LITMIR.BIZ

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deterrence through mutually assured destruction a suicide pact, calling on scientists to develop a space-based system of lasers and rockets to shield the country. “Give us the means of rendering these nuclear weapons impotent and obsolete.” This was the famous Strategic Defense Initiative proposal, immediately dubbed “Star Wars.”

      Andropov quickly rejected SDI as an attempt to unilaterally disarm the Soviet Union. Charlie Stebbins picked up reports that Reagan was going out of his way to reassure Andropov that the U.S. genuinely wanted to pursue peace. In a couple of months, new negotiations on nuclear arms reduction were announced – the “START” talks, to open early June in Geneva.

      In my Dispatches I asked why had Reagan taken these positions at odds with his bellicose approach to world politics? One theory – disconcerting to his critics including me – was that the man was sincere, that he had a real horror of nuclear war. We also knew he had been pushed hard by the Nuclear Freeze movement in the United States, and on May 3 the U.S. Catholic Bishops finally issued the pastoral letter making the connection between nuclear arms and morality, calling for “resolute determination” to pursue arms control, disarmament and a ban on nuclear weapons. Two days later the House passed a resolution calling on the President to negotiate a mutual and verifiable freeze and weapons reductions.

      As this was unfolding, Didier said he needed me to interpret the confusion in Nicaragua that was embarrassing Reagan’s presidency. In 1979 the Sandinistas, a left-leaning insurgent group, forced out the long-time Somoza regime. Soon they were overtly in Cuba’s embrace and supporting other guerrilla movements, notably in nearby El Salvador. Why any of this mattered to us, the region’s dictatorial regimes were seen as bulwarks against Communism in that strategic region. Plus, ever-present American commercial interests were jeopardized by Sandinista land redistribution and anti-business policies. We learned later that the Reagan Administration had secretly approved CIA funding for the “Contras,” insurgents opposed to the Sandinistas. Unfortunately for the clandestine program, a Soviet tanker struck a mine off Nicaragua and news broke that the CIA was mining Nicaraguan harbors. A huge controversy developed, with even Barry Goldwater blasting the administration. The Senate moved to cut off aid to the Contras.

      You’ll recall, following Israel’s invasion of Lebanon and the political killings and massacres, Reagan had sent in the Marines as part of a peacekeeping force. Now, in mid-April our Beirut embassy was destroyed, a suicide van full of explosives killing sixty-three people, seventeen of them Americans. In reprisal the U.S. Navy shelled Druze militia positions on the outskirts of Beirut. With all these missteps and mishaps and a struggling economy, Reagan’s popularity was in the cellar. A second term would be no gimmie.

      The day after the shelling Hamid called, more agitated than I had ever heard him.

      “What are you people doing! How can you let Israel call the shots in Washington?”

      “C’mon, Hamid, they’ve been doing it for a long time. But what do you say about the embassy, the people killed?”

      “There comes a point when the weak have to take things into their own hands.”

      “That’s not a reason, it’s an excuse.”

      There was a pause on the line. “I admit that, but if you keep this up you will have no credibility in the Arab world. Nor will you deserve any.”

      I felt bad about the conversation but I guess Hamid felt worse. In a few days he called and apologized. “For my tone. Not for what I said, that stands.”

      “I can live with that,” I said. “How’s the magnum opus coming?”

      “I’ve created a monster. Three years, nine hundred pages, and it still doesn’t have a proper ending. Every other day I change my mind. They want to bring it out next spring but I tell my editor something this good cannot be rushed.”

      “You have a title?”

      “A working title, yes. Under the Roof of the World. But I’m not totally sold on it.”

      For me the summer’s big event would be John Paul II’s visit to Poland that I talked Tom into letting me cover. I would join an all-star team headed by Gabriel Griffin, a wonderful old-timer I wished I had known better in New York. Selected wives also, though I didn’t push for Diane. Didier and I joked that Harlan Kenny should have led the trip since the Pope’s visit was as much political as pastoral. Frank Astell would be along, giving me a chance to see the big boss in action. Tom was doing it right, chartering a jet to stop in Paris for Didier and me, then on to Warsaw. We must be doing better financially, I thought, either that or we’re going out in style. There were rumors of a private audience with the Holy Father. If anyone could pull that off it would be Gabriel, a former Jesuit and still tight with the Vatican. In mid-May Gabriel called and said not only was the audience on, but “as one of our rising stars and a Catholic at that” I was invited. Amazing. Diane wasn’t that thrilled and frankly, I was relieved she wasn’t included. The kids were excited, though, particularly Paul Junior, which surprised me. “Will you get me his autograph?” he asked.

      “I don’t think that’s done,” I replied, laughing.

      “Why not? You’re a big shot, Mommy says so.”

      “What about a prayer card with his picture? I can probably swing that.”

      “See if he’ll sign it for you.”

      “I’ll do what I can.”

      MONDAY JUNE 7 – I remember as if it were yesterday. First Diane’s call. “Paulie’s in the hospital!”

      “No! Where is he?”

      “Salpêtrière.”

      “I’ll get there fast as I can.”

      The last week of school Paul Junior had come down with a sore throat which turned out to be strep. Dr. Charpentier prescribed an antibiotic, liquids and rest. Several weeks passed and he seemed to be mending, then he grew listless and ran a low-grade fever for a couple of days. The night before he developed a cough and was hacking all night. In the morning we found a rash on his abdomen and back. His temperature was 104. Diane called the doctor’s office and they said bring him right in. Now this.

      I shoved my papers in a briefcase and hailed a cab in front of the building. Fuming in excruciatingly slow crosstown traffic, I tried to will positive thoughts. He’s in good hands ... our pediatrician’s excellent... one of the finest hospitals anywhere. And I prayed. After a twenty-five minute crawl I arrived. On the third floor I was directed down a brightly-lit corridor. Up ahead I saw Diane and the doctor conferring. Dr. Charpentier was tall, gray-haired, exuded competence, but despite his austere appearance children took well to him. I gave Diane a hug and shook hands with him. Their faces were grim.

      “He’s resting comfortably,” the doctor said, “I prescribed something to bring the fever down. We’ll do a series of tests and know more this afternoon.”

      “What do you think is going on? Is it the rheumatic fever again?”

      Diane began to reply but she looked at the doctor. “It’s too early to tell, Mr. Bernard. Speculation does more harm than good. Better we wait for the results.”

      “Can I see him?”

      “Bien sûr. He is groggy. We want to slow his body down, allow it to rest.”

      Diane preceded me into the room. Four beds, separated by screens, Paul Junior in the far corner next to a window. He was on his back, his eyes shut, an intravenous hooked up to his right arm. Several jagged green lines played across the screen of the monitor beside the bed. His breathing seemed calm and regular. I was alarmed to see an oxygen tank beside the bed, a mask hanging from a hook. “Paulie,” I whispered, leaning over him, “Paulie.”

      His eyes opened. “Hi Dad,” he said in a small voice. “I wasn’t sleeping.”

      “Maybe you should be, old man,” I put my hand on his forehead, which was fiery. “You didn’t get much

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