Sally Austin-Dahler - Pas de Deux

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## Chapter Outline

### Chapter One

Inauguration Day, January 20, 1969. Trauma of my
arrival in Washington.

### Chapter Two

Biographical flashback - how and why I chose the
secretarial profession.

### Chapter Three

The longest route to the White House. Introduction to
New York politics, Governor Rockefeller and Nancy McGinnis-Kissinger.

### Chapter Four

Meeting and working for Henry Kissinger and expanding into
national political scene.

### Chapter Five

Total involvement in 1968 Presidential Campaign, Miami
Convention, the devistation of defeat.

### Chapter Six

Kissinger moves to the winner's circle. Getting acquainted
with the "big league" at the Pierre Hotel.

### Chapter Seven

First impression of Washington, the White House, the job.

### Chapter Eight

Kissinger's laundry, movie stars, serving tea to Soviet
Ambassador Dobrynin, and the gentle side of Kissinger.

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## Chapter Nine

Modes of transportation: First flight on Air Force One; receiving end of Haldeman's arrogance and President Johnson's antics.

## Chapter Ten

Three close encounters with President Nixon.

## Chapter Eleven

How White House security affected my life.

## Remaining Chapters to Come

## Chapter Twelve

Perceptions, meetings and associations with other White House staff: John Ehrlichman, Robert Haldeman, Dwight Chapin, Ron Ziegler, John Dean, John Whitaker, Mrs. Nixon, Tricia and Julie. (This chapter may be integrated into parts of the manuscript as these people came into my life, rather than a separate chapter).

## Chapter Thirteen to Fifteen

What it was like accompanying the President on his first trip to Europe and Around the World. Behind the scenes -- what the TV reports didn't show.

## Chapter Sixteen

The end of foreign travel in Rumania and my sanity.

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## Chapter Seventeen

A job change to the Domestic Council under John Ehrlichman in the Executive Office Building.

## Chapter Eighteen

Another career advancement with Department of the Interior in San Francisco. Transition from secretarial to staff position. How my White House background helped and/or hindered my career.

## Chapter Nineteen

Watergate and its effect on my personal and professional life.

## Chapter Twenty

Eight years with the Federal Government in retrospect -- the sudden realization of being more a part of history after leaving.

1

## Chapter One

THERE I WAS, STANDING ON PENNSYLVANIA AVENUE, several miles from my destination, waiting for a bus to rescue me -- waiting to see a friendly, recognizable face. I didn't remember Michigan winters being this bad. Michigan had beautiful, clean, white snow occasionally showing signs of various animals scurring from one place to another. Washington had a dull, grey, moist film covering everything in sight. The chill in the air was unbearably penetrating -- where _was_ that bus? The situation here was not like New York either. Certainly, with all its faults, New York at least had buses when you needed one (most of the time anyway). For a few moments, my daydreams wandered to a warm sandy beach somewhere in California, which is exactly where I would have been, had I not given in to my insatiable desire to satisfy my curiosity and to please others.

My reality was that I was waiting to be taken to the White House of all places! Richard Nixon had been elected President of

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the United States. It took me awhile to realize other Presidents
lived before him, but for the next four years, only one would have
a direct bearing on my life.

The doubt as to whether I had made the right decision to take
on Washington, D.C., instead of moving to California, lingered
throughout the previous evening and again haunted me earlier that
very morning while taking a cold shower (not intentionally, mind
you -- there wasn't a drop of hot water available).

I flew in from New York and went directly to the home of three
gals who graciously welcomed me into their modest abode. They had
been introduced to me, via long distance telephone, by a Secret
Service Agent I met in New York. The home was a very large, two
story structure of early 1940's vintage. Situated on a beautiful
tree-lined street, each home was like the one next door except for
a minor architectural diversion here and there.

Inside, the rooms weren't exactly filled with warm, personal
touches -- actually not even the barest essentials were visible.
There was nothing in the living room, lawn chairs in the dining
room, but no table, and nothing in the sunroom, which would soon
be my very own fishbowl, or bedroom. Garbage bags overflowed the
kitchen; every available dish precariously balanced on one another
in the sink; bare floors ran throughout the entire house, except
for a generous supply of dirt and dust balls that would match any
tumbleweed on the Mohave Desert.

Upstairs, each of the three bedrooms had at least a bed and
was decorated with posters, loose clothing, and an accumulation of

3

special items that suited the different personalities occupying
the rooms. It was an interior decorator's delight and a mother's
nightmare (at least mine). I wanted to gather up all the soap and
water, brooms, disinfectants, etc., and attack the entire house
before lowering my suitcase, which by this time, was making a
permanent indentation in my hand. I bit my tongue and politely
thanked the girls for putting me up on such short notice.

After spending a few hours getting acquainted and learning
something of the lay of the land, bedtime arrived. Oh, to get
some sleep! Sleep? It wasn't exactly a night filled with pleasant
dreams. It was rather bits and pieces of closing my eyes, then
peaking out now and then to see if anything with four or more legs
was crawling over me, and desperately trying to find a comfortable
position on the box spring that one of the gals unselfishly
offered me. I noticed it was a bit chilly and during the night
added layer upon layer of clothes to keep me warm. Believe it or
not, I had on my longjohns, a pair of jeans, two pairs of wool ski
socks, mittens, my winter coat, a ski sweater with several t-shirts
under that, and my ski cap.

At the last moment before leaving my New York apartment, I
grabbed the blanket from the foot of my bed and brought that along,
not realizing at the time how useful it would become. I just
couldn't believe how cold it was and wondered if I was the only
one freezing my bippie off. About two in the morning, I decided
to wake someone and possibly get some wooly reinforcements.

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I crept into the back bedroom (which was really another sunroom with three out of four walls covered with less-than-air-tight windows), and lightly touched Carol on the shoulder to wake her. I immediately realized that was the wrong thing to do! She was deep in sleep and so surprised that she jumped three feet off the bed, landing with both feet on the floor in an instant karate position meant to do bodily harm. She screamed at the top of her lungs and I almost passed out. For the briefest moment, we just stared at each other. The rest of the house came dashing into the room, and seeing the two of us staring at each other, began firing questions like, "What happened? What happened?" What else could they say? Carol finally relaxed into a more suitable position (from my point of view) by falling face down on the bed completely drained. As she explained, she was having a bad dream and when I touched her, she thought someone had broken into the house and was going to attack her. We all laughed, rather weakly I might add, tucked Carol in, and returned to our respective corners of the ice-berg, with me never explaining why I was in her room in the first place and never getting badly needed reinforcements.

The next morning, we recounted the night's activity and I discovered that I was living with very dedicated energy savers. Carol actually turned the furnace "OFF"! Not just low, but "OFF"! They also liked cold showers and, in order to save hot water, only turned the heater on about once a week to do any dishes that might need attention.

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I really wanted to be bright, alert, and the efficient pro
I knew I could be for my first day at the White House, but it
seemed as if neither foot was going in the same direction. My
head somehow had been decapitated and placed on a body totally
unfamiliar to me. As I looked in the mirror that morning, I
repeated in my most pleading voice, "Why me, God?"

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## Chapter Two

SUBCONSCIOUSLY, I ANSWERED MY OWN QUESTION. Little did I realize that the past twelve years of being a secretary in Detroit, Los Angeles and New York prepared me for what was to come.

How did I come to be a secretary? Ninth grade mid-semester came in 1954. On December 18, my 15th birthday, my father passed away, leaving my mother to care for two teenage girls. Daddy, only two months before, cashed in his life insurance policy to pay cash for a new dump truck. Now my mother had this beautiful dump truck and not nearly enough money to last more than several months after funeral expenses, etc. So she decided we would move to the big city of Detroit, about 40 miles from Walled Lake, to live with my aunt and share expenses.

I was thrown into an environment of a big city (a considerable contrast from the rural life I just left) attended a school with thousands of students, and was literally terrified of the whole situation. One of my personality traits, which was to serve me

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on many occasions, was that I could act very cool and in complete
control of any situation even though inside I was shaking like the
proverbial leaf.

My first class of the day was Algebra at 10:00 a.m. A bell rang 15 minutes before class at which time you were allowed to enter the hallowed halls -- but not a minute before. The local city transportation bus line delivered me at the doorstep of the mausoleum at least 45 minutes before class, so I quickly learned that the place to stay warm was the classic greasy spoon across the street where I downed several Coca-Colas and smoked lots of cigaretts before filing like a drone into my math class. The effect of mixing Coke and cigs on an already nervous system made my head spin, eyes blurr, and stomach even more turbulent.

Needless to say, my attention span that first hour wasn't quite up to par. Besides, this big city school was weeks ahead of the country folks and when I missed a few important equations, it was about over. Two weeks before report cards, my mother received a note from school saying that if my next exams weren't right up there, I would fail the class. Having been a consistent honor student in Walled Lake, it took only one look from my mother to get me motivated to at least pull a "D". I must say, those C's and D's were humiliating.

After six months of low grades from me and constant complaining from my sister that there weren't any nice boys (she was a Freshman and considerably more worried about such things than I), my mother decided she would take her babies back to

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Walled Lake in hopes of improving their education, settling her nerves and generally getting us all back together again.

Upon my return to the comfort and security of my Alma Mater, I tried to convince my counselors that since there was no money for me to attend college, and since my grades were not high enough for me to receive a scholarship, I should switch from a college prep to commercial curriculum.

Commercial meant that I would take typing, shorthand, office practice, study hall, band, gym (all the toughies), and most important, I would avoid having Mrs. Milligan for English Lit. She was one of those dedicated school teachers who placed all the football players in the first row of her class and would smile at them showing the green moss on her two front fangs. They (the football players) would smile in return and receive grades just barely qualifying them to participate in football one more semester.

The thought of having to study Shakesphere was enough for me to sell my soul to avoid her class. After proving that I was no mathmetician (I continued with my same high standards in geometry), Oliver T. Rose, my counselor, agreed to change my curriculum. Much to my surprise, Mr. Rennseler, my English teacher, stuck us with six weeks of Sharksphere -- the incredible thing was, I loved it. I managed to do at least five extra book reports, read them aloud in class and really dug it. It didn't have anything to do with the fact that "Ronnie", as we called him, was cute as a button and probably about 22 -- not totally out of the realm of

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any Sophomore's fantasies. Somehow, listening to him was music to
my ears. So it wasn't the package, it was the person delivering
it that made the difference. Hope I never forget that lesson.

My days in the city taught me many tricks, such as, how to
be a professional truant. First of all, I had to get in good
with my counselor who also happened to be my biology teacher.
For extra money, I would babysit his children and even though it
may sound contradictory, I was very conscientious. My mother
always taught me to clean people's houses, do any leftover dishes,
and stay awake -- and there was no extra charge.

Next, I managed to become his assistant -- my duties were to
help grade I.Q. tests, record test grades, and be a general goffer
(go for this, go for that!). He was truly a nice man -- cool,
calm, dedicated, a bit of a rogue, and I guess he knew there was
really no way to control any of my mischief. Occasionally he would
cover for me when I had the urge to disappear for a day.

I discovered that my fingers were very mechanically well
coordinated. I typed 100 words a minute and took shorthand at
145 words per minute. As a result, I finished my work before any-
one else which left me with time on my hands, which led to just
plain taking off, or not showing up at all for school, which
ultimately led to many hours in the principal's office. Since
my mother worked in a school cafeteria (a different school from
the one I attended), she wasn't home to see me off.

I took advantage of every situation and managed to get back
on the honor roll and still have time for lots of play. By the

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time I graduated, I felt pretty smug having gotten away with all
of my scampishness (or so I thought), and assumed I would receive
the coveted Commercial Award for the highest achievement. But
no, that wasn't to be. Everyone knew what I had been doing, but
they didn't say, "If you don't stop skipping school and be a good
girl, you won't get the Commercial Award." In those days, I
needed things spelled out for me. They just didn't give the award
to me. How could they set me up as a good example for the soon-to-
be-Seniors after the way I behaved. Chalking up hours in the
principal's office, exchanging heated discussions with teachers,
pulling as many pranks as any other bored American highschool
student, and at the same time getting good grades in spite of all
my mischief, wasn't quite the balance they were looking for. Later,
while in Washington, I often thought, if they could see me now!
I wanted so badly to show them that I did it anyway.

I had become the best secretary a person could hope for, I
thought. Certainly there was still the mischief underneath the
efficiency and personal motivation for wanting to please my bosses
and make them happy to part with my salary each month. But again,
I still had that air of being cool in the face of pulling off some-
thing big and never regretted, for one moment, anything I had done.

My reasons for wanting to be a secretary are very clear. It
wasn't hard to type, or be on top of any particular situation that
arose, or be neat and organized -- my mother is responsible for
much of that and I thank her for it. It wasn't my nature to spend
hours reading books -- I slept through history and social studies

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classes and was convinced I would never make it through college.
What else was there to do? So my goal was set in about the ninth
grade to become a secretary.

I embarked on my career in January, 1958, six months before
graduation, working for an attorney after school. We processed
more tax returns than I care to remember. Typing all those
numbers without error was tedious, but in the long run, good
training. I often wondered how many audits the slip of my little
finger caused.

I spent the next seven years (minus six months when I lived
in Los Angeles) working for Ford Motor Company, Lincoln-Mercury
Division and the Tractor Division. My first boss was a man by
the name of William White who was later to become an assistant
to Richard Nixon during his second term as President. (Funny, I
thought, as I read about his appointment -- I beat him to
Washington). I learned a lot about post hole diggers, corn
huskers, nuts, bolts, and associated tractor equipment, which is
nice if you plan to marry a farmer -- I didn't.

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## Chapter Three

IT IS IMPORTANT TO SPEND SOME TIME TELLING YOU about my side trip to California from June to December of 1960 since that trip haunted my dreams for 12 years before I could finally plant my roots permanently in San Francisco.

While at the Ford Tractor Division, I met Ellen Kays. We discovered both of us had married sisters in a small town about 100 miles from Detroit. We were not very close friends, but always planned on making the trek to Albion together to visit our respective sisters.

Well, the trip never happened, because one day I announced I was moving to California with my Aunt Irene and Uncle Bawley (my father's brother from Tennessee -- there was also Uncles Bo, Hog and Pat, and Aunt Sissy -- terrific names!). Anyway, I gave my appropriate two-week notice and was so excited I could hardly

13

sleep. Never having been away from home, this was a true adventure.
About three days before my departure, Ellen announced at one of our
coffee breaks, that she too would be in Los Angeles visiting her
relatives and wouldn't it be nice to have coffee or a drink some
evening. (As it turned out, Ellen and I have developed a very
close friendship and through her encouragement and support, it
was possible for me to get off the dime and begin this book).

Ellen and I left California just before Christmas that year,
driving back in her 1949 Ford piled high and deep with everything
we owned. I cried all the way to Kansas City, not wanting to leave
a young man with whom I had a fantastic six-month affair. At the
same time, I missed my family. I promised to save my money and
return before he knew I was gone. Everytime I hear Glenn Campbell
sing, "By the time I get to Phoenix, she'll be waking...," my
heart does a slight flip-flop in rememberance of my own departure.
Jerry was a starving, young, and extremely talented film maker and
is now making TV commercials in San Francisco -- and I suppose
living the good life. As many times as we were together over the
next 18 years, we could never recapture the thrill of those first
six months.

It was back to Ford Motor Company, Lincoln-Mercury Division,
a marriage (mine), a divorce (mine) one year later, and then
another decision. My friend Joyce Battistone had itchy feet and
wanted out of Detroit -- anywhere would do -- and she wanted a
partner. (I had accumulated seven years at Lincoln-Mercury so it
was time to move on). We eliminated Chicago, I couldn't persuade

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her to go to San Francisco, so it was New York, New York!! How quickly I forgot the flame in Los Angeles with the prospect of a totally new adventure. The old excitement of a new challenge, interesting people, new jobs and basically just a new life style made the blood trickle through my veins. My mother, by this time, wasn't surprised at my announcement and packed me off to the BIG APPLE. I am a true Sagittarian to the core!

My career at Ford Motor Company came in handy. I was fortunate to have a job lined up with Kenyon and Eckert, the advertising firm for Lincoln-Mercury Division. Boy, were my eyes opened! I was secretary to an Account Executive. His creativity resembled hours at a Chinese laundry -- in by noon, out by 5, with two hours for lunch in between. The snails pace and the seclusion of having my very own office drove me up the walls. There was no one to talk to, no hustle and bustle (around my end of the hall at least), so I set out to find something a little more energizing.

For the first time in my life, I went to an employment agency and paid them to find me a job. Parting with the money was difficult, but it paid off ten times over. A man by the name of Edward Kresky interviewed me. He was second in command at the Metropolitan Commuter Transportation Authority. This agency was established by Governor Rockefeller to see what could be done to save the deteriorating Long Island Railroad. William Ronan, who had been a sidekick of the Governor's for many years, was the Chairman.

15

Among other things, many tax dollars were spent on brand,
spanking new cars for the railroad. Bids came in from all over
the world, but the most interesting people to deal with were the
Japanese. I pictured scenes at railroad stations in Japan with
all those bodies being scrunched together at rush hour -- or any
other hour for that matter -- and thought surely these scurrying
little people knew a secret we didn't on how to get the mostest
with the leastest. Mounds and mounds of drawings were dumped at
our doorstep. The engineers at the Authority spent so much time
digging through the specs that their eyes began to cross at very
inopportune times -- like on camera at a press conference! How
much faith do you suppose the populace of the State of New York
had when they saw their public servants desperately trying to
focus into the little red light?

Much of my time was spent at the Governor's Office near
Fifth Avenue where all the press conferences for the Transportation
Authority were held. I ran into many people who would later play
a very important part in my life. Nancy McGinnis (presently Mrs.
Henry Kissinger) was always in and out of the offices. I thought
she was truly a beautiful lady and very typically how I en-
visioned a New York debutant. Her clothes were expensive, her
presence extremely friendly and always very much in control of
the situation. She was an assistant to the Governor and it
impressed me no end that her specialty was foreign affairs. I
always wondered if that was her goal in the ninth grade.

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Meeting Governor Rockefeller was a special treat. It happened just before a major Transportation Authority press conference where the engineering company, who would manufacture the new cars for the Long Island Railroad, was to be announced. A luncheon would follow the press conference.

Not only did I have to make sure the press releases were available, but that all the appropriate press were invited. We sent invitations several weeks in advance asking for an R.S.V.P., but at the last moment, not everyone had responded -- so it was hours of telephoning before the list was completed.

Finally the time was upon us and Mr. Kresky and I wandered over to the Governor's Office. The Governor was there in living color as we entered! You would have thought I was his long, lost cousin, or that certainly he remembered me from another time, another place. We hadn't met, but his smile and handshake were so friendly I could have given him a hug.

He handled the press conference like the pro he was, answering questions fully to everyone's satisfaction. When questions were exhausted, we all moved to the dining room for lunch. While I was busily attending to clean-up chores after the press conference, someone suddenly noticed that the Governor's Dubonet was missing from his table. I was sent to retrieve the only bottle left in the building. As I raced up the back stairs and into the room very short of breath, I noticed he was still shaking hands with the guests and was working his way to the table. I beat him,

17

but it was not easy maneuvering through the crowd. Later during
lunch, I asked the Governor if he needed anything. He smiled,
said no, and winked. I loved it!!

Mrs. Rockefeller appeared at the Governor's Office on
several occasions. I always felt she was uptight and not at all
"Happy". She seemed intense; not really enjoying the moment
which was just the opposite of her husband. A name change would
have suited their personalities more appropriately -- Governor
Happy Rockefeller and his wife Rocky.

As I became more involved with the Governor through the
Transportation Authority and his campaign for President, I always
remembered him as being a fun, light-hearted person. In my
opinion, he would have made a great President.

Life in New York certainly wasn't dull. One year I had nearly
twelve W-2 forms attached to my income tax returns. Expenses were
high and a girl could hardly live on one salary alone, so I had
many part-time jobs.

I even did a commercial for Anacin. It was about a 30 year
old arthritic softball player. The commercial didn't win any
particular awards since the test audiences in Los Angeles had
difficulty relating their pain with this sweet, young, athletic
speciman. Well, I was only 28 at the time! Seriously, it was the
hardest day's work I had ever done. Eight hours of standing here,
then there, then here, then there again -- focus, fade out, fade
in, and so on went my day. I lost my contact lens in the grass
while the makeup man was preparing me, and the lighting technician,

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trying to help, shined thousands of watts of electricity in the grass. I watched in horror as my lens melted before my very own blurry eyes. Fortunately, a spare was safely tucked away at home, so there was a short delay while a cab raced across town to retrieve a new "eye".

I was dating an Account Executive at the advertising agency who produced the commercial at the time, and since we played weekend sandlot ball on Fire Island, he knew of my talents. Playing softball on the winning Ford Motor Company girls team for five years also gave me some qualifying background. I was cleanup batter and still have my glove autographed by Steve Boros, a little known third baseman for the Detroit Tigers.

After a year or so, the challenge was met at the Transportation Authority and it was time to move on. It looked as though I was developing a pattern -- once the challenge was gone, the job roped and tied neatly, what else was there to do but find another game.

I moved on to International Telephone and Telegraph (ITT). My boss was responsible for psychological testing of potential executives who would operate the assorted companies owned by ITT. He was short, Jewish, and crazy! One day he asked me to walk down to a particular store on Broadway and buy him several pairs of undershorts that were displayed in the window. At first, I thought he was joking, but it only took him two seconds to convince me he wasn't. I wondered what the heck his wife was doing that she couldn't perform such duties on her time. I pouted all

ally Austin-Dahler - Pas de Deux

19

the way to the store, bought his damn shorts and trotted back to
the office. When he looked in the bag, he said, "These aren't
the ones I wanted!" I told him they were exactly the same as he
described, tucked in the same exact corner. He was adamant that
they weren't the right ones, but he would play the martyr and keep
them.

Before moving on, one more story is quite significant. When
my mother and sister and I were batching it in Walled Lake, it was
our Saturday routine to scrub, wax and polish everything in
sight -- hospital clean. One of my jobs was the bathroom (that
shows you how much rank I pulled in the family). Mother would
make a bucket of water with tons of Mr. Clean, or some such pro-
duct that made you think you were in the middle of a fresh, green
forest, rather than the stark, ceramic, white, cold bathroom floor.
Anyway, I scrubbed and rubbed and polished and thought I had done
a pretty good job. Upon inspection by you-know-who, the decision
was that it (the bathroom) needed another going over. Seems I
missed a few spots. So another pail of piney water was brewed
and again I tackled the ceramic. Another inspection, and to my
dismay, another pail of water. By this time, of course, I was in
tears and couldn't figure out why I had to do the damn bathroom
so many times. As far as I knew, we were all disease-free and
took baths every day. But mom found a hair here, piece of dust
there and wanted it done right. My guess was I lost two hours at
the beach because it wasn't my best job the first time.

20

I'll never forget that little episode. I don't suppose it
had much to do with my being an efficient, organized, secretary.
Or, maybe just a little.

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## Chapter Four

ONE OF THE MOST EXCITING AND ULTIMATELY most intellectually rewarding part-time jobs I had in New York, was my association with the 1968 Rockefeller for President Campaign.

It began as a very simple request from my friend, Joyce, who was William Ronan's secretary at the Transportation Authority but was now working full time for a man by the name of Henry Kissinger, whom I, frankly, had never heard of. She was desperately trying to find someone to pinch hit for her one Saturday so she could take a much needed break to Fire Island for the weekend. She asked if I would like to volunteer and explained there wouldn't be much to do except answer phones and do any typing for Mr. Kissinger since he would be in the office alone for a few hours. Sounded easy to me and since my own social calendar was temporarily inactive, I agreed to help her.

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To give you an idea of how impressed I was with this inter-
lude, I can't remember geographically where the office was, nor
is it particularly important to the scheme of things. I do
remember the office being deadly quiet, somewhat morgue-like,
with only a few lights on and no one but Mr. Kissinger and myself
circulating the dense summer heat that permeated the office.
Joyce wasn't there to introduce us, so I glided into the office,
plopped myself down at her desk and quickly rearranged papers
here and there so it would look like I was busy in case anyone
was interested. That was a trick I learned somewhere along the
way -- look busy even if you weren't -- sometimes it wasn't easy,
but it certainly brought out one's creativity and always impressed
the boss.

After several minutes passed, I thought I should at least
find this Mr. Kissinger and let him know help was just around the
corner. Mind you, I had very little knowledge of Mr. Kissinger's
stature, where he came from, what he did, and wasn't the least bit
nervous that I would spend my afternoon working for him. Joyce
gave me a *brief* rundown before she left by listing just a few of
his credentials; Harvard Professor, consultant to many Presidents -
Democrat and Republican, and presently foreign policy adviser
to Governor Rockefeller. As I explained, my history and social
studies classes were filled with my own dreams and fantasies
rather than developing some sense of American history, so I
thought I had just slept through the chapter on Henry Kissinger.

23

Oh well, certainly he wasn't the only person I missed, so my concern vanished.

Very casually, I slipped into his office to introduce myself and began a relationship that was to last for many, many months. Obviously, Joyce hadn't briefed him on her replacement, or maybe she forgot to tell him about my Anacin commercial, because his reaction to me was the same as mine of him -- unimpressed. He was, what I would consider, a short man (5'10" or so), dressed casually, but neatly, in dress slacks, a short, no tie, and a cardigan sweater. He wore heavy horn-rimmed glasses and forever had deep furrows in his forehead that slid into a slightly receding hairline. I halfway expected him to be talkative and friendly, but instead, he quietly acknowledged me and returned to his paperwork.

I wouldn't say he was rude, he was obviously deeply engrossed in something and in his own way, without verbalizing it, he didn't have time to make small talk but appreciated the fact that I was there, that I could go back to my desk, and he would call if he needed me. It was a strange meeting, to say the least, but truly no stranger than any other first encounter in my past, and I learned never to be surprised or make judgments about what people did or didn't do. It seemed we communicated very precisely each of our roles without expending unnecessary energy beating around the bush.

Returning to my desk, I prepared for his first request. While sitting there making busy, I tried to imagine this man

24

consulting Presidents of the United States. His intriguing
accent, once you were accustomed to it, was a little on the sexy
side, his voice was soft and kind, and he made his points straight
and clear.

Speaking of sexy -- he was not, in my eyes, anyone I would
be attracted to -- add a neatly trimmed beard, and well...maybe.
It was obvious he didn't spend hours at the gym developing his
biceps, nor did it look as though he searched the out-of-the-way
nooks and crannies in New York or Boston for exotic desserts.
He just wasn't my type.

While pondering what I would do with myself, since it looked
like this would turn out to be one of my least productive days,
Mr. Kissinger appeared and asked me to contact the editor of
LeMonde magazine. I responded with, "Yes, right away, Mr.
Kissinger." (Joyce prompted me not to call him "Dr." - he hated
it and preferred the less ostentatious, "Mr.") The first thing
entering my mind after he returned to his office, was that he
could have at least given me the phone number knowing I was there
on a temporary assignment. My response of, "Right away" had no
relation to any ability to make it so, I realized.

Searching Joyce's desk for the phone number produced nothing.
Had I known LeMonde was a French magazine, a casual perusal of
the New York phone directory would have proved useless. Much to
my surprise and relief, the number did appear, indicating a
branch office in Manhattan. My hope was that someone would be
foolish enough to be spending their Saturday afternoon there also.

25

Again, to my relief, a friendly voice responded to my call, although the information received dashed my rising expectations. The gentleman in question already left for the airport and his plane was due to depart for Paris in just five minutes -- big help, huh? Only those of you who have spent a first day on the job as a very eager-to-please secretary can appreciate the panic which overtook me at that point. An urgent undercurrent was noticeable in Mr. Kissinger's request, although he didn't specifically say it -- I knew.

I promptly called the airlines and explained that Mr. Henry Kissinger who worked for Governor Rockefeller (emphasizing Kissinger's name to impress her) needed to talk to Mr. LeMonde (not his name, of course) before the plane departed and that whatever she had to do to produce him was up to her. Now, I hadn't a clue if she knew of Mr. Kissinger, but left no room for questions that would expose my own initial ignorance.

She put me on hold and as the minutes ticked away, I thought how embarrassing it would be to fail this simple request. It would certainly be the first and last time I would be asked to substitute, if in fact, I didn't come through. The angels were with me, for it was only a matter of five minutes before a male voice with a very heavy French accent brought me back to earth. With sunshine in my voice, I immediately connected him with Mr. Kissinger.

I half expected Mr. Kissinger to come out of his office when he finished the call to pat me on the back for a job well done.

26

Certainly he knew his request was not going to be easily accom-
plished (or that was my assumption), and possibly only 10 minutes
passed from the time he first asked me to make the call until the
mission was completed. To my surprise, there was absolutely no
comment!

He remained in his office the entire day, making phone calls
(the easy ones naturally), some of which carried on nearly thirty
minutes, and then finally appeared only to announce he would be
leaving and that I, too, could be on my way. At first, I was
annoyed there was no mention of the terrific job I had done, no
thank you, no nothing. I relaxed my clinched jaw (because it
hurt) and thought if he didn't feel it was such a big deal,
neither would I. The day wasn't a complete loss for me -- I
made a little extra money, added a small bit of minutiae to my
store of knowledge, and evidently met a very famous man.

Later I learned that no comment from Mr. Kissinger was a
good sign. He had his way of letting you know he was displeased
and no comment meant that he was satisfied for the moment or he
was too frustrated to even discuss it.

Packing my belongings, I toddled on home wondering if I
would be asked to return. Kissinger never suspected the trauma
generated that day or on many subsequent occasions over the two
years of our relationship. It was always the same: he instructed;
I performed -- no questions asked.

27

From the beginning, I appreciated that he expected results and didn't care to be bothered with details of how, when or why. Without questioning his hows, whens or whys, I produced. Of necessity, I learned to function with imagination and independence, and proved to myself how much could be accomplished when given the chance. In a manner of speaking, we each had our own inviolate turfs. How else could a high school graduate from the Midwest with next to no knowledge of international affairs serve a Harvard professor, an adviser to Presidents?

Evidently, the day had not been traumatic for Kissinger, because I was asked to return indirectly through Nancy McGinnis. My job at ITT was full time, so I agreed to work evenings and occasionally weekends as an assistant to Nancy, typing issue papers for the Rockefeller Campaign and coordinating the accumulation of typing between other part-time assistants.

Mr. Kissinger divided his time between Harvard and New York, depending on what fire needed attention at the time, or what classes were in session at the University, but generally, he was in New York three or four days a week.

Nancy was his right hand man (oops) person in the New York office. When I met her during the days at the Transportation Authority, I had no idea we would soon be elbow-to-elbow in a Presidential campaign.

Initially, I just typed and typed my fingers to the bone. A list of issue papers to be completed before the convention in Miami was as long as your arm, in addition to constant updating

28

of statistical analyses showing how each contender was doing in
the race and how the people felt about important issues. Talk
about an education -- I learned more about the Far East, Russia,
South America, the Departments of State, and Defense, and the
National Security Council than I ever would have in school.
Nancy wrote, I typed, Kissinger edited, Nancy wrote again, I
typed again, Kissinger and Nancy edited again until each paper
was perfect.

It was amazing how Nancy could ever find anything on her
desk. Besides having piles of research information fed to her
by Marty Plummer who spent her entire day clipping newspapers
(and that was every major newspaper printed in the United States
and some foreign publications written in English), there were
issue papers in various stages of rewrite, one over-grown ashtray
overflowing with cigarette butts, an electric hair curling set,
several empty Coke bottles and then there was Nancy, dressed in
her chic designer clothes with ashes usually landing anywhere
from the ashtray to her lap and several places in between.

I truly enjoyed the excitement of last-minute deadlines and
soon got caught up in the importance of my involvement -- not
only had I never voted, my entire family (on both sides) were
staunch Democrats and here I was slaving away for the next
Republican President of the United States -- we hoped. The
irony of it tickled the hell out of me.

During the time I was Nancy's helper, I would catch occasional
glimpses of Kissinger as he arrived at the office. More often

29

than not, he rushed in, said a few words to everyone like "hello",
or at least that's what it sounded like, and moved directly to
his office trailed step for step by his secretary with notebook
in hand. There were times when events of the day went well so
he stopped to chat for more than a few minutes. He seemed so
light and easy on those days, like absolutely everything was in
order and moving along as planned.

I could tell when things weren't right by the way he walked --
very quickly, his head bowed, the lines in his forehead just a
bit deeper than usual, and the jaw set very firmly. His presence
at the door gave an immediate indication of his mood. That was
our cue to either support the seriousness of whatever was on his
mind, or be light and frivolous.

Sometimes he spent several hours behind closed doors dictating
letters to hundreds of citizens who offered their ideas and support
to the Governor. The class in intergovernmental affairs at Harvard,
taught by Kissinger, brought letters from former students around
the world. He was admired by so many of these people, and I was
astounded he could remember them all. Students left their homes,
studied under Mr. Kissinger and then returned to their own
country to share knowledge with their leaders.

All of these letters had to be answered promptly. Kissinger's
secretary came out of his office at the end of a long dictating
session looking as though she had been through a do-it-yourself
car wash clutching an array of notebooks, letters, postcards and
telegrams. Soon, she took a much needed vacation and who replaced
her? Me!!!

30

This time, although much better prepared, I couldn't imagine
myself sitting for three hours taking dictation. Knowing I would
fidget during the last three-quarters of the session and drive
Mr. Kissinger crazy, I needed a way out of what could be a
horrible experience for both of us.

As the mail piled higher and higher, I began to sort them
into categories: Kissinger-personal, Kissinger-business, Governor-
business, etc. I then role-played, responding to each letter
according to the categories. A brief perusal of the files helped
to establish the style used for each role.

When Mr. Kissinger "blew" in for his next nightly session,
he found over 100 letters neatly stacked on his desk ready for
his signature. Even the envelopes were prepared.

While he was reading the letters, I managed to get some of
my other work done, admittedly on pins and needles when his door
closed and it looked like one of those days where the mood wasn't
exactly festive.

After what seemed like hours, he quietly opened his door,
wandered to my desk and laid the mound of paper on the corner --
again without a word that I can remember, then back into his
inner sanctum.

I was afraid to look at the pile. Maybe he didn't like any
of the responses and spent the whole time rewriting. Maybe he
was annoyed at my presumptuousness to think I could attempt to
answer the letters. Maybe he didn't want to hurt my feelings
and call me in to dictate the whole mess from the beginning.

31

There was no use wondering about it, so I casually reached for the letters, not wanting anyone to know the terror that was sweeping over me.

As I leafed through the letters, my terror turned to joy. He had, in some cases, rewritten the entire response, but more often than not, he just added a personal handwritten note, or just simply signed the letter as it was. I wanted to jump up and down and shout to everyone what happened, but I stifled it and just smiled to myself. It felt good to have taken the chance and won, and it didn't matter that there was no apparent pat on the back.

That experience made me want to work even harder and more perfectly than ever before. His silence was a greater incentive to see what it would take to gain his personal acknowledgement. So each day after that, the challenge was on. As it turned out, I don't ever remember him specifically saying, "Sally, you are doing a great job." He had his own subtle ways of stroking my ego as I would later learn.

He carried such a great wealth of information and shared it with his students (whether it was a secretary, staff assistant, or a President of the United States) at a level of understanding they had at any given moment. He had his frustrations when someone didn't perform their best, or when they couldn't grasp the situation as easily as he thought they should, but the amazing thing was, he never (or hardly ever) showed his frustration directly to the student, unless he felt they could handle it.

32

He just couldn't accept mediocrity. This was just one of many
reasons why I admired him so much.

Soon thereafter, Nancy tried to persuade me to work at the
campaign full time as Mr. Kissinger's secretary. I hesitated
for several weeks, but after the episode with "crazy shorts" at
ITT, I decided it was time to make a change.

Working part time at campaign headquarters was one thing,
getting on the permanent payroll was another. Nancy Hanks, who
later became President Nixon's Director of the Arts and
Humanities, handled administrative duties for the Rockefeller
campaign offices. The office was divided into two sections:
foreign policy and domestic policy. Considerably more people
were on the domestic staff, but we shared the same office space --
one large bull pen with private offices on the periphery for
Kissinger, Nancy McGinnis, Nancy Hanks, and various domestic
assistants. Nancy Hanks objected strongly to my becoming a per-
manent employee on the Rockefeller staff, stating that I had not
attended an Eastern College, let alone a college at all, and
that I was not qualified under their hiring standards -- or more
truthfully, her perception of the qualities an employee should
have.

Evidently, as it was reported to me, Kissinger had his own
opinion of my qualifications based on personal experience. On
several occasions, I saw Nancy storming out of his office.
Kissinger finally put his foot down and told her if she didn't
put me on the payroll immediately, he would call the Governor

33

and take the matter up with him personally. (How about that for a pat on the back!!!) Shortly thereafter, papers were completed to fulfill Mr. Kissinger's wishes. Nancy and I never managed to develop a very warm relationship.

Several weeks later, I experienced a new facet of Mr. Kissinger's personality. He was spending the weekend on Martha's Vineyard with his children, Elizabeth and David. At the same time, he was to complete a paper for Brookings Institution. He asked Nancy to pack me off on the next flight with my portable typewriter.

The island was breathtaking -- peacefully surrounded by a rolling sea with sandy beaches and quaint little houses nestled in the hills. A hotel reservation was made for me, but first I met with Kissinger to pick up copy already prepared. He always wrote on yellow, legal paper for the first draft and I typed it double spaced with wide margins so changes could easily be made. Without passing go, and without collecting $200 worth of sigh-seeing, I began immediately on the article thinking if all went well, I would be able to do a little exploring before my return to New York the next day. Pages flowed from Mr. Kissinger and by the time he finished, I must have had 40 to 50 typed pages returned to him as a working draft.

Then it was time to wait -- wait for the changes. I didn't dare move from my room in case he sent the copy back. If I wasn't there, there would be hell to pay, so I sat peering out the window, watching people in the street going about their

34

business and finally resorted to catching a short nap.

Several hours later, the phone rang. It was Kissinger asking me to pick up the draft. I returned to my room and leafed through the pages noticing that my work was definitely cut out. He made thousands of changes -- some big, some little. About the middle of page three, there was a note which said, "see page 24." Moving on to page 24, I picked up several paragraphs and then another note said, "see back." Back of what, was my first thought? "Back" turned out to be the reverse of the page I was working on -- how simple! The entire page was filled with handwriting and his was not the easiest to decipher -- in fact, it was awful -- some of the transpositions I made from what he meant to say to what I thought he said, were hilarious. After struggling with that page (it looked like he was getting a cramp in his hand) I returned to complete page 24.

Believing the worst was over, I settled down to just plain, straight typing with an occasional minor insert here and there. I should have known better than to relax, because on page 30 there was another note, See page 57." "O.K.," said I, "On to page 57." This one was really a mess with circles around one half a sentence connected to a line dangling to the bottom of the page to attach it with yet another half sentence and back up to the original sentence where it all began. It was like a road map. There were many other changes along the way, but none as complicated as this major alteration.

Sally Austin-Dahler -Pas de Deux

35

Somehow in all that maze, I managed not to miss a tiny scribble that said, "back to page 3." At least two hours before, I was on page three and felt that was well behind me, but now I was shuffling to find page three again. I couldn't believe my eyes. Mr. Kissinger left off on page 57 in the middle of a sentence, and went back to page three to pick up the rest of the sentence after a comma. I actually had to stop work and pace the floor for a few minutes.

The man was a genius to have juggled through those pages without even losing a comma or his train of thought. It actually sounded better and was considerably more logically layed out -- even I understood it to a teeny-weeny degree. As tired as I was, my mind raced to the first day we met. Compared to the last few hours, my admiration and respect for this man moved through a million light years. The only thing I could say was, "Wow! how could anyone possibly describe this mind." I never attempted to answer the question, "What was he really like?" I didn't have the vocabulary to describe what I just experienced.

Returning to my typing, I finished the last draft about the time the sun peaked along the horizon and managed to catch only a couple hours of sleep which was no more or no less than what Kissinger had. He also worked the entire night improving the article at each stage of the draft.

The next morning before leaving the island, I joined the Kissinger at the swimming pool. Elizabeth and David were having a wonderful time and encouraged me to join them for a swim. As

36

much as I wanted, there was no time before my plane departed.
Kissinger and I made small talk about the weather for a few
minutes and then he asked me whether I thought his article was
too pedantic.

I pretended to be thinking about it, but in reality, panic
began to creep up. How was I going to explain that I didn't
know what pedantic meant? If I said, yes, would he be hurt?
If I said no, would he be happy? Would he ask me to explain
why I thought it was or wasn't? I just didn't know how to get
out of it gracefully so decided to take my medicine and tell the
truth. Politely, I said, "If I knew what the word meant, maybe
I could answer your question, Mr. Kissinger."

Without batting an eyelash, he very casually dismissed the
conversation -- he didn't even tell me what pedantic meant nor
did I want him to -- I was too embarrassed.

How I wished I knew what was going on in his mind at that
moment. He wasn't upset or frustrated, he just accepted the fact
that I didn't know, and it didn't seem important that he should
tell me. I told him to enjoy the rest of his stay and went
swiftly to my waiting cab.

For two years, I didn't even look the word up in the dic-
tionary -- it was as if the word would jump off the page and
bite me. It was another two years before I could include it in
my vocabulary comfortably. For the second time in 12 hours, my
respect grew for this man. I decided then that no request he

37

made would seem silly or unreasonable. If he asked, there must
be a good reason and it wasn't important for me to know his
reasons at the moment, they would become evident in time.

38

## Chapter Five

AT CAMPAIGN HEADQUARTERS IN ROCKEFELLER CENTER, we worked feverishly for months on issue papers that would become Rockefeller's contribution to the Republican Platform at the convention in Miami. Statistics were compiled for the benefit of the delegates who voted at the end of the week for one man to represent the Republican Party in the National Elections.

One night when everything had been delivered by the printer, we were frantically trying to straighten out the printer's mess -- pages were missing or collated in the wrong volume, bindings upside down, etc. We were literally up to our knees in unusable paper. Boxes for packing the completed books littered the floor, bodies were tired, stomachs growled and nerves were frazzled almost to the breaking point.

39

I suddenly noticed that I smelled smoke and began to quietly look for a misplaced cigarette butt. Soon everyone stopped their projects and joined me in the search. The odor became stronger and stronger and papers began to fly everywhere. Someone made the comment that we were in Rockefeller Center and the building couldn't burn -- it was built of granite and steel. All I saw were mounds of paper that we broke our fannies on the last few months, and whether or not the building burned, paper did, and I didn't think I was up to doing the entire job over again. So we continued digging to the bottom of every pile with an intense passion.

During the day, we stuffed trash into gunny sacks to make it easier for the night crew to remove them from the office. I suddenly remembered that several bags had already been picked up and charged out the door, down the hall, to follow a very strong suspicious odor. Spying three sacks that fortunately had not yet found their way down the chute, I noticed one of them was surrounded by a light grey-blue haze. I kept yelling, "I found it, I found it." Everyone knew I wasn't referring to religion. We soon emptied the entire bag on the floor and for sure, there were the remains of someone's ashtray amongst the crumpled papers that would at any moment burst into flame. We pounded the mess for the longest time to ensure not one trace of smoke could come back to haunt us.

That minor disaster set us back about an hour, but we managed to get the boxes filled and ready to move to Miami by

40

some stroke of luck.

About a week later, the troops prepared to leave for Miami.
Admittedly, butterflies began fluttering in my stomach. It felt
as though some pieces of the governmental gigsaw would finally
come together and I would get paid for *this* education.

With issue papers completed, supplies assembled, last
minute changes made, everyone looked forward to the two-hour
plane ride which forced us to sit and rest -- possibly even take
a cat nap.

The Rockefeller headquarters were established at the Hilton
Hotel, so we immediately found our offices and began to open
boxes, and boxes and more boxes. After everyting seemed in place,
four of us who were to share living quarters hopped in a rented
car and wandered around Miami briefly before finally locating
our temporary quarters. It was a beautiful apartment, decorated
in white French Provincial with two bedrooms on either side of a
large living and dining area. Beyond our window, we viewed an
inviting swimming pool which we never had the opportunity to
enjoy. Placed in the entry hall for all to see upon arriving,
was a huge poster of our opposition with the caption, "Would you
buy a used car from this man?" It was a reminder for us to keep
on our toes throughout the week.

Our apartment functioned only as a place to gather clean
clothes and occasionally take a relaxing shower since we spent
close to 80% of our time at the Hilton. It amazed me that
offices were set up almost overnight -- heavy wooden desks,

41

typewriters, and copy machines replaced beds and dressers.
Closets were filled with supplies, telephone lines lit up almost
as soon as the last connection was made -- we lacked nothing --
except sleep!

The week was filled with an intense intrigue unlike any-
thing I had ever seen. Mr. Kissinger met with various delegates
to exchange viewpoints regarding issues involved, and hopefully
conclude each meeting with committed votes for Rockefeller.
There were only so many hours in the day and it was impossible
to spend time with nearly 1000 delegates and still do justice to
the concerns everyone had in selecting the right man for the job.
Rockefeller's foreign policy background was impressive, and with
peace in Vietnam being the most important topic of discussion, no
one could match Kissinger's expertise. If one compared Nixon's
and Rockefeller's foreign policy backgrounds, to me, it seemed the
two men were not that far apart. The great difference that was
obvious in the Rockefeller camp, was that we had Kissinger.

I remember a particular delegation from California. One
participant was none other than Doctor Rossi of TV's Payton
Place. The door to the meeting room was ajar so I could watch
the meeting progress. I became so excited at being able to watch
Dr. Rossi's personal involvement, my face flushed and my hands
began to sweat. When the meeting ended, I hesitatingly, and for
the first and only time, approached Mr. Kissinger and whispered
that I would like to be introduced to Dr. Rossi. Having never
been face to face with a real live movie star, I didn't quite

42

know how to act. Rossi was very cordial, but after saying my hellos, I blew it. I actually leaned over and cupped my hands around his ear so no one could intercept my words and said, "I watch you every week on Payton Place." I then giggled like a 15 year old groupie and ran back to my office. By this time, my face was beet red and I was shaking all over. First of all, I couldn't believe I acted so silly -- I lost my cool!!! Not a decent piece of work came out of my typewriter the rest of the day. Kissinger was very understanding and didn't seem to mind my temporary disability.

As the week progressed, staff assistants who were assigned to attend various meetings being held in other parts of the hotel and even the other side of the city, returned with notes on how each State delegation seemed to be leaning in their votes for either Rockefeller, Nixon or Reagan. Kissinger listened and became extremely frustrated when reports weren't as favorable or as decisive as he thought they should be considering the time and energy spent convincing the delegates that Rockefeller was the only way to go. Papers were rewritten many times and I began to feel like a mole in my dark blue office. Hotel lighting was never designed for late-night typing.

I never got to the Convention Floor. Passes to the floor were available, but revisions to the platform kept me close to the office for nearly 14 hours each day. I managed to sneak down to the pool to expose my piqued body to the Miami sun, but

43

no sooner did I get oiled and comfortable than someone would
retrieve me for further duty.

Nomination night arrived and there was nothing to do but
pray and watch the proceedings. Governor Rockefeller invited
the entire staff, including secretaries, to his suite where at
least five television sets were operating -- each tuned to a
different network. The Convention Hall was so crowded, it was
frightening and looked extremely claustraphobic. You couldn't
see a spot for even one more body. The cameras closed in on
delegates who were trying to catch 40 winks and soon his private
space was being televised across the nation for all to see. The
outfits worn by some delegates looked like they were ready for a
Halloween party instead of the serious business of nominating a
Presidential candidate. One speech followed another acknow-
ledging important VIP's and setting Parliamentary Procedures for
voting.

The Governor shared himself with each person in the suite.
His confidence in the outcome of the nomination spread every-
where -- there wasn't a doubt in anyone's mind that he would
soon be called upon to represent the Republican Party as their
candidate for President of the United States. And I could say I
spent this momentus evening by his side.

The hours rolled by as roll call was taken and the votes
tallied. TV stations projected the winner of each state long
before the final votes were in. Periodically, a staff member
rushed in with the latest official head count. For awhile, our

44

chances looked fair, but it was nip and tuck all the way. We
counted on some States for Rockefeller support but the rash of
Nixon votes tallied were even greater. Very late that evening,
it looked as though the Governor couldn't regain a lead. Smiles
disappeared as discussions turned to what might have been done to
solidify delegates votes. The atmosphere was too depressing in
the Governor's suite and there was nothing I could do to cheer
myself up, let alone anyone else, so I returned to my office to
be alone. About 2:30 in the morning, I was gently awakened with
the news that the Governor lost the nomination and Nixon won.
Tears came to my eyes. My heart was borken for the Governor and
everyone who had given so freely of their talents and lives
during the past several months. I was told the Secret Service
Agents assigned to the Governor cried along with everyone else.
It was one of the sadest moments of my life.

The halls of the Hilton were deadly silent. No one wanted
to leave the scene, but there wasn't much to do, so a friend of
mine and I went for a walk along the beach. The water was jet
black and the absence of moonlight added to the depression. It
was frightening how inviting the dark ocean seemed as each wave
came closer and closer to my bare feet. I had to run in the
opposite direction because, at that moment, a part of me didn't
care if the waves swept me out to sea.

When I returned to my apartment, the poster that stared at
us each time we entered was crumpled into a large ball and thrown
carelessly into a corner. Not a soul slept peacefully that night,

45

each one searched themselves to see how they could have done better or what went wrong. The suffocating empathy we felt for the Governor was overwhelming.

Next morning came time to pick up the pieces and return to New York. Packing was done quietly. I couldn't help comparing the energy level to that of our departure only a week ago from New York. Each of us returned to our respective homes for a long weekend of rest. I didn't want to think about what I would do next, it was just too soon. Not even California appealed to me.

The day after our return, friends invited me to sail with them to Martha's Vineyard, this time under considerably different circumstances. I accepted, thinking it would be a good chance to pull myself together. The trip lasted four days and three nights, during which time, four of us spent many hours re-enacting the campaign, discussing our next moves, and just plain soaking up the warm rays of the sun. By the time we reached the island, spirits had improved and it seemed as though we were almost ready to go at it again -- not really knowing what "it" would be.

46

## Chapter Six

MOVING TO CALIFORNIA AGAIN APPEARED on the top of my list of possible choices after the great loss in Miami had been accepted. The timing seemed perfect to me, but not so perfect to Mr. Kissinger. Nancy McGinnis asked if I would stay awhile longer on the Governor's staff to assist her in putting the pieces of the campaign together for the Rockefeller archives. Every issue paper down to the shortest John Q. Public letter had to be indexed and assembled into binders. It was an incredibly difficult task to find a place for everything -- a place that would be obvious to someone looking for a particular item five or ten years later. Nancy and I were the only two remaining on the foreign policy staff. We worked together well and always had a good time no matter how great the pressure.

47

Mr. Kissinger began receiving strange phone calls from a man by the name of Dwight Chapin. I never heard of him and his secretary wouldn't give me a clue as to the nature of his calls. Mr. Chapin persisted in his effort to speak with Mr. Kissinger but received no help from me as to where and when the event might take place as long as I didn't know what the man wanted or who he was. It wasn't that I was being overly protective of Kissinger, but he received hundreds of phone calls. In many cases, I was able to assist the caller but only when they communicated their problem.

After three or four unsuccessful attempts, there was the final call that shook my awareness -- it was from a "White House Operator" who told me Mr. Chapin was President-Elect Nixon's Appointments Secretary. I thought it strange it was a man (being the chauvanist that I am), but passed the call on to Nancy and returned to my project not giving the call another thought. At least I now knew who Mr. Chapin was.

Several weeks passed during which time, Mr. Kissinger talked with Nixon's staff on broader subjects than just Vietnam. I recall it was late in November when an actual meeting between Mr. Kissinger and the President-Elect took place. Kissinger never considered that a position with the new Administration would be offered to him -- at best, if the air between Rockefeller and Nixon cleared, there would be a position for Rockefeller and Kissinger would certainly be close by Rockefeller's side.

(Nancy explained to me later that Mr. Nixon's staff approached Kissinger in Miami, long before the final votes were in, wanting

48

the famed professor to consider working for Nixon. It was out of the question at the time, since Nixon hadn't yet won the nomination, but now that the National Elections were over and Mr. Nixon was indeed President-Elect of the United States, he continued to pursue his efforts to have Mr. Kissinger in his corner.)

Negotiations continued at the Pierre Hotel. Several floors had been turned into Presidential headquarters where again desks, typewriters, and copy machines replaced beds and nightstands. The outcome of the discussions between Nixon and Kissinger didn't concern me since my long awaited move to California was imminent. It was only a matter of finishing the archival records, and then I would be free to go. Mr. Kissinger, did in fact, accept Nixon's offer and I was happy for him. After all, his expertise was invaluable to any President.

The following week, I received an invitation to the press conference where the President-Elect would announce his choice for National Security Adviser. When I arrived, there were so many cameras and press passes being flashed, it made me dizzy. I watched people filtering into the room and wondered who they were and tried to look dignified and professional as if I were one of the crowd.

As the time drew closer for the President-Elect to appear, the room began to look and feel like a packed locker room. Everyone was jockeying for the perfect spot, stepping on toes and poking elbows here and there. Finally someone solemnly approached the microphone and said in an extremely serious voice, "Ladies and

49

gentlemen, the President-Elect of the United States." The entire
room filled with cheers and clapping as The Man walked confidently
and proudly to the front of the room grining from ear to ear.

When the noise subsided, the President-Elect revealed why he
had gathered us together. He was extremely pleased to have Henry
Kissinger as his National Security Adviser. After a brief rundown
of Kissinger's accomplishments, the President introduced him to
the audience.

I felt a rush of tears coming on -- tears of happiness for
Kissinger, tears of pride for myself, and tears of sadness that we
would soon part. He gave a brief acceptance speech, the two men
shook hands and another round of cheers and clapping began.

During the press conference, the TV cameras swept across the
room several times. Watching the news later that evening, I saw
myself sitting in the audience looking much too serious. I
giggled to myself and wondered if all those folks out in TV land
recognized me as "the Anacin Girl," but on second thought, only
a mother could pick out her youngest in that crowd.

Back at Rockefeller Center to plod through my archives, I
began mentally planning my trip to San Francisco. It seemed an
appropriate time to disengage from my exciting world of politics.

Three days later, Nancy called me into her office and said
that I was to go over to the Pierre immediately and help Mr.
Kissinger. Evidently he sent three secretaries running out of his
office in total frustration and tears, and wanted me there to
keep some semblence of order around him -- at least he needed

50

someone who didn't cry when the going got tough. He was demanding, and for anyone not having the advantage of being broken in gently to his ways as I had, it was sometimes too much to ask. Again, I said, "wait a minute, we should be finished with this project in another day or so and its time for me to leave New York!!!!"

Nancy tried to console me with the fact that it would only be until Mr. Kissinger moved to Washington in another few weeks. Reluctantly, I packed a few essentials and reported to the Pierre Hotel.

For the next several weeks, my intention was that the President-Elect and Mr. Kissinger would be able to leave New York quickly and efficiently with no loose ends to worry about and then, I too, could depart with a clear conscience and live happily ever after on the beaches and in the mountains of my fairyland.

As he settled into the Pierre, his first duty was to gather a staff of capable men and women to carry out the duties of the National Security Council. He needed an assistant who could be a master juggler. Pinning Kissinger down in Washington, New York or Boston required special talents. That someone was Larry Eagleberger, an aggressive, slightly nervous young man willing to spend the hours needed to keep the crazy logistics of Kissinger's schedule in order. Larry, working out of Washington, arranged meetings and interviews to take place somewhere along the East Coast and coordinated Mr. Kissinger's whereabouts between me and his secretary in Boston (she happened to be Sally Cox, daughter of the Special Prosecutor in the Watergate investigations).

51

During the early days at the Pierre, one of the hardest lessons for me to learn was the proper use of military titles. Military personnel manned the switchboard, military personnel served as aides to the President, military personnel served as drivers in the car pool, military personnel met with Kissinger often -- they were always around. I was forever calling Lieutenant Generals, Lieutenant, or Lieutenants, Majors.

One man I particularly remembered was General Andrew Goodpaster, Deputy Commander of U.S. Forces in Vietnam. He had at least four stars and was a very quiet, unobtrusive man. You wouldn't have perceived his power by his presence in our office. I was available to assist him, but he seemed to manage well on his own. I had the feeling he didn't want to impose upon me and he never flinched when I called him Lieutenant.

The switchboard operators who were enlisted military boys (indicating they were younger than I) tried to teach me the ranks for each branch of the service. A Captain in the Army wasn't the same as a Captain in the Navy, and so on. It was useless, so they finally settled the issue by telling me to call everyone "sir". That seemed to solve the problem for all concerned.

One day, Mr. Kissinger left the office for the airport to attend to business in Washington. Not more than 10 minutes after he was gone, the switchboard called to say they had a radio patch for me and would call back soon. How exiting, I thought. They were going to give me a present or momento of our friendship. I

52

was truly touched. Several minutes later the call came and I asked if they wanted me to come to their office and get my patch or would they deliver it. There was a moment of silence, a brief, controlled chuckle, and then a short explanation that a radio patch was not something I could hold in my hand -- it was Mr. Kissinger calling me from his car. Did I feel silly!

My instructions were to press the special button on my telephone receiver so Mr. Kissinger could hear me. After saying hello, I was to say "Over" and release the button so he could speak. Simple! They went over the routine again very slowly and then asked if I was ready. I must have sputtered something like, "Yes", but not before racing again through the order of my instructions. I did everything bass-ackwards, releasing the button when I spoke, beginning the conversation with "Over" and depressing the button to hear Mr. Kissinger. This obviously was not going to work since neither one of us could hear the other. I could sense Kissinger's frustration as did the switchboard operator who was still on the line. He interrupted and explained to Kissinger that the connection was poor and to stand by for another try. My hand was shaking as I waited for the phone to ring. The operator went over the procedure again with me very patiently. This time, I figured I could handle it so we tried again. We were successful the second time with me cutting Mr. Kissinger off only once before I heard his "Over". Actually, I could feel that he didn't have the system down any more than I, but he had more practice in making it look good.

53

The entire crew on the switchboard and I laughed for days about my "radio patch", and whenever they saw me, they pointed to their shoulder, looked at me questioningly -- like "where's your patch?", and then laughed. I appreciated the light-hearted humor.

The transition pace resembled the hustle and bustle of a bee hive. Everyone scurried from one office to another at such speed and determination, one needed to be in excellent physical condition to keep up. One group did nothing but search for loyal Republicans to fill highly competitive and highly paid political positions.

These were non-Civil Service jobs which included Under Secretaries, Assistant Secretaries and hundreds of other positions scattered throughout Washington, D.C. and the rest of the United States as well. I never felt the system allowed for putting the best man on the job, but at least it was the best Republican who had shown a certain amount of dedication during the hard months of campaigning.

It was interesting to watch as new computer printouts were delivered daily and staff members perused them with a fine-toothed comb. I'll admit, it didn't look like an easy job.

Mr. Kissinger selected a secretary to take my place in Washington for which I was forever thankful. She spent several years in various positions throughout the Government and knew her way around Washington which was a considerable asset to Mr. Kissinger. Two weeks before Inauguration Day, with a good

54

portion of the NSC staff selected and ready to take their places,
a phone call came from Nancy again upsetting my plans to head
west. At the last moment, someone informed Mr. Kissinger that he
was entitled to have two secretaries -- one for appointments and
related matters and another to handle personal needs. I saw it
coming and before Nancy could go into her speech about it only
taking a couple of weeks (ha! ha!) just to get Mr. Kissinger
settled in his new home, arrange his files, respond to the
thousands of congratulatory letters (again!), I fought hard and
flatly said I wouldn't go under any circumstances. The following
week, or whenever Mr. Kissinger absolutely didn't need me in New
York, I was leaving. I guess I didn't convince her.

Possibly Nancy had presumed by this time, that I had
developed a soft spot for Mr. Kissinger and knew he would have
apoplexy if someone didn't organize his files and personal mail
and at least spend some time with the other secretary telling her
all the things she needed to do to make life easier on her (or
him, as the case may be). The promise of a considerable raise
in pay helped me make my final decision. So again, I agreed to
postpone my departure for a few weeks and began packing for yet
another trip -- this time a more permanent one for Mr. Kissinger
at least.

There was no time for me to pack any personal belongings.
Assuming I would only be in Washington for a month, at best, I
left my apartment intact, packed a couple of suitcases with the
bare essentials, and was off on a new adventure.

55

Several going away parties for Mr. Kissinger took place, one of which I attended at Nancy's apartment. I jokingly asked Kissinger during the evening if I would take a cab to the bureaucracy or would I walk? The look on his face showed a moment's terror that possibly he made a serious mistake, and then he realized that certainly I was jesting. I was told we would have offices in the West Basement of the White House. My visualization was of a dark, dingy, damp, cold, secret hideout (my over-developed imagination came from too many movies I suppose), and I insisted on bringing my life-sized poster of Steve McQueen, just to add a bit of sunshine. The answer was an emphatic -- "NO!!". Well, I thought, I couldn't have everything and supposed I could make the best of it for a month.

So there I was, flying to Washington -- this time, hoping the assignment would be quick and easy.

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## Chapter Seven

THE BUS FINALLY RESCUED ME FROM THAT CHILLY street corner on
January 20, 1969. As I timidly asked the bus driver to let me
off at the White House, the words choked in my throat. He nodded
and without a second look, proceeded toward 1600 Pennsylvania
Avenue.

This was my first glimpse of our Nation's Capitol and
although it was Inauguration Day, the streets were relatively
quiet. It surprised me that traffic wasn't bumper to bumper.
The scenery was such a contrast to New York that I began to take
a more serious view of my new surroundings.

The ride lasted a brief 20 minutes. I got off at the corner
of 17th and Pennsylvania in front of the Old Executive Office
Building. The EOB (as we called it) was a vast granite structure
that took seventeen years to build, from 1872 to 1889. Originally,

57

it housed the State, War and Navy Departments, and later became just the State Department. Late in the 1940's, State moved to new quarters in another section of Washington. During Eisenhower's Administration, historical preservationists succeeded in saving the building from destruction. Because of its four-feet thick granite exterior walls and two-feet thick interior walls, it would have cost more to demolish than the original building costs. The French Renaissance inspired design did not satisfy everyone's architectural palate. Whether one saw it as ugly or beautiful, ostentatious or graciously imposing, it remains as a powerful landmark. Its high ceilings, marble fireplaces, meticulous detailing, wrought-iron spiral staircases, its balconies and columns, and the echoes of the past in its long, marble-tiled corridors all contributed to making it a very special place to anyone working there.

I was delightfully impressed as I walked around the EOB to the South Entrance of the White House where I was told to enter.

The "entrance" was an elaborate black iron gate. Stationed to one side was a little hut resembling in size only, the fishing shanties I remembered as a child in Michigan. The guards stationed there controlled traffic to the South Portico entrance of the White House and to West Executive Avenue which separated the White House and the EOB.

It was only a matter of seconds before the guard found my name listed on his clipboard. He guided me through the gate with a wave of his arm. Sensing my reluctance and unsureness as to

58

where to go, he pointed to a door of the white building on my
right indicating that was the West Basement. At this point, I
still had not had a good front view of the White House, and was
a bit confused. My distorted recollection from history class was
that the dome in the center of the Capitol building was the White
House so I expected something much larger. I felt sure I was in
the wrong place. West Executive Avenue was a block long, lined
with black limosines parked neatly on 45 degree angles -- most
of them placed close to the door I was to enter. Other cars were
parked there, but it was the black limos that caught my eye.

Upon entering the West Basement, another guard sitting behind
a large heavy desk greeted me. He seemed to know who I was and
why I was there and pointed to a door behind him indicating that
was where I would find Mr. Kissinger's office. Well at last -- a
familiar name, I was home, this was family. I hoped my sigh of
relief was inaudible, but the look on my face wasn't to convincing.
He smiled and wished me good luck. (I wondered what he meant by
that, showing my suspicious nature).

I walked into a very large room that held about five or six
heavy wooden desks and to my surprise, no one raced over with open
arms saying how happy they were to see me. Kissinger wasn't to
be seen and everyone was fluttering around like blips on a computer.
I approached one young man about 30 years old who looked rather
harmless, mentioned my name, asked for Mr. Kissinger and said I
was reporting for duty.

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The man was Larry Eagleberger, Kissinger's assistant, whom I had spoken with many times on the phone from New York. Larry seemed a bit annoyed by my unexpected intrusion and a bit confused as to what to do with me. He was nervous and made me feel unwanted and unneeded -- exactly the opposite of my expectations. His explanation to his surprise was that no one expected me until later that week. He offered to call me in a couple of days, since there was no desk for me and, as it was, Kissinger's files hadn't arrived yet. I wanted to say, "You must be kidding? You meant I flew down here, froze my tuchas off last night, stood on that miserably cold street corner for more than one half hour waiting for the bus, and now you tell me to come back in a few days?" That's what I wanted to say -- my expression showed it, but my better sense told me this was not the time to expose them to my temper. Besides, he had already returned to his paperwork and I got the distinct impression the conversation would remain one-sided.

I had no idea Inauguration Day could be so traumatic for anyone except the incoming and outgoing Presidents. As I later learned, the Inauguration ceremony (to which I was not invited) was peanuts compared to the changing of the guard behind the scenes. On that day, the new Administration moved into their offices, were expected to be completely functional and able to run the country the moment they walked in the door. Multiply my insecurity times thousands of others in the same situation, each one looking toward the other for support, and you have a day that would make Excedrin's stock soar to incredible heights.

60

William Rogers, our new Secretary of State, had already made some public and private comments that frazzeled Kissinger's nerves, and he was compelled to repair the damage before things got out of hand. I heard he left the viewing stand during the parade to handle the annoying business. This first clash was only the beginning of a stormy relationship between the two men that continued the entire time I was in Washington.

So that was my first day! I didn't have the ambition or the energy to search out a good spot to view the parade and with all the blue uniforms around, it didn't seem appropriate to take a tour of my new home away from home. So I made my way back to 17th and Pennsylvania and back to the "ice house" to wait for a call from Larry indicating they were ready for me. Traffic had picked up considerably and this time, I felt much like a salmon going upstream to spawn.

Several days elapsed before the call came from Larry, and during that time, I impatiently waited for my furniture to be delivered by the cut-rate moving company I hired. My decision was to at least have my belongings with me, if only for a month. The movers had a flat tire on the other side of town and would have been there forever unless someone (who, me?) rescued them by paying the bill. If I wanted my furniture, that was my only choice. All the inactivity of waiting those days made me edgy. My roommates were very understanding and continued to provide entertainment, helpful tips about Washington and general good-natured

61

support. They were thankful to have some furniture in their empty house as well.

Finally, Larry called. My second venture was considerably more relaxed. The guards, after my last visit, instructed me to report to the EOB to have my picture taken for my "White House Pass" which would allow me to come and go without having to be cleared by Mr. Kissinger's office. Having taken care of photos and dozens of signatures, I was ready to begin work, so it was back to the bullpen in the West Basement.

My White House world was generally limited to the West Basement which included Kissinger's office, the Mess (or dining hall) and the Situation Room which was occupied by military personnel who spent their days and nights sending and receiving telegrams and coded messages all over the world. Each morning a briefing package of world events was compiled by the 'Sit' Room and delivered to Mr. Kissinger's aide. It was edited and then passed on to me or one of the other secretaries for typing before being presented to the President by Mr. Kissinger. The National Security Council met in a conference room next to the Sit Room.

Occasionally, my travels took me to the second floor of the West Wing to offices occupied by Rose Mary Woods, Bob Haldeman, John Ehrlichman, Dwight Chapin, the Cabinet Room or the Roosevelt Room, but my contact, in most cases, was limited to their personal secretaries or aides.

The Press Office was located between the West Wing and the Central White House. The swimming pool was reconstructed to

62

provide much needed space for the press corps assigned to the
White House.

Mr. Kissinger and Larry Eagleberger each had private offices
(with windows) while four secretaries and usually two staff
assistants shared the bullpen outside their door (sans windows).
Joan Blanchard, Kissinger's appointments secretary and I worked
together to organize his day. In the beginning, we exchanged
information -- I gave her background on Kissinger's personal
habits and she told me about Washington in general -- where to go,
how to get there, who the Assistant Secretaries of State and
Defense were that Mr. Kissinger would deal with, etc.

Muriel Hartly worked for Alexander Haig who was, at that time,
a Lieutenant, but soon wormed his way up the back stairs of the
Situation Room into Larry Eagleberger's office picking up a star
for each of those steps. Laura was the third secretary and was
assigned to the staff assistants to Mr. Kissinger. I thought my
shorthand was good, Laura could do a two-way conversation and not
miss one word and her shorthand looked just like the books -- each
symbol was as perfect as it could be. Anyone could read her notes
and she, generally, could read everyone's chicken scratches when the
notetakers couldn't.

Living in the basement was not what I expected and not at all
dark or dingy. Compared to other countries I visited during my
stay with Mr. Kissinger, the White House was rather sterile. The
halls and offices were clean and neat as a pin, but simply
decorated with painted walls rather than orante wallpaper. Ollie

63

Atkins, the White House Photographer, usually had a display of recent photos of Presidential events in the halls of the West Basement that added a bit of color to the austere surroundings.

The Mess, was off limits to the secretaries and depending on the GS rating, there were two dining rooms. One for the Haldeman's and Ehrlichmans', the other for lower level staff. All the food was prepared by military personnel, most of whom were enlisted men in the Navy. Occasionally, secretaries could finagle a hamburger or something simple when working late and everything else was closed in the area. They weren't the best hamburgers in the world, but at least it was sustenance in a pinch. As a matter of fact, the entire menu was mediocre, and one didn't eat in the Mess except in an emergency or to impress outside guests.

The National Security Staff had offices in the EOB and as one could imagine, there was a steady stream of bodies moving back and forth between the two buildings.

I did participate in an early morning White House tour re-
served for Congressional constituents and friends of governmental
employees. This tour went through the Blue Room (which Mrs.
Kennedy redecorated), the Green and Red Rooms, China Room, Map
Room, State Dining Room and the East Room where church services,
large press conferences, and many evening social events took place.

It was incredible to me that the White House staff could keep
up with the housecleaning. It seemed like everything was always
in place, shining and bright, but you never saw the cleaning staff.

64

(the same was true for my own office. Being there late at night, I never saw a vacuum cleaner, although each morning, everything was spick and span). The urge to touch the beautiful draperies, or sit in every antique chair was overwhelming. Multiply my own desire to touch and feel by thousands of people viewing these same rooms during the year, and who gave in to their urges, and it became expensive keeping everything from losing its original lustre.

Several times during my four-year stay, I competed for space along the periphery of the South Lawn to watch the arrival of a foreign visitor, or other special ceremonies. Sometimes the arrival was by car, but occasionally by helicopter. The pomp and circumstance always brought tears to my eyes.

Once I received an invitation to attend a cocktail party at Blair House. This beautiful mansion across the street from the White House was used as overnight quarters for very special Presidential guests and for special dinners given by the President, Cabinet Secretaries or Congressional leaders. It definitely gave one the feeling of living in early Colonial days and was decorated to an historical "T".

Since I wasn't invited to many politically social events in Washington, it seems appropriate to mention my only other important party. Each year the White House Correspondents throw a fabulous black-tie dinner party. I knew one fairly young reporter, whose name I have forgotten, in a very casual way. It surprised me when I received an invitation to the 1969 Annual soiree. It was held at the Hilton Hotel for about 300 or more guests -- maybe two

65

handfuls that I knew personally. Mr. Kissinger was there seated
much closer to the dais than I. There was only one person I knew
at my table, aside from the reporter who invited me, and that was
the President's pilot, Col. Albertazzie. The Colonel entertained
me and made sure my evening was a success. I still have the
invitation tucked away in my trunk of mementos.

I particularly like President Nixon's description of the White
House. He said it wasn't the biggest or the finest, but it was the
best house. I truly believe no one could help but feel the pre-
sence of past President's on down to the last secretary -- a
presence that hightened one's awareness of the responsibility and
difficulty of being on the inside trying to relate to those on the
outside.

I often felt isolated and overly protected behind those iron
gates. I was safe and warm when others were tormented and dis-
traught because they didn't share my confidence in the President's
and Kissinger's ability to lead us through Vietnam or all the
other crises that appeared each day.

There were definite advantages to being on the inside --
knowing what was happening beforehand, believing that I was play-
ing an important role in making history -- maybe making up for my
lack of interest during my youth. Everyone had their personal
and private reasons for being at the White House and it certainly
was a place one could fulfill any dream.

My favorite treasures are pictures of past Presidents given
to me by the President and Mrs. Nixon each of the four years I

66

remained at the White House. Ollie Atkins took separate pictures
of the President and Mr. Kissinger in their respective offices,
looking out the beautiful French windows, deep in thought -- both
are warmly autographed.

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## Chapter Eight

DESCRIBING MY DAY IS DIFFICULT, since no two days were ever alike, Certainly, there were recurring duties, but the main theme was "be flexible." Just as I would get ahead with my filing, something more important needed to be done, or I would get tied up with monitoring a half hour phone call. Mr. Kissinger insisted on having calls monitored to ensure that any decisions made or promises agreed to would be clearly understood and carried out. I soon developed my own style of shorthand which would devastate my high school teacher. It was important to transcribe these notes at the end of each day or for certain there would be twice as much the next day and I would never catch up.

My day began about 7:00 to 7:30 a.m. -- always one step ahead of Mr. Kissinger. Depending on where I was living, it might mean getting up at 5:30 to get ahead of the commuter traffic. Since I

68

was the early bird, the closest parking space outside the iron
gates was usually available. In one year, I never managed to
beat General Haig more than a couple of times -- I swore he slept
overnight because he was always there when I left in the evening,
sometimes later than 11:00 p.m.

My first duties were to straighten Kissinger's desk, remove
the previous day's mail, rearrange dozens of folders and issue
papers into neat piles, make certain the guards had Mr. Kissinger's
schedule, and begin typing the President's morning briefing. Sounds
rather simple, but it was no easy job keeping track of all the
pieces of paper stretching from one corner of Kissinger's desk to
the other.

In the beginning, Mr. Kissinger received thousands of con-
gratulatory letters, again from many of his past students, plus
friends, citizens, acadamicians, etc. It took weeks to respond to
all of them and it was much more tedious trying to be original the
second time around. I referred to the letters written in New York
to make sure he didn't repeat himself.

One of my more enjoyable assignments was decorating his home.
(My feelings were ruffled when I later read in a newspaper article
that the decorating job wasn't exactly first class). In the first
place, it wasn't meant to be a showroom and secondly, I tended to
be more conservative spending someone else's money. Mr. Kissinger
never really took much of an interest in his surroundings, or at
least he never seemed to. In that sense, he was very easy to
please.

Sally Austin-Danier - Pas de Deux

69

His home was on a windy road that faced Rock Creek Park and reminded me of the quaint brick row houses in Boston. The surrounding trees and open space provided a very peaceful setting.

The living room was very large with French windows across the entire front. Heavy mouldings around the ceiling and windows added to its character. Most of Kissinger's furnishings were in his favorite colors of blue and white, and I thought the antique satin floor-to-ceiling draperies with a dark blue border and matching tiebacks were attractive and suited his personality. The wallpaper was, what I called, Early American -- light beige with Liberty Bells or the American Eagle pattern repeated throughout the house.

The dining room was simply furnished with a table, buffet and eight chairs. Since his meals were either served from the White House mess, a local restaurant or at private dinner parties around town, his kitchen was not well stocked.

Upstairs, there was a bedroom, den and two baths. His modern teak, executive-type desk gazed through the blue-green casement draperies to the sunny, green garden beyond another set of French doors. He had many books and personal art objects that really gave his home more warmth.

I remember one morning Mr. Kissinger came to the office mumbling something about the bathroom light not working and I

70

noticed he hadn't shaved. During the day, I visited the house and found the only thing wrong was a burnt out lightbulb. It was very simple to replace, as most people know, but for a man whose mind doesn't focus on such mundane things, it was considerably more frustrating. Some men fall apart when it comes to making a decision about whether to use a hammer or a screwdriver. Sit them down at a table to plan world affairs and they are in their element. I never expected Kissinger to be a superman and rather enjoyed playing "mother".

Other duties included writing all his personal checks, maintaining his household account and balancing his checkbook. If I was one penny off and couldn't for the life of me find the mistake, I rushed to the bank and made them help me find the error. This only happened a couple of times. However, the bank was never happy trying to find a needle in the haystack. They tried to convince me it wasn't that important. I convinced them it was since it wasn't my checkbook and next month it could be $10.00 and the next $100,000 and so on.

A regular weekly duty I didn't much care for was seeing that Mr. Kissinger had clean laundry. Not that I personally had to do it, but it was a matter of seeing that it got done.

A White House car picked Kissinger up early in the morning, and about once a week, the driver would be lugging a white duffle bag behind him. Refusing to walk the two blocks to the laundry carrying the duffle bag behind me, I would call for a White House car to drive me. I had to peak around corners to make sure no one

71

was looking before I made a mad dash to the car. My timing wasn't always perfect and occasionally I met one of the staff members whose smirk was always detectable. When I left Mr. Kissinger, my replacement, Julie Pinneau, was instructed to take the laundry back to the Sit Room and sort out the socks. It seems Kissinger had a stroke every morning trying to find a matching blue or black stocking. So she dumped the bag out on the conference table that was used for National Security Council meetings, tied the pairs of socks together and returned everything to the dufflebag.

Occasionally, if I had the time, I went to his home, sorted, folded and put everything neatly away for him. In his rush to get put together each morning, it wasn't long before the socks were separated and he became frustrated.

As more and more of Kissinger's personal life began to fall into place, I became more involved in the preparation of NSC daily correspondence and thought less and less of moving to California. Each memo had a specific format which everyone in the Government followed. The top right hand corner had the date, then to the far left you would find "TO", "FROM", "SUBJECT". Very simply done, to the point, and not hard to learn for a beginner, nor hard to follow for the reader. Fortunately, I didn't get involved in filing any of the NSC material. The NSC had an entire office specifically set up to maintain all correspondence called the Secretariat.

On many occasions, Mr. Kissinger would have lunch meetings in his office. I particularly remember his Thursday lunches with Elliot Richardson, Under Secretary of State at the time. Mr.

72

Richardson was a wonderful man, always taking time to express a very friendly hello, and in my book, that was important. It was a rare trait in Washington. I would call him early Thursday morning to take his lunch order so by the time he arrived that afternoon, lunch would be prepared and ready to be delivered. Many times Mr. Kissinger would be called at the last minute to see the President, so lunch had to be delayed. Sometimes this happened just as the mess boys were carrying the trays in. We sent them back asking that they keep it warm for a later delivery. This didn't make many points. They soon caught on to the routine and wouldn't even begin to prepare lunch until they saw the whites of Mr. Kissinger's eyes.

I dreaded the "tea and coffee" meetings. Normally I went to the mess and delivered the goodies myself on heavy, silver trays. I managed to spill the entire cream pitcher all over the coffee table on my second try and thereafter, pleaded with the mess boys to do the honors. How embarrassing to have to clean up while Mr. Kissinger and Secretary Richardson were pressed for time and really didn't feel comfortable talking about sensitive world matters with me mopping up the cream.

The brief practice I had at the White House serving tea prepared me for higher duty. During heavy Vietnam negotiations, Mr. Kissinger met periodically with the Soviet Ambassador Anatoly Dobrynin. No one knew of the meetings that took place between the two men and they wanted to continue discussions without the usual press interference and second guessing. So one day, it was

73

decided they would meet at Mr. Kissinger's home. I went over
early to prepare the tea and cookies, trying to be creative in
cutting the lemons, as if I thought they would be the center of
attraction.

When Ambassador Dobrynin arrived, that was my cue to leave,
but not before I got a good handshake from him. I was terribly
impressed at his friendliness and wished I could have turned my-
self into a little fly in order to evesdrop on these two powerful
men. The Ambassador also had a very strong sense of humor and it
would have been wonderful to watch them banter about. Alas, my
job was to serve the tea and then perform my great disappearing
act.

One of the more helpful things I did for Mr. Kissinger was
to type out his schedule of the day's events each evening so he
would know what the following day was going to be like and could
prepare accordingly. This schedule covered appointments in and
out of the office, whom he would see and for how long, background
on the person if he wasn't already familiar -- all placed in a
folder along with any other material pertinent to his meeting.

Kissinger enjoyed the ballet and was a personal friend of
George Balanchine. On one particularly horrible day with the
events of Vietnam draining 90% of everyone's energy, Kissinger
had ballet tickets for the evening. He always wanted to know
exactly what he would see so I attached a brief note to his
tickets. It wasn't ten minutes after I put the note and tickets
on his desk when there came a roar from his office. All the