NEW YORK

The Importance
Of Being Henry

By Marie Brenner

THE HABITS OF THE DIPLOMAT DIE HARD, SO THEY were just a shade late. Billy Graham had stopped in to visit on his way to the Soviet Union, they said, and that had thrown off the schedule. So they were walking briskly through the lobby of the Ritz-Carlton. Inevitably, heads turned, and the sprinkle of Bostonians began to react: It's Kissinger... the Kissingers... *there goes Henry Kissinger*—the aura still glowing after five years out of power. The bodyguard followed at a discreet distance. As the Kissingers moved toward the waiting limousine on Newbury Street, they passed the hotel newsstand, and, of course, there it was—the dread *Atlantic*, with his face on the cover as the illustrator had imagined it, bloated and evil, shadowy, filled with wiretaps, Ellsberg treason, and secret weakness, staring out like some kind of memento mori. Chipping away at everything he had contributed to the world, after he had survived so much: Cambodia and Morton Halperin, the congressional committees and the shah. It was all back again to give succor to his enemies, pause to his friends. Yet another assault just after he had come through the triple-bypass heart surgery and another tragedy, probably the worst blow, the death of the father he revered.

It was the operation that had brought Kissinger to Boston for a checkup and to Locke-Ober this night to honor his surgeons from Massachusetts General Hospital. He had dieted off 27 pounds since the operation, in February, and he was planning to go a little crazy, chucking the poached sole for the evening, feeding his heart doctors on steak and béarnaise. Upstairs waited a long table and eleven specialists with their wives; later would come, for the host, Wiener schnitzel à la Holstein, and his mood, despite *The Atlantic*, was soaring, his spirit, like his body, almost light.

Kissinger understood very well that he was not welcome in some Boston circles, but this group was not one of them. Far from it: These men had had the most intimate relationship with him. He had given himself over to them with great success. He could relax. Kissinger knew nobody at Locke-Ober was going to demand whether he had, in fact, put the taps on his friend Marvin Kalb. He could kid his doctors about "taping me in intensive care" and "leaving the tubes in to control me." He could be the Kissinger who charmed Chou and Sadat and Jill St. John, who regaled tables at Chequers and the Elysée with the self-deprecating wit, a survival tech-

nique he had used for years, deflecting all potential adversaries, even when there was no adversary to deflect.

And so Kissinger laughed loudest of all as he told a story about his father and how he had dealt with the meta-celebrity his son had become. Thirty-two scrapbooks Louis Kissinger had filled with articles detailing his son's activities. His method was precise. "When a writer wrote three critical things about me," Kissinger said, "then my father would retroactively cut out all the rest of the writer's stories, so that through all the books there were gaping holes. The fault in my father's system was that he was very literal and guileless. So if a writer would describe me as 'Henry Kissinger, the brilliant statesman, the architect of foreign policy, responsible for the mass murders of Cambodia,' my father would leave that article in. At least they had called me 'brilliant.' He never understood what the real meaning was."

Louis Kissinger had survived 95 years not understanding real meanings; his son had his own methods. No matter that all the scurrilous tales about his early years with Nixon—and some new ones—were being told again. That night, Kissinger seemed beyond it; there was no tension around him, no shifty eyes. He was transcending, as he would phrase it, the latest barrage in his own way, talking Falkland Island strategy and Sadat, reliving his operation with his doctors even though he had no tolerance, he said, for the sight or the memory of blood.

THAT KISSINGER WOULD SURVIVE AS A STRONG figure out of office was never in question—his mind was too subtle, his intelligence too developed, his defense mechanisms too sophisticated for him to be anything less. The surprise is how much prestige he commands, how sought-after he is. Not for Henry Kissinger the oblivion of other ex-secretaries of state, cloistered in a law firm, locked away in an investment-banking house. He has kept his influence over foreign affairs by his constant lecturing, at $15,000 an appearance, his consulting work, and the publication of two exhaustive volumes of memoirs. Lest we forget, here is Chile, Moscow, San

At home: In the study of his River House duplex.

28 NEW YORK/MAY 10, 1982

Photograph by Harry Benson.

“... ‘If the president called and said, “The country needs you,”’”

Clemente, Le Duc Tho, China, Israel, Brezhnev, and Mao, Super-K hurtling from crisis to crisis, shuttle to shuttle, detailed in three pages for every day in office. If there is little perspective in any of it, there is the image of how smart and how powerful he really was, all of it confirming what he told me recently: “I had to act for a time as a substitute president.”

As Washington flounders, Kissinger's reputation ascends, his management of foreign affairs, however controversial, inspiring a nostalgia for him in many circles. If he were renamed secretary of state tomorrow, the stock market would probably shoot up a dozen points. This, despite all the criticism, despite Cambodia, Iran, the wiretaps, the fawning over Nixon, the war-criminal talk. Yet, Kissinger seems to levitate above everything, and there are many reasons for this: his brilliance, his personality, the charm he can exude.

Kissinger's survival tactics have been masterly. His best defense has been no offense: He rarely answers a charge, issues a denial, or lets a mea culpa slip out. What he does is quite clever: He questions the motive of the accuser, usually with a wry smile. Kissinger has alienated both the far right and the far left, a perverse accomplishment few others could have managed. Perhaps each side cancels the other out. While no one has been paying much attention, the revisionism of the times has revised Kissinger too, enabling him to move beyond his critics and endure not as a pariah—far from it—but as a figure of eminence, a one-man A list.

His escape to New York may have saved him. Here the lone cowboy can protect himself from the political cross fire, the who's-up-who's-down, as he puts it, of Washington life. Here he can be shielded from Harvard and its moral pieties; anyway, Cambridge didn't welcome him back. That kind of intellectual rigidity has never found favor on the New York dinner-party circuit. It's a rare Manhattan guest who might be discomfited watching the butcher of Cambodia across the table spooning up his sorbet. Accomplishment, brains, and power banish moral ambiguities in Manhattan drawing rooms. And so, at 58, Henry Alfred Kissinger is surrounded with friends from every world—Brinkleys and Buckleys, Ribicoffs and Rohatyns, Arthur Schlesinger, Lane Kirkland, Mollie Parnis, Isaac Stern, Zubin Mehta, Simcha Dinitz, Barbara Walters, even the de la Rentas. He is a refugee no longer in exile, cosseted by his wife, Nancy, a blond Labrador named Tyler, bodyguards, a Georgetown house, a staff in

Washington, a River House duplex (with, it is said, bullet-proof windows), and an income of more than $500,000 a year.

ONLY RARELY NOW DO THE ACCUSATIONS OF THE past come back to haunt him, as they have in the *Atlantic* piece, by Seymour Hersh, all of it gruesome and assiduously detailed. There is the word of Roger Morris and Morton Halperin, from Kissinger's staff. Kissinger is portrayed as devious, double-dealing, out to sabotage his subordinates to stay in good with his boss. Leakers were to be destroyed. Kissinger, Hersh says, ordered almost every wiretap. It's all there: Nixon's drinking, Ellsberg's sex life, the duplicity of small men struggling to win vicious power games.

The irony was that Kissinger would wind up in Boston just after the hometown magazine hit the stands, the perfect setting to observe the Kissinger defense strategy in action. When he was quizzed, his behavior was paradigmatic. He was sitting in a wing chair at the Ritz-Carlton on a beautiful spring morning, trying to describe his foibles, how, he said, “I have never been able to gauge my enemies.” It seemed the moment to bring up *The Atlantic*.

“Have you read the piece?”

“I have. I don't want to comment on it.”

“But being characterized as so evil, that must upset you.”

A pause. “But in this case, if you read the statements of the author which he made when he started this article, and what he said to people—this is the view with which he began.”

“Do you mean that you feel Hersh was out to get you?”

“That is what he has said. I don't know him. Did it upset me? Yes. But I don't want to get into a debate with him.”

“Is this like a final chapter of Watergate for you?”

“I don't think this is a final chapter of Watergate. It doesn't bring back the experience, because it has no relation to reality, not the reality I know.”

So, by saying nothing, he had said something, put the screws into Hersh without a real accusation, yet tried to rise above the substance of the text. All the same, Kissinger was in a very good mood. He had strolled on the Boston Common, down Boylston Street, and had been recognized several times. As he walked, he chatted about Nixon, saying he had yet to hear from him although he thought he had treated the ex-president very kindly in his book.

“So, what was the story with Nixon's drinking?” I asked, and for Kissinger no simple answer would do. Clearly, he felt the need to defend. “You know,” he said, “these assistants of mine like Roger Morris who Seymour Hersh quoted in *The Atlantic* only worked directly for me for six months in 1969. How can they remember what went on thirteen years ago? How can they remember one incident when I might have said something about Nixon having had too much to drink? At any rate, it isn't true.”

Fairly cool, but not for long. The next day at River House, in New York, there was the magazine, opened, right by Kissinger's un-made bed. He must have been rereading the article and worrying what to do. And so he rescheduled an appearance on *The Phil Donahue Show* he had canceled some weeks before, even though he had been told by friends, “Henry, you're too big for daytime TV.” Kissinger wanted to talk about

Hands across the patient: With his surgeons Mortimer Buckley and W. Gerald Austen.

30 NEW YORK/MAY 10, 1982

Photograph by Steve Liss/Gamma-Liaison.

says Nancy Kissinger, 'well, that nobody could turn down'..."

The power aura still glows: Kissinger smiles for paparazzi at the American Film Institute, in Washington.

his book; Donahue wanted to talk about Hersh. So his performance was out of pattern: Boxed into a bad situation, he gave a brief answer, calling the Hersh piece "gossip and innuendo." That was about it. Even that little was uncharacteristic; Kissinger is usually very measured in his responses. But he may be less so since his father's death. He is suffering terribly, his friends say, and might be re-examining his *modus operandi*, wanting to indulge in self-justification, wondering if he could have been a better son.

That he would be so disquieted shows how much he has changed from The Other Kissinger, the corseted "secret swinger" who issued White House edicts. That Kissinger's style, with its undertones of Metternich, he capsured elegantly in *Years of Upheaval*: "There are many occasions in diplomacy when dedication is measured by the ability to pretend indifference when every fiber strains for getting to the point."

PRETENDING INDIFFERENCE IS USEFUL FOR KISSINGER now only in rare situations. He no longer needs to strain at much of anything. Or so he says: "My life in New York is very relaxed. New York is so different from Washington. In Washington, you are always onstage, you always have to consider that what you say at dinner will become part of the political landscape. Here, people do not go to dinners in order to measure their virility or to take your temperature—at least not the ones I go to."

And he goes out a lot, "five nights a week," he says, always within a circle of friends, favoring certain hostesses: Mollie Parnis, Brooke Astor, Shirley Clurman, Françoise de la Renta, and Happy Rockefeller, who recently invited 300 people to her Fifth Avenue apartment to celebrate the new book and to

nibble on pretzels and finger sandwiches on the requisite white bread. His hostesses are aware of his "paradoxical vulnerability," as one called it, and they protect him, surrounding him with other potentates, most of whom are already his friends. "In all the years I've known him," Mollie Parnis says, "I have never once heard anyone attack him at table. Once, when Henry wasn't there, one of my guests said, 'I never want to meet Henry Kissinger,' and later I said to that man, 'By saying *that*, I can assure you that you never will.'" The hostesses' reward is the revelation of Kissinger's *haimish* side. "Sometimes he is so open at dinner," Shirley Clurman says, "I will be just staggered. I will say, 'Henry, if someone neard you say this you would be in terrible trouble.'"

The guest lists are, as Kissinger says, "always very ecumenical. There is always a collection of non-competing people in their fields. To go to a small dinner for Alec Guinness—that's fun. I don't have to talk about foreign policy if I don't want to. Conversely, when I do talk about foreign policy it is with someone who is interested, who really isn't part of the power process. My friends don't want anything from me, and I don't want anything from them."

Except, often, just a good time. As with a lot of self-made refugees, there is a side to Henry Kissinger that is terribly innocent, still back in the old country. At times, the innocence is almost childlike, as if the boy who was deprived of a real childhood by persecution might still be in there, struggling to get out. At Locke-Ober, the doctors surprised Kissinger with a belly dancer, who gyrated for him and wrapped him in veils. Kissinger loved every moment—he was neither cynical nor fretful, even when the dance went on a bit long. Robert Evans, the producer, another Kissinger friend, tells the story about being in Washington for a state dinner the night John Ehrlichman resigned. "Henry and I sneaked away from the dinner and crept into the Oval

Photograph by Ron Galella.

MAY 10, 1982/NEW YORK 31

"...I'm on the tour for visiting Israelis. Shimon Peres occasionally

Author and fans: With hostess Happy Rockefeller and Joan Kennedy at the publication party in New York for Kissinger's massive second volume of memoirs.

Henry
Kissinger

YEARS
OF
UPHEAVAL

Office," Evans says. "He wanted to show it to me, and so we tiptoed around and wound up in Nixon's john. There by the toilet was the phone list. Everybody had been scratched off. Henry was laughing. He said, 'Look, Bobby, I'm the only one left.'"

In New York, all facets of his personality can be indulged. Here he can be ponderous or innocent, grotesque or merely brilliant. Here he can have dinner with Danny Kaye, or he can be the statesman emeritus. On a recent Saturday night at River House, the Kissingers' table was

set for dinner à cinq. Three close friends were expected: Simcha Dinitz, Bette Bao Lord, and Marvin Josephson (the agent who negotiated his lucrative book and TV deals), a nothing-special evening, Saturday night at home. In the Kissingers' navy-lacquer dining room, not a picture warms the veneer, only recess-lit shelves of Chinese objets. Silver service plates rested on lace settings, along with a pair of crystal candelabra, matching floral arrangements, and, for accent, a cluster of Chinese figurines. A formal setting for an informal evening, a reflection of the Kissingers' private tastes, a modified state dinner no matter whom they entertain.

The private-statesman style extends through the rest of the Kissinger apartment, a large, elegant duplex with swags of silky maroon curtains, matching sofas, a Siqueiros over the fireplace, an eighteenth-century Chinese screen. It's a kind of standard-issue royal residence—the ultimate in assimilation—surprisingly without photographs or family keepsakes. Until you get upstairs to Kissinger's study. The small room is stacked high with professorial papers, government documents, memos and drop-offs—Billy Graham's speech on nuclear weapons rested on a table, waiting to be read. On one wall is a large TV screen for Kissinger's beloved Yankee games. In this room are a few talismans: the tiny pillow needlepointed POWER IS THE ULTIMATE APHRODISIAC, photographs of his children, David and Elizabeth, and a carton of White House Years shoved almost out of sight.

It is in this room, with its sloppy comforts, that Kissinger conducts most of the business of his day. "Early mornings from 7:40 to 11 I set aside for meeting people, the consulting I do." Heads of large corporations seek him out, wanting his advice on international affairs. Half call him cold: "Dr.

Kissinger, please." On a typical day, he works on his memoirs, writing in longhand on legal pads, from eleven to five. Soon he will start volume three—his Washington staff will pull almost every document detailing the invasion of Cyprus, the fall of Vietnam, the Ford years. Every report, diary, memo, and phone log will be piled up in the study at River House, ready for Kissinger and his legal pads. In the late afternoon, he must rest. Since his bypass operation, he also must walk four miles a day.

The Kissinger phone continues to ring. "I've shut if off," Kissinger says. "It rings too often. I have my security people get it. I try to get all the calls routed through Washington. There are 50 or so calls a day. There is always a residual list." A lot of the calls are the skim-off of fame—a radio station in Oakland wanting his opinion on the Falkland Island dispute, a gold trader wondering if there will be war in Angola, that kind of thing. There are other calls: Yamani and Mubarak and every other world leader frequently check in. "I am on the tour for visiting Israelis," Kissinger says. "Shimon Peres calls me occasionally, but he doesn't ask, 'What should I do about Begin?' He might say, 'What should I do?' about a particular problem." Not only Peres but also Abba Eban. "Mr. Begin always knows where I stand, if he cares."

FOR ALL OF THIS, THERE IS A STRICT etiquette. "In the first two years that Henry was out of office, if, say, Sadat would arrive, he might call Henry first to discuss a matter of diplomacy," says Bob

Evans. "Henry would say—and I know, because I've been in the room—'I would like to take your call, but it is not protocol. Please call the State Department first.'"

In the small room upstairs at River House, there is perspective. Here he tries to think like his models, David Bruce and John McCloy, "without malice and with compassion," about those who wield power. "In a funny way," he says, "I understand the things I did in Washington better now that I am out of government. Some of the things that seem world-shaking to you when you are in government, somebody leaking something, for example, doing something that at that moment you find almost unendurable, I can smile at now." Here there is distance and no treachery. "One of the aspects of leadership is that you are often, as in a nightmare, on a railway track with a train heading toward you, and the question is, can you get off the track before the train hits you? You know very well the train is coming and you will die. I must have had those dreams then. Now I don't dream."

In the past, he says, there was no relaxation—he couldn't even read. "I was an illiterate. All I could read were psychological thrillers, like le Carré." Now he can spend some days reading history and biographies—he even finds time to indulge himself in a bit of trash. "I tried to read Judith Krantz," he says, "but I found it too boring. I didn't find it very sexy. To simply say 'They went to bed' is not sexy. And I read *Ninja*. I suppose that was trash, but it was more like a thriller. To be sexy, for me, there must be an element of mystery."

Still, with all the new calm, the illusion of power is somehow preserved. It is almost as if Kissinger is trying to function as a shadow secretary of state. His Washington staff describes his "scheduling problems"—he must wedge visitors in at

32 NEW YORK/MAY 10, 1982

Photograph by Arthur Schatz/Women's Wear Daily.

calls to ask, "What should I do?" about a particular problem'..."

twenty-minute intervals, not give them a second more. It
seems a bit purposeful, almost calculated. Certainly, the
approach to selling his memoirs was a ploy. "When Henry
was going to start writing his books," Bob Evans remembers,
"I said, 'You simply cannot be represented by an agent. That
is a terrible comedown.' To have been represented by a lawyer
would have been wrong, too. So I called Marvin Josephson."
It was Josephson, the head of a conglomerate, who negotiated
the million-dollar-plus advance.

There is a compulsiveness to all the activity and the travel,
but sometimes, in his desire to remain in the public eye,
Kissinger can slip and behave like any other celebrity. At the
moment, a lot of his domestic travel has to do with giving
speeches and sitting on boards. He is on an advisory board of
the Chase Manhattan Bank, where his duties include analyz-
ing loans for foreign countries; it meets twice a year. He sits
on the board of Twentieth Century-Fox, but "that's just for
fun, because Jerry Ford asked me to." And he's on the board
of the Trust Company of the West, a position that led to a
recent embarrassment. Kissinger was in Los Angeles for a
meeting and was asked to give a speech. It turned out to be for
an opening ceremony of a savings-and-loan branch. Kissinger
was made to look foolish by the publicity, and he was furious.
"The problem was, because of my operation, nobody checked
out the nature of the event," he says. "This kind of thing will
never happen again."

NANCY AT HOME: THE TOWERING NURTURER IS barefoot in a cotton caftan, pleased to have a few days "to clean out the closets," since Henry has gone to the Coast. She is curled up on a couch, smoking incessantly, eating smoked salmon and cream

cheese. All of it leaves an impression: Nancy Maginnes
Kissinger seems coltish, confessional, a girl's girl and a
scholar, an ideal roommate to find sharing your suite at
Smith. Sometimes in New York one hears cavils. Nancy,
people will say, is obsessed with clothes. Or: If Nancy is so
smart, why doesn't she work? In fact, she would, she says, if
only the right person would ask. "It's very hard to find a job
when you're a Kissinger," she says. "And I am an awful
putterer. I'm both phlegmatic and nervous. I've been offered
things, but I don't want to work seven days a week."

Perhaps by the time she turned 42 and decided finally
to marry, Nancy Maginnes was ready to retire, no longer
eager to draft Rockefeller position papers or ruminate over
the influence of the Tang dynasty. She was ready to hit the
racks at Adolfo, ready for the nice rich-lady touches, like
being able to wander into Mollie Parnis's showroom to buy
Henry's assistants gifts of Ultrasuede suits. Kissinger courted
her for six years—"He knew right away he wanted to marry
me," Nancy says—but she held out, phlegmatic again. She
might have been waiting for the proper credentials. It's one
thing when you grow up in White Plains across the road from
Punch Sulzberger to marry a refugee professor, however
brilliant; it's quite another to become Mrs. Secretary of State.

Besides, life with Henry is hardly without incident. Her
performance at Newark Airport, defending Henry against an
offensive demonstrator, has made her a heroine. Soon she will
have her day in court. Nancy has an explanation. The few
days before were hardly idyllic, she says. Her husband had
come home from Boston with a handful of nitroglycerin pills,
having been told there was something "seriously wrong." His
doctors said, "Don't let him move a block." It was Nancy's
responsibility to see that his blood pressure did not go up one
point. "The whole weekend before we left for Boston so
Henry could get his angiogram I kept thinking I wasn't really

Afternoon rest: Another pillow reads, "Power is the ultimate aphrodisiac."

Photograph by Harry Benson.

MAY 10, 1982/NEW YORK

“...‘I had to act for a time as a substitute President,’ he says...”

nervous. I was in an altered state. Then, when we got to the airport, Henry couldn't carry anything, and he had to walk a long way. Then this boy came up and said, 'Can I ask you two questions?' and I said no, and Henry waved him away. I was loaded down with books, his edits for the *Time* excerpts. It was typical Henry—a two-day trip and he packs like it's two weeks. So when the woman came up and said, 'Do you sleep with young boys at the Carlyle?' I just snapped. I pinched her neck. I only had two fingers free. I said, 'Get out of my way.'" She sighs. "It was about the way two eight-year-olds behave."

For Nancy Kissinger, a departure. She has her own wife-of-Kissinger strategies. She avoids all confrontations, all complaining, doesn't even hound her husband about losing weight. She is used to his domestic frailties, such as losing his glasses at least once a day. She doesn't get upset when she walks into the kitchen and sees the nocturnal tableau: Henry, and Tyler staring into the icebox, analyzing the remains.

"Sometimes when I see Henry slathering five pounds of butter and strawberry jam on his English muffins every morning, as he used to do, I might say, 'Henry, can't we do without the butter and jam?' But that's about as far as I go." Instead, she worries, smokes, contracts ulcers—the stress caused her to lose half her stomach in her second year as the wife of the secretary of state. And she wears braces to correct an overbite—the result of too much teeth grinding.

Nancy is, she says, inured to Henry's critics by now. That, too, requires strategy. A while ago she ran into Mort Zuckerman, the new owner of *The Atlantic*. The Hersh issue had yet to come out. "What are you going to say about Henry?" Nancy demanded. Has she finally read it? "Only the first few paragraphs. I'm a total coward. I figure, why get upset? If Abe Ribicoff attacked Henry, that I would take seriously because he is a man of integrity we respect." The friends protect her too. "Most of my friends think, 'Why upset Nancy?' or they will call up and say, 'Don't let this upset you.'"

THE TECHNIQUE SEEMS TO BE WORKING. ALL LOOKS fairly serene at River House, but there are dignities suffered, insults for the man who opened China, slight that can't be rationalized away. Like the one from Harvard. Kissinger says he was invited back, "but in such a way I would be guaranteed to refuse." Sometime after he left the government, a letter from Cambridge arrived. "The letter was from a department chairman. He offered me a teaching post with a full course load, no clerical help, and no assistant. Then he said in this letter that if I was interested I should contact the dean. Neither the president of Harvard nor the dean invited me. It was an absolute insult."

That situation he couldn't control, and it was, he says, quite painful, especially since Harvard had rebuffed him years before, in his first try for tenure. In those days, the early 1950s, Kissinger had made up his mind to follow the advice of his mentor, Fritz Kraemer. Tenacity is everything, Kraemer said. So despite the early rejection and an offer from the University of Chicago, Kissinger remained at Harvard. After Kissinger became a consultant to the Council on Foreign Relations and published the acclaimed *Foreign Policy and Nuclear Weapons*, tenure came. Surprisingly, he showed no signs of resentment. "Henry has the remarkable ability to not become bitter about any slight he has suffered in life," Nancy says. She is convinced that this is an inherited trait. "Henry's father never allowed the bitterness of the past to seep into the present," she explains.

For the Kissingers, father and son, this was crucial strategy

for overcoming their worst injury, the persecution in Germany and their subsequent flight. Louis Kissinger had been a *Gymnasium* teacher in a small town in Bavaria, a respected man of high position who could afford full-time servants. By 1933 he had lost his job. His son Heinz was beaten up. Louis Kissinger's three sisters were to die in concentration camps. The Kissingers' ordeal was fairly typical, but they got out of Germany, although late, just before Kristallnacht, in 1938. Kissinger was fifteen, his brother Walter fourteen, and it is for this reason, Kissinger says, that he still has an accent and Walter does not. (Walter has his own explanation: "Henry never listens to anybody.")

For Kissinger, to survive this past was not to dwell upon it. Kissinger rarely discusses those years in Bavaria, even with good friend Henry Grunwald, whose background, although Austrian, was very much the same. "What is there to discuss?" Kissinger says. "Certainly, it was something that was an important experience in my life, but not one that we discussed frequently. It didn't need to be discussed," he says. This is more than tactical diplomacy: How could Kissinger be an internationalist if his heart harbored hate? (Recently, his Little, Brown editor, Genevieve Young, had an idea: why not a memoir of childhood, a portrait of the statesman as a young man? She mentioned it casually to Peter Rodman, Kissinger's assistant. "He couldn't do that," Rodman said. "There is no research in the area.")

"My childhood is probably the reason I feel more deeply about America than some homegrown intellectuals who focus on its failings," Kissinger says. "I am very conscious of what hope America gave me when I was a boy in Germany." By concentrating on the people who had helped them in their hometown, Kissinger was able to go back to Bavaria with his parents some years ago. Ironically, it was Nancy, of all the Kissingers, who was nervous about the visit. Her husband said, "If all the rest of the Kissingers can go back, so can you."

ONLY RARELY DOES MELANCHOLIA CREEP IN. DURING one of Nixon's last nights in the White House, Kissinger watched him standing at the window staring out at the Rose Garden. Kissinger writes, "I knew the feeling from the time when as a boy I had left the places where I had been brought up to emigrate to a foreign land: attempting to say good-bye to something familiar and beloved, to absorb it, so to speak, so that one can never be separated from it. In the process, sadly, one loses it imperceptibly because the self-consciousness of the effort destroys what can only be possessed spontaneously."

Forward motion also destroys any inclination to look back, as does desire for complete domination. Kissinger tells a story about several sessions he once had with an analyst. "When my first wife and I divorced, part of the agreement was that I would see a psychiatrist for four sessions, and I agreed. In our first session, I told the doctor, 'I am not the kind of man who can free-associate or look within myself. But I have a proposition: We will meet four times. Each time we will discuss a different topic. We will alternate between the choice of topics. You can pick two, and I will pick two. Then, at the end of these four sessions, you will know as much about me as if I had free-associated.' To his credit, the doctor agreed. He was a very intelligent man. One of the subjects he chose for me to analyze was a poem by Yeats. We never did talk about my dreams."

The master negotiator is also a master manipulator, pressing for advantage, often at times when there is no need. His doctors were not allowed to touch him until he knew every step of the surgical procedure, every risk, every graph. "He

34 NEW YORK/MAY 10, 1982

[L.C.]

"...When he was sworn in, he told his mother not to cry..."

could almost have done the operation," Dr. Austen says. His interviewers are told that, if he should desire it, he will have complete control over his quotations. "That is the arrangement I have with both the Washington *Post* and the New York *Times*," he says. (As it happens, this is not true.) Even his mother was told on the night before he was sworn in as secretary of state, "Whatever happens tomorrow, no matter what, you are not to cry." And so, according to Bette Bao Lord, as Kissinger became the first refugee to be in the Cabinet, Paula Kissinger had the only dry eyes in the room.

KISSINGER'S CONTROL IS MOST EVIDENT WHEN HE is asked, as he is frequently, for his opinion on foreign affairs. Here is where The Other Kissinger emerges. His voice becomes flat, didactic, without nuance or vocal gestures. The diplomatic "we" takes over. He still refers to Alexander Haig as "my former deputy," as when he says, "Haig was my deputy, and one can never be sure how one's deputy will perform." He monitors his former deputy's performance from afar, but he does notice the obvious, like the number of "I's" used in any Haig statement. And he is careful not to criticize and to say the appropriate thing, such as "Every secretary of state has his own style." Although Kissinger's policy is "not to initiate calls to senior officials," as Haig was leaving on his own shuttle, Kissinger phoned him. "I really called just to wish him good luck. In this case, knowing the feelings of uncertainty, I thought I should wish him luck. In that context, he gave me a rough idea of where he thought things stood. He quite literally didn't know what he would find."

Kissinger is cautious, rarely criticizing his former deputy or the deputy's boss, careful not to comment on Jeanne Kirkpatrick's dining with the Argentineans the night of the Falkland invasion. Only once has he spoken out, during the crackdown in Poland. "When an issue becomes overwhelming and things seem to be going off the rails, then one has an obligation to say something," Kissinger says. His discretion is purposeful; he knows speaking out is no way to get back in. "This country is very wasteful about the people it has with experience," he says. "Every four to eight years there is almost a total change, so that people who are out of office are almost never seriously consulted or used."

This has to rankle the private statesman, whose foreign-policy quarterbacking is now limited to spheres of living-room influence and occasional calls. "Henry still worries intensely about the state of the world, just as he did when he was secretary of state," Nancy says. He has even revised some of his more recalcitrant opinions. On nuclear weapons, for example. "For a time, I thought that perhaps one could have limited nuclear warfare instead of mass extermination. This may still be theoretically possible, but nobody has ever come up with a proposal of how it would work.... Most of the new anti-nuclear people will not face the fact that the ideological and political conflicts of the period contribute to the nuclear tensions, that they also have to be addressed."

That is Kissinger in rare revisionism; his mechanism allows for little ambivalence. What's more, he genuinely believes that as secretary of state he made few mistakes. "Fundamentally, I tried to think through problems as carefully as I could at the time.... Some of these decisions were very difficult. It would be ridiculous to say now, five years after, ten years after the event, I was wrong. I was wrong on some tactical things, like the anti-war movement." The "tactics" of Iran? "The mistake we made in Iran was to not look at the political evolution more carefully. I remember in 1976, which was my last official trip to Iran, I told the newsmen on my plane, 'A

country going through this rapid industrialization would normally have a revolution, but I see no sign of it.' That statement shows I just didn't understand it."

"I think the dominant failing of most people in the government is confusion, not evil," Kissinger says. "The man who said, for example, there was a light at the end of the tunnel in Vietnam wasn't lying, he was wrong. Most of the time you face, especially in a crisis, a lot of conflicting information. On top of that conflicting information are the conflicting pressures of the bureaucracy, of the various bureaucratic elements, which have often not been made explicit, which are often not even explicitly understood."

That, in essence, was Kissinger's problem: the difficulty of controlling the bureaucracy, the petty malice, the leakers, other governments, dictators, left-wing journalists, domestic revolutions. Kissinger left the Ford administration exhausted, he says. And $200,000 in debt. "He had no money when he was in Washington," Bob Evans says. "I used to tell him, 'Henry, your tux is terrible. That tie is horrible.' He would say, 'I know, but I don't have enough money to buy a new tuxedo.'" (He was able, though, to buy his apartment in River House—a bit run-down then, but expensively remodeled since—at a bargain price: a little over $100,000.) Perhaps this is one reason he maintains he really doesn't want to go back. Both Kissingers say this is no ploy. "There was so much responsibility all the time, there was real worry rather than joy. Power does not guarantee you a lot of fun," Nancy Kissinger says. "After the first six months on that level of the government, you feel so grim, so weighed down with responsibility that it overcomes any feelings of grandiosity that you might have. But if the president called and said, 'The country needs you'—well, that nobody could turn down," she says.

As he pads through River House in his Wallabees and shetland sweater, there seems to be very little that haunts Henry Kissinger in, as he calls it, "this new phase of life." Only one thing disturbs him—the death of his father. The closeness of family had been instrumental in Kissinger's ascent, as had Louis Kissinger's approval and pride in his son's life. It was unmitigated and undemanding: As successful as both sons became—Walter is a rich Long Island businessman—Paula and Louis Kissinger were secure enough to remain in Washington Heights. "However old you are, you are never ready for it when your father dies," Kissinger says. "My father was a complete innocent, unlike his son. He had no conception of evil. My father was not ready to die. He was totally alert at age 95. He wasn't philosophical about it. I used to think when I saw people in their fifties when I was a young man that they were a different species. No one is ever prepared. I had called my father the night before he died to tell him to watch me on TV the next day. And then he was gone, just like that. His lungs filled, and he went very suddenly, without suffering."

IT IS A FEW MOMENTS BEFORE KISSINGER IS DUE AT MASS. General. He is stopped by a traffic light. The third man of the day approaches him. For a moment, Henry Kissinger looks scared. As with every encounter, it could go either way. The bodyguard tenses. "Henry," the man says, "Henry, we miss you. Go back to Washington." Kissinger smiles broadly and shakes his admirer's hand. The light changes, and he moves toward the hospital in front of a line of cars. "Maybe people are nostalgic for me," he says. "But it's like the nostalgia in the Seymour Hersh piece. They have nostalgia so they can finish me off." And with that, Henry Kissinger vanishes into Mass. General, his doctors waiting to examine what remains of his heart.

36 NEW YORK/MAY 10, 1982

and insights

"Fundamentally, I tried to think through problems as carefully as I could at the time. . . Some of these decisions were very difficult. It would be ridiculous to say now, five years after, ten years after the event, I was wrong. I was wrong on some tactful things. like the anti-war movement."

"The 'tactics' of Iran? "The mistake we made in Iran was to not look at the political evolution more carefully. I remember in 1976, which was my last official trip to Iran, I told the newsmen on my plane. 'A country going through this rapid industrialization would normally have a revolution, but I see no sign of it.' That statement shows I just didn't understand it."

As he pads through River House in his Wallabees and Shetland sweater, there seems to be very little that haunts Henry Kissinger in, as he calls it, "this new phase of life." Only one thing disturbs him — the death of his father. The closeness of family had been instrumental in Kissinger's ascent, as had Louis Kissinger's approval and pride in his son's life. It was unmitigated and undemanding: As successful as both sons became — Walter is a rich Long Island businessman — Paula and Louis Kissinger were secure enough to remain in Washington Heights.

"However old you are, you are never ready for it when your father dies," Kissinger says. "My father was a complete innocent, unlike his son. He had no conception of evil. My father was not ready to die. He was totally alert at age 95. He wasn't philosophical about it. I used to think when I saw people in their fifties when I was a young man that they were a different species. No one is ever prepared. Had called my father the night before he died to tell him to watch me on TV the next day. And then he was

Henry Kissinger

Tenacity is everything.

Copyright 1982, New York magazine

Boston Herald American Sunday, May 2, 1982

# Out of power, Kissinger a survivor

It is a few moments before Henry Kissinger is true at Mass. General. He is stopped by a traffic light. The third man of the day approaches him. For a moment, Kissinger looks scared. The bodyguard tenses. "Henry," the man says, "Henry, we miss you. Go back to Washington." Kissinger smiles broadly and shakes his admirer's hand. The light changes, and he moves toward the hospital in front of a line of cars. "Maybe people are nostalgic for me," he says. "But it's like the nostalgia in the Seymour Hersh piece (in Atlantic magazine). They have nostalgia so they can finish me off." And with that, Henry Kissinger vanishes into Mass. General, his doctors waiting to examine what remains of his heart.

By MARIE BRENNER
(First of three articles)

The habits of the diplomat die hard, so they were just a shade late. Billy Graham had stopped in to visit on his way to the Soviet Union, they said, and that had thrown off the schedule.

So they were walking briskly through the lobby of the Ritz-Carlton. Inevitably, heads turned, and the sprinkle of Bostonians began to react: It's Kissinger... the Kissingers... there goes Henry Kissinger — the aura still glowing after five years out of power. The bodyguard followed at a discreet distance.

That Kissinger would survive as a strong figure out of office was never in question—his mind was too subtle, his intelligence too developed, his defense mechanisms too sophisticated for him to be anything less.

As the Kissingers moved toward the waiting limousine on Newbury Street, they passed the hotel newsstand, and, of course, there it was — the dread Atlantic, with his face on the cover as the illustrator had imagined it, bloated and evil, shadowy, filled with wiretaps, Ellsberg treason, and secret weakness.

It was the operation that had brought Kissinger to Boston just for a checkup and to Locke-Ober this night to honor his surgeons from Massachusetts General Hospital. He had dieted off 27 pounds since the operation, in February, and he was planning to go a little crazy, chucking the poached sole for the evening, feeding his heart doctors on steak and bearnaise. His mood, despite The Atlantic, was soaring, his spirit, like his body, almost light.

"When a writer wrote three critical things about me," Kissinger said, "then my father would retroactively cut out all the rest of the writer's stories, so that through all the books there were gaping holes. The fault in my father's system was that he was very literal and guileless. So if a writer would describe me as 'Henry Kissinger, the brilliant statesman, the architect of foreign policy, responsible for the mass murders of Cambodia, my father would leave that article in At least they had called me 'brilliant. He never understood what the real meaning was.'"

That Kissinger would survive as a strong figure out of office was never in question — his mind was too subtle, his intelligence too developed, his defense mechanisms too sophisticated for him to be anything less.

Kissinger's survival tactics have been masterly. His best defense has been no offense: He rarely answers a charge, issues a denial, or lets a mea cupa slip out. What he does is quite clever: He questions the motive of the accuser, usually with a wry smile. Kissinger has alienated both the far right and the far left, a perverse accomplishment few others could have managed.

His escape to New York may have saved him. Here the lone cowboys can protect himself from the political cross fire, the who's-up-who's-down, as he puts it, of Washington life. Here he can be shielded from Harvard and its moral pieties; anyway, Cambridge didn't welcome him back. That kind of intellectual rigidity has never found favor on the New York dinner-party circuit.

THE IMPORTANCE OF BEING HENRY

(Next: Life out of power)

(c) 1982 New York Magazine

Former Secretary of State Henry Kissinger leaves Mass. General Hospital last February following a triple bypass heart operation.

# His reaction to Atlantic article

Only rarely now do the accusations of the past come back to haunt Henry Kissinger, as they have in the Atlantic piece, by Seymour Hersh, all of it gruesome and adroitly detailed. Kissinger is portrayed as devious, double-dealing, out to sabotage his subordinates to stay in good with his boss. Leakers were to be destroyed. Kissinger, Hersh says, ordered almost every wiretap.

"Have you read the piece?"

"I have. I don't want to comment on it."

"But being characterized as so evil, that must upset you."

A pause. "But in this case, if you read the statements of the author which he made when he started this article, and what he said to people — this is the view with which he began."

"Do you mean that you feel Hersh was out to get you?"

"That is what he has said. I don't know him. Did it upset me? Yes. But I don't want to get into a debate with him."

"Is this like a final chapter of Watergate for you?"

"I don't think this is a final chapter of Watergate. It doesn't bring back the experience, because it has no relation to reality, not the reality I know."

"So, what was the story with Nixon's drinking?" I asked, for Kissinger no simple answer would do. Clearly, he felt the need to defend. "You know," he said, "these assistants of mine like Roger Morris who Seymour Hersh quoted in The Atlanticonly worked directly for me for six months in 1969. How can they remember what went on thirteen years ago? How can they remember one incident when I might have said something about Nixon having had

too much to drink? At any rate, it isn't true."

Fairly cool, but not for long. The next day at River House, in New York, there was the magazine, opened, right by Kissinger's unmade bed. He must have been rereading the article and worrying what to do.

Kissinger is usually very measured in his responses. But he may be less so since his father's death. He is suffering terribly, his friends say, and might be re-examining his modus operandi, wanting to indulge in self-justification, wondering if he could have been a better son.

That he would be so disquieted shows how much he has changed from The Other Kissinger, thecorseted "secret swimmer" who issued White House edicts. That Kissinger's style, he capsuled elegantly in Years of Upheaval: "There are many occasions in diplomacy when dedication is measured by the ability to pretend indifference when every fiber strains for getting to the point."

COMMENT

Jerusalem Post May 23-24, 1982

# Ivory tower courtship

By WOLF BLITZER

WHEN HENRY KISSINGER was secretary of state, he used to make a point of meeting regularly with his former academic colleagues in order to exchange ideas on the burning foreign policy questions of the day. It was not only a stimulating intellectual exercise for the former Harvard University professor.

Kissinger fully appreciated the importance of staying on good terms with the respected ivory tower elite. In the U.S., they often can have clout.

Alexander Haig, who served as Kissinger's top deputy on the National Security Council during the first term of the Nixon Administration, has tried to emulate his former boss in many areas since becoming secretary of state some 16 months ago. On many occasions, of course, Haig is not all that successful. Still, like Kissinger, Haig has sought to cultivate key academic public opinion moulders.

THE SECRETARY may not have Kissinger's academic credentials — he's a former military man — but he learned his lessons well under the master public opinion manipulator.

That helps to explain why Haig agreed to a private, off-the-record meeting at Georgetown University on May 10 with some 20 of America's leading academic authorities on the Middle East. Those invited were asked not to breathe a word of the session to outsiders, especially not to the press. Indeed, no one was even to mention that the nearly three-hour session — all of which was devoted exclusively to the Middle East — had taken place.

But it's extremely difficult — if

not impossible — to keep such a secret in Washington when so many people are involved. Cocktail gossip of the unusual meeting spread, although no actual news reports about it have been published — until now.

There was a wide spectrum of opinion represented in the room, ranging from the ultra-Arabists to others clearly sympathetic to the Israeli cause. Whatever their personal views, most of the scholars there were recognized heavyweights in their field.

Among those attending were Bernard Lewis of the Institute for Advanced Studies at Princeton; Nadav Safran of Harvard; Steve Spiegel of UCLA; William Quandt of the Brookings Institution; Peter Krogh, Dean of the Georgetown University School of Foreign Service; and J.B. Kelly, the British authority on the Persian Gulf.

Others with a considerably more pro-Arab slant included Michael Hudson, director of Georgetown's Centre for Contemporary Arab Studies; Dean Brown, president of the Middle East Institute; and Malcolm Kerr of UCLA, who is about to become president of the American University of Beirut.

According to sources present during the meeting, Haig did most of the listening as each of the academicians offered rather predictable (and lengthy) recommendations on the proper course of U.S. policy in the region. "It was mostly a lobbying effort," one source said.

Later, several professors praised Haig for demonstrating a solid grasp

of the sensitive issues involved — even if they disagreed with his conclusions. The secretary, probably sensing that whatever he might say eventually would be leaked to the news media, was described as deliberately cautious. He was accompanied by Deputy Assistant Secretary for Near Eastern Affairs Morris Draper.

BUT HAIG reportedly was open enough with the group to indicate rather clearly that he was much more concerned about Israeli policy toward Lebanon than he was about events on the West Bank and in the Gaza Strip.

Indeed, according to several sources present, the secretary implied very strongly that he was prepared to give Israel a relatively free hand in trying to promote its Sharon-Milson civilian administration in the territories — within reason — provided that Israel did not undertake any major military move against PLO and Syrian forces in Lebanon.

Since then, other U.S. officials privy to Haig's views, have explained that a real rupture of the 10-month-cease-fire along the Israeli-Lebanese frontier had the potential of leading to an all-out war in the region — one that could drag in Syria and other Arab countries. The dangers flowing from controversial Israeli actions on the West Bank and Gaza, were, of course, very

serious, they said, but clearly more limited than an all-out confrontation in Lebanon.

WITH THE POSSIBLE exception of President Ronald Reagan, Haig is still widely regarded as Israel's best friend in the administration. Sources present at the Georgetown meeting confirmed this assessment. "He seems to be a genuine friend of Israel," one of them said. The Arabists were visibly disappointed by what they had heard.

GOING BEYOND the narrow matter of Israel, Haig's overall stature has increased in recent weeks, mostly at the expense of Defence Secretary Caspar Weinberger. Somewhat surprisingly, the secretary of state even appears to have emerged from his ill-fated Falkland Island mediatory shuttle in good shape, perhaps even stronger than before. Many people here simply feel he made a valiant, well-intentioned effort — for which he deserves credit.

Haig has gone out on a limb in trying to improve U.S.-Israeli relations these past few weeks. According to his aides, he wants the U.S.-imposed suspension on the Strategic Cooperation Memorandum of Understanding with Israel lifted.

The specific details, U.S. officials said, will probably be worked out during Defence Minister Ariel Sharon's talks at the Pentagon and the State Department, scheduled for May 25. At this stage, the tentative plan is for the

suspension — originally imposed as "punishment" against Israel for extending its law to the Golan Heights last December — to be lifted formally during Prime Minister Menachem Begin's visit to Washington during the second half of June. "We'll have to give Begin something," one U.S. official said.

BUT THERE may be a price. The Americans are hoping that Israel, in exchange, will agree to resume the stalled autonomy negotiations in Washington, at least for the time being. U.S. officials are anxiously trying to find some sort of face-saving formula to fudge the sticky matter of Jerusalem as a site for such talks. Exactly how that might be done is still unknown.

Haig is not alone right now in wanting to ease the strain between Washington and Jerusalem. Reagan and other high White House officials are very well aware of their deteriorated standing among Israel's friends in the U.S., especially in the Jewish community. With crucial congressional elections coming up in November, staying on good terms with Israel becomes an increasingly more important item on the U.S. foreign policy agenda.

So right now, Haig's personal views seem to dovetail very nicely with the political wishes of the White House. That's a negative factor for Weinberger and others with a less friendly attitude toward Israel.

But all bets will be off if Israel moves into Lebanon, and what happens after November could be yet another story.

The writer is The Jerusalem Post's Washington Correspondent.

RISHON LEZION CENTENNIAL

VAYA NOLIAIDUR

MOST OF Rishon Lezion's 100,000 residents think of their town as a dormitory suburb of Tel Aviv, where they work and go for entertainment. But Rishonites have reason to be proud of their town.

Long before the First Zionist Congress, Jewish idealists settled the town. Uri Porat, the veteran journalist who is now the prime minister's spokesman, has researched the history of their moshava and says "the pioneers who came here were highly motivated, they had a special character.

"This is why nearly every first in the country happened in Rishon," says Porat. The town claims the first Hebrew kindergarten and school. The national anthem *Hatikva* was written in Rishon, and the first national flag flown there. Ben-Gurion organized the country's first strike at the Rishon winery. Only people with character, Porat notes, could have successfully revolted, as the first settlers did, against the officials of Baron Rothschild.

Rishon sabras in their seventies and eighties speak what Porat calls "Ben-Yehuda Hebrew," and the town's veterans have a high-handed attitude towards more recent settlers, referred to as "the newcomers," "night residents" and other less printable terms. Before Operation Magic Carpet, there was an influx of Yemenite settlers and then a second one with the airlift from Yemen. The "moshava" grew from a population of 25,000 in 1961 to 50,000 in 1970 and then has doubled again.

Herzl Street divides the city in two. The veterans call the east side the "real Rishon," and the west side has a more modern flavour with its

everything else, says Porat, the parliament was born out of sheer necessity. The first settlers, religious people who went to synagogue three times, came to gather on its steps to discuss serious matters, their Turkish rulers and later the problems of the World War I period. Those first parliamentarians "had their hands full," says Porat.

flourished. The most popular eating place was the Vienna, where the waiters wore tuxedos and an orchestra played Austrian songs. The Vienna was frequented by high British officials and was considered the place for information and gossip, and Rishon's parliament started holding its sessions there.

When the war ended and the

emphasizes, that at the time, 1948-49, there was no television, and radio and newspapers were censored. Talking with the soldiers at Pinati, you were able to hear the latest news about the battle fronts, uncensored. A cardinal rule is that the parliament could only exist near the centres of information."

Members of the Rishon parliament at a cafe meeting. From left, Roni Ben-Zeev, Amnon Nahmias, Yigal Becker, Moshe Weizmann, Meir Belkin, and Nehamia Ben-Yoav.

# City with character

Rishon Lezion was founded 100 years ago, Yitzhak Oked writes about the city and the man at the helm, Mayor Hanania Gibstein.

THE PARLIAMENT SESSIONS are always interesting and usually heated. This is because of the character of its members, most of whom were born and raised in Rishon. When it comes to politics, they tend to disagree. Their language is peppered with quaint Hebrew words not used elsewhere and expressions in Yiddish, Turkish, Arabic, French and English.

The parliament never reaches unanimous decisions on its proposals, according to Porat. Sometimes a session ends, because some members become offended and simply walk out.

The procedure for becoming a parliamentarian is similar to entering the House of Lords in England — by inheritance. Porat proudly points out that some parliamentarians are fourth-generation Rishonites, whose great-grandfathers were among those who met on the steps of the central synagogue.

Porat says though that about 20 per cent of the parliamentarians are "added ones," such as the present mayor, Hanania Gibstein, and his predecessor, the late Arye Sheftel.

It would seem logical that with the increase in Rishon's population, there should be more parliamentarians. However, the opposite is true. Evidently, colour television and other entertainment keep people away.

Until Porat took leave from the parliament to become the prime minister's spokesman, he would regularly print the minutes of the parliament's sessions in Yediot Aharonot. He also persuaded Army Radio to have a five-minute weekly programme with the parliamentarians, which is broadcast every

It was not surprising that the

# Male prostitution ring crushed

By JAMES O. WELCH

A Boston-based male prostitution ring, which allegedly sent boys as young as 13 to Mexico, Canada and several U.S. cities for $500-plus "sex weekends," was broken with arrests in Boston and Vermont yesterday.

Club International-Playboys of Boston, which operates from a seedy, one-bedroom "trick pad" at 845 Boylston St., allegedly provided young boys and men, along with erotic films, magazines and literature to clients from every walk of life police said.

Arrested at the Andrews Inn, a primarily gay hotel in Bellows Falls, Vt. yesterday were a 16-year-old un-

identified Boston prostitute, Randy Allen Dean, 18, of Boston, charged with prostitution and possession of cocaine, and Graham P. Teller, 62, of 845 Boylston St., allegedly a principal in Club International-Playboys.

Arrested in Boston were Robert H. Noel, 62, of 845 Boylston St., and Robert George Slee, 43, a Canadian citizen who is also listed as a principal in the club.

Slee, police said, is a fugitive from Toronto, where he is wanted in connection with sex-related charges.

Yesterday's arrests culminated a five-month probe by federal, Vermont and Boston police who infiltrated the

## Boys of the night: Frightened, alone

The young boys of the night can be found roaming the streets around the Greyhound Bus depot near St. James Avenue, Park Square and the Combat Zone.

They're runaways. No place to go. No money. No shelter.

And before long they are taken in by pimps who entice them into prostitution.

Boston Vice Squad Detective Richard Walsh, 50, a 21-year veteran of the force, knows the scenario all too well.

"There's a 13-year-old kid over there turning tricks," Walsh said yesterday, sounding almost amazed at the tender age of the prostitute.

He had just wrapped up a day's work in which an alleged male prostitution ring using some juveniles was

smashed.

The typical young male prostitute, he said:

* Is confused, because of a family conflict from which he has fled.

* Is scared, because living and sleeping on Boston's streets is nothing at all like what he left.

* Is relieved when a pimp takes him in.

These lost, confused children, Walsh said, are easy targets for the sharks who patrol the streets at night, looking to provide them with clothing and lodging.

And, he added, looking to use them.

"They become street prostitutes. They turn tricks," Walsh said.

"They need the money," he added.

—JAMES O. WELCH

Invitations mailed out to lure prospective clients.

group, which is alleged to use boys as young as 13.

According to Boston Deputy Superintendent James J. Feeney and Boston Vice Squad detectives, the ring:

* Advertised its services, which included "male companionship and agencies," through a select group of gay establishments.

* Set up "sex" weekends in Montreal, Toronto and Mexico City, as well as Chicago, New York and Fort Lauderdale, for $500 and up.

* Provided a "rental service" in which clients paid male prostitutes a fee of $125 for six hours of sex.

Feeney said a party of 10 — seven "clients," Dean, Teller and the 16-year old prostitute — left Boston Saturday morning for the Andrews Inn where "they were going for sex." Feeney would not identify the clients.

Feeney estimates the Boston club used 25 to 30 local male prostitutes, ranging in age from juveniles to mid-20s, although the number of juveniles is still uncertain.

Vice detectives Richard Walsh and Paul Murphy yesterday displayed a crate load of films, magazines and business records seized at the Boylston Street apartment, which was also allegedly used to photograph the models for scrutiny by potential customers.

## Cops face reality

Detective Richard Walsh

Boston Vice Squad Detectives Richard Walsh and Paul Murphy helped make a big bust yesterday, but they weren't smiling.

Their faces were marked with the strain that comes with working the gutters of human indignity.

"I've got two sons of my own," said Murphy, 42, a cop for 12 years. "You see these kids and you can't help but think about your own."

He fidgeted, trying to avoid answering the questions put to him, trying to avoid, apparently, thinking too deeply about the bust of a male prostitution ring involving boys in their early teens.

Walsh, a young looking 50, but with bags under his eyes yesterday, responded, "Anybody with feelings at all gets upset when you see a 16-year-old kid doing this kind of thing."

"But you can't let it get to you," he said.

Walsh, although he finds it distasteful, has to face the reality of the streets every day.

"These kids," he said, "have problems, sure. But they know what they're doing. They're in it for the money."

Walsh knows of some young male prostitutes so hardened to their lifestyle they will hop in the car of a client in the Park Square area they frequent and rob him, knowing the man cannot turn them in.

"The guy can't go to the authorities, they'll know what he was up to," Walsh said.

James O. Welch

## Ex-wife of singer Billy Daniels

### Lowell socialite's body found

By PAUL SULLIVAN and LAURENCE DWYER

LOWELL — The body of Martha Braun, daughter of a socially-prominent Lowell family and former wife of blues singer Billy Daniels, was found yesterday on a bank of the Merrimack River.

Police said they believed Braun, 54, was an apparent suicide. Investigators added she left a suicide note for her roommate but declined to discuss its contents.

They did say Braun had been missing for a couple of days and was believed to be suffering from cancer.

Her body was fully clothed when it was found on the bank of the river, about noon, near a University of Lowell dorm on Pawtucket Street.

A medical examiner was scheduled to do an autopsy today to determine the cause of death.

The daughter of the late Carl Braun Sr., owner of the old Commodore Ballroom, Martha was a graduate of exclusive finishing schools and Academie Moderne modeling school.

Braun worked as an actress and had bit parts in TV and radio in the late 1940s.

She married Daniels in 1950, despite objections of her family because he was black and she was white. Daniels is the singer who made the song, "That Old Black Magic" popular.

Braun was Daniels' second wife and their marriage lasted until 1953 when it ended in divorce.

Braun and Daniels

Her body was found on Merrimack River bank.

5 Boston Herald American, Monday, May 3, 1982

Nancy Kissinger

Irving Berlin

pro-nuclear Fusion Energy Foundation, alleged that the wife of former Secretary of State Henry Kissinger attacked her Feb. 7. Mrs. Kissinger contends she was provoked by insults from Kaplan,

Attorney Richard McGlynn spoke Tuesday of "extenuating circumstances," stating that Mrs. Kissinger was "under considerable stress."

Mrs. Kissinger acknowledged she "grabbed Ms. Kaplan and threatened to hit her if she did not stop harrassing us. I then let go of Ms. Kaplan and my husband and I immediately went to take our plane," according to an affidavit quoted by McGlynn.

A trial in municipal court is scheduled for May 26. Mrs. Kissinger has pleaded innocent.

TO A FOUNDER of the first Forsburg of Massachusetts, it to continue the arms race, put a brake on the most dangerous

Roger Molander, the first Council nuclear expert, who the leader of the anti-nuclearization, sees the Reagan outline for us." He thinks it takes us back to ground zero in that entire Soviet line on nuclear

Molander's point is that though both sides reduce their heads by a third, has really should tailor their nuclear arms

In 1977, when Jimmy Car RADIO radical proposals for reduction drove his emissary, Cy

"YOU CAN USE charts numbers game," Sen. Carlisle of the progressive radical Action Committee on

# Mrs. Kissinger
must stand trial

MAY 21 1982

NEWARK, N.J. (AP) — A Superior Court judge refused today to dismiss an assault complaint lodged against Nancy Kissinger for grabbing a pro-nuclear activist by the throat.

Superior Court Assignment Judge Arthur J. Blake, saying the case should go to trial, denied a motion for dismissal made by an attorney for the wife of former Secretary of State Henry A. Kissinger.

Ellen Kaplan, a representative of the pro-nuclear Fusion Energy Foundation, alleges Mrs. Kissinger assaulted her at Newark International Airport on Feb. 7. Mrs. Kissinger, saying Ms. Kaplan was heckling the Kissinger couple, has pleaded innocent to the complaint, which is the equivalent of a misdemeanor.

Blake said the "fame or anonymity of the people involved are not the hallmark of this case.

"It may be true that the Kaplan lady did not sustain any injury, but I don't know," the judge said. "There's the question of whether the lady should have said what she said."

Blake ruled the charge should be heard in municipal court, where it was filed. Trial has been set for May 26, but the defense was expected to seek a postponement.

Attorney Richard McGlynn had argued the charge was too trivial to be prosecuted. He also said the case should be dropped because there were extenuating circumstances — that Mrs. Kissinger was under "considerable stress" when she grabbed the woman.

At the time of the incident, the Kissingers were walking to board a flight to Boston, where Kissinger was scheduled to undergo heart surgery.

There were reports Ms. Kaplan had harassed Mrs. Kissinger several times before their physical encounter.

Ms. Kaplan was reported to have asked Kissinger several questions about U.S. policy. She then asked, 'Is it true that you sleep with little boys at the Carlyle Hotel?' The hotel is in New York City.

wave of Argentine fighter jets swept over five British
ships stationed around the West Falklands, Argentina
said.

As British soldiers in landing craft churned through
tangles of thick seaweed on the shore of San Carlos
Bay, Argentine soldiers moved out into the water and
battled the British invaders, an Argentine military
spokesman said.

"British marines tried to disembark using landing craft from British ships. But navy planes and the artillery installed in the zone inflicted serious casualties on the attackers," the news agency Noticias Argentinas said, quoting defense sources.

"The army troops threw themselves against the English units which were trying to establish a beach-

No '84 parole
state prison

By John Stanton

Times Tribune Sacramento bureau

SACRAMENTO —Sirhan B. Sirhan, the assassin of Robert F. Kennedy, will not be paroled in 1984.

The California Board of Prison Terms announced
this morning that it has revoked a Sept. 1, 1984,
parole date that had been granted Sirhan in 1975.

Raymond C. Brown, chairman of the three-member
board, said the board voted unanimously to revoke
the parole and 2-1 that the board had made "a fundamental error" when it originally granted Sirhan parole in 1984.

Brown and board member Loretta Collier agreed
that the board had acted in error, but member Wayne