Promise Me (40 page)

“They still remember you in Budapest,” I said. “Norman Brinker,
kitűnő lovas
. The great horseman. They’d be thrilled to see you. And I could use the benefit of your wisdom.”

“You’ll do fine.” With genuine gladness, he added, “You’re really soaring now.”

“Don’t I know it.” I had a fleeting thought of Suzy, taking flight for Spain with her Dramamine and vodka.

“I love you, Bruni.”

“I love you, Norman.”

Two years later, he married a blonde.

Revolution

A
mong the fables and myths that surround the Szechényi Chain Bridge, which spans the Danube connecting Buda and Pest, is the misconception that the stately stone lions flanking the imposing cast-iron structure have no tongues. One tall tale has the disillusioned sculptor flinging himself into the Danube after being mocked by critics.

In another story, he retorts, “You wish your wives had tongues like my lions!”

That always gets a big laugh. The Eastern Bloc equivalent of “Take my wife—
please.
”

The truth is, the Chain Bridge lions do have tongues. You can’t readily see them because instead of arching up or lolling out, they lie flat on the floor of the lions’ mouths. I liked that the sculptor designed them that way. To me, it was a symbol of the tremendous strength of the Hungarian people, despite the way they’d been dominated and silenced. There’s strength to be found in self-restraint. One should have a tongue, but know when to keep it low in the mouth. There’s a time to roar and a time to purr. The necessary art of knowing the difference is called
diplomacy
, and I’m proud to say this is a trait the president recognized in me.

I’d known Laura and George W. Bush since the 1980s, when they came to Dallas with his baseball team, the Texas Rangers. Norman had been a supporter of “41”—President George H. W. Bush—since the 1960s, when he first ran for the Congress. Laura and I both have that volunteer gene, so we got along just fine, and I liked her husband, who always seemed smart, funny, and full of energy. When he was running for governor in 1994, he invited me to his office and asked for my support, knowing it was going to be a tough call for me.

I liked our current governor, Ann Richards. I supported her. She was
smart and tough; she had integrity and a good, good soul. And not too fine a point, but SGK was less than a dozen years old. I didn’t want to jeopardize our advocacy efforts by alienating the most powerful woman in the state. Ann Richards had a rock-solid base; I honestly didn’t know if George Bush could win against her. But when we sat down and talked about the issues that mattered to me, I liked what he had to say.

Over the next several years, politics became so polarized, it was a bit of a flying trapeze act maintaining friends and allies on both sides of the aisle. Norman was well known for his support of conservative Republicans, but everyone who knew me knew that my priorities were advancing the science of cancer treatment and improving consumer access to it. I served on the Steering Committee for the National Dialogue on Cancer, and we did our best to keep it exactly that: a dialogue. I spoke at the Republican National Convention and was still welcomed to work with U.S. senators Dianne Feinstein and Ted Kennedy, U.S. congressman John Dingell, and other Democrats on cancer-related legislation over the years. Later on, serving as President George W. Bush’s chief of protocol during the 2008 changing of the guard, I worked with incoming vice president Joe Biden and his wife, Dr. Jill Biden, who hosted special events surrounding the Washington, D.C., Race for the Cure. In my experience, people who keep their eyes on the ball have very little trouble engaging in the nonpartisan conversation about cancer.

“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.