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PETER A. GRUNWALD

Thank you all for being here, especially on such a snowy day.

For my father, the American Dream was not an abstraction. He arrived in this country with nothing but the power of his mind to drive him, and it took him everywhere he wanted to go.

He had the will and determination of a Greek god, and probably would have loved to have been one. He ruled his children benevolently, occasionally hurling a thunderbolt from Olympus to keep us in line, the way his own father had raised him.

He shaped me as he shaped his cover stories, with much attention to detail and a bravura style that often startled me, and I suspect some of the people who wrote for him.

He was great because he was kind. Yes, he was smart. Charming. Wise. But most of all, he was good. A man whose warmth and love could fill the empty spaces in other lives.

His passions were infectious: his appetite for ideas, words, music, movies, theater, people, and, of course, food.

Ironically, he was a terrible cook. When I was a boy, we began a father-son routine during which we tried to prepare a family meal together every Sunday. My mother put a stop to that and introduced a new routine: taking the family out to dinner every Sunday.

So I learned how to make things he liked on my own, including a tomato sauce he called "brilliant." It wasn't, but unlike some of my other accomplishments, it was something he could eat.

To live an exceptional life requires exceptional luck. My father thought his had run out when my mother, whom he adored, died. We became single men together, he in his 50s, me in my 20s, both of us appalled that the rigors of dating were the same, regardless of generation.

But when he met Louise, he knew that his good luck had returned. She was a gift. They built a wonderful new life together and, though she knows how much he loved her, I hope she also knows how grateful I will always be for what she did for him.

Last summer, barely recovered from a cardiac arrest, my father invited my wife and me on a trip to Vienna, where he was born and where he had been the American ambassador. Four of his father's operettas were being performed around the city, all in the space of a week, and my father was determined to see each one.

He suspected it would be his last trip to the city he loved, but he didn't brood, even in the capital of brooding. He walked the streets with a vitality that astonished me, ate his favorite foods, and reveled in his father's legacy. He was just so glad to be alive.

He savored life until the very end with the passion and tenacity that characterized him. As he once wrote of J. D. Salinger, "the gleam in his eye was unmistakable". My father had that gleam. He was my hero, the only hero I expect to have. I am proud to be his son and to bear his name.

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HENRY A. KISSINGER

Henry Grunwald became managing editor of Time at almost the exact moment that I entered government service. We had been shaped by parallel experiences. For the refugees from Nazi tyranny, the 1960s in America were a particularly complicated period. We had experienced what most Americans must learn: how much America meant to the oppressed and the desperate. We therefore felt a special responsibility in encouraging America's possibilities as America tormented itself over its role in the world and its worthiness to fulfill it.

In that firestorm, Henry and I from time to time found ourselves on opposite sides. It did not affect our friendship; in a curious way, it deepened it. This was the time when journalism moved from reporting into investigating, from recording events to insisting on a role in shaping them. Henry presided over that transition at Time with wisdom, restraint, and magnanimity. At a moment when technology was enabling the public to become spectators of contemporary events in real time, he saw his role as disciplining the multiplying flood of information into knowledge, and knowledge into insight. Henry viewed the interaction of government and journalism as a symbiotic effort in which each side, by being true to its best values, served the future of freedom. Because I considered Henry a kind of conscience, his approval—not an everyday occurrence-eased uncertainties, and his differences demanded self-examination.

We remained good friends for all the decades since. Debonair, charming, warm-hearted, Henry was a wonderful conversationalist with a deep sense of history. He was proud of his children, and he adored Louise, who gave new meaning to the final phase of his life. It was fun to go to a Grunwald

dinner party and watch the old master editor at work,
drawing out his guests and steering the conversation into
the shoals of good-natured controversy. The qualities I
most associate with Henry are dignity and wisdom.

We met for the last time two weeks ago at Henry and
Louise's apartment for dinner with our wives. Henry was
frail and pensive and yet intellectually as vital as ever. At
one point, I said that I admired the serenity with which he
had handled his near blindness and that I did not think I
could have managed it. "No," Henry said firmly, "you
could have."

I have reflected since how much Henry's friendship
ennobled those whose lives he touched and how often at
crucial moments he sustained the courage to do what was
necessary.

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MANDY GRUNWALD

A while ago, my father's doctors tried to explain his
medical condition to us in terms we could understand,

"Look," they said, "his heart is just too big."

Well, we all knew that, didn't we?

Daddy's heart held so many loves.

His love of words...properly edited of course.

His love of ideas...timeless or new, but never trite.

His love of humor...boy, nothing ever made any of us
children prouder than getting Daddy to laugh. And if it was
a big enough laugh that he had to take his glasses off to
wipe his eyes...? That was the best of all.

He loved America...the country that took him in...but he
also loved traveling the world...

Other children went to the Grand Canyon...we went to
Marrakesh.

He was endlessly interested in new places and new
people...even in the last decade when his vision made so
much a blur.

He loved music...as children we would sneak peaks of him
in his study forcefully conducting Mozart with a pencil.

His tastes were not always classy. He also loved James
Bond and the Man From Uncle and P. G. Wodehouse and
more recently the Sopranos.

He loved gadgets and gizmos of all kinds. Although he was
not exactly a technological wiz.

He loved knowing what was happening. Even when he
couldn't read, he kept up with all kinds of newspapers and
magazines and was usually far better informed than the rest
of us with decent vision.

The last thing Daddy said to me was the same thing he said
in every conversation we ever had...so what's new in the
world?

He certainly loved food...probably pasta and wiener
schnitzel most of all. Even at the end, when his diet was
restricted, he was strategizing about how to have some
caviar with Louise or maybe a little Chinese from Shun Lee
with us kids.

There were, of course, many things Daddy did not love...

He was totally uninterested in sports. He couldn't drive.
And he wasn't always thrilled with my Democratic clients.

He also had a temper that many of you have seen. We
think it was at its worst on a picnic in Italy when my
brother Peter foolishly dropped a bowl of ratatouille on the
ground. Believe me, it was a scarring experience.

Patience came to him only late in life.

Every father's day at school that I can remember, he
couldn't understand why he had to wait until recess to get a
damn cup of coffee.

But Daddy loved far more than he disliked. Above all, he
loved his family.

He built a wonderful life and family with my mother, and
he built a second extraordinary life with Louise.

I always made Louise wear a seatbelt when she drove
Daddy in Southampton or the Vineyard. She always teased
me that I only wanted her around to take care of Daddy.

Well, Louise, we love you and we want you always to wear
your seatbelt.

Daddy was proud of his children and delighted by his
grandchildren.

Despite his European reserve, he was pretty good at letting
us all know how he felt.

After he got back from the Vineyard this summer, when he
and Louise renewed their vows, Daddy wrote me the
following

"Dear Mandy, I am sorry you missed our little ceremony in
the Vineyard. As far as I know it is not customary for
parents and children to renew their vows, but I hereby do
so. Love you very much. Dad."

Daddy, all of us here today renew our love to you too.

NORA EPHRON

Louise has given me exactly three minutes to talk about Henry and women, and I think I should begin with a true story. When Henry was six or seven years old in Vienna, he fell madly in love with a little girl named Hilde who had golden ringlets. One day they were at a tea party, and he saw Hilde, and her golden ringlets, under the stairs, and swept away by passion, he planted a kiss on her lips and asked if he could walk her home. She told him no, she was walking home with another boy. So Henry slugged her.

This story, which Henry told one night to Diane Sawyer, one of my collaborators today, is the sort of thing that could be used to make a number of points, but the one I would like to make is that in the area of personal growth, Henry was truly unrivaled. He overcame his early tendency toward violence and became one of the greatest, gentlest flirts of our time. Women loved Henry. And Henry listened to them. "Let's face it," Barbara Walters wrote me about Henry, "a lot of men are not really interested in listening to women. Henry listened—to his daughters, to Louise, to his many women friends."

From Joan Didion: "He was a man who really liked women, a rarer quality than we generally pretend."

"Women loved Henry because Henry loved women," said Joan Ganz Cooney Peterson. "If you had a mind, he made you think you were his peer, and you weren't his peer."

To use one of Louise's favorite words, Henry was cozy. He was also erudite. He loved gossip. He loved history. He was elegant and courtly, but as Alex Witchel said the other day, sometimes he laughed so hard his hand would hit the

table, as if his hand were laughing too. He made us all feel smarter than we were, and wittier than we were. He had his women friends who were his opera friends and women friends who were his movie friends, and he had women friends who were his friends simply because he was interested in them. Years ago, he took a young Joan Didion to lunch. "He had read a piece of mine," Joan remembered, "and he said, 'I suppose you're writing a novel.' I allowed that I was. He asked what it was about. I said it was about the adulterous wife of a hop grower in the Sacramento Valley. There was a silence and then he started to laugh. I asked why. 'That wasn't what I expected you to say,' he said. I doubt that we ever agreed on much," Joan added, "but we could disagree without hurt or animus."

He was, of course, losing his sight for about two years before most of us knew, and that was another reason we all loved him: he was truly brave and uncomplaining. Not easy to find a Jew who does not complain. Calling his book *Twilight*, a brilliant, heartbreaking title for a brilliant, heartbreaking book, was as close as he ever came to complaint. As Liz Smith wrote, he was "Dapper, divine, darling, durable, delightful, a lover not a fighter."

He loved Louise and Mandy and Lisa the most, but the rest of us women were not that far behind, and in any case, the final reason we loved Henry so much was that he loved the three of them so much. As Alex Witchel wrote: "I looked at him one night in that room where they serve coffee after dinner. He was getting someone an after dinner drink, and I saw how much he loved his home, and Louise and their friends, and could just feel the moment of pure pleasure he was having." How lucky we were to have been embraced by his sweet, generous soul.

WALTER ISAACSON

Henry Grunwald had an unusual combination of intellectual rigor and personal grace, a combination that is rare in a human being, and perhaps even rarer among us journalists.

His mark on American journalism, born of this rigor and grace, was likewise a rare one—so rare that it takes a moment to notice it and be surprised by it.

Here is what I think it was: When he took over Time, he transformed the magazine by aiming it upward rather than downward. He made it more intellectual rather than dumbing it down. He saved it by making it smarter, something that doesn't happen much in the media these days.

The process began when he joined Time as a 22-year-old immigrant copy boy who was polishing his English by watching every movie that played on 42nd Street. He wrote a memo to Harry Luce proposing a new magazine called Ideas. Content Peckham, the marvelously-named boss of Time's copy clerks, got ahold of it. "Perhaps this guy belongs in the promotion department," she scribbled on it. "Or maybe on the moon."

As a copy clerk Henry famously fiddled with the pieces he was delivering, at one point completely rewriting a cover story he didn't like and then showing it to the original writer, who was not amused. One version has him hovering and commenting as a writer typed out a story until he suddenly saw the words: "Kid, if you don't cut this out, I'll break every bone in your body." As Henry backed out of the office, he muttered: "cliché!"

As managing editor and then editor in chief, Henry displayed

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his intellectual rigor, if not always his personal grace, in the
notes or memos he sent after reading each story.

For me it began with the very first word I wrote in my first
sentence in my first week at Time. I had begun the story,
"Prior to his election as President, Jimmy Carter..." The
story came back from on high with an indecipherable
Henry note across the top. No one in the Nation section
could read it. So the head of the copy desk, famed for her
ability to read Henry's handwriting, was summoned. As we
gathered around, she read the note in its entirety: "Prior,"
Henry had written, "is a God-awful word."

I have ever since recoiled when seeing the word.

Ray Cave told me, when we talked after hearing the news
on Saturday, that he had saved every one of the memos
Henry sent while he was managing editor and had recently
been leafing through them again in amazement.

Both in person and in the pages he produced each week,
Henry displayed a mind that was deeply committed to old
values and verities, yet also ever fascinated by new ideas.
That made him both one of the most profoundly
conservative and one of the most profoundly liberal people I
have ever met. This outlook helped him move the magazine
away from partisanship toward intellectual honesty.

He realized that in an age of television that was becoming
more shallow, the way to revive the magazine was to make
it less a rehash of other people's reporting and instead
focus on new ideas, original reporting and distinctive
writers such as Bob Hughes and Roger Rosenblatt.

From his father, the great Viennese operetta librettist
Alfred Grunwald, he learned to appreciate both high and

low culture, and seemed especially to embrace those who,
like his father, thrived at the intersection of both: Norman
Mailer, Jerzy Koszinski, Marilyn Monroe—in fact half the
people here.

Even his worst ideas revealed his noble instincts. There
was, for example, a dreadful series we all had to do called
American Renewal that was supposed to address every
grand national challenge and come up with multi-part
proposals for solving them. It was an example of what
Strobe Talbott once called Henry's penchant for solution-
mongering. But it revealed in Henry a profound sense of
moral mission that was rooted in a knowledge of evil.

In addition to the historic mark he made on journalism,
Henry will be remembered for something else: He was one
of the great exemplars, along with Henry Kissinger, of the
amazing collection of Jewish refugees from fascism who
arrived in the 1930s and transformed this nation with their
intellect and profound patriotism. When the Nazis
swamped Austria in 1938, the Grunwalds escaped to
Czechoslovakia, then fled to France. In Biarritz he and his
father bought a toy printing press to forge a visa, then he
used his budding writing talent to write a petition to get
them aboard the last freighter to Morocco. Eventually, they
made it to New York harbor on a very hot day, where
young Henry was handed his first Coca-Cola. He took a
sip. As he later recalled: "I hated it."

That, too, was emblematic. He loved his adopted country
with the passion of a person who did not take its freedoms
for granted. He may have loved it too much at times, for he
despaired deeply about any of its lapses—its lapses in
political will, and even more so its lapses of taste. But he
capped his career in that quintessential American way, as
the ambassador of the country that adopted him to the

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country that he had been forced to flee.

In 1989, I was denied entry into Romania, based on some
perceived slight that had long before appeared in Time, and
was put on the next plane out, which happened to be to
Vienna. Having no hotel, I showed up to be Henry and
Louise's guest at their ambassador's residence, under the
assumption that whatever slight had so enraged the
Romanians had probably been caused by one of Henry's
closing-night memos.

My most vivid memory of Henry was of that evening, as he
paced around in the living room where Kennedy had first
met Khruschev. He was putting on his white tie and tails
for the opera while peppering me with questions—most of
them rhetorical, thank goodness—about the future of
communist ideology and the Soviet hold on eastern
Europe.

This scene, almost out of an opera bouffe by his father,
might have seemed pompous. But Henry, even in white tie,
rotund and orotund, always had a twinkle in his eye. It
signaled his wry, self-aware wit, a wit that served to
puncture any pomposity. Even after his eyes began to go
dark on him, they were still able to twinkle at the rest of us.
At a time when journalism—and the rest of human
endeavor—could use a bit more intellectual rigor and
personal grace, and could also benefit from a little more
twinkling of the eyes, let us remember the times that we
failed to aim upward the way he so memorably did, and let
us resolve to honor his legacy by trying, as he would have
us do, to aim that way henceforth.