In the Shadow of the White House

by Jo Haldeman

  Our alarm goes off at 6:30 a.m., and half an hour later, Henry calls again. While he and Bob talk, I take my time making the bed. I really don’t want to go downstairs and face The Post again. On the other hand, I have to smile when I enter the kitchen. Seated in his bouncy chair, Little Oscar is laughing while our Dalmatian, Pokie, licks applesauce off his face. Bertha hands me the paper. I was right to be apprehensive. There, in large black letters, is Bob’s name.

  The lead article is titled, “White House Denies Story On Haldeman.” In it, Ron Ziegler is quoted as saying that Woodward and Bernstein’s story yesterday was an “effort to discredit individuals within the Nixon administration based on hearsay.” Ron calls it “a blatant effort at character assassination…reporting such as this represents the shoddiest type of journalism.”

  The Post’s Executive Editor Ben Bradlee replies, “We stand by our story.”

  I’m afraid Ron is fighting a losing battle. No matter how distorted Woodward and Bernstein’s accusation is, once the story appears in print, it’s almost impossible to unravel fact from fiction.

  White House Hatchet Man

  Bob turns forty-six on Friday, October 27, and not having his name appear in print today is the best birthday present he could get. We plan to attend the National Horse Show tonight, and as we are changing for the event, he tells me that Billy Graham called to wish him a happy birthday.

  Standing next to me in our bathroom, Bob plugs in his electric shaver and feels his chin for any sign of whiskers. “Billy’s concerned about the effects of Watergate on Dwight and me,” he says. “He told me that he’d be happy to make a statement on our behalf if we want him to.”

  “That’s really nice!” I exclaim.

  ◆

  The following night, Hank joins us for dinner, and I realize that it’s been a long time since the five of us have been together. I wish that Susan could be here, too. I cook duck a l’orange as a special treat. We linger at the table as Hank talks about his job at the CRP and describes his participation in a debate on the Vietnam War at Sidwell Friends School. He’s sure that he was the only one there who backed the president’s position, but he liked the challenge. The toughest moment was when his opponent appeared on the stage in a wheelchair. A member of Vietnam Veterans Against the War, Dudley Acker had lost both of his legs fighting in Vietnam.

  “It wasn’t easy,” Hank says. “The students are tied up in knots over the war. My whole purpose was to make them more aware. I wanted to show them that there’s another side to the story. What it boiled down to was emotion versus reason.”

  “Do you think you got your point across?” Ann asks.

  “I think so. Kids came up to me afterward and said positive things. That’s all I could hope for.”

  I study Hank’s earnest expression and empathize with both him and Dudley Acker. War is a terrible thing.

  ◆

  We subscribe to three weekly news magazines—Time, Newsweek, and U.S. News and World Report—as well as three daily newspapers—The Washington Post, The Washington Evening Star, and The Christian Science Monitor. Between these and the network news at night, I attempt to keep up with what’s going on. When I read in Time that Dwight Chapin admitted to hiring Segretti, I don’t see how anyone can call it a crime. If that’s the worst the press can come up with, then maybe things aren’t so bad.

  When Walter Cronkite mentions Bob’s name on the CBS Evening News, it hurts. It’s unnerving to hear him report that The Washington Post has charged that Segretti was part of a massive spy operation and Bob Haldeman was among those controlling funds for political intelligence. Cronkite’s “father figure” image gives him enhanced credibility.

  Halloween is my forty-fourth birthday. Four carved pumpkins with votive candles flickering inside them sit on our front porch. While Peter and Ann are out with friends, Bob and I man the door for the trick-or-treaters. During a lull, he opens his briefcase and takes out an oversized, gaudy-looking magazine.

  “I don’t want the kids to see this,” Bob confides as he holds up a copy of the Police Gazette. At the top of its blood-red and bright-yellow cover is a grainy photo of Bob that looks like a mug shot.

  “White House Hatchet Man” is written across the magazine in capital letters, and a girl in a revealing bikini fills most of the space below. “How to Get Rich in the Nudist Camp Business” is the featured story, along with “Male Birth Control.”

  “The article about me isn’t that bad,” Bob says, leafing through the pages. “It doesn’t even mention Watergate.”

  Ads for men’s stretch wigs and moneymaking machines flip by, and eventually Bob comes to a two-page story about himself. “Here, let me read you some of it… ‘Perhaps no man in American history has been closer to a president. Wherever Nixon goes, Haldeman is there or in extremely close contact by phone or radio… Organization is Haldeman’s talent, and he knows how to use that talent. President Nixon will be its beneficiary.’”

  The doorbell rings, and Bob stuffs the magazine back into his briefcase.

  “Don’t tell Mom about this,” he says, walking over to the door. “I’m not sure how she’ll react to my being featured in The Police Gazette.”

  Reassuring him that I won’t say anything, I watch as Bob offers candy to a small Raggedy Ann. The “White House hatchet man” is thoroughly enjoying the moment.

  Ripping the Place Apart

  November 1972

  South Vietnam continues to oppose the peace agreement, and North Vietnam suspends its negotiations. In a televised campaign speech, the president affirms that the US won’t be forced into an agreement by an election deadline. Peace must include the return of our POWs, as well as an accounting of our MIAs. McGovern hits back hard and accuses Nixon of lying and deceit.

  Three days before the election, I fly to California on Air Force One with Bob. The president and first lady plan to vote in San Clemente and then return immediately to Washington. Everyone on board expects Nixon to win by a landslide, and there’s a feeling of euphoria as we stop for rallies in North Carolina and New Mexico.

  I spend Election Day with my parents. Setting up folding TV tables in the den, the three of us eat dinner while we watch the returns. True to the predictions, Nixon takes an early lead, and by 9:00 p.m., McGovern concedes. Not long afterward, Bob calls from the White House.

  “Well, we clobbered them,” he reports. “Massachusetts was the only state we didn’t carry, which is a real mandate for the president’s New Majority. No presidential candidate has ever won every state but one.”

  At 1:00 a.m., Bob calls again. Groping for the receiver, I try to answer the phone quickly before the ring awakens my mother and dad in their room. Bob’s voice sounds fresh and cheery, although it is 4:00 a.m. his time.

  “Just checking in,” he says. “Chuck Colson and I spent the last two hours in the president’s EOB office, where the three of us were discussing the returns. It got so late, we ordered bacon and eggs from the Mess for an early breakfast.”

  Bob is clearly jazzed up, a side of him that I don’t often see. After hanging up, I lie in the dark thinking how different he sounded. So boyish, so excited, and so eager to share what he had been doing.

  Six out of ten Americans vote for the president, and on Wednesday, November 8, Nixon’s win is carried in banner headlines across the country. When I return to DC, I expect to find Bob in the same exuberant mood, but he’s not. Preoccupied with plans for Nixon’s second term, he’s driven and impatient. He tells me that he expects this month will be the most intensive month he’s ever experienced. I’m glad he told me what to expect.

  Bob is right. During the month of November, he’s home only seven nights. He’s on the road constantly, and for fourteen days he’s holed up at Camp David with the president. In an endless succession of meetings, he, John Ehrlichman, and others focus on the reorganization of the executive branch.


  A customary review of all presidential appointments is part of the job, which includes everyone who serves at the pleasure of the president. This means the cabinet, the diplomatic corps, and the White House staff. Nixon’s sweeping demand for all of them to submit resignations is criticized as being unduly harsh and insensitive. The press reports that it has “a chilling effect on White House morale” and refers to the “imperial presidency.”

  As chief of staff, Bob is the one carrying out the directive, and his method is described as “ruthless.” He explains that reorganization is necessary to make the government operate better. He’s quoted as saying, “The president’s going to rip the place apart and put it back together. Bang, bang.”

  The cartoonist Jim Berry sees the lighter side in all of this and draws the president at his desk, talking to his dog, who is seated across from him. “I’m glad Bob Haldeman let you see me,” Nixon is saying, “even if it was a brief visit, King Timahoe!” Berry sends the original cartoon to Bob, who frames it for his office at home.

  ◆

  On Saturday, November 18, after spending a week at Camp David, Bob calls to say that he’ll be home for the day tomorrow. He wants to make the most of it and asks me to buy the ingredients for him to fix dinner. The last time we were together as a family was a month ago.

  Unfortunately, our family time fizzles out after church. The calls start coming in and never stop. All too soon, Bob melds with the White House phone, and the children and I are tiptoeing around the house. Following a quick pick-up dinner, he leaves for another week of seclusion at Camp David. In his briefcase is a yellow pad with seven pages of handwritten notes.

  I know this intense planning is necessary to accomplish everything the president wants in his second term, but I still can’t believe the demands it puts on Bob’s time. At J. Walter Thompson, he worked regular hours and had a month off each summer. We used to eat dinner with the children at 6:00 p.m. every night, and he was always home on the weekends. More importantly, he never brought his work home with him.

  In Bob’s absence, the Australian Embassy buys our home for their deputy chief of mission, who is a bachelor. Although we’re one step closer to moving, I have yet to find a house in Georgetown. On November 21, Maxine Cheshire writes a column in the “Style” section of The Washington Post titled, “Haldemans Sell House, Looking Again.”

  Presidential assistant H. R. (Bob) Haldeman has sold his house in the exclusive suburb of Kenwood…but he is planning to move to Georgetown, not out of Washington. The controversial Haldeman’s Georgetown purchase plans seem to indicate that he does not expect to be among those leaving Washington in the staff changes now underway at the White House.

  With the Nixons at Camp David for Thanksgiving, our family celebrates the holiday with the Ehrlichmans at their home. Reverting to being dads, John and Bob enjoy being with their children. The time together gives everyone a much-needed break from the tension of the past weeks.

  The following day, Peter and Bob’s suggestion of moving to Georgetown finally becomes a reality. On November 24, at 3:30 p.m., our broker shows me a brand new, three-story, red brick townhouse. With its four bedrooms, full attic, and attached garage, 3402 R Street is perfect. The large cherry tree in the center of the small patio clinches the deal, and I can hardly wait to have the rest of the family see it. When they do, everyone is thrilled, except Hank, who continues to question why we would want to live in such a “funky neighborhood.”

  ◆

  A few days later, Bob calls from Camp David, and as soon as I hear the tone of his voice I know that something is very wrong.

  “Just want you to know that I had a talk with Dwight this afternoon, and I told him that he would have to resign. There’s no way around it; his connection to Segretti ties Dwight indirectly to his dirty tricks.”

  I’m floored. “Oh, Bob, are things really that bad? That must have been so hard on both of you. Will Dwight have to leave right away?”

  “Not immediately. I think that we can ride things out for a while longer.”

  “Dwight’s such a nice guy,” I say, desperately wanting to say something meaningful.

  “I think he understands why he has to go, but it’s very, very tough on him,” Bob explains. Then, his voice breaks. “I hope I never have to go through an experience like that again. It was horrible.”

  It’s heart-wrenching to hear Bob talk this way. He’s always so capable of controlling his emotions and dealing with things impersonally. But this is Dwight, one of Bob’s closest friends.

  December 1972

  On the first day of December, our broker turns over the keys to our new home. I’m excited but overwhelmed. We couldn’t have picked a worse time to move. Bob is deluged with work, and both his sister and mother plan to visit us. Christmas is coming up, which will be followed by a week-long family vacation in Palm Springs and then the inauguration.

  Fortunately, the Australian Embassy won’t take possession of our house in Kenwood until the end of February, which gives me three months to get everything done. The most immediate need is the townhouse, where I have to select kitchen appliances, carpeting, window treatments, and paint for the interior.

  Flawless

  As the holidays approach, our social life picks up. On the few occasions that Bob is home, we attend the lighting of the National Christmas Tree, a candlelight tour of the White House, and White House Church. At the White House dinner in honor of the new cabinet, the president asks Bob to give the toast to Vice President Agnew. It’s a thrilling moment, and when I tell Non how well Bob spoke, she attributes it to his father, who was a skilled toastmaster.

  On December 14, Vietnam is back in the headlines in a big way. When the North Vietnamese make it clear they have no intention of returning to the Peace Talks, the president issues an ultimatum. Either they resume negotiations or “suffer the consequences.” When they don’t comply, the US conducts the most intensive bombing campaign of the war. The press labels it, “The Christmas Bombing,” and one columnist calls Nixon “a maddened tyrant, who’s conducting a war by tantrum.”

  On December 21, the fourth day of heavy air strikes over North Vietnam, three B-52s are shot down, and Hanoi claims that US prisoner of war camps were hit. Although it’s a crucial time at the White House, Bob manages to come home early to keep a commitment he made to Ann. As soon as he enters the house, he takes off his coat and tie and heads for the kitchen. Slipping on his blue-and-gray-striped apron, he takes over as chef and proceeds to barbecue hamburgers for eight thirteen-year-old girls. Bob’s wholehearted effort contributes to the success of our younger daughter’s slumber party.

  Non is with us for our last Christmas in Kenwood. Before sitting down to our traditional turkey dinner, we light the candles on the large German whirly-gig in the center of the table. Activated by the heat, its carved wooden figures begin to rotate slowly. At each person’s place, a red candle burns on top of a pear coated with cream cheese. Following a moment of silence, we blow out the candles. Although we reminisce about our three years in Kenwood, we spend more time enthusiastically discussing the inauguration and our next four years in Georgetown.

  The day after Christmas, former president Harry S. Truman dies at the age of eighty-eight, and the Nixons fly to Independence, Missouri, to pay their respects to Mrs. Truman. The bombing resumes full force, and three days later, the North Vietnamese concede. They agree to return to Paris for the Peace Talks, and the president orders a halt to the American air offensive. Many speculate that this might be the end of the war. We are vacationing in Palm Springs with the family when we hear the news. Everyone cheers.

  January 1973

  On Tuesday, January 2, Bob, Peter, Ann, and I return to Washington on the new Air Force One, an updated version of the old Boeing 707. With the exception of the crew and the flight attendants, Nancy and Ron Ziegler and the four of us are the only people on board, and w
e can sit wherever we want. All of the seats are still covered with white protective sheets.

  Nixon’s second inauguration will take place in three weeks. A stack of invitations to various inaugural events awaits us when we arrive home. In DC, barriers and grandstands are already being put in place, and I feel the excitement as I drive back and forth to Georgetown.

  The Pentagon Papers trial finally gets underway in Los Angeles. Daniel Ellsberg faces charges of theft and conspiracy for stealing the papers and giving them to The New York Times.

  Although Bob’s name crops up in the news again, the stories focus on his personal life, not Watergate. In The Evening Star, Betty Beale writes, “…Thus, the man called the squarest member of Nixon’s staff is moving to the artiest section of town. There is simply no telling what will happen from here on in during the president’s second term.”

  In The Washington Post, Maxine Cheshire comments on Bob’s tennis, reporting that he and John Ehrlichman “played doubles in two businesslike sets with the emphasis on exercise not banter.” Various photos of Bob on the court, dressed in his tennis whites, are featured in Time and Newsweek, as well as several newspapers.

  Little Oscar surprises us with his first tooth, but Bertha has a bigger bombshell to drop. In the midst of helping me sort through china and bric-a-brac that I plan to give away, she announces that she’s leaving us. A week later, she and Little Oscar drive away in Big Oscar’s truck. I can’t envision our life without her.

  With Bertha gone and the inauguration fast approaching, I feel the pressure of the move even more. A light beige carpet has been installed throughout the townhouse. The blinds are up in Peter’s room, and the painter is halfway through applying the first coat of Navajo white to the living room walls. Today, the Secret Service arrives to put in a security system, which includes an on-site alarm in our entry. When it goes off, the clanging is horrendous. This happens three times, and the men are stumped. It’s the pugs. Every time one of them goes through the doggy door in the basement, it sets off the alarm. Eventually, the problem is fixed, and our home is secure. The dogs can use their doggy door without creating panic throughout the neighborhood.