Erich Segal - The Class

Most of this was attributable to Kissinger’s brilliance and resourcefulness. But he also benefited from what, in geopolitical terms, might be called first-strike capability at access to the President.

The Secretary of State has his headquarters in an imposing building on Twenty-first Street and Virginia Avenue, but the head of the NSC works out of a windowless warren in the bowels of the White House itself. Thus, though William Rogers may have had the cabinet post and trappings of office, Henry Kissinger had the President’s ear.

To assist in building a power base in the National Security Council, Henry had brought along several of his Harvard students, many of whom he had long been grooming. Of these, George Keller was by far the most gifted. And, paradoxically, had the hardest time being cleared for security.

No Kafka victim was ever grilled as relentlessly as George was questioned by the FBI. It was all polite, of course. But, as the agents kept emphasizing, when you are checking someone for the highest security level, the fate of the nation lies in your thoroughness.

First he had filled out an exhaustive written questionnaire asking his name, any former names, and all the addresses he had ever lived at since he was born. Also the sources of all the income he had ever earned. Moreover, they demanded as many names as possible of Americans who could testify to his loyalty. George offered Kissinger, Professor Finley, and Andrew Eliot. All of whom, he later learned, were personally visited by the Bureau.

But during his oral interview, when questions were repeated again and again by the two agents, he began to grow upset.

“Gentlemen, I must have told you a dozen times. I can’t be sure that I didn’t live in one place or another when I was two years old. I hope you can appreciate that.”

“We do, sir,” the senior FBI man said tonelessly. “But I hope you appreciate the sensitive position you’re in. When a candidate still has relatives back there the possibility for blackmail can’t be ignored. And you still have — what, Dr. Keller, — a father —?”

“And a sister,” George quickly repeated for the millionth time. “And as I told you gentlemen, I haven’t seen them since October 1956.”

“Still, you are aware that your father is a high official in the Hungarian People’s Government, are you not?”

“I only know what I read in the papers,” George replied. “And that, gentlemen, is part of my duties as an East European area expert. Yes, it’s true that Istvan Kolozsdi” (he was unable to pronounce the words my father ) “has been kicked upstairs, as you might put it. But the jobs he has held are absolutely insignificant.”

“And yet he is, after all, a Deputy Assistant Secretary of the Party,” countered the senior agent.

George laughed derisively. “You could be too, sir. In Hungary they hand that title around like candy.”

“Then what you’re saying is that your father is not that important. Is that so, Dr. Keller?”

“Precisely. He’s what you might call a successful failure.”

Some of the queries were not unexpected.

“What do you think of communism?” gave George the opportunity for an eloquent tirade against the various Marxist regimes of Eastern Europe. A speech that, he sensed, considerably impressed his interviewers.

And yet, even after an entire day of talking, one question startled him.

“Do you love your father, Dr. Keller?”

George suddenly grew tense. Inexplicably, he was at a loss for words.

“Do you love your father?” the agent repeated.

George groped for a suitable response: “He stands for a repressive political system, one which I have dedicated my life to opposing. I cannot but loathe such an individual.”

The FBI men shifted impatiently in their chairs. The senior officer then commented, “Dr. Keller, we asked you a personal question and you gave us a political answer. Now I know it’s getting late and we’ve been here a long time. But if you don’t mind, sir, I’d like to hear you address yourself to that question again. Do you love your father?”

Why was he having such trouble giving them a simple “no”?

“Look,” he said in a confidential tone, “can I say something off the record?”

“Please feel free, sir.”

“The truth is, I hate that man. He treated me like a dog from the day I was born. I detest Istvan Kolozsdi as a human being. Now, if I can answer on the record — please. I have no affection whatsoever for my father. Is that clear enough for you, gentlemen?”

“Yes, Dr. Keller. I think that about wraps it up. Thank you for your patience.”

Alter they left, George fell into a sudden depression. Not really worrying about his security clearance. Kissinger had forewarned him that the FBI was pretty severe with foreign-born candidates.

No, it was that last question. He had thought that he no longer had any feelings at all for his father. But never had he been obliged to testify on record, “I swear I do not love my father.”

Was it totally true?

A long-forgotten childhood memory suddenly surfaced from his psyche, catching him completely unaware.

“Why are you crying, Father — is it for Mama?”

“Yes, boy. To love someone is terrible, it brings such pain.”

“But, Father, I love you.”

“Then you’re a little fool. Get out and let me be.”

Most of the staff of the National Security Council was headquartered in large, airy, colonial-style rooms on the second floor of the Executive Office Building, an historic structure within the White House compound, (“It’s like being on campus again,” George remarked to an assistant.)

The little rooms along the NSC corridor contained bright young specialists in diplomacy, defense, and various geographical areas of the world. They toiled long hours in the service of their country and their own advancement.

But George was singled out from the very beginning. He was given office space — though little of it — right in the White House basement, where his boss could hale him into conference at all times of the day. And even well into the night.

He was also only steps away from the two most vital scenes of governmental deliberations, the Oval Office and the Situation Room, that airless cubicle sometimes referred to as “a sauna for world crises.”

Though George’s twenty-five-thousand-dollar salary was somewhat less than he had received in New York, he was still able to rent a small apartment in Town Square Towers, a few minutes drive from the White House — especially at 7:00 A.M., when he usually arrived.

Even Kissinger’s influence did not extend to getting parking places. Therefore, as a junior aide, George had to leave his car in the government lot beneath the Washington Monument, then walk north and cross Constitution Avenue to reach the White House gate.

Actually, it was a rare occasion in his long and busy day that he got to see some of the other NSC staffers who worked across the way in the EOB. For Henry made enormous demands of his team. His insatiable appetite for information of all sorts was such that they rarely had the chance to leave their desks, even to go downstairs to the cafeteria for lunch.

No one worked later than Kissinger himself. And George made sure that he never left his office until Henry passed by and wished him good night.

George had no social life at all. Indeed, the entire staff in the EOB worked themselves to such exhaustion that they barely had the strength to drive home. There were many burnouts even among the whiz kids in their middle twenties.

One of George’s tasks was assisting Kissinger to recruit bright, new faces — which would very shortly become pale, tired faces — for the National Security Council staff.