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by Richard Nixon


  My new speech delighted audiences, and for the first time the campaign began to catch fire.

  The underlying issue of the campaign was still Eisenhower’s health and the fact that if anything happened to him I would become President. From the start I came under intense and bitter fire. Describing the Democratic National Convention in Chicago in August, Newsweek stated:

  From the opening crack of the gavel in Chicago until the last lusty cheer echoed and died, Nixon was the target. Speakers pronounced his name with a sneer, as though it were an obscene epithet. He was attacked as “the vice-hatchet man,” “the White House pet midget,” a traveler of “the low road.” . . . In attacking Nixon, the Democrats, in effect, were asking: “Do you want a man like this in the White House? Remember, he’ll be President if you re-elect Mr. Eisenhower and Ike dies.”

  Stevenson had told the delegates: “The American people have the solemn obligation to consider with the utmost care who will be their President if the elected President is prevented by a higher will from serving his full term.”

  He pointed out that seven of our Presidents had come into office “as a result of such an indirect selection.” He pulled out all stops in a speech in Flint, Michigan, on October 17:

  There is no man who can safely say he knows where the Vice President stands. This is a man of many masks. Who can say they have seen his real face? . . .

  In these critical days, America cannot afford the risk of having a President or a Vice President who treats a tragic war as an occasion for political demagoguery, and who spreads ill will instead of good will abroad.

  He described the vice presidency as “this nation’s life insurance policy,” and he concluded that the election of the Eisenhower–Nixon ticket would mean that the nation would “go for four years uninsured.”

  On October 4, I made a nationwide television broadcast answering questions piped in live from newsmen in eight cities. This experiment proved so successful that I used the televised question-and-answer format in every election campaign until 1972.

  Even though television was beginning to come into its own as a campaign tool —by 1956, 73 percent of American homes had a television set—we still mounted an old-fashioned down-to-the-wire effort that was as physically punishing as all the others had been. Pat and I made three cross-country campaign sweeps in a chartered plane. Because I was carrying the main load of campaigning for the administration, and because I myself was an issue in the campaign, I was accompanied by the largest press contingent ever assigned to a vice presidential candidate. I held at least one and sometimes two press conferences every working day. The New York Times reported that I was “adroitly . . . running a campaign that has to be seen to be believed.”

  From the start of the campaign, the polls had fairly consistently shown Eisenhower and me ahead. In the final days and even hours of the campaign, three foreign crises erupted that effectively finished off what few hopes of winning Stevenson might have had. The American people rally around the President in times of international crisis, and this was no exception. On October 19 a brief revolt broke out in Communist Poland, and on October 23 the Hungarian rebellion began in Budapest and quickly spread through the country before Soviet troops rolled in to crush it. I called Nikita Khrushchev the “Butcher of Budapest”—a sobriquet that stuck and was repeated around the world. Then, on October 29, Israel invaded Egypt after several months of dispute over access to the Suez Canal. On November 5, the day before our election, British and French paratroops landed in Egypt to support the Israeli invasion and to protect their own rights there.

  Eisenhower and Dulles put heavy public pressure on Britain, France, and Israel to withdraw their forces from Suez. In retrospect I believe that our actions were a serious mistake. Nasser became even more rash and aggressive than before, and the seeds of another Mideast war were planted. The most tragic result was that Britain and France were so humiliated and discouraged by the Suez crisis that they lost the will to play a major role on the world scene. From this time forward the United States would by necessity be forced to “go it alone” in the foreign policy leadership of the free world. I have often felt that if the Suez crisis had not arisen during the heat of a presidential election campaign a different decision would have been made.

  Stevenson made a desperate election-eve speech, going even further than he had before, bluntly reminding the voters that, because of Eisenhower’s health, his election would probably mean voting me into the White House:

  Distasteful as this matter is, I must say bluntly that every piece of scientific evidence we have, every lesson of history and experience, indicates that a Republican victory tomorrow would mean that Richard M. Nixon probably would be President of this country within the next four years. . . .

  Distasteful as it is, this is the truth, the central truth, about the most fateful decision that American people have to make tomorrow.

  I have confidence in that decision.

  Many considered this a crude and tasteless appeal, and it probably lost Stevenson more support than it gained. When the votes were counted the next night, the Eisenhower–Nixon ticket won 57 percent of the vote, carrying forty-one of the forty-eight states.

  On election night Pat and I joined the Eisenhowers at a victory celebration at the Sheraton-Park Hotel. I had rarely seen Eisenhower in higher spirits; he was genuinely elated at what looked like a real landslide from the moment the first fragmentary returns started coming in. By the time the returns from the Midwest were tallied, however, it was clear that Eisenhower’s personal victory was not going to spill over into the state or congressional races. Despite one of the biggest landslides in presidential history, Eisenhower was the first President in 108 years who could not carry at least one house of Congress for his party.

  Eisenhower simply could not understand how this could happen, just as I found it difficult to understand when it happened to me in 1972. He became more and more subdued as we sat there slowly sipping highballs and watching television for the latest returns. “You know why this is happening, Dick?” he said. “It’s all those damned mossbacks and hard-shell conservatives we’ve got in the party. I think that what we need is a new party.”

  This was not the first time that Eisenhower had blamed the conservatives for the party’s problems. In many cases he was justified in being exasperated and annoyed by the splits within the party; in others, he lacked the tolerance for diversity that someone more schooled in politics would have had. Eisenhower’s thoughts turned to the crowd waiting for us in the ballroom below and he said, “You know, I think I will talk to them about Modern Republicanism.” “Modern Republicanism” was a popular phrase at that time, particularly in the press, for the kind of liberalism that commentators described as the antithesis of Taftite conservatism.

  I thought it would be a mistake for Eisenhower to talk about as controversial a party issue as Modern Republicanism on an occasion like this and risk offending the party regulars downstairs and across the country. But I also knew that Eisenhower would say whatever he wanted.

  Stevenson conceded at about 1:30 A.M., and Eisenhower went downstairs and said that his victory was a victory for Modern Republicanism. As I had feared, many party regulars took these words either as a boast that he had won the victory by himself, or as a threat that those within the party who did not share his views would gradually be replaced by those who did. There was just enough truth in both interpretations to start the second term off on a slightly sour note in some Republican circles.

  A few days before the end of the year I received a letter from the White House.

  Dear Dick:

  As both 1956 and our first administration draw to a close, I want to tell you, in a personal letter, what I have so often expressed publicly. In these last four years you have brought to the office of the Vice President a real stature that formerly it had not known; you have proved yourself an able and popular “Ambassador” to our friends in many other parts of the world; and you have wor
ked tirelessly and effectively to interpret to the people of America—and to forward—the policies of the administration. For all of this I am personally indebted to you, and gratified that you have so capably filled all of my expectations.

  Also—somewhat to my chagrin—I find that while I have thanked what seem to be thousands of people from Maine to California for their help in the political campaign, I have never expressed my appreciation to you for carrying the brunt of the state-by-state effort. I know you were rewarded as, of course, I could not fail to be, by the verdict of the voters. But I do want to express to you, and to your loyal and overworked staff, my tremendous gratitude for all that you did to bring about the final result.

  With affectionate regard to Pat and the children, and, as always, my best to yourself,

  As ever,

  Dwight Eisenhower

  OPERATION MERCY

  The Hungarian uprising of 1956 captured the sympathy of the American people. In November and December 1956, after crushing the last flickers of rebellion, the Soviets reimposed their brutal and oppressive control over the Hungarian people. Many tried to escape across the border into Austria, and, to the great embarrassment of the determinedly neutral Austrian government, the number of refugees soon reached several thousand a day.

  The Soviets and their Hungarian puppets accused the United States of having provoked the uprising by assuring the Hungarian rebels that we would aid them if they revolted against their government. Much to our dismay and embarrassment some of the freedom fighters seemed to agree. They blamed us for first encouraging them to revolt and then sitting back while the Soviets cut them down.

  On December 13, Eisenhower called me back to Washington from a brief pre-Christmas holiday Pat and I were taking in New York and asked me to meet with Dulles to discuss some ideas they had about this problem. Eisenhower had offered asylum to 21,500 of the more than 100,000 refugees who had already escaped to Austria, and more were pouring over the borders each day. This had not been a particularly popular decision. There was considerable opposition in Congress to letting in any refugees at a time of domestic unemployment, and public opinion was not yet strongly committed to the humanitarian aspects of the situation. Because Eisenhower had acted under temporary provisions of the existing law, he wanted more permanent legislation to handle the refugee question. He also hoped more would be permitted to enter the United States.

  Dulles said that Eisenhower wanted me to lead an emergency mission to Austria that would focus national attention on the plight of the refugees. Then, when I returned, I could prepare a report that could be used to buttress the case for new legislation. My mission would be called Operation Mercy.

  Partly from fear that an embarrassing diplomatic incident might develop and partly because of their characteristic desire for orderliness, the Austrians pretty much sanitized my scheduled visit to the refugee camp at the frontier town of Andau. I met a few refugees, but most of the people I talked to were Austrian or Red Cross officials.

  That night the Austrian government gave a dinner in my honor. When we returned to the American Embassy, I told our ambassador, Llewellyn “Tommy” Thompson, that I wanted to go to the border and get a real look at what was happening there. Thompson arranged for a car, and, together with Bill Rogers, Congressman Bob Wilson of California, and Bob King, my administrative assistant, I went back to Andau.

  In the bleak refugee center at the border we saw the real agony and the heroism of the Hungarian freedom fighters.

  Some of those who had just escaped that night were university students who spoke English, and they told us about the suffering that was still going on in Budapest and throughout Hungary.

  “Do you feel that the Voice of America and Radio Free Europe played a part in encouraging the revolution?” I asked. Looks of surprise came over their faces as my deliberately undiplomatic question was translated. One of them blurted out the answer—“Yes.”

  I was later told that that simple exchange broke the ice and convinced the refugees that I wasn’t going to try to sweep their situation under the carpet.

  One of the refugee leaders told me that many people escaped through the deep forests that covered the border for some miles to the north. Once across, the refugees would wait in the barn of some friendly farmer until they could be brought to the refugee center. He asked me if I would like to go along while they picked up that night’s “crop,” as he called it. I said that I would; he smiled and said, “Well, sir, you will have to travel the way we do.”

  I climbed into the back of a large hay wagon coupled to a tractor. We left the lights of the refugee center behind, following the winding road that ran between the forest on one side and the farms on the other. At one farm, we picked up a young man who said he had hidden for three days before he had finally made a dash across the border about five hours before.

  It was after six o’clock in the morning by the time we got back to the center, and I could only say some hasty farewells before the long drive back to Vienna. After a quick shower and change at the ambassador’s residence, I was only a few minutes late for a nine o’clock meeting.

  I returned to Washington on Christmas Eve, and by working through the holiday I was able to submit my report to Eisenhower on New Year’s Day.

  I urged that the McCarran–Walter Act regulating immigration be amended so that we could make a flexible response to this situation. I said that it would not be wise or realistic to tie ourselves down to either a fixed number of refugees or a fixed percentage of the total number. “I believe that the countries which accept these refugees will find that rather than having assumed a liability, they have acquired a valuable national asset,” I wrote. I was disappointed by the hardhearted attitude many Americans seemed to have toward the Hungarian refugees. I felt the same way when there was similar resistance to the Cuban refugees in 1959 and to the Vietnamese refugees in 1975.

  When I reflect on the Hungarian uprising of 1956, and the Czechoslovakian rebellion of 1968, I still feel an utter hopelessness about what we can do to help the people in the Communist countries of Central and Eastern Europe. The combined realities of their geographic position and the difficulty of arranging the kind of joint military operation with our European allies that would be required to be effective mean that we simply cannot and will not use our armed forces in the event that they engage in open rebellion against their Communist dictators. Consequently, it is irresponsible to urge them to armed rebellion, raising their hopes and encouraging them to risk their lives without any prospect of assistance from us. But I do not feel that it is an acceptable alternative to slam down the Iron Curtain and accept the idea that they are destined to live forever under Communist rule.

  Peaceful change is the only practicable answer. Admittedly it is not a very satisfactory one because such change could take a generation, maybe even a century. In the meantime we must seize every opportunity that may arise to increase contact and communication with the people of these countries so that they will know we share their hopes for a better and freer life.

  THE PRESIDENT’S STROKE

  On November 25, 1957, I received a terse phone call from Sherman Adams, asking me to come to the White House right away.

  As soon as the door closed behind us he said, “The President has suffered a stroke.”

  We were silent for a moment. “How serious is his condition?” I asked.

  “We’ll know more in the morning,” he replied. “Right now he’s more confused and disoriented than anything else. It will take a few days before the doctors can assess the damage. This is a terribly, terribly difficult thing to handle,” Adams said. “You may be President in twenty-four hours.”

  In fact, the stroke had been relatively mild. Eisenhower’s ability to read, write, and reason had suffered no damage, and the only aftereffect was an occasional hesitancy in finding the right word, an impairment about which he was painfully self-conscious but that was scarcely noticeable to others. He made a point in public of appe
aring to be in complete control, but those of us who saw him in private caught occasional glimpses of the serious psychological effect the stroke had on him. He was depressed by the fear that he could no longer bring to the presidency the physical or mental qualities it required, and this was a serious blow to his morale. “This is the end,” he said when he first heard the diagnosis. “Mamie and I are farmers from now on.”

  He was deeply disturbed by some of the press coverage of his condition during his recovery, especially references to occasional misspoken words. He did have some difficulty in speaking at times but by iron discipline and will power he overcame it. Some editorial writers and columnists even suggested he should resign or delegate interim powers to me—much as they recoiled at the idea of my succeeding him in office.

  One day when he seemed particularly depressed by these attacks, I told him that he should consider the source and ignore them. The most important point, I reminded him, was that there was nothing the matter with his brain. “The trouble with most politicians is that their mouths move faster than their brains. With you it is the other way around.”

  This broke the tension, and he laughed more heartily than I had heard him laugh for weeks.

  I had always felt that Eisenhower could cut down considerably on his workload without neglecting his essential duties. I told him there was no reason that individual Cabinet officers should not make more decisions on their own, particularly domestic ones. Eisenhower agreed, but he was sensitive about taking any step that might be interpreted as an admission that he could no longer handle the full job. Within a few months he was again attending every meeting and allowing the discussions to ramble on as if it were his duty to be bored for his country as well as to lead it.

 

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