Potomac as the Sequoia docks. Bob and I say goodbye to our guests and thank the crew. Gripping the railing of the gangplank, I walk in front of Bob. We chat about the evening, and I tell him how much I enjoyed meeting John Dean and talking with Alex. A strong gust of wind blows my coat open, and I shiver.
October–November 1971
Bob’s mother loves Washington, and it seems to love her back. She captivates everyone she meets, whether it’s the staff at Camp David or the guests at a formal state dinner honoring President Tito of Yugoslavia. Many find it hard to believe that this small, gregarious woman is the mother of the formidable, Teutonic “Von Haldeman.”
Good friends with Walt and Lillian Disney, Non is thrilled to accompany our family to the formal opening of Disney World in Florida. Bob has been invited to represent the president at the opening ceremonies. Standing in the crowded lobby of the Contemporary Hotel, Non cranes her neck to get a better view of her son as he gives a brief talk and presents an American flag to the park.
Since the February earthquake, Non has become a permanent resident of the Los Angeles Country Club. Surrounded by friends, she is in her element. Bob’s mother is his best PR, in both LA and the nation’s capital.
December 1971
In December, Kenwood’s cherry trees and dogwoods are bare, and outdoor Christmas lights have replaced pumpkins and corn stalks. On the other side of the world, the situation between India and Pakistan intensifies, and the United Nations Security Council meets in an emergency session. In San Francisco, the lights go out on the Golden Gate Bridge due to a power failure. The Libertarian Party is formed. And Jesus Christ Superstar is the hottest show on Broadway.
Although this is a busy month for me, I continue to volunteer once a week at the District of Columbia Complaint Center, a hotline to government services. I am one of several anonymous women who answer a bank of phones. We listen to the complaints and refer them to the proper authorities to correct the problem. The list is endless—backed-up sewers, no heat, leaky roofs, abandoned cars, and decomposing rats.
When I leave the office on December 15, I drive to Georgetown to buy a plum pudding for Christmas Eve. As I continue on Wisconsin Avenue to pick up Ann’s carpool, I can’t get my mind off several stressful calls I received this morning.
A horn honks. There’s a screech of brakes, followed by a shattering thud. My station wagon has been hit broadside and spins out of control. When it comes to a stop, I’m headed in the wrong direction. In front of me, an older man is struggling to get out of his car.
I’m physically shaken, but I’m thinking clearly. This is my fault. Distracted by my thoughts, I ran a red light at the intersection of Garfield and Wisconsin. In despair, I look over the damage. The right side of the station wagon is bashed in, and two windows are shattered. Glass is everywhere, including shards protruding from the plum pudding, which was knocked onto the floor. Using a pay phone in the lobby of a nearby apartment building, I make several calls. The police arrive, and the other driver and I exchange information. He drives away, but my car has to be towed. Bob sends a White House car to pick me up. Acting with decorum, the driver helps me into the back seat. Gingerly placing the mangled plum pudding back into its box, he hands it to me.
“Mom, you’re late,” Ann says the minute we pull up at National Cathedral School. “Why are you in a White House car? It’s so embarrassing.”
“Just get in,” I tell her, as she and two other girls squeeze in next to me. “I had an accident, and the station wagon’s been totaled.”
No one dares to speak. Our drive home is in silence.
◆
Two weeks before Christmas, Bertha tells us that she has to leave for Mexico to get her final immigration papers. A burly, black-haired man named Oscar will drive her. The children and I watch as he loads her things into his car.
“Merry Christmas,” Peter, Ann, and I call out as the two of them drive away.
“Feliz Navidad,” Bertha and Oscar shout back.
Over the next ten days, Bob is also gone. When Susan and Hank arrive home for the holidays, we decorate for Christmas, but without Bob and Bertha a subdued tranquility falls on our house. Although Bob calls occasionally from Camp David, the Azores, Key Biscayne, New York, and Bermuda, I hear nothing from Bertha.
Overseeing Bob’s personal affairs while he’s gone, Larry calls to tell me that some of Bertha’s papers have come back from the Immigration Department.
“She’s had her physical, and it looks like she’ll be back in the US sometime next month.” Larry pauses. “Did you know that Bertha’s five months pregnant?”
I’m speechless. In my mind, I start counting backward. November, October, September, August, July. July! We were in California then, and Bertha was house-sitting. Hmmm.
When Bob returns home, I hesitate to tell him that we’re going to have a baby in the house. But he takes the news in stride.
“Not too much we can do about it now, is there?” he asks.
January 1972
We begin the New Year with two arrivals: a new car and Bertha. A blue Ford Thunderbird replaces the station wagon, and Bertha moves back into her old room. She’s reticent to talk about her pregnancy, but Oscar’s around a lot, doting on the mother-to-be.
