LITMIR.BIZ

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went to the video store and rented Spartacus, Cleopatra, and a documentary about the Romans. The diorama at le musée Carnavalet fascinated him, a depiction of the city in Roman times, and the artifacts, especially the pirogue, a long, narrow canoe hollowed from a single tree trunk. “Look! It says Parisii! That’s why it’s called Paris!” I loved seeing light bulbs go off in his head. Maybe, I thought, maybe he’s finally into something. I could see it all – history to geography, geography to architecture, geometry, art. Never much of a museumgoer, thanks to Paulie I was becoming one. I smiled, thinking Lucie would approve.

      In August Diane and I left the children with Mme. Colbert for the better part of a week and drove to the Normandy coast, staying at a hotel carved out of the rock of le Mont St. Michel. Then we drove to the American Cemetery on the bluff overlooking Omaha Beach. I was overwhelmed by the serenity of the place, and its size – row upon row upon row of crosses in the cropped green fields. The scene struck me as incongruous, even sacrilegious – a clean, tidy remembrance of what is gruesome and bloody and chaotic. Although, I thought, it is right to comfort those who remain, to fashion a memory we can bear. And in its vastness, at least, it is faithful to the disturbing truth. I didn’t mention this to Diane, who, I was pleased, seemed to be enjoying the trip.

      SHORTLY AFTER OUR RETURN, one day Diane greeted me with a big hug. “Guess what! Daddy’s quit Chase! He’s going to start his own Savings and Loan!”

      “That’s amazing! I always thought he was a lifer.”

      “You don’t know him like I do. I’m not at all surprised.”

      “Tell me more.”

      “He and a couple of others, it’s all set up, they have the approvals, the charter and everything. Syosset Federal Savings & Loan Association – sounds good, don’t you think?”

      “Here he goes, from one of the world’s biggest banks to one of the smallest. Quite a turnabout. I give him credit.”

      “He told me a while back he was thinking of something like this. All the changes in the business, he says it’s a great chance to get on the ground floor.”

      “He’ll have to put up a fair amount of equity.”

      Diane smiled. “Mother said he negotiated a tremendous severance.”

      “How many years has he been with them?”

      “Nearly forty. He joined them right out of business school.”

      “Well, give him my best. I look forward to talking with him about it.”

      The more I thought about it, I wasn’t so surprised. Peter Archer had a nose for money and a talent for making it. He certainly didn’t need any more – they were very well off, having multiplied their inherited wealth many times over. It had to be the challenge. Some guys buy Ferraris, he buys a bank. Personally, I didn’t care what Peter Archer did for a living, but I had detected some static between us as I grew more critical of deregulation, the banking industry, the primacy of money. This might be good, I thought, a different side of him – competitive, risk-taking. In effect he’s becoming a small businessman. Maybe he’ll be more sympathetic to my views... or the opposite.

      I often sought the counsel of my friend Fawaz Hamoody, the Gazette’s Middle East specialist. It had been a trying time for the paper and its correspondents in that part of the world. The Iran-Iraq war surged back and forth, and in eighty-one when it appeared Iran was gaining the upper hand, the supposedly neutral U.S. lightened its sanctions against Iraq and through Presidential Envoy Donald Rumsfeld offered assistance to Saddam Hussein. We couldn’t permit Khomeini to gain control of Iraq’s oil.

      “A classic example of the least bad alternative, nevertheless blatant hypocrisy,” Fawaz told me. “To think Saddam has any intention of reforming is a pure pipe dream. Your country must be more intelligent than that. At the end of the day, when you deal with dictators... ” he ran his finger across his throat. “Trust me, I know.”

      For some time the PLO had been warring inside Lebanon against Lebanese Christians and staging raids into Israel. In June Israel invaded Lebanon to disperse the PLO and clear the way for a friendly Christian-led Beirut government. Two months later the IDF was still there, prompting a U.N. censure. A multinational peacekeeping force with a contingent of U.S. Marines would supervise withdrawal of Israeli forces and departure of the PLO. Still the bloodletting continued. In September Muslim extremists murdered Lebanon’s President-elect and in reprisal Christian militias invaded two Palestinian refugee camps and slaughtered more than a thousand. Reagan increased the Marine presence to 1,800.

      THE DAY BEFORE THE 60 MINUTES TAPING I checked into the Hay-Adams. As it was a comfortable afternoon, I decided to see the Wall for myself. Nothing prepared me for its stark simplicity. It was not as tall than I expected, then I recalled the height varied along its length. I must have come in at one of the shorter sections. A shiny black sculpture, reflective granite from India, cut and polished in Vermont, the names etched in Tennessee, 58,159 in all. On a table near the entrance under a plastic cover were several copies of a directory you could search by last name. Top... Albert Rivers, Sgt., Manchester, N.H. The rookie, the blond kid – I’ll never forget him – Herbert Owsley, Pvt., Valparaiso, Indiana. Stoner, I’m sure he bought it... but no, he’s not in there. Nor Bobby Jenks, my old nemesis. Other guys, the faces like yesterday but the names... I don’t remember the names.

      I shook my head. Find a name and somebody’s dead. Don’t find him, he’s alive, maybe. If I found my name, what would that tell about me? Scanning the Bs I found twelve Bernards but no Paul. So. I have lived to fight another day. I began walking... seventy-one, seventy, sixty-nine...February sixteenth... there it is. Omer S. Arsenault, Cpl., Providence, R.I. I reached in and passed my fingers over the letters, closing my eyes, feeling the lines and swirls. Standing back, I saw his name in the reflection of my face. Together again, the two friends. My head bowed, I stood there a long time. Nôtre Père qui es en cieux, que ton nom soit sanctifié... I raised my head and leaned in again, kissing the stone which bore the name of my first friend. Au revoir, chèr ami... au revoir.

      I made my way along the length of the wall, rising and falling with the gentle mounds. At the end I went around the corner and came back. How could Stoner have made it back? No way in hell, not the way he was going. I left the Wall, hailed a cab and spent several hours in my own company getting drunk. That’s okay, I told myself. Good meal, good sleep. I’ll be ready for Mr. Stan Plavin.

      On waking I looked out the window. It was pouring. I wondered if they’d postpone the outdoor shoot. After I showered and was getting dressed, they specified a dark blue suit, striped shirt and patterned tie, the phone rang. It was Roy Carlson. “Are we a go?” I asked.

      “A little wet’s not going to keep us down. I’ll be in front in an hour. Silver Mercedes, Virginia plates.”

      “TV news must pay well.”

      “The bank lets me drive it. Same with the house, the kids, the dog.”

      “Tell me about it. See you in an hour.”

      After a slow trip across town I found myself in a conference room in the studios of WDVM-TV, Channel 9. Plavin was already there, leafing through my Vietnam photos. Ed Feldman was studying a script outline. After greetings all around and armed with my third cup of coffee, my day was ready to begin. I seated myself in the interview chair across from Plavin and the makeup people appeared, brushing my hair, powdering my forehead and nose, straightening my jacket and tie, hooking up a mike.

      Plavin began with a bridge from the history of the Wall that would appear just before my segment, then the camera drew back and I could see myself in a monitor. “We want to tell our viewers why we’re profiling Paul Bernard this week before the dedication of the Vietnam Veterans’ Memorial. For one thing, Paul served with distinction in Vietnam where he was awarded the Bronze Star and the Purple Heart, then recovered from disabling wounds. These days people know his work for the New York Gazette, he is currently a correspondent in their Paris Bureau and an occasional television commentator. Last year, Paul’s

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