agreements in other areas, then they had to loosen up their policy. But you can’t link publicly. Basically, Jackson-Vanik said to the Russians: ‘Change your internal policy or we’re not going to trade with you.’ You can’t do it that way.
“Max understood it,” says Nixon. “I met with him and he brought in the Presidents Conference and other leaders from the American Jewish community. I explained it to them, and some said, ‘Maybe you’re right —we shouldn’t go on and on about Soviet Jewry.’ Max told them, too, and it showed Max at his best. It was a bloody scene at times, though.” One of these many scenes occurred on April 19, when Fisher and fourteen other Jewish leaders met for over an hour in the Cabinet Room at the White House with the president and Kissinger. Nixon re- iterated his sympathy for Soviet Jewry, but he emphasized the diffi - culties that would arise in his quest to reduce East-West tensions if the Jackson-Vanik proposal passed. He then asked Kissinger to recount some of his private communications from the Kremlin to the group. The communications reassured the president that Soviet Jews would be free to emigrate.
Fisher prodded the leaders to carry this message to their constitu- encies, but American Jews were in a bind. Why should they be less combative in pursuit of freedom for Soviet Jews than a Gentile senator and congressman? When several of the leaders in the Cabinet Room expressed their displeasure with Nixon’s quiet diplomacy, the presi- dent became visibly angry and said: “You gentlemen have more faith in your senators than you do in me. And that is a mistake. You’ll save more Jews my way. Protest all you want. The Kremlin won’t listen.” After the meeting, Jacob Stein of the Presidents Conference, Char- lotte Jacobson of the Conference on Soviet Jewry, and Fisher issued a statement to the press, reaffirming their determination to aid Russian Jews and expressing their appreciation to Nixon for his help. However, at Fisher’s insistence, the statement was vague regarding whether or not American Jewry would advocate the adoption of the Jackson-Van- ik legislation. Fisher thought that the vagueness would stanch the pub- lic debate and permit the rising emigration statistics to demonstrate that Nixon’s methods were effective.
291
In theory, Fisher’s maneuver was reasonable. The jump in exit vi- sas for Soviet Jews should have mitigated the dissension between the White House and the American Jewish community. Yet the emotion energizing the community was a combustible fusion of sorrow and guilt over their failure to rescue millions of Jews from Nazi brutality. “Never again” was the shibboleth of the Jewish Defense League, and though most of American Jewry scorned the JDL’s militant tactics, this intense emotional commitment to deterring any semblance of a Holo- caust was common in the community.
The atmosphere became even less favorable for settling the dispute when, several days after the meeting, 100 Soviet Jewish dissidents for- warded an open letter to American Jewish leaders pleading for their assistance. “Remember,” their letter concluded, “the history of our people has known many terrible mistakes. Remember —your smallest hesitation may cause irreparable tragic results. Our fate depends on you. Can you retreat at such a moment?”
In the spring of 1973, the administration was facing a far greater political challenge than the argument over Soviet Jewry. Right after the meeting on April 19, Fisher dashed off a note to Nixon, saying, “Mr. President: With all your problems, let me say that anything I can do to [be] helpful to you, I am available to the fullest extent of my time and ability.”
Fisher was referring to the Watergate scandal. In June 1972, five men were arrested breaking into the Washington, D.C., headquarters of the Democratic National Committee at the posh Watergate complex of apartments, offices and boutiques overlooking the Potomac River. Ten months later, as revelation piled on top of revelation, the Nixon White House was besieged with allegations that sapped the president of his political strength.
Nixon phoned to thank Fisher for his note, and on May 14, three days before the Senate Watergate hearings started, Fisher wrote to him again: “Dear Mr. President: In the last couple of days I have found signs at my various board meetings that people are beginning to question the extreme position of the media in trying to make a judgment on Watergate by innuendo and hearsay, and that there is
292
great feeling that the office of the President is being attacked unnec - essarily. And I believe there is definite indication that the support will increase. What is particularly encouraging to me is the many calls I have had from leaders of the Jewish community. There is a very warm feeling toward you, and very strong support for you during these troubled times. For me, personally, some of the attacks on you have been unnecessary and biased. If there is anything I can do, please do not hesitate to call on me.”
Undoubtedly, his letter was designed to cheer Nixon and to let him know that Fisher and many others were in his comer. But Fisher sensed something ominous about the temper surrounding Watergate —the ire that flashed across editorial pages each morning, the indignant com - ments he heard from his colleagues and friends. Yet, to Fisher, it did not seem plausible that the scandal could drive a president from office. Two months later, he would change his mind.
***
Nixon’s second summit with Soviet Secretary Leonid Brezhnev was about to begin. Brezhnev was coming to the United States to explore expanding the SALT agreements and to seek most-favored-nation sta- tus. Despite the importance of Summit II, the gathering momentum of Watergate eclipsed it in the news. By June 4, when Nixon replied to Fisher’s letter, the president had admitted to the 1969 buggings and 1970 surveillance plan along with the creation of the “plumbers,” stat- ing that these acts were necessary in the interest of national security. “Dear Max,” Nixon wrote. “It was so thoughtful of you to write to let me know of your continuing support. I am deeply grateful for your words of encouragement and for the concern which prompted you to offer your assistance. Although developments in recent months have posed a very great test of our administration, your message of confi - dence and understanding renews my faith that, working together, we can achieve the great goals of peace and progress all Americans seek.” Outwardly, Fisher thought, Nixon was keeping his attention riveted on the summit. For some reason Fisher could not pinpoint, this tack
293
worried him, as though the president had misjudged the national anger about the alleged cover-up. If Nixon had misjudged, that would shortly change. White House counsel John Dean was scheduled to testify be- fore the Watergate Committee in the last week of June.
Brezhnev landed in Washington on Saturday, June 16. On Monday evening, a state dinner was held in his honor at the White House. Along with the usual government officials, the guest list included numerous celebrities and business leaders: June Allyson, Van Cliburn, Cornelius and Marylou Whitney, Teamster head Frank E. Fitzsimmons, Marjorie and Max Fisher, and Jean and Jack Stein.
Many leaders in the American Jewish community were opposed to Fisher and Stein attending the dinner.
Says Stein: “Max and I heard a lot of ‘How can you go have dinner with a guy who is persecuting Jews?’ They were very vocal about it. But that kind of protest is not my style. I’m a businessman. So is Max. We prefer to meet things head on. Something productive could come from being at the dinner. As it turned out, something did.” Furthermore, Fisher adds, in the symbol-laden universe of diplo- macy, it was significant that Nixon invited two prominent members of the Jewish community. It let the Russians know that Soviet Jewry was a priority item on the President’s agenda and could not be ignored by Brezhnev if he banked on departing the summit with the possibility of winning most-favored-nation trading status for the Soviet Union. Nixon was taking no chances that Brezhnev would miss the signal. As the guests passed through the receiving line in the Blue Room, Nix- on introduced the Fishers and Steins, emphasizing that the two men were Jewish leaders. Brezhnev got the message. Stein remembers that when the interpreter translated Nixon’s introduction, he used the Rus- sian for Hebrew, Yevrey. Brezhnev nodded.
During the cocktail hour, Fisher and Stein cornered Soviet Foreign Affairs Minister Andrei Gromyko. They began to talk, warily at first, and then Stein started peppering Gromyko with questions: “Why are you doing this to the Jews? Why can’t we sit and talk this thing out? Why do you need people in your country that you don’t want? Why are you jeopardizing your MFN status?”
294
Gromyko listened. Finally, he said, “Everything will be all right. The road will be wider.”
The foreign minister spotted Soviet Ambassador Anatoly Dobrynin nearby, and requested that he join the conversation. Then he recapped what had been said and asked Dobrynin, “Why don’t you talk this out with Mr. Fisher and Mr. Stein?”
Dobrynin answered that he would do so in the near future. Dinner was announced and the four men went to their tables.
On Friday, June 22, after Nixon and Brezhnev signed the Agree- ment for the Prevention of Nuclear War, the two leaders flew to the president’s house in San Clemente, California, to continue their talks. That afternoon, Fisher phoned Jack Stein in his office. There was a demonstration planned in California, Fisher said, to protest the treat- ment of Soviet Jews. Was it really in everyone’s best interest to heap some more public embarrassment on the Russians? Brezhnev’s talks with Nixon were crucial, a matter of world peace. And we know that Nixon is behind us and has been talking to him about getting the Jews out to Israel.
“Jack,” Fisher asked, “can’t you do something about this rally? It’s not good for the president and it’s not good for us.”
Stein later recalled: “I hung up with Max and got back on the phone. But I was in a tough position. People felt strongly about Soviet Jewry. I was able to relocate the protest, to moderate it. But again, we walere dealing with an emotional issue, and it had spread to the college cam- puses. This was the age of demonstrations: against Vietnam, for civil rights. Soviet Jewry was mixed in with these issues.”
As support for the Jackson-Vanik legislation swelled, the Soviets grew alarmed about the threat to their MFN status, and they sought to head off the bill’s support. Among their gambits was to try to convince American Jewry that they were sincere about free emigration for Rus- sian Jewry. To that end, in early July, as Soviet Foreign Minister Gro- myko had suggested at the White House dinner, Ambassador Dobrynin invited Fisher and Stein, and their wives, to lunch at the Russian em- bassy in Washington.
When Fisher discussed the invitation with Stein he said that Mar-
295
jorie wasn’t eager to go. Stein replied that Jean also would prefer not to attend. Stein phoned Dobrynin to see if he and Fisher could come alone, but the ambassador was disinclined to remove the social façade from the luncheon.
“I would very much like your wives to come,” Dobrynin told Stein. Although he did not add that the two men could not attend without their wives, his meaning was clear. The ambassador would never let it appear as if he were courting American Jews on substantive concerns. The lunch was scheduled for Wednesday, July 25. Before riding over to the Russian Embassy, Fisher and Stein met with Kissinger at his NSC office in the White House. When Kissinger was asked if cer - tain issues should be avoided during their lunch, he replied, “You can say things the administration can’t say. You can raise issues we can’t raise. Go ahead and raise them.”
“Kissinger,” says Stein, “was all along very supportive of trying to get the Soviet Jews released. We met with him a number of times. But all of us kept it quiet.”
From Kissinger’s instructions to Fisher and Stein, it would appear that he was using the pressure generated by the American Jewish com- munity to help force concessions from the Soviets, who desperately wanted MFN status. For, if the Soviets pressed him or the president on that subject, they could point to the opposition back home as the major impediment.
“Brezhnev,” says Fisher, “may not have liked democracy, but he certainly understood how the game was played.”
The social front for the lunch with Dobrynin was maintained after a compromise was reached. Marjorie Fisher stayed home; Jean Stein attended. The ambassador and his wife greeted Fisher and the Steins when they arrived at the embassy, ushering them into an anteroom, where they were received with great pomp and, in Jack Stein’s words, “sat around exchanging polite nonsense.”
The party shifted to the dining room. The table was set with elegant china, cut crystal, polished silver and a sterling candelabra. The am- bassador sat at one end of the long table; his wife at the other. As soon as the guests were seated, Jack Stein took out his reference notes and
296
unloaded on Dobrynin; Fisher, for the moment, hung back. Stein says that he gave the ambassador an earful of “the whole Soviet Jewry line —straight out —names, dates, facts and figures.”
Dobrynin listened to Stein. Then he said: “I do not know right now why the Jewish community is pushing for Jackson-Vanik. I do not un- derstand it. The levels of immgration are going up. I, myself, have a lot of Jewish friends in the Soviet Union; I play chess with them when I go home.”
Dobrynin’s wife, obviously angry with the way Stein had gone after her husband, said to the ambassador, “why don’t we put all our Jews on a TWAplane and send them to the United States?”
“Could you do that?” Fisher asked. “We would be happy to pay their way.”
He did not receive an answer, nor did he expect to, but he figured that it was worth a try. The tenseness was broken when a chef in a white hat and flowing apron entered the dining room, carrying a large silver tray.
“Ah,” Dobrynin announced, “I have a very great delicacy for you to try. These are tiny birds from the Ukraine.”
Lunch was served to the delight of the Dobrynins; Fisher and the Steins were less enthralled. The discussion began again —on a softer note. Ambassador Dobrynin said that the matter of the Russian Jews had to be seen in the context of the Soviet Union’s overall relations with the United States, adding that it could be worked out if it were done “without confrontation.” Fisher said that the drop in exit visas to Israel during May and June had many concerned Americans skeptical of the Kremlin’s willingness to let the Jews go. The ambassador re- plied that this was deliberate because the Soviets did not want Brezh- nev’s visit keyed to a rise in immigration.
But, Dobrynin said, the annual immigration figures would be 40,000. Fisher and Stein said that it would be helpful if that level could be maintained for the remainder of the year. It would also be helpful, Fisher said, if Dr. Kissinger could get confirmation on the Soviet’s emigration statistics. For example, Fisher said, of the 800 names sub- mitted to Kissinger, only 50 or 60 could be confirmed. If the ambassa -
297
dor could provide the names of the other 750, then perhaps Americans might have more confidence in the Kremlin’s sincerity with respect to emigration.
“That is a fair request,” Dobrynin said. “I will see what I can do.” Fisher broached the subject of harassment of the Jews who applied for visas, but as Fisher later told Len Garment at the White House, he was “not confident that much will happen in this regard.” Dobrynin said that the activists who were in jail would eventually be released, but “not now, because doing so would create an internal problem.” Dobrynin said that no activists were allowed to roam the streets of the Soviet Union —Jewish or otherwise. It was a question of national policy and would not be altered in the foreseeable future.
The final issue Fisher raised was that Brezhnev had stated that 90 percent of the Jews who applied for exit visas would receive them. Yet, Fisher said, reports from the Conference on Soviet Jewry and other groups indicated that roughly 100,000 people hoped to secure visas. Was there any way to reconcile these reports with —and confirm — Brezhnev’s statement?
“No,” Dobrynin replied, and shortly thereafter, the luncheon was over. In a letter that Fisher wrote to the White House about his “frank and friendly visit” with the Soviet ambassador, he said that Dobrynin seemed willing to assist in solving some aspects of some problems. Fisher recommended that if the president was going to defeat Jack- son-Vanik, it was essential that the administration find the names of the people who were on the list of 800 and verify that they had left Russia; nail down the Kremlin’s promise of allowing 40,000 Jews to emigrate each year; and confirm that the people who have applied for visas get them, as per Brezhnev’s statement.
“If these things did take place,” Fisher concluded, “we could then provide this information to the community, which would be very, very helpful.”
Two days later, Fisher wrote to Nixon on another matter —the rap- idly accelerating Watergate scandal. Weeks ago, John Dean had testi- fied before the Senate Watergate Committee that Nixon was involved in a cover-up of the break-in. Then Alexander P. Butterfield, the ad -
298
ministrator of the Federal Aviation Administration and an erstwhile White House aide, disclosed to the committee that listening devices and taps had been installed in all the president’s offices and phones for the purpose of preserving Nixon’s conversations for posterity. Now, the committee wanted to hear the tapes and Nixon refused. He was threatened with a subpoena.
“Dear Mr. President,” Fisher wrote. “In view of the Watergate hear- ings, I would like to give you my own comments and those of a great many people across the country with whom I have talked — both Republican and Democrat. The underlying theme I find is that every - body wants you to continue with the great programs you have started. My feeling is that it would be very helpful if you could make your own statement of position to the nation. This would have the effect of uniting all the elements who want to support you and help offset the destructiveness of the Watergate hearings, both in this country and abroad. I feel that your presentation should be of a conciliatory nature to counteract the abrasiveness of the confrontation which has taken place. After all, the good citizens of this country do not support the aggressive, pugnacious type of encounter we have seen on television, plus the political overtones present in the hearings. To conclude, Mr. President, I feel a low-key conciliatory statement to the people would be very helpful. Please be assured of my cooperation and support during these difficult times.”
Nixon responded with a short note, telling Fisher that “I have al- ways valued your friendship, as well as your counsel and advice, and I want you to know how much I appreciate your interest in passing along your suggestions and comments on the current political picture. It is good to know that I can continue to count on you!”
Watergate gradually bled Nixon of his domestic support, which ap- peared to hinder his ability overseas. But then, as the president had predicted to Kissinger, war suddenly blazed across the Middle East and set the stage for what Nixon would recall —in his 1990 memoir, In the Arena —as “his last major foreign-policy decision.”
The war also would demonstrate how far Fisher’s role had evolved since that autumn afternoon in Gettysburg less than a decade before,
299
when Eisenhower, relaxing on his sun-splashed porch, had articulated a vision to Fisher and, unknowingly, helped to define his future.
***
October 6, 1973, was the Jewish High Holy Day of Yom Kippur, the Day of Atonement. At 2 p.m., the Egyptian army launched an assault to cross the Suez Canal, while Syrian forces stormed the Golan Heights. That evening, leaders from the Conference of Presidents of Major American Jewish Organizations, the United Jewish Appeal, and Coun- cil of Jewish Federations and Welfare Funds met in New York City. Everyone was troubled by the fighting, but given the decisive Israeli victory in the 1967 Six-Day War, the leaders were confident that Israel would repel the attack. Fund-raising programs were mapped out, and a national leadership convocation was scheduled at the Shoreham Hotel in Washington, D.C., for Tuesday, October 9.
However, by Tuesday, as 1,000 people gathered at the Shoreham, the situation had radically shifted. The Egyptians had barreled into the Sinai, planting their flags on Israeli bunkers, and the Syrians had cap - tured the high ground on Mount Hermon in the Golan. Israel’s losses were unprecedented. Egypt’s Soviet-supplied surface-to-air missiles were devastatingly effective against the Israeli Air Force, an alarming new twist for Israel, since it had invariably relied on air superiority to offset the larger Arab ground forces. (During the Yom Kippur War, Is- rael lost 114 planes —nearly 20 percent of its fighter-bombers — and more than double the number lost in June 1967.) Equally frightening was that the Soviet Union was determined that its Arab clients would prevail. On October 9, a massive Soviet airlift began, bringing tanks, guns and fighter jets to Syria and Egypt. Three days later, eighteen Soviet planes were landing every hour.
In light of the Israeli losses and the Soviet airlift, the top priority for Israel and American Jewish leaders was to persuade the U.S. govern- ment to resupply Israel with military equipment. In her memoir, My Life, Israeli Prime Minister Golda Meir recalls phoning Simcha Dinitz, Israel’s ambassador to Washington, “at all hours of the day and the
300
night” to prod him into action. Dinitz was a magician at mobilizing the American Jewish community. Among those he contacted was Fisher. “My relationship to Max,” says Dinitz, “was such that we would talk to each other four or five times a week and in periods of crisis, like the Yom Kippur War, every day. For me, Max was a person whose commitment to Jewish survival was so strong; his contacts in the U.S. government were so intimate that he could be for them, and for me, another channel of transmitting information and feelings that existed in Israel.”
Now, Dinitz told Fisher how desperately Israel needed to be resup- plied. Fisher was in Washington for the convocation at the Shoreham, and he began phoning his contacts. Leonard Garment, who at the time was a special adviser to President Nixon, recalls that “during those early, terrifying days of the war Max was a one-man campaign all over Washington, pressing every button, calling every card.”
Late Tuesday morning, Fisher was in Jack Stein’s room at the Shore- ham with several leaders from the Presidents Conference. Fisher had set up an appointment to see Nixon. The leaders were discussing the best way for Fisher to present their case.
“I had a portable typewriter,” says Stein, “and we drafted a letter for Max to take to the president urging him to resupply Israel. Then we went downstairs to the rally.”
On the afternoon of October 9, Fisher went to the Oval Office. Nix - on was glad to see him, but the president seemed fatigued. Besides the crisis in the Middle East, the president was in the midst of locking horns with U.S. District Court Judge John J. Sirica over whether or not White House tapes should be turned over to the Grand Jury. In addi- tion, Nixon’s vice president, Spiro Agnew, was being investigated on suspicion of accepting kickbacks while serving as governor of Mary- land. (Agnew would resign the vice presidency the next day; Con- gressman Gerald Ford of Michigan would later replace him.) Fisher handed Nixon the letter from the Presidents Conference, and sat across from him as he read it. Nixon finished reading, folded the letter and placed it on his desk.
Fisher looked at him and said: “I’ve worked hard for you and I’ve
301
never asked anything for myself. But I’m asking you now. Please send the Israelis what they need. You can’t let them be destroyed.”
Nixon assured him that the United States would see to it that Israel got everything it needed. When Fisher left the Oval Office he was cer - tain that Nixon would resupply the Israelis.
On Wednesday, Fisher flew to New York City with Stein. “We were delighted,” says Stein.
“The rally had been a success; congressional support for Israel was strong; and Max told us that Nixon had committed to the resupply. On Thursday —this was October 11, the sixth day of the war —we had meetings at the Presidents Conference headquarters at 515 Park Ave- nue. We were mustering support from non-Jewish groups. But we kept getting calls from Israel saying that the Israeli military was in trouble and asking us why the American airlift hadn’t started. Some members of the Presidents Conference thought that Max had been had by the president, that Nixon was not going to help. Max got on the phone and called Kissinger.”
Kissinger, who had supplanted Rogers as secretary of state in late August, told Fisher that the United States was committed to the airlift, but there were logistical problems. Fisher informed Kissinger that all his sources in Israel were telling him that the Israelis’ situation was deteriorating.
Still, the delay dragged on.
The cause of the delay in resupplying Israel has become a lingering historical debate, and the blame has often erroneously been dropped on Kissinger’s doorstep.
In Decade of Decisions, his inquiry into American policy toward Arab-Israeli conflicts between 1967 and 1976, Middle East expert and former NSC staffer William B. Quandt writes: “When Dinitz com- plained about the slow American response, Kissinger blamed it on the Defense Department, a ploy he repeatedly used with the Israeli ambas- sador over the next several days.”
Richard C. Thorton, a professor of international affairs and a con- sultant to the State Department, also blames Kissinger. In his study of the reshaping of American foreign policy, The Nixon-Kissinger Years,
302
Thorton writes: “Kissinger, in describing his relationship with Israeli ambassador [Simcha Dinitz], all but says the delay in resupply was de- liberate: ‘Like all experienced diplomats, we took great pains to keep our disagreements from becoming personal. One device is to blame — usually transparently —someone else for painful decisions.... When I had bad news for Dinitz, I was not above ascribing it to bureaucratic stalemates or unfortunate decisions by superiors.’”
In response to the assertion that he was stalling in the face of Amer- ican objectives in the Mideast and with the American-Soviet relation- ship in mind, Kissinger says: “Who are the people who could claim this? There has to be a limit to ingratitude. The war started Saturday morning [October 6], and we were delivering weapons to them — over violent bureaucratic opposition in our government — by Saturday night [October 13]. The Israelis had told us that they were going to win the war by Thursday. They grossly overestimated their own capabili- ties. So initially our priority was not to resupply them during the war, but after a cease-fire. The first time we knew the extent of their needs was on Tuesday morning [October 9]. By Friday night [October 12], they had the all-American military airlift operating. Sure, we explored the possibility of civilian airlifts. That took all of thirty-six hours. Be- fore you put your whole military-airlift capability at the disposal of a foreign country, you do look at alternatives.”
Former President Richard Nixon also cites a bureaucratic wrestling match as the cause of the delay: “There was great opposition in the De- fense Department and among some in the foreign-service bureaucracy to coming down on the side of Israel in this conflict,” says Nixon. “Their opposition was due, in part, to the energy problem —the threat of an oil shortage. There was also concern that if the United States came down solidly on the side of Israel against those Arab nations who had launched the attack, then we would permanently damage our relations with the [Arab] oil-producing states.
“Consequently,” continues Nixon, “when we got the request [for the resupply] from Golda Meir, there was a Soviet airlift to Syria op- erating. I said to Kissinger: ‘Let’s see what we can do about this.’ So [the National Security Council] came up with all these cockamamie
303
schemes —we’ll paint over the Star of David on the Israeli airplanes; we’ll charter planes from private companies; we’ll do this, that and the other thing. It was all nonsense. Finally, we agreed upon a position. Kissinger said we should send three C-5A military transport planes. I said: ‘How many do we have?’ Kissinger said: ‘Twenty-six.’ I said: ‘Send them all.’ Kissinger repeated the bureaucratic objections. ‘Just send them all,’ I said. My point was that if you send three, then we were going to get blamed by the Arabs just as much as if we had sent twenty-six. It’s important to do enough. Always do enough.”
General Alexander Haig, who was serving as Nixon’s chief of staff and fielding calls from State and Defense during the Yom Kippur War, explains what he believes was behind the delay: “Defense Sec- retary [James R.] Schlesinger was not inclined to help the Israelis,” says Haig. “Kissinger, on the other hand, was sensitive to the need for prompt assistance to Israel. The Pentagon was hiding behind a number of trumped-up legalities about airlift allocations. The delay was due to several days of bureaucratic infighting between State and Defense. The fight was over substance and between personalities. The hatred be - tween James Schlesinger and Henry Kissinger was severe. Schlesing- er, for some reason, saw himself in a power struggle with Kissinger. Jim’s a good friend of mine, but it was a mismatch. Kissinger gave Nixon his recommendations, and the president dramatically increased them. Then Nixon drove it down Schlesinger’s throat. Nixon’s deci- sion demonstrates what presidential leadership can do when it’s prop- erly exercised. And I think Nixon deserves the credit for it.”
Between October 14 and November 14, the United States sent 566 resupply flights to Israel, delivering 22,000 tons of equipment.
Prime Minister Golda Meir recalled: “The airlift was invaluable. It not only lifted our spirits, it also served to make the American position clear to the Soviet Union and it undoubtedly served to make our victo- ry possible. When I heard that the planes had touched down in Lydda, I cried.”
***
304
In assessing Fisher’s part in loosening the bureaucratic logjam block- ing the airlift, it is crucial not to ascribe to him an overly dramatic role, to view him as an Eddie Jacobson reborn. Since 1948, the American Jewish community has been enamored of the Jacobson paradigm — the heroic individual who intercedes on behalf of his people and mirac- ulously alters the path of Jewish history. Jacobson was President Har- ry Truman’s ex-partner in a Missouri haberdashery. In 1948, Chaim Weizmann, soon to be Israel’s first president, was seeking President Truman’s backing for the founding of the Jewish homeland — back- ing that Truman’s State Department opposed. Weizmann, however, was unable to get an appointment with the president. Eddie Jacobson went to the White House and convinced his old friend to meet with Weizmann. Truman ultimately recognized Israel, and Eddie Jacobson was inscribed in the Zionist book of heroes.
Historically, though, Jacobson’s role —and Truman’s love for Isra- el —have been exaggerated. For instance, since Truman was guiding his own war-weary nation, it is unlikely that he would have supported the founding of a Jewish state if the Zionists had required a guarantee of American troops. Nothing Jacobson or later, Weizmann, could have said, would have changed Truman’s mind. In the end, his decision was based on the interests of the United States.
Truman recalled in his memoirs: “I was not committed to any partic- ular formula of statehood in Palestine or to any particular time sched- ule for its accomplishment.... The simple fact is that our policy was an American policy rather than an Arab or Jewish policy.”
The same rule applies to Nixon. He did not order the airlift out of empathy for the Israelis, but because he thought it was the proper U.S. foreign-policy move.
“After Israel won the war,” says Nixon, “all of the players tried to justify their position [about the airlift]. Mine was very clear-cut. Under no circumstances were we going to allow a Soviet airlift to Israel’s en- emies lead to an Israeli defeat. Part of the reason we assisted Israel was personal. I felt very sympathetic to Golda Meir, to Yitzhak Rabin and to others. I didn’t want them to be defeated. Yet it was by no means entirely personal. Strategic considerations were crucial. For example, let’s sup-
305
pose that the United States was not concerned about Israel. From a geo- political standpoint, given our relationship to the Soviet Union in 1973, we could not be in a position of having the Soviets prove to be a loyal ally to its clients, while the United States let its ally go down the tubes. The airlift was important as a measure of U.S. reliability.”
Thus, in October 1973, Fisher’s asking Nixon to begin the airlift may well have been a moot point. Yet what stands as historically sig- nificant is that Fisher was able to talk directly to the president at such a moment and the manner in which he presented his case. Both indicate Fisher’s unique contribution to the political life of Jewish America. Fisher did not come as a friend from long ago or as a privileged Jew at court. Neither he nor the Jewish community was going to be dependent on the grace of some Persian king or Córdoban Caliph. Nor was Fisher a lobbyist —that was the bailiwick of the American Israel Public Affairs Committee. ButAIPAC worked Capitol Hill, not 1600 Pennsylvania Av- enue. As I.M. Destler points out in Presidents, Bureaucrats and Foreign Policy: “The legislative branch can hardly be a force for foreign affairs leadership ... [since] the Constitution ... [gives] foreign affairs primacy to the president.” That October afternoon, Fisher, with the Presidents Conference letter in hand, stood before Nixon as the formal embodiment of the organized Jewish community’s ability to enter the Oval Office as a political constituency to ask the president for help.
According to Dr. Israel Miller, senior vice president of Yeshiva University who served as chairman of the Presidents Conference from 1974-1976, this capacity represented a considerable evolution in the Jewish community’s relationship to political power.
“Max gave prestige to the Presidents Conference,” Miller says. “He built it —and the organized Jewish community —up in the eyes of the political world. I, for example, would never seek a meeting with the president without talking to Max and discussing who would go or what would be on the agenda. Max set up the appointments. But afterward it was the Presidents Conference that spoke to the press, that represented the Jewish community. In hindsight, always involving Max was one of the most important things that the Presidents Conference did. Max had access without us. He had his White House pass and could walk
306
right in. But Max’s strength was not in his being just a Republican and a Jew, but being an active member of the organized Jewish commu- nity. Bringing the community in with him was part of his vision and his greatness. No other ‘Jewish friends’ of the administration had ever done it before. Each of them went into the Oval Office, or to the State Department, as individuals. That all changed after 1968. And Max was the person who changed it.”
***
As Secretary of State Kissinger attempted to arrange a disengagement among Syrian, Egyptian and Israeli forces, the American Jewish com- munity resumed pressing for the adoption of the Jackson-Vanik leg- islation. Following the Yom Kippur War, Fisher and Jack Stein met several times with Jackson to try to curtail the punitive slant of his amendment, but to no avail. There were, says Stein, “some harsh words between Scoop and us.” The senator said that Nixon’s methods would not get the Soviet Jews out and he, personally, would make that known to the Jewish community and go over the heads of the Presidents Con- ference, Fisher, or anyone else who got in his way.
Says Stein: “The consensus of the bodies I represented was ardent- ly pro-Jackson-Vanik. Even though Max found it hard to swallow, he wound up signing statements of support that he really did not believe in, statements commending Congress for their efforts, et cetera. He recognized that you can’t be a leader if you don’t have followers. But all along he thought the legislation was a mistake.”
On December 11, 1973, the House of Representatives passed a trade bill that denied the Soviet Union most-favored-nation status because of its restrictive emigration policies. The congressional action was a calamity for Soviet Jews. Within twenty-four months, emigration dwindled from 34,733 a year to below 13,221. Fisher recognized that there were limits to his influence in the Jewish community, but that did not lessen the despondency he felt as the Kremlin shut the doors. His frustration chafed at him for fifteen years until a confluence of events provided Soviet Jews with another opportunity for freedom.
307
***
On January 30, 1974, Nixon announced that despite Watergate, he had “no intention whatsoever of resigning.” Less than a month later he opined that he did “not expect to be impeached.” Yet it was evident to Fisher that the scandal was devouring Nixon’s presidency. Politically, Fisher regarded the break-in and cover-up as foolish. The outcome of the 1972 presidential race was never in doubt. Once the burglary was reported the predicament presented Nixon with a tidy surgical solu- tion —fire everyone involved. But the president had not been paying attention and had followed some flawed advice. Now, the media was having a field day, and the Democrats were milking every rumor for all it was worth.
In May 1974, a story in The New York Times claimed that delet- ed portions of the White House tapes revealed that Nixon referred to members of the Securities and Exchange Commission and some attor- neys attached to the Watergate prosecutor’s staff as “those Jew boys.” The Times contacted Fisher for a comment. Fisher stated that he did not think there was anything terribly wrong with the president using slang. “We all do the same thing once in a while,” Fisher said. “I’d hate to have my business meetings recorded.” Privately, Fisher thought that while Nixon may have exhibited bad taste, charging him with an- ti-Semitism was ludicrous. When the chips were down during the Yom Kippur War, Nixon had saved Israel. And domestically he had brought more Jews into the front ranks of government than any other president in American history.
Watergate held some personal ramifications for Fisher. His integrity was attacked, not directly, but by having his name linked in the press with men who were under indictment, several of whom would soon become acquainted with the more disagreeable aspects of the feder- al penal system. Fisher had regularly shied away from publicity. His strength on the national level was his anonymity. And the kind of pub- licity he was about to garner could rob him not only of his meticulous- ly constructed veil, but his unblemished integrity as well. Fisher was a
308
discriminating investor with his fortune, but he was even more circum- spect with the air of professionalism and honesty that had surrounded him since his start in the oil business. He could, if a financial venture soured, cut his losses and reinvest. But Fisher knew that once someone was pigeonholed as corrupt, he was marked for life. An active political career, even if conducted in the shadows, was unthinkable. Fisher was hardly prepared to retire from politics.
He was called before a grand jury by the United States District Attorney in New York. The U.S. Attorney’s office in New York had indicted John Mitchell and Maurice Stans on ten counts each of con- spiracy, obstruction of justice and perjury, relating to the acceptance of a $200,000 campaign contribution —in $100 bills —from fugitive financier Robert L. Vesco, allegedly in return for promised assistance to Vesco in connection with an investigation by the SEC.
Mitchell and Stans were acquitted, but the damage was done. In his memoir, The Terrors of Justice, Stans described the ordeal as the vio- lation of “the personal reputations of so many ... [and] the agony and heartbreak which the innocents in the line of fire and on the sidelines were made to bear.” (In another case, Stans pleaded guilty to three counts of violation of the reporting sections of the Federal Election Campaign Act of 1971 and two counts of accepting illegal campaign contributions; he was fined $5,000. Mitchell also had other problems. He was indicted again and went on trial in Washington, D.C.) Maurice Stans recalls that throughout his ordeal “Max was com- passionate. He knew the attitude of the prosecutors and their hunger to pin something on the Nixon campaign group. I remember Max saying to me one time: ‘Maury, don’t take it so much to heart. You are respected and loved by the people who know you, and you ought to be content.’ I spoke to Max when he was called to testify. He said: ‘They told me I should bring a lawyer, but I told them I didn’t need one. I’m not ashamed of anything I know or did.’ Max testified and gave them statements in writing, but as far as I know, he never used a lawyer.”
Although not a target of an investigation, Fisher had been asked to testify at a federal grand jury hearing in New York because two mem-
309
os had surfaced that appeared to indicate he had been involved in the buying and selling of political jobs. One memo from Gordon C. Stra- chan, an aide to Chief of Staff H.R. Haldeman, stated: “Ford is in for 100; Fisher may be in for 250, but you weren’t sure you could pay his price.” The other, a Political Matters Memorandum dated September 18, 1971, said that Fisher was in for 250 and “the close by [Nixon per- sonal attorney Herbert W.] Kalmbach will come later.” It ended with: “Larry Goldberg will begin working with the Jewish community pur- suant to Max Fisher’s memo to John Mitchell.”
At the time, these were not necessarily the names with whom a Republican insider like Fisher would want to be associated. Strachan was indicted on three counts by the Watergate special prosecutor for alleged complicity in the cover-up (his case was dismissed because he agreed to cooperate). Kalmbach pleaded guilty to promising federal employment as a reward for political activity and support for Nixon; he was sentenced to six to eighteen months in prison and fined $10,000. Haldeman and Mitchell were convicted of conspiracy, obstruction of justice and three counts of perjury. Both of them were sentenced to two-and-a-half-to-eight years in prison.
Fisher was nervous when he entered the courtroom, with its high, ornate ceiling and gleaming wood rails, tables and benches. He had done nothing wrong and yet he knew how this game worked. He did not have to be formally accused of anything. Just a hint that he had acted improperly would be sufficient to cut his career short.
Fisher faced the grand jury as an assistant U.S. attorney questioned him about the memos. What precisely did Strachan mean by Fisher’s price? What was his price? Fisher had made his contributions to Nix - on in two phases: before April 7, 1972, he had given $125,000, and then another $125,000 in February 1973. He explained that he obliged himself to the full quarter of a million, but half of it was going to be in Marathon stock and he had waited for the stock to go up.
Yes, but what was his price?
Outwardly Fisher held himself in check, but he was furious. He had no idea what his price was so why was it in a memo? Henry Ford was going to give $100,000. Fisher had no price —he had never had
310
a price —except for access to the president, which had been his since February 1969.
Were you seeking an ambassadorship?
This question rankled Fisher. An ambassadorship? He had been offered ambassadorships and Cabinet posts — all he had to do was name it. He wanted nothing, but to fill his narrowly defined role. How could he be buying influence he already had? That would have been bad business.
The close? Why would the close from Kalmbach come later? “Close,” Fisher wondered, no one had to “close” him. He told Stans he was going to give the $250,000 and that was it. He didn’t need clos- ing. He raised $8 million in 1972 for Nixon and somebody was going to put the close on him?
Fisher told his side of the story to the prosecutor. Yes, Larry Gold- berg, on Fisher’s recommendation, was in charge of Nixon’s outreach to Jewish voters. And yes, he had dealt quite a bit with John Mitchell. He was Nixon’s campaign manager.
The prosecutor asked Fisher if he was aware that his name appeared on Mitchell’s calendar more frequently than any other?
No, Fisher said, he was not aware of that, but he was not surprised. Mitchell handled many things for the president. Fisher had gone to see him often —not just on political issues, but on matters that concerned Israel and Soviet Jewry, which he hoped Mitchell would bring to the president’s attention.
The prosecutor was satisfied. Still furious at being called, Fisher stood and walked out of the courtroom.
311
Chapter 13
OLD FRIENDS
ON AUGUST 9, 1974, Max Fisher flew to Washington, at the in - vitation of Vice President Gerald Ford, for a meeting to discuss the economy. At the vice president’s office, he was told that Nixon was resigning and Ford was being sworn in. Fisher was asked to join the audience in the East Room of the White House, where, at noon, Ford took the oath as the thirty-eighth President of the United States. “History overtakes men,” Fisher told an interviewer after the cere- mony. “Many times President Ford said his ambition was to be Speak- er of the House. The events of our time have changed his life.... Ford was the right man at the right time and place.”
Fisher may well have been portraying his own position. For if it is true, as David Biale asserts in Power and Powerlessness in Jewish History, that “the movement of Jews into the American political elite marks one of the most radical social transformations in Jewish history, and probably, for that matter, in history in general,” then Fisher’s re- lationship with Ford elevated that transformation to its highest plain. “Among all the yardsticks that Washington has for measuring pow- er,” writes Hedrick Smith in The Power Game, “access is primary ... a privilege to be treasured.” And according to President Ford: “Max had access whenever [he] asked for it. I trusted him and he had as good access as anybody, if not better.”
Over the next two-and-a-half-years of the Ford administration, Fish- er would officially visit the Oval Office twenty-five times and speak with the president, on his private line, nearly as often.
It is likely that Fisher would have continued his active role if, for example, John B. Connally, Nixon’s first choice to replace Vice Presi -
312
dent Agnew, had been selected in October 1973. Probably, Fisher’s sta- tus would have remained relatively unchanged under any Republican administration, for his services to the GOPwere too valuable. He was a leader of Michigan’s Republican Party, revered for his uncanny ability to raise funds and, unlike some of the other more prodigious Nixon fund-raisers, was emerging from Watergate with his integrity intact. Additionally, he now had his diplomatic work for Nixon to his cred- it, and respect for his political savvy, because of the jump in Jewish voter turnout for Nixon in 1972, was running high. Then, too, Fisher was able to get along with a line of Republican presidents, many with widely different personalities. This ability is to some extent a function of his pragmatism: regardless of which person Fisher may have wanted in the White House, a president represents, for his term of office, an immutable presence. As Fisher was fond of reminding those who com- plained about officials who thwarted their agendas: “The president [or secretary of state or secretary of defense, etc.] is not a movable object.” Leonard Garment, who, after serving as Nixon’s counsel, went on to serve as an aide to Ford in the early days of his presidency, continued his friendship with Fisher throughout the transition. After seven years of working with Fisher, Garment began to observe what he felt fueled much of Fisher’s political involvement and his facility for forming lasting affiliations with presidents.
“The greatest motivators,” says Garment, “the powerful engines of our lives, are boredom and envy. Max doesn’t have a lot of envy, but he’s deathly afraid of boredom. And he attacks it by serving caus- es. That’s where his energy comes from. And whether it is done con- sciously or whether it is part of the embroidery in his soul, Max has a sense of how to use his energy. Within limits, I don’t think he cares that much what people are like. A man becomes president [and Max figures that] in order to do all the things that he likes doing —he learns how to deal with the president. Equally important is that Max doesn’t need to be dragged in on anyone’s coattails. He is a man who is above self-interest in the more narrow sense. Ford knew it and Nixon knew it. Max was trusted. He was seen as a very solid guy who thought his way through problems, who would never get anybody in trouble [by talking
313
to the press] and who had great influence, not to mention a network of organizations and individuals that he built and tended to like a perma- nent prime minister. And I know this: from the Nixon administration into the Bush administration, you had all of those people who were pretenders to Max’s role. He was very philosophical about it and said, ‘You wait and see.’ Then boom —[the White House and State Depart- ment] began to call him because they knew that he knew how to do it: he had the kind of sagacity that comes with doing it for a long time,” However perceptive Garment’s view of Fisher, there was a unique- ness to the Fisher-Ford relationship that surpassed the shared ground of political allies. Ford’s first recollection of Fisher dates to the early 1960s, when Fisher was helping Romney. He was impressed by what Fisher was doing for Michigan Republicans, not only the millions of dollars he raised, but his method for raising it, which involved putting his own capital and reputation behind a project.
“There is no question,” Ford says today, “that when Max puts his personal reputation on the line, he can raise tremendous sums of mon- ey for causes in which he believes. Max was always a doer, but he doesn’t project himself as a public person. I, for one, enjoy working with people like that because of their reliability. Any time Max says he’s going to do something, he’ll get it done.”
Fisher, from the beginning, sensed something special about Ford, his clear and moderate views, his solid judgment — in short, his po- tential. Maurice Schiller, who worked for Fisher in the oil business, al- ways felt that his erstwhile boss had a talent for discerning who would go far, for recognizing where and with whom to cast his lot. And Fisher recognized Ford’s potential as far back as July 1964. That July, Repub- licans descended on San Francisco to choose a candidate to oppose President Johnson in November. It was an exacting period of upheav- al for Republicans. They had divided into warring factions: liberals siding with Governor Nelson Rockefeller, conservatives with Senator Barry Goldwater. Marjorie Fisher recalls that one morning, during the convention, she and Max left their hotel and walked outside to hail a taxi to the Cow Palace. As the Fishers moved to the curb, Marjorie looked up and saw Gerald Ford. They exchanged greetings and chatted
314
about the convention. Then, surprisingly, Max said: “Jerry, have you ever thought about the vice presidency?”
“I love being a congressman,” replied Ford. “Betty and I have a house, and the three children, and we love our life. I don’t want to be vice president.”
“You’d make a fine vice president,” Fisher said.
“Thanks, Max,” said Ford. “But I’d like to be the Speaker of the House.”
Over the next decade, Fisher and Ford crossed paths on numerous political occasions. Ford, as minority leader of the House, asked Fisher to help Robert Griffin in his race for the Senate, and Fisher was happy to lend a hand. Fisher invited Ford to appear at the Economic Club of Detroit, and Ford came and spoke about “Legislating for a Better America.” When the Zionist Organization of America (ZOA) selected Fisher for their Rabbi Abba Hillel Silver Award, which Ford had re- ceived the previous year, Ford wrote Fisher that the ZOA “could not have chosen a finer American for this great tribute.” Of course, after Ford was nominated for the vice presidency, Fisher sent his hearty congratulations and Ford replied with his “warmest personal regards and deep appreciation for [Fisher’s] support.”
Undoubtedly, Ford and Fisher had a deep respect for each oth- er, but there is little here to illuminate the reasons underlying the uniqueness of their friendship. And Ford’s memoirs shed no further light. In A Time to Heal, Ford refers to Fisher as “a close friend,” and “my old friend.”
As the years passed, Fisher developed an amusing anecdote about Ford, which he used whenever he introduced him at dinners and fund-raisers. “Jerry Ford and I have a lot in common,” Fisher would begin. “We went to college on partial scholarships. We washed dishes to earn spending money. We played center on our football teams: he for the University of Michigan, me for Ohio State. He became president. And I became rich” — Fisher smiled — “betting with him on Ohio State-Michigan football games.”
Their annual bet was five dollars and, in this good-natured ribbing, there is a hint of what bound the two men. It was the sort of joking that
315
Fisher had participated in with his boyhood friends. It had the same spirit of friendly competition and good will.
“I’m not by nature suspicious of people or their motives,” Ford re- calls, and neither, as a rule, is Fisher. It was a nature bequeathed to them by their small-town heritage — a heritage owing more to the nineteenth century than to the twentieth —and it was responsible, in large measure, for their optimism and their willingness to trust. Fish- er had different qualities in common with Nixon: an impulse toward obsessive work, of never being satisfied with any accomplishment, of always pushing, of discreet and agile politics. With Ford, on the other hand, Fisher recaptured the more relaxed rhythms of Salem. It is no surprise then that Ford’s hometown of Grand Rapids, Michigan, mir- rored much of what Fisher experienced in Ohio.
“In the mid-1920s,” Ford remembers, “Grand Rapids was known as a strait-laced, highly conservative town. The large number of Dutch immigrants and their descendants were hard-working and deeply reli- gious. Almost everyone attended church and a strict moral code was scrupulously observed.”
Like Fisher’s Salem (and Nixon’s Yorba Linda and Whittier), Grand Rapids was imbued with Christian culture.
“The local high school where I went, South High, had a very limited number of Jewish students,” Ford says. “But they were always among the very smartest. This was a very cosmopolitan high school. We had a lot of poor people; we had a fair amount of rich kids; it was a good mixture. But even in high school I noticed that some of my non-Jewish schoolmates resented the ability, the hard-working characteristics, the success of the few Jewish students.”
This animosity somehow missed the future president.
“I’ve always admired success,” says Ford. “And in our high school [although] there were very few Jewish students, they were always in the top echelon academically and I had great respect for them. I wanted to do as well as they, and never did, but instead of being critical or feel- ing resentful, I [tried] to be as successful as they. And that attitude to- ward these Jewish students continued all my life in relationships with Jewish citizens generally. I’ve always felt that Jews as a whole work
316
harder, aim higher, and probably have a higher I.Q. than any compara- ble group in our society. I admire them. And Max is a good example.” Beyond his admiration for Fisher was a similarity of style.
“Max,” says Ford, “gives you a soft sell. Hedoesn’t seek personal ag- grandizement. He feels very strongly about certain fundamental issues and approaches you with a rational, fair point of view. That approach appeals to me. To my knowledge Max never sought, at least from me, any personal benefit or gain. He was truly dedicated to whatever view - point he was proposing and that generated trust and response.”
From the outset of his tenure, Ford encouraged his official and unof - ficial advisers to be frank with him. Fisher’s trust in Ford was predicat - ed on this genuine openness combined with Ford’s high tolerance for honesty, a rare attribute in powerful people in general and politicians in particular.
“Max would tell me what he thought,” recalls Ford, “but he would do it subtly, in his quiet, unassuming way.”
“I could talk to Ford about any problem,” says Fisher. “I always tried to tell him the way it was. He was marvelous. What made him so good was that he understood the way the system worked. He would lis- ten to all sides of a story before he made a decision. And he was a man of great sensibility, much smarter than people thought he was. And he had a deep sense of loyalty to the American people.”
***
Loyalty was on Fisher’s mind in the late summer of 1974. On Monday morning, August 26, as he was preparing to leave for Washington for his first visit with Ford in the Oval Office, Fisher sent a letter off to Nixon at his home in San Clemente, California.
“Mr. President,” Fisher wrote, “as I look back on our relationship during the past [fifteen] years I think of all the events leading up to the present time and I can only reflect by saying that history will record the great contribution you have made to the world. In this emotional peri- od, it is so difficult to sort out the real facts, but I want you to know you have many friends who fully understand what you have really done.
317
I can only express my own feeling of personal satisfaction for having worked with you and to know the kind of man you are. Please be as- sured of my continued friendship.”
Nixon, wounded by the circumstances surrounding his resignation, uncharacteristically did not immediately reply. Fisher did receive a phone call from Julie Nixon Eisenhower. There were tears in her voice when she said: “Mr. Fisher, we were at dinner the other evening, the whole family, and we were talking about how so few of my father’s friends have continued to stand by him. I wanted you to know how grateful we are to you.”
Fisher told her that he had always admired her father and he would do anything he could to help. There was, however, nothing to be done. Richard Nixon was again in the wilderness.
Four months after writing Nixon, Fisher received a reply.
“Dear Max,” Nixon said. “As 1974 comes to an end, I want you to know how deeply grateful I have been for your loyal friendship from the time we first met each other, and particularly during these past dif - ficult months. In the world of politics, this kind of friendship is very rare and therefore deeply cherished.”
Indeed it was. As Nixon observed: “When you win in politics, you hear from everyone. When you lose, you hear from your friends.” The first conversation Fisher and Nixon had following the resigna - tion was just before the New Year. Nixon phoned him and their chat, Fisher later said, was “awkward.” They discussed Nixon’s bout with phlebitis, his legal troubles and the Middle East. Fisher, as he had after Nixon’s loss in 1960, continued to keep in touch with the former pres- ident, but his attention was now focused on the new administration.
***
On Monday afternoon, at 3:30, August 26, 1974, Fisher walked into the Oval Office for his first visit with President Ford. William J. Ba - roody Jr., who served as director of the White House Office of Public Liaison, was also there.
“Mr. President,” Fisher said, shaking Ford’s hand.
318
“Mr. President?” Ford replied. “Max, you’ve known me for twenty years and it’s always been Jerry.”
“And you’ll be Jerry again,” said Fisher, “when you’ve finished sit - ting in that chair.”
Fisher had come’ to discuss the Middle East. He was scheduled to fly to Israel over Labor Day for a budget meeting at the Jewish Agency. The Middle East was undergoing a painful and potentially dangerous readjustment in the wake of the Yom Kippur War, and Ford was count- ing on Fisher to help smooth the transition between the new adminis- tration and Israeli leaders.
First, Ford said, Fisher would now deal directly with the president, not through a bureaucratic pipeline. Second, the president thought Fisher could provide some input on the energy problem. He also requested that Fisher handle the administration’s relationship with the American Jew- ish community and to continue his liaison work with Israel.
Fisher gave the president his reading on the situation within the Jewish community. They were concerned, he said, about the United States keeping its financial and military commitments to Israel, espe - cially since the oil crunch provided a convenient excuse to court the favor of Arab countries. Ford replied that his support for Israel was as strong as ever and that he was confident in the Israelis’ judgment about how to proceed toward a lasting peace. Their discussion was lively and informative and went on for an hour. When Fisher stood to leave, Ford said, “Max, please tell [Prime Minister Yitzhak] Rabin that an early meeting between us is crucial.”
That weekend, at the Beit Agron, a club where the press gathers in Jerusalem, Fisher trumpeted the backing of the administration, telling reporters that Israel had “no reason to fear a cooling of President Ford’s longtime support.” Fisher said that he had been asked to deliver the pres- ident’s greetings to Prime Minister Rabin and Golda Meir, and that Ford promised to meet with American Jewish leaders in the near future.
On September 27, Fisher was in Washington, at Ford’s request, to take part in the Conference on Inflation. Five weeks later, at the White House, Ford spent a half-hour with Fisher, Rogers C.B. Morton, sec- retary of the interior, and Michael Raoul-Duval, the associate director
319
for natural resources of the Domestic Council. Fisher had submitted to Ford a seven-year energy program that was designed to reduce the growth rate of U.S. energy consumption and to increase domestic sup- plies. The administration had already implemented some of Fisher’s suggestions: reducing the speed limit, recycling waste, converting industry from oil to coal, and promoting industrial and private con- servation. But Ford was “intrigued” with Fisher’s proposition that the president establish a Council on Energy and merge it with the Council on Environmental Quality.
“You know,” Fisher said to Ford as he was leaving the Oval Office. “These are good suggestions. And,” —he added, referring to his vast holdings in oil —“they are going to cost me a fortune.”
Ford smiled. Yes, he knew, and what he did not have to say was that Fisher’s willingness to make suggestions that ran contrary to his own interests was a major reason his trust in him was so complete.
The Wednesday before Thanksgiving, Fisher spent an hour and a half with Ford in the Oval Office discussing the finer points of Fisher’s access to the president. Ford told him that he should feel free to contact him in the family quarters and that he would have immediate access to Donald H. Rumsfeld, Ford’s chief of staff, and Richard B. Cheney, who was Rumsfeld’s chief deputy. Ford asked Fisher to arrange a meeting with American Jewish leaders. Fisher promised to take care of it. Then he told Ford that he thought Leonard Garment would do a first-rate job at the United Nations and hoped Ford would look into it. Fisher left the meeting in good spirits and five dollars richer, because on the previous Saturday, Ohio State running back Archie Griffin, en route to the first of his two Heisman Trophies, had helped Ohio State defeat Michigan 12 to 10. When Ford handed Fisher the five-dollar bill, Fisher said to him, “I want you to sign it.”
“Max,” Ford grinned, “that’s defacing government property. It’s against the law.”
“Mr. President,” Fisher replied. “I don’t want to spend it. I want to frame it.”
“All right,” said Ford, signing the bill. “And I know you’ll do the same for me.”
320
“Of course,” Fisher said, and he did, several weeks later, when the University of Southern California defeated Ohio State in the Rose Bowl.
***
Late Sunday afternoon, December 8, Fisher was again in Washing- ton talking with Ford, Richard Cheney and Dr. Paul McCracken. The three men spent forty-five minutes boring in on the economic picture. McCracken was convinced that the overheated demand phase of the present inflation was over and that renewed expansion of the econo - my would stabilize the price-cost level. He encouraged Ford to pursue a vigorous policy of expansion without fear of reactivating the infla - tion. Fisher suggested that an increased money supply was necessary to stimulate the housing market. He also recommended that Ford name his economic team as soon as possible and that the team should focus their energies on the recession.
The final order of business between Ford and Fisher in 1974 was the president’s talk with Jewish leadership. As he had during the Nixon years, Fisher made certain that the president met with a representative body of leaders, not a partisan clique. His arrangements had a dual pur- pose: one, the administration would be able to view an ample and unified constituency, which would give the desires of that constituency namely, a benevolent policy toward Israel — electoral weight; two, the Jewish leaders would see Fisher as an effective advocate for the community.
It was, for Fisher, an exquisite transaction, each component nour- ishing the other.
So at noon on Friday, December 20, Ford welcomed nineteen men and women from all walks of Jewish American life, Republicans and Democrats alike: Fisher and Jack Stein; Rabbi Israel Miller from the Presidents Conference; David Blumberg of B’nai B’rith; Charlotte Ja- cobson, head of the World Zionist Organization’s American Section; Mel Dubinsky, chairman of the United Israel Appeal; Frank Lauten- berg, chairman of the United Jewish Appeal; and a dozen more, all sit- ting around the gleaming wood table in the Cabinet Room of the White House. Ford’s briefing paper had been prepared under the auspices
321
of Secretary of State Kissinger. The president began by assuring the leaders that he was committed to maintaining the geographic integrity of Israel.
“The Israelis,” said Ford, “can count on our economic and military aid. Israel is vitally important to overall American foreign policy in the Middle East.”
Ford turned to current events: Kissinger’s shuttle diplomacy and U.S. efforts to bring peace to the region. “Most other countries,” Ford said, “including those in NATO, disagree with our policy, and want Israel to return to her 1967 borders. If we go to a Geneva peace con- ference, the PLO would have to attend, and Israel will not negotiate with the PLO. Negotiations between Israel and the Arabs should be a quid pro quo. If Israel gives something up, she should get something in return.”
The crux of Ford’s program was precisely what American Jewish leadership wished to hear: the president would be a champion of Israel. As the gathering adjourned in a wave of warm feelings, Fisher wrote himself a note that reflected the confidence of the leaders: “As long as Ford is president, there will never be another Munich.”
And Fisher was quick to praise Ford for his stance at the meeting. “You impressed the group immensely with your grasp of the issues and your directness,” he told the president. “Even the most ‘Democratic’ members of the group came away with a strengthened sense of trust in your leadership. As you know, nothing is more important to this community than trust. My best wishes for the New Year to you and Betty.” For the moment, everything was as congenial as a honeymoon. And as 1974 drifted into 1975, this balmy air of congeniality obscured the diplomatic hurricane hovering offshore. The storm had its origins in the geopolitics created by the Yom Kippur War, and three months hence, it would lash across Washington and Jerusalem, testing not just the relationship between allies, but the bonds of friendship between the president and his “old friend, Max Fisher.”
322
Chapter 14
THE REASSESSMENT
IN 1975, AS the United States grappled with the demons of Wa- tergate, Vietnam and the oil embargo, Israel wrestled with her own grueling angels: the aftermath of the Yom Kippur War and an internal debate on how to pursue peace with her Arab neighbors.
The government of Golda Meir was a political casualty of the war. She was replaced by General Yitzhak Rabin, a military hero and the first native-born Israeli, the first sabra, to be elected prime minister. (Shimon Peres was named defense minister and Yigal Allon was hand- ed the foreign ministry.) Once Egypt and Israel disentangled their forc- es in the Sinai, Secretary of State Henry Kissinger sought to bring about another interim agreement, “the second Egyptian-Israeli Disen- gagement.” After a U.S.-Soviet supported peace conference in Geneva fell apart in a blast of ill will, Rabin told Kissinger that he was prepared to seek peace in stages. However, said, Rabin, if Israel were to give up a “piece of land” without acquiring a “piece of peace,” then they would have relinquished everything and received nothing.
What Israel wanted from Egyptian President Sadat was a public pledge of non-belligerency. Sadat, Kissinger told Israeli leaders, could not go public with such a commitment. Egypt’s president wanted Israel to give up the Abu Rodeis oil fields and the Mitla and Gidi passes. Is - rael balked at that proposal, but Foreign Minister Allon said that Israeli demands were flexible and Kissinger should pass that along to Sadat. Israeli leaders invited Kissinger to continue his shuttle diplomacy. In March 1975, he spent ten days shuttling between Israel and Egypt, but discrepancies over Israeli withdrawal and Egyptian advance were not solved, and Egypt would not consent to a formalized renuncia-
323
tion of belligerency. On a flight from Egypt to Israel, Kissinger, in his standard guise of “senior official,” told reporters that he was bringing “new Egyptian proposals to Rabin” that could dissolve the deadlock. Instantly, these revelations made international headlines. In Israel, Rabin asked Kissinger to spell out Sadat’s new proposals. Kissinger replied that he hadn’t said he brought anything new. But the journalists did, answered Rabin. Kissinger said he wasn’t responsible for what they reported. Yes, Rabin replied, in most cases you are. Kissinger asked the prime minister if he truly desired peace. Rabin said yes, but not at any price.
On Friday, March 21, President Ford, presumably at Kissinger’s request, forwarded an urgent letter to Rabin. “Kissinger has notified me,” the letter said, “of the forthcoming suspension of his mission. I wish to express my profound disappointment over Israel’s attitude.... Kissinger’s mission, encouraged by your government, expresses vital United States interests in the region. Failure of the negotiations will have a far-reaching impact on the region and on our relations. I have given instructions for a reassessment of ... our relations with Israel.... You will be notified of our decision.” If Ford and Kissinger banked on this tough talk to force Israel’s hand, they were misguided and ran headlong into what Israeli scholar Shlomo Aronson calls Israel’s “old, Holocaust-inspired, siege syndrome.” Every indication is that the letter hardened the Israeli stance.
On Saturday, March 22, Sadat again refused to make a formal dec- laration of non-belligerency, and the talks broke down.
Fifteen years later, Kissinger still feels that Israel should have ac- cepted the plan at this point and maintains that he never would have resumed the shuttle if he did not believe he had a deal.
“It was an honest misunderstanding,” Kissinger says. “Operationally, we were deceived. I’m not saying that it was the Israelis’ fault. But the differences between Israel and us were a matter of a few kilometers at the Mitla and Gidi passes, which the Egyptians were going to get any- way. Whatever the assessment of Egyptian [military] capabilities, we were talking about ten to fifteen kilometers at the western end of the Sinai, for God’s sake. They weren’t going to be any nearer to defeating Israel.”
324
In 1989, Rabin, now a defense minister immersed in the dilem- mas of the intifada, looked back at the breakdown of the 1975 talks and commented: “We didn’t want [the Egyptians] to have total con- trol of the eastern parts of the passes because then they would be in better shape [during the next phase of] negotiations, I realized it was not the end of negotiations, because the interim agreement, by its name, was [for the] interim. Why lose cards? Why create a worse military situation knowing that I’d need the cards for the next phase of negotiations?”
The “misunderstanding” was a result of conflicting agendas. Kissinger and Ford were correct: the distance within the passes being debated over was not significant as a military measurement. But as a card to be held for later it was, to Rabin, invaluable. “It did not make any difference,” Rabin said in 1989, “if giving back the passes would have been the final step in the peace process. But it wasn’t.”
On Sunday, March 23, Kissinger gave his farewell statement at Ben-Gurion Airport, his eyes glistening with tears. During the next few weeks, Kissinger would be quoted as blaming the Israelis for “hu- miliating” the United States, and he would allegedly accuse Rabin of misleading him. The “reassessment,” which according to Wolf Blitzer, then-Washington bureau chief of The Jerusalem Post, “marked one of the most acrimonious periods in American-Israel relations [since] 1948,” had begun.
***
On the morning after Kissinger’s return, President Ford intimated that America’s political and financial support for Israel might be curbed. Ford, recalling how he came to his decision to reassess, states: “We had worked very hard to try to get the Sinai agreement, which involved very detailed negotiations with the Israelis and with Sadat. And we had gotten to a point where the Israelis were nitpicking over where a line ought to be drawn. It seemed to me that they were losing sight of the big picture. As much as I admired and supported the Israelis, I thought they were being shortsighted. And it finally was my judgment — and
325
Kissinger agreed that we had to somehow shake the Israeli government into doing what we thought was right.”
Coercion was elevated to a less-than-subtle art form as the reassess- ment rolled on. Added to the public statements of Ford and Kissing- er was an array of U.S. choke-holds. Negotiations were suspended on Israel’s request for F-15 fighter planes and a shipment of Lance ground-to-ground missiles was delayed even while an Israeli Army team waited in the United States to learn how to operate them. Diplo- matic hammerlocks were also used. A scheduled visit to Washington by Israeli Finance Minister Yehoshua Rabinowitz was put off. Israeli Defense Minister Shimon Peres, who was slated to come for a round of talks on a new military-aid package, was instructed to stay in Tel Aviv until the reassessment was finished.
Perhaps to remind Rabin and his Cabinet that other, more inimical viewpoints existed in the American government, Kissinger summoned home four U.S. ambassadors — three of them career Arabists — to participate in the reassessment. He encouraged other governments to assist with the pressure, telling them that the collapse of the talks was Israel’s fault and that he would not resume his shuttle diplomacy with- out significant concessions from the Israelis.
The reaction of the American Jewish community was instantaneous. Seven-hundred American Jewish leaders descended on New York City to kick off a nationwide support drive for Israel. On university cam- puses, members of Hillel Foundations met with Protestant and Catholic student groups. The Jewish Labor Committee contacted trade unions. Leaders of the Jewish War Veterans addressed gatherings of the Amer- ican Legion. These tactics were effective. AHarris Survey, conducted just before the negotiations collapsed, showed that American backing of Israel was hovering at an all-time high: 52 percent in the Israeli camp, only 7 percent sympathizing with the Arabs.
Kissinger felt the effects of the outcry. “I really felt the pressure,” he says. “I talked to several [American] Jewish leaders [about the reas- sessment], and I think many of them understood it. But the [American Jewish community] doesn’t give Jewish secretaries of state the same benefit of the doubt that they give non-Jewish ones.”
326
Kissinger thought that the president felt far more let down by the Israelis than he did. “Ford is a very straight guy,” says Kissinger. “One of the things that burned him up was that [Israeli Ambassador Simcha] Dinitz made it back [to the United States] before I did. And he called a meeting of [American Jewish leaders], and they came out with a posi- tion before I even landed.”
Ford believed that the groundswell of protest from the American Jewish community was due to their terribly misunderstood and misin- formed point of view.” “They didn’t understand that I was as dedicated to Israel’s future as they,” Ford says. “You had to move forward. The only way to do it was to appear tough. Max Fisher understood it. He was very smart, very wise.”
In his autobiography, Ford wrote: “Predictably, our ‘reassessment’ jolted the American Jewish community, and Israel’s many friends in Congress. The Israeli lobby, made up of patriotic Americans, is strong, vocal and wealthy, but many of its members have a single focus. I knew that I would come under intense pressure soon to change our policy, but I was determined to hold firm. On March 27, I met in the Oval Office with Max Fisher ... [and said] that my comments about reassessing our policies there weren’t just rhetoric.... I didn’t have to ask Max to get the message back to the Israelis. Word would spread very quickly that I meant what I said.” Ford’s recounting of the March 27 meeting with Fisher is, to some degree, deceptive, because it skirts a substantial part of their discussion. Fisher did fly to Washington on March 27 and at 3:15 p.m. was ushered into the Oval Office. Although it is not mentioned in Ford’s written account, the president was not alone on that Thursday afternoon: Kissinger was with him. Ford was, by his own admission, “mad as hell.” He was angry both at the Israe- lis, for what he saw as their intransigence, and at the American Jewish community, for what he considered their unfair attacks against him. But Ford was aiming his sights higher than indulging himself in a ver- bal tantrum. He needed the talks to progress for other reasons, primari- ly because his administration’s foreign policy had been steadily losing credibility with Congress in the backwash of the oil embargo and the suspension of arms deliveries to the Turks. Also, two days prior to the
327
meeting, King Faisal of Saudi Arabia had been assassinated by his neph- ew. The Saudi monarch, who had ruled over the world’s largest proven oil reserves, had been regarded in Western capitals as a moderate who tried to tone down the oil policies of such extremist nations as Libya and Algeria. Faisal believed that the United States was a natural ally of Saudi Arabia, for the Saudi royal family lived in deadly fear of communism. Faisal’s death left a problematic question mark. The continued fighting in Southeast Asia was also a problem for the United States — and for Israel, since it demonstrated what could happen to an ally of the United States who was forced to live with an American-inspired (and -imposed) peace agreement. In January 1973, Kissinger and North Vietnam’s Le Duc Tho concluded the cease-fire agreement between North and South Vietnam. Yet, by March 15, the Communists were driving closer to Sai- gon. It was only a matter of weeks before the North Vietnamese Army entered the capital and the country fell.
It was with these difficulties erupting around the world that Fisher entered the Oval Office and shook hands with the president and secre - tary of state.
Fisher was disturbed about the reassessment, but outwardly he was composed, his distress mitigated by his trust in Ford and Kissinger. Joe Sisco noticed Fisher’s calm. Sisco, undersecretary of state for political affairs, the highest career policy-making position in the State Department, was an old hand in the Middle East and had coined the phrase “shuttle diplomacy” as he was flying between Egypt and Israel in January 1974 with Kissinger. Sisco saw much of Fisher during the reassessment and says that “Max has the orientation of a problem solv- er. And when you are a problem solver you are less concerned with the whole conceptual structure than you are with how one alleviates the problem in a practical way. And he does not panic; he is calm. I would be surprised if there was any evidence in Max’s lifetime, in critical business decisions or in his role as a [Jewish leader], where he would be anything other than a calm operator. I don’t mean he doesn’t get emotional like anyone else.”
True enough, as Sisco observed, Fisher’s basic response to conflict was to rein himself in and to focus his energy on anything that might
328
solve, with a minimum of hostility, the problem. Fisher’s measured productive calm was deceptive, though, for by his own design, it re- vealed little about his stubbornness and anger. It was a response rooted in his profound aversion to public outbursts of hostility. His oft-re- peated phrase “You’re only living for today” was not merely advice to those who disagreed to step out of the entanglements of the moment into the promise of the future; it was Fisher’s way for rising above — and thus circumventing —conflict, his method for not participating in it, for chasing it away.
So as Fisher sat before Ford and Kissinger, he did what he thought was best to defuse the emotionally charged question of reassessment: he listened.
Ford started by telling Fisher that he was upset about the breakdown of the talks, that he held the Israelis responsible, and was considering a televised speech to make his feelings known. “Max,” he said, “it is the most distressing thing that has happened to me since I became president. Rabin and Allon misled us into thinking they would make the deal. I never would’ve sent [Kissinger] if I didn’t think we had an agreement. The Israelis took advantage of us.”
“Israel,” Kissinger said, “made a terrible mistake.” He added that going to Geneva would be a disaster; the world would line up against Israel and the United States, and a peace conference that brought to- gether the Russians and Arabs could very well mean a potent pressure on Israel to retreat to its 1967 borders.
Many people, Ford continued, including the Congress, were upset about the stalling of the talks, and the whole Cabinet was in an uproar. Israel was endangering American activities; there was now a chance of another oil embargo, another war, or even a confrontation with the Soviet Union. Ford felt that Israel did not consider America, while America did consider Israel; if Israel has no respect for our interests, he told Fisher, then we must act alone. Israel has damaged America’s position with her clients and, by doing so, increased Soviet influence around the world. Fisher gently broke in, asking Kissinger why he thought the talks failed. The secretary replied that maybe events in Southeast Asia caused Israel to lose confidence in America as an ally.
329
Ford emphasized that if Israel accepted American assurances on peace, the United States would be locked in — in spite of what was presently happening in Vietnam. He repeated that he had full confi - dence in Kissinger. The president then mentioned the attacks on him and the secretary of state. He said that he was not anti-Israel; he had been their friend for twenty-five years. The reassessment did not mean the end of military aid and political support. However, that aid and support would be measured in terms of self-interest. It was one thing for support in war and quite another in the context of peace.
The three men rehashed the issues surrounding the dispute. Fisher, realizing that his old friend had been acutely hurt, pointed out to Ford that the breakdown of the talks was not the end of the world. Everyone must keep cool; all the countries involved knew that only the United States could assist the parties in reaching an agreement, He said that he didn’t think there had been any deceit intended by Israel, and drop- ping the blame on them for the disintegration of the talks served no purpose, except to alienate the Israelis and make the Egyptians more demanding. With respect to the attacks on Ford and Kissinger, Fisher said that in his judgment there was still a substantial reservoir of good will in Israel and the American Jewish community for the president and secretary of state.
Fisher’s final note on the forty-minute meeting, which he wrote lat - er, said: “I settled the president down.”
When the discussion was over, it was decided that Fisher would go to Israel and learn what, from the Israelis’ point of view, had happened to derail the negotiations; what ultimately could be done to heal the rift between the two allies, and to discover if it was feasible to get the peace talks back on track.
Whatever bending would be done, Ford and Kissinger knew, would be done in private. The negotiations had broken down under a cloud of bitterness; personal reputations were on the line: the president’s, the secretary’s, and the prime minister’s. The Israeli press was reporting that “Kissinger was picking on Rabin,” and highlighted the tensions in the American Jewish community and the downward spiral of its relationship with the Ford administration. According to The Jerusa-
330
lem Post, Israel’s government had “acted to constrain American Jewish leadership from launching an all-out counterattack against Dr. Kissing- er — though some of the American Jewish organizations are visibly [champing] at the bit.” This back-door diplomacy required someone who would tread lightly and who was not enamored of seeing his pic- ture splashed across a newspaper or television screen.
“I wanted Max to get us the background information on what the unofficial thinking of the Israeli government was,” President Ford says. “[The situation was so sensitive the Israelis didn’t] like it going through official channels. It had to be kept quiet. That’s the way the world has operated for centuries. You have purely official channels where the record has to be made by both parties, but there’s a way of information being transmitted that tells you what is do-able. [And this is done] without putting it on the record for future historians to follow. That’s what Max did. He was involved in many historic events, [but] the great thing about Max was that he never called a press conference.” Ford’s assertion that future historians would have trouble tracking Fisher’s contributions proved correct. Even a scholar as thorough as Steven Spiegel, in The Other Arab-Israeli Conflict, his incisive study of American Middle East policy from Truman to Reagan, missed it. Spiegel writes that Kissinger’s “opinions and prejudices were para- mount; contrary ideas rarely received a hearing. Even when outside consultants were approached, as during the 1975 reassessment, they served as instruments for pressuring Israel rather than as genuine con- tributors to the diplomatic process.”
Secrecy then was a key element if the process were to succeed. And so was trust. Ford did not suspect Fisher, regardless of his sympathies for Israel, of having a hidden agenda.
“Max,” says Ford, “never tried to fool you with something.” Kissinger states that while believing Fisher, as a Jewish leader, “had a bias toward the Israeli position,” he trusted him “to do an honorable job,” relaying the American viewpoint and returning with Israel’s answer.
“[President Ford and I] also considered ourselves friends of Israel,” says Kissinger. “And I had a lot of confidence in Max. I [used him] to
331
convey our thinking to the Israeli government. And where he agreed with [us] to add his weight to it. I would say, ‘Look Max, you know President Ford, you know me. We don’t lie to you; this is the way we look at things. [The Israelis] have to understand that this is our think- ing, not a negotiating position. This is our analysis and what we think their options are.’”
During the spring of 1975, Fisher had the perfect cover for a trip to Israel. In early April, leaders of the Jewish Agency were convening to prepare for the Fourth World Assembly in June. Upon leaving the White House, Fisher returned home from Washington. On the flight, he put his head back, closed his eyes and replayed his discussion with the president and secretary of state. Both had been angry and disappointed. It would be no small task to communicate this anger and disappointment to Rabin without angering the prime minister, hardening the Israeli position, and permanently undermining this opportunity for peace.
“The reassessment,” Fisher says today, “got all out of proportion. I don’t think Ford and Kissinger realized, at the time, the extent to which the controversy was mushrooming out of control.”
Fisher rummaged under his seat, removed a legal pad from his black leather briefcase, and noted, point by point, what the president and secretary had said, adding his own impressions until he had filled four pages. He leaned back and closed his eyes.
If Fisher managed to elude American journalists, he was not as lucky with the Israeli press. On March 31, Haaretz announced on page one: “Three days ago, the Jewish leader with the main contact to the White House, Max Fisher, met with [President] Ford. Mr. Fisher heard criticism of Israel, but his impression was that Ford had hoped for an arrangement between Israel and Egypt and was convinced that this was assured. In [Ford’s] opinion Israel should have been flexible for America, which is facing [foreign policy] difficulties. It is possible that part of the president’s ire is directed toward the State Department.... According to Jewish leaders, Fisher’s report indicates that the situation is not encouraging.”
Fisher was not interviewed for the story. It was likely that sources in the American Jewish community passed the information along to
332
inflame the protest against Ford and Kissinger’s claim that Israeli in - transigence had scuttled the peace initiative.
On Thursday, April 3, Fisher arrived in Tel Aviv. As always, when on Jewish Agency business, he was picked up at Ben-Gurion Airport by his driver, Shlomo Osherov, and checked into his usual suite at the King David Hotel in Jerusalem.
“I knew,” Fisher says, “that the Americans and Israelis had faith in me. Both sides could speak honestly and trust that the things they wanted kept in confidence I would keep in confidence. I didn’t con - sider myself a messenger boy. I tried to interpret what the messages meant. When I thought either the Americans or Israelis were wrong, I told them. My fundamental responsibility was as an American. Then as an American Jewish leader. And finally, I had my love for Israel.” Throughout April 3, 4, and 5, Fisher attended a nonstop circuit of meetings. He talked with Foreign Minister Yigal Allon and De- fense Minister Shimon Peres. He stopped at former Prime Minister Golda Meir’s house in a tree-lined Tel Aviv suburb and spoke with her. She told him that although she had a high regard for Kissinger, in this case he was wrong: Israel had not misled him, and he himself had created the rift with his leaks to the press. Fisher then left to ex- change ideas with members of the conservative Likud bloc, whose right-wing politics were opposed to those of Rabin’s Labor Party, and whose support would be pivotal if an accord with Egypt were to be signed.
On three separate occasions, Fisher spoke with Prime Minister Rabin. They met ledabare arbah anaiyim, a Hebrew expression mean- ing literally “to speak in four eyes,” privately, frankly, It was the mode of communication favored by Fisher, and Rabin, who felt that “the importance of [political dialogues] is usually in inverse proportion to the number of participants.”
By 1975, the relationship between Rabin and Fisher was on solid ground, but it had not always been that way. In 1968, as Israel’s am- bassador to Washington, Rabin felt that American Jews misguidedly exercised their influence by means of a shtadlan, a court Jew. Rabin was convinced that the Israeli Embassy should speak for Israel at the
333
political level, while America’s Jews should muster support for Israel among all the American people.
However, Fisher, who was the intermediary in Republican admin- istrations, felt that Rabin was under the impression that he should act as if he were “a private in the Israeli Army.” This was not, Fisher says, how he viewed his role. “If a friend,” says Fisher, “asks you a question and you don’t give him an honest answer — even if he’d rather hear something else —you’re not being much of a friend by lying to him.” Early on in his relationship with Fisher, Rabin referred to him as “a cold Jew.” Irving Bernstein, who as executive vice chairman of the UJA ultimately helped bring Rabin and Fisher together after the 1972 presidential election, explains what Rabin meant: “Max,” says Bern- stein, “is not a great guy for small talk. For a lot of people Max is dif- ficult to communicate with. He mumbles and is a typical American in his approach: he leaves many things unsaid. Rabin, the Israeli general, likes everything on the table. And Max was a Republican, where most Jews were Democrats, and Rabin felt that Max’s first priority was his relationship with the administration, not the welfare of the Israelis. He was not a ‘true’ Zionist. There was, perhaps on Rabin’s part, a lack of trust which was made worse by Rabin’s assistant, Shlomo Argov, a very emotional man who did not understand Max’s reserve.” Bernstein arranged a meeting between Fisher and Rabin, because, he says, Rabin’s negative impression of Fisher “was bad for Israel and an injustice to Max.” Bernstein wanted Rabin to feel comfortable, so he brought along Edward Ginsburg, a previous chairman and president of the UJA, who was apolitical and trusted implicitly by Rabin. The meeting was held on the mezzanine of the Madison Hotel, where Fish- er stayed when he was in Washington. (Rabin would also feel com- fortable there. The hotel was owned by one of his friends, Marshall Coyne.) Rabin arrived with his assistant, Argov, who proceeded to out- line why he felt Fisher was too reflective of Washington’s official per - spective. Bernstein and Ginsburg spoke on Fisher’s behalf. Fisher said nothing. The discussion turned into a tennis match of mild allegations and polite responses. Finally, Fisher broke in. In lieu of parrying Ar- gov’s criticism, he looked at Rabin and quietly told his life story, how
334
he was raised far from things Jewish, his financial struggles, the depth of his horror in the face of the Holocaust, how he would do everything in his power to prevent it from happening again and that meant seeing to it that Israel was secure.
Argov interrupted Fisher, but before he could complete a sentence, Rabin said: “No. Enough. Max is committed.”
The meeting was over.
“Max cares about everything that happens to the Jewish people,” Rabin commented in 1989, “and [therefore] to Israel. But he has found a way to remain a Jewish leader and never betray the United States. He has mediated when there was a sharp difference of opinion about policies or approaches between the United States and Israel. He under- stands the problems of Israel, but he does not pretend to be an Israeli. He has the point of view of an American, and is ready, as an American, to try to convince the president to do what must be done.”
“One has to understand,” says Fisher, and it was a point that he made repeatedly to the Israelis in the spring of 1975, “that the United States functions globally and has interests in the Middle East besides Israel.”
Fisher, in dealing with Rabin, felt that as the prime minister, the for- mer general could not match the political charisma and finesse —cru - cial in foreign diplomacy and for holding the road against the turbulent turns of Israel’s domestic politics —of a Golda Meir. Yet, Fisher says, “for sheer brainpower, Rabin is the best. He’s a brilliant strategist, with the long global view.”
And so Rabin remembers that Max came in April 1975 and “we talked. I explained, point by point, the problem: what brought it about, what needed to be changed, what were the major issues that caused the break from my point of view.”
Rabin assured Fisher that he had tremendous regard for the friend- ship of the United States and the president. He emphasized that he understood American interests and respected them. But he was worried about the impression that Israel had intentionally misled Kissinger. Rabin said the Israelis desired peace and were willing to take risks for it, but they would not barter away their security. He was, along with the
335
other ministers, realistic about the obstacles confronting Israel because of the breakdown of the talks. Even though they were now dealing with Egypt, they realized that they would have to deal with Syria next, and soon. They had already met with Jordan’s King Hussein four times in recent months, and the discussions between Jordan and Syria were another complicating factor.
One particular worry of the Israelis, Fisher learned, was the vague- ness of Sadat’s proposals and whether or not the Egyptian president would keep his pledge to end hostilities. Previously, Sadat had prom- ised Hussein to support him on Jordan’s right to negotiate the future of the West Bank. Then, under pressure from other Arab leaders, Sadat suddenly reversed fields at an Arab summit, voting with the crowd and crowning the Palestine Liberation Organization as the only legitimate representative of the Palestinians. If Sadat would break his pledge to fellow Arabs, how binding would he view an agreement with Israel? This distrust also applied to the “private” Geneva accord. The agree- ment was far too vague, and while Israel was willing to accept less than they thought reasonable, they were troubled about securing the renewal of the United Nations’ supervisory force after one year with the Russians holding veto power. In conclusion, the Israelis had no responsible alternative but to accept Sadat’s promises with caution. During his discussions with Rabin, Fisher tried to discover areas where concessions might be made by both sides. He listened, gaug- ing what he had to bring back to Ford and Kissinger. He enumerated the American position and reassured the prime minister that the pres- ident and secretary could be relied on to work with Israel toward a realistic peace.
On Saturday, Rabin concluded their final meeting by saying: “Max, tell Kissinger and Ford not to worry —the process will continue. The talks will be resumed. But there is no need to rush.”
Later, in the Hebrew edition of his memoirs, Rabin wrote: “It was always true that [U.S.] administrations had a proven method of incur- ring favor with any Arab leader who showed signs of cooperating with America. Namely, reduction of arms to Israel. On the other hand, it is also true that Israel is not alone, provided it knows how to harness the
336
support of its friends, Jewish and non-Jewish, in a discreet and judi- cious manner. From Max Fisher I always received great support; the door of the White House is always open to him and in time of need, Max moves its hinges.”
Now, more than ever, with the Passover festival finished and the hills around Tel Aviv green in the warm seaside sunlight, Rabin would need Fisher to open the White House door, and keep it open, until the crisis was over.
337
Chapter 15
BEHIND THE WHITE HOUSE DOOR
FISHER’S WEEKEND TRIP to Israel fueled speculation about his activities and the status of the reassessment in the American and Israeli press.
OnApril 5, The New York Post headlined a story, “U.S. pushes Isra- el on Sinai pact,” and stated that Israel’s national radio had announced that the U.S. government had enlisted Fisher “to coax Israelis into tak- ing new steps that would bring Secretary of State Kissinger back into a leading mediating role. These new initiatives would have the effect, the radio said, of pushing back the reconvening of the Geneva confer- ence.” In Israel, Haaretz jumped into the fray by saying that “Dr. Hen- ry Kissinger claimed, in a talk with Jewish Agency Board of Gover- nors chairman Max Fisher, that Israel had ‘misled him.’ Sources close to Mr. Fisher further reported that though a slight shift has occurred in Kissinger-Israeli relations, the stand of [President Ford] is more mod- erate and [the president] has remained a true friend of Israel.”
Fisher kept his customary distance from the press. When he was questioned by The Detroit News about a report in Newsweek magazine that said he was asked to be a special emissary for President Ford to Israel regarding the stalemate in the Middle East, Fisher termed the report, “absolutely false.”
Meantime, Kissinger was pursuing some stateside diplomacy. Per- haps he hoped to deflect the criticism leveled at him by the American Jewish community and to garner support for his rendition of the break- down, thereby heaping further pressure on Israel. At the very least, it was an attempt to demonstrate that the secretary was not deaf to the community of which he was a part. Kissinger requested and held a one-hour meeting at the State Department with political science pro-
338
fessor Hans Morgenthau, writer Elie Wiesel and Max Kampelman, a leading Washington attorney and former adviser to Vice President Humphrey. According to an unnamed source who attended the meet- ing, Kissinger was “very sad” during the hour, and “very critical” of Rabin’s insistence that Egypt make a formal declaration of nonbellig- erency in exchange for the Sinai passes and the Abu Rhodeis oil fields. Israel, he allegedly said, would have received much more from the Arabs by sustaining the U.S.-initiated step-by-step diplomacy. Wiesel, a survivor of Auschwitz, had recently written in The New York Times that he feared another Holocaust, and reportedly told Kissinger that he had trouble sleeping at night because of it and asked him if he experi- enced such difficulties. The secretary replied that he too did not sleep at night, but did not elaborate.
The failure of Kissinger’s impromptu caucus was due to his guest list: although the participants were among the luminaries of the Jewish community, none of them was a guiding star or, more important, had the ear of the president. Kissinger was undoubtedly aware of that. But given the lack of sympathy for him by American Jews, his hunting expedition was understandable.
Fisher thought that Kissinger’s pressure campaign against the Is- raelis was not in anybody’s best interest, except possibly Sadat’s. By eleven o’clock on Tuesday morning, April 8, Fisher was boarding a flight for Washington at Metropolitan Airport in Detroit. He had an appointment with Ford the next day. The president was scheduled to deliver a nationally televised speech, his “State-of-the-World” address, to a joint session of Congress on Thursday, and so Fisher was anx- ious to convince the president to soften his public position on Israel. A hardening of his stance, on the other hand, would be a catastrophe. The news was not optimistic. That morning, flying to Washington, Fisher read a piece in The New York Times asserting that the secretary of state was reluctant to attempt a new mediation role in the Middle East un- less the outcome was certain and that Kissinger “had detected no sign that Israel is willing to go beyond what she was willing to do on March 22.” The story concluded: “The State Department today denied a re- port Max Fisher had been sent to Israel on a special mission.... [Fisher]
339
has told State Department officials that he neither proposed or received any new ideas.”
Northwest Flight 334 touched down at National Airport at one o’clock, and Fisher was off to a round of meetings. At the White House, he talked with Ford’s chief of staff, Donald Rumsfeld, who, predictably, was backing up his boss. Rumsfeld was critical of Israel’s posture, saying that if the talks were to begin again, the United States must not move too fast. Fisher then met with the secretary of state. He informed Kissinger about his discussions in Israel. The secretary was still “emotional,” according to the notes Fisher jotted down afterward. His anger at Rabin for “misleading him” had not cooled. There was, Fisher saw, a desperate need to relieve tensions. That would have to wait until tomorrow’s meeting.
Fisher registered at the Madison Hotel. At nine-thirty that evening, he rode over to have dinner with Jacob Javits at the Sans Souci, a French restaurant that was enjoying the distinction of being the in place for Washington’s in crowd of White House staff, businessmen, politicians and lobbyists.
From the Romney years on, Javits and Fisher maintained their friendship. When Romney dropped out of the 1968 race, Javits lost his shot at the vice presidency, but since 1969 he had been a member of the powerful Senate Foreign Relations Committee. Acommitted supporter of Israel, Javits recalled in his memoirs that during the Nixon and Ford administrations Fisher “had a greater influence regarding Israel than any other American not in public office.” Javits considered Fisher’s work not only vital for Israel, but for the United States as well. “[Fish- er’s] intercessions,” he said, “have always been made with an eye to the highest national interest of the United States, which he [and I feel] is parallel to the interest of Israel.”
Now, as Fisher and Javits conferred about the crisis, the senator felt that Fisher’s intercession could be used to avert a disaster. Javits was also concerned about the administration’s shift in attitude toward Israel and the talk in Congress of selling planes and missiles to the Arabs. Javits had just come from Israel. En route from Teheran, after visiting the Shah of Iran, Javits had stopped off and spoken to Rabin.
340