October 16, 1969
Yesterday was “Moratorium Day.” All over the country there were protests against the war in Vietnam.
No one was surprised that there were demonstrations in Washington, New York, and Berkeley. But what astonished a lot of hard-liners were the gatherings in such unlikely places as Pittsburgh, Minneapolis, and Denver.
And what really staggered people was the antiwar march — of all places — on
I worked as hard as hell trying to encourage people from the financial community to find the guts to join our noontime walk for peace. I spent the better part of a week making phone calls to all sorts of executives, trying to convince them that the war was wrong not only morally but economically. (The latter argument was very helpful.) I got a lot of curses and hang-ups, but I also got a lot of recruits.
Still, in my wildest dreams, I never imagined that we’d amass a crowd of nearly ten thousand. Someone was quoted in today’s
It was a clear, sunny day, and as we strode along, most of us wearing black armbands, above us a skywriting plane spelled out “For Peace.” Our journey ended at old Trinity Church, whose pews were soon filled to overflow. There, one after another, nearly a hundred of the most important corporate executives in the country rose to the stone pulpit to take turns reciting the names of the boys killed in Southeast Asia.
Among the readers were several former cabinet members and an amazing number of partners in the big investment banks. These guys, I think, were the bravest. Because the companies whose shares they traded were directly involved in the war.
For some unknown reason — maybe my last name — I was asked to be one of the readers. It was an honor that made me sick at heart.
Of course, today was the aftermath. My old competitive spirit took pleasure to see in the morning paper that our Wall Street rally had outdrawn the one in Central Park. I hope the jeans-and-guitar crowd hears about this and realizes that we gray-flannel guys have consciences too.
Then I got to the office and the heat began. Most of the partners of Downs, Winship, were far from pleased by my activities. The day before, they had told me — some in not so many words — that I was an unpatriotic bastard, disloyal to my country as well as to them. I took their opprobium as politely as I could, figuring it would dissipate in a few days.
But I didn’t expect the phone call that came at exactly nine-thirty. The blast of “You blathering idiot!” nearly blew my ear off. It was Dad.
For the better part of twenty minutes he ranted on, barely pausing for breath. About what a fool I was. Did I not realize, he asked, what damage “shenanigans” like yesterday’s march could cause? Was I not literate enough to read that my own trust portfolio had several thou sand shares of Oxyco, most of whose business relied on defense contracts?
I couldn’t reply to any of this because he wouldn’t stop talking long enough to let me do so. But finally he asked me something that was not rhetorical.
Did I not think I had disgraced the Eliot name?
Usually he grinds me into the ground with this sort of question, but this time I had an answer.
Was the Reverend Andrew Eliot disloyal to King George in 1776? Or did
This kind of stopped Dad in his tracks.
He clearly could not think of how to react. So after a minute I reminded him, “That’s what the Revolution was all about, Dad.” I then politely said goodbye and hung up.
It was the first time in my entire life that I stood up to him and had the last word.
Andrew’s was far from an isolated case. The conflict in Vietnam was tearing America apart on every level. Hawks against doves, rich against poor, parents against their children.
And it put a near-unbearable strain on the relations between George Keller and Catherine Fitzgerald.
On October 15, 1969, she had dared to take the day off to join the Washington protest march. And when she saw George the next evening, Cathy had “forgotten” to remove the black armband from her coat.
“Would madam care to check her wrap?” asked the maitre d’ as he showed them to a table in Sans Souci.
“Yes,” George quickly answered.
“No, thank you,” she politely overruled him. “I’m still feeling a bit chilly.”
And she kept the garment draped over her shoulder, with the offending sleeve as conspicuous as possible.
“Cathy,” said George nervously. “Do you know what th? hell you’re doing?”
“Yes,” she replied. “Do you? Look, if you want to date me, you have to take my principles too. They come with the package.”
“But people are staring,” he whispered. “Important people.”
“Don’t be paranoid, George. I only wish they were. This restaurant is closer to the seat of power than the White House gates.”
He shook his head in consternation.
“Can’t we even have a truce at the dinner table?”
“I’m certainly not in favor of belligerence.” She smiled. So Ill compromise for once and put you out of your misery.”
With that, she took the sleeve of her coat and slowly began to tear the armband from it.
Anyone who had not noticed it before now knew it had been there. Especially since Cathy handed it across the table to George, with an innocent smile.
“Here, Dr. Keller, use it as you see fit.”
Now, having made her point, she considerately changed the conversation to an issue of mutual interest. Was Henry Kissinger going to marry Nancy Maginnes or not?
“Why do I put up with you?” he asked, only half-jokingly, as they were driving home.
“Because, to paraphrase one of your heroes, Senator Goldwater, ‘in your heart you know I’m right.’ ”
“But it’s common knowledge that I don’t have a heart,” he replied.
“I disagree. It’s well hidden, but it’s there. Which is why I put up with you.”
Catherine Fitzgerald was not alone among the junior and senior members of the National Security Council who were trying to persuade the government to veer from what they regarded as a suicidal course.
Naturally, being “Kissinger’s shadow,” George not only held opposing views but was actively involved in the escalation of hostilities. Nixon still wanted a victory, and his inner circle was determined to give him one. They would spare no effort. And no bombs.
“Can’t you convince Henry that this is folly?” Cathy asked George one evening.
“Can’t you forget about the war even when we’re in bed?” he retorted.
“No, I can’t. Please George, I know he respects your opinion.”
“I can’t make him end it just like that.”
“You could try,” she said softly. And then added, “It’s going to get even worse, isn’t it?”
