Pursuing Her Dream - Tab`s Book Corner

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PURSUING HER DREAM
Edward (Tab) Tablak
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Pursuing Her Dream
Preface.
This is the story of a young woman’s dream to make her
contribution to the world as a first class journalist. Her journey as a
pace setter, takes us through the turbulent years of anti war
demonstrations, wartime action in various parts of the world and
struggles against tyranny that takes place in all the days of our
lives.
Prologue
November 30, 2000.
From a deep sleep on the sofa I sat up in a cold sweat. I
had been struggling against my captors, trying to bite the muscular
arm of the one who was wrestling me to the ground. The Viet
Cong had overtaken our camp at night and had captured me.
Fighting like a tiger did me no good as I fought against the grip of
my captor.
I began cursing, words flowing out my mouth that I did
not know were part of my vocabulary.
He easily evaded my flailing legs. The grin on his face
was predicting his pleasure once I was under control.
I came fully awake, trying to come to grips with the idea
that it was a nightmare, let out a long sigh of relief .My head and
face were drenched in sweat. My pillow was damp as was the hair
on my head and my forehead. I attempted to get the images out of
my mind.
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I had not had such a dream since the days following my
departure from Vietnam in May of 1967
I rose from the sofa, walked to the lavatory in order to
wipe away the moisture. Feeling refreshed and dealing with the
reality of the moment, I turned to work at my computer.
An hour later I turned from my computer keyboard to take
a another look at the sun setting to the west, southwest The low
cloud bank was a combination of deep black and. the fiery red that
makes me think of my childhood idea of hell. The scene was
breath taking, keeping me in rapture until the last glimmer of red
was gone.
Below me, the darkening Hudson River held a flicker of
lights from the New Jersey communities to the west side. I
suddenly had an eerie feeling that I was overlooking the Mekong
River after sunset where there were no flickering lights even
though hundreds of the Viet Cong surely looked back toward
Mickey and me.
I shivered. My mind was suddenly backed to a scene on
the Mekong River where I spent my first night in a Vietnam War
zone. I remembered wondering how many enemy eyes might have
been watching me walk to the latrine after dusk, just before hitting
the sack for the night. My new military friends kept telling me it
was safe in camp, but I wasn’t ready to take their word for it.
My mind flipped back to the present. If my guess was
right, Coalton Borough in southwestern Pennsylvania, the home of
my childhood and youth, was on a direct line between the setting
sun and my apartment-office on Riverside Drive in the Big
Apple.
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Coalton is where the dream took shape. It was during my
senior year while I had been the editor of the high school weekly. I
knew that I wanted to be journalist, a reporter for a major
newspaper, covering the important events of my lifetime.
A tinkling from the kitchen, where Jack, my husband, was
puttering, probably setting out snacks to go with our evening
drinks, interrupted the silence and awe of the moment.
I was just putting the finishing touches on an article for
Vanity Fair. The editor had requested a piece, about our
impressions of Vietnam, twenty some years after the end of
conflict. My Brother Mickey’s photos would occupy as much
space as my prose.
With no forewarning, cool lips were softly
Whispering sweet words of love, while hands were removing mine
from the keyboard. “Time for a break before company arrives.
Besides you’re at your best after midnight when it comes to the
wrapping up of your stories.”
“Thank you, dear. I am so near the end but I’ll stop. How
about a nice loving hug and smooches before I run off to freshen
up?” Jack was very accommodating
My little brother, Mickey, six inches taller and seventy
pounds heavier than me, who is my confidant, partner and fellow
adventurer, was bringing his Julie for drinks and dinner, due in
about ten minutes. He and I had been inseparable since his
sophomore year in high school when we pledged to our loving
mama to work together instead of competing for our places in the
family and the community.
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It was his passion for photography that inspired the idea of
a partnership as journalist and photojournalist, a career that joined
us at the hip, so to speak, for more than thirty years.
Just recently Mickey and I had been awarded the
Presidential Medal of Freedom for meritorious service to the
nation. That was followed by an invitation to accompany President
Clinton on a visit, the first ever, by a president, to Vietnam.
This evening Mickey would help me select for the article
some of the dozens of photos he took during our visit. This was our
first get together since our return last week.
He was the lovable big honey bear who was there by my
side in Vietnam and during the six day war in Israel. He protected
my back during the rough stretches in Greece when the Colonels
ran roughshod over dissidents and in the Philippines when Marcos
was fighting to stay in power.
After hugs and kisses when the twosome arrived, Mickey
apologized “Sorry to be late but the sitter for our granddaughter
was late. We have young Juliet for a few days while the kids are
off for a long weekend.”
Julie, in an excite voice, asked “Did you know that the
famous Cheka journalists were featured on the television news this
evening?”
I replied “No idea. What was the occasion?”
“Using some file footage, the news was announcing your
upcoming publication of Impressions of Vietnam, (Twenty Years
Later)” and your appearance at Barnes and Noble for the opening
sales day of Mickey’s latest photo book.”
Jack interjected “Julie, how does it feel to be married to a
world famous photographer?”
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“I’d guess that it’s the same as being married to a world
famous journalist.” We all burst out laughing and went to the
drinks trolley.
The next few hours were filled with stimulating
conversation about their visit and Mickey’s depictions of the colors
in Vermont and New Hampshire through his striking photos.
When we exhausted that subject I had to tell some tales of my
visits to the Vanity Fair offices where the editor and I struggled
over which materials were to be used in the article.
After dinner, Julie and Jack cleaned up while Mickey and
I made our photo choices. Back in the living room, Julie, taking
one look at us asked “Hey, you two, you look so glum. What ‘s
going on?”
It took me a few seconds before I answered. “Mickey just
read a part of the notes from an interview that I had not shared with
him. We just realized the danger I was in, unknown to me at the
time, but something I discovered during my conversation with a
woman during this second trip.”
Julie asked “Can you talk about it?”
Mickey jumped in. "Marie Nguyen was a Vietnamese
woman that Cathy interviewed along with her sister in a small
village shortly after our arrival. Her sister was a strong believer in
the rightness of the South Vietnamese cause and our participation
in the war. Marie was an ardent supporter of independence for the
south and thus a believer in the Viet Cong position.”
I started to intervene but Mickey brushed me off and
picked up the manuscript. She is quoting her interview with Marie
while we were there on our last visit. “I could not tell you then that
I was an intelligence agent for the Vietcong during that first visit.
Neither my sister nor you were aware that you were completely
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surrounded by soldiers, dressed as civilians and hidden from your
view.”
“I was the head of intelligence for the entire district and
could summon military force I needed to accomplish my mission. I
had recruited one or more villagers in every village within my
district. Every move by your military was known to me within
hours and relayed that evening to our military headquarters.”
“I spread lies to the villages through the stories I told my
recruits. I had a cadre of beautiful young women who helped to
recruit young men to enlist with the Viet Cong.”
“My sister, Helen, had no knowledge of this although she
knew I was deeply sympathetic with the V.C. cause. If she had
ever found out my associates would have immediately created an
incident that would have placed her in a V.C. prison to keep her
silent.”
Mickey stopped reading. “I shudder to think that one slip
by Cathy could have meant the end of her short lived career as a
correspondent I know its history but it still scares the hell out of
me.”
Jack, in order to switch the focus, poured more coffee
before taking his seat. Julie picked up on that clue and asked,
“Cathy, what was your general impression of the changes you
saw.”
I responded. “We were delightfully surprised during our
bus trips to the former killing fields to see crop farms and orchards
replacing those fields that had been pockmarked from exploding
bombs and artillery shells.”
Mickey cut in. and said with a snap “Let’s put that off for
now. My eyes are burning and sleep beckons. We’re having lunch
together the day after next. What say?”
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Ten minutes later Jack’s arms and hands were offering me
comfort and turning my mind away from Vietnam.
Part 1.
Chapter 1.
Coalton, Pa. 1950’s
Dinah White, my newest friend, and I sauntered slowly
from school chatting about her new boyfriend, the only colored
boy in our class. Di was one of three colored girls in the class. We
in Coalton had not arrived at the politically correct way of things in
those early days.
Di said “I have this feeling that he wants to kiss me but
I’m afraid. Do you think it’s too soon to let him kiss me, Cathy?”
“I don’t know, Di. I’ve never been kissed. . I figured I
have lots of time. Are you coming to the to the freshman dance
Friday?”
“I don’t think so. I could be the only colored girl there and
if Jimmy doesn’t come, I won’t have any one to dance with.”
“I guess you’re right. My brother, Mickey, probably
would, but the prejudice would keep all the other boys away. You
and I could do a couple of dances. . Other girls do that because
many of the boys are afraid of being rejected so they don’t get
around to asking.”
.”Cathy, have you met Jimmy?”
“No, I haven’t.”
“I could introduce you tomorrow at lunch time. Maybe
you could ask him to attend the dance.”
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“Sure. Let’s give it a try.”
We arrived at our fence gate. Di still had three blocks to
walk to the company housing where some poorer families and the
five Negro families lived. There was a definite dividing line in this
small coal mining community.
I walked into the kitchen, dropped my schoolbooks onto
the floor and opened the icebox. “Mama, would you like to join me
in a glass of lemonade?” No answer. I looked in the dining room
and living room but she wasn’t there. Moving to the bottom of the
stairs I called up “Mama. Are you there? No answer. “She must be
next door visiting with Aunt Kate.”
As I turned toward the kitchen I heard the screen door
close and mama calling “Cathy, are you home?”
“I’m here, looking for you.”
Mama’s answer was interrupted by the shrill sound of the
siren, the sound rising and falling, rising and falling, rising and
falling and suddenly ceased. I felt the pit of stomach dropping and
saw mama’s face turning ashen. I ran to her open arms waiting to
envelope me, both our minds dealing with the meaning of that
siren.
If it wasn’t noon or six o’clock, the siren should be silent.
This was the middle of the afternoon my mind was saying disaster
and the image I was envisioning was cave in and daddy deep in the
mine pit, covered and gasping for air.
‘Hush, baby. It isn’t a cave in. During a major disaster, the
siren would have been a continuous shriek not rising and falling.”
At firs her words did not reach my conscious mind. The tears were
gushing and my sobs must have been loud.
Mama continued to hold me tight and repeated her words
until she felt my responding to her message. I pulled my head
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away from her breast “but the siren means a major accident. People
could be dead. Daddy could be hurt or dead”
.“ Hush, dear. Come; walk with me to Aunt Kate’s, next
door. She has a phone and has probably talked to someone who
knows why the siren sounded.”
As we stepped outside, two other neighbors shouted to
mama. “Is it a cave in?” I could hear the sound of doors slamming
shut as other women neighbors were emerging, seeking answers to
that same question.
“Sorry Suzie, I have no idea. I am going to see if Kate has
heard anything.”
As we turned away from the neighbor, I could feel the
tears continuing to sting my eyes. Words began tumbling from my
lips. “Is daddy down below? Has anyone been killed? Is daddy
okay?
By the time we arrived at her door the tears were
streaming down my cheeks. My silent cry was suddenly a loud
sob. Mama put her arm around me and hugged me to her breast.
“Hold your tears, dear. Your daddy will be fine.”
We walked in the kitchen door. Kate enfolded both of us
in her arms. She whispered. “It was not a cave-in but as you know
the siren is automatically sounded if there is any accident. The
main hoist jerked to a stop part way down with three men aboard
and it will take some time to manually retrieve the hoist, unload
the men and start the repairs.”
That didn’t satisfy me. “Is daddy okay?”
“Of course. He’s still at work and will be working overtime
since he hoist will not be repaired by four o’clock, the usual
quitting time for his shift.”
“When will we know about the hoist?”
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“Don’t worry, sweetie. You daddy will be fine. I will walk
over with the news as soon as I have a return phone call from my
friend, Mary, who runs the store across the street from the mine
entrance and office.”
Mama seemed to relax but I wasn’t fooled by their outward
calm, having been able to read my mom’s emotions since I had my
twelfth birthday, two years ago. If I was worried about my dad,
you could bet your boots that mama was. The air was blue with
tension that travelled from mama right down to my guts.
We thanked Aunt Kate and walked back to our house while
Kate talked with the neighbors who had remained huddled on the
street in front of Kate’s house. I heard their raised voices as mama
and walked away.
Mama’s actions were jerky and her words were clipped,
signals to me of her deep concern.
Most of the time, we who lived in mining communities,
buried our anxiousness down deep. While this mine had an
excellent safety record, all miner families, in the region, and
probably world wide, had embedded in their minds the many
tragedies of mine cave-ins. Keeping those worries down deep was
the only way we lived out our lives, but even the slightest incident
brought our anxiety to the surface.
The fear of death from cave-ins must be near the top of
mama’s mind. She had lost two uncles, during a major accident in
a West Virginia mine some years ago. They were brothers of her
mother, who was already a coal miner’s widow by then. The years
that followed were difficult for mama, especially when Aunt Kate,
her only sister, left town for a while, leaving a scar on mama’s
essence.
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I poured the drinks and we had some woman-to-woman
talk along with our lemonade, after which I picked up my books
and headed for my bedroom and to do my homework. When I
finished I moved to my Thursday chore list. Forty minutes later I
called out “Mama. I finished dusting the furniture and cleaned up
my room. May I go to see Jenny for an hour?”
“No, I need you to set the table for dinner.”
“Why can’t Mickey do that?”
“This is a girl’s job. Mickey should work with his father
in the garden”
“But he isn’t doing that now. He’s playing with his
basketball in the driveway.”
“No matter. I want you to sweep the floor and set the
table.” The sharp tone was another signal of the depth of her
concern but I persisted.
I started taking down the plates, muttering to myself.
“This isn’t fair.”
“How many times do I have to tell you?”
“I know. Life isn’t fair but you could make it fairer by
getting Mickey to pitch in. How about I ask him to help?”
Her voice an octave higher than usual finally got through
to me. “That’s enough. Just get on with your chores and quit
arguing.”
I was a bright child and, as my mother would say,
fourteen going on thirty but not always wise. I must have loved to
argue with my mama because I spent a lot of time either arguing or
trying to bargain with her. There were times I drove her to
exasperation with my arguments, especially when I believed she
wasn’t being fair
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She did try to teach me early enough that life was not
about being fair. She also taught me how to keep up a struggle
against long odds, her very life a living parable of that struggle.
Raising a family on a miner’s wages was a challenge, to
say the least. Daddy’s earnings were a bit better than many of our
neighbors since he was a shift gang boss. While the odds were
against mama, she was determined to accomplish her goals. First,
no matter that for generation’s sons had followed their fathers into
the mines, her Mickey was never to work in a mine. Second, her
daughter, Cathy, like her brother Mickey, had to find a way to get a
college education and escape this pit, a mining town called
Coalton, on the West Virginia border.
Being a daughter as well as a part-time confidant, I knew
of her struggles, and shared some experiences, which influenced
me strongly. One of her strategies was never to get into debt to the
company store. In the past when Aunt Kate was coming home
from Pittsburgh for a visit, she would bring food and supplies as a
gift and then take mama shopping in Wheeling, spending less
money than she would at the company store, thus helping to create
some additional savings.
Mama learned to sew, to be an excellent seamstress,
working with her sister Kate to design clothes and expertly use the
sewing machine that she and Kate owned in partnership. In
addition to saving money on our clothes, she was hired by some of
the executive’s wives to create and do tailor work for them.
She taught Mickey and me to darn our socks neatly so
that the repairs were not noticeable. We both learned to sew on our
missing buttons on shirts and blouses.
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There was practically no sleep for me that night. I almost
fell asleep in the school library during the study hour the next day
and could not wait to get home.
When I arrived home that afternoon, papa met me at the
door and wrapped in a huge bear hug. Speaking me in Slovak as
was his habit with me, he said “Welcome sweetheart you can see
that God has favored us again.”
I buried my face into his chest and let the tears of joy
roll. God had indeed returned our father to his loved ones. I finally
pulled myself free and told him to sit while I poured him some
coffee and waited for him to give me all the details. He did so in
Slovak. Papa really spoke English well but we had an agreement to
converse in Slovak. He wanted to be sure that Mickey and I were,
at least, bilingual.
The evening meal was a celebration with Kate providing
a special rare rib roast, mashed potatoes and wilted lettuce salad
with bacon bits.
Mama and her sister Kate were close, the only surviving
children from their family. Almost twenty years go Aunt Kate left
Coalton to work in Pittsburgh, where she met and married a rather
successful jewelry storeowner. As it happened they were unable to
have children. They chose to travel extensively once Uncle Harry
took in a partner. Four years ago Uncle Harry suffered a stroke and
died in Kate’s arms.
Knowing nothing about the jewelry business she sold out
her interest and moved back to Coalton to be with her sister, Marie,
my mama. Having no child of her own, she practically adopted
Mickey and me. While mama usually talked with me generally
about boy-girl things, Aunt Kate became my personal tutor during
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my pubescence. In many ways, the hours I spent with her gave me
tangible insights to the role of women in a man’s world.
Later, when Mickey and I had become close friends, he
shared with me some of the help that Aunt Kate had given him
about girl behavior.
I had watched my mom face some very difficult
problems when she handled the family finances and helped keep
up daddy’s spirits during those tough years.
I loved my sweet loving daddy who was also a loving
husband, but I learned fairly early that mom was the rock and
foundation of our family.
Although, like most teenagers. I rebelled against some
of her notions. I thought they were so old fashioned. She insisted
that my hems had to be below the knees and that my shirtwaist be
buttoned completely to the top, not that I always followed her
commands. I only forgot to button up once before I returned home
.I had always opened the top button three minutes after leaving the
house because I had to be like all the other girls sometimes I got
daring and undid the second button. .
I really did not fool my mom even at that. It took me a
while but after a bit, I found out my mother’s secret. Her
commands were mostly strong suggestions, teaching me what she
believed was right, while she gave me room to rebel and learn for
myself.
Even as late as my junior year in high school, I had a
curfew of ten o’clock. That was not a suggestion. She gave me
leeway about finding my own boy friends, but I had to introduce
each and every boy that walked me home from school or school
dances. In a borough of less than seven thousand, I swear my
mother knew the history of all the families. She engaged me in a
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discussion about each of those boys and the reputation of the
families, surprising me on occasion with knowledge of the boy’s
reputation. It was her way of vetting them in order to protect her
rebellious but precious daughter.
Despite my insubordinate behavior, she never let me
forget that she loved me and in some way did not want me to quit
rebelling. I didn’t know that at the time, but she admitted later in
our lives that were her way of teaching me, that testing the limits
was one way to maturity.
While we had those differences, I must admit that she
had a lovingly sneaky way of moving in on my soft side. She
initiated conversations about girls’ fashions while I learned to sew
my dresses, slyly talking about boy, girl relations. In some subtle
way she led me to understand that women had to be strong in order
to overcome the prevailing notion of women being the weaker sex.
After the table was set, mama had me walk over to Aunt
Kate’s house to see if there was any news. Kate said she had talked
to Mary twice, who had been informed that they were having
trouble fixing the hoist. In the middle of our conversation the
phone rang. “Hi Mary. What was that? Did you say they have to
send to Pittsburgh or Wheeling to get the replacement part?” After
a long pause she said. “I’ll let the families on our block know the
latest,”
“Cathy. That was not very good news. The parts
supplier in Pittsburgh hasn’t the part. But will have it by ten
tomorrow morning.”
I could feel the sudden wrench in my gut. “That means
daddy is stuck in the mine until tomorrow afternoon, He will be
down there for at least thirty six hours without enough food or
water.” I was suddenly nauseous and must have turned pale. My
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hands were clammy as my imagination dealt with the idea of being
underground for more than twenty-four hours, headlights
extinguished to save power, men sitting around, too tired to work
or even to chat. I felt gruesome.
Kate took me into her arms to help me stay strong.
“Honey, the company will send food and drinking water and
maybe coffee down on a rope. That shaft is wide enough along
side of the hoist car. They have plenty of air. Come, I need to
notify some others. We can start with the news for your mother.”
I cold see that mama was white as a sheet and tears were
beginning to escape when she saw Aunt Kate accompanying me. It
only took a minute for her to grasp the relatively good news
instead of her first guess. Looking back I believe I matured into
young womanhood just witnessing that minute, experiencing the
rapid change in mama’s emotions. There was no time for a mask
and a strong front. Flitting across her face I saw fear, love, relief
and pure joy in less than thirty seconds.
When Aunt Kate left to complete her errands, mama
asked me to get Mickey, who was now in his room. She put on the
teakettle signaling me to get the tea box and lemon. It was family
conference time.
First, she asked us to bow our heads while she said a
payer of thanks for saving all the miners including daddy. She told
Mickey of the events and why his daddy would not be home until
the next day “Mickey, do you understand?”
“Yes, mama, something worse could have happened, like
an explosion or a cave in.”
She quickly changed the subject. “Good. Now tell me.
Were you studying or reading a comic book when Cathy called
you?”
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Abashedly with a flush on his cheeks he admitted.
“Comics.”
“And why would I be questioning you at this moment?”
“Like you told me a couple of times. Studying is my
ticket out of this black hole.”
“Well?”
“I promise, mama. In fact, I think my report card will
look better this month.”
“Will it be good enough? All A’s?”
“No, but no C’s.”
“Mickey, are you buying into my dream for your finding
your life’s work outside the mines?”
“Yes, mama.”
“Okay. Since you started the first grade I have tried to
help you to develop the skills that would get you a good education
and prepare you for life. I am trying to give you the freedom to
make good choices now so that you will be ready for total
freedom.”
“I’m sorry, mama. I just keep trying to keep up with the
other kids and have fun.”
“I want you to have fun, too, but I hope you want to be a
leader not a follower. That takes knowledge.”
“Okay.”
Her voice softened as she said “I didn’t mean to get in a
lecture mode, but today’s mine incident made me think about the
shaky future .of life in Coalton. It is possible that this mine may
not be operating ten years from now.”
“I get it and promise more discipline.”
“That’s good. How about asking me or Cathy to help you
or, at least, check your homework? I am sure Cathy would be a big
help.”
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Mickey looked at me. I smiled “Happy to do it, little
brother.”
“Okay. It’s a deal, oh brainy one.”
“All right, you two. If you mean it, then Mickey, hit the
books and homework that Cathy can check later. You, sweetie,
can spend an hour with Jenny and then come home to dinner. I
think you ought to do some additional reading for your history and
current events classes. . There is more to getting educated than
getting good grades. Collateral reading is important.”
I rapped on Mickey’s door about nine that evening.
“How’re you doing, sport?”
“Fine. I’ve been reading U.S. history in the twentieth
century, some of it about the United Mine Workers during World
War Two. Do you know much about that?”
“No more than you, probably less.”
Cathy, I have a paper due in two weeks. How would you
kike to help me do the research on a study of mine workers in our
country in this century?”
“I’d love that. I can use the material to write a paper for
extra credit in my English composition class.”
We went to the kitchen for hot chocolate and a good oldfashioned bull session. I mentioned to him that Jenny had lent me
two books on cultural history and miscellaneous trivia that her
uncle, the college professor, had sent her. “I’ll leave them in the
living room where both of us have access. Feel free.”
That was the real beginning of our partnership.
Dinah introduced Jimmy to Jenny and me at lunch the
next day. I made a point of inviting both of them to the dance,
telling Di that Mickey would be pleased to dance with her.
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She responded with “I’m sorry, Cathy but my mom will
not let me go to the white folks’ dance but Jimmy is coming over
so I can teach him some dance steps.” She gave me a sly smile and
a quick wink.
Twp girls standing nearby, probably from one of the
other school areas, spoke sotto voce as Di was leaving “Nigger
lovers.” I could feel the heat rising to my face but Jenny moved
directly to the girls. “What did you say?”
Both of the girls began to stammer. Jenny put her heel
onto one of the girl’s instep with just enough pressure to introduce
a little pain. “If there is a next time, the pain will be ten times
greater. Now let’s have an apology.”
Both mumbled apologies a dashed off toward the exit.
Jenny grinned, asking, “Is it ignormi or ignoramuses?”
That was a pivotal time for Mickey and me. Over the
next several years both of us moved to the top of our respective
classes and in the process of cooperative study created a bond that
cemented us together for a lifetime. We found a way in which we
did our chores together, finding common subjects for conversation,
sharing secrets and crying on each other’s shoulders on occasion.
The one year’s difference in our ages disappeared as we developed
a kinship as must exist between twins.
Being poor never seemed to bother either of us in any
serious way. In fact, because of it, we had experiences that
enhanced our maturing process. What used to be chores, we found
to be fun as long as we attacked them together. Mickey was a great
joke teller and had me laughing hilariously.
Hoeing weeds or picking bugs off the potato plants was a
good time to talk about the new boy in class or Mickey’s latest
hoped for a dream girl. We made a game of going with dad to pick
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berries on the farms nearby. Pushing and shoving each other on the
second limb of the apple tree resulted in my spraining a wrist and
Mickey crying because he hurt me by pushing too hard. When we
could we included Di and Jimmy in some of these activities.
When the recession hit in nineteen fifty-seven, the mine
closed down for several months, putting almost the entire
community on welfare.
We knew about something called the civil rights
movement, which did not seem to apply to use just as we cared
nothing about the president suspending nuclear testing.
We were recession kids and we accepted our role as food
fetcher, making daily trips to get milk and bread from the
government handout office and on Saturdays to get flour and meat
rations. We learned to harmonize and used those trips to practice
our duets.
When mother had a heart attack, we formed a team with
dad. He took up some of our chores but asked help with others. He
did the washing on Mondays and Mickey and I, under mama’s
tutelage, learned to do the ironing on Tuesdays. Mickey and I
teamed up taking responsibility for dusting, washing windows and
scrubbing floors. Aunt Kate picked up the rest in order to give us
some free time.
In spite of being a brainy girl, I loved to compete in
sports with the boys. They wouldn’t let me play softball but I
insisted on playing touch football with them. They knew I was
agile mostly from playing tag with me. As one of the boys once
said “She can juke you out of your shoes.”
Two person teams competed on the street, using the
electric power poles as the markers for the goal lines. Since I was
fast and agile, more so than Mickey or the other boys, I was the
22
star that every one wanted on their team. Those were glorious
days, being accepted by the boys as an equal. Later they let me
play basketball with them, mostly, I think, so they could rub
against my breasts under the basket. That was fun for me, too.
As was the custom in those days, the best students were
chosen for all kinds of special opportunities, I was a beneficiary,
being in most of the school plays, being chosen to run errands for
the principal, chosen to do special readings in front of the class. I
loved the attention and always drove to be number one in every
facet of life.
During my junior year in high school I was usually in
competition with a boy named Johnny. By then, I was considered
by our coach to be the top debater in our interscholastic debate
team and had the lead in the school play, ranked first academically
in the junior class and was in line to be the newspaper editor.
Johnny played opposite me as the male lead in the play,
headed the other two-man squad on the debate team and ranked
even with me on grade point average.
I found myself torn. My competitive juices spurred me to
keep my advantage while my feminine side created fantasies of
having his arms wrapping around lips and me locked onto mine.
Recently, each night before drifting off to sleep I
fantasized different scenarios in which he and I were in a romantic
situation. I could see us walking home from school, my right hand
held softly in his right hand the next night; I was floating in his
arms at the junior prom.
. While not a varsity athlete, he was not a nerd.
Handsome, clean-cut features, almost six feet tall and all muscle,
23
he was in great shape as a result of cross-country running and
jogging.
His dad was the superintendent of the mine, which, in
my mind, put us in separate social classes.
It was during a lunch break in the spring that Johnny sat
down next to me on the lawn at school. “Cathy, if I admitted that
you are the best debater and smarter than I am, would you consider
going to the junior prom with me?”
I was blown off my equilibrium. Johnny wanted a date
with me. It wasn’t possible that he had feelings for me as I did for
him. My mind was in complete chaos.
I guess it was typical for a girl to wonder if she could
afford the right dress for the big prom. “Did I dance well enough
because he sure must have had dancing lessons that I could not
afford?”
“Wow. Johnny. I sue wasn’t expecting that. I’m not even
sure I was planning to attend.”
“Oh, you have to attend. I’ve already started a campaign
to get you elected as the prom queen.”
I gasped. “You have? I haven’t heard anything like that.”
“I know. I’ve asked all the guys to keep it as a surprise
vote. I would be honored to be your escort.”
“I don’t know what to say. We’ve never even had a coke
date.”
“If you said yes, then we could start dating.”
“I’m all confused, Johnny. Why don’t we spend some
time with each other once or twice before I give you an answer?”
“I guess I can settle for that, but I want you to know I
will do all. I can to convince you. How about we meet and have a
coke after school and I walk you home.”
24
“Okay.” As we walked to class, I found my hand in his
and shivered a bit from the pleasure I was experiencing.
He bought a large coke with two straws, which caused
me to giggle and him to smile. For some reason unknown to me I
couldn’t stop giggling and knew I had to get a hold of myself.
When I sensed his hand gently trying to find my hand under the
table, my heart gave a little leap.
He carried my books in his book bag in order to be
able to hold my hand on the walk home. I loved it, experiencing
wonderfully warm feeling but I removed my hand as we neared the
house.
Suddenly I was having second thoughts as we neared
home. Without doubt, I had to invite him to meet my mom. For a
moment I wondered about the differences and how he would view
our home in contrast to the large house in which he lived. I decided
to shrug off the worry. He would have known all about our kind of
house. There were no secrets in this small town. I just knew my
folks were the equals of any and if he had qualms, then this was a
test.
I had no way of knowing that my thinking through that
concern was another pivotal point in my maturing process.
“Mama. This is Johnny Wheldon. You’ve heard me
speak of him as one of very best debaters and you saw him when
we played opposite each other in the school play.”
“Nice to meet you, Johnny. Welcome to our home. I’ve
just made some iced tea. Would you like some.”?
“I am pleased to meet you, Mrs. Cheka. Yes, I would
love some tea.”
25
“Cathy, you can sit with Johnny in the living room or
maybe the swing on the back porch would be cooler. Dad and
Mickey are out for the next hour or so. I’ll bring you the tea
Forty-five minutes later, Johnny was thanking Mrs.
Cheka for the tea. I was holding his hand as I walked him to the
front picket gate. “I’ll come by for you Friday at seven. That will
give us plenty of time to get to the movie. It only takes a half hour
to drive to the theater.”
I hear that the movie “Flying Down to Rio” is a fun film
with great music and dancing.”
“I love Fred Astaire, Seven will be just
Fine, Johnny.”
Mama waited patiently for me to initiate the
conversation. “What do you think, mama?”
“He seems nice and a real gentleman, maybe a grade
above some of your other boy friends. If you’d like to talk bout it,
tell me about him and how this started.”
I gave her the history of our competing, even mentioning
his big disappointment when I became editor of the Panther, our
weekly school newspaper. “He surprised me today when he sat
down on the lawn next to me during the lunch break and invited
me to the junior prom.”
“What did you say?”
“I told him I was surprised being invited to the prom
when we had never spent any social time together. He said he was
tired of competing and wanted to be my boy friend. All those
minutes I was mentally struggling with the idea and wondering if
we could afford a dress. I had not even planned on attending the
prom.
“How do you feel now?”
26
“I like him. To tell the truth, mama, I have been
fantasizing about him even before this, never thinking it could ever
happen.”
“I take that as a yes for the prom. We can find a way to
work that out. Between Kate and me we can design and sew a
glamorous dress and find some shoes. A good girl like you should
have a chance to reach beyond her natural limits, but you need to
think this through.”
“What do you mean?”
“You may be at the point of believing you are ready for
love and so may he. You need to see him on some dates in the
interim to be sure you want to go with him to the prom. If you do,
you probably will be invited to go steady.”
“That sounds good. I have been envious of my friends
who have steady boy friends.”
“You have plenty of time for that in the future, dear. It is
my guess that even if you both of you fall in love, his parents will
not approve of the relationship for the long run. His mom in
particular, is very snobbish and probably has dreams that extend
well beyond the boundaries of Coalton.”
I had every reason to believe my mother, who had been
right about my boy friends up to that time. Knowing did not keep
me from falling in love with Johnny.
I was selected as the prom queen and must have been the
envy of all the girls as this gorgeous hunk escorted me. Mama and
Aunt Kate made good on their promise to make me glamorous
From that date forward we became an item throughout
the next year, spending hours taking walks, seeing movies and
making out, teenage style, either in our living room or his or any
place that we thought was private enough.
27
His dad accepted me warmly while I felt that his mother
tolerated me, reminding me of my talk with mama. Regardless, I
fell head over heels in love, knowing, that Johnny felt the same.
We spent as much time as possible with each other even
deciding to do some of our studies together, much of it I their
family. His dad encouraged us to read articles and parts of books
that supplemented or studies in history and geography.
I guess like most teenagers I constantly need some
reassurance. One afternoon, on a coke date, I asked him “Johnny,
why do you think you found me attractive?”
He looked surprised that I asked. “Aren’t you aware of
your beauty?”
“It must be something else. I can think of other girls
prettier than I am.”
“Yes. That’s true but not as beautiful. You have great
looks but you have an infectious spirit, a keen sense of humor,
encouraging your team mates and class mates. I never thought of
doing an analysis. You just make my day when I am with you and
make me eager to see you when we are apart.”
I was literally glowing as I took his hand in mine.
As our love deepened so did our physical desire.
Looking back, I am still am amazed that we managed not to have
sex. We both learned a lot about the physiology of the opposite
sex.
On date nights, just seeing him coming up the front walk
would give me good bumps. His athletic build and tender touch
could turn me into jelly and before he got to the front door I was
visualizing his hands on my breast.
Besides the physical attraction and the emotional ties we
shared our dreams and hopes for our futures.
28
I lived in his dreams of being lawyer and then his change
of mind of being and advisor to some future president of the
United States.
He listened with full empathy as I talked about
challenging male opinions of the role of woman being restricted as
homebodies or teachers at best. I shared my fantasies of being
something more like a congress man a lawyer or a doctor.
Saturday afternoons were special private times for us.
We took our schoolbooks and held hands while we walked to the
meadow outside of town. We exchanged new jokes, shared family
news, and laughed at some of our family foibles.
We spread the light blanket Johnny brought, settled
down to help each other with our homework. Afterwards we lay
back looking up to the wispy or sometimes cumulus clouds drifting
overhead, speculating about our futures. It was during those
moments that Johnny encouraged me to pursue my dream.
Johnny had brought a few sections of the New York
Times with him on this one occasion. I was deeply engrossed in
some articles from the weekend magazine and turned sharply to
Johnny. “Johnny This article by Mr. Reston is so moving. I want to
be able to write like he does. I ve just decided that I want to be a
journalist or at least a reporter “
He flashed a wide grin and said. “Good for you. I would
do anything I could to help you.
I wanted to asked “How would you feel about being
married to a professional woman who was not home to cook your
dinner each evening but stopped short. Being married to Johnny
was my dream, but he had to tell me if it was his dream.
The privacy we found was the bonus, the chance to
escape inquiring eyes, while we made out after our serious study. I
29
remember later that particular Saturday afternoon when he shared
my excitement to become a journalist. The more I talked of my
dream the more enthusiastic we became.
We lay on the long grass, warmed by the bright sun,
holding hands. I was sharing my dream. “Oh, Johnny, I can see it
so clearly. You are standing at the pier waiting to wrap me in your
arms as I step out of the customs office after my TWA flight from
London. I have just returned from getting a story of the tension
between the Israelis and the surrounding countries. I am sure to get
a Pulitzer Prize.”
“I tell you about being in the midst of a raid on the Kibbutz
where I was staying and you listening with rapt attention.”
We laughed together as I lay out my fantasy but he was
serious in his pledge to support me.
The next time Johnny and I were together I was on my
hobbyhorse again. Our conversation had been intense, my voice
excited as I described a vision of being a columnist for the
Pittsburgh Press or even the New York Times. I remember his
saying, “Yes, yes. You can do it, Cathy”
That was the moment when he clasped me in a joyful
hug, the beginning of what became a passionate embrace. In that
moment we both felt this desire to surrender to each other. The
long and loving embrace took us beyond our usual boundaries.
When he fondled my breast, our eyes met and I nodded, unable to
say the words, but still giving him the green light.
I reached to unbutton his shirt as he unbuttoned mine.
To this day I can sense his cool hand reaching behind and
unhooked the snap of my bra and then caressing my left breast and
then his fingers moving in a circle around a firm rosebud.
I was experiencing a range of emotions. My body was
urging me to hurry my fingers so that I could welcome his body
30
deep inside mine. My fingers were shaking and fumbling as my
mind was asking me if I really wanted to do this.
I was experiencing excitement while I was frightened,
but not knowing why.
I could sense his rapid breathing and was aware of
moans that were coming from somewhere inside me. There is no
doubt that we would have totally surrendered ourselves to each
other if the town bell hadn’t rung five o’clock. I jumped up.
“Mama is going to be mad. I promised to be home before five.”
We helped each other button up and then ran most of the
way back, slowing about a block from home in order to catch our
breaths.
Mama didn’t scold me and did not ask why I was late,
but I had a need to talk while we prepared dinner. “This afternoon
Johnny and I were talking about our futures. He thought that I
could qualify for a scholarship to Columbia that is really Barnard
College for Women. I could take classes at Columbia, which has a
great school of journalism? What do you think?”
“Aren’t you reaching too high, honey? That seems to be
a man’s field. I never see many women names as bylines. Let’s
invite Kate over for dinner and talk about it.”
Kate, as often was the case, surprised us. Just as mama
opened up the subject, Kate sent me over to her home to pick up a
book entitled the “The Second Sex.”
I walked into the middle of their conversation when I
returned.
“Sis, I think it’s time for Cathy to read Simone de
Beauvoir. Changes are coming.”
“Kate, we disagreed the first time we read her writings
and I guess we still do.”
31
“Don’t you think Cathy should read it and decide for
herself?”
“Not really. I think she can do without those new ideas in
her head while she is a teenage an unable to grasp the true
meaning. She will grow up in a world where men will dominate
.and cause her nothing but frustration.”
“I think you underestimate your daughter. She is a brainy
one and with the knowledge in her head will make good
judgments. Don’t you really think so?”
“I guess.”
“Any chance you’re hesitating about her choice to be a
journalist has to do with your idea that a woman exists only to
support a husband and her children?”
“I’m not sure but I don’t think so, Kate.”
I sat there stunned as I felt the tension underneath the
polite language. I suddenly knew that the two women closest to me
had different points of view about the way my life should
develop.
Kate said “Sis. Give her every opportunity to make good
choices. You have been a great mother and raised a great daughter.
You have prepared her to make her good decisions.”
“Thanks, Kate. You’re probably right, but don’t you
think trying to be a journalist is a little futile and thus frustrating
and disappointing?”
“Maybe, but my guess is that if the obstacles are too
great, our brainy one will find ways to maneuver.” She turned to
me “Sorry to talk about you as though you were not present but
your mama and I have spent many an hour doing the same when
you were on our minds but not present.”
“Wow. I had no idea, but I need to read this book after
listening to you.” I looked to mama for approval.
32
She smiled “I guess you are ready Up to now I haven’
been involved in approving or not your choice of reading.”
Kate said, “Your mama is really a liberated woman. I
doubt there are many women who have been as open with their
daughters as she has been with you.”
We talked for hours, Kate predicting that this book
would be the basis for a new women’s freedom movement that was
already stirring but mostly being ignored by most of society.
I had no way of knowing, at that moment, of the deluge
of change and protest that was about to be unleashed in the decade
of the sixties.
By the end of the evening I had a solid goal set before
me, but it was a longtime before sleep came. The image in my
head was that of Johnny and my being locked in the love making
that we had started.
The following Saturday Johnny phoned “Honey, would
you wear that especially lovely blue dress for our date tonight? I
want to take you to dinner.” I was excited about our first dinner
date.
Johnny seemed nervous when he picked me up to take
me to dinner. He said little during the drive, while he held my
hand. I wanted to ask but decided to wait for Johnny to explain.
We talked about the usual things such as our latest
debate tournament, a little about the success of our basketball
team. His voice was a bit strained and he seemed a trifle
uncomfortable. I could see that he wasn’t really into the
conversation, somehow waiting for a chance to introduce another
subject.
We got through the main course and were waiting for
dessert. He reached across the table, taking my right hand in his. I
looked into his eyes and saw him blink as the first of many tear
33
drops cascaded down his cheek He tried to speak but only a croak
escaped
Having no idea what was happening, I rose and circled
the table to put my arms around him to offer my empathy. “Honey,
what has happened? Are your folks all right?”
He pulled me down onto his lap, locked his lips onto
mine for the longest time. Finally, able to speak, he whispered.
“Everyone is well except me. I have sad news. Our family is
moving to Canada.”
It hit me like an explosion. In a flash I felt my life flying
apart. My love was blown into smithereens. My lover would no
longer be holding my hands sucking the air out of my lungs or
caressing my breast or turning me into goo. There would be no
private time in the meadow or the touch of my hand in his. Tears
gushed unabated as my arms tightened around his neck.
Johnny paid the bill immediately and we climbed into his
car where we could continue to let our tears flow while he
explained.
We knew that despite our love, and promise to stay in
touch, this was the separation and our lives were taking major turns
away from each other into the great unknown. He promised to
send his new address in his first letter, a letter that never arrived.
I lay in bed that night still warm from being enfolded in
the cocoon of his arms, dreaming of our life together while we
travelled the world together in search of a story that would bring
me the Pulitzer.
On the fourth days after his departure I ran home to see if
his letter had arrived. I shuffled the stack of mail on the kitchen
table. Mama left the entire delivery each day to be sorted when
everyone was home. There was no letter. Neither was there one the
next day or the next.
34
I waited for his letter, the one that never arrived. Heart
broken, I fell into a funk that may have been worse if it weren’t for
my savior, my brother Mickey, and the constant love of mama,
daddy and Kate.
I poured myself into my studies, editing the newspaper,
winning debate matches and tournaments and applying for
scholarships.
Mickey was there with me every step of the way. He
had become my best reporter on the paper and became my debate
team partner. He kept me fed with jokes, teased me and took my
side when mama and I disagreed.
There were, however, the nights before sleep arrived
when I could not escape the memories and the disappointment of
Johnny’s dropping totally out of my life.
About a month after Johnny’s departure, I finally
accepted a date to a school dance with Elmer Comma, a handsome
and sharp member of our debate. I did my best to be bright and
cheerful for Elmer’s sake. I think my face was wired into a
constant smile that fell apart when he kissed me lightly on the
porch when we parted.
That turned out to be the worst night of the month. I
missed Johnny so desperately and could not rid my mind of that
feeling of being deserted. I cried into the pillow what seemed like a
ton of tears, made the pillow case so damp, I had to turn it over
when the tears finally stopped. “Oh Johnny.”
I was desperate to fill the hole in my life. In addition to
my required studies, I found every book on the subject of
journalism that was on the shelves of our public and school
libraries. I was becoming obsessed with the idea of being a
becoming a world famous correspondent.
35
As editor of the Clarion, our school newspaper, I made
sure that each issue was as professional as possible; making certain
no errata was present. I wrote and rewrote each editorial and
reached for subjects that I believed would stretch the minds of my
fellow students.
Mss. Finnegan, our counselor encouraged me to reach
beyond my grasp, but had to rein me in when I submitted my
editorial that was entitled “The Need for Sex Education.”
She called me into her empty classroom for a
consultation. Her first words were “I’m sorry, Cathy, but you will
need to find another subject for your editorial.”
In my subconscious I knew why but I wanted to
challenge the school to deal with a subject that was very much on
the mind of the entire student body. I was somewhat belligerent as
I demanded “What’s wrong? I did a lot of research for the
editorial.”
Carefully choosing her words “I can see that you did you
usual excellent work but the guidelines set forth by the
administration has the subject on the prohibited list.”
“I’ve never known about a prohibited list.”
“I know, but I have and I can assure you that this subject
is.”
I objected. “But that is ridiculous. The subject is of
intense interest to all the kids. All the girls talks about it when the
boys are not around.”
“I am sure you are correct but that doesn’t change the
rules.”
I continued to press. “I read that there are school districts
in New York and California that has Sex Education within their
curricula. Can’t we introduce the idea by, at least, discussing the
editorial with the principal?”
36
“I already have. I verified your facts, and thought it was
worth a chance, but the answer is a firm no.”
I protested. “It’s only an editorial. How about I talk with
Mr. Fosdick, the chairman of the board of education?”
“That is your privilege, but I don’t think that is wise. He
is responsible for the prohibited list and will take it as an
affront, I’ sure.”
“It’s so unfair.”
“I know but wisdom may be the better part of valor.
Your applications for scholarships will need endorsements
from the principal and approval from the chairman of the
board will go a long way to help. You know as I do that he
is one of the most powerful and wealthiest men in the
area.”
I finally caved in. with a “Thank you, Miss Finnegan. I
know you are and have been a big help. I always appreciate
your guidance in personal matters as well as regards the
paper.”
Always with the thought of expanding the interests of the
students beyond school, and in spite of criticism from my
fellow student editors, I did initiate the insertion of one
major world news article in each of our issues, The subjects
included a range of stories including the South Africa mine
disaster that killed five hundred workers, Russia shooting
down our spy plane and pilot, Gary Powers of the CIA,, the
Bay of Pigs disaster and the sending of 3500 soldiers to a
place called Vietnam.
The response from the readers was surprisingly positive
even though few would bother to read those stories in the
Pittsburgh newspapers.
37
When I was notified that I was the recipient of a full
scholarship to Barnard which is attached to Columbia University in
New York, Brother Mickey promised that he would join me there
during the following year and he did.
After all my school exams were behind me, I needed
other activities to keep my mind occupied. I found ways to get
myself to the Wheeling community library where I steeped myself
in the biographies of journalists and the writings of the articulate
women leaders in history.
38
Chapter 2.
Nineteen Sixty-Two was an eventful year, with increased
tensions between east and west. The Cuban missile crisis had the
entire nation on pins and needles for days on end. Telestar, the first
communications satellite was launched, marking a major
revolution in that industry and strikes against all the New York
newspapers stymied another communication vehicle.
The other historic event was my departure for the Big
Apple and separation from the coalmine pits and my roots.
Several nights before I was to leave, mama and I had
another of our woman-to-woman chats. I was so grateful for those
opportunities we had to do that. Her love was always present
whether we were dealing with my rebellions, my heartaches or my
joys. I am now aware that during each chat a drop of wisdom
was imparted that helped form me and prepare me for the
challenges ahead.
During that last time, she introduced one new and one
old subject. “Cathy, if there is one thing I would suggest you
remember from our conversations, it is that you don’t try to skirt
your problems. Face them head on. There is only pain to be
endured in evasion. As quickly as you can, go for the heart of the
problem. I admired the way you let Mickey help you out of your
funk instead of moping over what could not be helped.”
“The other topic I need to bring up is a matter of sexual
relations. Am I right that you have not had sex yet?”
“Yes, mama.”
“It is likely that you will have many young men either
trying to seduce you or just inviting you to have sex. You know my
feelings about making sure that the time is right. You will have to
39
make that decision. Daddy and I waited until we were married but
the world is different today. Under any circumstances Aunt Kate is
prepared to take you to her lady doctor to be fitted for protection.”
“When you decide to have sexist will be wise to ask your
partner to provide male protection to avoid the possibility of
catching some disease. Ask the doctor today for some written
material on the subject.”
I asked a lot of questions and mama answered the best
she could. I still think of mama and Kate as my best friends. I was
to find that few girls had a relationship with their mothers as I did.
Di and Jimmy were there the morning as we packed our
gear into Kate’s car. She gave me a warm hug and her lat words
were. “Thank you for being my friend .You have no idea how
much easier my life has been in Coalton because of it.”
Aunt Kate drove the four of us to Pittsburgh where I was
to catch the Pennsylvania Railroad train to New York City, leaving
at five in the morning.
I was leaving Coalton with mixed feelings. My departure
to a university was the fulfillment of the family dream for years
and therefore should have been a joyous moment. We all were
aware that that bond that had been developed over the years was
being stretched and tested with the first of us on a journey away
from the center, a journey that would lead to God knows where.
We knew that another break, similar to this would be
happening a year from now, when mama’s dream for Mickey
dream would be fulfilled.
The parting at the station was tearful, with hugs
abounding and all four of them walking slowly along the track as I
waved from my window seat on the train.
40
I had a lot of time for introspection during the long ride
to New York. I tried to take a measure of myself. I was confident
that the study classes would not be my greatest challenge. There
would be the matter of interacting with the sophisticated young
men and women from the metropolitan areas like New York,
Philadelphia, and Boston.
Some of the girls might even be from high society
families. Would my clothes be fashionable enough or might I be
embarrassed?
How should I react when a date makes a mover on me?
How will I know how far to go? My mind flipped back to Johnny
and I sensed tears welling up behind my eyelids. “Oh, Johnny,
where are you? Why did you not write?”
My thoughts were interrupted as a shadow fell across the
line of my vision. “Is this seat taken?”
I look up to see a smiling face of a handsome young man
with a hint of devil in his smile. I flashed my best smile and said
“It will be if you take it.”
He dropped into the seat and grinned. “I was almost
afraid to interrupt you as I saw some worries flitting across your
face during the two minutes I spent staring at you.”
I could feel the doubts crossing my mind. “How do I
respond to that?”
I asked “Why were you staring?”
He actually laughed. “It would be rude of me not to stare
at a beautiful damsel sitting all by herself?”
I felt a blush starting and quickly reached for a response.
“Thank you for the compliment but I thought staring was rude:
He ignored my comment and asked “Are you headed for
Penn State or University of Pennsylvania?”
I laughed “Nice pick up line, but the answer is neither.”
41
“What a shame. I was hoping in was Penn. I am on my
way to enroll as a freshman.”
That news seemed to relax me. “I’m on my way to
Columbia to start as a freshman at Barnard.”
I was suddenly aware that he wasn’t as self-confident as
I first thought. It seemed to me that he relaxed a little and in no
time we were exchanging information as two young people would
do on their first meeting. I did find out that it had taken a real effort
on his part to introduce himself. He was rather shy and just as I
was, hesitant and worrying if he had the social skills to meet and
mix with sophisticated upper classmen.
By the time we stopped in Harrisburg, he had convinced
me that he would do fine. He, in turn, was so flattering that I was
developing a case of self-confidence.
We lingered over lunch in the dining car, argued
passionate about politics in the nation and in our state. We
exchanged philosophical ideas and a some personal secrets,
somehow knowing that our brief encounter would end in
Philadelphia and our secrets would be safe in the minds of two
strangers who had a few hours together.
Left with my thought when I was alone, departing
Philadelphia, I took a fresh look at myself. Seeing myself through
Tim’s eyes, I had a new appreciation of myself. Tim saw me as
brainy, warm, easy to relate to, passionate about my hope for the
future and caring for those less fortunate than I.
I found myself alternating between confidence and
doubt with a variety of images flying through my mind as the train
seemed to lumber slowly toward the city.
I was both excited and fearful as I stepped off the train at
Pennsylvania station in New York. Aunt Kate, my world wise
counselor had instructed me on how to engage a porter, how much
42
of a tip to pay, what kind of a taxi to take and the approximate
amount of the fare uptown to the Barnard campus.
It was a beautiful sunny late afternoon, a light wind
whipping up some bits of torn newspaper in tiny cyclones. I
silently oohed and aahed as we traveled the urban caverns of this
magnificent city I had a hard time adjusting to all of the noise of
the city traffic. People on the sidewalks all seemed to be rushing to
some destination. I don’t think I saw one casual stroller in all the
crowds.”
While we were stopped at a red light, I saw a man and
woman arguing next to an open cab door, she suddenly jumping in
and the cab scooting away. The crowds seemed to pay no attention
to the traffic lights, crossing on red in front of the cab, the cabbie
muttering and slowly forcing his cab into the crowd until they
grudgingly parted, yielding to his right of way.
The volume of neon signs at Times Square and the
streetwalkers boldly peddling their wares shocked me. I felt like an
Alice in Wonderland. I had been doubtful of the accounts I had
read of the city before I had left home but no longer.
The cabbie was extremely kind, helping me to get my
bags into the tiny cubicle that I was to call home for a while. He
refused to take the extra tip I offered him for his extra service.
During the trip we had chatted just briefly. He must have
taken a shine to me when we discovered we both were of Slav
heritage. He had lived in the south side of Pittsburgh before
coming to New York right after the big war. He laughingly said,
“It was like we were almost neighbors.”
I was excited and didn’t bother to unpack, hoping for a
look around campus, getting oriented before I needed to show up
the following day for registration. Since the sun was now playing
43
hides and seeks with a gathering of clouds, I slipped on a jacket
and headed outdoors.
Suddenly I felt the butterflies beginning to swarm in the
pit of my stomach. Would I look like a bumpkin to one of the
sophisticated city kids who had just graduated from some private
academy? Was I wearing the right clothes? Would some senior
simply snub me? I passed two girls deep in conversation that paid
me no attention? “Were they ignoring me or simply engrossed in
their own affair?”
Less than fifty steps from the dormitory I heard “Cathy.
Cathy Cheka.”
I found the source and saw a grinning Paul Smythe, a
competitor from another high school on the debate circuit. We had
shared a soft drink on several occasions several years ago. He was
from Wheeling and an excellent debater.
“Paul. I can’t believe it. The first person I meet on
campus is some one I have known before.”
We shared a warm hug. “Where are you headed?”
“I need a look around to get oriented before I register
tomorrow.”
“I’d be pleased to show you around and clue you on the
layout.”
“Oh, Paul. That would be great.”
Forty minutes later we were ensconced in the coffee
house enjoying a hot chocolate after the brisk walk in the coolish
overcast afternoon. We had traded tidbits of information during our
walk in between his giving me the lowdown on life on this
campus.
“Two big conversation pieces on campus at the moment
are Vietnam and Roger Maris. I see by your expression that neither
is on your radar. Well, Maris, a Yankee has just surpassed Babe
44
Ruth’s homerun record. Vietnam is hot because we just landed
some troops there, which means a possible war and the draft of
guys my age.”
That news tugged at my heart as I thought about all the
young men who would be affected including Mickey.”
“That sounds ominous.”
“I agree. Oh, here comes Anne, my girl friend. We’ve
been going steady since last January. She’s a sophomore, a year
behind me. “Anne, come meet Cathy, who is enrolling. She is from
near my home town.”
I looked to see a beautiful young woman who was
dressed in a skirt and sweater identical to my own. She smiled
warmly and gave me a hug. “Welcome to Barnard. Tell me about
yourself.”
We spent the next half hour trading information. Have
you ever felt you met a soul mate who had dropped in out of the
blue? Well, I did.
Anne and I were immediately taken with each other,
almost excluding Paul form the conversation for ten minutes or so.
“Hey, you two. I’m here, too.”
Anne laughed and gave him a wet kiss. “You, big boy, I
have all the time, but she is special and new. Give us some elbow
room.”
He laughed with her and went to get her a drink while we
barreled ahead; initiating what was to become a lifetime friendship.
My roommate at the dorm had not arrived. I lay in the
silent darkness saying a prayer of thanks for the day, knowing that
I had landed safely and was ready to face my future assured that I
had added to my support system.
45
With help from both, I knew which English comp
instructor to choose and the same for my world history class. I was
on my own for choices in physics, and political science. At this
point I was not trying to focus on a major, just hoping for a good
foundation. I did enroll in a language class, Russian 101. All I had
to do was maintain a 3.0 average to maintain my scholarship. I
managed a 4.0 in Russian and English comp and overall 3.9 during
my freshman year.
Mama and I exchanged letters twice a month while
Mickey and I did so even more frequently. Often there would be a
postscript from Aunt Kate. In November Mickey wrote that he had
found a real bargain, getting a 1954 Leica camera with the bayonet
mounting and the combination range finder and viewfinder. He
promised to send me some of his more interesting snaps.
The first few weeks of my new venture proved to be
challenging. My roommate never did show. I was to find out later
that she had decided not to matriculate to Barnard. On the fifth
evening after my arrival, I had walked over to Broadway, in order
to pick up a few small things to help decorate our room. It had
turned dark as I headed back to campus. I was strolling along,
humming to myself on a tree lined street, two blocks from my
dorm.
Suddenly a rather large male shaped form stemmed out
from behind a tree. In a deep gruff voice he growled “Gimme your
purse, girlie.”
For a split second I froze. No one had prepared me for
being mugged, although in the back of my mind, I recalled having
read something about hanging onto one’s purse. That had never
been even a hint of a problem in Coalton.
46
I didn’t see a gun, a knife or anything in his hands as he
moved toward me, his right hand reaching for my purse. For some
reason my mind slipped back to the days when I juked the boys
during our street football games. Without a second thought I
shouted “No way, mister. I feigned a move to the right and he
leaned in that direction. I jerked to the left and was past him in a
flash, fleeing like a deer and shouting “thief, thief.” I didn’t stop
until I was at the door to the dorm which was in the process of
opening to let out on of the students.
She said “Slow down. No one is chasing you. Were you
mugged?”
Out of breath as I was, I said nothing, but I held up my
purse. She grinned. “Nice going, but risky. You must be new to the
City.” I nodded. She walked me to my room. At the door she said
“I’m Jane Adair.”
I grinned. “Thanks, Jane. I’m Cathy Cheka.”
She smiled. “We usually walk in groups of three after
dark, even on campus. I happened to be stepping out to wait for my
date, who probably is wondering what, happened to m.” She
dashed off.
Three days later, I walked into the dorm room after class
to find Moira, my new roomie, sitting on the floor with her
boyfriend, smoking pot. In fact, the aroma was noticeable ten feet
before I reached the door.
I was furious. The presence of any forbidden substance
in a dorm room was automatic suspicion. I turned, went down the
hall to find Jane to be my witness.
We returned to my room where I told Moira, she had
thirty minutes to take the possession and move.
She laughed. “No way, my dear Puritan.” I
47
Moved directly toward her, pulled her up to stand six inches in
front of me.
In a firm but quiet voice I said “I have a witness.
Thirty minutes or I report you to the dean of students. Don’t mess
with me.”
She looked down for help from her boyfriend, who
shrugged his shoulders, rose and left the room.
Defeat was obvious. She said under breath. “Bastard”,
but she began packing
In a cold but even voice I said “I expect you to be gone
when I return. You can arrange for your lines and blankets to stay
until you find new quarters, but no longer than forty-eight hours.”
Jane and I left the room. Jane invited me to wait in her
room where I met her roommate, Sandy Fanon.
In December I received from Mickey an astonishingly
sharp black and white study of daddy arriving home from a long
shift, obviously worn out; shoulders slumped in his overcoat that
was lightly dusted with snow. He had caught the essence of daddy
and a universal study of a coal miner. It was truly a work of art.
Mama and I had agreed that it was too expensive to
travel home for the Christmas break, but Aunt Kate sent a round
trip ticket and drove the family to meet me in Pittsburgh.
One evening during the visit Aunt Kate, Mickey and I
went to the movies in Wheeling and stopped for a milk shake on
the way home. When we were seated in the malt shop, Mickey
opened an envelope, dumping six black and white stunning
photographic studies of three miners, and two. Very tired women
and a five-year-old girl full of wonder. I gasped at the emotion
pouring out of those persons alive on the film.
48
Mickey handed me a hankie as he judged I was on the
verge “Magnificent, little brother” was all I could get out of my
mouth. Finally, I said “There’s a message for me, isn’t there?”
“Just as sharp as ever, brainy one. I have discovered a
talent I never even considered and finding a passion that I have to
follow.”
I laughed “You need help selling mama and daddy on
this idea in lieu of joining me at Columbia?”
With a big grin on his face he said, “I figured that if you
join me and Aunt Kate, we will have a three to two advantage.”
“That may not be enough but let’s hear the plan.”
“I’ve made enquiries and found some scholarship money
at an art institute with a great reputation. I can take some liberal
arts classes at City College of New York at very little cost. With
some part time work to earn funds and a small loan from Aunt
Kate, I am sure this is doable. I’m convinced this is what I want to
do, sis. .”
The passion through his words and his body language
was infectious. I sensed it and could see that Kate was as excited as
he was. Laughingly, I said “Hey, little one. I’ve just been accepted
to be a cub reporter, for the Columbia News because I am planning
on declaring a major, journalism. We can become a team.”
“Did you really get on the Columbia News?’
“Yes, but I had to do a selling job, being a girl and being
a student at Barnard, but I made it
“I know you’re joking about the team bit sis, but I have
been seriously thinking of becoming good enough to be a
photojournalist.”
“I’m half serious having recently had a chance to hear a
lecture by Margaret Bourke-White and doing some reading on
Ernie Pyle and other war time journalists.”
49
“Wow.”
Kate was beaming and said, “Sounds like you’re ready to
join us, Cathy. If so, let’s beard the lioness in her den. This is her
time for a cup of tea before heading for bed.”
“Looks like you guys enjoyed the movie, judging from
the grins on our mugs.” Mama was amused at her own quip.
Aunt Kate responded to the implied question. “We did
and then while we guzzled down milk shakes, we did a little
organizing.”
We had agreed that we had our best chance of selling
mama if Aunt Kate was the point guard. “Organizing for what?
Oh, I see. Three against one. Sounds like you think I need to be
sold something” She gasped, “Cathy, are you pregnant?”
“Oh, Mama. It’s nothing like that. In fact, this is not
about me at all. I haven’t even been on a serious date although I
am hoping to be asked to the Spring Fling.”
“I’m sorry, honey. So what’s so serious that you need
Kate to lead the interference?”
It was impossible to read her face while Kate related the
proposal, but she listened carefully to each detail then began
asking questions. “Have you explored the cost of rooming and
food in that expensive city? How far is your school from
Columbia? Did you say you were going to take night courses at
some city college?” Not one question about Mickey’s motivation
Mickey gave her the best answers he had and said he still
had research to do before he made a final decision.
“That’s wise. It sounds like you’ve done good research
and planning so far. You must know that I am somewhat
disappointed because I thought we were into the same dream about
your joining Cathy at Columbia.”
50
Mickey said. “Our basic plan was to be sure I didn’t get
trapped into continuing another generation in the coal industry. I
have been giving serious thinking about your hope that both of us
would be well-educated citizens. I haven’t given up on that. My
plan for night courses in English composition and history is the
way I am trying to deal with that. If I don’t have what it takes in
photography, I plan to pursue an undergraduate degree.”
“But you won’t have a scholarship.”
“Getting a scholarship to Columbia or some other major
universities does not require matriculating that first year. There are
exceptions I am not easing off my studies and plan to take the
SAT’s and make applications for scholarships.”
“Really? It sounds like my brilliant son has done his
homework, a good sign. I’m sure that your dad will agree and you
will have our blessing and support. We will need your assurance
that your continued research gives you a green light. Promise?”
Mickey promised, rose and went to hug mama, mixing
his ears with hers.
Life on campus rocked along beautifully. I was acing all
my courses, breaking in as a cub reporter and participating in some
intra squad debates. My friendship with Anne deepened, although
our together times often included the love of her life, Paul.
Two major events during the late spring helped to set the
path for my life. One Sunday evening while having a coke with my
movie date, I picked up a bit of conversation from an adjoining
table Gently shushing my date and indicating that I wanted to
eavesdrop I squeezed his hand and held on while I listened. The
young man was telling his dater how he was voting three times in
Monday’s election for the student governing board, a big deal on
51
this campus. My date was as shocked as I, although I now attribute
that to freshman naiveté.
We left the table shortly thereafter and found a pay
phone. The editor of the News was available twenty fours a day.
Twenty minutes later I was kissing my date good night, asking him
to say nothing. I was off to a late night editorial staff meeting. By
four that morning I was dead tired but too excited to sleep. We had
devised a major plan to monitor the polling places, taking time
stamped photos of all the fraternity voters.
We worked discreetly unnoticed most of the day by the
fraternity voters. At about five minutes before six, the closing time
for the polls, Mort Sailor from the Phi Delta frat hose caught me
taking his picture as he was presenting a fake ID to one of the
monitors. We knew each other slightly, being in the same English
composition class.
We had chatted at the voting booths just after noon when
I was standing nearby. Seeing me with camera in hand, made him
realize that I had found him out. He blazed with anger, rushed at
me, twisting my arm attempting to snatch the camera from my
grasp. I screamed in pain and in fear as I resisted. I was not about
to lose my evidence. We felt to the ground, Mort atop me. I saw
his arm being raised preparing to punch me when someone gripped
his arm and another pulled him off me.
I was shaking in anger before I realized that I was
bleeding at the elbow. Anne, who had witnessed the entire event,
had found a first aid kit and rushed to my side while others were
asking me if I was seriously injured.
I was all right and soon my friends were moving away
Anne told me that Paul had good photos of the melee and hoped
the editor might use them in the story.
52
We went to press Monday night with a special edition
with a dozen photos to illustrate the lead story and thee other
stories of Fraternity Party cheating at the polls. The editor did not
use the photo Mort’s attack but included the story without naming
anyone.
While I contributed to writing only one of the stories, I
was given credit in a joint byline and a photo in a story that named
as the discoverer of the fraud in the main story written by our
editor along with my photo.
I was the newfound hero to the active members of the
Independent party. Quite often during the next few days, I was
stopped on campus for a thank you.
The other turning point came through a reference from
my friend Anne. I have no idea how she managed but she set me
up for an interview as a copyboy at the New York Times for the
summer. Apparently they had some sort of summer intern
program.
I zipped down town on the subway and appeared ten
minutes early for my interview, joining four other students, all
boys, one that I knew from our News staff and two others from
CCNY. I was so excited during the subway ride that I forgot to be
scared.
As I walked to the Times building, tension and sweat are
part of what I experienced. I knew that I had to get this job, not
only for the money but for a good first step toward my future.
I still remember answering a dozen questions before I
was ushered back to the outer room where I was to await further
word. There were now five of us and another who had just gone
into the interview room.
53
I initiated some conversation, hoping to ease the
anxiety that was surfacing and found myself eagerly joined by all
the others. It was after seven o’clock when Michael, the
Columbia student, and I were invited back into the interview
room. “Congratulations, you report on June 10th at eight AM for
duty at the managing editors desk. Prior to that, you need to
appear at the personnel office to complete all the usual paperwork
and receive your orientation and indoctrination.
I found Anne and Paul making out on their favorite
bench, broke up the embrace to share the news and thank Anne.
“Come join me for a drink to celebrate. You probably need to
cool off anyhow.”
The laughed and helped me celebrate what was to be
the inauguration of my professional journalism career.
54
Chapter 3.
My role in the election frauds on campus brought me
into the inner circle of the editorial staff of the News. The editor
took me with him to view the demonstration in Times Square of
protestors against our participation the war in Vietnam and the
possibility of young men being drafted into the military. That was
in May. While that gathering was not a large demonstration it was
one of the earliest, if not the first.
It doesn’t take many young people, standing in the
middle of the corner of Broadway and 43rd Street to cause a
ruckus.
The students are yelling, taxi cab horns are blaring, the
cabbies are shouting at the demonstrators. Pedestrians are
stopping on the sidewalks to see what’s happening. That little
corner of Gotham is frozen. The few policemen are in no position
to handle a group of fifty or seventy five demonstrators.
Buzz and I had to shoulder our way through the crowd
to get a front row spot. No sooner than we arrived I was caught
up in the throng, which was shouting in unison. “Hell no, we
won’t go.” amidst crudely created signs like “Draft Beer, Not
Boys.” The explicit and implicit anger was frightening me, a
simple country girl, but also stimulating
I was shocked to see a gathering challenging the
government of our country. I was expecting to be caught up in a
rush by the police to place these demonstrators under arrest.
As I watched and listened, it was so exciting that I had
to remember to start writing notes instead of just being one of the
protestors.
I was not even sure why I was protesting. I identified
with the young who could see no real reason for young soldiers
55
dying over some implied threat from communism. On the other
hand I felt like I was being unpatriotic and a traitor. I had been
taught and nurtured to love my country and our leaders.
I set aside my mental struggles and started scribbling
notes for my story.
On the subway ride back to the campus Buzz, my
editor, teased me about getting caught up with the protestors but
reminded me that I needed to remember that I was reporting,
meaning “Stay neutral and observe.”
It was only the end of my freshman year and I had a
second by-line on a key story. “Protestors March Peaceful.”
I was fortunate to be taken on by the Times for a full
time position during that summer of 1963, with a week off before
school resumed. Hardly a day went by without some news story
about anti-war demonstrations, particularly in communities near
college campuses.
It was a warm visit with my folks and Kate, I took
walks in the fields outside town, lying down on a blanked where
Johnny and I had traded personal secrets and pledge our love to
each other. I let the tears roll for so long before I returned home. I
wondered again why Johnny never wrote to me as he had
promised and asked myself if I could ever get past this feeling of
being abandoned.
Mickey and I were ready to head back to the city and
great learning opportunities and some adventures.
The evening before our departure, my friend Dinah had
joined us for dinner and a reunion. She was home for a brief visit
from her studies at Morehouse College. In the course of the
conversation she mentioned that she and Jimmy were headed for
56
Washington for the March where the Reverend Martin Luther
King was going to deliver an address. The gathering was for
hunger, civil rights and a protest to the Vietnam War. “Why don’t
you ad Mickey join Jimmy and me before you return to New
York?’
Mickey popped up. “Great idea, but where can we
stay?”
Di said. “We’ll find some shelter and sleep on the floor.
It’s only one night and worth the sacrifice, isn’t it?’
“Hell yes.
We decided to take the night train from Pittsburgh,
which meant leaving soon, asking Aunt Kate to drive us .We
made our hurried goodbyes with hugs and tears. Hours later, in
the early morning we disembarked at Union Station .in the midst
of thousands headed toward the Lincoln Memorial where I was
about to have the experience of my life.
The area in front of the Memorial was a sea of bodies,
draped in a variety of colored shirts and sweaters.
The mood was absolutely electric giving us the feeling
that some thing major and moving was about to happen.
Everybody was well behaved. There was bi jostling or pushing.
It seemed that everyone was waiting with bated breath despite the
appearance of many speakers before Dr. King was to appear.
I was taken by surprise when new characters moved
onto the stage and then suddenly I was joining in a loud
welcome when the Reverend King appeared on stage.
Just as suddenly the huge crowd went dead still as he
began his address. Even to this day my eyes tear as they did with
thousands of others when he called for a time when “Justice
would roll down like waters and righteousness like a mighty
stream”. By the time he got to the dream, my hankie was sopping
57
wet and I could not stem the tears when he began “I have a dream
that one day this nation will rise up and live out the true meaning
of the creed that we hold these truths to be self evident, that all
men are created equal.”
Di reached to squeeze my left hand while Jimmy was
doing the same with my right hand. Mickey was holding Dinah’s
other hand, each of us letting our tears fall unabated. I turned
toward Di, unable to say a word. It must have been that way for
Dil. She simply put her arms around me and soon all four bodies
were enveloped in a group hug. I have only a faint memory of the
end of the clapping and shout of bravo and amen.
We were totally emotionally dry as we headed for
Union Station where we hoped to find a space to rest our bodies
until we could entrain for New York. We were in no hurry. Di
and I both had some fruit stashed in our large purses, providing us
a light bite while we kept rehearsing parts of the speech as we
munched and strolled. Jimmy said, “Remember those words
about coming to collect on the promissory notes given to all by
our forefathers.” Di was recalling his references from the bible
and the Emancipation Proclamation.
Sore feet not with standing, we walked until we finally
found a small place to plop down in a corner of Union Station.
After a bit, Mickey got in line for tickets and we luckily were able
to find space on the 10:15 special to New York. Hugs and tears
were abundant as we boarded, Five minutes after departure I was
sound asleep as the click clack sounded like a lullaby.
Early the next morning I rushed to the News office to
write up two stories, one for the News and one to submit to my
boss at the Times. My view point was that of one of the thousands
58
who stood shoulder to shoulder to listen to the words of a great
leader. Both stories were in print in the next editions.
Partially because of my success on the staff of the
student paper, my boss at the Times, Columbia alum, provided
me some opportunities to do some minor reporting and some
practice in rewriting some articles. He treated me more like a cub
reporter than a copy girl.
The day before classes began for the fall term, I
corralled Anne to spend the day touring Manhattan. There was so
much to be seen and understood and for a year I had not taken
time to know the city to which I had become deeply attached.
We took the subway downtown to visit the Statue of
Liberty, Wall Street, Barnes and Noble book store, lunched in
Chinatown and had coffee from a vendor’s cart near the Battery.
We took a seat on a bench next to a young man, in his
mid-twenties. He was wearing army fatigues and was engrossed
in what I thought was an historical textbook. I sat next to him and
laughingly teased him “Boning up for classes even before you
start”
He looked up, startled and then laughed: “Sort of. This
is a text book from my last class before I was drafted and spent a
year in Korea and a few months in Vietnam. Unfortunately, I took
a slug that tore out some serious muscle in my left arm. I’ve been
honorably discharged and start classes at City College
tomorrow.”
I had been struggling with my feelings about how the
war protests were seen by men who were serving in the military. I
asked “Do you have time and would be willing to talk with me
about your experience. I am a reporter for the Columbia News
and would like to write up a story for my editor.”
59
He said reservedly “I’m not sure that I have anything to
offer.”
Anne popped up “My friend, Cathy, is a good
interviewer and I would be interested even if she does not write a
story.”
He was still reluctant but I said “I’ll even bribe you
with an offer of a chocolate milk shake at that diner over there.”
“If you also will have dinner with me, I’d be willing to
try.”
Anne and I busted out laughing and I said “It’s a deal.”
We walked over to the café.
When were settled in a booth and formally introduced
ourselves, Mark said "Shoot the first question.”
I asked “Tell me about being drafted when you could
have had a deferment “
“It didn’t seem right that I would take advantage of the
thousands of others who could not ask for a deferment and I guess
I am a bit patriotic.”
“How much can you tell me of your experiences in
combat?”
“I really don’t like to talk about it but I can tell you that
I surprised myself. I wondered and wondered if I could truly
shoot to kill someone whom I was facing close enough to see the
face of my enemy.”
“I did, perhaps because of all the training about the
reason for our presence in Korea and then in Vietnam. I never
faced a North Korean in actual combat but I did within three
weeks of my arrival in Vietnam.
The entire platoon with whom I served was moved
from Korea to Nam. My squad, as I called it, my team, was as
60
closer than family. I no longer felt any self-doubt about shooting
at the enemy, no matter how close.
There was, I discovered, a compelling reason. In the
first skirmish, I knew that failure to perform would put my
buddies, my team members, at risk. My failure could, very well,
cause them their lives. That was not going to happen.”
“Like other parts of life, there are the larger goals for
which we strive, so it was in Nam. The larger goal was fighting
for our nation but the real reason to kill was to protect your
brothers.”
I tried to press him to tell us some of the details but he
sidestepped my questions and told me stories their camaraderie.
After he finished his second milk shake, I
Was about to press him again for some details of actual combat,
but he pre-empted me with a statement. “Whatever, you write,
Cathy, please do not use my name. This is the last day I will wear
these fatigues. I don’t want any of my fellow students know that I
am vet.”
I was stunned. “But, you should be proud of your
service and your purple heart.”
“I am but the attitude among college kids seems to be
one of hatred or the war and for anyone who has participated. I
took a two week refresher course on campus recently and listened
to some of the conversation on campus. One would think I am a
traitor as you listen to the conversation. I find myself seething
underneath and want to kick their asses, but, of course, I just walk
away.”
I felt a sudden rush of tears and anger down deep. It
was one thing to oppose the war but to show disdain for a veteran
was deplorable. Anne and I both reached across the table to take
his hands in ours and held on for several long moments.
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“You can print that. In fact, I hope you do.” He
suddenly laughed “Now, let’ talk about that date.”
I squeezed his hand “”When?”
“Are you free tomorrow evening?”
I giggled. “No grass is growing under your feet.”
He laughed again. “Strike when the iron is hot.”
“Where do we meet? I can take a subway to meet you.”
“Oh, no. I take it you live on the Barnard campus. I live
near Seventy second and Broadway. I know a nice little bistro
near Ninety-Sixth. I’ll pick you up in a cab. What time?”
“You name it.”
We had a fun time on that date and two other dates
before studies, work and divergent interests brought the
relationship to a close.
My sophomore year was mostly a grind, working off
my required courses, hustling stories for the News, grabbing the
subway to put in hours at the Times, where I felt like some kind
of a hybrid, doing some rewrites, helping to write some obits, all
this along with running errands. Along with my studies I was a
human dynamo running on adrenalin and very little sleep.
One afternoon at the Times my boss had to awaken me
from a catnap. I was on my rest period in the coffee room where I
had put my head down resting on my arms at the lunch table and
fell soundly asleep.
I managed to find a little time with Mickey, who
usually came to visit me. My friend Anne usually found a half
hour for tea or coffee several afternoons during his week. We had
62
much in common. Her boyfriend, Paul, teasingly accused her of
being closer to me than to him.
I had a few dates, thanks to Anne, but held myself back.
Almost all of the guys seemed surprised when I declined their
offers to let them bed me. Like most girls my age I had moments
of sexual fantasy, often mixed with memories of the woman to
woman conversations with mama. I wanted my first to be special.
There also was a chance that my first lover might be my only
although that was never a primary thought. Perhaps, sublimely, I
was waiting for a clone of Johnny,
There was so much to do and so much to learn.
Registering for the second term that year I managed to get into a
journalism class to my surprise and was able to get into an
advanced writing class. Most evenings were demanding of time
for composition and story writing. The long hours of work and
study and the lack of rest showed up as weight loss.
It was only because of the pressure from Bill, my boss
at the Times, Anne, Paul and Mickey that I began to include food
as a regular part of my daily activity. At least two nights a week it
was Anne who shooed me off to bed.
While the attendance at the “I Have a Dream” had been
the most glorious day of my young life, November 22 was the
darkest. At one forty four P.M., just a I had just walked into the
office of the News, I saw the entire staff gathered around a radio
broadcasting the news of JFK’s assassination .A pall descended
on the whole group Someone turned up the volume so that we
could hear the news while at our desks.
I was trying to stem the flow of tears when the editor
yelled my name a waved me into his office. “Isn’t this a work day
for you at the Times?”
“Yes, it is. I’m due at three thirty.”
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“Do you think you could go in early and gather some
news from their sources? Ask your boss if you can relay any of it
back to Mary here as we try to put through a special edition?”
“I’m on my way.”
I shed my tears on the subway ride because there would
be no time once in the office. Bill gave me permission to work
off the Teletype and relay any news I picked up from that source.
I spent each minute available from my duties, reading the tape
and phoning the information back to Mary. Bill asked if I could
stay on an extra two hours beyond my regular shift.
When I finally returned to the campus, all my friends
were gathered at the coffee shop relating stories of JFK, sharing
their feelings and wondering about the future of a country that
would no longer have our hero as its leader.
Someone of the crowds stood and said, “The campus
chaplain is conducting a silent prayer service at the chapel.
Without a word the entire group joined him in a walk to the
chapel.
I sat in the silence, lost in my thoughts of the hero of
my generation, his charming wife and two young children who
would only know their father through the stories others told of
him.
It would be days before the cloud of despair was lifted.
The entire country and certainly the campus were in mourning for
three days, until the day after the funeral. . Life does go on and
the study and work that makes for survival usually has a healing
effect on the soul.
My boss at the Times, Bill Calhoun, continued
grooming me at work, introducing me to some of the big time
64
journalists, sending me out with a reporter or occasionally alone,
on minor human interest stories. I realized that Bill was using my
job of copy girl to groom me in the ways of journalism. He even
suggested I return to hang out on the fringe of the gathering of the
staff after the paper had gone to press.
Bill used me a messenger to deliver some memos to
Mr. Reston, popularly known as ‘Scotty’. He wanted me to meet
a great journalist who had won two Pulitzer prizes. I was thrilled
when Mr. Reston asked me my name, during my second visit. I
remembered telling Johnny that I hoped I could write as well as
Mr. Reston.
Bill insisted that I take time to go the morgue to read
both those stories, especially the one of the meeting of leaders
from around the world at Dumbarton Oaks, where they laid the
foundation of the new United Nations. He also insists that I read
as many of the published interviews he had conducted of world
leaders during the last twenty years.”
In April, Bill was selected to be the Political Editor in
the City Department and found a position for me as a junior
rewrite editor .in that department. I was offered a full time
summer job with a week off at the end of the summer so I could
visit my folks.
Mickey, who had the summer off from his photographic
studies, enrolled in two summer classes at Cit College and had
more time to spend with me, usually several evenings a week. He
had found a part time job as staff photographer for a regional
paper on Long Island
It was that summer that we decided that we would
attempt to become a team of journalist/photojournalists as our
beginning careers when I finished my undergrad work I
65
remember that it was the July Fourth weekend we wee spending
on Fire Island. We were waiting for the fireworks display when
Mickey started talking about the dream of working with me.
“Oh, bro, what a great idea. I love it. We need to start
doing some research.”
“I’ve already started. It looks to be a fairly rough road,
at least at the beginning but I like the challenge and a chance to
spend a lifetime doing what I love.”
I hardly remember much about the fireworks having
been caught up in the planning and Mickey’s enthusiasm.
“Sis, what kind of stories should we be looking for?
Thye probably need to be local since breaking into jobs with the
major papers will be almost impossible.”
“I don’t know, sweetie. We have to do some research. It
would be great if there were some way to get to Vietnam and
become war journalists.”
“Dreamer. Besides, the military will never let women
any place near the shooting.
“You’d be surprised.”
“You don’t think you would be too scared. I’m not sure
how I would feel about being in the army fighting in those
jungles.”
“Of course, you and I will be scared, but that doesn’t
mean we can’t overcome our fears.”
“I guess you’re right, as usual. You know, sis, you’re
strong like mama. I’m looking forward to our working together.”
He put his arms around me and held on for a long minute.
In that moment I knew that my little brother was now
my partner and probably my protector. I felt a tear forming as I
quietly thanked God for putting Mickey into my life.
66
Among the many staff members I had met at the Times
was the chief photographer for the city department. We had had
coffee together a few times and on several occasions I had run
some in house errands for him. That following Monday I went
looking for him about coffee break time, inviting him to join me.
“Sorry kiddo can’t leave my desk but we can chat if you can
bring me a cup while I await a couple of phone calls.”
Jay was close to my dad’s age and had been with the
Times for almost twenty years. He listened carefully as I told him
about Mickey and me and our latest dream. “We need some
guidance, Jay. I hoped that you might find a little time to talk
with us.”
“I’d be delighted. Since my family is away for a few
weeks, how about the two of you having dinner with me some
evening this week?”
“Great, but you have to let us buy.”
“We’ll see. How about Wednesday?”
“It’s a date. You are sweet, Jay. I owe you.”
“Listen kid. You have done so many favors for me
already. I consider you are prepaid. Wednesday is a date.”
Jay insisted we talk about ourselves during the
mealtime, about our childhood and teen years together. He was
particularly interested in how we bonded so closely during those
years as well at present.
During dessert and coffee he took us through the
educational requirements to find a position with the Times, the
multitude of duties he had to perform besides shooting pictures.
“You would have to develop film and crop pictures for use in the
stories, Photographers have to read the story being planned and
perhaps plan the story with the reporter. Some times I have to
67
make phone calls to set up photo dates and I always have my fire
and police scanners on alert for picture opportunities.”
Filled with information and spurred on with greater
desire, Mickey asked, “How can I judge if I have what it takes?”
“I’d be delighted to be a sort of tutor for you. My two
girls aren’t the least bit interested. Why don’t you start creating a
portfolio and call me for another get together?’
I could see my brother’s eagerness as he said. “That is
marvelous. I have a lot of negatives, some from my recent news
photos. I’ll call you soon. Thank you.”
I said “Jay, this is beyond my hopes when I asked you
for some guidance.”
“Yes, I know but Mickey makes me think of the son we
lost.”
I could sense the immediate change in Jay. “Is it
something you can talk about.”?
“It’s hard but I can brief you. Our Jeff would be
Mickey’s age. He was our first born, a great kid with a good
sense of humor and enough of a rebel to show promise.”
“He earned a scholarship to M.I.T. and was planning to
study Electrical Engineering. He had been a star basketball player
but turned down an athletic scholarship to Maryland U.”
“On Senior Picnic Day, he and some friends decided,
rather foolishly, to see how far they could swim out to sea.
Whatever happened to him will never be known.”
His voice broke and he choked before continuing. “H
was fifty or more yards ahead of his closest buddy when he went
under and was never seen again.”
Jay began to sob and I, with tears spilling onto my
cheeks, moved to put my arms around him, as did Mickey. We
68
stayed that way until Jay finally was able to compose himself.
“I’m sorry. I thought I had that under better control.”
In the months that followed Jay made himself available
to Mickey a couple of evenings a week and many week ends.
About five months later while we were having dinner, I asked
Mickey what kind of study or work was involved during the
many hours he spent at Jay’s home.
His face broke out into a full flush as he stammered and
finally sheepishly admitted that much of the time was spent with
Jay’s oldest daughter, Julie, a student commuter to City College. I
laughed and teased him. “You, sly dog, have been keeping
secrets from your big sis. How come?”
“It was pretty casual until very recently. Julie is a big
sports fan and. teased me about my interest in taking pictures. I
remember her saying on the very first day that Jay introduced us
“With those shoulder and height, you’d make a great point guard
for the City College varsity.”
“She coaxed me into a one-on-one hoops game in their
backyard. Despite my high school varsity experience, poor me,
lack of conditioning with no recent practice, I was totally
outclassed.”
“Things slowly developed from there. We managed
some hoops each visit, usually followed with a cup of coffee and
homemade pie, baked by her, after each game. We worked
together on our assigned composition homework. She has a flair
for writing just like you, sis and has helped me a lot.”
Mickey paused and I waited for him to go on, and then
needled him into more. He yielded with “She was delighted when
I invited her to a movie date. She held my hand through most of
69
the movie except when I had to lend her my hankie during the
romantic scenes “
“We held hands on the bus to her place from the movie
and I found no resistance on the back porch swing. When I leaned
in for a kiss, to tell you the truth, sis, I was a goner from the
evening on. She had been dating another grad from her high
school and continued.
Last Sunday we spent the afternoon having a picnic in a
nice meadow and talked rather seriously about our hopes and
dreams.”
He stopped as though that was the end of his tale but I
wasn’t letting him off the hook. “Come on. Give. Something
special happened there in the meadow.”
“Dammit, sis. We didn’t have sex, if that’s what you
think. What happened is that she said she loved me and I told her
I loved her. That’s a bigger thing than just having sex. Why am
I telling you all this?”
“Because there is no one else. I am your closest friend.
Anyhow, I’ll bet you’re bursting to tell me,”
He laughed and continued. “It was she who took the
lead. I will never forget the moment. It was chilly but we had
brought three blankets. We were laying silently, our thoughts
apparently running in parallel. I felt myself getting tense as loving
images of us together in the future flitted through my mind. A
quick vision of lying with her in front of a fireplace, then a
picture of her walking down an aisle toward me. All those crazy
images kept dancing across the screen of my mind.”
“. I could see us walking hand in hand on a country
lane. Crazy images emerging from my sub consciousness, made
my body wind up like a top. . I felt I just had to pull her into my
arms and sense her body melting into mine.”
70
“At that moment. She turned, put the back of her hand
on the side of my jaw, moving it slowly down toward my chin
saying, “Mickey, I love you.”
“I gasped because it was the same thought I was
having. I took her face in the vee of my left hand, pulled her
gently toward my lips and kissed her deeply, then said “Julie, I
also love you.”
“We both shed tears of joy and made out with
passionate kisses and hugs then lay back under our blanket and
pledged ourselves to each other for a lifetime.”
“So, what comes next?”
“We’ll see each other as often as possible. She
promised to tell no one except her closest friend just as I did. We
are not talking wedding until she graduates.”
“Mickey, that is marvelous. I am so happy for you. A
little something special for Jay who will be getting the son he so
wanted.”
“Sis, you don’t seem to be dating much. I don’t
understand why a gorgeous woman like you isn’t the subject of
pursuit at all times.”
“I’ve dated some but nothing sparks. I love my work
and my studies and most every date seems to think we ought to
end up in bed. There needs to be more to a relationship than sex
on a first date.”
“Do you still think of Johnny Wheldon?”
“Occasionally. What does happen is when my date is
pressing me, I think of the loving and tender ways Johnny treated
me. Hey, enough about my nonexistent love life.”
In April, I caught a real break. I got was given an
assignment for the Columbia News to travel to Washington for
71
the big anti war demonstration led by the Students for Democratic
Society (SDS). I had to ask my boss if it was possible to miss
three days of work. When I told him the reason, he agreed to have
me write a report for possible publication and offered to pay my
expenses.
Since I would cost nothing to the Columbia News, I
asked the editor for some expense money for Mickey to
accompany me and he agreed to a modest sum .to defray
transportation and meals.
SDS, the Students for a Democratic Society were
considered by most traditional thinking citizens as a new left,
radical threat to our way of living in the United States. Up to this
time, their primary method of operating was teach-ins on
campuses across the nation
Campus chapters of SDS all over the country started
to lead small, localized demonstrations against the war and no
tow war began resounding in the demonstrations.
The national office organized the march against the
war in Washington on April 17. Endorsements came from nearly
all of the other peace groups and leading personalities, there was
significant increase in income and membership. There now were
52 chapters.
The media began to cover the organization. However,
the call for the march and the openness of the organization in
allowing other groups, even or communists themselves, to join in
caused great strains with the some other old left organizations.
That was part of the original grouping.
72
The night before the march, while twenty thousand or
more were gathering, I wangled my way into an informal gathering
of some of the SDS leaders. During the next twenty four hours I
became aware that the antiwar demonstration was primarily a tool
for recruiting followers who would support the SDS goals of
radicalism, student power, and direct action, violent, if necessary.
It seemed not to bother the leaders that I was a reporter. In fact,
they probably wanted any kind of publicity.
Meanwhile Mickey used his camera to good effect,
getting photos for the leaders and some studies of serious small
groups in passionate debate as well as strident speakers at some
plenary sessions
On the train ride back to New York Mickey said. “These
guys are scary. While they have a lot of great words about
international peace, eliminating poverty and so forth, their rhetoric
and anger scares me. I think they are headed for a major
confrontation with the establishment at some time which will be
their undoing.”
The News used three of my stories and five of Mickey’s
photos while the Times used one photo and a stripped down
version of my story on the goals of the SDS.
Nevertheless, it was a turning point and a key building
block in my professional development. My boss. Bill, as the
political editor of national news department requested my services
as a student reporter for campus political news. I was being asked
to gather political news from campuses across the nation for a new
sub section in the Times being devoted to the voice of students in
political affairs. My boss wanted all the hours I could devote for
the balance of the year and full time during the summer of 1965.
Success is always a mixed blessing. The new position
meant I could not afford to continue working with the staff of the
73
Columbia News. Time was a precious commodity. The staff held
a sort of wake one evening with plenty of booze to loosen up the
sad faces of my university family for most of three years.
The more I became involved with reports of student
positions regarding the Vietnam War, the more my mind dwelt on
the young men who were putting their lives on the line. I took
time each evening to read reports from Vietnam. I read every word
by Gloria Emerson, the New York Times reporter who had been in
Vietnam since the French occupation. The detailed stories by
Dicki Chappelle who lived twenty four hours a day with the Sixth
Marines were vivid in their portrayal of the sacrifices being made.
I had read the biography of Marguerite (Maggie) Higgins who had
paved the way for women correspondents in war zone. I was
intrigued with her stories of the women and children in hamlets
and villages.
Anne and I were having dinner together, splurging with
pre dinner martinis and New York steaks. While waiting for the
steaks, Anne said, “Cathy, I guess you’ve decided on a life
vocation. Journalist? Right?”
“Absolutely.”
“How do you see it unfolding? Do you think you can get
a job with the Times?”
“I hardly think so. Mr. Calhoun has taken me under his
wing, but the experience will not be enough for a job with the
Times. With some interim experience working a few years
elsewhere, I might have a chance. What I really want to do is to
find a way to find an assignment in Vietnam.”
“Are you crazy?”
74
“Maybe I am. I’ve been reading all the reports coming in
from Gloria Emerson who is the Times reporter in Vietnam and
reading what I could about Dickey Chapelle, who traveled every
place with the 6th Marines. I have this urge to try to emulate them.”
“It seems so risky, Cathy. There must be more going on
in that head of yours.”
“Ann, you know how it is there is more than one thing
stirring in my brain. Working with all the stories of the protests
and finding out that there are more selfish reasons than altruistic
motivations for those protests, I feel this pressure to be alongside
and write the stories of those marines and soldiers on the front
lines.
“Also, I have been doing a lot of study about the role of
women in politics, business and the professions and I feel that I
need to help do anything I can to move that cause along. “
“We are on the verge of a major push by women to rise
above their limited lot in life. Have you read Betty Friedan’s book
“The Feminine Mystique?”
“No, I haven’t but I’ve heard other women friends
talking about it.”
“Anne, it is a must read. Women are being given an
impetus to fight for more freedom, particularly in public life. I
happen to know that there a lot of women trying to get assigned to
Vietnam with the idea of making their presence as journalists a
matter of fact instead of an aberration. I want to be one of those
women.”
“Wow. You are a terrific, Cathy.”
“Anne, I not only need to get there but I need to find an
important enough sponsor to be recognized as a professional. In
fact, my real dream is to find an assignment in which Mickey is
75
teamed with me as a photojournalist. He has become a real
professional and is getting a reputation.”
“I have no doubt that you will find a way. Here comes
our waiter” She raised her glass “Here’s to the modern Brenda
Starr.”
Fifteen minutes later we were interrupted when a
beautiful black young woman stopped by to greet Annie. “Elsie,
meet m closest friend, Cathy. Please join us.”
“I wouldn’t think of it. Yu two seemed to be enjoying a
special moment.”
“It was but we would be honored.” She took Elsie’s hand
and pulled her into the seat. “Didn’t you tell me the other day of
your interest in applying for a reporter position on the Columbia
News?”
“Yes I did.”
“My friend Cathy Cheka has been a stalwart with the
news and works part time with the New York Times. Cathy this is
Elsie James.”
“Wow. You’re that Cathy? You’re famous on this
campus. It’s exciting to meet you.”
Embarrassed and blushing I thanked her. “Why do you
want to write for the News?
“I was editor of my high school paper. My dad is
publisher of the Harlem Herald and I am interested in politics.”
From that moment the three of us we were of and
running, comparing stories and asking questions. She was asking
me all the right questions. It seemed that within the space of
twenty minutes I had made myself a new young friend.
Annie asked, “Since I am not having dessert do you
mind if I leave while you two do your newspaper thing. I want to
see Paul.” She left, hardly noticed b us as we kept delving into
76
each other’s journalism interests. Before we were ready to leave,
Elsie had volunteered to work with me in my new project and I
would introduce her to the editor of the News.
It is amazing the way a chance meeting can lead to a new
and long lasting friendship that played an important part in my
journalism career.
77
Chapter 4.
Within three weeks, in my new job, we had set up
connections to seven campuses, students eager to feed news of
political actions to national media. On May 5th I had a call telling
me of a march by several hundreds student carrying a black coffin
to the draft board offices. On arrival, approximately forty young
men burned their draft cards.
When I told my new boss that a similar special event was
being planned in Berkeley on the twenty-first, he asked if I could
take the time for a trip. That left Elsie to handle the office.
The event was sponsored by a group known as the
Vietnam Day Committee and was a three-day teach-in. My
contacts and I organized a method for counting as many
participants as possible, eventually estimating approximately
twenty thousand attendees. There were students from other
schools, citizens, Cal students and members of the faculty. The
three-day event was generally peaceful. On the second day some
students marched to the draft board where nineteen students
burned their draft cards
The gathering, where the President was burned in effigy,
bordered on chaos with yours truly caught right in the middle. I
don’t mind saying that I was scared until cooler heads managed to
keep the demonstration non violent.
I learned a lot about human action and reaction in the
midst of that near riot. I had studied a little about mob psychology
in class and learned that often in crowds individual lose their selfawareness. They are less likely to follow normal restraints and
inhibit tons and more likely to lose their sense of individual
78
identity. Groups can generate a sense of emotional excitement,
which can lead to the provocation of behaviors that a person would
not typically engage in if alone.
Observing and talking with some protestors made me
aware that all kinds of people joined protests with their own anger
and an agenda that had nothing to do with the movement. I
interviewed two students who were angry with the university and
one professor whom they felt treated them poorly. The cursing and
other demonstrations of personal anger was indeed a surprise
In the middle of the pushing and pulling, I caught an
elbow in the face when I tried to stop a teenage student from using
her magic marker to write obscenities on the marble walls of a
building. She turned on me and was about to take a punch. I am
grateful to some strong male who came to my rescue.
During the next eighteen months I delivered stories of
political action on seventeen campuses including a major flop in
Oakland, California in July.
One of the major stories was from the University of
Iowa, where a student, Stephen Smith. Spoke, at a rally, and
burned his card, resulting in arrest and three years probation.
I received two special commendations from my boss.
One was for uncovering the fact that that by early 1966, over two
million students had received deferments while one hundred and
eighty thousand men were drafted.
The second was my breaking story that Robert
McNamara was to be the subject of a mass protest at Harvard in
November. A veteran reporter was dispatched to Harvard for that
story.
The news of the coming demonstration was my final
story. I had received my degree and was eager to move on I still
79
found myself of two minds regarding the protests, particularly as I
read stories by Gloria Emerson, the Times correspondents in
Vietnam.
I was certainly in agreement with those who opposed our
presence in Vietnam. I had been privileged to become trusted by
some of the protest leaders and thus involved in some one on one
conversation about the depth of their feelings and the logic of their
positions.
I was also drawn to an empathy with the young men who
were drafted and had placed their lives on the line in a war zone. I
had this developing strong urge to write their story as well.
Elsie, Annie and I had lunch at least once each week. On
several occasions I accompanied Elsie to her home in Elmhurst on
Long Island to have dinner with her folks and Joshua, her
boyfriend.
On one occasion she and I walked about twelve blocks
down 125th Street to visit her dad’s news plant before going home
for dinner. It was the first time I walked down a street seeing not
one other white face on the crowded sidewalk. It was rather
intimidating until I realized the friendly greetings that Elsie and I
received from shop owners and a few friends.
I learned a lot about Harlem history and had a grand tour
as Mr. James drove us through the business district, the residential
areas and some of the tenement areas, providing an eye opening
experience.
Time was running short. It was time to start earning a
regular income and I needed to land an assignment as a reporter in
Vietnam. I knew that if I took a regular position with any
80
newspaper I would have to agree to a minimum term and could
never achieve my dream of getting to Vietnam.
I steeled myself to make the rounds, begging if I had to. I
felt certain that some woman’s magazine would want to have a
woman rep in Vietnam, letting their readers know that women
were as ready as men to take face risk in order to provide the truth.
There was no sense in tying major newspapers or
magazines. They had reporters already in the war one.
Perhaps the women magazines might be receptive.
During the next two days I made the rounds of Vanity Fair,
Redbook, Vogue, Cosmopolitan and Elle, I struck out on all counts
but was determined not to give up. I did find some interest from
some Long Island regional papers but I needed more if Mickey and
I were to be minimally supported.
My job at the Times was coming to an end. Jay came
over from the photography unit to see me on my last day at the
Times and invited me to dinner after work. I agreed and cleared
my desk and went to a late lunch with the boss and some of my
fellow staffers. The champagne flowed freely and the party was
still going when I finally set off for Jay’s home
Phyllis, Jay’s wife, welcomed me with a big hug, invited
me to have a seat in the kitchen, then pouring me a large mug of
hot coffee. “It seems someone threw you a party, Cathy.”
“Yes. As you can see, I am still a little woozy. Thanks
for the coffee. Today was my last day at the Times.”
An hour and a half later, stuffed to the gills with roast
beef and all the fixings I was totally relaxed when Jay asked. “You
and Mickey still plan on pairing up and hoping for a joint
assignment to “some dangerous place?”
81
Mickey responded ´My deferment is up meaning I need
to enlist or wait to be drafted unless I can get a posting to take pics
in the war zone. . I’d rather be there with sis on assignment doing
what I do best, because the recruiters tell me there is no guarantee
that I can be assigned as a photographer.” I looked at Julie and saw
the tears flowing down her cheeks as Mickey calmly made his
statement.
I said “I have some feelers out with some regional papers
in New Jersey and north of the city who may be interested in
sponsoring me. They think it might be nice to have a byline from
Vietnam over a woman’s signature. I haven’t been able to get them
to spring the dollars for the two of us.”
Julie knocked over her chair as she jumped up and
dashed out of the room, followed immediately by Mickey. I saw
the tears start to drop from Phyllis’ eyes and could sense mine
about to do the same. She stood to clear away some of the dishes
and said, “I’ll make some coffee and get the dessert.”
When she was out of earshot, Jay said, “If you can swing
your deal with the papers, I am sure I can set up Mickey. Our trade
association and the news photographers’ union want to show our
support for the young men who are fighting on our behalf,
particularly because they are becoming the victims on behalf of the
politicians. What do you think?”
I rose to give him a warm hug that got a rise from
Phyliss as she rejoined us. I said “We just need to fix it with
Mickey’s draft board, which is back in Pennsylvania.”
It was time to say good-bye to my former colleagues at
the Columbia News, particularly Elsie and also Annie who was
doing some post grad work.
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Spring of 1967
The most difficult gathering was during our trip to
Coalton. There was no way to avoid the tearful family get together
before the only two children headed off to the danger zone. While
we were there, Mickey and I spent hours taking long walks to
strengthen our legs as well as doing morning calisthenics.
The two of us spent hours studying the EnglishVietnamese dictionary and grammar books hoping to be able to
make rudimentary conversation with the Vietnamese residents in
towns and villages. This practice continued through the long hours
of the flight to Southeast Asia.
I hardly slept the night before we departed from San
Francisco for the long flight to Saigon. At firsts my mind was
filled with doubts about taking my little brother with me into a war
zone where each day would put him at risk. I remembered how
mama was worried about losing her only two offspring. My mind
kept filling with imaginary battle scenes in which we were huddled
down in some undergrowth in a jungle. I have no idea how or from
where those scenes emanated.
I asked myself “How will I react when I hear for the first
time a shot fired in anger and aimed at a human body?”
Thinking about mama’s worries took me back in time
when as a youngster in elementary school, she helped me with
reading, spelling and arithmetic. I had this visual image of her
shucking some corn as I read from my third grade reader, her
apron catching the leaves and corn silk that escaped her grasp.
I thought about our woman-to-woman talks when I was
in my teens and the rules she set down, expecting me to rebel and
become my own person with good solid underpinnings.
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The last thing I remembered before falling asleep was
lying in Johnny’s arms, his lips nestled into a hollow just below
my left ear.
I was sitting next to the port window on the flight, deep
in reverie when Mickey jarred me back to the present. “Sis, how do
we get to the combat zones with all the opposition that General
Westmoreland has to women staying in the field with the marines
and soldiers?”
“I talked with two women who spent six months in
Vietnam They gave me some tips. One of them said that “there is
little resistance to women reporters at the lower echelons. In fact,
the enlisted men like it because it is a small victory against the
brass. Their platoon and company leaders want to keep them
happy.
My new friend told me that young helicopter pilots never
turn down a request for a ride from the women if they can make
room,”
“By the way, Mick, I have a bit of good news. I called
my boss at the Times and told him I was leaving. He called me
back in an hour and asked me to send some stories and pictures. He
wants pictures of people not of mayhem. He will try to get them
published and if so we will be reimbursed for each story used.”
“You, dear sister, are something else. By the way, mama
made me promise that we each would write once a week. You
know, I think she is easier with our going than is dad.”
“Yes. That’s true and I’ll write as often as I can.”
Looking out the window from the third floor of the
Caravels Hotel in city center, Saigon, I was entranced to see a
kaleidoscope of colors of white, blue and red clothing and black
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bicycles and mopeds, Nile green mini dresses with plunging
necklines on the call girls, the white pantaloons, the traditional
wear of the Vietnamese young ladies, a few yellow small cars,
brands unknown to me. Mostly there were bicycles and mopeds
I had been surprised to see how wide the streets and
boulevards were as we drove in from the airport and the
orderliness of the cyclists in a city with no electric signal lights.
Mickey seemed so relaxed but I was as tight as a drum. I
turned to him.” Mickey, are you as calm as you seem?”
He blushed and admitted “I’ve been trying to put on a good
front, not admitting I was scared when you looked so calm.”
I let a high-pitched laugh. “I am totally frightened out of
my wits. I was doing fine, I thought. Then, seeing all the guards
along the highway in from the airport and the slew of soldiers out
our window, made it becomes real. Tomorrow we may be the
targets of some Viet Cong sniper. I got to worrying that I have
brought you into harms way.”
Mickey put his arms around me, pulling my head to his
shoulders, his hand smoothing my hair. “Sis, I would be here, no
matter, either as a soldier or a photographer. Now tell me about
tomorrow.”
“We are leaving in his morning for a naval base on the river
and canals, accompanying a group of replacement naval personnel.
It took some haggling but it seems to have smoother out.”
We had a drink at the bar before asking for a table tin the
dining room. The receptionist seated us next to the window and
adjacent to a table occupied by a light colonel from the Australian
Task Force, who smiled warmly at the two of us. “Welcome to
Vietnam. You do appear to be recent arrivals.”
“Yes we are,”
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“If I may be so bold, I would be pleased to have you join
me for dinner. Dining alone is rather boring.”
I looked at Mickey who nodded “. It would be a pleasure.”
The colonel stood as we moved toward him and extended his hand.
“My friends call me Jake, Jackson Trowne.”
I placed my hand in his. “Cathy and Mickey Cheka from
New York.”
We sat while the waiter hovered to see if we were ready for
another drink. Jake signaled for another round. “I presume you
are reporters from the states.”
Mickey responded. “Cathy is the journalist and I shoot
some pictures to go with her stories.” I was dying to ask some
questions but decided that propriety outranked inquisitiveness at
this point.
Since we were early arrivals, the crowd was pretty thin and
not too noisy, allowing for easy conversation. We spend some
time chatting about backgrounds while we finished our drinks. In
the dining room, the waiter took our orders and Jake ordered
another drink.
I finally got up the courage to ask, “Jake is there any
specific advice you have for a couple of greenhorns?”
“I’m not one to give advice but I would remind you always
to be sure that your back is covered. The Vietcong is made up of
very clever and sneaky soldiers who mix so easily with the
villagers and other natives, even in the cities. I don’t think you
would come to harm here in the city but down country any white
face is seen as the enemy.”
I was hesitant to ask more questions but seeing the look on
my face, Jake said. “Don’t hesitate, Cathy. That’s your job. I’ll try
to answer questions that are answerable.”
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“I thought you might want to escape the war for a while
since you appear to be on leave.”
“Actually, I am in town for series of conversations with our
American counterparts. I needed a few hours separation from the
heavy brass.”
I took a few bites of the food, which had arrived, before
saying. “I’m not sure where to start so why don’t you tell me
something that you believe folks at home should know.”
“You, Ms. Cheka, are clever and sneaky. Let me have a
few bites and time to think about your suggestion.” He picked up
his chopsticks and proceeded very deftly to move his rice and
shrimp from platter to his lips.
“This may not be a story for the homefolks but may be of
interest to you. It may prove useful as you try to unravel the
complex picture that has emerged here.
We Aussies have taken responsibility for Phuoc Tuy
province. We believed we were having success using our methods
of since we had won a significant battle at Long Tan last August.”
“By the way, you may not be able to report most of this
because of your censors, but it will give you a brief picture of how
things operate here.”
“Okay.”
“We believe in searching out the Vietcong members who
are hiding among the, villagers recruiting help and taking there rice
production to feed their soldiers.”
Jake paused for a bit to sip of his drink and ordered
another. “Our strategist suggested a change from the conventional
tactics to concentrating on population control and route security to
interrupt the flow of materials across our area.
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“The American top brass, particularly General
Westmoreland started challenging us to return to the ore
conventional approach but was being ignored.”
I laughed, “I guess there is no way I could get that story
past the censors.”
He joined in the laughter, his hollow laughter, and then
continued. “Well, last month the Vietcong changed tactics and
gave us quite a tussle. Up to this point, we had been dominant in
every action with the Cong but at what is now known as the battle
at AP we got a scare. After three days of intense fighting we could
declare a victory but at great cost in loss of more than a hundred
young men and equipment.”
He did his best to present a mask of calm but I was aware
of some deep emotions churning in his eyes. He must have been
dealing with thoughts of what it meant for him to order young men
into the heat of battle. I shuddered and waited.
Jake finished off his drink, ordered another, and then turned
to his food, which had turned cold by this time. He played with the
food and finally pushed it aside as Mickey and I waited.
He resumed his story. “We learned some hard lessons. The
VC was stronger than we had imagined. They were no longer a rag
tag group of volunteers. Their behavior last month indicated good
training and discipline, in fact, better discipline than the South
Vietnamese soldiers. The scariest thing that came to mind was that
they had a passion that seemed to elude our southern brothers.”
“We believe they now have direct support of the North and
may have some of the North noncoms leading and supporting their
effort.”
“We also discovered our weaknesses, which is what brings
us together here in the capital for our own meetings and then for
joint meetings with the Americans.”
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I correctly assumed that he had decided to stop even though
there were great holes that I would love to have him fill in with
details.
“Jake, have you even been to the states?”
“One brief trip. I was a guest at your War College for six
weeks and returned with a short stop for three days in glitzy Los
Angeles.”
Mickey giggled, “Do I hear an “Ugh” in there?”
“I would not be that discourteous but I was under
impressed.” He stood and said, “I do believe that I have reached
the limit of my ability to imbibe. Do excuse me.”
He took my hand, put it to his lips, then said “Blessings on
both of you and watch your back.”
The two of us took a walk after dinner. Walking the streets in
the company of a male presented no risk although the presence of
hookers and petty thieves was rampant. The military made up most
of the strollers, most being pursued and propositioned by the ladies
of the evening.
We were seated in the bar when large booms broke into
the babble of the patrons. I asked Mickey hopefully “Thunder?”
He took my hand. “Nope. Artillery. The concierge told
me that at this hour every evening. Seven days a week, the enemy
begins their bombardments of supposed positions of our troops
north of the city. They are far enough away that no one here pays
any attention as you will notice by looking around.”
He was right. Everyone else seemed to act as though no
bombardment was taking place, but I had that tight feeling in my
guts that would not go away.
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Mickey seemed to fall asleep within minutes of hitting
his bed but a myriad of things buzzed though my mind and
probably the fear that some bombardment might start up closer to
us than the one earlier.
I kept wondering what dangers would confront us on the
trip to An Thoi area during the following morning. Would some
officer refuse us passage in one of the trucks headed there with
supplies?
My mind finally focused on our dinner conversation. I
tried to read between the lines, knowing very well my training
from Bill that one had to listen to what was not said. Was Jake
implying a warning? What message was he implying about the fact
that we were now facing two disciplined and well-armed
opponents? I certainly did not like hearing that he believed the VC
soldiers displayed a passion for their cause not visible in our
southern brothers.”
90
91
Chapter 5.
Early in the morning, near a convoy of trucks, we had a
visit by a bird colonel who tried to cajole us into aborting our
mission, implying that since top brass did not want women
journalists in battle zones over night, we might be sent home. Their
position was that this was a man’s war and women could be a
distraction. I wasn’t having a part of that.
Typically, he addressed his comments to Mickey, a male,
not to the woman. Mickey deferred to me and I made it clear,
rather loudly, that we would take our chances, as had other women
before me. He made a point "Young woman, you need to know
that no woman had ever accompanied naval operations in the
rivers”
I reminded him again that I would take my chances. I
asked him “Colonel, are you forbidding my taking on this
assignment?’
He flushed and stammered “I don’t have that authority
but I wish I had.” He finally caved in and did not make any real
effort to stop us in the front of an audience of GI’s and sailors
We must have walked a quarter mile, past’s truck after
truck until we found the dispatcher. He smiled. “Welcome He
pointed to a vehicle another twenty yards down the line. “Hop
aboard. The driver is expecting you.”
The body of the truck was carrying large cartons of food
stuff and three soldiers who were part of the protective escort for
the trip north.
The first part of the trip was uneventful except for the
distant rumble of artillery. Traffic was heavy both ways. Our
convoy seemed to be escorted by speeding jets flying low
periodically and helicopters more often. I was less than sure of our
92
safety when the first jet flew by, expecting to be a victim of an
enemy bomber.
I learned to take my cue from the soldiers. Since they did
not panic, I had to presume I was safe.
There were some long stops when the army swept
portions of the roadway to make certain that buried mines would
not take their toll.
I chatted up the young soldiers, all privates, who were
my traveling companions and my protectors under leadership of
the sergeant. I learned a little of the life stories of the three who
were seated near me, John, Kote, Billy Smith and Bob Tole.
Suddenly, without warning, the driver hit the brakes
hard. “Cathy, out of the truck and roll under until I tell you
otherwise.” I was momentarily frozen in place as I saw him reach
for his rifle and dash toward the trees.
I did as he commanded but Mickey did not join me. I
found out later that he followed the squad. It is hard to remember
specifics but I do believe I was trembling as I pulled my body into
a tight fetal position and waited for the sound of gunfire.
Fortunately, after a few s sporadic firings, all was quiet. False
Alarm.
It was after our first stop, a false alarm when all the
soldiers returned from action, that I noticed the high tension in
John’s body.
I asked him about the alert that had sent them into action.
With a tone of false bravado he said, “I guess we scared the VC
away.”
“Is this your first assignment, John?”
“No. I spent two months on patrol, mostly scouring for
roadside mines. That’s kind of stress- ful, so I got a long week end
pass and reassigned to this detail.”
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“Can you tell me about those days on patrol?”
His body suddenly screwed up, as he turned away no
longer wanting to talk with me. In retrospect I now know he had
been over stressed during those first two months the daily exposure
to the risk of stepping on a mine, took a heavy toll on his psyche.
I switched subjects, asking about his life before being
drafted. He waxed eloquently talking of his mom and dad and his
girl, Jessie. Finally he smiled “That was nice. You are the first
person to show any interest in whom I am. Thank you.”
I felt pretty good about his comment and would try to
remember that in future interviews.
Prior to this stop, I could hear the men talking and
laughing, but the word was out. We were entering perilous
territory.
After one longer stop during which the soldiers
disappeared, Mike, the sergeant, came by to tell us that a small
Viet Cong patrol had been spotted but all was clear now. As he
told the story, I could feel the beginning of the tightening but then
realized it was short lived. I believe that Mike’s calm was
transferring itself to me.
My clothes were covered with dirt resulting from the roll
under the truck. Mickey teased me and helped me clear of some of
the muck.
Being uneventful was Sergeant Mike’s way of describing
the trip. That does not mean that I was relaxed. Far from it,
especially during the first three hours, but I surprised myself by
growing accustomed to the tension before the trip was completed. I
attribute that to reading Mike’s body language.
Mike, the sergeant, was very affable. He climbed into the
truck with us and was willing to chat with us and answer questions.
94
His name was Mike Sobczak, the son of Polish immigrants, an
eight-year veteran on his third tour to Vietnam. He was a veteran
of three fire fights during his first tours but now was relegated,
according to him, to somewhat softer duty in charge of a guard
detail on convoys of personnel and materials,
Each hour on the hour, we stopped for five minutes
while his charges exchanged positions with others as guards riding
on the roof as lookouts and “riding shotgun” as he said to me.
Mickey took a lot of pictures of the soldiers and sailors
with their approval, mostly when we had our five-minute breaks
and during the safety rests as Mike referred to the longer stops.
We arrived at Coastal Division 11, near AnThoi just
prior to dusk. Mike asked two of his charges to help us unload
while he found a navy chief who took us in tow, heading for the
chow hall with the three of us for a very welcome hot meal. We
had gobs of salad and fresh apple pie for dessert topped off with
strong navy coffee. This kind of feast was not what I had expected.
Mike invited me to stay for an extra piece of dessert after
the others cleared out. He asked, “How do you think you survived
your first day, Cathy?”
“I have mixed feelings. Starting out I felt braver than I
do now. I was scared as hell several times during the trip.”
“I noticed that. You were white as a sheet when I
returned from pursuing the small group of Viet Cong.”
“I was really frightened, mostly because of what was
going through my head. My imagination was running wild me, I
guess, since everything is so new and strange to me. As I reflect
back now, I am sure that I was more afraid of pain than I was of
death. Strange, isn’t it?”
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“At one point, when you were gone for what seemed an
eternity, I was thinking that I had lost the first friend I had made in
this strange land.” I could feel the tears forming behind my eyelids
as I shared my feelings with Mike.
He reached across the table to take my hand in his until
he sensed that I had myself under control again. “You do know
that you may be even closer to the enemy in the days ahead since
you hoping to make at least one patrol run on the Swift boat.”
“Yes, I know, but somehow I now feel I can do this and
remain calm even if scared under fire.”
“What else are you planning?”
“Mostly character studies, I hope. I want to write some
of what I experience with the military but I’m hoping to have my
readers understand the men who are putting their lives on the line
and what it may be costing them.”
“Sounds like you want to be the Ernie Pyle of the
Vietnam War.”
“I haven’t thought of trying to emulate Ernie, but I am
interested in what is happening to the individuals on the firing line.
If I have the privilege, I hope to write something of the Vietnamese
families caught in the cross file.”
“I have a feeling that you will accomplish all you hope
for Cathy. I must tell you that I thought you and your brother
showed more composure than any of the new recruits in that
truck.”
“Thank you, Mike. I pray you’re right”
“Come now. I want to introduce you to two of the boat
skippers, both of whom I hope will be willing to take you on
patrol.”
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We found Mickey and took off for the officers’
wardroom. There must have been a dozen young officers, Ensigns
and Lieutenant Jg’s, either playing cards or shooting pool. Mike
shouted “Lady Aboard.” and took us over to one of the pool tables.
The room went dead still, all eyes focused on me. “Guys, meet
Cathy and Mickey Cheka, journalist and photographer, who will be
with you for a few days. We’ve just arrived by convoy from
Saison.”
A chorus of “Welcome, Howdy, Nice to have you,” and
some I couldn’t understand. Mike then introduced us to Jonathan
Oliver and Jason Black who, in turn, introduced us to John Paulsen
and Jake Feingold. The four of them hung up their pool cues and
found us a table. Mike started to excuse himself but Jason said.
“What’s your poison, Mike? This particular piece of officer
country is open to all with no exceptions.”
Beers all around except for Jonathan, who had an early
patrol. They pressed the two of us about our intentions and hopes.
Thirty minutes into the conversation Jason said “I think we have a
good chance to make your hopes come to fruition. I’ll stroll over to
the senior officers’ ward room to see our squadron commander,
Jimmy Falk, about arrangements for your joining us on patrols
over the next few days.”
“Ask for as many as four, if possible” said Jonathan
Mickey popped up with “Do you think your crews would
like to have some pictures, posed or candid to send home to their
families or girl friends?”
“Are you kidding they’ll stand in line all day.” Mick
figured it would be our way of repaying them while hoping to find
some character studies for his collection.
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Jason invited the others present in the room to come over
and meet us, telling them about our hopes and the individual
picture opportunities.
Mike stood up “Time to hit the sack. I’m off early for the
return to headquarters.” He turned to me. “Great getting to know
you, Cathy. Jake says he will take care of private sleeping quarters
for you and a bunk for Mickey. He will safeguard Mickey’s
equipment.”
“Thank you, Mike. Meeting you has been like a
miracle.” I gave him a warm hug and a warm kiss on the cheek and
Mickey came over to shake his hand and offer his own thanks.
Jake said to us “We close early since one third to one
half of us will be on patrol tomorrow. Mickey, your stuff is well
protected here in a private room at the rear where Cathy can drop
her sleeping bag for the night. We have a guard at both entrances
along with our normal placement of guards to patrol all the camp
areas. Would you like another beer before we close down the bar?”
We both nodded a negative and took our seats. Jason
came strolling in with a big grin “Jimmy is all for it although I
heard a couple of his buddies trying to tell him that the big brass
will not be pleased. .He said there wasn’t any punishment he had
to worry about, being a reserve and that he was already punished
since he was here in Nam. He is great.”
I asked “You mean we can go on patrols?”
“Yep. Up to four of them, but Jimmy decides which
patrols, probably trying to guess which might be a little less risky.”
John, who hadn’t spoken a word, said “Who can guess
what the VC will or will not have planned for us.”
Fifteen minutes later, the gang said goodnight to me after
one of the guys had gone to the bunk rooms and brought a couple
of blankets to put under my sleeping bag and a couple of sheets. I
98
certainly never expected such luxury on my first night in the war
zone.
I headed out to the latrine or in navy language, the
outdoor head, to empty my bladder before retiring. Despite the
promise that the area was safe, I dashed both ways, praying that
some Vietcong soldier was not looking for target practice.
With lights out I removed all my clothing slipping
between the sheets and hoping for at least some air from the fans,
which continued to rotate during the night.
The night was punctuated with sounds of gunfire and the
booming of artillery off in the distance. Before dawn I heard the
movement of my new friends, some of who were prepping for the
dawn patrols of the rivers. There was no attempt to be quiet. I
heard a mixture of voices, “Where’s the damn box of fifties? Who
took my coffee mug? Do you have our lunch boxes, Smitty? The
hell with it.”
There was no way I was going to sleep; so I dressed and
joined the crews, running into Mickey. “Unable to sleep?” I asked.
“Yeah, but I’m also headed out on a patrol.”
“Great. Take a few notes for me along with your photos.
I hope to be on a later trip.”
“Good morning, Cathy.” I turned o find Jason walking
toward us with two cups of hot coffee¸ one for me.
“Thanks, Jason.”
“My pleasure. You’re up early. Couldn’t sleep?”
“Right. Not used to artillery and ground fire erupting in
the middle of my dreams.”
“Give it a couple of nights and you’ll sleep through
everything.”
“I’ll take your word for it.”
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Fifteen minutes later the engines were roaring but the
voices were mute as the two Swift boars pulled away from the pier.
Six hours later I was aboard PCF 110, outfitted to look
like a crewmember. Our skipper was Jonathan Oliver,
commanding a crew of five who said to me “Feel free to roam and
ask questions until I let you know to the contrary.”
He continued “This should be a relatively smooth patrol.
Most action happens during the early and late patrols. That is not
to say that there is no risk. The enemy does not nap during the
daylight hours but does find it harder to hide, even in the heavy
bush.”
I chose to chat with Felix the forward lookout during the
first and safest part of the trip.
“Felix, do you feel comfortable enough to tell me what
runs through your mind when we are about to encounter the
enemy?”
“That’s too personal, Miss.”
“Call, me Cathy, please. I know but I’m trying to write
about the human side of the war. I want to write a full picture and
will share my source with no one unless you want to be identified.”
“All right but I do not want anyone to know. First,
answer a question for me. Are you scared?”
“Yes, I am.”
“If you multiply that by fifty then you will begin to
understand how scared I am. In order to get past that I try not to
think about the enemy by letting my minds see my Katie as we
kissed goodbye at the railroad station thirteen months and three
days ago. When Mr. Oliver orders alert I take my binoculars and
focus on the riverbanks ahead hoping to see the face of the enemy,
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a difficult job. From that point forward there is no time for fear or
for day dreaming”
“What specifically are you looking for?”
“A glint of metal on shore, the possibility of armed VC’s
among the locals who are fishing in the river. Others are focused
on the water ahead looking for boats, sampans or junks that may be
carrying supplies and ammo for the enemy.”
“Thanks, Felix. I may have some other questions when I
learn what the important questions I should be asking. ”
Nicky, another member the crew, started passing out
coffee mugs, saying to me “Last coffee before alert schedule.”
When he picked up the mugs about ten minutes later I asked him if
we had time and if he were willing to chat. He thought that would
be okay for another ten minutes.
“Nicky, you seem a little older than all the others.
Would you care to tell me about yourself?”
“I don’t mind but I thought you were more interested in
the action here.”
“That’s important but I am hoping to have my readers
informed about the persons who are fighting and how they see this
war.”
“Okay and you can quote me if you find anything
interesting. I am Nicholas Kochoff, born to Ukrainian immigrants.
I am married to Katrina and father to young Nicky. I am in my
eleventh year, regular navy, and leading petty officer in the crew,
junior only to the skipper.”
‘Have you ever been injured as a result of your navy
duties?”
Twice, although the doctors qualify them as minor, I do
have two purple hearts. One more and I can be transferred out of
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this hell hole.” Before he could add anything the skipper yelled,
“Pass the word. Alert.”
The tension rose a hundred percent in that moment and
was palpable. It seemed to me that every back was just a bit stiffer
and I was aware that my body had tightened significantly.
Nicky checked me over to be sure I was properly
uniformed for the combat zone and took me to my seat where I had
just enough vision to see what would be happening with at least
some modicum of protection.
He said “If, by any chance, you catch sight of a flash or
even a glint of sunlight reflecting off any surface, yell my name
and point.” He was implying the presence of a sniper. I could feel
every muscle in my body continue to tighten up and I remembered
Felix’s word about being frightened. Never the less, I was
definitely determined not to panic.
We suddenly heeled over as we turned into a branch of
the river and moved out to the center of the stream.
The scene before me could have been a lazy summer day
with a myriad of fishing poles flanked by women doing their
laundry. Children were running in an out of the water, yelling and
playing a game similar to our game called tag. Most of them
waved a welcome greeting, at least it seemed that way to me.
Only Nicky waved back, everyone else at full alert. The
air continued to be thick with tension, having its full effect on me.
Nicky turned, handed me a set of binoculars. ‘If you see anything
out of the ordinary, call my name and point.”
“What am I looking for?”
“Something that seems out of place.”
I was torn between my desire to be writing notes,
particularly about my feelings and thoughts, and the need to be of
any help to the crew.
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I gasped and started to call Nicky but Felix shouted
“Two sampans dead ahead turning to shore.” I stood up for a better
view. The skipper signaled for the occupants to halt but they put
their oars to work along with dropping their sail.
The skipper ordered, “Open fire.” The chatter of the fifty
caliber machine guns and the firing of the eighty-one millimeter
mortars seemed deafening to me. The sailors abandoned ship,
jumping into the river and swimming for shore. Both sampans
were destroyed, one blown to bits as the cargo of ammo exploded.
It was the fireworks display in Central Park, fifty times bigger and
louder and hell of a lot more serious. The personnel successfully
evaded us by disappearing into the jungle.
As we approached the flotsam, Nicky and Felix leaning
over the side, we came under attack from rifle fire emanating out
of the foliage to our starboard. The only evidence was the smoke
puffs from the shooting area, which became the target of our fifty
caliber machine guns, as they swiveled and began their chatter. We
had no way of knowing if any enemy were struck but Nicky was
holding his right leg and I could see blood oozing through his pant
leg. Jonathan yelled for me to hunker down behind the bulkhead.
In all the excitement I had forgotten to watch out for my safety.
The skipper ordered full speed ahead to get us out of
range and avoid further damage. I was jerked backwards as the
boat thrust forward. A moment later, Felix helped Nicky back into
the cabin and applied a tourniquet while I reached into the first aid
kit and found some gauze pads to press over the bleeding wound.
I heard Jonathan asking Felix “How bad is it?”
“Looks like flesh only. I don’t see any bone ends
protruding nor blood gushing from an artery.” Nicky was gritting
his teeth and trying not to let the tears roll out. Felix had me
remove the pad so he could apply some sort of powder direct to the
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wound. I found more pads and a roll of gauze and tape. Ten
minutes later Nicky was almost zonked out from a near overdose
of painkiller that Felix had given him.
Jonathan who had come down to the cabin from the
bridge asked “How are you doing, Cathy?”
“Right now I’m shaking like a leaf, all of which started
after we had Nicky bandaged and sedated. I can’t seem to hold
onto anything at the moment.”
“Absolutely classic effects of a first engagement. Take
this relaxing pill if you want.”
“I think I will be okay in a few minutes. Besides you can
use another lookout with Nicky out of commission.”
“I can’t ask a civilian to do that.”
“I didn’t hear you ask me anything, why don’t you return
to your post and let me rest here as your guest, with my binoculars
at hand.”
He grinned and placed his large hand on my shoulder
and went up to his post.
The medic at the base was worried about a possible
infection and decided to ask the supply helicopter pilot to take
Nicky with him on the return to Saigon in the morning.
After chow with my new friends in the officers’ mess, I
came to sit with Nicky after he was less sedated. “Cathy, it is nice
of you to come for a visit with a sick friend.” He laughed. “Pull up
a seat.”
“How bad is it, Nicky?”
“Just right. Not too damaging but enough to get me
reassigned away from this hell hole.” I hate this damned activity.
We put ourselves in harm’s way, destroy some wooden boats, and
kill a few VC’s. The enemy is clever and move most of their
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supplies and ammo in between our patrols. The whole thing stinks,
but please don’t quote me personally on that last statement.”
“Does that mean you hope for a discharge?”
Hell no. I want this to be my career, .to serve my
country, not like those kids back home. It would be nice if we
could cash it in right now before we waste so many more lives.”
Felix came in. My conversation with Nicky was over
and I stood to leave. “Please stay Cathy. I will be only a few
minutes and would like to talk with you. He turned to Nicky.
“Lucky bastard. You got the third one instead of me.
Hope you get assigned stateside. It’s been great serving with you
buddy.”
I could hardly swallow with the lump in my throat as I
watched two grown men weep without shame at their parting and
ending up in each other’s arms “Give my love to Katrina and my
godson, little Nicky. I hope to see you in the spring.”
He turned, walked out of the room, expecting me to
follow. We walked to the small enlisted men’s club where he
sprung for a couple of cokes.
“Cathy, we shared one patrol together and
it is unlikely that we shall see each other again. You will have
patrols with other crews and then probably be on your way to some
other hole in this morass. I think the public needs to know more
about what is happening to the people here, the locals and those of
us serving in the military.”
“One of my other buddies recently had a letter from his
girl friend whose father was telling her that it was unpatriotic to be
writing to servicemen who were serving here. There seems to be
such a terrible bias back home against all of us here.”
“You may be doing us a great service with stories about
the personal side of life in Nam. If you are open to one man’s
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opinion, I suggest you may get a balanced view if you continue
talking with enlisted men as well as the officers. If you can find
time, try to interview some of the Vietnamese women . In the
village nearby are several eloquent mamas sans who speak
passable English and fluent French. The Nguyen sisters who hold
opposing political views would be happy to talk with you, if you
choose. You may use my name.”
“Thank you, Felix. Do you think you can introduce me?
It would be better than just using your name.”
“If we can find the time, I’d be happy to do it.”
As I headed to the officers’ area, Jake Paulsen coming up
behind me asked, “May I walk with you, Cathy?”
Laughing I said. “I’d be pleased for an escort.” When
we arrived, he found a free table and, after asking, got me a coke
and some pretzels.
“I have the pleasure of being your host if you are up to a
night patrol beginning at 0200 tomorrow morning. We’ll be back
by 0700.”
“Great, if I can log a little sack time until departure.”
“If you think you can sleep through the usual night
noises, I suggest you might start early. The noise level is much
lower before midnight. We will be a two-boat patrol, each on
either side of the river, fairly close to the riverbanks. Ours will be
succeeding two other boats arriving after the used the same patrol
route from 2000 to 0200.”
“Where do I sack out? We can’t chase the guys out from
here.”
“Jimmy, our skipper is taking off for two days and we
have moved your stuff to his room in the Senior Officers’
quarters.”
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“Wow, one day of service and I get promoted.” We had a
good laugh as we started to my temporary pad.
The outward-bound leg was uneventful but tension was
as palpable as that on my first tour. Everyone was alert even before
we reached what was known as the alert zone. It was a two-boat
patrol and we riding the starboard bank. At the turn around point
we checked out two sampans on the beach and what appeared to be
four families staring at us as we approached. Jake decided they
were friendliest and signaled for the start of the homeward leg.
Approximately a half hour from home- base, the air was
split with a booming sound and my eyes squeezed shut from the
flash of the detonating mine that destroyed our sister patrol boat.
The skipper immediately headed across the stream toward the
scene of the explosion. Our crew turned on two powerful
searchlights looking for any lurking enemies while putting a
constant heavy stream of fifty caliber shells into the bush. The
skipper was concerned that the VC might be
preparing to target us as we moved in for a possible rescue. No one
was to be seen.
As we approached I could hear the screams of pains from
some and moans from others in the water. A very large knot
formed in my belly and I found it difficult to swallow. I felt faint
but challenged myself to keep my composure.
As we neared the disabled boat, the first thing I saw was
Brother Mickey, bobbing in his Mae West and shooting film of the
scene. I had no idea he was aboard. I wanted to yell, “Are you
injured?” but quickly connected to the fact that he was busy
working.
My mind began playing with the guilt of bring my little
brother into this pit, called Vietnam. Mama and Daddy would
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never forgive me if something happened to Mickey. Why was he
on another night patrol?”
Within minutes my mind was back to the present. We
were picking up the entire crew, one dead, three seriously injured
and three relatively unscathed.
It took less than twenty minutes from the moment of the
explosion to get everyone aboard. As I settled down, I again
became upset and very emotional, happy that Mickey was alive
and well, but dismayed that he was filming instead of trying to
help the wounded. He told me later. “Sis, I started to help but the
skipper said he and some of the others would handle things until
our boat arrives and he wanted picture of our boat, the whole scene
including the scattered parts of the boat.”
Back at the base, each of us went through the debriefing.
Afterwards, I spent time with two of the less seriously injured, but
had no access to the three who suffered major injuries. They were
sedated in preparation for a copter ride to the hospital in Saigon.
Sleep was slow coming as I tried to deal with my
feelings but I managed to get a couple of hours in the sack before
Felix knocked at the door. “Cathy, I have the day off and can take
you to the village.”
Sleepily, I answered. “How about an hour from now?”
“The bus leaves in forty-five minutes.” The lack of sleep
was worthwhile. I spent four hours with Nguyen sisters and now
felt I had something unique to write home about.
That evening I spent hours putting together a story of two
sisters who viewed the war from directly opposite viewpoints.
Marie, widow of a Viet Cong lieutenant was an adamant believer
in the tenets of an independent South Vietnam, free of imperialist
rule of the United States, which, in her opinion, had simply taken
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over the role of the French. “I hate this war. Tell your government
to leave and let us rule our own lives.”
“I asked, “Won’t you just become puppets of the North?”
“Very unlikely. The North will be happy to have a southern
neighbor, living under principles similar to their own.”
At that point her sister Helene could not hold back. She cut
in with “My loving and idealistic sister is delusional. If the United
States pulls out, Mr. Ho Chi Mihn will move in with his army and
we will live as austerely as the northerners do now. I don’t want to
live that way.”
I was amazed as the discussion went on for several hours
with focus on the issues while neither seemed to attack the
personage of the other. It just did not get personal at any point.
Helene passionately repeated her feelings. “I want a
democratic free country. The communists in the north will
overpower us and absorb us, something that Marie does not
understand..:”
I was so impressed with their use of the English language
that I had to ask, “Marie, I notice that both of you speak English
beautifully and grammatically correct. I’m surprised to find such
well spoken persons in this rural village.”
“Thank you, Cathy. This is our family home but both of us
lived in Saigon for years with our mother’s brother, a bachelor,
who saw to our education, including years at the University where
we learned French and American English.”
Helene interjected “We lost our husbands within a month
of each other and decided that our mother needed us. This area is
fairly safe.”
Marie picked up the thread. “There are no young men, all
having been drafted. A few of the women have joined up as
warriors with the VC, believing in that cause as I do.”
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I asked “Do you have enough food. I noticed that the
children seem to be quite slim and a bit undernourished.”
Marie said. “We have enough to meet our needs.”
Helene said. Rather wryly “The VC, who takes most of our
crop, leaves us with more than they leave with other villages.”
I pondered her statement and she went on “Since Marie is
known for her stout defense of the Viet Cong, we do receive some
side benefits.”
Marie said with a smile. “yes and sister Helene
occasionally takes some over to the next village which retains quite
a bit less since they have strong anti-Viet Cong feelings.”
I asked “Is that a common practice, the taking of your crops
when soldiers come through?”
Marie answered with a bit of bitterness. “Only with the
Viet Cong. The others seem to have adequate rations and fewer
needs to request from the villagers.”
I also wrote up the story of the night scene in which we lost
that swift boat and one petty officer, a husband and a father of two
little preschool daughters. I sent along some photos of Mickey’s
taken at the scene of the explosion and a picture of the Nguyen
women.
During the hours of working I was in complete control of
my emotions but the moment I finished, my mind flipped back to
the scene of the blow up and I began to cry for the wife and
children of the lost sailor.
It was important during the work hours to be the
professional observing journalist but in the dark and privacy of the
night, I yielded to the feminine side of my being.
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Ten days later I was to receive clippings of both stories that
had been published under my byline in five regional papers and the
sisters’ story published in the Times. My old boss sent me the
clippings and suggested that similar stories focused on locals or
unique contributions by our military men would get the attention of
the right folks at the Times. He added a special comment “Mickey
truly captured the pain and pathos in both women. Be sure to send
pics with all submissions”
While Mickey completed his photos of the officers and
enlisted men, as he had promised, and took to more patrol rides, I
decided to spend time talking with my new friends, officers and
enlisted, or visiting in the village. Felix arranged with his friends to
see to my transport.
I hit the jackpot with an interview set up by and interpreted
by Helene. She was Mrs. Vu, who was forty-nine years old but
looked sixty, a true picture of sadness. She sat in her wooden
rocking chair under a tree, her demeaned expressionless, as she
told me, of her grief losing three sons during the past year. Her
tone was absolutely flat as she said “One was a VC private, my
oldest. The other two were privates in the South Vietnam army.
When we received word of their deaths, my youngest left home
without saying a word. I have had not heard a word from him
except that he is serving with the VC.”
Her responses to my questions were all in monotone,
devoid of expression, her emotion showing through the tears that
rolled down her cheeks.
I was so choked up that I had long pauses between the few
questions I wanted to ask.
I found myself unable to shake a mental picture of mama
receiving word of either or both of us being missing in action.
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I sent Mickey over later that day to use the magic of his
camera to help me tell the story.
The story was well received by my sponsors and picked up
by other newspapers who subscribed to the Times’ services.
Their acknowledgements came a few days before we were
to leave An Thoi.
Along with demands from my supporters, I received an
invitation to do a longer piece for Vanity Fair Magazine featuring
local women as my subject.
That request would have to wait. Jason invited me to join
the boat captains for chow during which he told me that if I were
planning on leaving, this week he could get us a copter ride to
Saigon the following morning. “Your old friend, Mike, says there
is room. Otherwise it will mean a truck convoy.”
“I need to see if Mickey has taken all the pictures of your
crews as he promised. If so, I am ready to go. I walked over to a
table where my brother was seated “Absolutely and I can be ready
in tem minutes.”
“We’ll leave in the morning. Come over and shoot some
pics of the gang with me in the middle and I’ll shoot some that
include you.”
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113
Chapter 6.
Just before dawn, the Huey blades were rotating as Mickey
and I hurried to load our gear and jump aboard. We were really not
settled when we felt lift off. Our friend, Mike, grinned when I fell
backwards into his lap. I laughed and said, “Guess we’re in a
hurry.”
“Yep. I have another caravan to escort later today, heading
for a remote area in the central highlands. Where are you headed?”
“We hope to be where we can be close enough to
understand the reality of what is happening to people, our men as
well as the locals.”
“Why not join us? A battle in the hills has been raging for
weeks. I understand that the enemy is made up of regulars from
NV not the VC.
“There have been heavy losses of both men and material
which is why my outfit is on tap.”
“Can we find some space in the convoy?”
He laughed. “We’ll find room.”
Eight hours later we were departing Saigon and headed for
the combat zone. Just before departure, I saw Mike’s entire
oversized platoon of ARVN standing at ease with their carbines in
hand and grenades hanging from their belts, while they listened to
some instructions from Mike on behalf of his lieutenant.
From the sheer numbers, I guessed that it was a large
convoy with an important cargo. Mickey and I found a seat with
the driver of a large supply truck, a lot more conformable than our
previous ride. The driver said” I’m Joe.Your first trip to a combat
zone. ?”
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“Sort of. We spent a week with a naval swift boat unit and
saw some action with the VC’s. I’m Cathy and this is my brother,
Mickey. He’s the photographer.”
“I’m glad you had some experience but gird your loins.
What you see here will be ten times as bad as anything you may
have experienced with the navy.”
“Do you have some knowledge of what we are going to
see?”
“This is my third trip in three weeks. Although home base
is not involved, the sight of damaged material along the road and
the injured awaiting transportation and the number of body bags is
helluva a sight.”
Mickey asked “When we make our next stop, would you
mind letting me shoot of picture of you next to the truck?”
“No problem, but I would like to have a copy to send home
to my wife.”
“How do you happen to be driving a truck?”
He gave a whop and laughed. “I’m lucky, I guess. After
you’ve been nicked a few times you get reassigned to less
hazardous duties, so I travel to and from hot zones now.”
Before the trip ended I had a great profile for submission.
He was a twelve-year veteran, with a wife and two sons, both in
elementary school. He had not seen his family for the better part
of three years, but heard from all three individually regularly. “I
love the letters from my sons, neither of whom can wait until they
are old enough to enlist. Both get into fights with kids who pick up
anti war ideas from their folks and spout off on the school
playground.”
I asked, “How do feel about being here and taking a couple
of direct hits?”
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“Ma’am, I do what I am told. This is my life. I am not sure
what we are accomplishing here in the jungles, but I am here to
serve my country. It sure would be nice to hear some support from
others back home besides my family and marine friends. It gets a
little lonely when I sit in a foxhole waiting for the next salvo from
some unknown direction. The enemy is hard to see, always hidden
in the brush or high in a tree. I call them ghosts of the jungle.”
I asked “Would you mind if I quoted you in an article that
may get published in the New York area?”
“I’d be honored.” Just then, we heard some weapons firing.
“Outside and scoot under the truck. Do it now.” He reached behind
the seat, picked up his carbine and vanished from our sight.
We lay under the truck for about a half hour. Periods of
silence would then be punctuated with long periods of rifle fire
being exchanged. I kept waiting for the sound of mortars or rockets
that might put us in greater peril and couldn’t help wondering if
our truck or the closes ones might be carrying ammo.
“How are you doing, Mickey?”
“I’m fine, but I would like to get some pics of the action.”
“Bad idea.”
“I know. Seeing the enemy would be impossible anyhow, I
guess, based on Joe’s comments”
“Are you frightened, Mickey?”
He grinned “A little, but not like I thought I might be.
Somehow, the incident on the swift boat made me think about my
actions and that while risky, there is much I can do to keep myself
safe. Does that make any sense?”
“Yes. I in fact, it does. Like you, I am not as scared as I
thought I would be.”
“Just take care, big sister.”
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“You, too. Remember to act like Mike told us. Do your job
but in such a way that you are fee to continue doing it, instead of
finding yourself on a medical gurney.”
Upon his return, Joe said. “That was a VC patrol of about a
dozen. Six enemy killed, no friendliest injured or killed. I stopped
by the chuck wagon and brought some chow. The convoy master
suggested a twenty-minute time for food and the chance to take
care of other bodily needs. The troops assure me that the brush is
private and safe.”
After a trip to the bushes, I sat on the ground and opened
the new C-ration, officially the MCI-ration, this was my first and
Joe told us that it was a big improvement over the old C or K
rations used in WWII.
I suddenly realized I was having a meal with a new friend
and my hands were not shaking.
Precisely twenty minutes later we were rolling. I spent
much of the time composing two stories to be submitted, one was
my description of the enemy patrol along with my reactions, the
other was a profile of Sergeant Joe Oliverio, survivor of three fire
fights, who shared many of his personal experiences and feelings
that he had experienced in the middle of those fire fights.
The colonel was unhappy to see me while he thought
Mickey’s presence would be a great help to his own photographer.
“Miss. I recommend you climb on that returning truck in the
morning. This is no place for a lady and you will be a distraction to
my men.”
“I sincerely disagree with you, Colonel Foster. I plan to
stay unless you have the authority and order me to leave.”
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“Although I-Corps has taken a strong stand, I can’t do that,
Miss, but I strongly recommend it.”
“Thank you, but I plan to stay for a while. Would it be
possible to talk with your information officer for an official
briefing?”
He seemed to be fuming silently but unhappily he grunted a
name that I understood to Lieutenant Kelly whom I found ten
minute later having a cup of coffee in the mess tent. I was to find
out later that in the meantime Mickey had hitched a ride on an
ammo re-supply truck headed for one of the forward positions.
I walked up to a handsome, blond, curly -headed officer
about my age. “Hi. I’m Cathy Cheka, from the New York Times.”
I received a warm wide smile accompanied by crinkly eyes
“Delighted to have you. I am happy that the old man did not scare
you off. How about a cup of our mud, that we call coffee?”
“I’d be pleased.”
He stepped away for a minute and returned, “We have
sweetener but no lightener.”
“Black is fine.”
When he returned, we took seats on some wooden crates in
the shade of a large tank that was waiting for a mechanic to start
repairs.
“I can assure you, Cathy, that the men and we less brassy
ones are delighted to have you. I think the men particularly will be
pleased because your presence makes our brass unhappy. It’s one
of life’s little pleasures. Now how can I help?”
“Give me everything you are free to tell me about this
engagement to date. Where are we and what’s happened?”
“Finish your coffee while I get my notes and gather my
thoughts.”
Five minutes later he started in.
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“A few weeks ago, a group of five FO’s that is Forward
Observers were ambushed; four of the five were killed near Hill
861. Two companies of marines were advanced and underwent
heavy fire. Constant rocket barrages onto the copter landing zone
were restricting evacuation of the injured. Fog prevented air
support. It was brutal.
We soon found out that we were facing regular North
Vietnamese soldiers, not VC’s. They were well trained, disciplined
and heavily armed.
Well fortified and disciplined, the enemy would wait until
our men were close in and let go with barrages of rifle fire and
82mm mortar fire
Later, when we got air support, the bombs were limited to
500 pounders so that shrapnel would not fly far enough to injure
our men. The heavy fortifications in which the NVA regulars were
entrenched held up very well against the light bombs. It was a
brilliant strategy but we overcame them several days ago and took
that hill.
By the way, the reference to a hill is in fact several hills and
saddles.”
“How about casualties?”
“Very heavy, especially since marines are determined not
to leave their buddies behind, alive or dead.”
“What’s going on now? You said we had taken hill 861.”
“Vrroon, Vrroom” The relative silence in the air was being
interrupted with the sound of artillery shells emanating from a
location just east of our base. “Vrroom:Vrrooom. Vrroom.” My
eyes were searching for somewhere to hide, but Kelly put his hand
on my arm. “It’s our marines moving into the next phase of our
attack. We’re safe here.”
119
“Yes. We are now attacking Hill 881, but I can’t comment
on current activities for reasons of secrecy as you can assume, but
you can make your own deductions from what you hear.”
“I haven’t come this far to get a history lesson only,
although it was valuable and I thank you.”
“Well, I am not in position to tell you what to do and I
certainly will not counter the old man’s orders that say I can not
provide transportation for you. Off the record I hear there are
marine supply drivers and Huey pilots who have been known to
flaunt some orders.”
“Thank you, Lieutenant.”
“How about you call me ‘Irish’ and I call you Cathy?”
I smiled. “All right, Irish. Now, where do I bum some
food? I’m starved,”
“The mess tent is open 24/7. Men shuttle between the front
and here all day and night. I’ll introduce you to some guys who
have spent days on the front and may be willing to talk. Of course,
some may give you a complete cold shoulder.”
We walked over to the large tent that was serving as the
mess hall. About two dozen marines were seated in pairs or groups
of three with a few singles. We moved toward attired looking
marine, seated by him, nursing a cup of coffee.
“Frank, this is Cathy Cheka, journalist with the New York
Times. Cathy, this is Frank Avila. We happen to come from the
same hometown, Salinas, California. Frank is the looey who is
back for twenty-four hours, having a bit of shrapnel removed about
a half hour ago.”
“Pleased to meet you, Cathy. I just met a new photographer
up front. Working with you?”
120
“Yes. He’s my brother. We work as a team, his pics, and
my prose.”
“He is something else. You should be proud of him. He got
his pics but was a big help with three of the brothers who got hit
His help left the rest of us to do our job while he worked with the
corpsman taking care of the wounded.”
I went pale as my mind twirled with pictures of Mickey at
risk. Frank saw my reaction and quickly said. “He was never in
real danger, Cathy. We shielded him and kept up a barrage of fire
until the injured were out of sight.”
The image in my mind did nothing to ease my feelings. I
took a long drink of my coffee and worked at settling my nerves. It
took a while until I felt strong enough to walk to the chow line for
my dinner. Nothing appealed to me but I did choose some soup
and a salad and downed most of that over a protracted dinner hour.
I shelved my plans to interview Frank, unable to think of
anything but Mickey. That was stupid. I should have keep t busy
with interviews instead of fretting and worrying. Each minute felt
like an hour until Mickey showed up.
He showed up a couple hours later, all excited about the
pictures and thrilled with the chance to help the injured marines.
“I stayed with them outside until transport was arranged to
bring them back to camp. I have a fistful of notes for you about
who they are; how they came to be marines and other places they
have served. I hope they are helpful.”
I had been so frightened for him and wanted to yell at him,
but his enthusiasm was infectious suddenly realized that my little
brother was now a man and would lead his life according to his
own principles or beliefs. I bit my tongue and gave him a long and
hug, .but the butterflies in my belly kept fluttering.
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It was a long night. I can’t remember how long it took me
to get to sleep with the constant interruption of distant short
barrages of rifle fire, supplemented by mortars and occasionally
the “Vroom” of the 155’s. I guess I finally accepted that as a norm
and fell sound asleep shortly before dawn.
Shortly after an early breakfast, Mickey took me over to
the medical chopper pad. I spent time interviewing two marines
who were waiting transport to the hospital. Suddenly Mickey was
calling me. “We have a chopper ride to the front. Jim is headed
empty to pick up some injured.”
My first view of a combat zone consisted of three bleeding
marines being attended by a corpsman whose left arm was oozing
blood. While Mickey and the pilot, Jim, were loading the injured
onto the Huey, I talked Phil, the corpsman, into letting me bandage
his left arm.
“It’s just a scratch, Cathy.”
“It’s more than a scratch.”
“Believe me. It’s minor. We just loaded two marines on the
copter, one of whom will probably need to have a replacement for
his right arm and the other who may have headaches the rest of his
life.”
His words hit me like a ton of bricks. Up to now, I had not
seen head wounds or anyone with a bloody stump instead of an
arm. The image nearly made me gag but I got a hold of myself and
changed the subject.
“How do you know my name?”
“Yesterday, Mickey talked a lot about you and how you
two have been a team ever since high school days. He is so proud
of you.”
I thanked him and pondered his words. It was special to
hear from someone else the depth of my brother’s feelings for me.
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Phil was pointing out a couple of spots where I might see
some of the action and where I could be hidden from the view of
the enemy soldiers. He was interrupted with a call for help some
place forward of our position.
When he left, I realized that we had been shouting over the
noise of gunfire. I scouted around for a spot where I could get a
view of some of the action. I was able to haul myself into the cab
of a deserted and mangled large abandoned truck
The scene before me seemed unreal, more like a movie.
Our marines spaced apart by a few yards crawling up a hillside,
looking like large ants with a specific goal in mind. I was aware
that there was little shrubbery or trees to offer any temporary
protection. Exposed as they were, they moved with determination
toward the next bunker, then hurling grenades into the bunker
openings. Once past that bunker, the next target was another
bunker, but over the next half hour I saw no movement. I had to
guess they either killed or were killed. The eventual goal, the top
of the hill, must have seemed to them to be an eternity away. .
From points higher up the hill, constant flashes of gun fire
were pointed at the marines I saw two of our marines, stop and fire
a mortar toward what must have been a bunker and soon noticed
the flash and sound of other mortars.
I tried to figure out what was happening. I had expected
more activity on the ground. There was more air activity with the
jets zooming overhead and dropping their payloads on what were
probably the bunkers of the enemy.
I was amazed to see the amount of fire power directed at
the medical choppers. I thought “God, those fliers are brave
beyond the ken of my understanding.” My heart sank as I saw one
take a direct hit, apparently from a rocket.
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My imagination must have stupefied me. I was visualizing
the panic inside the tumbling copter and praying for the crew and
the passengers being brought out.
I suddenly became aware that Phil and four marines were
carrying two injured buddies back to our temporary base. I hustled
down to help Phil. The four marines headed back to their duties.
Phil gave me instructions on how to wash the wounds,
apply the powder or ointment while he performed the more serious
work and applied the bandages.
One of the patients was a major who was leading his men
in the ferocious fighting. Since he was the lesser injured, I asked
him if he felt like chatting with me. He looked at me and grinned.
“You’re a young woman, not much older than my daughter. What
are you, oh I see. You’re a journalist.”
I laughed. “Yes, for some regional papers and part time for
the New York Times.”
“Sure. The unit with which I have been fighting is coming
off the line for a brief respite. If you can find me some hot coffee,
I’d be delighted to talk.”
Ten minutes later, with his back against a tree and a coffee
in one hand he said, “My name is not to be used but you can call
me Zip. You have to hold off filing your story until we give you
the go ahead. I think you will understand as my information
unfolds.”
“It looks like this hill 881 has about ten times the number
of enemy bunkers and fox holes as hill 861. Our aircraft are still
limited to five hundred pound bombs because heavier bombs will
blow shrapnel over our position, thus injuring our men. That means
the air support is leaving us more vulnerable since the light bombs
are less effective.”
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“Our losses are so heavy that I have recommended to my
superiors that we ask for one thousand pound bombs. That is
unusual in such close combat situations but something has to be
done. The cost from losing our marines is too high”
“What will be done to protect our men?”
“Under cover of dark, our troops will pull back so as to be
out of range of the shrapnel and reclaim their positions as the bomb
loads are reduced to five hundreds again.”
“In the meantime, our daylight activity is rather limited
most men are hunkered down in our own bunkers while the air
activity continues.”
I hadn’t been aware that his radioman was standing nearby.
“Sir, incoming for you.” A minute later he said, “The bigger
bombs are being loaded.” Zip shouted “Corpsman, I need to get
back to the line.”
“Let me double check the wound and re-bandage, sir.”
He was gone and more wounded were being brought in. I
heard the chop chop of the Huey and saw Jim landing, with three
wounded marines from some other station and ready to pick up our
more serious wounded.
Early the next morning and all day l I could hear the larger
bombs exploding and I hardly slept during the bombing. Very late
that afternoon I heard the change of sounds announced the
decrease to five hundred pounders instead of the larger bombs.
Even though I could not see, I visualized our marines crawling or
running up the hill and shooting. I cringed at the thought of those
who would not escape the fire from the enemies who survived the
bombing. I could not shake that image of ants climbing rapidly up
an ant hill.
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Phil would call for me when he needed help, thus giving
me a chance to earn my keep and opportunities to interview the
guys I now called my marines.
At 1900 that evening Mickey and I were in the mess tent
back at the base, dead tired and ready for the sack getting to sleep
was another matter. My mind was wrestling with the fact that those
marines who looked like ants on a hillside were likely to be on a
stretcher, bleeding or even worse by the time I awoke in the
morning.
At 0630 the next morning we hopped in with Jim and
headed out where I joined Phil who was tending to the medical
needs of four marines. The next eight hours were a repeat of the
day before except that the bombs were dropping more rapidly and
the marines were moving uphill more rapidly.
I spent a half hour crouching in the cab of the abandoned
truck. I still have a clear picture in mind of the moving scene
before me. The fighter-bombers came swooping in from the east,
laying down a carpet of bombs and rocket fire on the line of enemy
bunkers that were closest tour crouched marines.
As the bombs began raining down, our marines jumped up
and scooted as far as possible while the enemy were unable to fire
as they dug deep in the bunkers to avoid death.
Ever twenty minutes, a repeat show of the bombing and
strafing reoccurred allowing the large ants to sped closer to the
enemy bunkers in order to toss in their hand grenades.
Back where Phil was busy again, I began a conversation
with one of the recent arrivals, a corporal who had his left leg in a
splint. He seemed to be the least seriously injured of the growing
group of incoming. I took him a drink of water and asked if he was
willing to talk with me about his injury.
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After a bit of hesitation he agreed. Once he began, he found
it almost impossible to stop; she is the essence of what he told me.
“Our position is a bit farther east. We were surrounded on three
sides after one of their counter attacks. Each morning at first light,
we were out of our bunkers and shooting our way up hill, hurling
grenades and dropping mortar shells into the openings of the
enemy bunkers.
Then back into the bunkers. All we could do during the
daylight was staying hunkered in our own bunker in a newly dug
fox hole. At night we moved through the trenches to get material
that was dropped and to fire our howitzers. We also took time to
make more sandbags.”
“Darkness was our ally and still is for my buddies up there.
Some of our guys read or recited bible verses and most of us
scratched ‘God help us’ on our helmets.”
“I watched one of my buddies bleed to death despite our
efforts because the enemy kept our copters from reaching us.”
He stopped suddenly after a catch in his throat. I watched
as the tears on his cheeks matched the ones on mine. “My poor
damn buddies who are still up. God help them.”
We sat in silence for a minute until he said “Let people
back home know we are doing our dandiest for them. I’m sleepy.”
At about 1700 I looked up from the marine I was sitting
with and saw the major grinning at me. “It worked as we hoped. At
daylight tomorrow morning I expect we will be at the top. Of
course, we will have to face a series of fierce counterattacks but it
is our victory.”
“Congratulations, major. By the way, I never did get your
name.”
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“Leave it that way. There’s no reason for my name to
appear in print. I hope you use all the names of those you have
been helping here. Thank you for service beyond your call as a
reporter.”
I was to find out later that the battles for hills 861 and 881
were the bloodiest of the war that was true from my vantage point.
I shall never forget the blood and gore, the true extent of which I
could not include in my stories. The papers that Mickey and I
represented would hardly want to print the worst of his pictures
even if the censors had not nixed them.
The bloodier pictures of the horror of Vietnam would be
told by others or could be read in my journal but the pictures are
indelibly marked in my memory/.
My profiles and the two major stories were published by all
my regional papers as well as the Times. My old boss at the times
wrote of the special commendation I was to receive from the
Editor and a special bonus for a job well done.
Mickey and I found our way back to Saigon the caravan
which kept picking up army soldiers who either was going on
leave or, in some cases, returning to the states. Mickey and I got
some additional photos and stories for future profiles.
We managed two rooms at the Caravelle Hotel. I was
exhausted, and after spending a half h our letting the water of the
shower ran down on me for an hour, I sleeping for thirteen hours
before awakening stiff and groggy. I was a real pleasure to slip into
a dress and sandals. Mickey and I enjoyed a brief walk and lunch
before I took off for my scheduled visit.
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In the dining room I noticed a marine corporal seated alone.
Mickey and I walked to his table and asked if we could join him.
He smiled broadly and waved us to take seats.
We discovered that he was on his way to some R and R in
Hong Kong, his first leave in fourteen months. When I asked about
his recent assignment, he said “Hill 881.”
“When did you leave? We just arrived from there.”
“I left yesterday morning. I had my fourth minor injury and
was overdue for R&R.:
“Were you there when the heavy bombing took place?”
“I sure was and glad that they had finally called in the
heavies.”
“We are journalists. Mickey is, my brother, the
photographer and I am a reporter.
Do you mind telling us how you felt and what you did during the
bombing.”
A full flush took over his face while he pondered his
response. Finally he said “I’ve never talked with a reporter. If I talk
with you, will you shoot a picture that I can send home to my
folks and to my girl?”
Mickey said “I’ll do that whether you talk with my sis or
not.”
His face broke into a huge grin “My name is Ivan Tuborg
and I live just outside Minneapolis. I’ve been in the Marines since
I was eighteen, over six years now. The last thirty days have been
the worst and scariest of all my time in Nam or Korea.”
“How so?”
“The NV guys have weapons and discipline that I never
saw when fighting the Cong or the gooks. Climbing that hill is
almost impossible. The goal is reach the top but the day to day
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progress is so slow and painful that I began to feel that the only
way off that hill was to be blown off or flown of.”
“Watching the way the NV turn on the fire power against
the birds I wasn’t even sure that I would survive even if injured
and loaded onto a bird. I gagged two days earlier when one of my
squad had been loaded onto a chopper and twenty seconds later
seeing the bird blown out of the sky. All I could do when the
heavy bombing started was lie on my back, sleep or listen to the
jets flying and the bombs bursting and thinking of poor Joe.”
“With nothing to do, all I seem to do was wonder what my
chances were. I couldn’t write a letter. I tried to sing but got
hushed by my buddies. I tried to imagine a future with my girl but
the images continue to shift to life just outside the bunker.”
His voice broke and I was sure that the glitter in his eyes
was the tar drops he was fighting to hold back. I was sure there
was much more to explore but this was not the moment.
“Thanks, Corporal. Now tell me about yourself and your
girl and family. I will write a profile and, with your permission,
send it to your hometown newspaper.”
He blew his nose and said “I need another cup of coffee.”
I visited a maternity hospital and filed a story regarding the
babies being adopted from Vietnam by families in the states and
other western countries. I filed the following brief human-interest
story.
As I sat at the bedside, my interpreter told me that the
woman talking with Luan, the about to be mother, was a counselor.
“She is trying to convince Luan not to give up the baby for
adoption. The young mother is saying that she cannot afford
another baby to feed. She is telling the counselor that she has three
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children at home and can hardly feed them on the small amount of
pay that her soldier husband receives.”
“As the story unfolds, the young mother says that there was
no way to refuse her husband’s needs during this three-day
furlough, even though she was aware that she was ripe for
conception.”
I can see that the counselor is making an offer of a small
monthly stipend to assist her but, as I could see, Luan just shakes
her head, turns away and begins to sob. The counselor speaks to
my interpreter and leaves. I learn that the counselor is on her way
to bring back the release forms for Luan to give up the baby for
adoption.
My heart is breaking for Luan. I can’t imagine the pain she
is suffering to part with the fruit of her womb, but she sees no
other choice.
When I return to the lobby, Mickey is waiting there. He
suggests we visit some of the injured men in the hospital. “There
has to be some stories worth your while and certainly some photos
that can tell stories without words.”
He looked at me again. “What’s wrong, Sis?’ I take a
moment to gather myself and then tell him the story of Luan.
He said “Let’s take a break, have bite and a walk in the
park before we go to the hospital.
Forty minutes after our arrival in the rehab department,
after completing my first interview. I heard a door opening, looked
up to see Johnny Kote, the private I had met on the convoy. He
was in a wheel chair. My heart lurched as I noticed that my friend
was missing his left leg.
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After a moment to get a grip on myself, I rushed over to
greet him, forcing my lips to form a smile. “Hello, Johnny.
Remember me?”
He gave me a blank look then turned to avoid looking at
me. It was reminiscent of his turning from me that day in the truck.
It was silly but I had the feeling of being rejected.
His nurse smiled at me, nodding in a way that said we
could talk later. I continued to watch from a distance, seeing
Johnny resisting the physical therapist. After a bit, I watched him
physically striking the therapist, who was apparently pressing him
to participate.
I wanted to rush right over and remind him of the love of
his parents and tell him that missing one leg would be no big deal
to the girl who loved him. Little did I know that his demons were
of a greater nature than the loss of one leg?
Mary, the nurse, moved toward me. “I have a short break
time. Care to join me for a cup of coffee?”
Seated at a table in the cafeteria, she said “
It’s a damned shame but he is one of many who are having
traumatic stresses after their experiences.”
“Do you know the reasons in Johnny’s case?”
“Partly. He refuses to talk with the psychologist but
confides in me when I am attending to his wounds. It seems that
during a VC attack on his convoy, he witnessed his buddy step on
a mine, get blown to pieces while some of the shrapnel tore into his
left leg and some smaller bits sunk into his side and back. He keeps
having flashbacks and does not want to talk about it with anyone
but me.”
“I saw him fighting his physical therapist.”
“Yes. He doesn’t want to get well. His psychologist thinks
that is because his buddy, Billy, is gone and that he, Johnny,
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should be gone too. The night nurse says he is having nightmares
that must include something close to his experience since he yells
out Billy’s name quite often.”
Mary filled me in on other learning’s about the minds of
some of the injured soldiers and marines until it was time for her to
wheel Johnny to his bed. My eyes were tear-filled as I tried to get
his attention once more but without success.
Mickey had an idea that he felt might be worthwhile. “Let’s
go to the day room and talk with some of the guys who will be
heading home soon.
That turned out to be a good move. Just as we walked
through the door, a young patient yelled spots Mickey with his
camera. He yells, “Here comes the camera man to take my
picture.”
Mickey picks up on the comment and immediately takes a
head shot of the young man. I walk over to him and ask, “What
name do I use and what is the name of your newspaper?”
“”Jeff Wright and the paper is the St Lois Dispatch.”
Others good-naturedly started to clamor for their pictures to be
taken.
We spent the next two hours taking pictures and getting
individual stories that I could use. The guys inundate us with
chocolate bars and cokes and telling us loads of wry jokes before
we leave Mickey promises to have copies of their pictures
developed and brought to the ward within the next two days.
Among the many stories I uncovered was that of Mike
Sloan, whose warm smile moved me to tears as I approached his
wheel chair and discovered he had lost both legs. I started to put
my notebook back n my bag but he said in his Australian accent.
“I don’t mind talking about it.”
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I filed the story of this infantryman at the battle of ApMya, who was the victim of a mortar blast, unable to be reached by a
medic for more than an hour. I filled in the story with details of his
family life at home with a dad, a bricklayer, his mom, a part time
artist, three sisters and his girl friend, Myra.
He was bright and cheerful as he told me of his close
relationship with all of the above. He handed two letters, urging
me to read both.
The first was a letter he handed me to read notifying him of
acceptance to the university at Sidney, beginning at the date of his
choice.
As I started to read the other letter I asked “Are you sure
you want me to read this. It looks like a love letter.”
“Yes, if you don’t mind. You have the last page only and I
need someone to share this news with me. I don’t dare talk about
this with my mates here.”
The letter was obviously from his Myra “you know that
missing limbs will not keep us from loving each other. It was your
tenderness, your love what won my heart. Those came from your
brain and your heart. I know our love will find a way to a fulfilling
life.”
“And we are going to make a baby or two together. I
recently met another slightly older woman whose husband is
limited in the way you are. He stepped on a mine while serving in
Korea. She has two lovely blond daughters she laughed when I
gasped at her news.”
“She invited me to a private gathering for a cup of tea and
in the privacy of her home; she shared with me the techniques of
making physical love with her husband.”
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I looked up from the letter and saw Mike grinning and I
found myself shedding tears of joy to have spent these moments
with this indomitable spirit from down under.
Just as we were ready to leave, another handsome young
blond patient entered in a wheel chair, being pushed by a nurse. I
walked over to introduce myself. “Hyah. Is it solder or marine?”
He laughed and said “Nope.”
Sailor?”
“Closer.”
“Naval aviator?”
“Bingo.”
I put out my hand for a handshake. He grasped mine in
both his and said “Jay Mann, lieutenant, assigned to flying P-3’s at
Cam Ranh Bay, temporarily rerouted to this day room.”
“I’m Cathy Cheka, reported for several small newspapers
and occasional contributor to the New York Times. I would be
honored if you can see it clear to let me interview you.”
Instead of answering he turned to the nurse who was about
to leave. “Jane, do you think I can get permission for another few
hours away from this foul smelling rooming house?”
With a sly smile she said “I’m sure that I can convince Dr.
McPhail. Count on it. See you later.”
He turned to me. “Dear Cathy, you are so rare I might do
anything for you. You are the first good looking civilian woman
to want to talk to me. I’m willing under one condition.”
It sounded like he wanted to play some game and I decided
to play along. “Name it.”
“The interview will take place off premises at a small
restaurant a block away. It will be in a private booth with a curtain
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to close us off from the world. I’m buying but I also get the
privilege of holding hands with you during our time together.”
I could feel the first rise of a blush and then giggled “Sailor
boy, are you asking me to go on a date with you?”
He reached for my hand again and said “I sure am.
Spending a few hours with a beautiful woman will do wonders for
me through the long hours of rehab that are part of my future.”
“Jay, I will be delighted to be your date for the evening.”
He grinned and kept on holding my hand. I waved to
Brother Mickey and introduced them and had Mickey take some
pics of the two of us and some of Jay alone. “
What are the arrangements and time, Jay?”
“Come by about six thirty. Jane will have me in my good
duds and show you how to propel this buggy down the street.”
“Sounds right.”
At six thirty three I appeared at the front entrance waiting
for Jay to arrive. I had taken pains to appear as attractive as
possible.
He let out a whistle and a whoop. “Look, Jane. Isn’t she
beautiful? Long legs, nice breast and a special coif to impress me. I
am the luckiest guy in the world tonight.”
I laughed even though I knew I was blushing. I teased him.
“I think the expression is Down Boy.”
Jane laughed, gave me a brief orientation and said “Be a
good boy, Jay”
He roared “If only.”
We sat side by side, had a five course meal with excellent
wine to complement the food. Jay held my hand, letting go only
when necessary to allow time to partake of the variety of dishes.
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I found out that he was a graduate of Northwestern, an avid
aviator from his earliest years. He had dreams of being a
commercial airline pilot after his military service He had a girl
back home, although not formally engaged but “She and I will be
one for life and make babies together”
I had a difficult time trying not to envy the love affair he
was describing and the depth of feeling that he expressed for loved
one .For those few moments I regretted not making more of an
effort to spend time with those boys who wanted to dates me.
He asked me about my life and answered every question I
put to him. I waited until I thought he was ready to talk about his
injury. When the waiter had cleared the dessert dishes, Jay said “I
guess I’m ready to talk about that day.”
Since Jay insisted on holding hands, I had to rely on my
later memory but here is the essence of what I wrote during the
long hours afterwards.
“Shortly after my arrival at Naha, Okinawa, I was assigned
to fly as co-pilot to a very distinguished naval aviator, the
commander of our squadron of P-3s. That aircraft is more than an
observation plane. It is a virtual platform of weapons to serve our
responsibility which was to protect the aircraft carrier s sailing off
the coast of Vietnam in the South China Sea.
The area is dotted with Junks, many just fishing for the
day’s catch but a good many also gathering intelligence from our
radio transmissions and keeping track of all our sea and air
activity. There are plenty of Russian submarines doing the same.
Every once in a while the Junks with their well hidden machine
guns and twenty millimeter canons take a toll of the Navy aircraft
as the aircraft were landing or taking off.
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Standard procedure requires the flight commander to be the
first in and the last out of any assigned destination. The destination
of our flight from Okinawa was Cam Ranh Bay, about 125 miles
from Saigon.
The airstrip houses a squadron of USAF fighters as well as
several squadrons of naval P-3’s.
The skipper was in the left hand seat, the seat of the Pilot in
Command. He admitted later that his proficiency was not at its
peak since he had so much administrative duties and had flown
less often than his squadron pilots.
The flight was smooth and visibility ideal. As we were
approaching our target, we could see smoke ahead. It appeared to
be at the sight of the airfield. Our curiosity was peaked for the
moment before we were notified that an Air Force fighter had an
emergency. We guessed a long delay even before we were ordered
into a holding pattern.
Flying tight circles over the South China Sea is boring and
is rather risky Ammo fired from the Junks could come flying at
any time.
Just as Pete, the skipper, started to say something to me, I
felt a sharp jolt and the whole plane shudder. Instantly I knew that
we had been hit by enemy fire. Since I was flying the plane, I
sensed a change in the feel of wheel in my hands. I motioned to
Pete to take the wheel, He understood and did so. A moment later
he started to speak when the voice of our engineer came on the
intercom. “Our hydraulic system has been compromised.”
He continued “We have taken a serious hit in our tail
section, affecting our hydraulic system, which means we are in a
state of emergency.”
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I have to say that no matter how much training and
theoretical preparation one has for being in combat, there is no real
psychological preparation for the first damage one suffers from an
enemy hit. I felt a sense of panic overtaking me.
It may amaze you but the action and behavior of a strong
leader can affect one’s response and behavior. My skipper betrayed
no nervousness or tension and that soon translated to me.
We were in a full blown emergency and needed to land
immediately the damaged fighter on the ground was just off the
main runway but his hung ordnance, including five hundred pound
bombs, was scattered across the runway. There was no way that
the material could be cleared in time for our having to land and we
had to land ASAP before the hydraulic failure seriously affected
our controls
Pete pressed the switch on is microphone. “Control, we
have been hit and losing control. We need to land to save this big
bird.”
“One moment, stand by.”
Less than ten seconds elapsed before I heard the voice
“Here are your instructions. You are cleared to land on runway
280, “Start your approach as of now.”
The control tower had given us permission to land on the
Marsten Matting Steel Runway. The problem was that this runway
was four thousand feet shorter and definitely narrower than the
main concrete runway.
I heard the skipper say “Jay, I just read your efficiency
report and am sure your flight proficiency is at its peak whereas I
haven’t been doing much flying recently. Switch seats and take
command. We need steady and sure hands. I will have the right
hand wheel if necessary but I don’t expect to be needed.”
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I felt like my blood turned icy cold and my mind was
focused on the task ahead. Six minutes later we exited the runway
and parked at the Navy ramp. I was the last to debark when the air
was split with the blast of a five hundred pound bomb exploding.
There was no damage to the plane or my buddies but I was blacked
out after a piece of shrapnel tore into my hip and thigh and another
smaller one jammed into my left foot. I am sure that the pain was
so severe that I just blacked out in order to escape the pain.
Welcome to Vietnam, Day One.”
Jay took my napkin and dabbed away the tears that were
sliding down my cheeks. “No need to cry. The pain is subsiding
and I have been promised a body good enough to fly again. My
dream is in place.”
I gave him a tiny smile and nodded.
“Now tell me about one of your near misses since coming
to this mess.”
Much later at the entry way to the hospital, he said “We
probably will never see each other again so I have one more favor
to ask.
Would you lock the wheels on this chair, sit in my lap and gave me
a warm hug and a deep kiss like my girl did on the last night we
spent together?”
I did as asked.
The following day I had a wire asking me to call my old
boss at the Times.
“Cathy, great to hear your voice.”
“Same here, boss. What’s the big deal?
Out of the blue “How would you like to come to work for
the Times, full time, both you and Mickey?”
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“Are you kidding?”
“Dead serious?”
“Just a moment.” I turned to Mickey who was sitting on my
bed. “Want to join me on the staff of the Times, full time, starting
soon?”
“I’d jump; at the chance.”
I spoke into the phone. “We’re in. When?’
“Aren’t you going to ask me about salary, benefits, what
kind of work?”
“We trust you will take care of us as you always have for
me in the past.”
“All right. I need you to book flights directly to Tel Aviv,
where you will have your first assignment for the next thirty days
and then return to New York. I will wire you the funds today.
When you check into the Hilton in Tel Aviv, I will have someone
there to brief you. Arab and Israeli hostilities are heating up.”
In the midst of my excitement I hadn’t asked why this
sudden need for our services. I guess I had so much confidence in
my old boss and friend.
I spent most of the time during our flights going over my
notes, being interrupted when my memories centered on Billy,
Johnny and some of the others I had tended during the battle for
hill 881. I wondered which of them might well be suffering the
same emotional disorder that was affecting Johnny.
In the years that followed we were all to see veterans
among the homeless and jobless who dotted the landscape of our
cities.
I had hours of reminiscing about those few weeks that we
had been in the killing fields. I would never be the same innocent
girl, dreaming about being a reporter.
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The opening chapters of my dream had been more than I
expected. After being hustled and elbowed in the midst of anti war
protests, I had then lived in the midst of battle zones where men
were killing each other, seeing the human toll of war, learning
curse words I had no idea existed. I had laughed and cried with
dozens of marines and sailors my heart was heavy with those
memories as I continued to pursue my dream.
All this was hardly a scratch on the surface of the Vietnam
experience but I was no longer the innocent as I departed the land
where I had expected to spend many more months.
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Chapter 7.
Michele Abrams met the two of us at the El Al arrival gate,
holding up a placard with our last name. She drove us to the
Hilton, handled our registrations and gave us time to shower before
taking us to a corner table in the dining room.
Michele identified herself as a stringer for the Times as
well as a reporter for several regional papers in Israel. She, too,
was educated at Barnard, class of 1962.
“Were you born here or, like so many, an immigrant.”
“Born here during the years when the people were
struggling to form this nation. My dad was a journalist, who lost
his life during those turbulent years that followed? He was a close
friend of David Ben-Gurion, whom many consider to be our
George Washington. Both carried rifles like most residents during
those formative years.”
“How about you two? I notice your flight originated in
Manila. You don’t have to answer that. I am just curious.”
“Mickey, my brother and I were teamed up in Vietnam for
a short time before we were ordered to come to Tel Aviv. It is our
understanding that you will be briefing us as to why we are here.
We have no idea since we have been focused on Vietnam.”
“Well, let’s get started after our food arrives.
Michele had some iced tea while we fed our starving
bodies.
“I guess you are here because New York sees you as a good
war time journalist and photography team. It seems clear that Israel
is about to be attacked by some combination of three nations,
Egypt, Syria and Jordan. There may even be soldiers from Iraq.”
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“What has been happening to bring you and others to that
conclusion?”
“You are aware that the Arab nations have one common
goal, which is the nonexistence of the state of Israel. Last
November Egypt and Syria signed a mutual defense pact.
Skirmishes continue to occur on the Syrian and Jordanian borders,
largely instigated by those two nations. Early this month Nasser of
Egypt began amassing his troops in the Sinai, an area designated to
be occupied only by United Nations Emergency Forces.”
“The Straits of Tiran, Israel’s shipping opening to world
trade, were to be available at all times. That was part of the
original agreements.in1957. Israel made it clear that any attempt to
close the Straits was justification for war. Last week Nasser
declared the Straits closed to Israel shipping. The following day
Iraqi troops were deploying in Jordan, obviously at the king’s
request.”
“I heard today that our government has met in an
emergency session to make some changes in its governance
structures. That sounds ominous to me. That is about it.”
“Thanks, Michele. That was a concise and to the point. Do
you have anything else for us?”
“Yes, a large packet of material that was flown in last
night. It’s in my room. I also have cards for opening up bank
accounts for you individually and access to the business account of
the Times. We need to go to the bank in the morning to complete
the paper work. I also have your visas that were mailed to me,
which I used on your behalf at the airport. It’s your turn to ask
questions.”
Mickey suggested “Let’s hold off on the questions until we
are rested. How about in the morning for breakfast before we go to
the bank?”
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I nodded and Michele agreed. “Sorry, I forgot all about the
long trip across so many time zones. I’ll leave the package at the
front desk for you and see you at nine in the morning.”
I was asleep within minutes of closing my room door and
wide awake at four in the morning
I went down to the front desk and retrieved the package
from New York. Inside were the contracts and some ideas for
placing ourselves in position to cover the emerging story of what
New York believed would be the outbreak of hostilities.
Bill Calhoun, my old boss, included a note. “Just for the
record, all the big boys here were so impressed with you profiles
that showed your sensitivity to the plight of our marines and
sailors. They were highly impressed with your coverage of the
events at hill 881.You noticed that the last stories carried your
name and identified Mickey as the photographer. When this
opportunity arose I had no difficulty getting you assigned.”
“The opening came as the result of one of our reporters
getting an attack of appendicitis right after we had reassigned the
other to Greece to cover events that are coming to a boil there.
Good luck. We may have a veteran on hand within three weeks.
We’ll definitely bring you back home within the month and then
explore your futures at that time. Meanwhile, you should know that
I am serving as the interim managing editor. Blessings.”
“By the way, I called your mom to tell her why she may
find a delay in your letter writing.”
I took pen to paper. I reminded Bill that I had a contract
with the other papers regarding Vietnam and since I accepted this
assignment I wanted to submit stories from Israel “I hope you will
be agreeable if I can work out an arrangement with them.”
I then wrote to my other client, explaining and apologizing.
A week later all was well on both fronts. My being present in Israel
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at the dawn of another war was as important to those newspapers
as much as our presence in Vietnam served them.
Mickey decided to become the photographer of the man on
the street, shooting pics of shoppers, bench-warmers and chess
players in the park, young women in the coffee houses While
chatting with them he got their opinions about life in this tiny
nation, constantly under siege of its enemies. He figured the brief
profiles would be of interest to readers back home.
During dinner on the second evening Mickey said to me
“Sis, it is obvious that something big is in the offing. Walking the
streets has given me a chance to note something unusual. There are
practically no young people around. I’m guessing that they have
been called up to active duty, as military reservists.”
I trudged to the public affairs office of the army, dug
though the morgues of the various newspapers, talked with editors
and reporters as I tried to get a full picture on what had been
happening.
I attended press briefings from the army and other
governmental agencies I wanted t be certain that I had a full picture
of past events and a context for the action that seemed to be in the
offing.
I also spent some time each day doing some power walking
to get into shape. I had no idea where or how I might be assigned if
some military activity was in the offing but I caught a hint that I
might consider going toward the east in the direction of Jordan or
Syria, where action could be heavy if hostilities broke out.
Events of the past month pointed to a definite threat from
the combination of Egypt, Jordan, Syria and Iraq were planning
something in the near future. The Israelis were sure that the enemy
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had only one goal in mind, “Throw the Israelis into the
Mediterranean Sea.”
Getting into shape had been a good idea but it came a little too
late. Early in the morning of June 5th, my beautiful dream that had
me dancing in a meadow was shattered when Mickey started
pounding on my door. “C’mon, Cathy. Israel is at war.”
“Damn. I’ll never find a way to the West Bank of the
Jordan river with movements being restricted.” The army
information office had suggested that I would be well served by
being on the road toward Ramallah when hostilities broke out.
The evening before, Michele, Mickey, a reporter for
Reuters, and I had dinner together, trying to figure out how best to
get news from the battle zones when the battles began. We had
decided to pool our efforts.
Mickey would head for Gaza, having heard that the
governor was a strong military type, who might lead an invasion
from the flank.
I would head for troops defending the approach from
the West Bank of the Jordan river since Israel felt that Jordan, even
though reluctant, was really aligned with Syria and Egypt. There
were strong units of Iraqi soldiers supplanting the Jordan forces.
Michele would try to spend some time with two friends,
who were army officers, currently stationed just outside Tel Aviv
and line up a phone conversation, with friends who were on
kibbutz near the Syrian border.
Our cohort from Reuters, Lester Jones, would station
himself with the press officer of the department of defense for
whatever official information would be available.
Now that the hostilities were engaged it was time to
gathering my gear, a paper cup of coffee and a stale doughnut, I
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headed toward the road leading toward Ramallah. I hung a sign say
“American Press” around my neck and started thumbing for a ride.
Three minutes later a huge truck stopped and someone in the cab
waved to the back of the truck. I scrambled in with a hand from
one of riders, who happened to be an army photographer
“Welcome to the war. I’m Saul Avers. Are you sure you want to
go where we are going? I haven’t run into American women
reporters in Israel.”
I smiled and said, “If you’re headed toward the Jordanian
border, then the answer is yes. I’m Cathy Checks with the New
York Times.”
“You’re in. Welcome aboard.”
“Do you have any news you can share?”
“Early this morning Jordan troops bombed Wet Jerusalem
and just as we were leaving you probably heard some of bombs
falling outside Tel Aviv. I also head that their planes attacked one
of our air fields but our planes were already air born.”
“Any word on how this started?”
“No. I only know the little I told you.”
“Any infantry action?”
“I haven’t heard.”
When we halted, my new friend, Saul, introduced me to the
press officer who said I could follow the Harel brigade, which
would be at some of the most intense activity. “We probably will
not go into action until tomorrow as plans stand at present although
all is subject to change. When we do, please take care and don’t
get you killed on my watch. Have you any experience? ”
“I just arrived from Vietnam.”
“Good. Welcome. Remember. Watch your ass.”
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I spent the day interviewing some of the infantrymen for
my planned profile series, similar to my prior submissions. Saul
agreed to do some photos of my subjects.
One soldier’s story, in particular, struck me hard. Sol
Abramovitz had been urgently requested to join his unit, leaving
his wife in the hospital just as she was entering the delivery room
to give birth to their first. Sol still doesn’t know if he has a son or
daughter or if all was well.”
I mentioned this story to the press officer who told me later
that day that Sol had a son and all was well and that Sol’s mind
was now focused on his job. What he meant was that any thought
of an interview were out of the question.
The brigade moved out the next evening after dark. They
started the attack of the fortress at Latrun. Fierce battles raged
throughout the night. Not able to see any of the action I attached
my self to a major of infantry, who occasionally filled me in. When
we entered the city in the morning, the men were given two hours
to rest and eat some hot food.
“Miss Cheka”, the major called. “Join me for some eggs
and coffee.” When I agreed and sat down he said. “We will be on
the go in about two hours. This brigade will move northwest
toward the mountain above Jerusalem. We expect strong
opposition. I will try to make it possible for you to see as much as
you can but I want to be sure you are safe enough to write your
stories. Understand?”
“Yes I should tell you that I also want to focus on the
personal side of the war, telling about those of you who are on the
line, giving readers an understanding of who is putting their life on
the line for the country and its citizens. I would like to use names
when permitted but even profiles without names are of interest as I
found in Vietnam.”
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He said “I agree and you have my permission to pursue that
as you are able.”
I smiled and thanked him, asking “How about you? Are
you willing to be my first?”
He laughed “Perhaps, when we finish the task ahead of us.”
The battle for Radar Hill was intense and fierce but with far
fewer casualties than I had witnessed at hill 881 in Vietnam.
Hanging on to the coat tails of the major I was suddenly in
the midst of unfriendly fire. The major did not believe in leading
from behind. He must have forgotten about my presence. At one
point I found myself hugging mother earth wishing I had a shovel
to dig a foxhole.
I was in no position for about an hour to do anything but lie
low. The noise was deafening. Planes were roaring overhead. Rifle
fire was rapid as was the exchange of mortar fire. My thoughts
were racing, sorry I had not written a letter to mama last night. I
was scared; more so than at any time in Vietnam. I found myself
praying, regretting having given up going to church. I was a total
mess wondering if I had dirtied my panties.
I had seen a great deal in Nam but had never been in the
midst of battle as I was now.
I jumped when a sergeant tapped me on the shoulder. “The
firing has eased up. The major thinks you should walk back to the
evacuation area where it is safer.”
“Since I haven’t seen any of the fighting, with my nose in
the mud, do you think I can hand around for a bit longer?”
He winked. “I didn’t hear that but I’ll be back later to see if
you listened to the major’s order.” He was whistling as he walked
away.
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Two minutes later I found my photographer friend, Saul,
and followed him around for twenty minutes. I took notes as he
talked of what he had witnessed while I flat on the ground. As we
parted, he promised to send some photos to the Hilton, when
possible.
A side note. He had one picture, which he titled “Nice
View”, me flat on my face in the dirt and my fanny in the center of
the photo.
By evening, the hill was taken and we arrived in Ramallah...
There we received news that we would have another rest period
because e the Israel Air Force had decimated the Jordanian brigade
headed toward Jerusalem.
I was informed that heavy fighting was taken place
between Jordanians and Israeli paratroopers in Jerusalem while we
proceeded eastward toward the West Bank of the Jordan River,
where the Jordanian infantry had engaged Israeli troops.
The next morning it seemed to me that the Harel brigade
was suddenly on the defensive, for the first time, until Israeli
planes roared overhead and attacked enemy forces. Thereafter, I
was told, the Jordan army was retreating to the east bank of the
Jordan River, ceding the West Bank to the Israelis.
Later I was to find out that it had not been the plan to take
the West Bank. The brigade was to stop at the original border and
not invade any Jordan territory, but as it happens many times,
plans go awry in the heat of battle.
I offered the nurses to help in the aid station but was told
that it was not permissible. I did have time to chat with some of the
wounded, most of who were more interested about life in the States
than answering my questions.
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I found time to set up conversation for at least a half dozen
profiles before I asked the major if there would be some transport
I might catch to get back to Tel Aviv “Definitely. If you join me
for some coffee I can check your notes and perhaps supplement
them while my orderly arranges transport.”
Thirty minutes later with enriched notes I was on my way. I
slept in the cab of an ambulance carrying three injured soldiers to
the hospital and had to be awakened when the ambulance stopped
by the Hilton Hotel to drop me off.
After a long shower and a quick bite in the dining room I
headed off to find Lester at the IDF press office, where the press
officers of the Israel Defense Force would read my submissions
and wire them off to my office in New York.
“Lester gave me the official handout with statements that
seemed unbelievable
According to his information the Air Force had wiped out the
entire Jordanian Air Force, ninety percent of the Egyptian and two
thirds of the Syrian Air Force
I said, “That sounds unbelievable, like an exaggeration.”
“That’s what we all believed but as of today, only one of
those air craft has penetrated Israeli skies, which sort of confirms
early reports.”
All I could say was “Wow.”
“By the way, I filed the facts and figures report to your
paper explaining our agreement and Mickey called ten minute
before you arrived. He is on his way back with some stories and
photos of the Gaza action, which I understand has been rather
fierce.”
“He spent an extra day in the Sinai and saw the battle
outside the gates of El-Arish.”
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The host provided me a table and typewriter to complete m
work. Lester and I found a tiny family runs café in which to have
dinner. Arriving back at the office we were greeted by Mickey and
an Israeli woman correspondent who had taken him in tow, starting
with a ride toward Gaza in her paper’s jeep. Sue was a motherly
type, ten years our senior and a working reporter for ten years.
“Cathy, it’s so nice to meet you. I’m Sue Boxer and I
conned young Mickey into being my photographer with a bribe of
being his guide and chauffer. My editor will try to hire him when
he sees some of the pics, such art in the middle of war.”
“He is fantastic, isn’t he? Nice to meet you.”
I walked over to give Mickey a huge hug and asked for his
notes so I could prep them for New York. He handed me three
beautifully typed stories, written by Sue as a joint submission to
the Times, hopefully special enough to get at least one byline.
Mickey said “Thanks to Sue, I was able to get a fast
development of my photos. He handed me the envelope with the
pictures, gorgeous and gruesome but definitely depicting the gamut
of responses to the fierceness if war, from victory to defeat, from
joy to pain, from laugher to tears. Ten pictures, which in my mind
spoke more than a thousand of my words.
“Sue used her charm to get these developed in the army
mobile lab. I sue hope we get at least one byline in the Times.”
When Mickey and I were alone, I told him of my fear in the
midst of the intense battle with the Jordanians “”I was so damned
scared, Mickey. Nothing in Nam was this scary.”
Mickey folded me in his arms. “I am so sorry we were so
apart but I have to admit I had minutes just like you had. Sue, who
is a real veteran, said that there was no shame in being frightened
but it was important to proceed in spite of our fear. It certainly
helped me. It seems that you did the same, sis.”
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“I guess I did.”
I had a wire from New York asking the two of us to spend
three days snooping around for reactions among some civilians but
trying especially to get an interview with either of the top generals,
Dayan or Rabin. On the last morning I was able to get twenty
minutes with General Moishe Dayan, the first to have an exclusive
interview
Three key points emerged from that interview. He was
definitely hawkish, stated clearly that he had a personal unspoken
reason for overseeing directly the taking of East Jerusalem, was
adamant that the captured territories of Gaza, West Bank and
Golan Heights, should be absorbed by Israel.
He was definitely pleased when I offered him photos taken
by Mickey in Gaza and was delighted to pose for a portrait. I
promised to send him a copy for his records. He insisted that
Mickey take a photo of the two of us together. He beamed as he
shook hands at our departure. Two of my other newspapers printed
the photo of Dayan and me along with the profile of the general.
This story got me a front-page byline and a commendation
from my boss. His wire indicated that we were going home early,
replacements on the way.
Two very tired travelers debarked American Airlines flight
1001 at three in the afternoon of June 16th, 1967 to be met by the
boss and a chauffeured limo, driven to a boutique hotel downtown
and ordered to sleep and rest until noon the following day.
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Morning in New York felt like evening but we both ordered
sausage and eggs and lots of toast, a treat we had not enjoyed since
our last breakfast here in the city. We were having our third cup of
coffee when mom, dad and Aunt Kate walked through the entrance
to the dining room for a joyous reunion.
The grins and smiles never left our faces during the next
hour while the family had brunch and we inhaled more coffee.
Dad said “Your boss, Mr. Calhoun, must think a lot of you,
bringing us, here for a whole weekend. You should see the size of
our room. It is beautiful, too rich for a coal miner.”
Mickey popped up. “Dad, you deserve it. Nothing is too
rich for any of the three of you.” It was just the right comment and
we changed the subject to planning what sights we would take in
during those few days.
The waiter interrupted to tell me that I was wanted on the
phone. “Cathy, this is Bill. Have you reached a point with the
family gathering where you can escape for an hour or so and come
to the office?”
“Absolutely. We’ll grab a cab and be there in thirty
minutes.”
“Good. See you.”
Kate agreed to take mom and dad to the Statue of Liberty
and meet us for drinks at the hotel at six thirty.
The welcome home and welcome aboard party at the office
was intimate but heavy with the presence of the Editor, Foreign
Editor, City Editor and Features Editor, all of whom were very
welcoming and laudatory. The Editor made a brief comment on
behalf of the staff, ending with
“Congratulations and thank you for coming to our rescue. Thanks
to you, we have some of the most specific and important news
155
from the battle zone. The profiles present some insight on the
personal side of war. Mr. Cheka, your photos are outstanding.”
Bill took us to his office after the gathering and said further
conversation regarding our futures could wait until the following
Monday. “You must have felt the sincerity of my associates as they
congratulated you. There is no doubt that you filled the shoes of
our regular staff and used your creativity to get those results.”
“Now, here is someone who was late to the party. We
turned to see Jay Foy, Mickey’s future father-in-law and his
mentor in news photography and my very special friend and
sponsor. He was glowing as he congratulated us.
Bill finally shooed us out, saying he had to work. We
adjourned to the journalists’ bar; a few doors around the corner,
spending an hour bring Jay up to date. We finally parted after
agreeing to come to dinner the next evening. As Jay said, “We
need to take the opportunity to have both families get to know each
other before the merger of Julie and Mickey.”
After a long day of sight seeing, we cabbed to the Foy
home, arriving about six thirty, observing, as we stepped out of the
cab, the long and breath taking kiss between the two young lovers.
Mickey and I had deferred some of the stories until the
evening. We knew that our families would want to know the good
and the bad. We met their need minus some of the gory details.
The women were in tears some in compassion and some out of fear
of danger that had confronted the two of us.
It was a great gathering with mama ad Phyllis finding much
to talk about while Kate and I spent the evening talking shop with
dad and Jay. Julie had lassoed Mickey and disappeared. They
finally emerged, as we were ready to depart. On the way home
Mickey said. “I hope its okay with you that I asked Julie to meet us
156
at breakfast and spend the day sightseeing with us.” What could I
say to a young Romeo?
Sunday afternoon at five, we put the three of them into a
limo headed for LaGuardia and the flight to Pittsburgh. Tears
abounded as we promised a visit in the fall and at Christmas. At
the time I felt sure we would be able to do that.
We were summoned into Bill’s office at ten on Monday
morning. “All finished with your paper work? Find your temporary
desks?”
We responded in the affirmative. Have a seat while I call
Fred Martin, head of the foreign desk and Mac Mc Arthur of the
national desk.” Three minutes later we were being introduced to
both.
“Are both of you still determined to work mostly as a
team?” We both nodded affirmatively without even looking at each
other.
“Both of these gentlemen would be willing to have your
team assigned to them. We have an idea but you need to tell us
which you prefer as a first assignment?”
I answered. “Mickey and I discussed this on our flight
home. If possible we would be pleased to spend some time
overseas. We agree that it need not be covering military although
that is our total experience to date. We both like doing special
features and politics. Mickey would be good at whatever.”
Bill looked at Fred who nodded. “Fred and I guessed that
but we have a recommendation. There is still much for you to learn
and we would like you to get some experience under our tutelage.
We are suggesting that your desks stay in the city department and
that you will work with Mac until you get an overseas assignment.
Then even when you come home for any period of time, you will
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work with Mac. We’d like to try this out for a year, if it sounds
feasible.”
After a fifteen-minute period of questions, all was agreed
to. As we were ready to separate, Fred asked “Before you go to
your desks stop by for some coffee and a chance to meet a few of
our staff while I let them know what is coming down the road?”
When we finally reached our desks, I found fifteen letters
from friends and some of my former staffers at the Columbia News
congratulating Mickey and me.
At the bottom of the pile I found one from Dinah, my high
school friend. Her plaudits were effusive. She wrote in her last
paragraph “Ever since we spent that short time in Washington,
listening to Dr. Martin Luther King, I have been involved civil
rights affairs, currently working with voter registration in some
southern state. Mr. Vernon Jordan is our inspiration and hard
working leader.”
She included her phone number and asked to send her
mine. “It would be wonderful to play catch up with my famous
buddy from Coalton.”
I decided to wait until evening to call Dinah.
Mickey left early for a date with Julie; I was daydreaming
at .my desk when the phone rang.
”This is the receptionist at the front desk. You have a visitor who is
being escorted to your office, Miss Cheka. He wanted it to be a
surprise so I said ok if accompanied by one of our guards, I hope it
is okay.”
There was a light rap at the doorway just as I hung up. I
gasped and froze in my chair. There in the door way stood this
handsome male specimen, six feet tall, dark curly hair, a build to
die for by any woman and a warm, smile that I remembered so
well. “Hello Cathy”
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Chapter 8.
“Johnny. Johnny Wheldon, what are you doing here?”
“Surprising you, I hope.”
“You certainly are.” I rose, saying, reservedly, “and a
beautiful surprise. You are a sight for sore eyes.”
I had been practicing that lie for years just in the event we
ever met. That was an outright lie. Anger welled up as I
remembered the weeks of waiting for a letter from Johnny after his
move from Coalton. I did my best to hide my feelings.
He stepped forward and opened his arms to give me a hug,
as old friends might.
I may have seemed calm and friendly but I was literally
quivering on the inside. This was my teenage love that never kept
his promise to write to me and forgot me the moment his family
moved.
I should, have in, a polite way, sent him on his way He was
bad news, but why was my heart beating so fast? I felt the heat in
my face and realized that my breathing was shallow.
“Are you too busy for company?”
I started to say yes but instead found myself saying “No. In
fact, I am done for the day.”
“Good. Would you like to join me for a drink and possibly
dinner if you are not otherwise engaged?”
Hesitant, as I remembered our sharp break up, but eager to
find out what his life was about, I said “A drink would be great”,
leaving my options open. Seeing him in person after more than six
years had me roiling in turmoil. I wavered between being angry
about the past or pleased that he took the time to find me after all
these years.
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We had our drinks at the table in the restaurant around the
corner. It was too early for dinner but the bar was noisy. Johnny’s
charm worked encouraging the maître d’ into giving us privacy and
quiet.
“Booth or table?” I said “Table” in order to make certain
that we sat across the table instead of side by side in a booth
When our drinks were served, I said a little stiffly” Start
with why you are here, Johnny. I figured I would never see you
again. You broke your promise to write. The hell with you, Johnny
Wheldon.”
With tears in my eyes, I stood and rushed towards the door.
Johnny rushed after me and grasped my elbow so hard that it gave
me a sharp pain “Ouch. You monster.” I tried to break the hold but
to no avail.
Please don’t leave. The least you can do is hear me out. I’m
here because I need to talk.” There was something in his voice that
softened me enough to let him lead me back to the table. “All right.
I’ll listen and then leave.”
“I felt miserable when you did not answer my letters to you
during the weeks after our family move.”
I stood t ready to give him an angry retort but he held up
his hand.
“A few weeks ago while I was recuperating from my
wounds, I said to my mother. “Another byline for Cathy. She has
been making her mark. I often wonder why she never responded to
my letters.” I was looking directly at her and saw her blush.
“Mother, what is it?”
She said “Dear. I didn’t think it wise for you to continue
that puppy love relationship with a young girl of her class. I picked
both your letters out of the outgoing mail. I never did see any
incoming letters from her.” I exploded, could not keep the tears
160
from flowing and walked out of the room. Two days later I moved
into my own apartment.”
I was stunned, unable to peak for a minute, then in a
choked voice I squeaked “Oh, Johnny, I waited and waited and
sank into a deep funk.”
“I am so sorry. If you only knew how I felt when the
woman I loved cut me off without a word.”
“What a waste. Well, we have managed to survive.”
I laughed to cover up my confusion about the meaning of
what I had just heard. “Tell me about what happened since then.”
“Transition to a new high school was a little difficult but
that passed quickly. At the end of two years at McGill University,
dad was promoted to the corporate headquarters. I had been
struggling about a decision to accept my draft calls to the military
or stay in Canada. I decided to accept my responsibility and joined
the marines and became a machine gunner assigned to helicopters
flying personnel into and out of combat zones.”
“You enlisted?”
“Yes, although I could have continued to finish out my
studies at McGill. It seemed the right thing to do. I don’t regret it,
even if I came to believe that it was a fruitless venture in which we
will not emerge victorious. I believe that view is held by a lot of
the Vietnamese population for whom we, theoretically, were
fighting this war.”
He continued “That is not what they want but I do believe it
is what they expect.”
I interjected “I never quite reached that decision, having
been asked to go to Israel after just a few weeks in Nam. Johnny
shouldn’t you still be there?”
“Yes, normally, but losing a few digits on my right foot
earned me a purple heart and a trip back to civilian life.”
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“Oh, Johnny, are you free to talk about it?”
“There is not much to it. Standing in the open hatchway
with the mounted gun does expose one. I don’t know if you
experienced it but when approaching the fire zone, we machine
gunners were told to continue rapid fire into the jungle because, of
course, there was no way to see the Viet Cong. The barrage would
tend to keep them from firing at us. Despite the withering fire we
put down, every once in a while some VC would shoot at us. I was
in the wrong place at the right time.”
I wanted to go around the table and hug him but at the
moment he was still a stranger, in spite of our early love affair.” So
what are you doing now?”
“I’ve enrolled at Columbia to get my degree in Poli Sci and
Economics.”
I had noticed that he wore no ring on his left hand but
hesitated to ask when Johnny asked “Are you in a relationship at
the present? I looked but do not see a ring.”
“No. How about you?”
“No. Never found anyone who could match what you
meant to me, even if we were young.” I could see from his
expression that he wanted a comment from me.
“I’ve been so busy with school and working part time that I
had little time for dating although my friend kept trying to fix me
up.”
“That is hard to believe. You are even more beautiful than
you were when I first fell in love with you. Those marines at hill
881 must certainly give you a serious once over.”
“If they did, I never noticed. They were too tired to fuss
with a woman.”
“No way. A marine or a sailor will never miss the sight of a
beautiful woman, even if they never show it.”
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I laughed and took a sip of my drink, wondering if there
were implications in his statement of ‘when I first fell in love with
you.’ Was he implying that he still loved me?
I hadn’t noticed but patrons were beginning to arrive and a
waitress asked us if we were ready for menus. She handed us the
menus and recited the specials for the evening.
Knowing what I wanted, I sat back observing this
wondrous surprise who dropped into my life a few hours ago.
What I saw was a handsome man, over six feet, with mink colored
brown hair, soft misty green eyes, shoulders and arms that any
woman would love to envelop her.
That was the physical part. I was guessing that underneath
his jacket were bulging and rippling muscles. I was sure he was not
the lean smooth young man whom I loved so many years ago.
Then there was that warm inviting smile which seemed to have
grown warmer over the years.
He was still the well-groomed gentleman that I had known
so long ago. Those were the years during which I experienced a
love that I was sure would last forever. As I relived the warm
memory of his kisses and his hands caressing my breast, I was
beginning to wonder if there u were any burning embers of love
within this gorgeous man. Because I was feeling faint stirrings in
my depths I warned myself. “Stay cool, Cathy.”
During dinner I brought him up to date on my family
doings and changes and then on the life I lived at school, m
affiliation with the Columbia News and the work during those
years with the Times.
After dinner we took a long walk around the village, doing
a little window-shopping. In the midst of our walk he asked,
“Cathy, do you think you could call me Jack?”
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“Certainly if you will allow me a couple of slips of the
tongue.”
“Certainly. Would you be willing to test that name calling
on a real date with me this weekend?”
I was almost too eager but tried to mask my response. He
laughed as he watched my face. I wanted to find some excuse, just
trying to play a little hard to get, but I could feel the heat rising in
my cheeks. He teased me. “You always looked so radiant when
you blushed. I’m glad that you’re excited about a date with me.”
I tried to recover. “Johnny, I mean Jack, since you’re a
student and I am gainfully employed, we need to make this Dutch
treat date”
“Let’s not get into that. I m old fashioned enough to take
you on a real date, meaning I
want to foot the bill
when I invite a lady out for the evening. Besides, money has never
been a problem in our family.”
“Jack, you do remember my stubborn streak. Okay for this
time but you keep in mind that I am my own woman. In the field of
journalism I no longer take a back seat to my rivals. You may have
to put up with that if we are to continue to see each other.
Jack insisted on taking me home in a cab. Being totally
confused about my feelings
I kept hoping we could run a
little test by making out in that back seat but Jack just held my
hand and gently rubbed his thumb over my knuckles. At the front
door, he put his arms around me but limited his lips to my
forehead. “Good night, Cathy.” I felt just a tinge of
disappointment.
As I stripped down to don my bedtime attire, which,
actually, is no attire, I stood in front of the full-length mirror to
check out my body. In recent months I hadn’t paid any attention,
although I knew that my physical activity kept me in good shape.
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Looking critically, I liked what I saw, nice firm breasts, flat
tummy, firm but slightly rounded hips and tall slim tapered legs. I
suddenly was asking my self, “Why this sudden interest in my
body?”
I was aware that I was thinking sex, a subject that recently
was not of importance up until this evening. I reminded myself that
I was a twenty-five year old virgin and wouldn’t know what to do
if Johnny invited me to bed. Never the less I spent a lot of time
with nothing but sex on my mind until sleep overcame this tired
woman. I was conjuring up with scenes from the romance novels I
had read so many years back.
The first thing I did the next morning was hustle to the
library, checking out three books on the human male and female
anatomy, and sexual techniques for men and women.
The following days were filled with my work. I put in some
extra hours and was exhausted when I fell into bed. It was then
each evening that my mind turned to Johnny’s return to my life.
Saturday evening Jack picked me up in time for a drink
before curtain time, and then found our seats in the eighth row for
the smash musical of the season, “Cabaret.”
It was a joyous date as we reminisced and giggled
throughout our supper at Le Fondue, a cute specialty restaurant,
stuffing hot fudged strawberries into each other’s lips and wiping
off the excess because of the intentional near misses that brought
tears of laughter to both our eyes.
. We took a walk around Times Square and had drinks in a
small bar on Forty-Second Street. The years of separation seemed
to fade away over the hours we spent together.
Jack asked the cabbie to wait while he walked me to the
door. I could hardly stand it when his lips met mine, although it
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was tender but not overly passionate. “Pick you up at one o’clock
for a little picnic tomorrow?”
There was only one answer to that invitation. I was ready at
twelve thirty.
Jack let out a wolf whistle when I met him at the door in
cream-colored shorts, cut high on my thighs and a white t-shirt. I
laughed at the compliment, saying, “It promises to be very warm in
Central Park. I presume that is where we are headed.” I really had
heat on my mind.
“Yes and I will be the envy of every guy in the meadow.
Come. The cab is waiting with our blankets and food.”
The meadow was apparently crowded but I don’t remember
noticing anyone except Jack. His Bermuda shorts showed off his
powerful thighs and calves. His biceps rippled and his t-shirt was
well filled out. Being sure I would like what I saw, I urged him to
shed his t-shirt to take in the rays as other men near by had done.
As he doffed his shirt, I was sure I was the envy of every woman
within shouting distance. He was a “drop dead’ hunk.
I got all-gooey inside when he, at my request, applied sun
tan lotion over my exposed body parts. I was cussing my self for
not wearing a bra top instead of the t-shirt, but I did push up the
bottom hem of hem of the shirt in order to get some sun and feel
his hand on my tummy. I found myself hoping he might tease me
with a feint of movement toward my breast or lower on my belly.
We spent more time talking about our experiences during
the past six years. I pressed him for info regarding his love life,
and then feeling some jealousy when he spoke of Libby, his steady
for a year and half while at McGill. He kept his tone neutral while
he answered my question but from something he said I deduced
that they had really been close and probably intimate. While I felt
this pan of jealousy, I hoped he had made love to her. I wanted his
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experience to guide me through my initiation, planning that today
would be the day.
In the cab on the way home, he pulled me into a cuddle
nestling me against his right breast, softly smoothing down my
tousled hair and lightly stroking my right arm. It felt so inviting.
As we neared my apartment I asked, “Jack, do you have time to
come in for a glass of wine .I can cook up a light supper later on.”
“Of course. I was afraid you might not ask. I want to spend
every minute I can with, you, Cathy. I am beginning to feel the
love I had for you all those years ago. In fact, it may be that same
love rising from the ashes/”
Just then the cab pulled up at my front door, giving me a
chance to gather my thoughts. When I locked the door of the
apartment behind us, I said. “Jack, I’ve been having that same
experience. There is no question that I could fall in love with you
all over again.”
He reached for me, firmly pulling my body into his arms,
dropping his lips onto mine, with a tenderness that had me sighing.
My blood was humming, my arms moving up his back. I felt like I
was melting as I thought of those muscles taking control of me.
Just the thought of it stirred me to pull him closer, my hand
moving to his hair and pulling his lips so that I could ravage them.
When we came up for breath, his hot lips sought that hollow
behind my left ear, starting to turn me into jelly.
“Oh, Jack. I wanted you so long ago and now once more.”
“I want you desperately, Cathy.”
“Will you make love to me? I haven’t let any man get
close. I have been waiting for the right man, not ever thinking it
would be you.”
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His muffled voice reached me from someplace behind my
ear. “Cathy, you keep surprising me. It is hard to believe that a
worldly-wise woman like you have is still virginal. I promise to be
gentle.”
“I know that. Just love me and teach me how to make love
with you. My making love with you seems as important as your
making love to me.”
Much later when I was able to control my breathing, I
rolled atop him, pressing my lips to his as a special thank you. I
pulled my head back saying. “. Thank you.”
Jack smiled. “It was a pleasure, let me assure you. Just
whistle and I’ll come running. Didn’t you feel some pain?”
“Yes, a little but the glory of your love before and the
pleasure for me that followed was overpowering, making me forget
any pain.”
I whipped up some sausage and eggs while Jack made the
coffee, prepared the toast and set the table. I insisted we leave the
dishes in the sink while we tuned in the Yankees game on the tube.
I think we spent more time locking lips and exploring body parts
than we did watching the game, although I do remember that the
Yankees won. Two minutes after Jack hit the off button, he was
carrying me to experience anew a lovemaking that was even more
glorious than the first.
During the next month I hardly saw Mickey who spent his
spare moments with Julie while I spent much time with Jack.
Starting the weekend after our special time, he came by Friday
evenings and stayed until Monday morning. I helped him with his
studies and got special understanding of the politics and economics
168
of the present world. He was taking crash summer courses in order
to speed up his studies and get his degree.
Meanwhile my assignments included covering meeting of
the some congressional sessions and key committee meetings. I
dug up some human-interest stories while riding the subway or
sitting on the bench in Riverside Park, watching and talking with
tourists waiting their turn to enter the statue of Liberty. I roamed
the streets and visited the shop owners in the village, searching out
those special stories. When in Washington, I would do the same,
always looking for interesting profiles.
My boss created a special spot in the weekend issues for
“Profiles by CC”
In late September Jack and I were nosing through the
Times week end massive issue when he said, “Listen to this.
Denmark and three other nations are accusing Greece of violating
the terms of the European Human Rights Agreements.” He handed
me the item, which I scanned quickly.
In a teasing voice I asked “Jack, if I can wrangle a trip to
Greece for a few weeks, would you be willing to deny yourself the
company of your love slave while I try to tell the world about
this?”
He hugged me and said, “I will miss you terribly but this is
your life. Just be sure to come back home to me.”
The next morning I ambled into Fred Martin’s office just as
he was having his coffee break after putting in the first three hours
of his day on the phone to our people in Europe and the Middle
East. He pointed to the coffee pot and a seat across from his desk.
“The glint in your eyes saws you are looking for
authorization to head off to some god for- saken land in turmoil.
Am I right?”
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I grinned. “Greece.”
“The junta has a tight lid and a firm grip and we have long
time veterans on the scene.”
“Anyone covering specifically the human rights issues and
resulting suffering?”
“Not directly.”
“We ran a story in the Sunday issue.”
“The one about Denmark and others complain to the
European Human Right Commission?”
“It must be horrible if four nations are bringing up the
charges. I think we can find a way to fill out some detail for the
world to see.”
He laughed. “I see. You believe that the two of you need a
vacation for a few weeks where you can get yourself jailed by
these bad boys?”
“Boss, you are so insightful and, yes, we can find some
sneaky way of getting the evidence out of the country. The
question is do we do an expose considering our government’s
relationship to the colonels?”
“Cathy, I’m not sure about this. If you end up being
considered a spy, life will become hell. Your treatment will not be
pleasant. Abuse and rape and treatment worse than your brother’s.”
“I don’t think that is likely and not a good enough reason
for me to change my mind.”
Two weeks later we landed in Athens as official’s writers
and photographer for the Times. We were taken to a special room
after clearing customs, where an army major handed out the rules
for foreign journalists including the penalties for trying to avoid
the news censors. His parting words were “The army has eyes and
ears everywhere. We are serious about enforcing the rules.
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We flew to Kavala, in northern Greece where we were a bit
off center stage
In country run by despots where freedom is restricted and
the threat of punishment is constant, it is not difficult to find some
citizens willing to thwart the intent of the rulers.
Within twenty four hours had located a small firm where
we could have our writing and developed pics put into microdots,
our method of getting past the censors He provided us with a
contact in Athens if we still had need when we were there.
We had devised a simple but devious plan for getting our
photographs and stories published. This special material would be
published after our return
First, we would photograph and write and file stories
showing up the positive side of life in Greece at that time. We
featured improvement in life for the farmers who had been
bypassed in previous administrations. We photographed and wrote
about increased building programs and published statistics on the
improved economic health of the nation, all of which were true.
Our boss published two of these eight stories that I filed and were
approved by the censors.
The real news, which we intended to publish after our
return, was of the violent abuse of the individuals who for one
reason or another displeased the powers that be.
The photographs by Mickey were reduced to two
microdots. Mickey plan to attach to the heels of his slightly dirty
feet while we would be searched during our departure.
The accompanying stories and identification of the photos
would be in my personal diary, written in my special shorthand.
Short notes would be interspersed with details of my thoughts of
the wonderful views or impressive sights visited on that day
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One afternoon Mickey was in the back room of the photography
shop where his pictures were being developed prior to his choosing
the ones for reducing to microdots.
All of a sudden, an unmarked police car pulled up directly
in front of the store. Two police in plain clothes casually got out of
the vehicle and strolled to the front door. The shop owner called
out to Mickey, who quick yanked the roll of film that he had just
placed in the tray. He rushed to the back door into the alley behind
and stuffed the wet film into his jacket pocket. He dashed to his
right for about twenty yards where he found a walkway toward the
street.
He looked back but saw no sign of being followed. He
figured the shop owner had found some way to distract the
policemen. He strolled toward the next street and continued,
looking into various window displays as any foreign tourist might
be doing. He turned at the corner and strolled toward the street
where the photography shop was located.
The police car was no longer parked in front; Mickey
walked into the store and was greeted by a grinning owner. “The
two bullies simply had some personal film they wanted to have me
develop, free of charges, of course.”
Mickey told me that he could feel his muscles melting as
the tension dropped from his body, in full relief.
The soldiers were very vigilant, stopping us periodically,
especially when we returned to Athens. Their presence was heavier
here in the big city. There were two special times when soldiers
decided to frisk both of us for no special reason.
On one occasion, one of the pair began to search my body,
enjoying him as he groped my fanny and my beasts. I made such a
fuss that the other started to laugh and stopped searching Mickey.
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He joined his buddy, wanting to get in on the action.
Despite my protestations he insisted I might be hiding something
in my bra, ordering me to pull up my blouse and unhook the bra.
Their Greek conversation would have been complimentary if the
words were spoken by husband, Jack
I decided to make the most of it with not too vehement but
definitely louder protests which only served to prolong their
enjoyment.
That was a close call because Mickey had a tiny camera
perched on his chest just inside his shirt, which might have been
noticed with a good search.
Before either of the soldiers could get back to search
Mickey, I heard a whistle shrilling and the two soldiers dashed in
the direction of the whistler.
We both sighed with relief. The film in that camera had two
scenes, in which civilians were being tortured, one lying face up
with a policeman jumping up and down on the man’s stomach. The
other showed an arrestee having his throat jammed with a rag
soaked in gasoline. The authorities did not discourage observers,
wanting to make a point of no disobedience.
One ploy I used to keep suspicion at bay was to interview
some of the senior officers, telling them that I was compiling
profiles of the current leaders in Greece. It was natural for each of
them to puff up and get garrulous, telling me more than was wise
and, of course, to inflate their contributions.
I gave copies of my profiles to the major newspaper in
Athens. The photos and profiles appeared within a few days.
Within days of the first j publication, Mickey and I were
receiving smiles from the soldiers in city center.
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I decided to offer a profile to be sent to New York of each
of the seven Colonels. Within two days I had five of them
requesting times for their interviews.
Despite an improved relationship with the army, we were
stopped periodically by the local gendarmes. We continued to stay
alert.
Mickey had over two dozen pics showing victims who had
suffered serious physical abuse and then released. He had shots of
two men with arms broken in multiple places, sent on their way
with no medical treatment, thus ending in permanent
disfigurement.
We had met with the Athens contact that had been referred
by our first photo shop owner. Each day the film that Mickey
brought in was immediately developed. The finished product and
negatives were hidden beneath a cobble stone in the alley behind
the store until Mickey could decide which should be transferred to
microdots.
I am still amazed at the risk that some people will take as
citizens when the penalties can be so devastating.
Some of the stories are too gruesome for me to write for
publication although my journal is quite explicit. Ten days of
secret exploration of the abuses produced more evidence than we
would need for our expose.
The real fright for me came during our last hours before
departure. We spent three hours in a debriefing room, interrogated
about every detail of our visit and each photograph looked at a
dozen times. One soldier spent almost two hours reading and
rereading my journal, continually asking me to interpret my short
hand. I was in fear that, at some point, the lies I was telling might
trip me up,
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I was glad my examiner was not one of their top
intelligence officers who would have been more acute and would
have seen through my amateurish ways.
This was the big test. I could feel the moisture escaping the
pores under my arms although I believe my facial composure and
smiles were disarming enough.
The examiner put down the journal, seemingly satisfied
that nothing therein was of concern. My personal shorthand notes
of the abuses were interspersed with shorthand and some long hand
notes about the progress that were evident during the last few
years. He started for the door, turned and grunted something to the
other two men. One, who spoke a little English, smirked and said
“Clothes off.”
I figured they would call in a matron to search me but they
made no move to do so. I started slowly unbuttoning my blouse but
the look on their happy and eager faces made me think they were
enjoying a slow strip tease. I decided to play along and moved with
adagio moves, just enough to tease their hunger.
L I stood only with bra and panties, shoes and hose, trying
for a demure appearance.
The grins widened as the leaders said “Shoes and some
word that I took to mean my hose.” I suddenly was feeling
uncomfortable. They were obviously enjoying my discomfiture.
The heat that had flushed my face earlier seemed to spread over
my entire body.
I stood ready for groping hands but had guessed
incorrectly. Very smooth hands moved to my back to unsnap by
bra and then softly and seductively slip under the elastic of my
panties and moved them down over my hips.
I shuddered, not knowing what to expect. Both men began
a close visual inspection of my body, concentrating with their
175
fingers on my rosebuds and high on the inside of my thighs,
lingering ever so slightly The leader had just moved his hands back
to my breast when a shout from the other side of door interrupted
him. It sounded like a question and I guessed it was something like
“What the hell is taking so long?”
I interpreted his sign as “Get dressed.” I was so nervous
with the close call that I fumbled with my bra, then feeling his soft
hands helping me. They left the room while I finished and sighed
with relief. The microdot under my left breast was undiscovered.
My legs felt like jelly so I sat waiting for a sign to leave.
Meanwhile Mickey was in another room being stripsearched. He told me. “They had me completely naked except for
my socks and were definitely looking for micro dots. At the last
minutes, the headman insisted that I remove my socks. I was sure I
was a goner. I sighed with relief when he told me to get dressed,
having looked between my toes but not looking at the bottom of
my feet where he might have discovered my microdots.”
We were cleared and escorted to the departure lounge ten
minutes before boarding time. When we were airborne, Mickey
said.” You know, Sis, as scary as it was, there was thrill to being
able to outwit your enemy. I don’t think I am ready to play the spy
game but I have to admit to feeling a real thrill.”
"Good for you but you better never say that to your Julie.”
Jack and Julie were both at Kennedy to welcome us,
wrapping us in their arms, tears flowing on four sets of cheeks.”
The editor decided personally to write an introduction to a
three-day series, featuring the photos with brief captions that I
wrote as interpretive notes. Letters to the editors were
complimentary noting that the photos make the victims come alive
and, in one comment, “rose off the paper to confront me.”
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In the third issue, the editor ran my profile of a Lieutenant
Colonel whose recitations of his actions were most abhorrent to
me. The photo by Mickey spoke volumes depicting the arrogance,
the insolent the disdain for the common citizenry Mickey had
picked up the perfect expression to amplify what I was trying to
say in prose.
That evening in the privacy of our bedroom, Jack said.
“Today’s story, with its uncovering the heart of the junta, will put
the two of you on the map and may make you targets of a sort.”
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Chapter 9.
A few months later Jack and I spent a weekend in New
England enjoying the colors and cozy evenings by a roaring fire in
our cabin with the additional benefit of no noise limit during our
lovemaking.
Holding hands as we walked and kicked at the red and
bright yellow leaves, we talked of many things, like how we
missed each other, the little thoughts that crossed our minds in
those free moments that come even in the midst of business or
turmoil. We stopped in the midst of a shower of falling leaves,
caused by a brief gust of wind, kissed deeply and walked on.
It was a good time to share dreams interspersed with hugs,
kisses and words like: I love you.”
Jack rented a car and drove Mickey, Julie and me to
Coalton for a magnificent Christmas holiday. My high school
friend, Di, and her husband Jimmy spent Christmas Eve with our
family, even joining us at the candle light mass at eleven o’clock.
Jimmy’s comment after words was “It’s sure different from the
services at the African Free Baptist Church.”
During the days before New Year’s Day, Jack and I found
an apartment on Riverside Drive near 118th street where we could
live together, saying nothing to either set of parents for the preset.
It was a peaceful period. I had no long trips during the
winter, mostly editing or rewriting stories for my fellow reporters
calling in from the field. I attended special seminars at Bill’s
request.
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It was a warmish night considering the fact that it was
February 2nd, Ground Hog day. We sat on the balcony, wrapped
together with a Navajo Indian blanket, overlooking him Hudson
River. Jack reached over for my left hand, put his lips to my palm
and asked “Cathy, would you please say yes? I am asking you to
marry me.”
I was taken back for a full minute and could not respond.
While not unexpected, this particular moment was indeed a
surprise. I continued to find myself speechless. Jack finally asked
again to which there was only one response. “Oh I will. You know
that you have held my heart and my future in your hands for all
these months”
After long minutes, tied up in an embrace and a kiss to die
for, we separated our faces but not our bodies.
Jack and I talked a little about plans for a wedding shortly
after he graduated. We talked about making babies, agreeing that
we would like to have two children.
That brought us to the issue of working outside the home
and taking care of babies, not trying to resolve the problem but still
wanting the babies
It takes no great imagination to figure out how we spent the
rest of that evening.
On the 28th of March I had a call at my desk,
“Hi, Cathy. Long time no see. This is Elsie.” She and I had shared
experiences while I was still a student at Columbia. Elsie was now
the assistant editor of the Columbia News. “I know it’s not your
department but if your boss would agree I believe you would be a
good person to cover a breaking story on campus.”
“What can you tell me that I can take to the big boys?”
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“It seems we are about to have some public protests. Part of
it will be racial while the other seems to have the SDS stirring the
pot”
“I’ll call you in a bit. How do I reach you?”
My boss asked “why do you think she wants you instead of
a reporter from the city department?’
“I’m, guessing because we are friends and worked together.
Oh I didn’t tell you she is black with roots in Harlem. She and her
dad sort of introduced me to Harlem during my senior year. My
guess is that she is hoping for a less biased white reporting a
protest with racial overtones.”
“Do you think you can be objective? Oh, hell, what’s the
difference? I’ll get approval from City. Come back in ten minutes.”
When I walked in, he smiled. “You’re working for City. He
will be sending out one of their own, rooting around for the SDS
angle. You may have to do some sharing if this is a combination
event and my nose tells me it will be.
After calling Elsie, I left a message for Jack saying I was
on a story and having dinner with
Elsie. Grabbing my coat and bag I was headed for the subway and
Columbia.
Elsie’s mom welcomed me with open arms. “Elsie is
changing and daddy will be here in a few minutes. He called a
while back. I have some California chardonnay, if you would like
a drink.” I did.
At dinner I received a long and lengthy description of
events leading to the evolving confrontation. The shortened
version is like this
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The university had been encroaching on Harlem, buying
our property and becoming a de facto landlord besides forcing out
more than eight thousand persons.
Plans to build a combination community center together
with a university gymnasium on public land had been meeting
resistance from Harlem activists but with little success.
Elsie chimed in “The design of the building with limited
entrance for local citizens, mostly black, while the students would
have no limitations. This has an odor of Jim Crow.”
“Elsie continued. “The black students decided to take up
the issue now, to protest, probably with sit-ins. They know it will
be tough going since the city fathers who approved the plan even
over rode Mayor Lindsay’s objections to the project.”
Her dad added a bit more detail to the history, handing me
some back issue of his paper, which contained both stories and
editorials.
After her folks retired to the living room, Elsie invited me
to help with the dishes so we could discuss some other issues.
“There are more. Anti-Vietnam groups and the SDS, the
extremely radical group, who have discovered the university’s
relationship to the Institute for Defense Analysis and the resulting
research being conducted for the military. They are planning a
joint protest, not necessarily pleasing to the black protest who
wants to focus on the gymnasium project.”
After receiving answers to some question I asked Elsie if I
might share this last piece about the anti-IDS protest with my
colleague.
“Of course. I just want you, personally, covering the
Harlem side of this story for the Times.”
“You got it. I’ll have Mickey on standby if you think that
will help.”
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“Oh, yes. Photos are always another way of telling a story.”
In the morning I called the office to let my temporary boss,
Mitchell Ross, know about the SDS activity, suggesting to him that
they send a colleague ASAP.
At midmorning, Fritz, my temporary colleague, found me
in the coffee room where I filled him in. “This demonstration
includes women from Barnard as well as the men from Columbia.
A protest at the Low Library building started about an hour ago.
Denied access, the group is now headed to the gymnasium sight
trying to stop construction.
“Don’t sit. We’re leaving. Once we arrive, you’re on your
own. Since the SDS leaders have a double agenda, they are a bit
over zealous.”
“Meaning things might get out of hand?”
“What signals are you reading from the e administration?”
“So far they have on the velvet gloves. Neither the black
students nor the administration wants an explosion which is a real
possibility given the long period of overt racism prevalent for
years.”
“Thanks, Cathy. That is a great heads up.”
I called Mitch after four that afternoon. “This has all the
earmarks of a long and loud protest. I presume Fritz has already
called in. If it’s okay with you, I’ll focus on the background of the
Harlem-Columbia dispute. I have enough for a long story or maybe
a two day series.”
He had a dozen questions and gave me the ego ahead. I
submitted my stories in time to make the Saturday issue but Mitch
decide to wait until the Monday and Tuesday issues while Fritz
had a story each day, including the fact that the black students
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were occupying one section of Hamilton Hall while the whites
were in a separate section.
I called Mitch on Tuesday afternoon. The first thing he said
“I sure hope there are no holes in the facts you have in the stories.
The phones are lighting up by calls from power sources saying you
have it all wrong. Others are asking for more detail. This is causing
uproar. I love it but I hope you don’t have me over a barrel without
knowing it.”
“I assure you, boss. We’re safe. I have an impeachable
source. I have just called in the story of why the black students are
separating themselves. I’ll call back in thirty to see what else you
want in that story.”
Thirty minutes later he was saying. You’re story is great.
Do you think you can get a direct quote regarding the
discriminatory architecture?”
“I’ll call you back.
At 7:07 I called Mitch and was asked by his secretary to
hold on. Three minutes later “Did you get it?” When I said I had
called it in, he said. “I have a bombshell for you. Ten minutes ago
Dr King was assassinated in Memphis. All hell will probably break
loose in Harlem and maybe on campus. I need a story before
midnight with whatever you can get.”
“Roger that, boss.”
I was calling from a pay phone outside the News building
so I hustled into Elsie’s office. She was still there, surrounded by
colleagues listening to a news flash about Dr. King. It was
probably unconscious but her two black associates were standing
with her on one side of the desk separated from the five white
colleagues.
Since few details were available, commentators started
speculation and Elsie flipped the switch. For just a moment I had
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the impression that she saw me as the enemy but she quickly
masked any such feeling and walked over to me. The tears started
flowing and she put her arms around me, head on my shoulder and
wept.
Much later .I led her to the water fountain and then to the
coffee shop for a cup of tea. I asked her about her plans. “I have no
idea, Cathy.”
How about seeing what happens in Harlem in response to
his death? I think the Times could use a personal story of one
family’s reaction or the reaction of some close-knit group. If you
are up to it and believe it is worthwhile, I will be happy to see that
it gets published.”
“I don’t know. I am so damned confused and angry. When
will this stupidity come to an end? When will all people
understand that all of us are the same, that color is not what makes
us who we are?”
I sat silently, knowing the questions wee rhetorical. A
minute later she picked up the phone. “Dad, are you going to be
there for a while?” A pause. “Cathy and I will grab a cab and see
you soon.” A pause. “Yes, we’ll take precautions.”
Two cabbies regretfully refused to take us into Harlem. A
third, who was black, agreed if I would be willing to cover my face
or slink down in the seat as we traveled 125th street, the central
business district of Harlem. As I look back, I still am amazed to
find that my friends were more fearful for me than I was for
myself.
I had a light kerchief covering most of my face but I
wanted to observe. The streets were full, large groups conversing,
some individuals gesticulating and displaying angry faces. I could
imagine what the words might be.
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Up to that time there were no signs of vandalism or rioting
although I was sure that would come later, but maybe not in their
own neighborhood this time. I was wrong.
I noticed police blockades going up on the cross streets that
led to Morningside, the location of the Columbia campus. Police
were wearing riot gear.
Mr. James took us into an inner office away from
windows, signaling to me that my white face might attract
unwanted visitors. He poured me a cup of coffee while he and
Elsie retired to another room. I called Jack to tell him where I was
and might not see him until much later. He understood and said.
“I’ll be waiting and praying, love. Please take care. I love you.”
I took out m notebook and began writing the story of my
observations since I joined Elsie right up to this very minute.
Pouring another cup I spent a few minutes reflecting on the events
of the day and how our relationships might change as a result of
this cataclysmic event.
Elsie and her dad joined me. “Cathy, daddy thinks I ought
to write that story. He believes the world ought to know how
upstanding blacks react to this tragedy.”
‘Mr. James, I am glad you agree. I know my editor felt it
would be appropriate.”
“Cathy, I suggest we go home where Mrs. J is nervously
awaiting us. We need to support each other in moments like this.
Plan to spend the night. I believe it will be dangerous to be on the
road in this part of the city later tonight.”
Elsie said. “I need a little time to gather my thoughts. Some
friends and extended family members might be willing to add to
my thinking.
“I’m willing and thank you both.”
Mr. James said. “We thank you for the opportunity.”
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We had a police escort join us as we pulled out of the
parking lot and stay until we left 125th street. The crowds were
thicker and obviously angrier. There were some small fires of
trash on the curbside but nothing that spelled riot or vandalism.
I heard myself sigh with relief as we pulled into their
Elmhurst driveway. I had noticed that none of the houses on their
street were showing any lights. My muscles were tensed and could
have used mama’s kneading.
Mrs. J included me in the hugs and showed me the towels
in my bedroom and suggested a hot shower in the spare bath and
that pajamas and robe would be proper dinner attire this evening.
Fresh and cozy in the robe, I called Jack to update him and
hear him tell me how much he missed me. He ended the call
whispering a few naughty ideas that had me giggling.
Elsie had dinner in her room so she could concentrate on
her story and make those calls. Meanwhile, sensing a need for the
James to be alone, I retired to my room to finish my own story.
At ten thirty Elsie brought in some hot cocoa. “Am I still in
time before they close the presses?”
“Oh, yes. I have enough time to enjoy this cocoa with you
before I call it in. How do you feel?”
“Still angry but calmer. My hands aren’t shaking any
longer. I found it therapeutic to let my feelings out and see them on
paper. Cathy, I couldn’t write everything I felt because I couldn’t
believe there was that much anger stored up in my psyche. It must
have been accumulating for years while I continued to push it
down.”
Fifteen minutes later I called in her story and gave my story
editor the phone number where I cold be reached. I was sure Mitch
would want to talk when he saw the final copy.
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Twenty minutes later the phone rang. Elsie said, “It’s your
boss.”
“Cathy. What a heartfelt and open expression and an
excellent writer. We are going to run it as written except for some
typo and punctuation corrections. Give her our thanks and tell her
I want to meet her some time soon. Now tell me your
observations.”
After I gave him the gist, he said. “We have more detailed
observations and later ones, so we’ll run with that copy. I would
like you to write a story for the next edition in which you open to
us what went through you mind and what it took for Elsie to open
her thoughts. As usual, we’ll run it under your byline. I’m bushed
and headed home. Hope you can sleep tonight”
I did.
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Chapter 10.
The morning ride from Elmhurst to the campus was
heartbreaking. The devastation in just one block at the western end
of 125th street was horrendous. As we pulled a stop on one corner,
I rolled down the window listening to a shop owner cursing as he
was cleaning up the glass shards while his wife was sobbing while
trying to help. It was just a snapshot telling the story of many other
shop owners that morning after.
I spent another day nosing around to see if the King
shooting might have further repercussions among blacks on
campus but cold pick up nothing. Elsie said “If you want to go
back downtown, I’ll keep alert and call you if things change with
the protestors.
I ran into Jack at my old campus hangout. I could see his
anger under control but barely. “Cathy, where have you been?
Why haven’t you called me” I have been worried sick.”
He wrapped me in his arms while we shed tears. I had no
real excuse for not calling. I t would have taken only a few minutes
but my focus had been so limited. We left for home where we
could reconcile.
Elsie called me on the 18th. “The SAS and SDS are feuding
openly. There may be some major shifts and worth your while.
Without identifying myself, I was accepted as just another
student protestor in the middle of a shouting match when the heads
of the SDS said they were adjourning with the black students to
discuss some important strategy. .
An agreement was reached so that the white protestors left
Hamilton to the blacks. When the announcement was made shouts
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of anger were hurled from within the crowd. “This is our chance
to show solidarity with blacks.”
“This is what our black brother’s want, so let’s move. “
The leaders took us the Low, Library building, where the
crowd began occupying almost the entire building except the
library itself. I was there in the midst of the mushrooming crowd
starting to occupy three other classroom buildings. The display of
hostility, the shouting and the pushing around of furniture was
frightening but I wanted this story. I finally found a way to slip out
and head over to Elsie’s office.
While Elsie was busy with her editorial work, I strolled
around the campus, intent on picking up bits and pieces of the
moods of both protestors and non-participants. I heard rumblings
by some that the administration was not doing enough.
I heard one statement repeated often. “I support the goals of
the protest but I need to get to class to complete my work.” There
was talk of a counter protest.
I wanted to interview and profile one or more of the black
leaders so I headed for Hamilton but was stopped twenty feet in
front of the doorway by a six-foot bruiser. “No whites allowed.”
I pulled out my credentials explaining what I was seeking.
He stepped closer and pointed me back toward the way. I had
come.
I later told Elsie who said. “Leave it to me. If the leaders
are willing, I can set it up.”
I had a second thought. “On the other hand, see if we can
do a double interview, running the same story in the News and the
Times.
Mitch insisted that I stay on the campus until the protest
ended or, at least until the gymnasium issue was resolved. In the
meantime Elsie was using her influence to set up the interview. It
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took five days but we were summoned to Hamilton Hall to meet
with the chief strategist who I shall call ‘Henry’.
I was aware of an ambience of suspicion in a room that
held about fifteen men and women who appeared to be preparing
posters and tracts for distribution. It was intimidating but not
frightening. Henry introduced us to Foster, and led us to small
private office.
“Foster is the chairman of our committee and moderates the
meetings of the inner committee and plenary sessions of any
students who want to meet with us. Faster is going to read a
statement, following which we will try to answer questions that we
deem to be relevant.”
His firm voice indicated that there would be limits to the
questions. Foster read a brief statement and then handed us type
copies.”
“The residents of Harlem have been strongly stating their
opposition to plan for this combination community buildinggymnasium for several years with no acknowledgement from the
University. The design for “back door entry” for Harlemites and
the limited use of the facility is purely discriminatory
Furthermore; this project is being built on public land, our
land. We are out of patience and intend to stay in this building until
the University abandons its plans.”
I asked, “Are there other issues or concerns that should be
addressed?”
Henry responded, “Yes. The expansionist policies by the
school into Harlem and continual uprooting of the citizens is a
major concern”
“The discrimination against black women students must
come to an end, but these matters are for another round of
discussions. Right now, we have but one goal. Stop this building.”
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My ears perked up. . “That’s the first I heard of
discrimination against black women students.”
“Elsie can tell you. Black women are discouraged from
registering for difficult courses.”
“That’s abhorrent.”
“You bet. This school administration is slow to learn and
resisting the coming changes.
Elsie asked, “What will happen if the university stands
firm?”
Foster smiled and said. “I guess we will have to wait and
see. We do not plan to give up.”
Henry stood. “I think you have the essence of our hopes
and plans.” They both shook our hands, walked with me to the
door “Elsie says you are fair and honest. You have the only
interview we are allowing.”
Looking back to the calm I sensed during that entire
meeting and my own feelings only of awe and respect, I guessed
that my early friendship with a black friend as a teen had prepared
me for this moment.
Mitch was more than pleased with the interview and put
Elsie’s name along side mine.
Everything seemed at a standoff with only minor scuffles
until the morning of the 26th when a group of approximately three
hundred students called the ‘Moral Majority’ blockaded Low
Library, allowing anyone to leave but no one to enter. That lasted
three days.
I was interviewing one of the leaders on the 29th when a
messenger interrupted. He turned away and began spreading the
word to disband.
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My reporter’s nose got itchy. They had earlier that day
easily repulsed in an attempt by some protestors to break through
police lines
My gut kept urging me to pry. I was up early the next
morning when an avalanche of police arrived and quietly and
peacefully escorted the black students from Hamilton Hall. I asked
one of the older gentlemen present why he was here “To post bail
if needed for any of our students although it looks like the police
are not booking them, probably releasing them on their own
recognizance.”
I saw Elsie about ten yards away. I ran over. “Elsie, want to
share the story?” She nodded
I said “Then stay. There must be action at Low. I’ll try to
cover that and then meet in your office later.” She agreed and I
trotted away.
The scene at Low was violent. I watched the police using
black jacks and batons beating him resisting students. I saw y
loads of bloody heads and faces being carried to nearby cars and
ambulances to be carried to hospitals. My camera was shooting
picture of the violent behavior as well as the mutilation of the
bodies. The tally for the eviction at all the buildings, except
Hamilton, was about 150 injured and over 700 arrested.
Twenty minutes after my arrival I took a minute to call
Mitch, briefing him on events and suggesting he find Mickey and
other photographers to get here ASAP.
I spent the balances of the day walking among the lesser
injured that were being attended by medics before being hauled off
to their imprisonment. I never did find out how they processed 700
arrestees.
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Mickey found me, taking my camera. “I’ll have the film
developed and pics delivered to your editor. It’s time to head home
to Jack”.
“I have to find Elsie so we can file our stories.” I found her
at her desk where we wrote and I called in two stories.
I got home about six thirty to be greeted by a loving
husband who poured me a drink and ran a deep hot bath filled with
bubbles, gently undressed me and sat with me while I slept until
the water began to cool. Wrapped in a terry cloth robe, I had some
chicken soup and hot bread before Jack carried me to bed.
I began stirring about nine the next morning. Jack must
have heard, because five minutes later I was holding a steaming
cup of hot black coffee and reading the Times and staring at two of
the pics. One was of an officer and a student with hatred pouring
out of their eyes but their bodies posed in a defensive stance,
exuding fear of each other. . Jack took the paper from my hands
and decided to read aloud the two contrasting stories.
I was in heaven as I submitted to a massage with my
favorite body oil and Jack’s magic fingers. His treatment of me as
royalty continued as he took me to the shower and personally and
playfully made sure that each body part was thoroughly laved and
then dried.
We topped off with brunch at our favorite bistro on 96th and
Broadway.
I was pleased not be present two weeks later with another
round of sit-ins, but delighted to hear that the university abandoned
plans for the gymnasium project.
My presumption was that the agreement to abandon was
given to the black student sit-in participants; Otherwise, I am sure
they would not have given up their public protest.
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Jack and I settled in with lots of studying and my helping
him often followed by an hour of intimacy and discussion of life
plans. His goal was to graduate next January, which meant a
summer of classes and study. The entire month was a blissful time
of welding two souls into one and creating a foundation for
marriage.
Julie also had doubled up on her studies so that she could
graduate in January with wedding plans set for February.
My time was spent doing research and doing rewrites for
reporters scattered around the nation. The politicians were busy
prepping for the upcoming political party conventions.
My boss suggested I get some profiles of potential
candidates. He said “We have other reporters describing the
events but I want you to show the personal side of this part of the
campaign.”
After successfully interviewing Hubert Humphrey and
Eugene McCarthy, the boss said, “Robert Kennedy is heading for
Los Angeles. Book yourself a flight. You have a room booked at
the Ambassador where Kennedy is expected to celebrate his
California Primary victory that evening.
This was an especially welcome assignment. Bobbie had
become my hero, the continuation of big brother JFK. I was sure
that he would become our next president. At least, I hoped so. His
championing the rights of the underprivileged struck a chord with
this coal miner’s daughter.
I booked a flight to Los Angeles to arrive at six P.M. With
delays at departure and heavy freeway traffic from the airport, I
made it just in the nick of time to hear his victory speech.
Deeply moved by what he had to say but even more so out
of admiration for his courage, I wanted to stay close and hopefully
get a personal interview before he left town.
194
I was told he was headed to meet a group of supporters
when his campaign aide said. “Bobbie, we need to get to the press
conference first.”
I had no idea where that was so I latched onto Mr. Barry,
his bodyguard, who was telling Kennedy to follow him? I hung
tight to Barry. For some reason Kennedy got side tracked and
moved through another passage. It seemed less than a minute later
that I heard a volley of shots coming from the kitchen area.
Hanging onto Barry’s coat tails, so to speak, I was suddenly
confronting the candidate prone on the floor and Barry moving
toward a dark skinned man, striking him with a fist. Out of the
corner of my eye I noticed Rosey Grier and George Plimpton
moving to disarm the shooter.
There was something inside me saying “Help” but Barry
pushed me aside, removed his jacket to put under Kennedy’s head,
making room for Ethel Kennedy to kneel by Bobbie’s side.
Reading his face, I could see that he felt there was no hope for
Bobbie’s life. I suddenly felt like I could not breathe. My eyes
began to sting but I knew I had to hold on. This was not the
moment for a professional to yield to personal feelings.
A minute later I almost lost it as I witnessed a poignant
moment. The bus boy was cradling Kennedy’s head in his lap as
the myriad of reporters came crushing into the room Chaos was
rampant but Bobbie’s staff and friends hustled the press out of the
room promising a full interview once the doctor had attended to
Bobbie.
I stayed with the crowd of reporters, following the
ambulance to the Central Receiving Hospital and later to Good
Samaritan for the operations. Twenty-five hours later, with only a
three-hour nap I was there to hear the announcement of his death.
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I went back to my room where I finally gave in and let
down, sobbing in private just as I had done that November day in
1963.in memory of JFK. Hours later as I lay in bed, now devoid of
tears, I could not erase that scene in the kitchen. I had scene death
on the battlefield, bloody bodies on the Columbia campus, torture
and death in Greece but the impact here was personal. Another
hero had vanished.
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Chapter 11.
The next months were filled with more interviews of key
candidates for seats in the Senate and the House of
Representatives. I had hoped to pull an assignment to the
democratic convention in Chicago but no luck. “You’re too junior,
Cathy. These are juicy assignments and the old timers are warring
with each other to be present.”
“Isn’t there some way I can squeeze in?”
“Sorry. With so many concentrated on that potential
madhouse, I need you here to cover some of the mundane.as well
as to help with the rewrites.”
My days were routine, providing me with time to support
Jack with research for his political and economic studies. We spent
a lot of time in the main library at Columbia and in the library at
the Columbia School of Business.
We took a weekend in October to see the colors in Vermont
and New Hampshire during the days and renewing our love
commitment each evening in those cozy lodges that were so
welcoming in the villages.
On the first evening, Jack proposed and I accepted. It was a
glorious three days, a pre-wedding honeymoon.
We decided to get married at the chapel in the Riverside
Church without benefit of family. Inviting his mother to a wedding
presented a major problem. He asked “How about your family?’
“Dad will understand and mother will be happy to see that
we are no longer living “in sin.” That brought a giggle but it was
our decision.
We reopened the question of my career and having babies.
In the middle of that discussion I raised the question that I had
197
been afraid to bring into the open. I had feared that even a
discussion could bring about a major rupture in our plans for the
future, but knew it was better to face it now rather than later.
I said “Jack, we need to talk about my work after we are
married.”
He smiled “I know. I have been wondering why we both
have been putting this off.”
I went on. “Yes. You know the passion I have for
journalism. I am doing what I dreamed of ever since we were in
high school.”
In an even tone, not giving anything away, he said:
Remember, that it was I who tried to encourage you even when
your mom thought you were dreaming too big,”
I remember but how do you think that plays into our plans
for a married life. You and I both grew up with traditional ideas of
family life, part of which included the husband being the bread
winner.”
Jack laughed and that surprised me. He said. “We have
been flaunting our family traditions by living together. I believe we
can resolve any such problems in the future.”
“How are you going to feel if I want to take an overseas
assignment for a while?”
“I expect it will be painful for both of us but that we will
resolve it. I think we are too much in love with each other to put a
crimp in the pursuit of each other’s dream.”
“That sounds nice but do you think it will work? Suppose
your work needs you to move to another city and I am under
contract to the Times, her in the city?”
He took me in his arms. “I don’t know the specific answer
but I am sure our love will help us find a way to support our
marriage as well as our dreams.”
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His self-assurance was enough to melt away my fears. I
was willing and would forget any worries that might threaten our
future.
A week later we were a married couple. That decision was
accepted by all parties concerned. We did receive some flak but
most of it was good hearted.
In January we celebrated with graduation parties for Julie
and Jack followed the next weekend by the wedding of my little
brother to Julie.
I had asked for leave from work for the week so that Jack
and I could entertain mama, daddy and Kate. We did the entire
tourist thing, taking the circle boat tour, visiting the Statue of
Liberty and the Empire State Building, taking in shows on
Broadway and attending the Philharmonic’s performance .of
Beethoven’s Fifth.
My folks spent hours at the Metropolitan Museum and
walking the streets of the communities on the east side.
One morning, dressed in my sweats and while I was
slipping on my sneakers, mama came in, shod in her walking shoes
and casual slacks and a polo asking. “How about taking a walk in
the park with your mama?”
Three minutes later we were trying to avoid collisions with
the runners and joggers on the paths overlooking the Hudson
River.
I loved the fact that mama kept her in great shape. She
had no trouble keeping up with me. Concentrating on our fast
walking we delayed the conversation for twenty minutes when we
found a vacant bench “Olay, mama, what’s on your mind?
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She giggled. “Since you kept the wedding secret and
private, I just wondered if you might let your mother in on any
plans you have for making a baby. Your father and I are looking
forward to spoiling a grandchild.”
I laughed. “You may be interested in a grandchild but I
think your fishing for news about Jack’s and my relationship isn’t
you?”
Mama’s face turned crimson and she burst into laughter.
“Okay. You got me.”
“Are you worried that Jack is letting me run with my
journalism career while he takes the second seat?”
“I guess that says it all, smarty pants.”
“Not to worry and you can tell daddy I said so. We have a
great marriage and we discussed all this before the wedding.
We’ve already started talking about babies so we’re having a lot of
fun practicing.”
After the laughter died down, I went on “We are
including my plans for working some time after a baby arrives, but
no long trips and certainly not into danger zones.”
Mama smiled and gave me a big hug, speaking softly in my
ear. “It’s your life, not mine to arrange, but remember to keep his
dreams and needs in mind. You have committed yourself to a
partnership. Daddy and I have used that plan with occasional
modifications that has provided for a wonderful love and a great
marriage.”
It was a pivotal moment although I did know that at the
moment.
Phyllis and Jay, Julie’s folks, Mickey’s in-laws, had the
whole gang to dinner one evening. Jay cornered daddy and had
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him talking about working the mines. I had never seen my father
enthusiastic and voluble as he was with Jay.
We put them on the night train to Pittsburgh, rode the
Broadway local and strolled hand in hand to find the peace and
quiet of our apartment.
Summer of 1971
The veterans on staff no longer looked me upon as that
lucky young skirt. With my contributions from Vietnam, Israel and
Greece, I had gained some respect. My presence immediately after
the shooting of Bobbie Kennedy had my fellow journalists giving
me some respect although I knew I was not a regular member of
the old boys club.
Since those early days I had paid my dues on several rewrite desks researching and writing articles for the weekly
magazine. I was paying my dues but I was getting antsy for a
major assignment.
Shortly after the publication of the ‘Pentagon Papers’,
which exposed the less than transparent actions of past
administrations regarding Vietnam, I went to the boss on the
international desk.
Looking up from his desk as I stuck my head in the door,
he laughed. “Okay, antsy-pants, I think you’re ready for
something. You don’t even come by to say hello until you want
something”
I laughed “Do you have something boss?”
“A couple of ideas that may take you away from Jack for
awhile but I believe you were thinking of something.”
I laughed again. “Yes. Actually I was thinking of revisiting
Vietnam for some human interest viewpoints about our pulling out
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and now the revelations of Mr. Ellsberg Since there is still fighting,
I thought it would be interesting .to uncover some feelings from
those facing the enemy while entire units are being sent home.”
“I had something else in mind. Some serious and maybe
dirty politicking is going on in the Philippines. I like your idea,
too. Maybe you can piggyback.”
“I hope so, boss. During my moments of reverie, I think of
the young men on those hills or in the forest putting them me
harm’s way for their country and I do want the people to know and
appreciate them.”
“Let’s see what we can do.”
I began to feel the quiver in my stomach. There was action
and stories to be written in my near future. I could hear the
excitement in my voice as I asked “When?”
The phone rang. He held up his hand then putting the phone
to his chest. Come back at five when we can so some planning.”
then waved me off.
Jack answered on the first ring “Jack, would you mind
batching for two or three weeks?’
“You’re going overseas, aren’t you?”
“Hopefully with your blessing.”
“You always have my blessing, honey. Where are you
headed?
“Vietnam and the Philippines, I think.”
“What’s with Vietnam? The shooting is on the decline.”
“We’ll talk more tonight. I just had to share the news.”
“Thank you, honey. I have a little time on my hands.
Maybe I can do some digging on the Philippines. We have a lot of
info given our financial ties as well as our political history. See
you. I love you.”
“Back to you, too.” I hung up and called Mickey.
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When I finished explaining, he asked, “Am I included?”
“I hope but I’ll call you at home when my meeting is over.”
By six o’clock we had a plan. Mickey was included for his
artwork with the camera saying in his photographs what I could
not possibly portray as well in my prose.
“Unfortunately you are not going to Vietnam. Freddie said,
“The budget boss said ten days only. I think the Philippines offer
more intrigue and definitely some personalities for you to profile.”
I was disappointed but if it was a choice, I had to agree
with Freddie’s idea. So it would be.
Candidates scheduled ten days in Manila, for campaigning,
including the days for major speeches for their Senate and for the
mayoralty of Manila our departure date was scheduled for August
twelfth.
Jack had ordered Chinese take out from our favorite
restaurant on Broadway, just a few blocks from our apartment.
During our wine time, he told me he had a lot of info regarding
Manila that had some signals of risk.
“Let’s open the boxes while the chowmein is still warm.
We can talk in detail after we eat.”
I found myself rushing to hear Jack’s less than good news.
“Slow down, kiddo. It sounds like the kind of danger that
you love, not like the mortars you would have been seeing and
hearing in Vietnam. You will be in the middle of real heavy
political fight with ballots not bullets.t” Little did we know.
In a special room at the Manila airport, two journalists from
Chicago and the two of us were briefed by a member of the
president’s staff whose words said “Welcome” but whose manner
said “Beware.”
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“All your dispatches will be subject to review by the
government. We want to be sure that all stories are factual. This
also applies to photographs. In fact no photos or negatives may be
taken out of the country unless approved by our office. Any
questions?”
If the truth were told there would have been a lot of
questions about the restrictions being made upon the visitors to this
nation, but he received a small group of ‘No sirs’.
As I look back, I believe there was no waking minutes
during which we were without government observers. During my
first interview, our guest reminded us that such might be the case
since he was under constant surveillance.
According to the research performed by Jack, there were
three primary opponents of the Marcos political party, namely,
Benigno Aquino, Jr., Jovito Salonga and Jose Diokno, all of whom
were standing for re-election
After we were settled into our rooms at the International
Hotel, Mickey and I decided on a walk about town to get the pulse
of the man on the street. We sat on a bench, watching strollers,
most of who were speaking in English, one of the two official
languages of the country.
Three men who stopped near our seats were in a heated
discussion about the coming election, one rather vehement about
his concern for the popular candidates for Senate. I overheard a
comment that validated more of Jack’s research. The president,
Ferdinand Marcos, was conducting a strong campaign against
these incumbent Senators, running for reelection. I heard a mention
the name of one of the senators, Miguel Lua.
The next morning I called the office of the Senator to see if
he would be willing to give me an interview. The result was a
meeting at four o’clock that afternoon at his home.
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While we were not frisked by the two guards at the
entrance to Lara’s home, I felt as though the watchful eyes were
like x-ray machines.
After introductions and the withdrawal of his servant who
served coffee and some delicacies, our host was very forthcoming.
“We are meeting here because it is the only place I can be sure is
not bugged by either the police or the military. It isn’t that I am
worried about what we discuss, and since I hope you will publish
the interview. It’s just that I like to keep them guessing. For your
information there are eight senatorial candidates running who
oppose the policies of the current president.”
“Does this bugging imply greater harm to you?”
“Perhaps. I do know that I am under constant surveillance
and that you, after visiting me, can expect the same from the
Marcos watchdogs.”
I spent almost two hours hearing first hand the fears that
Marcos was planning ways to stay in office after his term expires.
His parting words were “Feel free to publish everything we
discussed although it may be delayed until you leave since your
mail or wires will be censored. Marcos already has strong controls
in place.”
I kept trying to set up interviews with Salonga and Aquino
but to no avail since both was campaigning around the various
islands. I talked with both campaign managers and was assured
that I would be granted an interview but probably not before the
twentieth.
In the meantime I managed to get permission to do some
research in the newspaper morgues, particularly focused on
Aquino. It was hitting a gold mine. I knew a great deal about this
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‘wonder boy’, of his accomplishments at a very young age, but I
was digging for current information.
There were direct quotes accusing the president of setting
up a “garrison state.” He exposed the fraud of Imelda Marcos’
background and accused the president of militarizing civilian
offices. He was a definite thorn in the side of the president and the
current administration.
I found that recent surveys pointed to him as the next
president, especially since Marcos was not eligible to succeed
himself. This was rich material and I was looking forward to the
interview with Aquino.
While the presidency was not directly at stake in the
coming election, the control of the Senate by Aquino and the
Liberal party would indeed frustrate any plans that Marcos had for
staying in power.
I kept digging for more information on those candidates for
Senate, being taken with what I found out about Salonga. Here was
a man of intellectual power with a Masters from Harvard and a
Doctorate in Jurisprudence from Yale and an expert in
international law.
While I managed some solid interviews during the interim,
I had a sense of putting in time, waiting for the big show. The
twenty-first would be a key day. A big rally of the Liberal Party
was scheduled for the Plaza Miranda.
I called the Aquino office about a dozen times to see if he
had returned, only to be told about six that evening that he would
not be returning for several more days.
Phoning the Salonga campaign I was told to call back the
next day. It was possible that the interview would take place
immediately after his speech at the Plaza. His campaign manager
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suggested I stop by the office to pick up a ticket for a seat next to
the platform, as a guest of the Senator.
The crow began to call “Jovito. Jovito when he started
down the aisle. The Senator shook my hand as he passed my seat
“Ms. Cheka, I look forward to our time together.” He gave me a
warm smile and moved to the platform. Most of the other
candidates were already seated. The band was playing to a crowd
of thousands. I could see necks craning to get a look at the
candidates
The fireworks display began and the crowd began oohing
and aahing. All eyes were focused on the flashes and colors of the
display. For no apparent reason, I happened to look down into the
crowd. I glimpsed a man about fifteen or twenty feet in front of me
raising his arm like a baseball pitcher and throwing something.
Suddenly I heard a loud bang and was knocked from my
seat and lost consciousness. I awoke in the emergency room with a
doctor and two nurses hovering over me. I heard the doctor
apparently addressing Mickey. “We are waiting for your sister to
regain consciousness before we take her into the operating room.
Oh, she is awake. Step up so she can see you.”
I heard myself saying, “Damn, it hurts, Mickey.”
He took my hand “I know, sis, but it is not life threatening.
The pain killer will soon take hold.”
I tried to ask him but the doctor interrupted “You have
about fifteen or twenty pieces of shrapnel in your arm, neck,
shoulders and scalp. We will be removing them in just a few
minutes”
I immediately put my left hand to my face to feel for pieces
of steel. Mickey said “Nothing in the front of your body or face.
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You must have been turned away from the platform at the time the
grenades exploded.”
I was too tired to ask further. A nurse stepped between
Mickey and the gurney and slowly moved me down the hall while
I gritted my teeth praying the pain to go away.
On the operating table, the blissful sleep under anesthesia
arrived just in the nick of time.
I awoke to find Mickey asleep in an armchair next to my
bed. I stirred, causing him to open his eyes. “Hi, sis Welcome
back.”
I slowly remembered that I was in the hospital. “What time
is it?”
“It’s three in the afternoon, the day after the bombing. Lie
still while I call the nurse.”
Forty-five minutes later with some nourishment inside I
was ready to greet the world. Before I could ask Mickey said, “I
talked to Jack and Julie and promised to have you call Jack ASAP.
He knows you are not in danger but wants to fly out. ”
“First, I need to get caught up on what happened.”
“Some one threw two grenades onto the platform, killing a
photographer seriously injuring all seven persons on the platform.
Mr. Salonga was most seriously injured, taking a multitude of
shrapnel throughout his body and suffering serious damage to the
left side of his face, but he is expected to survive.”
“Wow. His body must have acted as a shield to protect me
since I was the next person to his right, although I was not on the
platform.”
“I have some action shots since I was trying for a memory
of you seated next to the most important candidate on the stage. I
just kept clicking away and have sold the pics to the newspaper,
208
whose photographer was killed. I wanted to give them but they
insisted on buying.”
“Have they any idea who threw the grenades?”
They have some mystery person in custody. There is
widespread suspicion of the government and loads of speculation
that he was hired by administration, who in turn is claiming that he
is a communist. We may never know.”
“I’m tired, brother. Come back later, after you have some
rest.”
“Okay. I have been provided a guest room next door. The
nurse will get me when you want me.”
It was dusk when I awoke to see Mickey sitting next to my
bed. “Hi, honey. If you feel strong enough, this might be a good
time to call Jack.”
Fifteen minutes later I cradled the phone with tears
streaming down my cheeks, deeply moved by Jack’s concern and
loving words. I called Mickey back into the room. “He is dying to
fly out but I asked him to wait until we get more information from
the doctor.”
The nurse walked in “Sorry to interrupt, but there is a Mr.
Freddie on the phone from New York.”
Ten minutes later I hung up with a big grin. “He wants us
to stick around for another week after I am discharged. You do the
footwork under my guidance while I recuperate. He told me that
the Philippine government is picking up the tab including a
weekend at a beach resort. How about that? Get Jack on the phone
and I’ll invite him to join us.” I could feel myself beaming.
It was another four days before I was discharged from the
hospital. Despite Mickey’s snooping and seven interviews that I
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managed, nothing came very clear as to the who and why of the
bombing.
Jack and I, with Mickey in tow, spent a grand weekend at
the beach, courtesy of the Philippine government. The day before
we flew back, I was able to have five minutes with the Senator. He
was unable to talk but wrote his words in response to my
comments and questions. He promised to visit me if and when he
was able to get stateside again. I reminded him that a call to the
New York Times would bring me running since I still wanted that
profile for the record. His half smile was crooked but stays with
me to this day. I still see the loving look his wife bestowed on us
during that visit.
Poor Jack. He must have been dying for some intimacy but,
of course, said nothing since my healing wounds placed
restrictions on certain types of exercise. I surprised him during our
two-day layover at Waikiki when I performed my sexy strip tease
on our first night there, overlooking a moonlit ocean of softly
lapping waves, providing an inviting rhythm for making love.
New York was sweltering in the early September afternoon
when we disembarked from the plane at JFK. Freddie and Bill
were at the top of the ramp to welcome us home. They ushered us
into the limo that Freddie had engaged to drive us to the Riverside
apartment.
By the time we arrived, I had been fully debriefed. They
said goodbye at the door, handing me copies of the Times that
included my stories, filed just before I departed Manila. I still was
to write my profile on Benigno Aquino using the information I had
unearthed in the newspaper morgue.
I had no role in writing the later news about events in the
Philippines but I followed all the events with avid interest. I was
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disgusted to learn of the false accusations made against Aquino of
ordering the bombing at the plaza and declared by Marcos as an
enemy of the state.
Later, I was not surprised to learn of Salonga’s pro bono
work defending falsely accused political prisoners. Whatever
mystical thread held me tied to him was strong and any bad news
pained me. It was with great relief when I learned in 1981, after his
imprisonment, that he and his wife were allowed to leave and
retired to Hawaii.
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Chapter 12.
Two days later I had been welcomed by the staff and
treated to some doughnuts and coffee. I answered questions about
the bombing. The boss joined us for a few minutes and then invited
me in for some conversation.
Without any preliminaries “Did the government people
confiscate all your research notes?”
“No they didn’t. It was probably an oversight because of
my trip to the hospital.”
“I want to start a research and develop some stories that
might point directly to the accusations implied in Aquinas’s
charges over the years. If he is right, then Marcos is preparing to
take over as some kind of dictator. I would like to run your profile
of Aquino as the start of a subtle series containing facts that may
show up his intent”
“How do we proceed to gather the information?”
“We are hiring a contractor to be our stringer, sub rosa, to
feed us stories from which we might glean the facts we need.”
“That may not be enough.”
“Agreed. That’s where you come in. I would like you to
start a detailed search of our archives in the morgue for stories,
which we ran, containing info that may be helpful. If you
undertake this, it will be your main task for the next several
months. I say that because I need you to use the past stories and
future ones that come over the wires from the news services.”
“I’m in, at least for the next few months. Do you think you
can get me access to some of the international think tanks, who
may have their own sources?”
“We’ll work on that. Great idea.”
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“Damn it. This is exciting. Like you, I am sure that Marcos
is planning a take over but it’s possible that if his plan is unveiled
with facts, his hopes may be cut short or short-circuited. It’s a long
chance but I’m glad you decided it was worthwhile...”
“All right. I need to find you a separate office with
adequate filing space than can be locked up. Maybe our computer
people can help you store information in one of the electronic files.
I have an idea, but that can wait.”
I began my work in the morgue reading many of Marcos’s
landmark speeches. I picked out key phrases that were self serving
and boastful of his accomplishment. Certainly, taking phrases out
of con738test, I could have written a damning speech.
I picked up another strand. He had been establishing a
personality cult. He was high handed in many of his dealings with
businesses and other institutions but my next finding seemed to be
over the top. He insisted that every school and business display his
picture prominently or else be closed down.
It was apparent that he had used huge amounts of
government funds to overwhelm the opposition during his run for
reelection in 1069.
He brooked no opposition, using false information to
accuse his opponents of illegal or traitorous actions. His fear of
Aquino as a threat to his presidency was evident. He accused
Aquino of planning the Plaza bombings to get rid of his opponents
for Senate seats a major signal of his intent was revealed when he
suspended the right of habeas corpus.
The thread I found regarding integrating the armed forces
into civilian projects was, for me, the most serious. With the
military dependent on him in many ways, he would be in position
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to take complete control. The only question in my mind was the
method he would use.
I followed closely the senate race in November and was
delighted to see that five of the six liberal party candidates who
had been on stage during the bombing were victorious. Senator
Salonga received the highest number of votes as he had in the prior
election. He had to be considered a threat to Marcos’ future.
Freddie was pleased with the results of the research. He
decided to use parts of the info to set the context for the major
stories submitted by our veteran journalist now stationed in
Manila.
More stories in the Philippine papers were coming out
regarding the activities of the communists, according to long news
releases by the government’s favorite news source. Considerable
focus was placed on the people of the south who were murmuring
about secession. Freddie said to me. “Something is about to
happen.”
We were not surprised when the news broke on September
rd
23 that Marcos declared martial law. In the editorial room the
conversation was centered on how Marcos would use his
advantage to assume full control of the government. He curtailed
freedom of the press, limited certain civil rights and jailed his
leading critics on trumped up charges.
As we picked up background noise of the constitutional
convention getting ready to report, I asked Freddie for a temporary
assignment to Manila, but Freddie was resistant. “You will want to
visit Salonga and maybe Aquino of which I would approve but that
could be dangerous. If Marcos gets unlimited power he will use
that power against his two strongest opponents and you could get
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caught in the middle. Sorry, no way. Once is enough, especially
now that you are pregnant.”
He was right, of course. The convention under the strong
arm of Marcos, recommended a change from bicameral to
unicameral form of government thus eliminating the senate and
removing from office the seven Liberals who strongly opposed
him. For months I tried to get word of Salonga and Aquino, to no
avail. This was the end of my assignment but I was to watch
carefully the continued fate of Jovito Salonga.
I could not shake that sense of being tied to this human
whose splattered blood was axed with mine. It was an eerie
feeling.
During the next several months the bosses shuttled me
between the city departments and in the international while I was
hoping for a field assignment. I kept protesting that pregnant
women are not to be pampered but my pleas went unheeded.
Except for some early morning sickness I felt great,
Diana, all seven pounds of her, was exercising her lungs at
six o’clock in the morning of June 23rd. I fell back flat in the
maternity ward of Columbia-Presbyterian hospital A few minutes
later Jack removed his loving arms so I could take Diane into my
arms for the first time.
The nurse said, “She is perfect.” I let out a sigh of thanks
and looked down into the face of this flushed red precious bundle.
There is no way to describe the joy that moved through my being
as the baby and I were enveloped gently into Jack’s arms.
I felt totally at peace, particularly after being in the midst of
strife and hostilities for the last six years. Mama arrived a few h
hours later, ready to care for her two young ladies.
She was a big help for the next several weeks, taking care
of the apartment, cooking meals and cuddling the baby when I
215
gave her the opportunity. The following months were almost
idyllic, changing diapers, taking Diane for strolls in Riverside
Park, even feeding her at one and four in the mornings while lucky
Jack learned to sleep through those hours. Watching him take
charge each morning before heading for work was another joy.
Mama took complete charge of all the housework and
stayed for a month. We laughed as we competed for time with
Diane during her waking hours. At my invitation, she walked with
me as I strolled with the baby through the park. Our heart–to-hearts
were precious and as usual very instructive.
On September 26th, Olga, our new nanny, arrived from
Coalton. She was the daughter of a member of daddy’s crew, a
warm and very sharp young lady, and two years out of high school.
Her love of Diane was apparent from the very first day, easing my
mind about going back to work, six hours a day. I had negotiated
with Freddie who although reluctant to see me back so soon,
actually needed me on a rewrite desk.
I walked into the office at ten the morning of the sixth.
Chaos reigned as people dashed about and shouted over the voices
of others. No one seemed to notice me. I moved quickly to
Freddie’s office. He was on the phone, waved me to a seat. I heard
him giving someone my phone extension number.
Thirty seconds later he hung up “Egypt and Syria have
attacked Israel, a surprise to everyone on this Jewish holiday, Yom
Kippur. Egypt had the world intelligence community as well as
Israel fooled.”
“What do you want me working on?”
“Get on your work station and start researching for all the
stories and press releases from Sadat, and his Egyptian press
office. It is no surprise that he has attacked but the timing is. You
216
also will be available to do rewrites and editing of stores coming in
from Michelle Abrams, you’re co-worked during the Six day war.”
The phone rang and Freddie waved me off. Ten minutes
later I was tapped into the morgue from my station on the IBM
main frame computer.
I decided to go back further than suggested by Freddie.
There were a several major pieces on Egypt expelling over
200,000 Soviet personnel in the summer of 1972. Digging for more
I discovered that Russia had limited the sales of offensive weapons
to Egypt, making the obvious deduction that the Soviets hoped to
restrain Sadat from carrying out his constant threat to wipe Israel
off the map or at least drive them back to the 1948 borders.
There were stories from late 1972 about a major build up of
the Egyptian armed forces. There were small stories of Sadat’s
determination to attack with a major speech in April of this year.
There were stories of a number of Arab large-scale
exercises in the Sinai, usually lasting a few days. Israel obviously
must have called up their reserves each time, which in retrospect
seemed like a waste of time, effort and money.
I was able to pick some stories from Cairo, where Sadat
released information for public consumption about the increasing
strength of the armed forces and his intention to attack.
Two stories I found were of unrest among Egyptian
students because of his inaction.
I made no notes with my research, because it seemed so
obvious that our top people would make the same deduction that I
had. So I created a personal file in which I noted the following.
“My guess is that the Israel military intelligence as well as
Mossad did not believe that Egypt was capable without the direct
support of the Soviets. Furthermore, a crafty Sadat’s timing
cleverly misled them, if he attacked at all. The Israelis must have
217
thought that their air force could easily defeat any invasion by the
Egyptians.”
I filed my personal notes and started organizing the
research material in a manner that Freddie could use. I delivered
the file to his secretary and waved to Freddie as I left for the day.
The moment I got home, Olga brought Diane for her late
afternoon nursing. My breast was ready for her hungry mouth. I
flipped on the TV, dialing into CNN for the latest on the war news.
There was no doubt that the Sadat had truly caught the Israelis
unprepared and was unstoppable. The attacks by Syria on the
Golan Heights were successful, obviously because of the surprise
but the Israeli resistance was fierce and progress by the attackers
was not as rapid as the invaders in the Sinai.
At the office, while I was busy editing stories from various
sources in Israel, I was getting concerned just before quitting time
on the 7th. I had no word from Michelle who was to have her
stories wired directly to my attention. At three thirty I was handed
a wire sent from the Israeli press office but signed on behalf of
Michelle, someplace on the Golan Heights.
This was a story of special bravery of a single individual, a
Captain Zivka Greengold, who became respectfully known as the
“Zivka Force.” Michelle wrote “He arrived in his tank unattached
to any one unit and immediately joined the fight against superior
Syrian forces of tanks that had penetrated our defense lines. He
was known to hold off three enemy tanks, singly, until help
arrived. For twenty hours we kept getting reports. Sometimes
singly and sometimes working with other tanks as a unit, he
arrived at skirmishes in the nick of time to turn aside a defeat. At
least twice he left his own tank when knocked out of commission,
found another. He continued even when burned and injured until
218
our forces regained the lost ground. He is sure to receive a special
citation. Many of us were sure he could not survive as he
continued to throw himself into the fray.”
In a note at the bottom, she had a special note to me.
“Cathy, I wish you could have been here with me in the command
post, hearing all the radio reports and even seeing first hand the
heroic fighting by our young men”
I had stayed much too long and now was thankful I had a
coat to cover up the dampness at my breast where Mother Nature
insisted my baby’s milk was more than ready for release.
That evening television news featured mostly stories of
Egyptian success in the Sinai. We turned off the war news to pay
attention to Diane and later to each other.
My daily routine involved editing stories from four sources
in the combat zones, including one story every two days from
Michelle. On the 24th, two days before the cease-fire, I was
assigned to work with our permanent reporter at the United
Nations Headquarters on the eastside. Of Manhattan.
The only agenda item facing the Security Council was its
attempt to create a cease fire It should not have been astonished but
it did amaze me that not all parties in the Council thought that a
cease fire should be voted upon so quickly I listened to the
wrangling at the plenary session of the Council, but had no access
to the “corridor conversations” where I expected the real work was
taking place.
At ten o’clock on the morning of the 26th, the press was
informed that a ceasefire was ordered and that Egypt and Israel
were ready to accept the terms, but no word was yet heard from
Syria. I thought I understood their hesitancy.
219
From the stories I had from that front, Israel had now
occupied a lot of Syrian territory beyond the purple line i.e. the
1967 boundaries.
I heard nothing before my four o’clock departure for my
date with Diane at her dinner hour. However, the CNN evening
news reported acceptance of the cease-fire by all parties. I was sure
it would be months before peace agreements would take effect.
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Chapter 13.
The following morning Freddie invited me in for a cup of
coffee and a serious chat, as he called it.
“Cathy, we need to talk about your future. You must have
given thought to the fact that any overseas assignment is pretty
much out of the question, at least for the near future.”
“Yes, I have, bossed and I’ve been waiting for this
invitation from you.”
“Any ideas floating around. Anything special you would
like to do?”
“A couple of ideas but nothing firm. I like doing profiles.
I’ve thought about reviving the Profiles by CC column and given
serious thought about concentrating on women’s concerns. I, of
course, have no idea what you or other editors might have in
mind.”
“Well, one thing is obvious. Any of the above would
provide some flexibility in scheduling, making it possible for you
to be a mom and a working woman.”
I laughed. “I hadn’t thought about that specifically but it
probably was in my subconscious.”
“Let me do some noodling with my colleagues and see
which of the above might fit our plans for the near future. This will
take me a couple of days. Meanwhile, come up with some specifics
for your ideas.”
Three days later I was back for another chat. “Cathy, we
have some suggestions but let’s hear your idea.”
“I ranked my ideas as follows. Women’s concerns, profiles,
other features.”
221
“Well, we may have come upon a solution. Frannie
Compton, editor of the New York Times Magazine would like to
have you join her staff with the idea of restarting ‘Profiles by CC.”
“If I had my druthers, I would like to work on women’s
issues.”
“No problem, according to Frannie. The two things can be
meshed, she thinks. Why don’t I set up an interview for you?”
“That will be fine but, Freddie; I need to remind you that
my first love is the International department. While I have never
said so, I had hoped that a year or so from now I might be
considered for a long term assignment at some overseas location.”
“Whew. I am so glad to hear you say that. I don not want to
lose you permanently.” He rose, came around the desk and pulled
me into a bear hug.”
I surprised myself when I realized I was tense as I
approached Ms. Compton’s office. She was one of he most
respected journalists in New York. However, I found Frannie to be
a charmer and very accepting
Over the next twelve months I tried unsuccessfully to have
her let me do a profile on her. In my opinion she was the living
parable of the modern liberated professional woman.
She took me to lunch and planned a two-hour period to
initiate our working relationship in which she outlined her hopes
for me over the coming year. It was the beginning of a professional
and personal friendship that would last a very longtime.
On the way back to the office, she asked, “Would you like
to do a profile of Betty Friedan or Gloria Steinem as the kickoff for
the restart of ‘Profiles by CC’?”
“Wow. That would be fantastic. First Betty and followed
by Gloria.”
222
“Good. My executive assistant will set up the interviews
while you begin your background research. Let’s plan on the first
publication to be three weeks from this weekend. That should give
you time to study and complete the interviews.”
“Great I’ll be ready.”
“I have no doubts.”
A week later I was seated in Ms. Friedan’s office. Not
waiting for formal introductions, she immediately asked “Why is
the New York Times interested in a personal interview now? It
seems to me you’re about ten years late.”
I was flabbergasted but mentally counted to ten before
opening my mouth. I asked myself “Is this a play to put me on the
defensive or is she just uncouth?”
I responded. “The Times weekly magazine is planning on a
long series dealing with women’s issue. I thought recalling the
history of this wave would set a good foundation and starting with
the one person who had been widely accepted as the trigger
seemed reasonable.”
Somewhat mollified she said, “I see. I have much to do
today so let’s get with it. I presume you have done your research
and have the usual basic information and my accomplishments”
“I would like to quote you on several issues, first, the
flagging
of
ERA
ratification,
second, how you see opponents on the abortion issue acting?”
Caught up in subjects of importance to her, she waxed
eloquent as she spoke of the rapidity of the state ratifications and
assured me that full ratification was only months away
223
I said “You seem very certain in spite of evidence that the
opposition is well situated in the remaining states yet to take a final
vote.”
Almost but not quite defensively she said. “I do not believe
that the special interest opponents will be enough to defeat us.
Perhaps the anti-position of the Mormons will keep Utah in the
non-ratification column. I do not believe that the National Council
of Catholic Women is that influential.”
I asked “How about others like the Jewish Orthodox
community, Evangelical Christians and the Roma Catholic Church.
Surely they have a heavy influence and their positions are widely
known.”
She paused for a moment and then said in a cryptic voice
“The real worry is in the southern states where the combination of
the Evangelicals and traditions of the white southern women. That
could mean trouble in Louisiana, but I am sure we will overcome.”
On the issue of abortions her tone was almost antagonistic
as she spoke of the ignorance and stupidity of the “Right to Life”
proponents, dismissing them out of hand.
To my question about the motivation for writing the
‘Feminine Mystique’ she became a bit more passionate than
antagonistic. She answered with a question. “How would you fee;
if you could not even attempt to reach your goals because you were
Jewish? How would you feel if you were fired from your job, a
job you really needed, just because you were pregnant?’
The questions were rhetorical. She didn’t expect me to
answer. She went on “I thought being a woman should not
automatically close me out of opportunities. I just got damned tired
224
of being put down because of being a woman. I needed to get those
thoughts and feelings out of my system.”
At that point she seemed to be closing down on the
interview. I tried to get her to talk about some of her
recommendations in the last chapter of the book. She snapped
“Reread it.”
I raised a couple of other issues including the statement
recently appearing n the news that Welfare was a woman’s issue.
At that point she began gathering papers on her desk, signaling the
end of the interview.
I walked away totally disappointed in my skills during the
interview. I tried to analyze my failure but decided to let Jack help
me do that. I certainly did not like her. I found her to be abrasive,
displaying a sense of superiority and arrogance.
Jack said to me later that it probably took those traits to
drive her to the success she had achieved.
I thought the profile was less than exciting to read and the
accompanying articles not inspirational. Frannie did not agree and
decided to go with the lot.t. “We will note on the bottom of the
page that the next issue will present Gloria Steinem to be followed
by stories covering women’s issues.”
We did receive over a hundred letters commending our
initiating a page dedicated to women’s issues with some “It’s about
time.” Several writers commented that they appreciated learning
about her motivation. Several readers mentioned the fact that they,
too, had suffered similar experiences because of rules set up to
limit their roles in business or in the professions.
The following Monday afternoon I had an appointment
with Ms. Steinem
The atmosphere was entirely opposite from my visit with
Ms.Friedan. I felt welcome when Ms. Steinem met me at her office
225
door with a warm smile and a handshake. Her first words when I
was seated were “You, Ms. Chaka, are the model of what I
consider to be the liberated modern woman. You’re married to a
loving husband have a baby and ply your trade successfully in a
man’s world. It will be interesting to see if the Times will reform
itself to treat you as a true equal in the years to come.”
I blushed, unable to respond until I murmured a ‘thank
you.’ I couldn’t believe that she had taken time to discover
something about a reporter who was coming for an interview. She
also was aware of the strong male attitudes among the older staff
members of the Times.
“Now will you join me in a cup of coffee or tea while we
chat?”
When we were ready to sip our tea, she nodded and I said
“We have just begun a new feature in the weekend magazine for
which I carry the responsibility, Have you seen yesterday’s copy?”
“No, but I understand there was a profile of Betty.”
“Yes, well, it was my hope to feature you in my next
publication based on some research I have done and the content of
today’s conversation.”
She laughed “I’m not sure I like following instead of
leading Betty, but I never avoid a chance to have my point of view
printed in the Times.”
“I would also like to reprint your ‘Address to the Women
of America’ with your permission.”
“I believe that is in the public domain but I will give you
written permission, just in case.”
“Do you think I need permission from Esquire to excerpt
from your 1962 article on choice between marriages and career?’
“My goodness. It seems like you are doing a large spread
on one Gloria Steinem.”
226
“Yes and I’m sure my boss, Ms. Compton, will approve.”
“You have me hooked, young woman. Any question is fair
game, even the story of my own abortion.”
It was three hours after my arrival that she ushered me to
the door with “Good Luck.”
The top left of the page contained a headline, “Sexism,
Misogyny, Racism and Social Class over the complete message of
that address.
The top of the right hand side featured he picture and
underneath the first words of her famous quote “This is no simple
reform. It really is a revolution.”
The top right hand side held the Profile a brief biography
of her life with emphasis on the influences that brought her to her
strong position on women’s freedom. I included her own words
about the switch was turned on.
“In 1969, I covered an abortion speak-out in a church
basement in the Village I, myself,
Had had an abortion in London at the age of 22. I felt
what a "big click" at the speak-out, and later realized that I
hand/begin my life as an active feminist until that day
The[abortion is supposed to make us a bad person but I
must say, I never felt that way I used to sit and try and figure out
how old the child would be, trying to make myself feel guilty. But
I never could
For myself, I knew it was the first time I had taken
responsibility for my own life. I wasn't going to let things happen
227
to me. I was going to direct my life, and therefore it felt positive.
But still, I didn't tell anyone.
In later years, if I’m remembered at all it will be for
inventing a phrase like reproductive freedom, 'which includes the
freedom to have children or not to.”
The balance of the page contained short stories of her
activities, some quotes and three stories including comments by
opponents.
The first call I had on Monday morning was from Gloria.
“Thank you. You were very fair.”
By the end of the day the operator reported that over two
hundred calls had reached the switchboard. By Thursday there
were four hundred calls and hundreds of letters, most of them
complimentary with some argumentative about the facts that were
reported. Of course, there were the critics who believed we should
not be publishing such trash.
Friday morning Frannie who had beamed and congratulated
me several times popped in with a special tidbit. “I just left the
editorial staff meeting where I won the vote but incurred the wrath
of several of the brothers. We passed a resolution to request the
publishers to review all our personnel policies to see if we were
guilt of any of Gloria’s list of sins against humanism.”
“Where did that come from?”
“I’m afraid you and I are not very welcome currently in at
least five editorial units. Their no’s were very loud.”
“Did you initiate the resolution? Is that why we are in
trouble?”
228
“No. Actually the real culprit is Freddie. He was aglow
with compliments for your work which did not go over very well
with a few our comrades.”
“Don’t worry about it, but thicken your skin a bit. Jealousy
always rears its head when some one is acknowledged from the
outside and the inside. You should feel the blue air when one of the
big boys wins a Pulitzer.”
Over the next fourteen months I found my work exciting
and very fulfilling and still leaving me plenty of time to nurture
Diane and find the love and intimacy I had hoped for with Jack.
The only cloud in the sky of our home life was Jack’s frustration
with his employers. I think I missed the importance of that because
of my own success.
I had responsibility for an entire page in succeeding issues,
using a format similar to the issue featuring Gloria Steinem.
Readership kept increasing, as did the number of letters addressed
to CC of Profiles by CC. Within a month, readers were sending in
stories including both the successes for some women as well as the
frustrations of women in the work place.
We devoted one entire copy to the work of the National
Women’s Political Caucus. We were inundated with mail after
publishing stories of how local groups were organizing to fight
economic and social discrimination against women.
One of the great advantages of my work was the chance to
meet women from all walks of life, rich, poor, successful or
otherwise, plain or beautiful, each one of whom shaped me in one
way or another.
229
Six moths into my work with Frannie, we decide to do one
or more pieces on women who were successful in the business
world or public arena whose careers seemed to be balanced with
being a mother and/or a wife.
The search was more difficult than I imagined. Of course I
knew that women did not hold significant executive positions in
corporate life. I thought I might find some exceptions regarding
women owners or proprietors of some good-sized businesses. I
spent quite a few hours in the morgue and in the library at the
Business School at Columbia. It was there I uncovered the story of
Radio, Inc and the very young women president and chairman, her
career dating from the early 1950’. She was, truly, a woman ahead
of her time.
Once I had that lead, I continued the search to discover
where I could find her and what she might be doing. She, Sara
Sellech, was listed as the president of the Witty-Sellech
Foundation, located in Palo Alto. California. I chuckled as I
recognized the name to be of Slovak origin as was mine. .
I placed a phone call to the foundation office. When her
receptionist put her on the line, she asked, “Are you the Cathy
Cheka of the Times?”
“Why, yes, I am.”
“I read your stuff every week. Great job. I think your work
is as important as Gloria and Betty and the others. Listen to me
gush. To what do I owe the pleasure of your call? ”
I couldn’t help smiling to myself, being so well considered
by a woman of her reputation. “Yes, I am that Cathy Cheka. Thank
you for those compliments. I’m calling because I would like to do
a story on you.”
“On me? Why? I’m old stuff and no longer a honcho in
anything but our own family foundation.”
230
“You may see it that way but my boss and I have a
different perspective. Would you be willing to at least explore the
possibilities with me?”
“Of course, if you believe it is of value.”
“I do. When would be a good date? My schedule is
flexible. I can fly out any day this week.”
“If next Friday is good for you, I can meet you in New
York. I have a Saturday-Sunday meeting at the Waldorf.”
“That would be splendid. Perhaps we could meet for dinner
since you probably will not arrive earlier than three.”
I get in at four, if we are on time. I can call you when I
arrive if I have your number. You must be my guest, Ms. Cheka. I
insist.”
“Let’s not argue the point now. Here is my home number.”
We spent another few minutes chatting about the
conference before she said good-bye.
She was at the table in the Waldorf dining room and stood
as the maitre d’ escorted me. In a simple dark blue dress, with a
short string of pearls that highlighted her beauty she could have
been the bride who married the handsome prince thirty years ago.
She embraced me as though we were old friends. “I am
excited about having dinner with one of the famous journalists and
well-known advocates for women’s rights. Would you join me
with a cocktail?”
“Yes. Thank you.” I turned to the maitre d’. “A Napa
Valley white, please.” and took my seat.
She was dressed formally and undoubtedly was a well-todo woman but she was as warm and informal, almost as if we were
family.
231
We talked about our families and our roots as we polished
off two glasses of wine each.
After we ordered and were waiting for our starts, Sara
asked. “Why do you want to an interview with me for the New
York Times Magazine.?”
“Because you are unique, in fact you stand alone among
American women who operated a public corporation. I spent hours
digging for examples and you are a singular personality who must
be showcased as a model for the young women who are struggling
to join the battle in the seventies.”
“I hardly see myself that way, although I know that the
business men of my time were skeptical of my leadership,
requiring me to prove myself over and over again.”
“I believe that is the point that I would like to bring out for
our readers. I also believe that, if I read correctly, you had strong
support from your brilliant husband both at work and at home.”
“That was true and continues to this day. He is urging me
to take the reins of a start up in Silicon Valley, working at it, even
as we speak.”
The waiter arrived and left. Out of the blue “Cathy, are you
flexible enough to change plans and spend the weekend with me at
the conference?”
“I’m sure I can arrange it, but why?”
“Do you know anything about the operations of charitable
foundations or trusts?”
“Practically nothing.”
“Well, it would be a learning experience but you can meet
some fascinating people, many of them rags to riches types with
big hearts. There may be one or more stories for you. In addition,
anything you find interesting enough this weekend to write about
will certainly be a boon to us.”
232
I didn’t respond immediately and mulled over a thought
while the waiter did his job.
“I’d be delighted. Do you think it would be all right if I
brought my husband, Jack?”
“That would especially fine. David will get in from
Chicago and join us about noon. The four of us can have lunch
between sessions.”
I called Jack, who was pleased. I confirmed with Sara.
David and Jack quickly became friends despite the age
difference of twenty some years, as had Sara and I.
We had many opportunities to deepen the relationship
during those two days. The subjects covered in the presentations
and the workshops provided a real learning experience for Jack and
me.
Sara introduced me to a number of women who were
heads of foundations, only one of which I felt fit the profile of
what we were about at the Times.
Jack and I agreed to fl to the coast the following weekend,
the men to golf while I did an in depth interview with Sara.
The phone and mail response to the article was voluminous
and positive. It was the story of brilliant young women, given a
few breaks early in life, with the full support of her husband and
friends she moves from the position of special assistant to the
president to be his replacement when he is felled with a heart
attack.
Overcoming the doubts of some administrative staff and
foremen in the shop, she then faces the cynicism of the business
world. Quote “There is no room for emotional women in the
233
executive offices or boardrooms of public corporations” or “A
woman’s place is in the home.”
She proves to be a creative and trustworthy leader of the
board and then outside investors. It is those men and her husband
who support and urge her to expand her role and influence in the
communications business.
I completed the article with the announcement that she will
be the CEO of a new startup business in Silicon Valley.
One of the things I learned about Sara was that she had
found a self confidence early in her life that allowed her or even
propelled her to strive for what she deemed important. I tried my
best to have the readers get that point I quoted her “I owe much to
a supportive dad who taught me the fundamentals of owning a
business when I was thirteen years old.”
Among the multitude of letters there were inquiries as to
her address. Some wanted to compliment her while others were
interested in investing in her new firm.
Based on that feedback Frannie asked me to seek out at
least two other business women to round out a three part series.
Jack, Diane, Olga and I sent a four-day weekend with the
Sellechs in their home in Portola Valley, south of San Francisco.
Their daughter Maria, who lived nearby, came each day with her
one year old, named Alexa.
Maria was in her last year at Stanford. When she mentioned
that fact, she saw the inquiry on my face. Laughingly she said.
“Yes, Dave, whom I loved since I was four, got careless during a
passionate evening, a mistake that has produced a real bundle of
joy, as the saying goes.”
It was on that trip that we met the two other e families
whose
dads
had
been
wartime
pals
with
234
David, and now lived close to each other. This was the younger
part of the family business, which Sara had led to a place of
prominence in the communications world.
There was more fruit to be picked in this valley for future
articles. I learned of their two foundations hoping to alleviate some
of the ignorance and pain in the world. A new business was about
to be formed with two generations from three families involved.
On the flight back Jack said “Dear, I want you to know that
I thank God for keeping you single until we met again. You, with
all your work and friends, keep filling my life with great
experiences.
“Life comes up with surprise when you have plans. I
sometimes think it is God’s way of letting us know who is in
charge.”
It was a nice lazy Sunday afternoon with apparently nothing
much on our minds except Diane. After brunch and a thorough
reading of the papers, Jack made a fresh pot of coffee while I put
Diane down for a nap.
We were sitting quietly in front of the picture window
overlooking a snowy scene of the park and the Hudson River, Jack
broke through my reverie. “Honey, I’ve been asked to take new
position with an International think tank.”
“Oh, Jack that sounds exciting. I know you have been
suffering with your bosses and wanting a change Tell me more.”
“My research would be focused on examples of political
reconciliation examples in nations and communities that had come
through periods of heavy strife.”
“Wow, honey, you must be excited. It sounds like a great
opportunity and a move from your boss.”
235
‘Yes and it would mean considerably more money but there
are some strings.”
I reached over to take his hand in mine as he continued.
“There is traveling involved,”
“Where and for how long? Washington?”
“Some will be traveling to Washington but more overseas.”
My stomach did a flip-flop. All kinds of negative images
flitted across the screen of my mind. My anchor would be gone for
days or weeks at a time. The next bit of the conversation proved to
be even more upsetting.
“Honey, there is more. We would have to be stationed in or
near Tel Aviv for at least a year.”
It was so unsuspected that I felt a bit woozy. And I must
have gasped. Jack saw my discomfort, turned and pulled me into
his arms. My tears spilled out all over his shirt while I lay on his
bosom until my eyes were dry and I felt I could talk.
“Sorry, Jack. That was like a bolt from the blue. I only
visualized us living like this with an occasional time apart when
some story drew me away as did the Philippine story. I never
imagined that I might have to give up my career. In fact, I don’t
want to do that. I don’t think that’s fair.”
Dead silence and then, I should have recognized the
slightly higher level of his tone “But it would be okay for me to
pass up a chance for a satisfying career.”
I bullied my way right past that “But you always knew that
my career was important to me.”
“Of course I knew and still an aware of how important your
career means but we never talked about my career. That is a big
part of my life just as yours is to you.”
236
His voice had raised an octave and I suddenly noticed the
pain on Jack’s face as he rose and left the room leaving me to sulk
and feel sorry for myself.
I kept visualizing myself in a kitchen of our Tel Aviv
apartment waiting all day for Jack to come home or waiting all
week if he had to fly to the continent. I was surely feeling sorry for
myself leaving no room for logic or clarity.
I went to the kitchen to brew some tea while I tried to
screw my head on right. “God, I know I am being self centered, but
this is so damned unfair and sudden.”
I wanted to go into the den where I would find Jack but I
figured he should take the first step. It was a matter of pride. I went
back to the sofa with a cup of tea that sat and cooled off because I
forgot about it as I continued to stew. I was going to outwait him.
About three hours had gone by. I was torturing myself but
determined. Still no sound from Jack. I hesitate to write any words
to describe the thoughts that raced through my unladylike mind at
that time.
Suddenly my mind did a flip-flop. I remembered my mom
teaching me time after time that life wasn’t meant to be fair. A
moment later a scene from my past flashed through my mind.
Mama and I were sitting on a park bench above the Hudson River
and her reminding me that Jack and I had entered into a
partnership.
With that thought, I jumped up and headed for the den. Just
as I got to the doorway, I ran smack dab into Jack. We wrapped
our arms around each other and spilled our tears once again.
“Cathy, there is no way I want to hurt you and frustrate
your dream. I can find something else here.”
“No. That would not be right. It’s I who has been
unrealistic. We ought to be able to work this out.” I led him to the
237
sofa, pushed him down and climbed on his lap. “I want you to be
happy and pleased in your work. I once learned that a spouse
happy in his or her vocation made for a joyous marriage and I do
believe that.”
“If I accept this position, there is no alternative to moving
to Israel for a minimum of a year.”
“I have a hard time seeing myself waiting in the kitchen for
you to come home each niter. I probably can start writing that
novel I’ve dreamed about.”
“Quit fooling yourself. You always said that a novel was
not your style.”
“You’re right. Let’s have a bite to eat and let this percolate
for a while.”
Just before dawn I awoke from a confusing dream about
planes, babies and a strange land. As I lay awake, my mind started
to center on our conversation. A flash and then I was shaking Jack.
“Jack, when I took my present assignment, I told Freddie,
my old boss in the International Department that I always hoped
for an overseas assignment where the Times maintained a bureau
office.”
“What if there are no openings in Tel Aviv?”
“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves but I could always
consider going to work for someone else like a competing paper or
a news service, maybe an Israeli paper.”
“Sounds to me like you are making all the
accommodations. What kind of woman libber is that?”
“A liberated woman is one who is free to make the right
decision. Now if you can wait a couple of days before giving your
new employer a final decision, I would be honored if you invited
me to some moments of intimacy before Diane awakens.”
238
Chapter 14.
I called Freddie’s office Monday at nine; His secretary set
me up for a ten thirty appointment. When I stepped through the
doorway, he grinned. “This must be business. You usually bust
your way in when it’s just hello to your old boss. Getting antsy
again?”
“You’re just too damned sharp, boss.”
“Why don’t you rustle up some coffee for the two of us
while I make one more phone call, and then grab a seat so we can
talk?”
“I’ll be right back.”
Three minutes later I was laying out my case. “Remember
when I moved to the Features department, I said I could be back
and hoped for a possible longer term assignment overseas.”
“Indeed I remember. Has something happened to raise the
issue at this particular time?”
“Yes, smarty pants.”
“So, give.”
“I’d be ever so happy if you said you could use me in
Israel.”
“That specific? I would guess it has something to do with
Jack. Okay. I have the time so let’s have the story.”
I choked up as I got to the part about my selfish reaction. I
finished with “I don’t want to give up my career, but I want Jack, a
happy and satisfied Jack.”
“What happens if we can’t meet your need?’
“I hope you can help me find something with a news
service or even a competitor. Boss, I want to be a part of the
Times. If there were something even at a lower salary, it would be
fine. Money is not our problem.”
239
“When does Jack need to confirm his acceptance?”
“Friday or earlier.”
“When does he have to start?
“April first.”
“All right. Let’s get together tomorrow at noon. In fact,
let’s do lunch.”
When I met Freddie in the lobby, I was surprised to see him
accompanied by Frannie. My brow furrowed as I tried to figure out
the meaning. I forced myself to ask no questions until we sat down
in the restaurant. I was soon let in on the reason Frannie said, “If
you are assigned to any other location. I want dibs on your
service.”
I started to ask “does that mean?’
Freddie scowled “Let it rest until I have a martini in front
of me.”
I was antsy and could hardly wait for the drinks to arrive.
“C’mon, Freddie. Good news or bad?”
“Young people don’t have patience.”
“Damned right, not when their careers and marriages are at
stake.” They both laughed then took another sip of their drinks,
keeping me on pins and needles.
“Do you think you can learn to find your way around the
Middle East, Cathy?” I almost toppled my glass of wine as I
reached to give Freddie a hug.
“You have a decision. Either you are furloughed for two
months until your predecessor retires or you stay in your present
job and let Jack batch it for two months.”
“No brainer. I am not letting my handsome husband as prey
for those gorgeous sabras for two months.”
240
Frannie roared. “Smart young woman we have here,
Freddie.”
He turned to me. “You will be pleased that your new boss
is an old friend. Four months ago, we moved Mitch to head the Tel
Aviv office. He speaks fluently three Middle Eastern langrage’s
and wanted me to tell you to enroll yourself at Berlitz for private
lessons immediately.”
“Boss, how did you pull this off?”
“Forget it. Let’s just say that you are one lucky woman and
well deserving.”
Frannie cut in. “Mitch has agreed that among your other
duties, you are to be particularly alert to good stories on women’s
issues from any place on the continent. Somewhere in the months
to come, Mitch will want you to meet our other staff members on
the continent and recruit them into look for those stories.”
Freddie added “You are not officially assigned even part
time
to
Frannie but she will be delighted with anything you might
contribute to the Sunday Magazine.”
I was floating on air as we rose from the table. I had
accomplished more than I had hoped for.
We parted in the lobby after our luncheon date. Freddie
said. “I will miss your smile and laugh at those drop-in hello times,
Cathy. Good luck. Just stop in before you take off.”
Two weeks after our arrival in Israel neighboring Lebanon
was caught up in a civil war furthering upsetting international
relationships in the Middle East.
Mitch called me at our new apartment. “Although you are
not officially at you r starting date, I could use you. Cathy, are you
241
ready for some excitement? Did you bring a nanny or do you need
some reference for a local nanny?”
“Olga has come with us. All I need to do is call Jack.
What’s going on?”
“An incident in Lebanon seems to have kicked off fighting
between the government and the PLO forces.”
“Where do you want me and what am I looking for?”
“The best source may be the officers of the IDF, the Israel
Defense Force. I have sources in Lebanon who probably can get
the action story. We need as much context as you can develop,
including something about the opposing forces and what might be
behind this outbreak.”
Ninety minutes later I presented my credentials to the chief
press officer of the IDF. “Good to have you back in Israel, Ms.
Cheka. I understand you are residing here for a while.”
“Yes, Ian. We’ll be here for at least a year.”
“Good. Perhaps we will be working together again on
occasion. Now I presume you could use some background on the
events in Lebanon?”
“That is my hope.”
“You happen to be the first but I expect I will be inundated
before the day is over. I started putting together a fact sheet, which
is currently being typed. Why don’t you join me for a cup of tea
while I fill you in? I’ll give you what we have and answer
questions to the best of my ability.”
“I’d like that.”
When we were settled in, Ian began. “You are aware of the
great influx of Palestinians into Lebanon as a result of the 1967
war. The camps were overcrowded and ripe for being stirred.
Slowly at first then at a more rapid pace with the advent of PLO,
guerillas into Lebanon, the Palestinian refuge population was being
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militarized. It seems that their primary goal was to establish a base
of operations in the southern part of Lebanon from which they
could attack the northern part of our country.
A byproduct of that build up was the sparking of an arms
race among the various political factions that had emerged over the
last five years.
We can assure you that the PLO is active in the skirmishes
against the Lebanese government forces.
Furthermore, there is extreme pressure for Lebanon’s
Muslims to overthrow the Christians and become joined to the
Muslim nations.
We have reason to believe that many Arab nations are
supporting the PLO in this venture, including Iraq, Syria, Saudi
Arabia and Egypt. With all of that power the PLO has established,
a state within a state. We expect this war to go on for years.”
I asked Ian “What are the implications for Israel?”
“We would expect the typical sending of civilians to the
border and instigating some fighting with the intent of making us
look like we are into killing civilians. When the PLO is firmly
established in the south, then we can expect artillery bombing,
maybe some ground force incursions.”
Ian’s secretary knocked and when invited brought the
background papers which Ian scanned and handed to me. Guessing
that I was edgy to file my story, Ian laughed. “Feel free to run,
Cathy. I know about deadlines. Felicia will call you to set a dinner
date at home. She and the children are doing fine.”
Mitch was pleased with the piece I put together. “That will
provide the context for our submission to New York. Nice going
Cathy. Sorry to interrupt you’re unpacking and organizing. You
start officially next Monday, rather than next month? Right?”
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I nodded and waved as I headed for the deli to pick up
dinner, managing to get home fifteen minutes before Jack.
Mitch and I spent a couple of hours getting me oriented to
our setup and responsibilities. At the conclusion of the formal
meeting, he said “We have a working arrangement with a local
publication, the Tel Aviv Times They review our stories and
decided which would be suitable for their publication.”
We took a break when he had a call from New York. I
poured some coffee and we settle down for a discussion of my
work focus on the women’s issues as part of my assignment. “Any
suggestions about a starting point, Mitch?”
“I have an idea. Our next-door neighbor is an active duty
army nurse who has been a long time psychological out patient.
She and my Priscilla have become good friends. I have heard her
talk with pride about the role of women in Israeli society. As you
know, the conversation might lead to some interesting places.”
“I like the idea. How do I get a hold of the woman?”
“I’ll call Priscilla to see if she agrees and, if so, how to go
about it. I’ll let you know.”
M phone rang about an hour later. “Priscilla has arranged a
coffee klatch for the three of you for Wednesday morning at
10:30.” He gave me the address and directions and said,
”Gotta go.”
It is interesting to see events take charge, usurping the
leadership of the planner, thus moving in directions not imagined
by the planner. Such was the case of that Wednesday morning
coffee at Priscilla’s patio.
I had hoped to discuss the place of women in Israeli
society. I had a sense that the position of women might be more
244
advanced here than stateside, particularly because of women in
military combat. I was in for a little surprise.
“Good morning, Cathy. I’m Priscilla and this is my
neighbor and friend, Bella Goldsmith.” After a few minutes of the
usual preliminaries, just as I was about to ask a question, Bella
asked me “Is it true that you were near the front lines in Vietnam
and then with our brigades on the eastern front when we took the
west bank in sixty seven?”
I wasn’t prepared for the question and so I stammered a
positive “y y yes, I was.’
With an intensity, that surprised me, she said, “You’re so
young and should never have been allowed to see the kind of
horror that ground combat displays. Weren’t you disgusted and
traumatized during the slaughters of man by man?”
I hesitated to see if the question was rhetorical and
discovered that it was. Bella continued, “I certainly was while in a
forward medical station on the Golan Heights in nineteen seventy
three. The Syrians are such beasts”
Her voice had raised an octave. She took a moment to
inhale and went on. “I’m sorry. This may not be the reason you
wanted to talk with me.”
It was time for a quick decision. “If you free to talk about
it, I would like to learn from someone who was closer to the battles
than I.”
“Do you know the term, PTSD?”
“Yes, Post Traumatic Stress Disorder.”
“Ever met or interacted with anyone suffering from
PTSD?”
“I had a limited experience with a GI in a hospital, a young
man I had befriended in the war zone a few months earlier.”
“Can you tell me what happened?”
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“When we met at a later time, he recognized me but turned
away and refused to talk with me. I was bewildered and felt
rejected. I rationalized it as a shame about his loss of a limb. His
nurse indicated it was more than that. Johnny was having flash
backs and nightmares about losing a buddy.”
She said “My guess is that there was even more. I can tell
you from first hand experience.”
Not quite sue if this was personal experience of something
she observed I asked, “Is it something you can share with me?”
I was suddenly aware that Priscilla was still there;
fascinated with the direction that the conversation had taken I
looked in her direction. “I’m okay with this if Bella doesn’t mind.”
“It’s quite gory, Priss, but let me give you the short version.
According to all information we had about Syrian soldiers, they
had been indoctrinated to hate us. We were warned to avoid
becoming POW’s because of the cruel treatment to which we
would be subjected. Even that did not come close to the truth.”
“The Syrians overran our base camp and took hundreds of
us as prisoners for two days before our troops were able to free us.
During that two day period I was raped by four male beasts that
ravaged me in unimaginable ways.”
She stopped to exhale then continued. I
started to
interrupt but she held up her hand.
“The docs say it is
good for me to talk about my experience, if I am in a safe place
and this feels safe.”
She gave me a moment to sit back.
“The upshot was that I had become obsessed with the
experience. Every time I saw any man in uniform, I had a flash
back. Any mention of a Syrian had the same effect. I woke up two
or three time every night screaming and then I was afraid to fall
asleep.”
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I hesitated but Bella properly interpreted my body
language. “Ask me anything, Cathy.”
“Since you were obviously impaired in a variety of ways,
has time overcome some of the impairments?”
“Yes, along with almost two years of therapy. I am well
past the anger stage. Sleep comes more easily with very few
nightmares, although when they occur, I do wake up in a sweat.”
“I find myself able to concentrate but I probably will never
overcome my dread at seeing men in uniform. I am happy that I
will be discharged from the army next week.”
I was trying to formulate another question when Bella beat
me to the punch. “I am not well, emotionally, probably never to
marry.”
Suddenly her voice quavered and I could see she was
agitated. “That is something I don’t want to talk about.”
Priscilla caught the signal. “Bella, this has exhausted you
and certainly shaken me. It’s almost lunchtime. I’ll prepare lunch
while you get Cathy to tell you of her experience during the
protests at Columbia or maybe her experience in the Philippines.”
We sat silently for about two minutes. Eventually Bella
asked, “Cathy, why did you go Vietnam to witness first hand the
cruelty of war?”
Trying to make sense of my mixed motives replied.” I
found myself ambivalent about what was happening in our
country. I had covered a number of protests on behalf of the
student news paper and then later for the Times. I struggled with
that viewpoint while our young men were putting their lives on the
line”
“I watched the statistics of two million students being
deferred while almost two hundred thousand others were being
drafted. I felt a need to see for myself, to see how our soldiers felt.
247
I wanted, as well, to know about the view point of the citizens of
Vietnam.”
“Do you think that your going met your need to serves
others?”
“I’ll probably never know what affect I had on others but I
came away with a clearer picture in my mind. The service men
needed our support not our criticism. Critics should have kept
their pressure on government policy, but it pained me to find out
that our soldiers were feeling abandoned.”
“Did you have any direct contact with emotionally
disturbed soldiers other than the one you told me about?”
“Not really. I had a brief encounter but the young man
shunned me. Shortly after that experience, I was asked to leave
Vietnam and come here. It was just a few days before the start of
the six day war.”
Pricilla called us to lunch. Bella seemed exhausted and
hardly spoke during the meal. Shortly thereafter, I excused myself
with thanks to my hostess and a warm hug for Bella. She said, “I
hope we have another chance to talk.” Unfortunately, that was not
destined to occur.
That evening Jack and I conversed late into the night on the
subject of PTSD. I had come home tighter than drum, happy that
Olga was there to keep Diane amused while I found release in
Jack’s company.
One of the wonderful things in our marriage was the way
Jack encouraged me to let out my feelings. I remember that
particular evening when he said “Let your tears come, dear. There
is no shame in expressing who you are. Putting up a false front
keeps you distant, not close to those whom you are interviewing as
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well as those who love you. Cathy Cheka will always be the
ultimate professional, no matter what.”
Over the next ten months I covered a myriad of stories as
assigned by Mitch while he encouraged me to find stories on my
own. What I decided to do was to become a kind of roving reporter
on the street and in the coffee shops. This proved to be successful.
249
Chapter 15.
I filed a number of stories involving professional women
who felt under utilized in their vocations and almost always
discriminated against in terms of promotion or pay rates. These
were anecdotal evidences highlighting the information I picked up
in women’s meeting and protest rallies.
The most poignant story I wrote came because of a peculiar
circumstance. As I headed for a favorite café, I slipped, dropping
my large handbag as I tried to break the fall. Two very powerful
arms caught me from behind and helped me to steady myself. A
moment later, a rather bedraggled but handsome young man was
handing me my bag. I recognized his jacket as an old army jacket.
“Thank you, kind man. I think you saved my life, or at least
my pride.”
He smiled and started to turn away. “Please let me buy you
a cup of coffee to show my appreciation.”
Shyly, not looking me in the face, he said. “No special
thanks are necessary.”
Without thinking, I reached for his hand and started for the
door, but I felt his resistance. “I’m not dressed properly.”
“Yes, you are. Some of the kids in there are a mess. Please
come.” Silently he walked with me as I found the last booth near
the kitchen entrance. I explained who I was and what I did as a
roving reporter for the New York Times. He seemed specifically
interested when I told him that my intent was to publish stories that
highlighted special needs of the people that pointed to a need for
changing public policy.
When I mentioned the story of Bella at the Syrian front, I
noticed that he began looking around the room. I thought he was
250
going to bolt but in a few moments he settled down and asked “Do
you really write stories about seriously wounded soldiers?”
I knew with that question that he wanted to talk about
something that he needed to get out. “Yes, particularly if the story
is something my editor and I believe needs to be heard.” I probed
gently
not
wanting
to
scare
him
off.
“Do you know any one who has an experience that should come to
the attention of the public?”
“I think so, a friend who is a discharged veteran just like
me.”
The waiter finally arrived. We ordered coffees and I asked
for a plate of breakfast sweet cakes When we had been served I
asked “Do you have time to stay and tell me about your friend?”
Without thinking he reached for a sweet roll and said “I
have lots of time if you really are interested.” He looked furtively
around the room just as he had been doing every two minutes or
so since we had sat down.
“I’m interested enough to record this if it’s okay with you.”
He nodded approval while he reached for another roll.
“Well this friend was discharged from the army the same
day I was, both us having lost our left arm.” He lifted his left arm
so that I finally noticed that it was a prosthetic “He hasn’t been
able to find job and his father threw him out of the house telling
him that he was just lazy, but I know better.” He paused, looked
carefully around the room before he continued.
“We’re pretty good buddies and tell each other about our
personal problems. He can’t seem to concentrate, which got him
fired from two jobs, so he is living on the street.”
“Is he receiving any help from the government?”
“He has a small retirement disability monthly check but
that’s only enough to get him into a boarding house. That means
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living and eating with lots of strangers. He can’t stand that. Being
in a crowd gives him the willies.”
Remembering some of my research and my interview with
Bella earlier, I tried to see what might have been behind his dread
of living and eating with strangers. “What did your friend do in
the military?”
Forgetting his role as friend, he replied “I was in the
infantry in the desert; taken prisoner during the first day. The
Egyptians over ran our lines that first day.”
Softly, I asked, “Can you talk about it?”
His body seemed to shudder but he hunched his shoulders
and started. “It was terrible. We were crowded into fenced off
area with not much elbowroom. The din of the conversation was
constant as well as the sound of battle. Forget privacy. The guards
patrolled on high platforms looking down into the open air prison,
trying to ensure that we stayed in our places.”
“The rice was terrible, set in large cauldrons just inside of
the six gates. We had to use our hands to dish out the food onto
our dirty and rusty trays.”
“As you would expect, in the desert, the temperature was
unbearable and the humid near zero. We never had much water,
just enough to drink, barely enough to keep us hydrated but
certainly not enough to wash out our trays. I developed a serious
case of dysentery. When I cut my hand on the barbed wire fence,
I incurred an infection but, of course, received no medical care.”
“It must have been horrible.”
Suddenly remembering that he was supposed to be talking
about a friend, he let out a hollow laugh. Oh, hell, I’m talking
about me, a washed up university graduate engineer, afraid of
crowds, a guy who can’t concentrate and is afraid of his own
shadow.”
252
Looking around, noticing that the café was more crowded,
he stood “Gotta get out of here.”
I threw down some bills and hurried to follow him. I lost
him in the crowd for a moment then noticed him walking at high
speed toward the park. I finally spied him sitting on a park bench
and joined him. I sat and put my hand on his shoulder. “Are you
all right?”
“I will be in a few minutes. This is the kind of thing that
keeps happening to me which is why I never go into restaurants
or any other places with groups of people.”
I decided to probe gently. “Have you tried to get some help
to deal with your phobia? By the way, I don’t know your name.”
“My name is Levi, but promises me that you will not use
my name in the story.”
“I promise, but what is your full name? Mine is Cathy
Cheka.”
“Levi Moishe. I tried once but the clinic was crowded and
the person who interviewed me said he didn’t think. I qualified. I
don’t know what else to do.”
“How do you usually spend your days?”
“I do different things. I wander around, for a while, stop
and read one of the paperbacks I found in someone’s trash. I will
go into a library if it’s early when few people are there. Often I lie
under a tree in this park and watch the sky, working hard to
remember my young days and shutting out images of the desert.”
“What do you eat and when?”
“I usually have some fruit in the morning and a hamburger
in the afternoon. Sometimes I buy a frozen dinner and warm it up
over an open fir near the place I sleep.”
“Where is that, Levi?”
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“That’s secret. I can’t say” He was looking around again. “I
have to go, Cathy. If you publish the story, let me know. You can
find me near here most afternoons.” He stood and rushed off as
though he wanted to escape.”
The following morning I arrived early at the IDF press
office hoping to catch Ian before he was too busy and I lucked
out. “Cathy. Have some coffee and kolachi, a special home made
pastry, fresh from our oven at home.”
While we enjoyed the food, I gave Ian a brief of my
experience with Levi, then said “ I am about to publish this as a
human interest story uncovered by a roving reporter but it might
be seen as an indictment of the government, which I would like to
avoid or at least soften.”
“I appreciate that, Cathy and I would not want you to
change any facts, but I hear your request. How much of a hurry?”
“Nor real big rush. It is not a time related story, but I don’t
want to let too much time go by.”
“I plan to have you talk to some one within forty-eight
hours. Is that satisfactory?”
“Absolutely. In the meantime, I hope someone will be
available to help Levi, personally within a short time.”
“You can rely on my promise.”
Three days later I filed my story with a separate story from
the government admitting that some veterans have not received
the full care due them, urging those veterans to call a certain
number. A highly placed official in the administration admitted
that the government had not really comprehended the impact of
the traumatic stress suffered by the returned prisoners of war.
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The story also noted that the government also planned a
number of other ways to reach those veterans with special needs
who had been overlooked.
The following day I found Levi sitting on the bench we
shared a few days ago. I gave him a copy of my story. He grinned
“You did it. I was sure you would.”
We chatted a bit. I convinced Levi to let me take him to the
address of a specialist referred by Ian.
A week later, Levi found me at the café to tell me that he
was being tested and planned to accept whatever help they could
offer.
I noticed he was dressed a little more conventionally.
Teasingly I asked about that. “I got the guts to go home last night
to tell my folks all about the illness and the start of treatment.
They had read the article released by the government about
dropping the ball. We must have been up until three or so this
morning, talking, apologizing, crying and laughing.”
“I had a long shower, bacon and eggs for breakfast and
some clean clothes to wear.”
He hugged me and invited me to have coffee from a street
vendor. “I am not yet ready for crowded cafes. By the way, Max,
my therapist, says he would like to meet you.”
“That would be good. Ay idea why he wants to meet me?”
“No, but he said I could bring you any afternoon after four
thirty. Is today a good day?”
“No, but tomorrow would be great.”
“Good afternoon, Levi, and you must be Levi’s Cathy.
Welcome.”
255
He took my hand in his and led us to a comfortable seating
area “Thank you for coming.”
“No thanks are necessary”
“Let me explain. First, I had to meet the woman who single
handedly accomplished what some of us have spent months try
but with little success. Secondly, I have an idea that I would like
to discuss with you.”
“Some times a friend in the right place is the key to getting
things done. I do have a great connection to the military.”
“Yes, but not all such friends move with dispatch to help
the marginalized of the society.”
I nodded and waited for him to go on.
“There will continue to be veterans who will not respond to
the government’s invitation. For a number of reasons, there are
veterans who no longer trust the government to do what is right.”
“I would like to try something to help. Several of my
colleagues would like to reach those reluctant veterans.”
“What do you think I can do to help?”
“Well, Levi is a little less loath to meet groups of people.
He asked me what might be done for those homeless veterans
who sleep in their secret place every night. He is sure that some,
if not all, have problems similar to his.”
“I can buy that.”
Levi spoke up. “Max says he and his colleagues would be
willing to lead some group discussions that might help my
friends.”
“I’m still confused. You think I can help but I can’t
envision any story that would help “
Max said “Levi thinks that if you went to the camp with
him and told some of the guys what you did to help him and are
willing to help any others, if they so choose. He believes that
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some of them may say they want help.be willing. If there is some
positive response I would be glad to hold some group sessions
wherever it pleased them to meet.”
I turned to Levi. “Why have me come instead of Max to go
with you.”
“Because they all know what you have done already with
tasking the government. Word has spread among the vets. I think
they will listen to you. Maybe it won't work but I am betting it
will.”
“Levi, have you talked with any of them about this?”
“I talked with two of them who told me they would not go
to sign up but did not turn me down about some one visiting them
on their own home ground.”
Max interrupted. “I think it’s worthwhile.”
Without any further hesitation I said “Okay. I’m willing but
I believe that if you are with me Max, it might move more
quickly. There may be questions I cannot answer. You don’t have
to be introduced until the moment is right.”
We drove over near the area, got out of Max’s car and
walked to the camp just as the sun set that evening. We walked to
the area where Levi had his cot and three orange crates holding
his worldly possessions.
Levi walked over to start a discussion with three fellows
and was soon joined by a half dozen others. Max and I stood well
out on the rim of the encampment.
Fifteen minutes later Levi invited me to join their group.
Each of the nine took time to greet me individually and introduce
them, first name only.
I told them about my relationship with the military and how
I helped Levi. Foxy, an obvious leader asked me some questions
and told me they were up to snuff on my contributions. “Some of
257
us are reluctant for various reasons to enter into a military
program even if it may be helpful. Levi must have told you.”
“He did and I have an alternate suggestion. The gentleman
with me is a therapist, not military. He and some civilian
colleagues were moved with my story. He is Levi’s therapist. He
and the others would be willing, if invited, to meet for some
group discussions with any of you who are willing.”
“Where would such meetings is held?”
I saw an opening. “Would you like to meet him and ask
him that question or any others?
Several shook their heads affirmatively. I turned and waved
to Max, who ambled over? I stepped back after introducing Max
to the group.
There were questions from at least six of the group dung
the next twenty minutes. The session ended with Ma agreeing to
return the following Monday at sunset.
During the next three weeks I spent hours learning more
about PTSD. I sought professional help of the Israeli military
psychiatric staff but I found hard evidence of the pain through the
discussions with veterans whom I met as a result of help from
Levi. They had granted me the right to sit in on some of the group
discussions and several gave me private interviews to write
human interest stories as long as I did not use their name.
Over the following months I found out from Mac that there
were six such groups meeting on a regular basis around the city,
with as few as three and as many as fifteen in a group. Max was
already in touch with some therapists in other population centers
around the country.
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The articles I wrote based on these studies and personal
interviews received high praise from Mitch and Frannie, the
editor, at the weekend magazine.
We also received fan letters from readers of the Jerusalem
Times, another of our affiliates this one with nationwide
distribution.
I had a letter from Frannie telling me that the Times was
undertaking crusade on the subject of our servicemen who were
suffering the same fate.
During those months, Mitch asked me to spend more time
writing for Frannie on the subject of women’s issues in Israel.
I decided to call my old friend Bella who might give me a
good lead. She invited me to a coffee klatch two days hence,
promising to have at least two articulate spokeswomen on the
subject.
Elna Klein was a thirty-something associate professor of
political studies at Hebrew University. Magda Kotch was
beautiful blond, former model, well known across the nation
because of her television exposure.
I swear half of the morning was spent trying to get one to
sit back while the other spoke, both avid about their positions at
the forefront as spokespersons for women’s liberation.
They both ranted about the myth of women having equality
either in public life or in family life.
It was a great morning but ended up with follow up of
private conversations to learn the rich material that both had to
offer for good journalism.
I met Elna after her classes that Thursday afternoon. She
invited me to her office, met me at the door and hung out a ‘Don’t
Disturb’ sign and locked the door after we entered.
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After pouring tea for the two of us, Elna opened the
conversation with” Despite the ranting you heard the other day, I
do not hate men. I am married to a strong man, a top business
executive who is very supportive and implements a personnel
policy that exemplifies what I would call ‘enlightened.’
I responded “But your research points in another direction.
Am I right?”
“Definitely. Our history actually parallels that of your own
in the states. I have been studying the status of women in a
number of countries for the last several years, more so than in the
states. Here, we have a lot of rhetoric about equality of women.
We actually suck.”
I was busy scribbling in my notebook “What kind of
figures do you have to substantiate that statement?”
“I like you, Cathy. Right to the point.”
I waited as she shuffled through her notes.
“Case in point is the following. Even after all these years
we represent 6.7 per cent of the membership in our governing
body, the Knesset.”
I waited. “Since our founding only one woman has served
as a prime minister, and only five others as ministers of special
departments. Actually, only there were only three, because two of
them were ministers without portfolio.”
“How about outside of the national government?”
“Only one woman mayor to date but real progress in the
national judiciary. The other areas of progress have been in the
leadership of the unions and in civil service, where most of the
employees are women.”
“Why do you think there is so little change, especially in
light of the place of women in the military?”
“Now you are asking for an opinion, not facts.”
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“Yes, I know, but anyone who has studied this subject
probably has a better idea than I would have.”
“All right, a couple of ideas. First, so many of our leaders
are from European countries where this has been the tradition.
Second, much of the political power is lodged in the political
parties, which in our system gives more power than it should to
the small religious parties which in most cases allows no
leadership roles by women.”
We spent another hour or so in which I pummeled her with
questions, most of which she was able to answer.
“Thank you, Elna. I certainly learned more than I expected.
I have enough material for a series”
“You are more than welcome and you may quote me. I am
happy to have my name in print in relationship to any women
issues. Now I am parched. “She pulled open a cabinet door and
displayed an array of bottles. I chose a dry sherry while Elna
slopped large vodka into a drinking glass.
Two days later Magda was waiting for me at the bar in the
Hilton Hotel, nursing a pale beer in a tall slim glass. It was four
thirty and the taproom was almost empty, the happy hour at least
an hour later. She rose to greet me with a light hug, taking a seat
across the table in the booth. “What we discuss here today is
nobody’s business unless we choose otherwise.”
I ordered a sparkling water, the two of us getting to learn a
little of each other’s background as we waited for the drinks to be
served. I was aware that her back was open to the public view
while I faced anyone who might approach. She laughed when I
noticed. “People are less likely to approach me from the back
since they can not catch my eye and aware that I may not want to
be disturbed.”
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I smiled and nodded agreement.
Magda plunged right in. “I adore your feminist
spokeswomen including Betty Friedan and Gloria Steinem,
especially Gloria. I have read everything that Betty wrote and as
for Gloria, I have read not only her writings but also every speech
that has been recorded. I have a slew of newspaper clippings in
which she is quoted.”
“Magda, I’m impressed. You probably know more about
them than I do.”
She smiled. “Yes, I am a big fan of all those women who
put themselves on the line for furthering the rights of all women.”
“Magda, tell me about your goals and what you have been
doing.”
“Above all, I am taking advantage of my popularity to
press for my agenda. I have been making speeches when
requested by women’s groups and have been trying to gather a
few outstanding women in order to organize women in labor
unions. In fact, I would like to form a women’s union similar to
the one that Gloria and Betty worked on together, in spite of their
differences. I think it is called a Coalition for Labor Union
Women.”
“Why union women?”
I guess thee are two reasons. First, my mother said that in
her time, women always got the short shrift because of lack of
representation at the bargaining table. Second, now that some
gains have been made, it seems the softest place to attack for
swift movement in the advancement of women’s rights.”
“I am impressed, Magda, with your grasp of the weak spot
in the area of resistance to your goals.”
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“Thank you. I must admit that all of this is new to me, but I
have spent hours studying the work of Gloria and owe most of my
thinking to that study”
“You ought to fly to the states to meet her.”
“I would like to do that but I feel like a country bumpkin
compared to her.”
“That is silly. I am sure she would welcome a visit. In fact,
if you want to do that, I am sure I can set up an introduction and
even a date for you.”
“You would do that for me? You hardly know me.”
“I have done some reading about you as I prepared for this
interview and my office has prepped me with clippings of your
professional career. I was impressed with your choice of no
longer modeling for products that you consider to demean
women.”
“I am pleased to have made that change and thank
goodness I am in demand for many other products.”
“What brought about the change? Your early career was in
direct contrast.”
“You’re right. I had this foolish dream as a youngster and
sacrificed a lot to attain my goal. I wanted to be popular, famous
and sought after by men who could afford to entertain me in
fancy places.”
“You certainly achieved all that according to the press
coverage of your life.”
“Yes, and I paid the price. Almost without exception, each
of my dates wanted to sleep with me and brag about it. Two of
them did, the only two. For years afterwards I found myself
resisting dates, except for the demands to be seen in public with
famous men. Many of those experiences were so demeaning,
leading me to consider giving up my career.”
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“What happened?”
“My agent, who was avidly pursuing opportunities for
women clients, took me to lunch one day. It was there when she
said among other things “Magda, what I am about to say may cost
both of us some income, but I think you’re a big enough name in
the industry to make your own demands. We spent three hours at
the lunch table strategizing. She was right. I am happy with my
career and now an avid pursuer of women’s rights to equality.”
“Magda, you have given me material enough for a great
feature. How much of this may I print?”
She laughed. “As much as you want. Just be sure. I get
those clippings from the New York Times.”
“Okay. Now, are you seriously considering a trip to the
states to visit with some of the leading proponents of women’s
rights?”
“I’m not sure.”
“All right. Take your time. You have my business card. I
can assure you that I will introduce you to Gloria and others and
help ease the way.”
“I really want to do it and I can afford it.”
“Good. It is always possible that if you do make the trip
then you might be able to invite one or more of those women to
make a trip to Israel.”
Magda rose. “I have a shoot in an hour and must rush.” She
clasped me warmly for a long moment and planted a kiss on both
cheeks.
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Chapter 16.
Today was Thanksgiving Day in the states. Together Jack
and I prepared our version of the traditional meal, with a
roasted chicken instead of turkey, plenty of bread stuffing,
mashed potatoes, gravy, yams, green beans, and cranberry
sauce
Late that evening after Diane was asleep and Olga was out
on a date, Jack and I lay on the chaise lounge overlooking the soft
evening that had settled over the Mediterranean. I snuggled my
head into his shoulder. “Jack, I’m getting homesick.”
“That is a surprise.”
“It is to me, too. I always thought about living overseas,
possibly running a station for the times, but this feeling seems to
have snuck up on me.”
“Would you like to visit your family for Christmas? I can
take off for three weeks. We can pick up Mickey and Julie, go to
Coalton.”
I was suddenly filled with hope.” That would be great.
Maybe a visit will be enough to help. Do you mean it?”
He ignored he question and asked “Do you think you could
spend a couple of days with my folks this year? I keep hoping
you and mom could reconcile.”
“I’d be willing to try if your mom is okay with that. Your
dad and I do well together.”
“That’s swelling." I’ll start setting that up. Now let’s talk
about another important factor. Starting January first, I have the
option of signing up for an additional year here, a year in
Southeast Asia or a two year stint in the States, what do you
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think? I had figured on our staying here since you seemed to be
doing so well.”
I started to giggle, hardly able to talk. Finally I could say
“Jack, when I snuggled my head earlier, I had hoped to introduce
another subject. How would you like to become a daddy for a
second time?”
He sat up almost dumping me off the chaise. “What a
marvelous idea? We need to celebrate.”
Since champagne was out of the question for a hope-to-be
expectant mom, I reached over to start unbuttoning his shirt as his
hands found the zipper on my skirt.
Much later with the moon light streaming in through the
balcony door, we lay in each other’s arms laughing and planning
a boy’s name. In the midst of the game, I reached over and put
my index finger on his lips. “Jack, I am ready for a long hiatus,
ready to be full time mom. What do you think?”
“That, Cathy, is purely your decision. I feel we have a great
marriage, at no time limited by your calling.”
“Thank you, dear. For me, there can be no greater
compliment. I do love you and feel so loved. I will talk with
Mitch tomorrow morning and call Freddie later in the day. I have
a profile that I would love to write before w we leave.”
“It will take a while to get organized so you have time to
finish up for Mitch and do your profile. Have you arranged for an
interview?”
“Not yet. It may take some effort. This woman is a might
busy with the fighting going on again.”
“Who is it?”
“I have my eyes set on the Prime Minister, Golda Meir,
who knows firsthand what it means to be thwarted by the bias
against women.”
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Jack smiled. “Knowing you, dear, I am sure you will find a
way.
The Prime Minister was standing as I entered the room. I
was surprised at the plain and simple business like office,
although it was large. Ms. Golda Meir walked toward me with
both hands outstretched to receive her guest. “Welcome, Ms.
Cheka I am delighted to have a visit with you, brief as it must be,
unfortunately.”
Her smile was warm and welcoming and immediately
melted my tension. “I am so pleased you were willing to fit me
in.”
“Please join me at the side table for a cup of tea. My
secretary says this is not a formal interview” She laughed “I am
not in my formal clothes since I was told not to worry about a
photographer being present. It sounds so mysterious.”
I smiled. “I would like an informal snap, if you will permit
your body guard to take a picture when we are finished.”
“You may count on that, but please unveil the secret.”
“You may or not know that one of my main focal points
has been the role of women in the work place. I am trying to be a
strong advocate for women’s freedom, particularly to break down
the male bias against women in business and in public life.”
“I see.”
Golda poured and waited for me to take a sip. “I hope that
you are willing to share a few stories of the times you faced that
bias in your career.”
“My, my. That is a surprise. When I first saw your request,
I thought it might be the usual journalist type of interview. I do
few interviews in the midst of the tensions that fill my days. I did,
however, know of your reputation and the special things you
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achieved on behalf of our veterans. I felt this would be a chance
to thank you.”
“That is kind of you. Thanks are not necessary.”
Golda looked at her watch and said. “All right. I have had y
struggles as a woman, particularly with our religious parties. If
you know our political set up, they have an impact well beyond
their numbers within the population.
In fact, not the most significant but certainly the one I took
personally was losing by two votes cast against me by a religious
party in my run to be the mayor of Tel Aviv. It was just because I
was a woman.”
“That loss caused me to add another layer of thickness to
my skin and sharpen my political skills so that at no time
subsequent would I find myself dependent on the religious party
vote.”
“I let down my guard because I thought the early
contributions I had made to usher us into statehood was enough to
overcome such bias.”
I urged her to give me some other specifics. But a knock on
the door meant we had only another minute or two. She rose
while saying.” I will write you a long note with a few additional
comments. “
She waved to her body guard who took a snap shot. Golda
hugged me and whispered “Thank you for your contribution and
fair manner of reporting on Israeli events.”
She was off and running, leaving me behind and slightly
bewildered.
Two days later I received her letter with a half dozen
examples of her struggles to achieve freedom for her people as
well as for herself. I was particularly moved by her success in the
forties, raising millions in order to provide the funds to buy
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weapons for the battles that were to come as Israel strove to
become a nation.
The reception I received at the Times upon my arrival was
exceeded only with the welcome in Coalton. My usually reserved
daddy had invited the families of his crew in the mine as well as
his supervisor for a gathering at the church social hall. I think he
spent the entire evening shedding tears of joy.
My Aunt Kate had a special announcement. “Friends, it is a
pleasure to announce that our little Cathy has just been nominated
for a Pulitzer Prize for her series on Post Traumatic Stress
Disorder. The Times also ran a story of her efforts with the Israeli
military to make sure no soldier who was a victim of PTSD
would be overlooked by the establishment.”
Shouts of joy and congratulations erupted with calls for a
speech to which I responded with a few words of thanks for the
help I had received while growing up in Coalton.
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Part 2.
Chapter 17.
It was several months since we had moved back into our
Riverside apartment. It was late April, one of the two finest months in
Manhattan. A soft westerly breeze was wafting through the French door
leading in from the balcony. Olga was walking with baby Diane on the
Riverside park path just opposite our apartment. They were due back in five
minutes or so.
It had been wonderful to be nominated for the Pulitzer but the
award went in another direction. It took a number of attempts and a lot of
fun before the right combination produced life in my womb.
Having decided to work on my current story, I walked to the
desktop computer, my marvelous new plaything, and bent down to hit the
power button. I felt a sharp twitch just below my navel. I moved to the sofa
and almost fell into a prone position as another sharp pain sent my body
shuddering.
“Mommy”, Diane was calling as Olga opened the door. Unable to
respond, I lay quietly as Diane rushed to the kitchen and Olga entered the
living room. My face must have been contorted into some horrible shape
because Olga cried out “Cathy, what is wrong?”
I squeezed out a “baby, something wrong.” She dashed for the
phone and dialed my OB. Diane entered at that moment so Olga swooped
her up and I could hear her saying “Mommy is not feeling well.”
Another lighter pain hit me and I gritted my teeth to stop a cry
that would have sent Diane into a panic. I became aware that I was bleeding
rather heavily but was beginning to ease off. Finally a
medic
arrived followed closely by my OB. The medic fetched some towels as Doc
Barton started the exam and then used the towel to clean up the blood.
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The medic placed a thermometer under my tongue and took my
pulse reading while Doc continued. When he began to put the blood
pressure cuff on my arm, he asked “How are you feeling, Cathy?”
“Drained and tired.”
“Any pain?”
“Not anymore. I had some initial pain but that eased off.”
“You realize that you just aborted the baby”
“I guessed that.”
“I don’t think you are in any danger, but we will take you to the
hospital for some tests and a blood transfusion. I expect that you will be
ready to come home tomorrow evening.”
I started to say “Jack” when the door opened and Jack rushed in.
Olga had obviously called him in the meantime. He walked to the sofa and
took my right hand in his, not saying a word but sending his love to my
heart, nevertheless
Fifteen minutes later I was saying good night to a sobbing Diane
and a quiet but adoring Jack who was holding her in his arms. He walked
her out to the balcony while they put me on a gurney for the ride down the
elevator and out to the ambulance.
I chuckled as I became aware of the backed up traffic and the few
impatient drivers honking horns. Amazingly, I felt quite relaxed knowing
that Jack would meet me at the hospital shortly, but that was not to last. My
thoughts were suddenly brought to bear on the son that we had both wanted
and hoped for.
By the time I was settled into the room, I was in a funk. Jack and
I had such dreams for a son to expand our family. We had spent hours
chatting, discussing names, sure that it would be a boy.
I tossed and turned but finally succumbed to the sedative. Two
hours later I awakened to find my hand being held in Jack’s warm palm.
His warm smile lifted my spirits, signaling me that I was not alone facing
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the big disappointment. My mind moved away from thoughts of the loss to
focus on the man who was my love and my lifeline.
“It is so special to see and feel you so close, Jack. You seem
pretty relaxed for a would-be daddy who has just received bad news.”
“I just received the good news that you will be fine. The doctor
and I discussed the options available to you and probably will recommend
taking a medication to complete the abortion rather than a D&C. D&C is
the best way to shorten the duration and avoid maximum pain. He thought it
was a good idea for the two of us to talk before he came for a formal
consultation.”
“Are their any accompanying risks?”
“Doc says there is always some risk of damaging the uterus or the
cervix if you opt for D&C.”
“How about having babies in the future?’
“Doc says that in his opinion the medication route takes longer
and is more painful but is less risky.”
“I think I can take the pain if the chances are greater for another
pregnancy.”
“I guessed that would be your decision. I love you, doll.”
His infectious grin was followed with my “Show me with your
lips, big boy.”
I had plenty of time to play with Diane, setting up blocks, reading
stories and walking in the park as I slowly regained my strength.
When I yielded Diane to the loving care of Olga, I got into some
serious reading of the financial and political news .I began to walk over to
the campus and started to do some research in the library of the Columbia
business school, a fantastic resource.
One evening after dinner, I asked to be excused so that I could
finish some research that I had begun earlier in the week. Olga brought the
baby to say good night and I absent-mindedly gave Diane a perfunctory
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kiss. As Olga turned, Diane started to cry, wanting mommy to read a story.
I responded immediately and read my growing young girl to sleep.
When I returned, I found Jack looking over the scattering of
papers and books that I had checked out of the library. He grinned, “How
soon are you planning to get back to work?”
Sheepishly, I said. “I thought tonight would be a good time to talk
about it.”
He teased me with “I’ll bet.”
“Really. I planned to get you into a good mood and then sneak in
the idea.”
“Honey, I like the idea of getting me in a good mood but there is
no need to be sneaky. I guessed, probably two weeks ago, that the work bug
was getting to you. So, I’m ready to talk whenever you are.”
I took his hand and led him to the sofa, where I sat and coaxed
him into lying down with his head in my lap. “First, I need to ask. Are we
still planning to wait until next year before attempting another pregnancy or
do you wanted to wait the minimum six months as Doc suggested?”
“I thought we agreed to give us some margin, limiting the risk of
another miscarriage.”
“We did but maybe we should reconsider. Doc says six months is
really adequate.”
“I’d like to play it by ear. Does it make a difference to your
thinking?”
“I think so. One of the questions that will arise in the personnel
department is how long a contract. If we are unsure, then I would like to
suggest a contract as an independent investigative reporter rather than as a
full time employee.”
“How would that work?”
“I have no real understanding but I believe I can work out
something with Frannie or with Bill, since my work should be domestic
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rather than international. Freddie would jump at the chance if I were willing
to travel.”
“That sounds like it gives you more freedom. You could work out
some remuneration based on a contracted story along with some expense
funds in order to facilitate your investigations. Do you have some ideas for
a beginning story?”
“I have one noodling around in my brain. It is a departure from
the past but I think it is important and one I might sell to Bill.”
“Care to share or is it too early?”
“Nothing is ever too early to discuss with you. I always
appreciate your idea when it comes to the way my mind works.”
“All right, I’m all ears.”
“At some point during my undergrad years at Barnard, I recall the
words but not the one who spoke them. I quote ‘For every problem we
solve we create seven more.’ Those words have a way of returning the level
of my conscious mind every once in a while. The more reading I have been
doing of the financial policies urged by the administration on the congress,
the more concerned I get.”
“I agree with your assessment that you are moving far a field with
this focus, but I see no reason why you should not pursue it, if you can
interest the Times. You certainly have the analytic mind for this pursuit.”
I leaned over and bussed him on he lips. “You, dear, are good for
my ego.”
“What aspect of supply side economics has your immediate
attention?”
“I want to focus on the effects of deregulation. As you know, our
roots are deep in the coal industry, where not enough regulation led to
hundreds of disasters around the world, some the worst within fifty miles of
the community where we grew up.”
Jack said “I remember well, especially my dad, as part of
management. Hoping for less regulation, arguing that answering to
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regulators put a heavy strain on the net income he reported to
headquarters.”
I giggled “That, of course, escaped my attention since I was hot
after his son during that one year.”
Jack laughed and said, “It was always my opinion that dad made
the expected noise but was happy to have reason to enforce safety rules. It
certainly showed well in the safety record of that mine in Coalton.”
“In retrospect, I think you are right. The Coalton mine was
seldom cited for violations in contrast to most of the mines in West
Virginia. My Aunt Kate, who kept up on such news, always spoke of those
citations around our dinner table. My brother Mickey and I learned a lot by
assimilating dinner table conversational in our home.”
“I liked your Aunt Kate. She was sharp and very sophisticated.”
“You may not remember that she was married to a successful
business man, living in Pittsburgh until her husband’s death. She moved
back to Coalton to be with her only living relative, her sister, my mom.”
“I guess I had never heard that. She seems to have had some
serious influence during your maturing years.”
“She certainly did. I spent a lot of time at her home, which was
next door to ours. Although my mom was easy to talk with, every girl needs
or certainly can use a personal confidant. Aunt Kate was mine.”
“That was your good fortune, indeed. I would have loved to have
some one in my life like that as a teenager.”
“We seem to have moved off the subject of my going back to the
Times.”
“Well, I like the idea of your being an independent contractor. It
gives us the freedom for making some choices without upsetting your
employers. What if the financial subject doesn’t fit their needs at present?”
“I feel sure Frannie would like to have me focusing on women’s
issues. There are so many specific issues, many of which haven’t been
explored.”
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“Would you be willing to take on those issues again?”
“Given the right opportunity, I’d say definitely yes.”
I called Frannie Compton at the New York Times Magazine
office. “Hi, Frannie, it’s Cathy Check.”
“Cathy. What a wonderful surprise. Tell me you want to come to
work for me. Make my day.”
I laughed, delighted to hear a warm welcoming voice. “I’m not sure about
making your day but I would like to take you to lunch and chat about an
idea that is percolating through my mind.”
“I’d be delighted but you will have to put up with my sales pitch
about getting you back on staff at the magazine. By the way, you won’t
believe me when I tell you that a friend from your past is sitting across the
desk.”
“I couldn’t possibly guess.”
The phone was silent for about fifteen seconds. “Hello, Cathy.
This is Gloria Steinem. How is my too-young-to-be retired reporter doing?
“I’m well, thank you. How about you?”
“I’m fine, still organizing women so that they may recover their
birthrights. Why don’t you take some time and come visit me. Maybe you
can do some writing for us.”
“That kind of visit would be nice. Same phone number?”
“Yes. Promise you will call. Here’s Frannie.”
“Hi, Cathy. How about that for a surprise?”
“Really. I promised her I would call her for a date to visit.”
“Now. When are you coming in to see me?”
“I’m flexible. You tell me what is convenient.”
“Tomorrow at eleven sound okay?”
“I’ll be there.”
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Jack walked in at six that evening. He swooped up Diane who
was eagerly waiting for his arrival. They dance over toward me so that I
could join in a three-partner swing while Jack hummed an oldie,
Chattanooga ChooChoo, Diane repeating ChooChoo, ChooChoo.
“You’re looking a little smug” Jack said as he handed me a glass
of wine. Diane was helping Olga setting the table with silverware.
“I have a date with Frannie, at the Times magazine tomorrow and
an invite to call Gloria Steinem for a visit. I may even take her to lunch.”
“Wow, a double jackpot. How did that happen?”
“Gloria was visiting with Frannie when I called on her private
phone. It felt like old times, Jack.”
“That is exciting. What time, tomorrow?”
“I’ll go to the office at eleven. I’ll make a reservation for lunch at
twelve-thirty.”
I’ll plan to say a prayer for you about noon.”
“Thank you, dear.” At that moment Diane ran in and hopped onto
Jack’s lap. “Olga says dinner is ready.”
The front desk receptionist gave me a big warm smile, “Welcome
back to the office, Ms. Check. Ms Compton is expecting you. You need to
wear this temporary I.D. on your lapel.”
I started for the elevators, only to be intercepted by Foster, the
security guard in the reception area. “Nice to see you, Ms. Cheka. Jimmy
will meet you as you step of the elevator and escort you to Ms Compton’s
office. New procedures were installed last month.” Hue bowed me into the
elevator.
Jimmy gave me a big grin. “You are as stunning as ever, Cathy.
Lovely to see you.” He placed my hand in the crook of his arm and escorted
me to familiar territory. The vase of hothouse roses was in its usual place
but the young receptionist was new. She stood, moved around the desk and
put out her hand to welcome me. “I am delighted to meet you.” before she
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cold says more, Frannie was dashing out of her office to wrap me in a large
hug.
“Welcome, Cathy. The coffee pot is on along with some scones,
the blueberry ones that are your favorites.”
“Wow, Frannie, the red carpet treatment is making me
uncomfortable.”
She laughed. “That is the way I planned it.” Come in and take off
a load. Baby pictures and baby stories first.”
A half hour later, both of us a little teary after I told her of my
miscarriage, I was able to get to the reason for my visit. She interrupted
with “Knowing you I expect you have planned on taking me to lunch. Am I
right?”
I nodded.
“Why don’t you call to cancel? I have ordered in so we can have
a totally private long time together.”
She poured more coffee and asked “Am I right that you want to
go back to work for a while, at least?’
“You’re right on, as usual. Jack and I have decided to wait a
minimum of a year before we try for another pregnancy. Doc thinks we will
be successful if we delay for six months or more.”
“I know that is not your preference but it is good news for the
Times. You will have no problem if I know Freddie, Bill or Mac. I believe
they will be as eager to get you as I am.”
“Wow. I came in today with the idea of testing the waters. I
wanted to see if you could help me by pointing in the right direction. Now I
am over whelmed with what you have just told me.”
“That’s just your modesty showing.”
“Not so. I figured the odds were against me since I can only
assure a year before needing another interruption.”
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“Well, I know better. Freddie, of course, will be disappointed. He
needs someone or two in the foreign department and I ‘m sure you will not
want to travel without Jack and Diane.”
“That’s true.”
“So I only have to fight the City Desk or the National Desk for
your services and I get he first shot.”
I laughed. “Frannie, you’re a kick. I think it’s time to get
serious.”
“I am serious, so tell me if you have something specific in mind
or are willing to go with the flow.”
“I have been mulling over some ideas. I wondered whether there
were some women issues that might be opened up for the interest of women
across the nation.”
“I also believe some good investigation would expose some
weakness is the way our government is still failing our Vietnam veterans.”
Frannie lit up. “I can assure you that both areas are ripe for some
good reporting.”
“I also have been doing a lot of research on the economy, not
quite sure about all this talk of supply side economics. Further more,
congress and the administration are fiddling with regulations that portent
worse problems than the ones they are trying to solve. At least that’s my
opinion after reading volumes at the Columbia business school library.”
“If I can read between the lines, you are suggesting examination
of the suggested solutions, not reporting on current events in the business
world. Is that right?”
“I think so. I don’t visualize myself as a business reporter even if
my concern is in that field.”
At that moment a knock on the door announced the arrival of our
food. We headed for the rest room to stretch our legs and wash up. During
the meal Frannie brought me up to date on changes occurring in house and
within her family while I updated her regarding my family.
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“Management is pleased with Bill on the City desk. By the way, I
hear that Mitch is returning from Israel and is going to be Bill’s number
two.”
“That is great. I think Mitch is outstanding and has a nice touch
with reporters and stringers with whom he works. I know his office staff
adored him.”
Frannie began asking me about any other ideas I had but was
interrupted by the ringing of the phone. “Yes. Fifteen minutes? Yes, I can
make that.”
She put the phone back in the cradle. “Sorry, Cathy. Something
urgent. If I can set up a meeting with the big three for tomorrow, will you
be available?”
“Yes, if it is after lunch.”
“I’ll call you.” She walked me to the door and gave me a warm
hug as we said our goodbyes.
I called Gloria just after returning home. She invited me to lunch
for the next day since she was heading out on a trip the day after.
I was floating on air all afternoon, singing to Diane as we strolled
in the park. When she was down for her nap, I put on a Vivaldi recording.
Most of his compositions were bright and uplifting. I danced around,
hardly able to wait for Jack’s arrival.
I tried to tone down my enthusiasm when I heard his footsteps
approaching our apartment door. He took one quick look at my face before
he buried his lips in mine for our customary greeting. He pulled back and
said “Out with it. I can see you have good news to share.”
I laughed, gave him another hug and led him to the sofa. I
practically gushed. “Jack, it is unbelievable. Frannie spent almost three
hours with me. She assures me I will have a job with the Times.”
“Slow down and give me the whole story while I mix some
drinks.”
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Diane rushed in as Jack stood. He picked her up and danced
around for a few minutes. I fidgeted the whole time, for once wanting
Olga to take Diane back into the other part of the apartment. Finally Jack
put Diane into Olga’s arms, mixed the drinks and plopped down next to
me on the sofa.
By this time, I had organized my thoughts and related in detail the
conversation with Frannie, telling him of the expected conference
tomorrow. “She definitely wants me on the magazine regardless of what
areas of research that I want to pursue.”
He was beaming as my story unfolded. He was about to comment
when the phone rang. I answered. “Cathy, its Frannie. Is three thirty
tomorrow good for you?”
“It is.”
“Good. We’ll meet in Mac’s office. See you, then.”
Jack took the phone from my hand and set it back into the cradle,
wrapped his arms around me, saying “No surprises there, darling. Did
you and Frannie talk about our plans to try again after another year?”
Oh, yes. She says it should be no problem. She said she would
take me even for eight or nine month. Let’s celebrate.”
“I like the idea of celebrating but shouldn’t we wait until you get
the job?”
“Mama always said to celebrate on the first news. You may be
too busy by the time the ink is dry on the contract.”
We partied in our special way, taking Diane and Olga to Pop’s
Creamery on Broadway for his famous thick ice cream milk shakes.
I received a warm welcome from Bill and Mac at three thirty the
next afternoon. We had hardly settled down when Freddie, my old boss
from the International Department popped in. “I can’t stay but I needed
to verify the rumors that you had recovered.”
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“I really have, Freddie and I am touched that you came in to be
certain.” True to his word, two minutes later he was gone.
“Before we get started, I bring you greetings from Gloria. We had
a great meeting at lunch, covering her current projects. She is absolutely
tireless.”
Bill laughingly said “And she offered you a job as her press
officer.”
I felt the blood rising from my throat up to my forehead and just
nodded.
Frannie said, “I am no surprised. She can use someone of your
talent. The feminist movement is losing some steam; particularly since
the failure o ratify the Equal Rights Amendment. Early gains have been
fine but women still have many issues to address within this society.”
“Gloria made that very clear during our meeting. She is turning
some of her time toward the issue of reproductive rights for women and
wants me to spear head the research that will undergird a movement to
mobilize young women.”
Mac interrupted. “Frannie mentioned a number of ideas that you
discussed during your meeting. Care to share?”
“We hardly had a chance to discuss them but I have some ideas
which might be acceptable to the Times. Among the ideas is exploring
the questionable results of supply side economics which is being highly
touted, another is the recent patchwork approach to the stagflation
concern. For me there are always the many women’s issues.”
“I take it you have been doing a lot of research via libraries and
news periodicals, etcetera.”
I laughed. “It was a tough job trying to stay unemployed,
something I had not done since my seventeenth birthday.”
Everyone chuckled. Mac continued, “At present, we have some
real serious probing into the economic issues your cited. You do not
surprise me, as usual, with your keen insight into key issues, but for the
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moment, I think I would like to have you available later in the
presidential campaign.”
Bill interjected “The City department can use you, Cathy, if that
same type of research and analysis of city affairs would interest you.”
Before I could respond, Frannie jumped in. “Bill, it would be a
waste of her talent to spend time on the perennial issue of New York City
financial mismanagement.”
Bill chortled “That’s fine for you to say, just because you want
her in your bailiwick.”
“Damn straight, but you have to agree that she is a major talent,
worthy of meatier substance.”
I think that I managed to mask my pride at being so highly rated,
by colleagues who were acting as though I was not present. Bill looked at
me.
“I think city finances and politics are outside my ken at the
moment, Bill.”
He shrugged “You’re right, but you were my protégé in whom I
am so well pleased and would like to have you close by.”
“Thanks, Bill.”
Mac said, “Looks like Frannie has the most to offer at this point.”
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Chapter 18.
The following Monday, after being situated in my office and
meeting with my administrative assistant, Sissy, I was sipping my second
coffee. I had another ten minutes before my scheduled meeting with
Frannie. Promptly at ten, her office door open and four of our staffers
were exiting while she was waving in my direction.
Her gal Friday brought in two carafes, tea and coffee. “What’s
your poison?” asked Frannie. I choose tea and a scone.
Without any preliminaries she started in. “are you limited to
working on women’s issue or is there some other area which you would
like to address?’
“I think the women issues. There are so many facets to consider.
Some one needs to help the leaders like Gloria, especially in light of the
near miss on the ERA.”
“We can and want to work with that. Would you like to take
charge of a page or a department just as you did when we first came
together?’
“I’m not sure, at least not at first. I think I need to do some field
research, meeting with some of the current active groups and finding
some new or emerging groups.”
“All right, perhaps we can start with a column covering the
general subject, highlighting a few of the more pressing concerns.”
We were in agreement and spent a few more minutes on some
housekeeping items before I left.
Frannie introduced the first column with a headlined note from
the editor regarding the return to the magazine by the former columnist
of ‘Profiles by CC’.
My first column was printed immediately under her note. The
title was ‘A Long Way to Travel’. In the first two paragraphs I listed the
few significant changes, which provided some increased equality. I
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referred to politics, women clergy in mainline protestant denominations
and some reports showing women at corporate executive levels
I began the third paragraph with “Women will know there is
some equality when they have the protection of the law when forcibly
raped by their husbands. A woman will feel better when the she receives
equal pay for the same work performed as her male counterpart. A
woman will know she is equal when she is free to make informed
reproductive choices.”
My last paragraph then made reference to future topics such as
lack of opportunity for African-American and Hispanic women in the
work place, the discrimination against lesbians, inequality for women
seeking ordination in the Roman Catholic Church.
Frannie made a prediction when she personally edited and
approved the submission for the first publication “I predict all hell to
break loose at the switchboard on Monday morning and we will have
angry clerks in the mailroom for the rest of the week.” She was so right.
More than seventy five per cent of the phone calls expressed
outrage and anger that I planned to write about bedroom marital rape, a
subject that should not be discussed in public. As for parenthood
planning, “This will only encourage women to choose abortions”.
On the other hand, more than seventy five percent of the letters
that followed were supportive of the content, encouraging me to use
more space on the issues mentioned.
At the Monday afternoon editorial review, there was practically
no conversation while we waited for Frannie to return from upstairs.
While it wasn’t obvious, I thought my new associates preferred seats
away from mine.
Frannie came in beaming. “We hit the jackpot I got some flak
from some of my male counterparts at the executive staff meeting this
morning but mostly kudos for Cathy’s column. The disgruntled calls
outweighed the pros by three to one but the statisticians thought that was
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good for readership, predicting that the mail will show approval.” They
were right.
Joseph, a feature writer asked “Did anyone say anything about
response from advertisers?
“Oh yes, but fewer than we would have predicted. Apparently
not one had threatened to pull their ads, although we will get more calls
when specific issues are covered or if some of the guest columnists are
viewed as radicals.”
I sighed with relief. Frannie flashed me a smile and changed
subjects.
Jack arrived quite late that evening, obviously worn out from
some heavy work at his office but swooped up Diane and danced her
about the living room. When he finally plopped down in his big easy
chair, I handed him his glass of wine and sat down on the floor at his
feet, sipping my drink.
“I’ll bet the message center at the Times was busy responding to
angry callers.”
“Most were negative but there was some positive reaction.”
“My guess is that much of the negative stuff was vitriolic, am I
right?”
“I’m afraid I keep being amazed at the way some so called
religious people can be so narrow minded, unforgiving and hateful.
Frannie says the mail this week will be more supportive than anti.”
“I’ve read articles saying that on the abortion issue folks who
oppose abortion seem to extremely violent at many of the protest
demonstrations.”
“I certainly am not expecting to be in any danger, honey.”
“I hope not.”
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While the mail did contain heavy supporting response, a few of
the letters sounded threatening and in each case were unsigned.
Frannie and I had agreed to select an important but less
threatening topic for the next column. I suggested and she quickly
approved my choice “Discriminating against Women with Disabilities.”
While many of the examples focused pm women, the issue was
disability I began the column calling for public and governmental
attention to the goals of “full participation” by disabled persons and
finding ways to guarantee the “equality” of opportunity and treatment, of
disabled women. I pointed out that my sources at several of organizations
of disabled persons, pointed out that the goal was to ensure the maximum
degree of autonomy and independence for the disabled.
The ending called for a change of attitude in the community
towards persons who suffer from some disability, real or apparent
The telephone message center was not inundated but my column
did get the single highest number of all the calls on Monday morning.
Most of it was positive, some wanting information on ways to join in the
effort to make changes.
Frannie announced the information at the afternoon staff meeting
and then invited me to stay for our weekly planning meeting.
We agreed to stay on this subject for two more weeks. The next
column would list as many organizations around the country that were
lobbying for helpful changes not only for physically handicapped but
also for mentally handicapped. The following week would be a guest
columnist, perhaps a leader of one of the new national organizations.
The critics among my readers, I am sure, were waiting for a
column they could jump on. That opportunity presented itself when I
printed an interview with Gloria Steinem on the subject of parental
planning, use of the pill and a woman’s right to terminate her pregnancy.
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The very short but last paragraph said that in the following week
a counter point of view would appear on this page.
That paragraph seems not to have any effect. Callers who took
offense at one or more of the three issues covered in the interview
flooded the phone center. The language in many cases was vitriolic and
coarse Management had added three additional staff members to handle
the calls
Frannie briefed us at the Monday afternoon staff meeting. “The
sad news is that there were fourteen death threats to Gloria and ten for
Cathy.
Our statistician says that number will double when the letters are tallied
during the coming week. I’ve already called to inform Gloria, who says
this is old hat, but I think we need to take this more seriously. Cathy.
Let’s meet in my office after this staff meeting.”
I have to admit I was frightened even though I would not be
deterred. For some reason, I was experiencing fear that was greater than
any I had know on the killing fields.
Waiting in Frannie’s office while she made a couple of calls, I
noticed that the tissue in my hand was wet with moisture on the palm of
my hand. My knees felt cold and my mind raced with ways in which
such a threat might be carried out.
Frannie placed down phone, saying, “Mr. Shmidt from Security
will be joining us Cathy. I must tell you that I have received hate mail
and an occasional threatening one but this scares me. There have been
signs of growing violence at Planned Parenthood clinics recently it is
ironic that the accusers are now threatening their own form of homicide.”
A tall well built man, about forty-years of age, walked in. He
shook my hand “I’m Jim and you must be the intrepid Cathy Cheka.” His
words were accompanied by a warm smile. “How are you feeling?”
“More frightened than I was on the line in Vietnam.”
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“Sorry, but I am glad that you understand the seriousness. I can
assure you that this is not the first time for a member of our staff. It just
isn’t anything we talk about.”
I sighed with a bit of relief. “That makes me feel easier but not
safer. I am hoping you have a plan to make me feel safer.”
“We need to determine if the threats are serious and make sure
you are protected. So, the plan for today is to have four of my people,
waiting discreetly for your walk to the subway. Each will be looking for
someone showing a special interest in you. Even if nothing is apparent, I
will board the subway and ride with you to 116th Street. During the ride I
want you to walk to an adjoining car so I can determine if anyone is
following you. If all is clear until you step of the subway, we can assume
you are safe for the day.”
“That sounds reasonable. Are you planning to do this for some
extended time period?”
“At least for a week. Tomorrow I will introduce you to my
replacement for the subway ride. We can evaluate at the end of the
week.”
I actually heard myself sigh with relief before I said, “Sounds
good to me.”
Jim handed me his card. “Call me fifteen minutes before you are
ready to leave.”
The tension in my body, as we boarded, was agonizing. I realize
my fists were clenched to the point of aching. By the time we reached
Columbus Circle, I felt my muscles easing. I stood and wound my way to
the next car, making sure that Jim was behind me. I surprised myself
with the amount of relaxation I felt when I detrained at my stop and
literally was whistling by the time I arrived home.
Playing with Diane took my mind off the concern until Jack
walked in. The idea of telling him the story initiated those feelings of
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fear. I could feel my body tightening up while I watched Jack and Diane
go through their evening routine.
“Darling, it looks like a bad day at the office if I read your body
language.”
I started to tell him of the reaction and the threats but broke down
into tears before I completed the first sentence. It was a good thing he
had removed his silk tie because I slobbered all over his shirtfront.
Thirty minutes later Jack had all the details and calm had settled
over me. Diane and Olga came in to say goodbye since Olga was sitting a
group of three children overnight, one of whom was Diane’s best friend.
The two us, seated on the sofa, treated ourselves to the salad that
Olga had prepared while we watched the evening newscast. The last
story showed a group of fifty or so anti abortion protestors displaying
placards across the street from the Times office. Jack felt me shudder and
pulled me to his shoulder.
A bit later he treated me to one of his famous massages for a
stressed woman, scrubbed my back in the very warm bath, toweled me
and tucked me in for the night.
In the morning, I called Jim to give him my ETA on the subway,
delighted to find him and an associate when I stepped off the train.
“Cathy, meet Joe Stan, who is my replacement and can be reached at my
number” We shook hands and headed for the office.
I had hopes of recruiting Phyllis Schally, the most articulate voice
for the anti-feminism point of view. I wanted the best to present some
balance in our series. She was unavailable but two of her associates
agreed to meet with me, so that I could present the counter argument. I
was glad that they agreed to meet in our offices avoiding my going out.
The older of the two, a Mrs. Edwin James, said that I could
attribute their comments to Mrs. Schlafly. She handed me a printed copy
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of what was to be my interview. Although I pressed them for responses, I
either got a no comment or a reference to the printed sheet they brought
with them. It was lest than satisfactory but their points were well
articulated clearly as to their displeasure with Roe vs. Wade, Planned
Parenthood and why the Equal Rights Amendment must not be ratified.
Just as they were leaving, the younger of the twosome slipped out
a camera and snapped my picture before I could stop her I wished I had
the power to take her camera, sensing that my face would now be
displayed in the enemy camp.
After their departure, I called Mr. Stan to let him know that it
might be likely that some enemy of mine now cold identify me.
He thanked me and agreed that the risk was now a notch higher
than previously.
Nothing of importance occurred during the balance of the week,
but events took a turn for the worst on the following Monday evening.
While I was standing waiting for the Broadway subway, a nicely dressed
gentleman in light gray suit and blue tie with dark hair with gray
sideburns, smiled while he uttered some of the foulest language I had
ever heard, ending with “Your life isn’t worth a fig now that we
recognize you, Miss Cheka.”
He reached out to touch me but I screamed. Joe appeared out of
nowhere. H had a friend who placed himself between my accuser and
me. At that moment, the train arrived. Joe hustled me into the car while
his associate deterred the stranger from boarding.
“Get a grip, Ms. Cheka. I’ll be close by, and your new friend did
not have a chance to board.”
Trembling and feeling nauseous, I focused on the need to stay
calm, a nearly impossible task. I could not stop the shivers. Nothing more
happened but the evening at home was a repeat of the one last week.
Jack and I were up early and had our coffee on the balcony
overlooking the Hudson River. He asked “how are you feeling honey?’
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“Surprisingly calm. Mulling over the event during a wakeful
period in the night, I came to the conclusion that my confronter is only
trying to frighten me. Nothing about his appearance says violent action
although his language was foul. Even that had the feeling of being
rehearsed and practiced.”
“Never the less, we are taking no chance. Jim reminded me that
appearances often belie the man behind the mask. He also told me that
there may some other nut that is planning something worse.”
In the morning I realized that the tension was back as I faced a
new day on the subway. Jack and a neighbor from the apartment house
walked me to the subway and planned to continue for some time. Joe
planned to stay with me until I reached home each evening. I still had the
ride downtown each morning without an escort.
My body tightened the moment I was without company as I
stepped onto the subway car. I found a seat thus giving me a chance to
view all my neighbors with my back to the wall, so to speak. The car
was jammed by the time we left Columbus circle and I was winding up
with fear that no one would even notice if I were stabbed or shot in the
belly with a silenced pistol. I finally relaxed a bit as we drew closer to
my stop and almost smiled when I recognized my escort on the platform
outside the car.
I did arrange to arrive at different times each morning. The
tension was palpable and the grip on my purse was firm and set the way
Joe had trained me. The purse had several roles of quarters deep in the
pocket making my purse a weapon if swung properly.
During the next two evenings my confronter appeared fifteen or
more feet in front of me, gave me a satisfied grin but did not approach
me or board the train. That did have the effect of keeping me tense and
on my toes, especially when I made the transition to an adjoining car, but
I was never to see him again.
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About a week later at dinner, Jack asked, “Cathy, have you lost
your appetite?”
Before I could answer, Olga said. “She sure has, Mr. Jack. I
think she has lost at least five pounds during the last two weeks.”
I smiled sheepishly. You’re right. I have lost weight. I just don’t
feel like eating except for a light breakfast.”
“Well, something must be done about that. How about thick milk
shake with chocolate sauce and vanilla ice cream?’
Diane said. “That sounds yummy. Can we some now, daddy?”
“Yes, if you say May we instead of Can we.
“May we?”
“Yes, you may.” He rose and ten minutes later we were
indulging our selves leaving the meat loaf for a cold lunch on Saturday.
Another week rolled by with no apparent increased risk. I was
aware of being less tense although I thought Joe was a bit more brisk
although no less courteous.
Wednesday of the following week, I was aware that one of New
York’s finest entered the subway car and moved to the front end,
appearing to look out the window toward the platform Joe was in his
usual position but someone who appeared to be slightly familiar took a
standing position next to me.
I felt a prickle run down my spine, like a warning signal that I
brushed off to nerves. I saw nothing different from any other evening on
the ride home. Just was we were pulling into the Seventy-second Street
station, I heard a rustle behind me, noticed the police officer moving
toward me. I turned to see Joe with a bear hug around a man hanging on
to a pistol of some sort.
Within seconds the officer had the man’s pistol and was
handcuffing his prisoner. The trains had pulled to a stop and within
seconds the prisoner was hustled off and the boarding riders were
cramming into the car around me.
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Joe was standing next to me with his hand lightly on my shoulder,
hoping to keep me calm and it did. I stayed that way until Joe walked
me to the door of the apartment building, along with my neighbor
Joe said “If you can take off tomorrow, don’t come in. Either Jim
or I will plan to come by with all the information available and talk
about next steps.”
“Thanks, but I can’t afford to miss. I’ll call with my ETA, as
usual.”
I was jittery during the whole evening. There was nothing Jack or
Diane could do to reduce the fear that persisted.
Shortly after arriving, at the apartment, I decided to call Gloria
Steinem She was aware of the threats and had told me that she simply
ignored them. Perhaps she could say something to help me.
“Steinem here.”
“Gloria. This is Cathy.”
“Hi. You sound tense.”
“I am. I was hoping you had some advice for a scared reporter
whose life was threatened on a subway ride this evening.”
“You mean literally, Yes, I can tell. Tell me. More”
I spilled the whole story, my words gushing at the rate of the
current on a white water river, with pauses only to take a deep breath.
She listened without saying a word until I had come to the end. “Gloria.
Tell me how you dismiss the threats without fear.”
“Cathy, I would not deny the fear in my gut. I have just been
fortunate that the only threats I have faced are words, written or spoken
and in some cases a bit of shoving.”
“Even the physical contact must have affected you and upset
you.”
“Absolutely. If the physical shoving or the spitting occurred on
my way home, I went home and screamed out my fear. On a few
occasions when I was headed for an engagement, I have been known to
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ask my host to delay my appearance while I locked myself into a
powder room until I recovered my composure.”
“How do you get there so quickly?”
“I usually give myself a pep talk, knowing that I am being
effective if my opponents are being driven to such extremes.”
“You are so brave.”
“No more than you are. I can’t offer any advice beyond telling
you what I have done. But I am sure you will handle it. Call me. I will
be available any time you want to talk.”
I surprise myself by becoming calm and not yielding to the panic
that had been there. I poured myself a glass wine and calmly waited for
Jack.
He was totally upset and angry when I related the experience over
coffee after dinner. After muttering under his breath, apparently curses,
he set down his cup, walked to my chair, knelt and wrapped me gently
in his arms, planting sweet kisses on my lips. “Cathy, despite your
outward calm you’re as tight as a drum.” He moved his lips to the
hollow of my throat his hands moved to my back and gently whispered
down my spine. I gave a slight shiver. It was so loving and seductive
that I felt myself melting and was responding with a storm of desire for
he whole Jack. I heard myself moan, took his hand and led him to our
bed, the safest place on earth.
The next weekend issue was a full page of letters responding to
the last two issues. Frannie and I work hard to provide a balance of
point of view but the criticism. From conservatives and pro-lifers
contained more harsh, cruel or vitriolic phrases. Thankfully there were
no threats either in the phone calls or the letters that followed.
Jim had delayed our evaluation meeting until the following
Monday morning, wanting to have a full background report on the
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gunman. The basic information uncovered by the search of his
background after a thorough grilling of the suspect was that he worked
alone, only meant to harm me with a bullet in between my legs.
I gagged at the thought, regardless of the gentleness that Jim used
to explain to me.
They also learned that he had bee suspected of threatening death
to workers in two different clinics but there was never enough evidence
to have him jailed or arrested.
At the end of the week we called off the security routine,
suspecting that no further danger existed.
The next ten months were exciting as I tried and I think,
successfully covered the waterfront of a variety of women’s issues. We
found cases to expose a strong bias against women on assembly lines,
women receiving less pay than male counterparts in the same positions.
We uncovered a number of major situations in which abler
women were passed over for promotions in the executive ranks of
public corporations and in some local government agencies.
Our prime goal was alerting the reading public to the issue of bias
against women and their right to equality in a wide range of situations.
We gave serious coverage to the effect on women minorities,
especially in one-parent households. There were a number of issues
featuring our concern internationally on the subject of female genital
mutilation
One subject kept creeping back into our pages. Were their
husbands or lovers abusing women?
The work was rewarding and readership and correspondence from
readers at an all levels of society. Two awards from the National Press
Association hang on Frannie’s office wall.
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I forgot to mention an important happening about six months ago.
A beautiful young black woman appeared in my office. I jumped from
my chair to give her a big bear hug. “Elsie James, a sight for sore eyes.”
Elsie was my young friend and guide through Harlem and the Columbia
riots in 1968.
I said “Pull up a chair and clue me in on your life.” After a ten
minute briefing and another ten as I told her of my private life, she said
“Cathy, while I love this personal time with you, I am also here to apply
for the posted job as your assistant. I’ve been working, since being
hired, in the city department as a rewriter. I’m hoping for a change and
a chance to work in the field.”
“Wow. It would be great working together again. Do you have
your application form and supporting papers with you?”
“I do.”
“The final decision will be Frannie’s but I have some say so.
Let’s see if she is available.” I phoned and we were invited to come to
her office in fifteen minutes.
“Frannie, this is Elsie James, who as a student reporter at Barnard
worked with me on the Columbia riots in ’68.”
“Welcome, Ms. James.”
“The last name is Johnson. I’ve been married for six years.”
I started to leave but Frannie waved me into a seat while she
scanned Elsie’s papers. She looked up and said “Very impressive, Ms.
Johnson. Two years working with single parent mothers in
South Africa and Rwanda plus another four years on the Newark
Herald, before joining us in the city department. Impressive. Tell me
about your work with Cathy.”
Elsie gave a full run down on the work of the black students focus
on the gymnasium apart from the SDS led riots. She talked about our
joint work and her inside information.
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After a grilling of twenty minutes or more she dismissed Elsie
and with a grin said to me “Speak.”
“The Elsie I worked with was a first class reporter even as a
student. I’d love to work with her and groom her to eventually replace
me, but you may have better applicants.”
“We do have two outstanding ones from outside and two
mediocre ones from current employees. Why don’t you talk with the
other in house candidates and review all the applications and then meet
with me late this afternoon so we can talk. I’m off to a meeting in two
minutes.”
Before I left for home we both agreed that Elsie was our best
choice.
Since she came aboard, Elsie and I worked together hand in
glove. She specialized with minority women in her fieldwork,
establishing easy rapport especially with the younger women.
By this time we were working almost as partners rather than boss
and employee. We were so busy that I asked for and got a part time
assistant, a Barnard young woman. Her name was Felicia, a beautiful
Porto Rican student commuter from Spanish Harlem
One evening as Jack and I were snuggling on the couch, I said,
“Honey, I’m feeling very sexy and if my calendar marking is right, this
could be a day for making a baby.”
With out a word he stood, scooped me into his arms and headed
for the bedroom. It was a glorious night, reminiscent of our honeymoon,
followed by the same intensity for the next several days. No luck.
A month later we were enjoying the practice but with no result.
By the third month, the joy was eluding us and we can to feel like this
was hard work.
Making love was losing its appeal. Our time in bed seemed more
like work. We were both disheartened.
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We decided to visit Doc, who recommended a special fertility
clinic Six weeks later the news was not unexpected but it was
devastating. I was unable to conceive another baby
Silence and tears describes the ride home. I dried my eyes before
we reached the front door of the apartment. I tried to put up a good front
for Diane when she got home from school but to no avail. “What’s
wrong? Mommy, that’s not the kind of smile you have for me on other
days.”
I broke down, unable to speak, while she and Jack wrapped their
arms around me. Jack explained, “Sweetie, we just received news from
the doctor that we can not have a baby brother for you as we planned.”
His voice broke, bringing tears to his eyes and Diane’s. The following
minutes were filled with hugs and tears When we separated Diane said
“May be I can love you both twice as much as I do now.”
To take our minds off the sadness, Jack rented a station wagon to
take the four of us upstate to visit West Point, some of the small villages
along the Hudson and two nights in old-fashioned inns along the river.
It was a delightful and therapeutic change.
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Chapter 19.
Life eventually settled into a routine. Work was a pleasure,
especially with Elsie and Felicia willing to carry a heavier load during
my battle to right the Check boat.
On a Tuesday early afternoon, Frannie invited me to lunch in the
Executive dining room. When we had been seated for a few minutes, in
walked Mac, the honcho on the National Desk. Frannie waved to catch
his eye, a signal that brought him to our table in the corner. He gave me
a light but warm hug and took a seat, a surprise since I figured this was
a tete-a-tete, but realized in a moment that I was wrong.
He laughed “Surprised? This is actually my party. Let’s order so I
can take you off the tenterhooks.”
A few minutes later with drinks in hand, we huddled as Mac
asked “I hear you are doing well and fully saddled up, Cathy.”
“I am, Mac, and really roaring with a great staff.”
“So Frannie tells me. Would you consider a change of pace to be
appropriate at this time?”
“I’m open if it is as challenging as the work we do at present?”
“We think it is but it may take some travel time away from your
family.”
“What sort of travel?”
“Domestic, taking possibly three to ten days at any one time. That
is only an estimate.”
“I think Jack and Diane might agree to that. Tell me what is
involved.”
“In a prior conversation with Frannie you mentioned doing
research at the Columbia Business library on the subject of supply side
economics and deregulation. Remember?”
“I do.”
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“Bill and I have been doing some digging into behavior on Wall
Street and across the whole financial spectrum. We feel there are things
happening that do not bode well for the nation. Human greed,
something always present, seems to be coming into focus.”
“Isn’t this something for the business reporters?”
“Yes but we think some discovered cases of fraud and extreme
greed in the popular week-end magazine might grab the public attention
more quickly.”
“Gee. I haven’t given any thought to the idea. I have no idea
where to start.”
“Well, the Times morgue and Columbia Business library are good
launching points. I also have a brilliant young reporter with a MBA
from Harvard who might be a good partner. He chose investigative
reporting instead of a Wall Street Investment Bank for his career.”
“He sounds a bit too eager to prove a point.”
“Maybe, but he knows the ins and outs of the finance business
and I think you can teach him how to get information without upsetting
the applecart too soon.”
Our food arrived giving me a chance to organize my thoughts.
When the waiter departed, I turned to Frannie. She smiled and nodded,
which I took as a signal that she liked the idea.
A bit later I asked “what kind of time line?’
“We start when you give the signal. If it is a go, we arrange for
another cubicle near your office for Ron Micka, your associate. He will
spend time in both departments when not in the field. He will still take
some regular assignments in the Business Department.”
We sat silently when the bus boy began removing our plates and
serving coffee. A few minutes later I said “I’m in unless I meet
resistance at home, although I don’t expect any I’ll let you know
tomorrow.”
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The family conference began when Olga and Diane served up
dessert. I opened with the introduction to the idea, no preliminaries.
“I’ve been offered a special opportunity at work and I need your
approval before I give them my answer. Jack, I mentioned my interest
in business investigative reporting before I went back to work. Do you
remember?”
“Yes, not in detail, but I remember.”
I turned to Diane and Olga, giving them full detail of the project.
“This is where we need the full agreement of all present. The work will
require some traveling, as little as three or as much as ten days on
occasion.”
There was dead silence for almost a, minute. I said to myself
“That went over like a lead balloon”, when Diane burst out “I think that
is marvelous.”
I looked at Jack and Olga for some signal. Jack knew it really
came down to his acceptance or not. “I agree provided you are not into
some illegal snooping that puts you at risk.”
Olga said “If Diane agrees to listen to me when Mr. Jack is not
home; I am willing to do what is necessary. It sounds exciting.”
“Aren’t there any second thoughts, any questions?”
Every one nodded which I took as full approval. Olga said, “I
have a special dessert to help us celebrate. Noise and chatter filled the
room as we pigged out on chocolate fudge sundaes
The following Monday, I phoned Ron at his extension in the
business department “This is Cathy Cheka. When can we meet?”
Twenty minutes later he was seated at my desk sipping a cup of
black coffee. Ron was twenty-six, six feet tall, blond hair, light blue
eyes and a face that everyone would trust.
I had read his dossier and was impressed but had to ask “Why the
Times when you could pick your spot on Wall Street?”
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“I like to sleep peacefully each night with my wife and little boy.”
I didn’t press him knowing that if all worked out; we would know
each other very well within weeks. I said “Your desk is promised for
Wednesday but there is an empty desk in the bull pen for now.”
“That’s all right. I can use the phone at my other desk. Do you
have a plan?”
“I thought we could start with anything you have and then I’ll
give you my idea.”
“All right. I have an inside tip from an employee at a major
brokerage saying that recently some exec has changed a date on some
loan they made. This seems to have been done in order to help a client
improve his balance sheet. I don’t know what that means yet but
changing contract dates sounds fishy and I would like to pursue that.”
“Maybe we can go there but we need to set some ground rules
into play and develop some strategies. I have been doing some research
in the area of deregulation but with no specific focusing yet.”
“I suggest we use the balance of the week to do some additional
research. Why don’t you use our morgue to see if you can find more
information on the operations of the company and also look for other
suspicious behavior in any of the stories you read. I will spend time at
the Columbia library researching their financials and some others in
similar businesses.”
“Sounds like a plan. When do we get together?”
“How about lunch on Friday?”
I stood, indicating that our meeting was over.
“Ms. Cheka, I’ve never worked with a woman boss before. I hope
you will correct me when I am politically incorrect.”
I laughed. “Relax, Ron. We’ll get along fine.”
By Thusday afternoon and over twenty hours of digging I had a
set of notes that I considered worthy of putting on the table for
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discussion. I left a little early to be home with Diane and to greet Jack,
but I was back at the library when it opened on Friday morning. I was in
my office rearranging my notes by eleven in order to be ready for Ron
and our luncheon date at one o’clock.
In a secluded booth with a thinned down crowd in the small café,
we laid out our findings.
Ron had loads of details of a massive theft by officers of a life
insurance company in Nebraska with whistle blowers inside a New
York Brokerage firm who did not want to be identified in any articles
but who would testify to the Attorney General’s office in Washington.
This was a dynamite story and I knew that it had to have approval from
the highest management level.
I laid out my discovery of two-pieces of legislation in recent
years that I thought could lead to the same kind of misbehavior by some
greedy executives in the banking or savings and loan groups.
We decided to take our findings to Frannie first in order to test
the level of interest and/or resistance to our proceeding. When we had
completed our report, Frannie got on the phone. The result was a
meeting at four o’clock with Mac, Ron’s editor, Frannie and the two of
us.
I can still see the scene with Ron’s editor practically drooling
with excitement and the usually cool Mac wearing a big grin. It was
agreed that we would meet Monday at ten after Mac had consulted with
other executives.
Mac did not show for the Monday meeting having given full
power to Ron’s editor, Mike Forsman, to work out a plan with Frannie
and the both of us.
We all agreed on Mike’s plan. The first and second weekend
issues would carry findings and deductions of findings regarding the
threat of possible financial scandals from the deregulation of the thrift
industry.
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The third week’s issue would be a long story of an actual incident
of greed and theft as uncovered with further digging into the Nebraska
story.
Since both stories required a lot more study, it was agreed to
choose a target date a month hence.
We walked out of that meeting with mixed feelings of elation at
the opportunity and the sense of responsibility to deliver solid data.
Five weeks later under a joint byline we ran our first column
focusing on weaknesses of oversight of Wall Street by the Securities
and Exchange Commission.
We began the column with stories of scandals before the
formation of the SEC after strong opposition from Wall Street. I
reviewed the early scandal by Charles Ponzi, father of the Ponzi
scheme, which fleeced victims of millions.
We resurrected the story of Insull and the Commonwealth Edison
collapse that victimized stockholders. Our history also depicted the
story of Richard Whitney, President of the New York Stock Exchange
who dipped his fingers into the stock exchange employees’ pension
fund.
The heart of the long column in which we reminded our readers
of the human weakness for greed is as old as mankind itself. The
availability and use of new technology provided for new and greater
opportunities for fraud, in fact, the excitement over new discoveries
could be used to victimize millions.
We pointed out that one of the needs for the SEC to have more
intimate knowledge of the affairs of its members and the key employees
of the investment bankers...
I wrote the final paragraph asking the SEC and the federal
government, if necessary, to move quickly.
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The switchboard was in overwhelm on Monday, with a horde of
decriers and pooh-poohers Frannie told us at the afternoon staff meeting
that the some high-powered callers had reached the executive office but
no comments would be forthcoming from that source.
The following week we ran a much longer story covering our
concern of recent congressional action with two bills attempting to save
the thrift industry, which had seen tough days in the seventies. Here is
some of what we wrote.
‘The S&L business leaders had been complaining the business
was hurting under the constraints of regulation
It is factual to say that the financial health of the thrift industry
was again challenged by a return of high interest rates and inflation,
sparked by increasing oil prices. Because this sudden change there was
a potential to cause hundreds of S&L failures, Congress finally acted.
History reminds us that fixing one problem can cause seven more.
Congress passed two bills deregulating the thrift industry... The
deregulation allowed thrifts to offer a wider range of savings products,
and expanded their lending authority. These changes were intended to
allow S&Ls to solve some of their problems. The changes also were
the first time that the government explicitly sought to increase S&L
profits as opposed to promoting housing and homeownership.
Other changes in oversight included allowing the use of lenient
accounting rules to report their financial condition and the elimination
of restrictions on the minimum numbers of S&L stockholders.”
Again I wrote the final paragraph, identifying it as editorial
comment. “The reduction in the requirement of outside directors along
with the removal of strong oversight is a step too far. We are making
room for greed and ambition Corrections are needed by congress
before cleverness and greed take over and end up victimizing thousands
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or even millions. Such action can lead us into a downward spiral as a
nation as has been demonstrated in the past.”
We submitted the copy to Frannie who raised an eyebrow
at the final paragraph, offered no correction but took it to the rewrite
editor.
I had a very uneasy weekend, thinking that I may have
overstated the concern I felt. The switchboard was much busier than the
previous Monday I was nervous waiting for Frannie to start the staff
meeting. She calmly said “There were three or four times more calls to
the top floor than last week, including members of congress and one
call from the administration in Washington, That said, she then moved
on to other staff business.
Whatever the top brass felt, in no way filtered down to our
level.Frannie, who had our notes for the last planned column, suggested
we lay off for another week and do some more verification work since
the story would lay out a specific case of fraud and theft.
Frannie also suggested we make the story terse and to the
point, allowing for a time to give further details if desired.
The column began “Today’s column gives but one example
how greed can manipulate and victimize thousands of investors when
strict regulation is not enforced.”
‘The following is a true story of greed and fraud uncovered
with the help of true citizens.
The Secure Life Insurance Company recently ran into
trouble with Nebraska insurance regulations. To protect policy
holders, the statutes required insurers to maintain a reserve totaling
23% of the total amount invested in higher-risk investments. An
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inadequate reserve signals the FSLIC that the firm is on shaky
ground. That may portend bankruptcy.
Security Life indeed was in trouble. To get around the
regulations, chief executive officer made an oral arrangement with a
Wall Street Banker, Foster Investment Bankers to sell junk bonds on
September 30th in exchange for a $100 million dollar "account
receivable” due from their brokers" and repurchase the bonds on
October 2ndfor the same amount, plus a fee.
However, Foster’s recording showed October 1st as the
date of sale. Too late to help the Security’s balance sheet.
So one of the vice presidents arranged for Foster
Investment Brokers to doctor the records by issuing a written
confirmation that the trade actually occurred September 30th.
Further probing by our staff with another insider at
Security produced some other major irregularities.
Earlier this year the president worked a scheme to
eliminate several problems. These issues included the creation of a
suspicious, huge account receivable that was never funded, and the
questionable legality of a transaction never consummated by a cash
transfer.
Our findings have been turned over to the regulators who
were already investigating but had run into a stone wall.
It would appear that robbery does not have to be
committed by thugs and make gunmen. It is also interesting to note
that so called upright citizens can go to bed with robbers in order to
make another buck. It is our hope that this series call the federal and
310
state regulators to enforce their rags and ask for changes that will
protect the citizens of this nation.”
In the days following the publication, most of the calls
and letters were offering congratulations on a job well done. The
phone center was only slightly busier than most Mondays and a little
spy work indicated no abundance of calls to the top floor.
It had been our hope that the new session of congress
might bring some changes as a result of all the flack we had taken,
but congressional attention was diverted elsewhere. We didn’t expect
much attention from the current administration for obvious reasons.
While we were in the running, we were shut out at the
Pulitzer awards but not at the National Press awards. At the ceremony
I stood alongside Brother Mickey, who was being honored for his
photos of the Bhopal, India disaster. The photos were taken three
days after the explosion at the Union Carried plan in which over three
thousand persons were dead before he arrived. Those photos had
shaken the world with the vastness of human suffering and disaster to
the earth that was doomed to last for years.
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Chapter 20.
Brother Mickey and I saw each other occasionally at work
and irregularly at each other’s homes. The following weekend our
family joined them for dinner with Julie’s parents. Her dad was the
photographer at the Times who befriended Mickey and helped him
launch his career. It was he who had made it possible for the two of
us to get to Vietnam, the place where I, first, attracted the attention of
readers.
It was a wonderful reunion, a gathering that should have
happened May times during the past. I noticed Diane, who was
entering her adolescent years, in deep conversation with Mickey’s
daughters, several years older and ages more mature.
My work kept me busy and my stories were varied Over
the next several months I spent days in Washington snooping and
writing articles on the kind of messy things that keep popping up in
the lives of politicians.
One night as Jack and I prepared for bed, I said “Jack, I
think it’s time to ease off my work and spend more time with Diane.”
“Sounds good but what kind of plan do you have in
mind?”
“I think I can work a deal with Frannie to work three days
a week, Wednesday through Fridays that I can have long weekends
for the three of us. These are crucial years for any young woman
coming into her teen years and I want to be there to support her.”
“Great idea. She is beautiful and boys are beginning to
hover like flies over sugar.”
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The evenings we discussed the new plan, Diane was
effervescent. “You will have more time to help me with my story
writing and composition. Those are my most difficult lessons and
homework.”
Diane wanted to celebrate so we walked over to
Broadway for double ice cream cones.
The next several years were delightful and warm. Work
was intense only occasionally and Diane matured into a beautiful
young woman. We and Mickey’s family took her to Colton for a
family celebration of her sixteenth birthday.
The only shadow on the picture was mama’s news that
daddy’s tuberculosis was taking heavy toll although he put up a great
front while fussing over his three grand daughters
Daddy died two months later with all of us at his bedside.
It was the only shadow on our sunny lives during the next several
years. Diane was blossoming into a beautiful young woman. Jack and
I were happy in our vocational pursuits
My brother Mickey had recently published a magnificent
compilation of his character portrayals of pain, suffering, joy and
sadness. These people were the faces of India in Bhopal after the
explosion, of Gaza youth throwing stones at Israeli soldiers with
rifles, of Venice at a wedding in a church courtyard, and much more.
Life was about to change I had a surprise call from my
friend and former boss, Freddie of the International desk, at nine
o’clock on the morning of January 31st, 1986. I recognized his voice
and waited with anticipation for him to state the reason for his call. I
could feel the beginning of a quiver of excitement.
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With only a warm greeting, he asked “How would you
like to take on a three or four week assignment?”
I said “Since you are asking, it sounds like a trip outside
the country which means I will have to get permission from my
family. What’s up?
Our chief resident in Manila has broken his leg and is out
of commission for a while. The Presidential snap election is set for a
week from today, February 7th. I can also use another photographer
and have called your brother who has agreed to take the assignment.”
Working on a hunch, I asked “What happed to our station
chief?”
Freddie was silent for a moment “he got caught in the
middle of a large demonstration from anti-Marcos protestors.”
I could sense the return of the excitement I had felt all
those years ago when the bomb was thrown in the midst of the crowd
attending a political rally. That bomb had sent me to the hospital All
sorts of memories were being evoked. Perhaps I could have a visit
with my long time hero. Senator Salonga, who was the target of that
bombing the big question, was the reaction of my loved ones. I asked
“When do you need my answer?”
“I know you need to talk with your family but time is of
the essence.”
“I’ll try to get back to you this after noon.”
“Thanks. I hope Jack will be amenable, even if reluctant. I
really need you.”
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Jack was working at home this week, so I left the office
and surprised him by walking in at eleven thirty. He hugged me and
planted a gentle kiss on my lips, “I love having you home so early but
I may not like the reason. I see a problem behind those lovely eyes.”
“Oh, Jack. That is one of the many things I love about
you. Pour me a cup of coffee while I shed my coat and then we can
talk?”
He listened with his usual full attention and patience until
I recited the entire conversation with Freddie. Then he said “Now tell
me all that has been going through your head.”
“As you can guess, I could feel the blood rush when I
heard his voice, knowing that he called only if he needs my help. I
felt the excitement rising when he mentioned Manila. I quivered as I
recalled the bombing but felt the excitement return as I thought about
being in the midst of a potentially major turn in history.”
“Has it occurred to you that Marcos will resort to using
the military when he thinks the opposition nay be threatening to oust
him?”
“Yes, I have, but even if that is the case it will be a major
historical event that needs to be told to the world.” I could feel myself
getting worked up to make a strong pitch while Jack in his mild
manner ways would keep me off balance with his questions, but he
surprised me.
“I can see that the ink runs deep in your veins, honey and
that means you want my permission to place yourself in harm’s way.
You never needed my permission. We settled that during our
courtship. You just need to remember that you have two adoring
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fans who love you and are waiting for your return and that should
spell caution on your behalf.”
He took me in his arms as I shed the tears of gratitude for
his love and acceptance. He said “Call Freddie. We can discuss the
fait accompli with Diane tonight.”
As I walked to the phone, I could not help but admire my
loving husband. He had to be torn up inside thinking of the risks that
I would be running with mobs filling the Plaza and riot police trying
to quell the protests with mace, tear gas and possible real bullets.
In my desire to follow my heart I was sublimating the risk
and yielded to the excitement of being in the midst of a big story.
Freddie was not the most expressive boss I had worked
with but I could sense his thanks just in the tone of voice. He
explained “You are booked out of JFK at ten tomorrow morning. I
had made reservations with a hope that you would say yes. By the
way, you are traveling as a tourist, not as a working visitor. We were
afraid that traveling as a Times journalist would trigger records of
your articles, highly critical of the Marcos regime, even over a dozen
years ago.”
“How do I communicate when I arrive?”
“Frank Arias, our temporary station chief will send
someone to meet you for coffee at the International Hotel, where you
will be residing. Mickey is traveling separately but will also be
staying at the International.”
I could feel my insides twist a bit as I walked of the plane
in Manila. I was beginning to doubt that the record of my last visit
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would not have me on the black list of visitors. The feeling increased
as I stood next in line at the officials’ desk. I was as tight as a drum.
The official kept staring at me and then back to the passport. He
walked over to another official who shook his head. then stopped to
discuss something with the woman at the next desk. Two minutes
later I let out my breath in a sigh of relief as I stepped away and
headed for customs.
The morning of February third started out cooler than the
evening before and the humidity was bearable I had an early morning
breakfast meeting with Florence Acno from the Times office, She
was stenographer, not worthy of being followed by the security
police. We chatted about trivial matters, since the real purpose of her
visit was to accidentally leave a small tote bag under the table when
she departed.
I took the bag to my room and spent an hour going over a
lot of back ground material related to the anti-Marcos movement, led
by Corizon Aquino since the murder of her husband three years ago.
Two hours later I presented myself at the reception disk
of the office of the Liberal political party, the heart of the opposition
to President Marcos. The young lady asked “How may I help you?”
“If Mr. Salonga is available, I would like to speak to him.
My name is Cathy Cheka.” Before she could respond, he walked out
of his office and came forward to take both of my hands in his. “Ms.
Cheka, what a marvelous surprise. I never expected our paths might
cross again. Please come into my office. Miss Lara will bring us
some coffee. I do have time for a chat although we may be
interrupted with a phone call or two. This is a crucial time in
Philippine politics, as you know.”
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When we had been served, I said “I was so pleased to read
the news of your return and then of the decision of the court to
dismiss the false charge of subversion.”
He smiled a rather crooked smile considering the state of
his face that had suffered in the bombing. It was a warm smile, never
the less. We were able to play catch up for fifteen minutes before the
first phone interruption. When he placed the phone in the cradle, I
explained my status as a tourist, hiding my position as a journalist.” I
am available to help you leak any information to the Times or any of
the press, since I’m just a friendly visit from abroad.”
He laughed “It won’t take them long to challenge that.
You should hear from them probably within an hour of your leaving
this office.”
When he hung up from another call, he invited me to
lunch at his home the next day. I knew it was time to bring the chat to
an end. I stood and asked “Jovito” as he had insisted I call him, do
you think I can get an interview with Mrs. Aquino or Mr. Laurel?”
He laughed “I was waiting for you to ask, I will leave a
coded message at you r hotel with the times. Both will have to be
brief since we are at the eleventh hour of the election.”
“Thank you. I can get a lot of information within a fifteen
minute span. I already have a lot of back ground from our records.
Shall I meet you here for lunch tomorrow?”
“Yes, that will be fine.”
Mickey and I met in my room for coffee in order to on a
strategy that we hoped would keep the Marcos people knowing that I
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was working. Mickey outlined a simple plan. “Go where you must
and I will follow, always within twenty or thirty feet. There is no
place where my camera will be useless, although I, too, must be
discreet. I promised Freddie that I would be here to protect you.”
On my way out, I stopped by the hotel desk to see if I had
any messages. The clerk handed me a note that said “A at six am.” I
took that to mean, Mrs. Aquino at six tomorrow at her office.
I spent the next several hours roaming the streets, casually
conversing with shoppers as to their attitudes toward the coming
election. Of the sixteen conversations, only two expressed strong
support for President Marcos. Three refused to chat. A few
hesitatingly indicated that their vote would go to Mrs. Aquino while
most were hesitant to answer my question. In order to understand the
meaning, I pressed one much older gentleman who finally admitted
that it was dangerous to say that one would vote against the
President.
I presented myself at the Aquino headquarters at a few
minutes before six the next morning. After a quick verification of my
identity I was ushered into Mrs. Aquino’s office. She was standing
and shook my hand while bestowing a warm smile. Without any
preliminaries, she said “I am sorry that you were not able to connect
with Ninoy all those years ago. Jovito told me of your attempt and
your presence next to the stage during the bombing.”
“I am sorry, too. I have heard and read so much that
speaks so highly of him.” The door opened and juice, coffee and rolls
were rolled n on a trolley. We took seats next to the trolley.
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“Please call me Corizon. We have a brief time so we
should begin. All questions are in order. .”
“I have studied as much written material of your life and
activities to this point so I have a few questions that I would like to
put in my profile for the New York Times. Please tell me your initial
plans when you take office.”
She burst out laughing. “My dear, I love your optimism,
even more your approval of my seeking the office. Thank you.”
I was blushing and said. “Perhaps I should not let my
feelings show, but I have many reasons to dislike Mr. Marcos, but
one stands out. He believes that a woman’s place is to the bedroom or
kitchen and that attitude is not one I can abide.”
Corazon laughed and said “I agree and I believe that has
cost him a great many votes. Now, to answer your question. I will
urge a change in the constitution that will limit the powers of the
presidency, return to a bicameral form of government and seek
legislation that centers on human and civil right. These are the things
that Marcos changed to use for his power grab and corrupt leadership
during the last fourteen years.”
I was righting furiously as she passionately and rapidly
said those words. She continued on with her reasoning I then asked
“What other problems will face you as the new president?”
“I will have to deal with the Muslim secessionists and the
communists who present a real challenge to any administration. A
really major problem is our economy. We are bankrupt due in part to
a spending spree and to some extent to the moneys that Marcos has
hidden for his own use.”
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The door opened, Corizon nodded to the person at the
door. She turned to me. “We have only a minute more. My next
appointment has arrived.”
I asked “What will you do in the event that Marcos and
his party succeed in stealing the election with the usual fraudulent
actions.”
She grinned. “There are a few options available. I also
believe that people like you will help us uncover and publicize that.”
She stood, shook my hand. “Thank you and please watch your back.
His spies are everywhere and he will expel you if he finds out you are
really a working journalist and not just a tourist. I would not be
surprised that your visit here is being discussed at the “gestapo”, my
name for the secret police, headquarters.”
Her prediction turned out to be correct. At nine o’clock,
while Mickey and I were finishing breakfast at the hotel dining room
two burly government agents, of some sort, approached our table,
took seats without being invited. The less offensive looking one said.
“Ms. Cheka, you need to answer some questions.”
“I don’t understand the word “need” but I will be happy to
speak with you if you can tell me why I should be speaking with
strangers.”
He flushed a bit and spoke in a softer tone. “Sorry, I
should have introduced us. We are from the internal national security
police force. My name is Lara and this is Forana.”
“Thank you. This is my brother, Mickey:
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“We know. He is a photographer for the New York Times
and you are a reporter for the same newspaper.”
“That is not quite correct but what is your question?”
“Why did you not notify us when you arrived that you
were here as a Times reporter? I have authority to arrest you for lying
to the immigration officer.”
“Are you making an assumption that I am an employee of
the Times? If so, let me correct you. I retired officially some time
ago, but they do take a story from me if I pick up something of
interest My brother tells me that the Times has a rather large
contingent here, but I know none of them except by reputation.”
In a rather belligerent tone he asked “Are you telling me
you have no contact with their office here.”
I put on an air of indignantly. “Of course not. I am here as
a tourist but Mickey is here officially.” I sounded more assured than I
felt.
With a smirk he said “I don’t believe you. I was informed
that you had an early morning visit with Mrs. Aquino. What would a
tourist be doing visiting with a woman running for the presidency of
our country?”
I spoke with a soft tone of complete assurance saying
“Cory and I are personal friends, having met when she and her
husband were in the states. She had a few minutes before the start of
her busy day and I wanted to renew our friendship and offer my
personal condolences.”
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I watched carefully for his reaction, hoping he bought the
big lie. He seemed to accept me at face value but said. “That doesn’t
seem right but it will have to do. Just remember, that we will be
watching your actions.”
I rose and said. “That is not what I expected from a
government that is advertising for tourists, especially those from
those countries who are your closest friends. Perhaps, I should leave
and finish my trip elsewhere, maybe Australia.”
He did not back off. We are aware that you plan to visit
the Salonga home today. Why would you do that?”
“Why not? We were both injured in that bombing at the
Plaza and have stayed friends. I have never had the pleasure of
meeting his wife. Why is that a problem for the government?”
“It just is. Remember. You have been warned.” The two
of them rose and departed.
I let out a deep sigh when they were gone, Mickey said
“That was not unsuspected and he tried to act civilly but he means it.
You will have to be very circumspect, Cathy.”
“I agree and will cancel my request for an interview with
the VP candidate, Laurel. I am sure I will be under surveillance for
the next couple of days. Maybe with some questions I write out for
you, the interview can be done between you and Mr. Laurel.”
Typical of Mickey, he grinned. “A profile by MC instead
of CC: Good. If you mean to avoid his profile anti-Marcos leaders,
then I can let you roam free while I search out some special shots.”
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“Please, little brother. I promise to stay out of trouble. In
fact, I don’t think there is much to do until the day after the election.
Regardless of the winner, there will be big problems.”
“Meaning what.”
“My gut tells me that Aquino will pull more votes even
with all the shenanigans that the Marcos folks will pull. Marcos will
declare him the victor as will her. I think you need to be ready with
the camera for the rioting protests that will ensue..:
“You do believe that? Yes, I can see it in your eyes and,
sis, I trust your gut.”
On Election Day, I decided to observe the action at one of
the voting sites in a poorer section of Manila. I would have preferred
to be in one of the provinces. Jovito had told me that the Marcos
attempt to influence the ballot count would be in the poorer provinces
where the official observers were spread thin.
Disguised as a Filipino matron on a shopping tour I spent
two hours near one polling place. I saw five different males and three
females who forced the registrars to give them extra ballots when
they registered. They seemed to have a number of registration forms
so that the clerks had no option. I wished I were close enough to hear
the conversation.
I moved to another location, about twelve city blocks
away and got up my courage to stand closer to the registration desks
and could hear the threatening tone of the males who were
demanding extra ballots to take into the booth. Suddenly a rough
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hand grabbed my left shoulder. “What are you doing here, lady” You
are not Filipina.”
He lowered his hand to my bicep, took a firm grip that
really hurt like hell and marched me away. My thoughts were mixed,
wondering where we were headed. An alley opened up about thirty
yards ahead. He dragged me to the opening and stopped. .“ Move
your ass, lady and don’t let me see you in this area again.”
Meanwhile Mickey, dressed as a poor Filipino, was
discreetly shooting pictures of similar actions at eight different polls
during the entire day. He had snap shots of thugs forcing voters to
hand over their identification papers to his cohorts and threatening
the clerks to keep their mouths shut or else. He finally quit when one
of the thugs guessed that he was not what he seemed and started
toward Mickey with a leather black jack. Mickey turned tail and
outran the thug.
I had opted for brief stays at two other polling sites where
I watched some toughs forcing people to leave the long lines,
threatening them in case they returned. I took out her small hand-held
camera that Mickey had given me. I began shooting a rapid series of
pics that would clearly show the display of violence. As one of the
toughs looked my way, I dropped my hand in the pocket of my skirt,
hiding the camera and casually strolled away.
We met for dinner at seven, went to my room where
Mickey and I typed up their notes for delivery to Salonga’s office.
Jovito, tired and sweaty, gave us a smile when we handed
him the notes, and really laughed when Mickey promised to deliver
pictures in the morning. He invited us to sit and have some iced tea.
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Mickey’s story was graphic, telling how he saw Marcos thugs forcing
voters away from the polls. Jovito told us of a provincial governor
being murdered. He had been a strong supporter of, Mrs. Aquino.
“We have statements from six U.S. observers who
condemn the action of the government employees at various election
sites.”
He asked “Based on what you have seen, how would you
see things developing during the next few days?”
I responded. “The national committee will declare Marcos
the victor by a wide margin. A great number of citizens will take
exception and probably take their protests to the street.”
Two days later the government’s election committee
declared Marcos to be the victor it was reported that thirty poll
computer technicians resigned as a protest against the poll-rigging in
favor of Marcos.
Three days afterwards a special committee for monitoring
the polls declared victory for Aquino and accused Marcos supporters
of wide spread fraud and coercion of some voters in the provinces by
threatening violence.
Angry crowds bearing anti –government posters and signs
filled the streets and the Plaza. The mood was dark and menacing. I
decided to stay indoors as I thought of my promise to Jack.
Both candidates were inaugurated at two different sites. I
covered the Aquino event while Mickey took in the Marcos event.
When we compared notes, Mickey reported that the crowd at the
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Marcos event seemed rather small for such a major event. I reported a
massive crowd at the Aquino inauguration.
Everything was in a state of flux until the Parliament was
convened to announce the final results. I attended the session of
Parliament and watched thirty members walk out when the
Parliament declared Marcos to be the winner.
The news brought strong criticism in local quarters and
from many nations who had observers present during Election Day.
The Roman Catholic Conference of Bishops decried the actions at the
polls despicable.
I was present at the rally, where Mrs. Aquino, every bit
the leader, called, at which she asked the people to strike and boycott
all the products and services of the corporations owned by cohorts of
Marcos. She was articulate and passionate as she reeled of the names
of the firms. After the rally she retired to a convent to meditate,
having declared herself the winner.
No one was paying attention to me in the midst of this
strife. Mickey and I were working six and eighteen hour days soaking
up the news of all the happenings .Nothing seemed to be settled.
Frustration and chaos reigned until the twenty- second
Huge crowds gathered for a demonstration at the office of
the President. Hand printed signs were prevalent e.g. “Marcos Go’
and “Down with Marcos” or “The Hell with Marcos” and others.
Some were in Filipino and many in English.
The crowd was quickly growing angrier and larger Police
and military personnel in riot gear faced the menacing crowd. Threats
and abusive language filled the air but no physical violence erupted
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A group of disgruntled reformist officers, led by the
Defense Minister and a General Ramos surprised the nation with a
statement of defection from President Marcos and with a strong belief
that Corizon Aquino had won the election.
The Cardinal Archbishop of Manila, Reverend Sin, urged
the people to troop to Camp Aqunaldo where the Defense Minister
and the General were holding operations in support of the reformist
soldiers. Mrs. Aquino joined them
Three days later on the twenty-fifth, Corizon Aquino was
formally inaugurated as the first woman chief executive of the nation
and on the Asia continent. That day is celebrated as the day of the
People Power Revolution.
We found out later that Marcos had called Juan Enrile,
the founder and head of the People Power Movement who granted
the Marcos family safe passage out of the country and then to
Hawaii.
Mickey and I along with the other staffers of the Times
.were pounding out and filing their stories. No longer subject to the
scissors of the censors, filed thousands of words and hundreds of
photos to their respective departments. The two of us went to the
Manila station of the Tiimes to meet the other staffers and rejoice
with them that a twenty year reign of martial law was now history.
Mickey followed through on is interview with Laurel, the
new vice-president and got a byline for his profile, which ran a week
after we got home.
We flew home on the twenty-ninth of February to be
greeted into the loving arms of bot of our families.
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Chapter 21.
I spent the next several months taking a long rest. Spring
came a little early making my walks in the park very pleasant. I
walked over to the libraries at Columbia to catch up on my reading of
the business journals and some of the foreign papers from London,
Paris and Moscow.
I spent some time with Diane and took Mickey’s girls to
the movies. I spent some time learning to cook and had Mickey and
Julie and some other friends to dinner. Frannie and I took in tree
performances of the Metropolitan Opera.
That summer, Diane joined Jack and me for a visit to
Coalton.
I did a little research on women’s issues for Frannie and
Elsie at the Times magazine, during the late summer month I went
back to work at the Times on September 1st.
Later that season I noticed that the Washington Post
business news ran a small story of news about failing savings and
loan firms. It wasn’t much but it got my nose to twitching, as the
saying goes.
I was in Washington researching a story and had a date for
lunch at the Willard Hotel. As I was leaving the dining room I passed
a booth, I got a smile from one of the occupants, Fred Fox, a
congressman from Long Island. I returned his smile and paused to
take in the others at the table.
The next day I walked into Frannie’s office for a chat just
before leaving that afternoon. “Frannie, there is quiet buzz about the
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S&L business in the Post and I thought perhaps we could regroup the
old snoop team. What do you think?”
“What do you have?”
“ I read a small story in the Post and then ran into Fred
Fox at lunch with two other congressmen and James Kingston, head
of a large savings group in the Midwest. “
“If it can produce anything like the last time, I’m all for it.
I’m heading to a meeting with Mac where his boss will be present.
Let’s talk in the morning.”
Frannie called me that evening. “Cathy, any chance of
meeting me at seven thirty tomorrow morning? I have to fly to
Washington a little later.”
“That’s fine with me.”
“I’ll have a continental breakfast set out. See you then.”
As we started with juice, Frannie said “It’s arranged. The
business department is putting an extra writer looking for stories of
unusual failures in the thrift industry. They will welcome some
special help in their investigation.”
“Will Ron be working with me again?”
“Yes, just as before. We all feel that you can uncover
some real fraud or influence peddling with one or more of our
representatives either at a federal or a state level.”
“Well, that would emphasize the value of our earlier series
on the potential for fraud with reduced regulation.”
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“Finished your breakfast I have to run in order to make
the shuttle from La Guardia to DC”.
Ron called me at eight thirty. "I hear we are working
together again.”
“Yes. Are you free to start today?”
“Yep. Ten o’clock okay with you? Is there a desk?”
“Ten is fine and I’ll have your old set up ready by this
afternoon.”
By ten fifteen we were deep into conversation. “You are
aware that the passage of the Tax Reformat poses serious problems
for the savings and loan firms. Real estate values are falling, demand
shriveling since the big boys have lost one of their major tax
shelters.”
“Oh, yes. The bill has significantly decreased the value of
many such investments. With a sharp decrease in demand for loans,
cash flow eases up and executives will be scrambling to protect their
assets.”
“Chaos is the fruitful basis for shenanigans’. I think we
ought to start looking for one of the larger S&L’s whose recent
balance sheets warrant a deeper look and then for some regulators or
elected officials with some shadows in their background.”
“Sounds right. How do we divide up to start? You were
the primary financial researcher last time.”
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“I’ll be happy to start there while you start digging into
the people angle. Let’s validate and footnote every finding and take
our time.”
We gathered for an update on Friday afternoon. Ron said
“I have something of interest, a character with some doubtful things
in his past.”
“Tell me.”
“Congressman Mike Fingers from Michigan has been
looked at twice for influence peddling in the House but nothing
developed from the investigations. Mike is from Detroit.”
“That may be worth our effort. One of four larger S&L’s
whose recent balance sheets trend weaker, the assets less than solid,
is located within his district.”
“Any ideas?”
“Are you free to spend some time in Michigan, poke
around the company? I’ll bet that will find some dirt on Finger?”
“No problem. I’ll be in Detroit early Monday I am also
exploring some abuse of the Brokered Deposit program. Eagle S&L
in Detroit and E.C.Jones Company in Chicago. Eagle is a one
branch small thrift whose officers are living it up big time with
some shady borrowers.”
“Okay. I won’t ask where you got your info but I’ll dig
her while you spend some time in Washington looking for
associates of Finger.”
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“Cathy. Working with you is a pleasure. Do you think you
can finagle this into something permanent?”
“I like you, too. We’ll see.”
Olga was out for the evening. She had left a casserole and
a green salad for the two of us. When we had our fill, Jack asked
“Coffee and dessert?”
“I think coffee only, dear.
When he had served the coffee, Jack said. “Honey, I have
some news.” The tone of his voice told me it was not the kind of
news I wanted to hear. “I am being transferred to Washington.”
Suddenly, the meal I had just finished felt like a leaden
weight in the pit of my stomach. I fought to hold back the tear that
had developed just behind my eyelid.
My mind raced with the changes that were challenging the
comfort of our present situation. I felt the upset rising and was about
to blurt out my resentment but caught myself in time. I was not
going to fall into the trap as I had when Jack had to take the Israel
position. I nodded but could not speak.
The subject put a pall on me for the weekend. In order to
shake it off, we took a walk through Riverside Park, went to the
movies, had dinner out but could not take went to our minds off the
coming discussion with Diane.
We talked of the challenges like moving Diane in the midst
of her high school years, the kind of wrenching from her friends and
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those special teachers. The move for Diane was the most serious
challenge, even more so than my work.
Diane breezed in about four and with joy and enthusiasm
told us about walking on the beach, the barbecue on the beach on
Saturday evening and Smutty, the boy who lived next door. Her
excitement was infectious and had us asking more questions.
When she had gone to her room to unpack, Jask and I
huddled. He said “You know that this decision also affects Olga.
Maybe it would be wise to call a family conference in order to
introduce the subject. “After a moment of mulling it over, I agreed.
We decided it would be better if Jack introduced the
subject. Over desserts he said “Gang, we are facing a major change
and therefore we need a family conference.”
Out of the mouth of a babe came the words “Are you
talking about moving to some foreign country? I think that would be
cool.”
“You do?”
“Sure. I’m getting tired of the way most of the kids at Miss
Marple’s school are behaving these days. I was going to ask you
about changing schools next year.”
I saw Jack let out a sigh of relief. “Honey, the move will
mean a new school but it will not be in a foreign country. It will be in
one of the suburbs of Washington D.C.”
“Well, that won’t be as exciting but it will be graceful way
of separating from some of those snobs. Can I go to a regular public
school instead of a fancy private school?”
“We can search together for a community where they have
quality public secondary schools. That should be fun, to have a
research project like that.”
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Jack stepped in. “I can begin my duties any time and the
firm will put us up in a hotel suite while we search the area.”
I turned to Olga. After a look at her frown. I said “Olga, I
gather this is not good timing. Has Johann asked you to marry him or
are you engaged. I don’t see a ring.”
“I think he is about ready. We have been to see his family
several times.”
Again, wisdom from the young one. “The threat of your
leaving will help him offer you a ring.” She giggled and so did Olga.
“It seems like I will not be going with you. Johan has a
good enough job and like most traditional Slovak men; he will not
want me to work.”
Diane asked “Mom, how about your job? Don’t you have
to work in New York with your job on the magazine section?”
I had given a lot of thought to that subject over the
weekend. “Yes, but I think it’s time for a change. I can work as a
free-lance investigative reporter, if I can’t arrange something with the
times.”
“That’s good. How soon will you know?”
“I’m not sure. Besides, we have other family decisions to
make, like, will we sell the apartment or rent it out. Things will work
out now that the decision is made.”
I asked Frannie for a chance to talk after our Monday
afternoon staff meeting. When we were seated in her office she said
“The look on your face says I am not going to like this conversation.”
“Probably not. No matter how this ends up, our long time
relationship is about to change.” I spent the next twenty minutes
telling her the news of our move to Washington.
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“Oh hell, why at this moment? The big boys and I have
been noodling about the possibility of your becoming my deputy, in
training for replacing me within the next eighteen months.”
My heart did flip-flops. I found myself white knuckled with
closed fists struggling with the opportunity lost. Frannie looked
concerned and poured me a glass of water.
She said “That was stupid of me. I should have said nothing
about that. I know that Jack has made sacrifices for you and there is
no way you will fail to do the same for him.”
I finally was able to say something. “Of course, I have to
do that. He has been so unselfish and encouraging all these years.”
Well, I will see to it that you are not severed from the
Times. We can work something out and I am still going to benefit in
some way. You are just too damned valuable.”
“Let me do some behind the scenes work during the next
twenty four hours and meet with you tomorrow at three.”
“Thank you, my friend.” We hugged and I said goodbye
and left. I knew that at no time could I ever share with Jack the plans
that Frannie had made for me.
A year after these events I was to find out about the
decision makers who helped to formulate my future. Bill, my first
boos and now heading the city desk, Freddie of the international desk
and Mac, who headed the National department together with Frannie,
met late for six hours.
Mac had said outright “She has come so far in two decades
and contributed so much that we cannot take a chance she may wind
up working for the Post or some news service in Washington.”
Frannie told me that they spent the first half hour extolling
my contributions and my skills investigating as well as my
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interactions with people. She told me that I probably would have
turned beet red if I had been there.
Frannie said in that later conversation. “We were
determined to keep; you and to meet your need. We were on the
phone to some higher ups and to the chiefs of several departments.
We asked the head of personnel to join us. “
It seems that from the outset there was no question that the
head of our Washington bureau would be more than pleased to have
me but that meant some personnel sniffing or transfers.
The only thing that Frannie told me the morning after the
meeting was that they had worked late and had some options for me
to consider.
I had this sense of joy when she said options. That could
only mean that I would still be with the Times.
“Sig Sayers, head of the Washington Bureau is willing to
have you on hi staff. In fact, he hopes that pleases you because he is
ready to play musical chair to fit you in”
“You said options?”
“Yes, all of them have to do with the Washington Bureau,
full time or part time. They can use you as a senior reporter working
with congress, as an investigative reporter or an inside job at the
Bureau if you prefer.”
“Wow.”
“I agree. The only sad thing is that I will miss you terribly.
Someday, not today, I’ll fill you in on the details of our meeting last
night. All I need now is an affirmative shake of the head. You and
Sig can work out the details when you and he meet. He hopes you
can fly down later in the day on the shuttle. He can meet you at the
airport so you needn’t worry about transport.”
“That means I can come home tonight? “I asked.
“Yep.”
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I called Jack from La Guardia .He promised to share the
news with Diane and Olga.
“Welcome to D.C. Cathy. I am pleased to meet you, finally.
I hope we can make a happy home for you.” We huddled in the
United Red Carpet room, working to establish an agreement.
Two hours later I was on the return flight, having a clear
picture of my choices. Sig and I finally agreed that the starting place
would be my covering the Senate as one of two reporters. I would be
looking for that news that the Senate prefers to keep tucked out of
sight and perhaps doing some profiles either of Senators or some of
the lobbyists who work full time with the Senate.
Jack took up residence at a hotel in Washington on April
20 , commuting home on the weekends. Diane’s graduation
ceremony was held on May 13th. The next evening we bid a
temporarary good bye to Olga who would stay in the apartment until
we settled in the D.C. area and put up the apartment for lease.
Diane spent the first two days visiting the Smithsonian
while I met the press corps at the Senate building and learned the
ropes. She decided to enroll in a business school for six weeks to
study typing, shorthand and basic bookkeeping. We spent evenings
and the next several weekends house hutting in McLean and Silver
Springs as well as apartment hunting in the city.
On the second Monday of June I had a call from Ron Mick,
my sidekick on the S&L stories. “Cathy, I just picked up a squeak
that Safe and Secure Saving and Loan from Las Vegas is in hot
water. There is a quiet rumor than the regulators are thinking of
beginning an investigation, but for some reason they have delayed.”
“Do I take it that you think someone is getting to the
regulators?”
th
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“That’s what it smells like. I have been checking their
financials and I see patterns that are reminiscent of what we found at
Eagle.S&L.”
“Thanks. I’ll try to find out who is their lobbyists and
maybe have him tailed for a bit. I’ll get back to you.
The next day I asked Sig for a meeting that included Cissy
White our reporter at the House. I laid out the details of Ron’s phone
call and suggested my approach to get the name and description of
the lobbyist for Safe and Secure as well as the Chairman and the
President. “If there is pressure on the FSLBB staffers, it is most likely
coming from someone whose campaign coffers include big money
from Safe and Secure.”
I’ll say this for Sig. No grass grows under his feet, “I’ll
have our financial whiz bang working with your associate, Ron. You
both will have names and either a description or a photo of any we
suspect to be players in this game if there is one.”
Three days later with names, pictures and bios on three
Senators and three congressmen I made reservation for lunch at the
Willard Hotel, a favorite for lobbyists and their lambs
No luck from my first foray, but I had a great lunch and a
hefty expense chit for accounting. My luck changed on the third try.
I saw our lobbyist, the president of Safe and Secure and the
junior senator from Nevada being escorted to a booth. I asked the
maître d’ if I could the table just outside the booth while I waited for
an imaginary guest to arrive.
I was near enough to catch the tone of the discussions but
only a few words now and then. I heard enough to know that the
senator was heading for a long weekend in Bermuda on a private jet
and something about a scholarship to some university.
Cissy breezed into my office the next morning with her
report, seeing the chairman and an unidentified party meeting with
339
two congressmen from Arizona. “I couldn’t hear much since I could
not get a table nearby but I was next to them, standing in line, waiting
for cabs. I definitely heard the unidentified party saying “Have great
time in Hawaii. Be sure to set up a date with your friend at the FHLB
as soon as you get back, no later than the twentieth.”
The two of us met at ten with Sig to give him an update. He
listened patiently and smiled. “Ten minutes ago I had an anonymous
phone call telling me to keep Cissy away from those congressmen. I
guess she is too well known.”
“How do you want us to precede, boss?”
“Cathy, you have a drinks date at five fifteen with a friend
who happens to be a third level exec at the Federal Home Loan
Bank, which organization has the responsibility for making sure that
all S&L’s operate within the rules and rags. He will be expecting you,
a new arrival in town, and answer any questions just as though he and
I were meeting. He may know something about what is happening in
the FHLB in the Mountain Region.”
Guy Sloan was about sixty, handsome gray haired
gentleman, who been with the bank for over thirty years, serving at
three regional banks as well as the D.C. office. After a few minutes of
getting to know each other, he said “I only have about thirty minutes.
Sig filled me in on your investigation. Let me tell you what I know
and then take your questions.”
“Great. That should save time.”
“Our staff was due to begin an audit on May 26th but the
big boss at the regional bank asked them to delay thirty days. He did
this at the request of the junior senator from Nevada and a
congressman from Arizona who had visited him on the twenty fourth.
The boss left for a three week vacation on the twenty sixth, leaving
word that he would initiate the audit upon his return.”
“Any chance he was bought off?”
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“I doubt it. Joe is straight forward and in my opinion not
for sale.”
“What are some reasons he might have for such a last
minute delay?”
“Just between us, he is not the brightest or the strongest
local president. He might easily kowtow to a big boy like the senator,
at least for a little while.”
Any other reason?”
“He may want to be close at hand during the audit so he
delayed pending a prior planned vacation. Knowing of your penchant
for digging, Ms.Cheka, I think you might be able to verify that
vacation timing, while I can only speculate.” He smiled and I
returned the smile
Looking at his watch, he said “I really should run. If I hear
anything more, I’ll be happy to buy you a drink, but I will need your
home phone. I wouldn’t dare call your office.”
Thank you, Mr. Sloan.”
“My pleasure will be doubled if you find any rats in the
rug. Here is my unlisted second home phone number.”
Cissy stayed close to her now identified lobbyist working
for Safe and Secure. On her behalf I was able to discover that he also
worked for two other thrifts including the largest in the country. Sig
had another call implying a threat to Cissy’s health if she didn’t keep
her distance from Mr. Goodenough In the meantime she had snapped
a photo of him and made a copy for me.
The very day after I had the photo I saw Mr. Goodenough
in the company of the well know S&L financier from the west coast
whose holdings were coming under scrutiny from the regulators. I
watched as they were escorted to a booth and decided to wait to see if
until any guests arrived. I sat at the bar sipping a white wine and
finally noticed a senator from Indiana and one from New Mexico
341
come in together. I hastily walked over to the hostess stand in time to
hear them ask for Mr. Goodenough.
My nose was really twitching.
I called Guy Sloan that evening. “Guy, this is Cathy Cheka.
Do you have a minute, unrelated directly to our prior conversation?”
“Absolutely. Shoot.”
“Heard anything surfaced recently about senators visiting
with your bosses or the board?
“Why do you ask?”
I happened by chance to see two senators meet with a Mr.
Goodenough and the chair of the largest S&L in the country.”
“Very interesting. The answer is yes. Over a period of a
month we have had at least five visits from a handful of senators.”
“Any audit delays in that direction?’
Yep.”
“I’ll be damned. Thank you.”
The next morning conference brought some bad news.Cissy
reported. “I walked by Goodenough to grab a cab He was getting into
a large Lincoln with tinted windows all around. Four or five minutes
later, my cab was roughly bumped into the rear bumper when we
stopped at the next light. The strong jolt, snapping my neck. My
cabbie got out yelling, ready to talk with the driver of the Lincoln but
could not get any response. The driver’s side window stayed closed.
The light turned green and since the cab was not damaged, the driver
drove on.”
Sig was cussing a blue streak. “Gutsy. They must have
some real power. Cissy, I’m pulling you off for a while and ask your
buddy, Max, to take over. Introduce him to Cathy and the two of you
brief him on what’s doing.”
Starting the nineteenth of June, Max and I were on the
heels of our lobbyist friend and sure enough saw him pick up our two
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representatives in front of the Rayburn building and drive them to the
offices of FHLB and drop them off. All we could do was observed
and take pictures.
The next day Guy Sloan called me to say that the board was
debating the issue of delaying the audit for another month.
In a huddle with Sid and Cissy I recommended we go with
a story of what we have observed with a comment about the previous
delay. That should roil the waters a bit.”
Sig turned to Cissy. “I have an idea but it gives you no
public credit. If it is okay with you I would like Cathy to run this
under her magazine column of the past as “Profiles by CC”. This will
be a profile of a bank instead of an individual.”
Cissy agreed. The feature ran on the following Sunday and
indeed roiled the waters water of the nation’s capital. The phones
rang off the hook” as the saying goes. Senators, congressmen,
adminstrators and two cabinet officers, were complaining but no one
trying to force a retraction. There was no call or subsequent
communication from the President’s office.
The president of the regional bank had no choice except to
go with the audit without delay
The following Tuesday the editorial staff ran editorials
relating back to my earlier stories on S&L’s and the prior editorial on
the subject, followed on Wednesday with an editorial calling for
quick reform. There was a hint of another large thrift going bankrupt
and might have without the influence of certain elected officials.
On Friday, the Times ran my report with a photograph I
had taken of the two senators along the lobbyist and CEO of the
largest S&L in the nation. I wrote no commentary, letting the report
and photo do the speaking?
The feedback on that story was dead silence from
Washington but lots of outrage from many readers.
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Three months later the attorney general’s office moved
in and brought executives and two board members of Safe and secure
to trial for fraud and racketeering. Never the less, the payout to
depositors cost the government almost a billion dollars covering the
insured depositors ’losses.
For months on end I prowled the halls and chambers of tee
Hart Senate building hoping to smell out some work being done to
curtail the kind of losses to investors.
I followed closely the story of the large S&L Ron Micha,
my earlier partner from the business department kept me posted on
many of the details of some of their risky investments.
For some unknown reason the FHLBB executive deferred
judgment on the matter, and his successor was more sympathetic to a
company which should have been in the middle of an investigation.
The Senate and the House seemed to ignore all the signs
pointing to more disasters except that several years later, several
senators would be rebuked to various degrees by the Senate Ethics
Committee.
I did cover the progress of the financial reform bills during
the 1989 session. The old adage about locking the barn door after he
horse escaped applied to the congress who took action after it cost the
nation more than 125 billion dollars.
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345
Chapter 22.
In August of that first year, we purchased a four bedroom
house in McLean, Virginia. Diane entered the public high school and
soon had half dozen girlfriends and some teen age boys hanging
around. She stayed with the family of one of her friends after school
until one of us picked her up. Their home was only five doors from
ours.
Believe it or not, I finally learned to drive and got my
driver’s license at age forty five. Being a Manhattanize I never had
need for a driver’s license.
I was not a welcome member of the press corps with some
of the senators. It took almost a year for most to understand that I was
interested in wrong-doing, not trying to roast every elected official. I
did manage to write a number of senatorial profiles. Like a bulldog, I
followed every story I could find on the thrift disasters.
One morning in early September, just after Jack had driven
away, the phone rang just as I was reentering the house. I dashed to
the phone, a bit breathless. “This is Cathy.”
A pleasant female voice asked “Would you please hold?”
“Cathy.” I did not have to hear his name. It was my old and
trusted friend from the International department. “Hi, Freddie. This is
a surprise.”
“I know and it is great to hear your voice. How are things
in and near Foggy Bottom?”
“Work is getting harder. Jack and I keep thinking I ought to
retire. We just bought a new house and the need to make that our
home I challenging. That’s it in a nut shell but you have something
on your mind.”
346
“I never could keep you guessing, smartie. My question is
whether you might be up to a little excitement for a trip to Eastern
Europe?”
“Wow. You are talking excitement. Where are you
suggesting? Poland?”
“I am thinking Czechoslovakian.” We are set in Poland and
a few other spots but are shorthanded in Czechoslovakia. Things are
stirring. “Do you think Jack would let you go? We both know there is
some risk.”
“When would you need to know and when would I have to
arrive?”
“Of course, I need to know ASAP. We would like to have
you on scene by October first. Before you ask, all parties have agreed
your current boss and the department heads here. In fact, we are in
session here and everyone sends their love.”
All right, Fred. I will call you in the morning.”
Needless to say, that I was in turmoil. The assignment was
a thrilling challenge but getting Jack to agree was even more
daunting. His love and caring would make him start to dig in his
heels but after tears and expressions of concern, he would probably
give in. He had promised those many years ago that my work was
also high on the priority list in our marriage.”
At least, that was my thinking as I prepared all day the
manner of my presentation to Jack after dinner tonight.
It went as I predicted. We were curled up on the sofa after
watching the ten o’clock news, much of which centered on events in
Eastern Europe. Before and since the fall of the Berlin wall, the
Eastern bloc of Russian-dominated communism was showing cracks
Sharp changes were occurring almost daily in East Germany, Poland
and other countries.
347
I pulled away from Jack’s arms so I could look into his
eyes. “Honey, I had a call from New York this morning.”
“Freddie?”
I gasped. “Yes.”
“I’m not surprised. Where does he want you? Germany?
Poland?” Hungary?”
“Czechoslovakia. But I don’t understand you.”
“Dear, your body language for weeks has been saying. This
assignment is less than exciting. You have mentioned retirement,
probably because you didn’t want to ask me to let you go to some
new war zone.”
I broke into tears without knowing why but I did know. He
was the dreamboat who would do what would be the right thing for
me. His love was utterly without reservation. .
Jack reached for a hankie to wipe my cheeks. “Of course I
will let you go. I don’t have to repeat the words I have spoken so
often when you were headed into some perilous assignment. You
know how deeply I love you and how I will worry, but this is the
Cathy that I love and married.”
He pulled me back into his arms for a long time. I. has no
idea how long finally I was able to tell me the little I knew of the
plans. “I guess that I will have to go to New York for a briefing and
probably leave from there. We have about three weeks before I leave.
As one might expect from two long time lovers, our love
making was special and ever so tender before we found sleep.
The next three week was intense. I spent three hours a day
practicing my Russian with a tutor that the Times had hired for me.
She also spike Czech thus helped me tune up with that language skill
with its variations from Slovak.
348
I arrived in Prague on October 3rd.After a rigorous
unwelcome from the officials at the airport, I walked out of the
immigration office to be met by a tall blond young woman about
twenty years old or so. “I am Marta Voinovich. Are you Cathy
Cheka?”
“Yes.”
“I do some errands for Sam Baker, who works for the New
York Times. I will be happy to take you to his office if you will allow
me to do so.”
I really had no choice but I considered it unlikely that it
was some ruse on the part of the government who had no love for
American journalists. “I would appreciate your help” She. Grabbed
the heavier of my two bags and hailed a cab.
Sam was out of the office but arrived about fifteen minutes
after my arrival. I was sipping some tea that Marta had prepared. He
breezed in, tossed his hat on top of his desk, took off his light top
coat and hung it on the back of the door. “Welcome, Cathy. You
come with a strong recommendation and a reputation for sound
reporting for twentyyears plus. You are more than welcome.”
“I hope I can be helpful to you.”
“You will be more than helpful. How do you feel about
working with some underground leaders?”
“Wherever you think best. I will be happy to follow our
lead.”
“I’ve been splitting my time between working with the
underground and reporting what the government people who are
dishing out and reading between the lines. You won’t be able to write
all your stories about your findings since many are secret. Whatever
they execute will be big news when available to the public and the
world. Your material will be really useful when the revolution is
overt.”
349
How do I go about finding these leaders? Do I find them on
my own or do you have some leads
“I have great contacts with whom I have been meeting for
the past six months. You will meet one of the lieutenants at breakfast
at six tomorrow morning. He is an accountant and absolutely above
suspicion although deeply involved in the planning.”
“Good. How about housing?”
“We have you booked into a hotel that is mostly staffed
with lackeys of the government. We do that intentionally to indicate
that we have nothing to hide. The administration, surprisingly, loves
the foreign press. They believe, probably correctly, that they are the
most benevolent rulers of the Warsaw pact nations.
Never the less they will check you out very professionally.
The waiters in the dining room will be listening for any treasonous
conversations. Your room will be bugged. I am putting you there so
that the government will find you to be what you claim, a journalist,
not a spy. The only thing they will uncover is what you and I want
them to find.”
“I feel more like a spy than a journalist.”
Sam laughed. “In a way, you are although you are not
asked to give away government secrets.
I smiled and Sam and Marta grinned. We were on the same
page. Sam went on. “Marta is your contact and protector. She knows
her way around and while covertly watched by the commies, she
appears vary clean to them. She is more than a pretty girl, a dedicated
revolutionary and, yes, carries a gun.”
The breakfast was a congenial affair that included general
conversation about current affairs here and in other countries, the
kind of conversation that might be held by any citizen and a friend.
350
Jan Kovak an accountant for a Russian energy firm met us
in a small café around the corner from the hotel. It was six o’clock
and hour before he reported for work.
Sam prepared me for the meeting. “Jan, who is an
accountant by day, is the coordinator of planning for a large group of
cells here in Prague and well beyond into the small towns and
villages. It is my hope that he will invite you to sit in and observed.”
From the moment I greeted him speaking Czech, properly
accented, he smiled and the warmth he exuded told me we would
become friends despite a generation of difference in our ages.
After the preliminaries he said. “I am delighted that you
also speak Russian. Two of our informants are Russian and speak or
understand either Czech or Slovak. You can be useful as an
interpreter to help clarify their information.”
The upshot of the meeting was an invitation to come to a
meeting the following week. Jan said “The government may have
someone following you for a few days’ pay no attention since we will
not ask you to meet with us during this probationary time. I would
suggest that you ask you concierge for a map of our public
transportation system and a street map to know where you are
traveling either by foot or in taxis.”
Six days after my arrival, I left the Times office and noticed
that my tail for the past few days was absent I took a city tram to the
corner near the address about eight blocks from the meeting place. It
was four thirty in the morning. I had suggested that I walk since it
was so close. Jan said “That would arouse the suspicions of the
police. The only people walking at that hour are workers returning
from or going to work in fact I recommend you dress down when
traveling at such odd hours.”
351
I met with Jan’s group almost every other day, mostly for
short meetings. The balance of the day I spent chasing down stories
assigned by Sam.
I began approaching some of the higher officials asking for
interviews so that I might submit profiles as I had earlier in my career
under the “Profiles by C.C. I had some success only because one of
the public relations officers had been an ardent fan of the New York
Times when he had served in a consulate in New York City.
Since a profile usually meant some detail of the subject’s
life and even his or her work. I picked up a few scraps of info
accidently escaping my subjects lips.
Each of the cell meetings was in a different location and at
very strange hours between six in the evening and four in the
morning. I was intentionally not invited to several meetings but that
was rare.
The first meeting consisted of nine members in addition to
Jan and me. After brief introductions, they moved directly to the
business of the day, sorting memos that had arrived from cells in
seventeen suburban communities.
Josef, who seemed to be second in command to Jan,
summarized the results then said “I think it is fair to say that almost
everyone is waiting for instructions.
Mihail commented “Then it is time to finalize them with
short term and long term plans. My committee is ready to submit
plans as requested.”
Jan said “Let’s make the only item on our agenda for the
next meeting on Friday night. We can meet in the rear storage room
of Eduard’s café. Mihail, you and I can meet for lunch for a briefing
tomorrow. Meanwhile, Ivan, is there anything you can report from
your department?””
352
“I can assure you that no one in the upper echelons has ever
indicated that they are aware of this activity. The KGB and the Czech
secret police are more worried about sabotage than demonstrations.”
He spoke haltingly but I was able to help him to clarify his
intent.
Josef said. “I need to leave. It takes me three changes on
the tram to get to work.”
Jan said ‘Let’s leave by two’s or one’s. Look round before
you go out the door.” Jan and I were the last to leave, hoping we
appeared to be an older mother and son on the way to work.
I was one of the early arrivals for the Friday meeting
having had my dinner at the café. I was surprised to find a young
woman, a young man and Marta already in the room when I arrived.
Marta introduced Petra and Paul as students who were very involved
in an organizing student cells at two Prague university locations.
Jan called the meeting to order. He turned to me. “Petra
and Paul are members of Mikhail’s planning committee and they are
the key to our plans.”
Mihail then submitted the plans. “Starting the end of this
month there will be small demonstrations, absolutely peaceful, with
signs only protesting rule by a single party. Some signs will call for a
reform to a multi-party system. The gatherings will happen on or near
university locations around the country.
These groupings will be made up of students. If there are
arrests by the police, we do not want fathers or mothers involved and
certain not put at risk any one that might cost them their jobs.
The pace of the demonstrations and the size will grow day
by day for three weeks, at least. We believe from the information we
have been receiving that the numbers will begin to swell and cold
reach a hundred thousand combined by the end of that period.”
353
I asked “What do want to actually happen as a result of
these actions?”
Peter responded. “We believe that we will get some real
attention from the central government officials if the general public
joins in the peaceful demonstrations, perhaps we can achieve a major
shift in government behavior.”
I couldn’t help but contrast the plans here with the
demonstrations during the Vietnam War period in the states. This was
being carefully calculated to be peaceful and although passions were
high, the action would be cool.
Paul reminded the group that there were over one hundred
and fifty student cells in Prague and another hundred at the other
locations. “I think your estimates are too low.”
Jan agreed but reminded the group that it is always better to
exceed than to fall short of expectations.
We were about to adjourn when Jan asked Petra and Paul if
they would ride the tram with me until I reached the hotel and they
agreed.
About twenty yards short of the hotel entrance a sturdy,
dark-suited man stepped out of the shadows and said
“Identifications?”
Paul whispered to me “Secret police.”
I felt a moment of panic. My hands were shaking as I
produced the ID that the hotel had given me in lieu of the passport
which they were required to hold. The boys had produced student
ID’s and stood silently.
“What are three doing?”
Paul spoke up. "We are escorting this guest who attended
our class at the university. We did not think it was safe for her to
travel alone at this hour.” His lie was smooth and absolutely
believable
354
“You boys go on. I will take charge of the woman.” I had
no idea what that meant. Was I being taken someplace for further
interrogation?” How did I come to the attentions of the secret
police?” I sensed a bit of cold sweat under my arms.
My young friends seemed hesitant but the policeman said
gruffly “I told you to go.”
I could feel my hands getting sweaty and thought I might
be developing beads of sweat on my forehead. I was alone and
scared. He took hold of my arm and headed for the hotel entrance.
The policeman near the door and the doorman both saluted as we
entered.
When we reached the registration desk, to my surprise, he
said to the clerk “Give Mrs. Cheka her room key and said to me.
“Have a good evening. It was smart of you to have those young boys
accompany you at this hour of the night. He turned and headed for
the door.
I was absolutely weak-kneed when I entered the elevator
and then collapsed into a chair when I got to the room.
I spent the last hour writing my notes which I gave to Marta
each morning at the office. Our plan was for me to write up the notes
and give them to Marta who made sure they were read by Sam to
report whatever he chose to get by the censors.
Although I knew each day what was happening as I
attended the meetings with Jan, it was interesting to see what did get
into the local newspapers. There daily brief stories of the police
monitoring demonstrations at various university locations, mostly in
Prague but occasionally referring to a large demonstration in other
cities. The papers were downplaying the size of the gatherings
according to our comparisons with our own monitors.
Excitement was growing at the central planning meetings.
The crowds at the gatherings were growing but continued to be
355
peaceful thus avoiding any arrests. At the meeting on the eleventh of
November. Paul reported that over thirty thousand students had
demonstrated the day before.
On the sixteenth, I delivery a copy of the Times, which
contained a profile of the mayor of Prague. He was ecstatic but tried
to put on a modest front.
I asked him about his feelings about the demonstrations. “I
am confident that students will tire and remember that failure to
attend classes is detrimental to their education. I am pleased that there
have been few if any violent actions.”
The next day, on the seventeenth a large student
demonstration in central Prague was jamming the streets and
sidewalks. Business and traffic came to a halt. Some police must
have panicked at the pure size although they later admitted that the
demonstration was peaceful. As tensions mounted the crowds got
larger, the police began breaking up the gathering and placing
students under arrest.
The committee’s monitors were having a hard time getting
an accurate account of protestors as the crowds swell.
They estimated that over 200,000 were present on the
nineteenth and approximately a half million on the twentieth.
The planning committee was ecstatic. This is beyond our
wildest dreams. Marta said “The government was being going crazy.
I have a report that the mayor and the chief of police have been
summoned by the President.”
Jan said “I’m worried. The President may call in the
troops that are stationed outside the city. We must alert our people
nearby the fort, to let us know if they see any troop movements or
tanks starting to warm up.”
356
Marta made a call. A minute later she said “They’re way
ahead of us. They have two men loafing about a quarter mile from the
front gate of the garrison. All is still quiet.”
One of the students was in the corner listening for any radio
broadcast that might give a signal from the government, national or
local.
The mood wavered between joy, excitement and worry.
The phone shrilled and Marta answered She turned to Jan. It’s
Alexander. He wants to talk to you:
“Hello. This is Jan. Yes sir. I understand.
Yes I will organize our communicators immediately.
Thank you, sir.” He turned toward the rest of us. Mr. .Dubcek
expressed his congratulations on the success of our planning and
suggests that we call a general strike on the twenty-seventh. He has
already received agreement from the other organizations, including
the underground.”
I had thought we were excited earlier but all hell broke
loose with approval. The meeting broke up with everyone moving to
some pre-agreed duties to perform.
Marta suggested we join in the demonstration where I
could interview some of the participants. In the midst of the
demonstrations there was a sort of joy. People were confident that
some change for the good would come. Every once in a while. A
group would burst into song.
The police were simply standing on the side lines, some of
them smiling at the singing that was taking place.
Among my interviewees was .a mother pushing her twins
in a double pram, a lawyer and a government clerk. I asked the clerk
if she might lose her job. She laughed and said “I am good at my job.
They won’t fire me. I’m sure my supervisor is sympathetic even
though he dare not be here.
357
Marta took me to a large residence located on the edge of
the business district. When we entered, she introduced me to a Mr.
Dubcek. “Alexander, meet Cathy Cheka of the New York Times who
has been meeting with us for over a month. She expects to write
several major pieces when she returns to the states.”
He bowed. “I am honored to meet you, Ms. Cheka. Your
reputation precedes you. I have had the privilege of reading several of
your stories, particularly those about Vietnam and Greece. You are a
good journalist and certainly a brave one.”
I am sure I blushed and thanked him. “I would be honored
if you granted me an interview. “
That would be my pleasure, but may I request a delay until
the picture becomes clearer as to the reaction of the government. So
far we are pleased that no tanks or soldiers are parading down our
boulevards.
The general strike took place across the nation for two
hours on November 27th. Suddenly, a huge surprise.
The very next celebrations were wide spread when the
announcement came that the communist party was relinquishing
power and dismantling the sing party system for the country. After a
brief round of singing and shouting, the crowds grew quiet with
uncertainty.
Everything was in a hiatus. The President had not vacated
his office or resigned. An eerie silence and stillness overcame the
country. The leaders of the resistance and demonstrations were
making plans once the current president resigned and disbanded the
various government councils. That lasted for almost two weeks
I was able to fire off stories as did Sam but we were
waiting with bated breath to see if President Husak would follow
through or renege and take back the power. Our best guess was that
he was waiting for instructions from Moscow.
358
Each day was one of silence from the office of the
President. The committee met each day and began planning for a
massive three day strike in the event the government backed off its
announcement.
On the fifth day, December 2nd, word came to Jan to
prepare for launching the three day strike if no positive action was
forthcoming from the administration by December 11th.
Relief for the entire nation came on December 10th. The
President appointed the first non-communist government since 1948.
Dubcek was elected speaker of the parliament and Vaclav Havel was
named President.
One of the first announcements from the new government
was a date in the coming June of the first democratic elections in
more than fifty years.
I said my good byes after getting my profiles on Jan and
Marta and a long interview with Alexander Dubcek. I felt so honored
to have had the chance to be so close to the leaders of what became
known later as the “Velvet Revolution”
Just before the end of 1990, Jack and I agreed that it might
be a good time for me to retire from the Times. I was only forty eight
but had been with the Times full time for twenty three years.
We celebrated in Washington and the next day I flew to
New York to celebrate with my friends and tutors, Mac who had
retired, Bill from the city desk, Freddie from the international desk
and Frannie who was retiring two months hence. I was honored when
the editorial chief joined the party. My associates at the magazine,
Elsie and Felicia were there to add to the tears that flowed.
Diane was now at Harvard, finally adapting to the campus
life. Her stories were the life of our gathering in Coalton for the
359
Christmas holiday; she turned toward me at the dinner table. “Mom,
something entirely slipped my mind. Alexa Sellech and I finally had
some time to spend together. She is charming and a real brain.
“Are you planning to spend more time together?”
“Yes, we are going to double date the week end after we
return.”
“Hey. You haven’t told me about a boyfriend.”
“Nothing serious, Mom. I’ve been sort of playing the field
with just a few Harvard and MIT men.”
All I could say was “Oh.”
Kate and Mama were taking up most of her time and doting
and spoiling her as they had for years.
As the New Year unfolded I devoted myself to being a full
time wife to Jack, learning to cook by taking classes at the adult
education center and getting tips from Mama on the phone. I spent
ten days in Colton helping Kate care for Mama after her confinement
into hospital with pneumonia.
At home I usually spent about two hours devouring the
Times, the Washington Post and the Wall Street Journal.
Diane was home for the Memorial Day holiday. She had
asked me if there was a chance to find work at the Times Washington
bureau for ten weeks or so. Sig said he had no budget but made a few
calls.
Diane was invited to work part of the summer at the
Washington Post in a position similar to the one I had at the Times in
1962. Like mother, like daughter. Miracles do happen. Her boss at
the Post was an alumna from Barnard, a political science major and
classmate of mine.
360
The three of us took a motor trip either to see some of the
quaint areas around the Chesapeake, historical sites in Virginia and
the Carolinas.
A week after Diane left to do some volunteer work in the
south I had a call from my first and best buddy at Barnard, Anne. We
had become fast friends beginning the first day on the Barnard
campus.
After fifteen minutes playing catch up, Anne told me that
she and Paul were volunteering with the campaign committee of the
Bill Clinton run for the presidency. She asked “Are you available to
meet me and some folks from the committee in Washington this
coming Friday?”
“Why on earth meet with a political committee. Are you
available for a one on one after your meeting?”
“Yes I am but join us. You might find it fun. Your mom
told me you were retired.” After a little more resistance, I finally
conceded.
On Friday I went into town with Jack, had coffee with him
and a few associates before strolling to the meeting.
Anne gave a huge bear hug and introduced me to the other
seven members present. We sat around having juice and coffee while
apparently awaiting the arrival of several others.
Twenty minutes later in walked Hilary Clinton bringing a
gasp from me. I loved her from that first five minutes as she took
charge of the meeting, laid out the agenda and worked us through the
plan within forty five minutes. When she was done, everyone clearly
understood their role for the next two weeks.
When the meeting was adjourned, she walked over to me.
“Ms. Cheka, I am delighted that Anne convinced you to meet with us.
If you have a bit more time, I would like to have you join me for
brunch.”
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“I’ be honored, Mrs. Clinton.”
“I am Hilary to all the others and would be pleased if you
chose to address me in that way.”
“All right. I’m Cathy.”
During our meal she spoke of how they had made the
decision to have Bill toss his hat in the political ring and now a run
for the presidency. As we were having a light dessert she said “Cathy,
Bill and I have probably read every piece you have written since you
were first featured in the magazine and then your work through the
Washington Bureau. We are agreed that we would like to employ you
as a researcher and a writer for this primary and if we are lucky, for
the general election.”
“Wow. This is a bolt from the blue. My husband and I just
recently were reading up on the candidates and decided we would
support Mr. Clinton’s campaign, but neither of us have any
knowledge of how campaigns are conducted.”
“Oh, we have plenty of professional and experienced
campaigners.”
“What could I possibly contribute?”
“I can think of three things. First is the fact that your name
is associated will help with the young women’s vote? Second, there is
a need to polish the wording of press releases and news stories.
Thirdly, we think your research skills will help us find weaknesses, if
any, in the backgrounds of our opponents. In addition, I think your
presence on the planning committee might be of value when our own
people are pushing hard to have their private agendas be Bill’s
agenda.”
“Hilary, I think you are overrating my abilities in this
situation.”
“Bill and I do not think so. Listen. You do not need to
make decision today. You want to discuss this at home and maybe
362
consult some of your former colleagues. I’m due back in D.C.next
Wednesday. Perhaps we can meet for breakfast or a coffee date.”
“All right. I still think you can do better but I will do some
consulting and have an answer by next week.”
She flashed a warm smile as she stood. “Sorry, I have to
run. I’ll pray that you have an affirmative response when I see you.
Let’s meet right here, if this is convenient.”
I could hardly wait until Jack got home that evening. We
discussed pros and cons over drinks and decided to call Diane to get
her opinion. All I got was encouragement with Diane saying she
would find way to do some volunteer work near school.
Conversations with Frannie, Mac, Sig and Bill at the Times
produced the same results. All signals were go and Hilary and I
clinched the deal the following week.
I had some qualms about Bill’s reputation but I saw no
hesitation of support from Hilary Furthermore, I did a little research
on the other Democratic candidates and saw, in my opinion, a group
of light weights who could not stand up to President Bush. Bill was a
proven campaigner and being from Arkansas would have at least
some southern support.
Much of my research took me to several libraries in the
city, the morgue of the Washington Post, with special permission,
and the morgue of the Times Washington Bureau.
It is interesting to note that pearls of information may be
found in the little stories that are buried in the midst of the daily
Times which boasted of printing all the news that fit to print. It was
there where I pick up two stories in which Jesse Jackson was quoted
with anti-Jewish comments.
When Jerry Brown publicly announced the possibility of
Jackson being a running mate, I sent copies of the stories to our
campaign manager, who made optimum use to Brown’s dismay.
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Brown’s acknowledged relationship with Louse Farrakhan
was another factor when I was able to produce stories quoting
Farrakhan on anti-Semitism. It seems than Brown’s ascending
popularity took a sudden nose dive.
In general there was little I contributed to the primary
campaign, at least in my opinion. I wrote some new stories, created
some press releases hoping my spin may be helpful and edited some
speeches being made by some supporters at various rallies.
Bill and Hilary took three of us writers to lunch a week
after his victory. It was his personal thank you for our contributions.
He handed us each hand written note, which in my case, he thanked
me for my extraordinary effort in getting young women’s vote.
His reference was to a series of extra chats that I organized
for young women around his appearances throughout the nation. I,
unabashedly, took advantage of my name and my drive for women’s
rights to attract the young people.
Touring with either Bill or Hilary was exciting. I called
Jack each evening when I was on the road, missing him terribly but
thrilled with the experience of being an insider of a presidential race.
On three occasions in the northeast, Diane joined me in the chat
groups. Elsie, my old friend on the staff of the Times, wrote a feature
story of mother-daughter involvement in the campaign, pictures and
all.
I volunteered for the west coast swing which ended up in
San Francisco. I had called Sara Sellech and her husband, David, to
join us at the Fairmont for dinner. I knew they were supporters of the
campaign.
I left the campaign group to spend the week end in Portola
Valley with the Sellechs and friends.
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Maria, Sara’s daughter and the mother of Diane’s friend at
Harvard, spent much of the weekend with us, the two of us
comparing notes on the progress of our daughters.
Jack and I along with Diane spent Thanksgiving week end
with mom and Kate in Coalton It was a joyous reunion, our last.
There was no way to know that two days before Christmas; both
would be killed when hit by a drunken driver while shopping in
Wheeling.
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Chapter 23.
My broker, Mickey, with his family and our threesome
spent a somber Charismas day in Colton, not the way we had been
planning Much of the day was spent in silence none of us knowing
what to say.
I found myself crying at strange moments. There were
some light minutes during the gift exchange but a pall descended
when we found Kate’s and mom’s presents wrapped and ready to be
given to us. Everything came to a halt as we reached for hankies to
wipe away the tears.
That night, long after I heard Jack’s even breathing, I lay
awake with thousands of images flashing through my mind. I was
recalling the hundreds of woman to woman conversations that helped
shape the way I was leading my life at the moment. I remembered
the strictness that later I determined to be her way of drawing a line
that was there to be challenged. I had a clear picture of the evening
when daddy was stuck in the mine. It was that evening that she had
cajoled Mickey into forging a close relationship with me.
I believe I fell asleep shortly after reviewing that last
meeting before we left for Vietnam. She had said “I love you both so
much and wish you were not taking this risk, but I understand your
need and support and will pray for you each and every day.” I am
sure she did.
The double funeral was held on the twenty sixth. The
church was filled and then some, the overflow crowd in the social
hall with loudspeakers bringing the mass and service to the added
crowd.
Mickey was too broken up to stand in the reception line in
the social hall. Later the families gathered in Kate’s living room for
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our private memory sharing. I found the bottle of Jack Daniels that
Kate kept for medicinal purposes. We drank a toast to the women
who had so much to with shaping our lives
In the silence that followed I asked Mickey what was his
schedule at the Times. Instead of responding directly, he started
talking about his plan to do a photographic study of life in the United
States. “I have six weeks of vacation that I have to take this year or
lose it.”
Julie said “We were thinking of taking a trip this summer
when the girls are out of school. With one engaged and one
practically living with her boyfriend, this may be our last chance.”
I looked at the girls “How do you feel about that?”
After a giggle from both “We talked it over with our men,
who agreed if mom lets them join us for part of the time. She hasn’t
said yes, at least not yet.”
We all turned toward Julie with questing marks on our
faces. She said “I may regret this but I want that time with the girls
almost at any cost.” Smiles broke out on a lot of faces.
I said “I have a suggestion which needs exploring. “Jack,
how would you like to spend your vacation in a caravan with them,
touring the country?”
“I think it would be great. Diane, can you get away to join
us for part of the trip?”
Diane frowned. “Sorry. I have made some other
commitments.”
After consulting with the three women, he said. “Let’s
make it work, Sis, I have a feeling you have something more in
mind.”
All eyes were turned toward me. “Mickey, if everyone is
agreeable, I thought you could help us upgrade our cameras so that
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we can all contribute photos for a new book on life in the current
U.S.A”
Diane popped up with “Mom can do the prose to round out
the book.”
The conversation broke into chaos as everyone had
something to add. The atmosphere was electric and the sadness gave
way to excitement.
I stayed behind in Coalton to handle the affairs of both
estates while everyone else returned to their appointed
responsibilities. I found the time be both sad and nostalgic. I knew
not a soul. All my high school mates were long gone just as I had
been. Nothing had changed much in appearance. I walked to the
meadow where my Johnny and I had found privacy, a place to talk,
share our loving thoughts, studied our lessons and found time to
make out, teenage style.
I sat in the kitchen, sipping a glass of wine and recalling the
wonderful woman-to- woman talks with mama, not bothering to wipe
away the tears that flowed with the loving memories.
I thought about Aunt Kate’s influence on my views of the
role of women in society. I walked over to her house and found the
copy of the book by Simone de Beauvoir, titled “The Second Sex.”
When I had everything under control, I called Jack, who
drove from McLean to pick me up. We strolled through town and
then walked to the meadow, where we made out, teenage style,
finally leaving town on a high note.
The trip was a great success. Diane did not bring her fried,
no explanation given. The only difficulties were the ones facing one
mother seeing her daughters leading their loving partners to their
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private bedrooms. Julie and I had a good laugh finally admitting we
were uptight about daughters behaving just as the mothers had.
The books was a smashing succeeds, every one of us, at
one point or another appearing at book signings across the nation It
received smashing reviews showing the richness and the poverty of a
nation, chaos in big cities alongside the peace of small town America.
The pain and joy in the faces of the elderly and the youngsters
torched the hearts of many readers. There were brilliant pictures of
the young adults who had been corralled by our young ones; Diane
had fourteen new “pen pals” after that trip in places like
SanFrancisco, California and Cody, Wyoming.
The real beneficiaries were not the thousands who
purchased and viewed the book. They were the Cheka and Wheldon
families.
The following April all seven of us along with Julie’s dad
were present at Columbia Universality for the Pulitzer Prize
presentations. Seven proud and tearful individuals marched to the
stage to be acknowledged in the category of “Feature Photography.”
We were greeted afterwards in the courtyard by my former
colleagues at the Times, Elsie, who worked with me during the
Columbia riots and three staff members of the Times Magazine. All
accepted an invitation to return with us to celebrate in our apartment
on Riverside Drive. We had decided to return to the city and moved
back three weeks ago.
Jack had requested and received a transfer back to the city
but was to spend a week of each month in D.C.
I became very interested in the digital revolution. I had
been using a PC (computer) but decide to switch to the MAC. I
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bought an early cell phone but soon replaced that heavy clunk with a
slimmer version.
I spent hours on the Internet marveling as month after
month provided new ways to do research. I learned over the next few
years how to communicate via email with Diane and Jack, when he
was away and other friends.
After being cajoled by the new Times Magazine associate
editor, my friend, Elsie, I agreed to submit an article six times each of
the next three years. In addition I had special requests from several
monthly magazines.
My subjects ranged from the impact of internet retail
business on the brick and mortar retailers to financial crises in
Eastern Asia.
One story, in particular, fascinated me. I flew to Silicon
Valley to do a special piece on E Bay, the provider for individuals
and business to buy and sell their products at an online marketplace.
Using that story I was able to bring to the front again, the role of
women heading public corporations.
I researched and submitted articles speculating on the
impact of the communication business with the rapid growing use of
cell phones and the social impact of the twenty four hour news cycle.
A good many of the articles featured special cases focused
on some success or some limitation on a woman’s place in public
life.
Of course I could not give way to the internet entirely. I
still devoured the Time and the Post each day and spent for hours
doing so on the weekend.
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In late 1999 I wrote an article for Elsie at the Times on
what I perceived to be the dangerous road being travelled by frenzied
investors,
The article turned out to be prophetic within two years.
However, the amount of negative feedback to the article was
outrageously heavy, including some comments from members of the
administration, who had been one of my co-workers in the 1992
campaign.
Joan was a member of the vice- president’s staff, concerned
that such negative comments might harm her boss’ chances of
election
In the late summer of 2000 I had a phone call from a
secretary in the President’s office asking if Mickey and I were
available to come to Washington on the following Saturday. I said I
was and would reach Mickey and call back.
At eleven thirty we were ushered into the Oval Office to be
greeted by the President. “Welcome Cathy. You must be Mickey
Cheka. Welcome.”
He shook hands with us and led us to a small room nearby
where a table was set for four. Just as we were seated, Hilary joined
us, shaking hands with Mickey and giving me a warm hug.
The waiter began serving lunch immediately, Bill saying
that he had a twelve thirty date.
He had a few tastes of the soup, put down his spoon. “How
would the two of you like to accompany me on a two day trip to
Vietnam and Brunei this November?”
I dropped my spoon, looked at Mickey, who was agape.
“Vietnam?”
Bill smiled and Hilary giggled. “That surprised you, I can
see. Yes, before you ask, I am dead serious.”
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Both our heads were nodding affirmatively before Mickey
asked “Why us?”
Hilary said “Pulitzer winners are important names. Your
pictures will draw attention. Your sister has a reputation for being
highly trusted communicator.”
Bill said “I believe the Vietnamese will be pleased with our
choice. Besides, there is no way I can think of that better says thanks
to Cathy for her support in the past.”
I asked “What’s involved?”
‘You will be accepted as an official journalist at the Asia
Pacific Economic Cooperation Leaders Meeting. Mickey, you will be
the official U.S.photographer to record visually who is present. “
“Cathy, I will be interested in hearing your evaluation of
reactions by various other members who often chat while someone is
pontificating. I certainly can’t read all that from my position. You
two will be my other eyes. The same would apply during our
meetings with officials in Hanoi.”
Mickey asked “What’s after Hanoi?”
“We’ll be flying to three countries and then home but you
can stay and fly home commercially at our expense, whenever you
are ready. I figured you would you might like to revisit the battle sites
or places you visited during the war in sixty seven,”
We both declared ourselves in, knowing that we would be
supported by our lovers at home. What an honor!
We finished our lunch and soon were saying good bye to
the president. Hilary chatted with us as we had coffee and dessert.
We rode in armored limos to the conference headquarters
in Brunei I am being a bit cynical when I say that like most high level
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conferences much of the time was spent listening to useless speeches
although there were times of great import and serious debate. By the
beginning of the first afternoon session, I separated the wheat from
the chaff so I could concentrate on reactions for my report.
I may be prejudiced but I thought the President made
several important contributions but it was his personal charm and
sincerity that produced serious response.
We met with the President in between sessions in order to
brief him on our observations. He was appreciative and
complementary on each of those occasions.
I have to admit that I was quite bored with the meetings in
Hanoi. Both official parties spent a lot of time restating the mutual
advantages of our diplomatic relationships and the recently enacted
trade agreements. The visit was actually symbolic, underscoring our
new accord. The host officials were delighted to know that they were
being photographed by a world famous photographer. The U.S.
consul made the most of our reputations to further enhance the charm
and importance of the President’s presence.
The Presidential party seemed to sigh with relief as they
entered the limos for the ride to the airport. That is purely my own
interpretation.
Through the good graces of the consul we were furnished
with a car and driver for the balance of our visit after the presidential
party had departed.
We headed for AnThoi, the site of our first visit to Vietnam
in 1967. The naval base had been converted to a fishing harbor.
Instead of Swift Boats, the river was crowded with sampans and
motorized fishing boats.
We held some conversation with a few locals, using our
driver as the interpreter, and took a lot of photos. We then asked him
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to drive us to the nearest village where I hoped to find Marie and
Helen Nguyen.
They were the sisters that I interviewed during that first
trip. One, Marie, a strong supporter of the Viet Cong and Helen, who
feared a victory by the North Vietnamese.
The name Nguyen is similar to Smith in the U.S. but again
our interpreter was able to find the home of Marie Nguyen.
She was seated in the shade of a large tree abut twenty
yards from the river bank. She
was as stunning this
day as I remembered her from our first visit thirty three years ago.
Hair pulled back tight with a silver clip holding the small pony tail,
skin as smooth as a teenager and her body as slender as the day I met
her.”Ms.Cheka, is it really you?”
“Yes, Marie, isn’t it?”
She came forward to clasp me about the shoulders.
“Yes, Helene is dead, I am sorry to say. Welcome. Enter,
please. I will prepare some tea.”
“Marie, this is my brother, Mickey. He was with me but I
do not think you had a chance to meet. He is a photographer and
would be honored to take some photos with your permission.”
“Please to meet you, Mickey. Please feel free, any place in
or out.” She turned to me.”Can you spend a full day or more?”
“We hadn’t considered it but I think we can do that.”
“I would be honored. There is much I would like to learn
about your country and I want to tell you all the things that are
happening here since those terrible days.”
We had a great visit after tea. Mickey was out roaming the
village and the surrounding area, camera busy shooting. Marie told
me about her sister, Helene.
“In the latter days of the war, the entire area was under
control of the Viet Cong. I, personally, was pleased, of course”
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She paused to gather her composure and in a strained voice
went on “A Viet Cong detachment came to the village some months
after you left. One of the neighbors told the sergeant that Helene had
deep sympathies for and was a helper to the South Viet army. Despite
my pleas, even knowing that I was one of them, they took her to
some prison location where she was kept for about six months.”
“When she was finally returned she was poorly nourished,
twenty pounds lighter, coughing badly and running a fever”
“Using all my personal influence I manage to get her to an
American base, about forty kilometers to the south. I got the
American medic from the base to look at her.
Several days after his examination and some blood tests, he told me
she had pneumonia and tuberculosis.
We nursed her for about six weeks, but could not save her
even with the medicines that the medic gave to me, under the table. I
think that is the expression.”
“I loved her although, as you know, we were on opposite
sides of the conflict.”
In the course of the conversation she said “You know that
in the end it was Helene who really understood the intentions of
Hanoi. I was an unrealistic dreamer of an independent South
Vietnam.”
Her voice broke and she turned her head so that I would not
see the tear falling to her cheek. “I was heartbroken, particularly that
I could not save my sister. The soldiers who took her were not aware
of my work for the Viet Cong. I, of course could not tell them who I
was. My work for the Viet Cong as an intelligence agent was under
cover, while my work as a propaganda writer was more overt.”
“Anyhow, now we are moving away politically from the
strict communist stance of the seventies.”
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I asked her what brought about the changes. She said
“Vietnam needs to trade with western nations, especially with your
nation. Also, worldwide communications through the Internet has
made our people more aware of the status of other people around the
world and our leaders are wise enough to listen.”
Meanwhile, Mickey was unobtrusively, snapping
photographs of our surroundings and, I am sure, doing a photo study
of Marie as she related her story.
She plied me with questions of the plight of our citizens,
politically and socially.
She was truly impressed with my
relationship with President Clinton and Mickey’s Pulitzer.
After eating a lavish dinner, we sat around a small fire
under a full moon while I answered more than a hundred questions
about life in the states.
After breakfast the next morning, she insisted that we drive
to visit several villages and observe the cottage industries that were
creating jewelry, knitted goods and decorated linens to be exported.
We finally departed after lunch starting a two day trip, to
the north. We visited previous battle sites, now converted to grazing
pastures for cattle or large vegetable truck farms. I was deeply moved
to see no signs of the war, although I should not have been surprised.
We, finally, were able to locate the spot where we spent
those days observing the bloody battle for hill 881. I closed my eyes
let my mind flash back to the days I watched the slaughter of our
men as they stormed the myriad of pill boxes and trenches in which
the North Vietnamese were waiting for our men.
I opened my eyes to see some white fences behind which
romped some horses. I shifted my eyes to see what appeared to be an
orchard, now leafless but what seemed to me to be cherry trees. Off
to the left at some distance I could see a hillside dotted with grazing
cattle.
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Mickey was busy photographing and laughing with some
farm boys who had approached us. I joined them and found that all
three of them spoke passable English.
I got their permission to record our conversation. They
were delighted to take us to the nearby village to meet their parents
and two of the village elders. I had two hours of recorded
conversation before we sat down to dinner with the head man .and his
family
He insisted we stay overnight, using the bedroom of one of
his children. In the morning he took us to visit the office of the
orchard manager and the manager of the large truck farm.
Two days later we were two tired tourists ensconced in the
same bedrooms at the Caravelle Hotel that we occupied twenty three
years earlier. The rooms were upgraded as was the entire hotel. We
enjoyed a tour of the city, some delicious meals and a good night’s
rest before flying home to be enfolded in the arms of our loved ones.
Early in December I had a phone call from the President’s
secretary. “The President is inviting you and your brother to bring
your families for lunch and a tour of the Why House and a special
event in the Rose Garden on December sixteenth. If this is possible,
please call me back at this number so I can mail official invitations to
each of you.”
Everyone was agog when I reached them with the news,
not one begging off for any reason.
The limo picked us up at Union Station, all nine of us,
which included the spouses of my nieces.
The tour and the lunch were delightful. Bill, popped in for
coffee and dessert and some picture taking, including a few by
Mickey.
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The day was beautiful and not too cold. We walked into the
Rose Garden where we joined what seemed to be a group of staffers
and a dozen photographers.
The President walked onto the small portable podium.
After some light hearted comments of welcome he said “I
am pleased to present the Medal of Freedom to two individuals who
during the pasts twenty years have made unique and meritorious
contributions to the nation’s interest. You will note that this is a small
number of guests on this occasion but I believe their contributions
over the last two decades have thrilled millions.
I think the nation will agree with me that these two citizens
deserve this honor and much more.”
“They have brought us face to face with the fierceness and
pain of war, the terror of despotic rule in nations around the world”.
“She has championed equal rights for the disenfranchised
and moved nations to care better for their veterans here and abroad.”
“I am happy to present this honor to Cathy Cheka Wheldon
and Mickey Chaka, both affiliated with the New YorkTimes.”
The applause sounded deafening to me as I joined Mickey
in stepping to the podium. He had to take my arm as I stumbled with
tears streaming down my cheeks. The President offered me a hankie
to wipe my tears, my mind filled with the silly thought that I am glad
I had not used mascara.
During the presentation we were the focus of the flashes
and the questions, a turnabout from our pasts. It was ego filling and
oh, so satisfactory, I have to admit.
We were told that as many of us who were available, rooms
were available at the Mayflower. Cell phones suddenly emerged for
calls back to the City. Ten minutes later we had a full party headed
for the hotel, where we enjoyed a truly joyous dinner and after dinner
drinks in our suite.
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In the midst of the celebration my cell phone rang. “Cathy.
It’s Sara. Sellech. I just saw the news on CNN. Congrats to you and
Mickey. I am so proud of you.” I was stunned to the point of being
speechless. I heard her ask “Are you there?”
Finally I said “Yes, but choked up.”
“No words are necessary. Love from David and me and
congratulations again. Please plan a visit to see us in Portola Valley.”
The final note was sounded by Diane who led a toast to, in
her opinion, the greatest journalists and parents in the world.
The end.
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