RN

by Richard Nixon

  Now that I knew what I wanted to do with the speech, the writing became much easier. I worked all through the afternoon and evening in a suite in the Ambassador Hotel, scarcely bothering to touch the hamburgers that were ordered from room service.

  By noon the next day the report from Gibson, Dunn, and Crutcher had arrived, confirming that there was nothing illegal about the fund. The accountants’ report was taking longer than expected, however. Without it, the impact of whatever I said would be considerably lessened. It was essential that the crucial question of whether I had personally profited from the fund be independently and authoritatively answered.

  Although I did not see any of the hundreds of telegrams that poured into the hotel on the afternoon before the speech, I was touched and heartened when I read many of them later that night.

  Congressman Jerry Ford wired: “Over radio and newspapers I am in your corner 100 percent. Fight it to the finish just as you did the smears by the Communists when you were proving charges against Alger Hiss. All Michigan representatives feel as I do. I will personally welcome you in Grand Rapids or any other part of Michigan. Best personal regards.”

  The Minnesota lawyer and Republican Party leader, Warren Burger, and his wife, Vera, sent word that “your Minnesota friends have complete confidence in your personal and political integrity. We are looking forward to your speech tonight. Please call if there is anything we can do.”

  Whittaker Chambers sent an eloquent message: “Attack on you shows how deeply the enemy fears you as he always fears and seeks to destroy a combination of honesty and fighting courage. Be proud to be attacked for the attackers are the enemies of all of us. To few recent public figures does this nation owe so much as to you. God help us if we ever forget it.”

  An hour before we had to leave for the studio, a call came through from “Mr. Chapman” in New York. This was the codename that Tom Dewey had told us he would use for very sensitive calls. The longdistance line crackled as I heard Dewey’s voice.

  “Dick?”

  “Yes.”

  “There has just been a meeting of all of Eisenhower’s top advisers, and they have asked me to tell you that it is their opinion that at the conclusion of the broadcast tonight you should submit your resignation to Eisenhower. As you know, I have not shared this point of view, but it is my responsibility to pass this recommendation on to you.”

  I was stunned. “What does Eisenhower want me to do?” I asked in as even a voice as I could summon.

  Dewey hedged, saying that he did not want to give the impression that he had spoken directly to Eisenhower or that the decision had been approved by Eisenhower himself. But in view of the close relationship between Eisenhower and those with whom Dewey had spoken, he felt that they would not have asked him to call me unless what he was suggesting represented Eisenhower’s view as well.

  “It’s kind of late for them to pass on this kind of recommendation to me now,” I said. “I’ve already prepared my remarks, and it would be very difficult for me to change them now.”

  Dewey said that he thought I should go ahead with my explanation of the fund as he had originally suggested. At the end, however, I should say that although I felt that I had done no wrong, I did not want my presence on the ticket to be in any way a liability to the Eisenhower crusade. Therefore, I should submit my resignation to Eisenhower and insist that he accept it.

  “I’ve got another suggestion as to how you can follow this up and come out of all of it the hero rather than the goat,” Dewey continued. “What you might do is announce not only that you are resigning from the ticket, but that you’re resigning from the Senate as well. Then, in the special election which will have to be called for the Senate, you can run again and vindicate yourself by winning the biggest plurality in history.”

  The conversation was becoming unreal. Silence was the only possible response to this mind-boggling suggestion.

  Dewey finally said, “Well, what shall I tell them you are going to do?”

  I could barely control my temper. “Just tell them,” I said, “that I haven’t the slightest idea what I am going to do, and if they want to find out they’d better listen to the broadcast. And tell them I know something about politics too!” I slammed the receiver back into its cradle.

  When I told Chotiner and Rogers about Dewey’s suggestion, they were dumbfounded.

  “You certainly aren’t going to do it, are you?” Murray asked.

  “I just don’t know,” I replied. “You two had better get out of here and give me a chance to think.”

  A few minutes later, it was time to go to the studio. As Pat and I emerged from our room, all activity came to a halt. Everyone came out into the corridor in a show of support, but not a word was spoken.

  On the way, I went over my notes one final time. The figures from Price Waterhouse had arrived at the last minute, but I was worried about being able to memorize them and get them straight. One slip, or one mistake, and the credibility of the whole speech would be undermined.

  Ted Rogers led us onto the stage of the empty 750-seat El Capitan theatre, which had been converted into a television studio by NBC. I had ordered that no one was to be there during the speech except for the director and technical crew. We arranged for the reporters to watch on a monitor in a separate room.

  Ted showed me the set. It was a flimsy-looking, nondescript room with only a desk, a chair, and a bookcase set into the wall. I asked him to remove a small vase of flowers because I thought it looked out of place.

  After a brief lighting and sound check we were ushered into a small room at the far side of the stage. Soon Ted was back, saying that there were only three minutes before we went on the air. I was suddenly overwhelmed by despair. My voice almost broke as I said, “I just don’t think I can go through with this one.” “Of course you can,” Pat said matter-of-factly. She took my hand and we walked back onto the stage together.

  “My fellow Americans,” I began, “I come before you tonight as a candidate for the vice presidency and as a man whose honesty and integrity have been questioned.”

  As I continued to talk I began to feel that surge of confidence that comes when a good speech has been well prepared. I began to feel instinctively the rhythm of its words and the logic of its organization. I hardly had to look down at my notes at all. I felt warmed by the bright lights, and I opened up and spoke freely and emotionally. I talked as if only Pat were in the room and no one else were listening.

  The speech was divided into four parts. I began by giving the facts about the fund and describing my personal finances. Then I went on the counterattack against Stevenson. The third section praised Eisenhower, and the fourth requested that my audience send letters and wires to the Republican National Committee in Washington to indicate whether they thought I should remain on or step down from the ticket.

  I saw Ted Rogers come out of the director’s booth and crouch down beside the camera in front of me. He held up the fingers of both hands and I knew that this was the signal that I had ten minutes left. I saw him when he held up one hand for five minutes, and then three fingers. By that time I was so wrapped up in what I was saying that I didn’t see his signal for “ten seconds,” “five seconds,” or “cut.” I was still talking when time ran out, standing in front of the desk with my arms stretched out toward the camera.

  Suddenly I saw Ted Rogers stand up, and I realized that I had gone overtime. I couldn’t believe it. I hadn’t even given people the address of the Republican National Committee so that they would know where to send their telegrams. I felt almost dazed. I took a few steps forward and my shoulder grazed the side of the camera. I could hear Ted Rogers saying that they had waited until what sounded like the end of a sentence and faded the picture although I was still talking. Then Pat, Murray Chotiner, Pat Hillings, and Bill Rogers were standing in front of me. Pat embraced me, and I could only say, “I’m sorry I had to rush at the last; I didn’t give the National Committee address. I should have tim
ed it better.” Everyone insisted that it had been a tremendous success, and I tried to smile and thank them for their support; but I felt drained and depressed.

  While I was shaking hands with the cameramen, Ted Rogers ran in and said, “The telephone switchboard is lit up like a Christmas tree.”

  By the time we got back to the hotel and began to read some of the messages that were pouring in, I realized that, despite the problem with the ending, the speech had in fact been a great success. Apparently my emotional nerve endings had been rubbed so raw by the events of the previous few days that I was able to convey the intensity of my feelings to the audience.

  Eisenhower was speaking in Cleveland that night. Along with Mamie and about thirty friends and staff members, he watched my speech on a television set in the manager’s office above the hall where he was to speak. He sat on a chair directly in front of the set, with Mamie nearby.

  I was told there was a brief silence in the small room in Cleveland when the television program was over. Mamie was sobbing and several others were holding back tears. Suddenly, the audience in the auditorium below, which had been listening to the speech on a radio hookup, began to chant, “We want Nixon! We want Nixon!” With the voice of the people literally ringing in his ears, Eisenhower turned to RNC Chairman Arthur Summerfield and said, “Well, Arthur, you certainly got your $75,000 worth tonight!”

  After taking a few minutes alone to collect his thoughts, Eisenhower went down to the auditorium and told the cheering crowd, “I happen to be one of those people who, when I get into a fight, would rather have a courageous and honest man by my side than a whole boxcar of pussy-footers. I have seen brave men in tough situations. I have never seen anyone come through in better fashion than Senator Nixon did tonight.” The crowd roared its approval.

  But instead of declaring the case closed and affirming my place on the ticket, Eisenhower said that one speech was not enough to settle all the important questions that had been raised and that he would meet with me before reaching his final decision. He told the crowd that he was sending me a telegram asking me to fly to see him the next day in Wheeling, West Virginia, where he would be campaigning.

  It turned out that Eisenhower’s telegram, which got lost among the thousands of others that arrived that night, read:

  YOUR PRESENTATION WAS MAGNIFICENT. WHILE TECHNICALLY NO DECISION RESTS WITH ME, YOU AND I KNOW THE REALITIES OF THE SITUATION REQUIRE A PRONOUNCEMENT WHICH THE PUBLIC CONSIDERS DECISIVE. MY PERSONAL DECISION IS GOING TO BE BASED ON PERSONAL CONCLUSIONS. I WOULD MOST APPRECIATE IT IF YOU CAN FLY TO SEE ME AT ONCE. TOMORROW I WILL BE AT WHEELING, W. VA. WHATEVER PERSONAL AFFECTION AND ADMIRATION I HAD FOR YOU—AND THEY ARE VERY GREAT—ARE UNDIMINISHED.

  All I heard that night was a wire service bulletin quoting Eisenhower as saying that one speech wasn’t enough. I despaired when I heard this. “What more can he possibly want from me?” I angrily asked Chotiner. I had done everything I could, and if that were not enough I would do the only thing left and resign from the ticket. I would not humiliate myself further by going to Wheeling. I said that we would fly to my next scheduled campaign stop in Missoula, Montana, and wait there for Eisenhower to accept and announce my resignation.

  I called Rose Mary Woods into my room, dictated the resignation, and told her to send it immediately. She typed it up, but instead of sending it she took it to Murray Chotiner, who read it and ripped it up. He said to Rose, “I don’t blame him for being mad, and it would serve them right if he resigned now and Ike lost the election. But I think we ought to let things settle a little bit longer before we do anything this final.”

  A little later a call came through from Bert Andrews in Cleveland. He was enthusiastic in his praise for my speech, but when I filled him in on everything that had happened, his voice darkened and he spoke in flat, measured words. He even changed his form of address.

  “Richard,” he said, “you don’t have to be concerned about what will happen when you meet Eisenhower. The broadcast decided that, and Eisenhower knows it as well as anyone else. But you must remember who he is. He is the general who led the Allied armies to victory in Europe. He is the immensely popular candidate who is going to win this election. He is going to be President, and he is the boss of this outfit. He will make this decision, and he will make the right decision. But he has the right to make it in his own way, and you must come to Wheeling to meet him and give him the opportunity to do exactly that.”

  I was impressed by Andrews’s reasoning and chastened by his tone. In the aftermath of a tremendously emotional event I had failed to consider Eisenhower’s point of view. For one thing, he hardly knew me. I should also have realized that it was perfectly logical for Eisenhower as a newcomer to politics to stand back and see what happened before he committed himself. I changed my mind and asked the staff to make arrangements for us to fly directly from Missoula to Wheeling.

  We had landed at Wheeling, and I was just helping Pat on with her coat, when Chotiner rushed up to us.

  It was one of the few times I ever heard awe in Murray Chotiner’s voice. “The general is coming up the steps!” he said. No sooner were the words out than Eisenhower strode down the aisle behind him, hand outstretched, flashing his famous smile.

  “General, you didn’t need to come out to the airport,” I said.

  “Why not?” he grinned, “You’re my boy!”

  It was a cold night, with a heavy, dank smog covering Wheeling as we drove to the stadium for a rally. During the entire ride, Eisenhower never made any reference to the harrowing crisis we both had just been through. As I got to know him better, I discovered that this was characteristic, but I still recall the surreal quality of that twenty-minute drive during which he blithely talked about the comparative merits of whistle-stopping and rallies, as if nothing unusual had happened.

  When we got to the stadium the roof of our convertible was put down and we sat together in the back, waving to the cheering crowds as the car drove around the track.

  Eisenhower spoke first. He described me as “a man of courage and honor” who had been “subjected to a very unfair and vicious attack,” and said that before I came to the podium he wanted to read to the audience two telegrams he had received. I had no idea what they were, so I listened as intently as everyone else in the crowd while he read:

  DEAR GENERAL: I AM TRUSTING THAT THE ABSOLUTE TRUTH MAY COME OUT CONCERNING THIS ATTACK ON RICHARD, AND WHEN IT DOES I AM SURE YOU WILL BE GUIDED RIGHT IN YOUR DECISION, TO PLACE IMPLICIT FAITH IN HIS INTEGRITY AND HONESTY. BEST WISHES FROM ONE WHO HAS KNOWN RICHARD LONGER THAN ANYONE ELSE. HIS MOTHER.

  He then read a telegram from Arthur Summerfield informing him that all 107 of the 138 members of the Republican National Committee they had been able to reach had supported my staying on the ticket:

  THE COMMENT ACCOMPANYING THEIR UNANIMOUS RESPONSE WAS OVERWHELMINGLY ENTHUSIASTIC. . . . AS A MEMBER OF THE REPUBLICAN NATIONAL COMMITTEE IT GAVE ME GREAT SATISFACTION TO JOIN WITH MY COLLEAGUES IN THIS STIRRING TRIBUTE TO A TRULY GREAT AMERICAN WHO WALKED UNAFRAID THROUGH THE VALLEY OF DESPAIR AND EMERGED UNSCATHED AND UNBOWED. LET THERE BE NO DOUBT ABOUT IT—AMERICA HAS TAKEN DICK NIXON TO ITS HEART.

  When I stood up to speak the ovation was overpowering. Everything I had to say was expressed in one sentence: “I want you to know that this is probably the greatest moment of my life.”

  After the speeches I saw Bill Knowland’s familiar bulky form in the crowd of well-wishers, and when I reached him he grinned, grasped my hand, and said, “That was a great speech, Dick.” All the pent-up emotion of the whole week burst out and tears filled my eyes. Knowland put his arm around me and I hid my face on his shoulder.

  Afterward, Eisenhower invited Pat and me to see his private car on his campaign train. It turned out that he wanted a chance to talk to me alone because he had heard rumors of several other scandals involving my personal finances. In my response, I drew an analogy that would be familiar to him. “This is just like war, General,”
I said. “Our opponents are losing. They mounted a massive attack against me and have taken a bad beating. It will take them a little time to regroup, but when they start fighting back, they will be desperate, and they will throw everything at us, including the kitchen sink. There will be other charges, but none of them will stand up. What we must avoid at all costs is to allow any of their attacks to get off the ground. The minute they start one of these rumors, we have to knock it down just as quickly as we can.” As a popular hero, Eisenhower had been treated extremely well by the press. I do not think he completely grasped what I was saying that night until he reached the White House and began to be treated as a politician.

  In the car on the way to our hotel, Pat took my hand and held it without saying a word. I knew how fiercely proud she was that we had come through this painful crisis. But I also knew how much it had hurt her, how deeply it had wounded her sense of pride and privacy. I knew that from that time on, although she would do everything she could to help me and help my career, she would hate politics and dream of the day when I would leave it behind and we could have a happy and normal life for ourselves and our family.

  I had begun the campaign feeling vigorous and enthusiastic. The fund crisis made me feel suddenly old and tired. It is said that you can live a year in a day. That is how I felt about this period: I lived several years during that single week.

  I was deeply dispirited by much of the reaction to the fund. I was not surprised that the story was exploited by partisan Democrats. But I was disappointed and hurt that so many Republicans prejudged me without waiting for the facts, and I was bitterly disillusioned by the performance of the press. I regarded what had been done to me as character assassination, and the experience permanently and powerfully affected my attitude toward the press in particular and the news media in general.

  While the fund was the most egregious press and partisan smear of the campaign, it was by no means the only one.

  Less than a week before the election, the St. Louis Post-Dispatch, a staunchly pro-Stevenson newspaper, ran a front-page story charging that I had accompanied Dana Smith, the fund’s trustee, to a Havana gambling club some six months earlier. The charge was a blatant lie. At the time the story put me in Havana, I was on a vacation thousands of miles away in Hawaii.