“We can respond with anger and destruction and get nothing done,” I told a House subcommittee hearing, “or you can take the energy and channel it into something productive. I believe we can make a difference here.”
Shortly after the 2000 presidential election, I was informed that President Bush was considering me for an embassy post. It was either the best possible timing or the worst. Norman and I had just finalized our divorce, and though I was dating, I was in no emotional shape to get entangled in a serious relationship. Better to fall in love with a country, I suppose, and for better or worse, that’s what happened.
When one becomes an ambassador for the U.S. State Department, the first step is being invited, but a lot goes on behind the scenes of every appointment; the president doesn’t just call you up and pop the question. There is, of course, some political “You scratch my back, I’ll scratch yours” sometimes. Optimally, it isn’t all about payback, however, because anyone in an embassy position overseas has a duty to represent the citizens of the United States along with the foreign policy of the president and the National Security Council, and I’ve never met an ambassador who took that less than seriously. It’s prudent for the president to appoint a friend, someone he knows and trusts, because each ambassador serves “at the pleasure of the president.” The president has to know that if you are told to go and deliver a message to the people of that country, you’re going to say, to the letter, exactly what you were told to say. There’s a great deal of vetting, interviewing, and assessing leading up to the appointment, and (one would hope) a great deal of soul-searching on the part of the appointee.
For me, the most conflicted aspect of the decision was leaving the daily running of SGK. Being appointed an ambassador means you have to step away from any ties to corporate or nonprofit organizations to avoid any possibility of even the appearance of impropriety. I’d always felt fiercely protective of Suzy’s name and the organization by extension, and of course, I wanted things done the way I wanted them done, but there was no doubt in my mind that my colleagues would be able to carry on the work we’d set out to do.
“A hallmark of great leaders,” Norman had told me long before this, “is that they’re not indispensible.”
My mentor Max Fisher had given me the same advice: raise up lieutenants and mentor strength within the organization. It’s bruising to the ego to think the world will continue to rotate just fine without you, but if you care more about your organization than you care about your ego, that’s not a problem. I knew Norm and Max were right, and I tried hard from the beginning to bring in the best people I could find, then step back and let them do what they’re good at.
It was a painful but healthy recognition: My leaving was going to hurt me more than it would hurt them. Norman would stay on the board, along with a dear friend and founding board member, Bob Taylor. I trusted them. Susan Braun was our CEO, and I probably owe her a dozen roses quarterly for life.
Once I’d made the decision to serve, I was asked if there was somewhere in particular I might be best qualified to serve, and I immediately thought of eastern Europe. I’d traveled there when Eric went to study at the University of Economics in Prague, Czech Republic, while working on his degree at Bradley. I loved the spirit of eastern Europe, the challenges of a newborn democracy, the sharp-chiseled men and bold, alto women. I felt an inexplicable connection to the bone structure of the art and architecture of Hungary.
At the time, genetic evidence was emerging about the profile of the BRCA carriers; a significant percentage of those carrying the mutation were Ashkenazi Jews descended from a key group of about six thousand people who lived in northern Europe before the Diaspora of the early 1900s. I made a wide study of cultural and technological assets and needs in eastern Europe and concluded that Hungary was perfectly poised for a major step forward in breast cancer awareness and response. Their medical facilities were underfunded, but staffed with willing hands, sharp minds, and all the technology needed for modern screening and treatment. The women were not ignorant by any stretch of definition, but they were very modest and personally conservative. They weren’t very vocal about their bodies, and the importance of early detection simply hadn’t been talked about.
“We could help Hungary lead the charge and really advance the cause of women’s health care in eastern Europe,” I told the president. “Not just breast cancer—women’s health care in general, and I’d even include the problem of sex trafficking in that. I’m very concerned about what I’ve learned about young women who are taken across international borders, swindled into handing over their passports, and then bought and sold like cattle. We have to speak out against it. We can’t make them change their laws, but we can shine a light on what’s happening there and make it an embarrassment if they allow it to continue.”
I received the appointment, went through rigorous training, and spent months immersed in all things Hungarian, eating the food, educating myself on their history and politics, drilling key phrases in the difficult language. The first week of September, I was sworn in by my new boss, Secretary of State Colin Powell, and that was a terrific day for my whole family. Mom and Daddy were there, button-bursting proud. When he was young, my father’s dream was to serve as an officer in World War II, but migraines and poor eyesight prevented him from enlisting. He’d always secretly (and sometimes not very secretly) wanted a boy, and after a lifetime of trying, this was the closest I ever came to being the son he never had. Eric held the Bible while I was sworn in, and Norman stood off to the side, beaming like nobody’s business.
As I prepared to depart, I studied the weather and planned my wardrobe accordingly. I’d read something about a river flooding in the city and had purchased a pair of rubber camouflage boots, imagining myself hurling sandbags with my Hungarian friends. The State Department’s Art in Embassies Program had curated a spectacular collection of twentieth-century American women artists, which was to be installed in the embassy gallery on my arrival, and I’d looked forward to hosting schoolchildren and women’s groups, thinking this would be a way for me to begin my health care outreach. I packed suits and dressed with those occasions in mind. Nothing too fancy, I could hear Suzy saying, but certainly nothing frumpy.
I was up early on the beautiful September Tuesday I was scheduled to leave for Budapest. My assistant came to take me to the airport, and as I settled the last of my bags in the trunk, I decided to dash back to the kitchen for a couple of water bottles. The little television set on the counter had been left on, and though the volume was low, I could tell something was terribly wrong the moment I walked into the room. That image that was to become horribly familiar caught my eye for the first time.
Bright blue sky cut with fire. Smoke billowing over the New York skyline.
I ran out to the car and told my assistant, “Come inside. Something terrible is happening.”
A few days later, an acquaintance with a private plane received permission to fly to Budapest, and she allowed me and several business leaders to fly over with her. When the flight touched down in Hungary, people there assumed the private jet was mine, and they were all terribly impressed.
The world in which I’d eagerly agreed to serve was an economically stable, peacefully turning planet. Post 9/11, everything had changed—from the process of getting on an airplane to the messages I would be charged with bringing to these people and this government. My thoroughly planned agenda for helping Hungary lead the charge and advance the cause of women’s health care in eastern Europe was now on the back burner. In fact, if there was something even farther back than the back burner—like a brick wall separating the kitchen from the garage—my agenda would have been well behind it.
To say I was nervous is a gross understatement. Odd as this may sound, I hadn’t spent much time working in a real job since Eric was a toddler. Almost everything I’d done since I married Norman, I’d done as a volunteer. This position was already a dramatic departure from everything familiar, and now
all my meticulous preparations applied to a universe that no longer existed. But as we approached the embassy gate, I saw a field of flowers, candles, stuffed animals, and homemade gifts spread in front of the wrought iron fence with cards, letters, and posters welcoming me and expressing love and support for the United States. It was one of the most humbling and precious moments of my life. I arrived with my hat in my hand, and the citizens of Hungary surrounded me with generosity and understanding.
Our first order of business revolved around the heightened security measures worldwide, which caused innumerable logistical headaches for Hungarian companies doing business in the United States and American companies doing business in Hungary. There was much to do every day, much to learn. As a member of the diplomatic corps, I was also charged with the inspection of Hungarian military exercises. Late one night there was a pounding at my door. I was told it was time to do the inspection, and what could I do? I pulled on my rubber camouflage boots, and off we went.
My goal was to get to know people in the government before trying to drag some attention back to my health care agenda, but one of my first assignments was part of our government’s effort to promote democratic principles. I was given a strongly worded message to deliver regarding increased sensitivity toward hate speech, anti-Semitism, and inflammatory rhetoric in the media. I was to speak to a gathering of business leaders, government officials, and members of the press at the Harvard Club about our responsibility to support freedom and to confront hate and terrorism.
“That’s going to create trouble for you,” Daddy worried, and I knew he was right.
I didn’t want to do it. Not so soon. I would have liked a little time to make friends and create a rapport with the government leaders. The room was full of seriously manly men who weren’t going to appreciate being scolded by a Jewish American woman about anti-Semitism. But I did what was asked of me. The Hungarians didn’t love me for it, but I think they were pleasantly surprised at my grit, and I followed it up with every gesture of goodwill I could think of in an effort to make friends. I talked with my father every day, and he coached me with calm, solid advice.
The spectacular exhibit of women’s art was stranded somewhere in wounded New York City. Curators were reluctant to ship it with the heightened terror alerts and security concerns. It would be a while. No one could tell me how long.
“This could actually be an excellent opportunity for me to do something for the artists here,” I told Mom and Daddy. “The embassy could host an exhibition of Hungarian artists who haven’t gotten enough face time in the world market. There’s wonderful art here, Mommy. Suzy would have loved all that living color. All the great movements are represented—everything from Impressionists to modern poster art—and none of it has gotten the attention it deserves.”
I went to my friend István Rozsics, a historian and art consultant who’d been instructing me on Hungarian culture in preparation for this post, and asked him if some contemporary Hungarian artists might want to display their paintings. The answer was an enthusiastic yes, and soon the place was filled with works by Lázló Fehér, István Nádler, Károly Klimó, Imre Bak, Tamás Soós, and Attila Szűcs. Once I’d spent a little time living with these paintings, I knew I’d never want to live without them again.
The people, seen and unseen, in these paintings spoke to me like soul mates and kindred spirits. They were vibrant and engaged. Energy born of anger, determination born of loss. But there was a playfulness there as well, a sporting sense of joy and, sometimes, a dignified but darkly knowing sensuality.
Ich bin ein jelly doughnut.
I couldn’t speak the language, but I knew I belonged there.
The American Embassy residence had fallen somewhat into disrepair. If you’re a guest in someone’s house, you’re not going to insult them by painting the place while you’re in town, but this isn’t a Hungarian guesthouse; it’s a little piece of the United States within their country. Letting it get shabby is like parking a wreck of a car in someone else’s driveway. It should be a symbol of who we are. I raised a bit of money and used some of my own to renovate the bathrooms and update the ancient electrical features and employed local craftspeople to restore the elegance and shine to the wood and glasswork.
Slowly but surely, I did forge friendships in the Hungarian government, and I was able to nudge the topic of women’s health care into conversation, advance my ideas across the table, and win a few powerful allies, including the Hungarian president’s wife. Eventually, I gained the trust and cooperation of many heads of state and of the good people of Hungary.
Our goal for the Bridge of Health Alliance Against Breast Cancer was to connect the million or so Hungarian women most at risk with the information and facilities that would offer them significantly improved odds for survival. The only thing standing in our way was a system in need of transparency and repair. For generation upon generation, breast cancer had been unspeakable, untouchable. Hungarian women suffered and died quietly, just as American women once had—before Betty Ford and Rose Kushner started shaking things up. I sensed that this country was ready to make that leap in language, and now I’d seen firsthand that if we could shake those words loose, change would be unstoppable.
I proposed an educational symposium followed by a Sunday evening walk across the Chain Bridge, from Adam Clark Square on the Buda side to the Hungarian Academy of Sciences, a spectacular Neo-Renaissance building in Pest. Nearby Roosevelt Square would serve as the perfect place for a celebration of life and offer a rabble-rouser’s-eye view of Parliament.
“Wouldn’t it be dazzling,” I suggested, “if the bridge were illuminated in pink?”
It was a plan that purred on paper, but which in practical reality would roar.
The formidable pillars of the Chain Bridge had towered virtually unchanged for more than 150 years as the clatter of horse-drawn carriages evolved to streaming urban traffic. Even when Hitler’s retreating forces swarmed and destroyed every bridge in Budapest, the pillars stood, and the majestic lions maintained their silent resolve. The bridge itself embodies survivorship and was built as a symbol of national awakening. All this made it the perfect place to begin our journey. The visual transformation would pack a tremendous wallop, generating a buzz of curiosity—and yes, a little controversy—without leaving so much as a chalk mark on a single stone. Every eye in the city would widen just a little. Media across the country would ask the obvious questions, and we would be ready to answer with solid facts and accessible resources. Bathed in pink light, the path would be plain, and we would take the first steps together, beginning in the garden square in Buda, at the stylized Zero Kilometer Stone.
The actual lighting of the bridge turned out to be as complicated and expensive as all other aspects of the event combined. I’d gotten the technology and cost covered by a company owned by General Electric, but Hungarians have great reverence for their monuments. The powers that be weren’t eager to endorse the disruption of history or rush hour traffic. “That’s never been done” is the reason I’m most often given for why one can’t do a thing I’m already convinced I can and most assuredly will do. The second most frequent speed bump is “People won’t like it,” and I’m equally happy to circumnavigate that one, but gently. With diplomacy.
My respect for the magnificent city of Budapest and for this historic landmark was genuine, and I made a point of expressing my appreciation to everyone from the mayor to the maintenance workers. There was an endless exchange of forms, phone calls, meetings, and e-mail. Coffee and protocol. Lots of sit-down, face-to-face time with the event committee, the health committee, the diplomatic committee. For months, I lay awake, agonizing over the permits, permissions, and logistics. Having secured the necessary paperwork, I assembled an energized team of people to accomplish the task. Then I lay awake agonizing over whether anyone would come.
The day of the event, the first subtle rumblings of thunder nudged through the clouds just before sunset. A light drizzle se
ttled over the stone lions as they lounged, circumspect, atop the grand abutments that bookend the bridge. Shielding my forehead with a gloved hand, I scanned the threatening sky above the rolling river.
There would be rain; there often is.
It’s uncanny how many times I’ve seen this happen in the years—the decades—that have flown by. It starts with hazy precipitation. We’re all nervously glancing back and forth from our wristwatches to the gathering weather. The teasing drizzle sets us on edge; it keeps us acutely mindful of the importance of our cause and the fragile, no-guarantees nature of life, but from that first foot over the starting line in Dallas to the moment our millionth runner crossed the finish line in Rome almost twenty years later, it seems like the actual downpour always waits until we’ve done what we came to do. Then the torrent comes down with unbroken spirit, drenching the scattering crowd, dripping off the drooping balloons, melting the crepe paper decorations.
Those are the moments I feel closest to Suzy. It’s as if she’s holding an umbrella over our heads. The rain always holds off until after the event.
Well, almost always.
It’ll hold off, I assured the taciturn lions. They glowered down at me, wet and skeptical, and I thought about the gloomy skies over Willow Bend. But the people came that day, and kept coming for twenty years.
By sunset, we were eight hundred strong. Despite the chilly wind and persistent drizzle, we gathered in the square, linked arms, lit candles. And Suzy held back the rain until we reached the other side, marching arm in arm. In remembrance of our sisters. In honor of our mothers. In defense of our daughters. Passing beneath the gaze of the guardian lions, we reached the opposite shore and sent up a great roar. My throat ached with the nearness of my sister, the beauty of the evening, the commitment of all those assembled here. For that moment, we all understood each other. Without this moment, nothing explored or explained inside the Academy of Sciences would have made a bit of difference.
Promise Me Page 34