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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 old-

fashioned 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.

61

“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.”

63

“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 self-

awareness. 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.

82

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 English-

Vietnamese 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.

83

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

84

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,”

85

“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.”

86

“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.

87

“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.”

88

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.

89

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.”

93

“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?”

95

“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.”

96

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.

97

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.”

99

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,

100

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

101

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.

110

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.

111

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.”

112

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. ?”

114

“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?”

115

“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.”

116

“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.”

117

“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.

118

“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.

121

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.

126

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 ApMy-

a, 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.

136

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.

137

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.”

138

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?”

140

“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

147

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.

150

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.

154

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

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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.

159

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

166

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?”

169

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.

170

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.

172

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.

173

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 strip-

searched. 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.

178

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?”

179

“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.

184

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.”

185

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.

186

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.

187

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

188

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

189

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 building-

gymnasium 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.”

190

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.

191

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.

192

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.

193

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.

195

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.

196

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.”

198

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?

199

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

200

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 re-

write 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

201

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.

207

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.”

212

“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

213

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

23rd 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.

220

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-to-

do 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

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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.

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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.”

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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.”

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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

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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.

258

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.”

260

“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.”

262

“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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265

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

275

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.

335

“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

20th, 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?”

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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.

343

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.

344

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.

363

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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