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On Katharine Graham (1917-2001), former
publisher of the Washington Post: The news of Katharine Graham’s death brought sadness, but it also brought to mind an encounter I had with this exceptional lady. She came to my aid after a dangerous accident on the job at her newspaper about a decade ago, when I was an editorial aide on the National News Desk. During George Bush’s presidency, about 8:50 p.m. on a weekday night in the hectic hours just before the first edition of the newspaper was put to bed, the phone rang. White House Press Secretary Marlin Fitzwater was on the line, asking to speak with the Post’s presidential reporter David Hoffman. “How badly do you need him?” I asked. “I really have to speak with him,” he said. “It’s important.” “He’s at a party upstairs that Mrs. Graham is holding for a bunch of Russian diploids,” I said. “Hold on, I’ll run up and get him.” Off I went, leaving National Editor Jo Rector alone during one of the busiest parts of the night. I jogged to the elevator and took it up to the 8th floor, where Mrs. Graham’s office is. Her large reception area was empty and across the room on the other side of floor-to-ceiling windows was her garden court, where the party was well under way. I hustled through the only door, out into the dimly torch-lighted area and found Hoffman. “Fitzwater’s on hold; he needs you pronto,” I said. Hoffman acknowledged and we both turned to go back downstairs. Knowing that Rector was by herself, I broke into a jog, and then it happened. Without ever seeing it, I blasted right through one of Mrs. Graham’s big plate glass windows, nearly invisible because of the lighting. I remembered time slowed as I felt my face break through the glass. There was a tremendous crashing sound as I fell to the floor on top of shards. I popped up in a panic, thoroughly embarrassed. I moved left then right and then I saw the blood – lots of it, pouring from my face. I pulled a shard of glass out of my arm and I felt part of my mouth hanging down. Then my senses returned, and I felt the situation was serious and out of my hands. Having been reared in a medical family, I knew it was important to relax and suppress the adrenaline. The first person I recognized was my boss, Bob Kaiser. I told him I was sorry. And then Mrs. Graham came toward me at a trot, followed by Ben Bradlee and some of the paper’s top editors, Len Downie, Karen DeYoung, and Kevin Klose. Behind them was a host of faces, some caring, some squeamish, all coming toward me. Mrs. Graham took over, tending to my facial wounds, sending for an ambulance, directing DeYoung to call my wife. Ben Bradlee brought over a chair and there I sat, staring at a crowd of noted journalists and Russian diplomats, bleeding profusely and mortified that I had just brought Mrs. Graham’s party to a smashing halt. The ambulance arrived in no time. I was eased onto a gurney and wheeled away from the scene by medical technicians, with Mrs. Graham in tow. She was by my side, watchful and reassuring. And then, to my surprise, Mrs. Graham tried to climb into the ambulance with me and ride down to the emergency room at George Washington Hospital. “You can’t come in here,” one of the technicians told her. Wait a minute, I thought. You can’t tell Mrs. Graham no. But she quietly acquiesced and made her own way to the hospital, calling her personal physician in the meantime to inquire about the plastic surgeons who were on call at GW that night. Mrs. Graham was there to greet my wife when she arrived at the hospital and waited until Cathy had checked me in and the doctor was on his way before she left. Before she did, she gently quizzed my wife about whether she had everything we would need. “You’re sure,” she repeated. “Do you need any money?” referring to any prescriptions that would be filled before going home. The next day, when I learned of the exchange, I told my wife she was the second person that night to tell Mrs. Graham no. That didn’t happen very often. Then the phone rang, and there she was again: Mrs. Graham checking in to see if there was anything else she could do. A few days later, she sent a hand-written note. I healed quickly and, about a week after the accident, went into the newsroom to say hello to everyone and to thank those who had helped me during my trauma. When it came time to see Mrs. Graham, she looked me over carefully and smiled, saying the wounds were healing nicely. She gave me a warm embrace and I departed, passing by the very window that gave me the scare of my life, but that I can still remember fondly because it brought Mrs. Graham and me together for a brief time. Sean C. Kelly Sean Kelly is a Washington, D.C.-based writer, actor, and stuntman.
Good work: I learned of your journal through one of the library listserves, and wanted to write to say I am very impressed. I was in the book business for many years before crossing over to library work. I believe the direction you are taking represents the best use of technology which, in the spirit of McLuhan, enhances the arts I love so well. Keep up the good work. I will spread the word wherever I can. Sincerely, Matthew Jennett Matthew Jennett is Curator of Special Collections, Rare Books & Archives at The American College of Greece.
Cynthia Tedesco’s story “Suitcases” and Renata Treitel’s translations of the poems of Rosita Copioli appeared in Archipelago, Vol. 5, No. 2. This exchange of e-mail letters came out of that occurrence -Ed. From: cynthia tedesco
Dear Renata, I just wanted to write to you to tell you how magnificent your translations of Rosita Copioli’s poems are. I believe every poem is a translation and that every translation is another poem to be treasured when done so beautifully as yours. I’m going to get these works from your publisher if I can (I’ll head over to ‘Resources’ soon). We are fortunate indeed to have Katherine and all the people
associated with Archipelago. ‘Burden Of Silence’ is a work of
tribute that honors you, as well. From: renata treitel Hi Cynthia Tedesco, How nice of you to get in touch to praise my work as translator and as writer. It’s good to be recognized by one’s peers, reason enough to keep plodding on. In return, I have to say that I was struck by your story. I made notes for myself as I was reading it: “like a fairy tale” “strange things happen and they are all acceptable” “what is quite tragic takes on a Chagall-like atmosphere” “levity, light-heartedness” “child-like quality” “a certain naivete.” What is even more interesting to me is that you choose a Jewish theme set in Italy and mix miracles and religions and traditions within a single religion. And even more puzzling, you mention geographical places I am quite familiar with, i.e. Bologna, Varalla Sesia, Mt. Rosa. And even more puzzling, you speak of the “Navarra Province.” Here I had to stop. Navarra, as you know, is in Spain. However, there is a small town in northern Italy, half way between Milan and Turin. The name of the town is Novara and we speak of the Province of Novara. It so happens I did live in Novara, many years ago. And from Novara you can see Mt. Rosa, so called because at sunset it turns pink. These are details that do not change the story. However, I wonder, how did you happen upon such a story and upon such geographical places? I lived in Novara with an uncle of mine and his family whose name happens to be Tedeschi. Not very different from your last name. And also you mention the name of Alemanno which is synonymous with Tedesco. All of this sounds like another improbable story but it is all true. If you do not think me too nosey, perhaps you can illuminate further. Thank you for getting in touch. Renata PS - On second thought, I am sending a copy of this to the editor of Archipelago, because she is part of an interesting happening.From: cynthia tedesco Dear Renata, Thank you for your kind reply! You are amazing. This is my mother’s story as she told it to my sister and me when we were little. My mother was born and raised in Bologna, and visited all the places I write about in ‘Suitcases,’ some on the very day she was burnt by the chef’s pot of boiling water. My grandmother did say all that is said. My mother’s response was as written. Cabbages did save her leg and life. Mt. Rosa was active during her illness. I have been to Italy twice and only once to Bologna. That was when I was 17 yrs. old and lived with family for a month. My mother was raised in various prisons in and around Bologna because my grandfather was the minimal security prisons’ warden. She went to The Univ. of Bologna for two years, married a Brooklyn boy studying Medicine, and came here when he graduated and returned to set up practice with his brothers. Life did not turn out the way expected. He died suddenly at age 27 and my mother was trapped here stateside because of the war. (My mother’s older brothers and the rest of the family were in the Resistance. My aunt forged passports to assist Italian Jews to get out of Italy. I am in the midst of writing that story, or stories.) They had a child, my stepbrother, and that is another story, Renata. I call that story ‘Paint’ and if you wish I will send you a copy. Sorry this is taking so long... my mother eventually married my father, who is of Russian-Jewish background. Thus, my sister and I are ‘Jew-Woppies!’ Please do not be horrified by that term: we do not think it pejorative. My parents only argued about religion, although my sister and I essentially grew up without any. Thus I am totally absorbed by the mystical traditions of all religions. I became a Catholic when I was 16 in secret, on my own. But I’m not a very good one at all. Heresies are my favorite subject, along with Mysticism and Gnosticism, etc. etc.; besides, part of me is very Jewish, and I simply cannot fathom Christ as anything other than Jewish: Essene perhaps, even married to the Magdelene, etc. An unmarried Rabbi? I doubt it. My mother’s maiden name is Gozzi, the family originally came from Venice and then to Milan and on to Bologna. Just outside of Venice there is a rubble, Castle Gozzi. Of course there is a family crest, however tacky and distant from the Doge. My maiden name is Kane, from Kanefsky. My husband’s the Tedesco. Now: the passport of his grandfather or great-grandfather is ‘Tedeschi.’ And why it was changed is a family mystery! I’ve heard Tedeschi is a Jewish Italian name and this of course aroused my curiosity. But both my in-laws died very young, and we can’t track ‘the truth’ down. My husband grew up in the house his ancestors built, on Roslyn, L.I. – a more Jewish neighborhood is hard to find. He was raised as Catholic. He has no interest in religion: but fortunately is interested in my Heresies and of course, the writing. That Alemanno is synonymous with Tedeschi/Tedesco meaning ‘German’ or of Germany, etc., was news to me. I cried when I read your e-mail. I’ve many poems dedicated to Rabbi Johanan Alemanno, Alchemist and Kabbalist and Hebrew tutor to Pico della Mirandola. He has been like an ‘unseen’ guide to me for so many years now. I first read about him in Rafael Patai’s ‘Jewish Alchemists.’ Since then I have ‘used him’ shamelessly in poems and fiction. He lived for a time in Bologna, as did Rabbi Patista or Batista; Patai is not sure of the spelling. That the air is pink around Mt. Rosa is of no surprise to me: my photos of Italy, particularly of Venice are all tinged pink. Miracles everywhere. Please keep in touch. I can’t wait until your books come. They’re
taking forever, it seems. I’m taken by writers’ block with ‘Suitcases’
surrounded by so much talent and gifted authors. Truly! From: renata treitel I wish to add that 50 Km. from Novara there is a town called Varallo,
which is the main centre of the Valsesia, a pre-Alpine tourist region. I
read in my guide book that in 1944 and 1945
the Valsesia was an important center of partisan resistance. Bloody
encounters took place in the nearby region of Alagna on June 5, 1944.
The main valley in this area is called Val Grande which ends at Alagna
Valsesia at the foot of Mt. Rosa (alt. m.4633). Mt. Rosa is the highest
peak, after Mt. Bianco, in Europe. From: cynthia tedesco PS : Thank you for your meticulous knowledge of the geography of my stories. What guide book do you have? I’ve tried to obtain guide books on Bologna, the entire Emelia-Lombardy area and North of it, and can’t come up with anything but cookbooks. Please advise, I’m desperate.From: renata treitel Dear Cynthia, It is quite an extraordinary story. So life is more varied than fiction. I am sorry I have caused you so much upheaval with my remarks. But the story had a special appeal. Do send me your other story. You belong to the Archipelago crowd with no apologies. Best, Renata From: cynthia tedesco Dear Renata, Thank you for all the information. I’m going to pursue the Guide A.S.A.P. ‘Paint’ will be on its way soon. Very different from ‘Suitcases’ although about many of the same people with other masks. All Good Things, Cynthia Cynthia Tedesco is the author of a collection of poetry, LETTERS FOUND AFTER… (Sesquin Press, 1997), and a former editor of Barrow Street. “Suitcases” appeared in Archipelago, Vol. 5, No. 2. Renata Treitel’s poem “The Burden of Silence” appeared in Archipelago, Vol. 4, No. 3. Her translations from the Italian of poems by Rosita Copioli, FURORE DELLE ROSE/WRATH OF THE ROSES, appeared in Vol. 5, No. 2. She is also the translator of Rosita Copioli’s SPLENDIDA LUMINA SOLIS / THE BLAZING LIGHTS OF THE SUN (Sun and Moon Press). This year, she was first runner up of the Bordighera Poetry Prize. Poems from her manuscript OKLAHOMA BAROQUE together with comments by Dorothy Barresi, judge, will be featured in Italian American Writers. She adds this note: “There is one detail I would like to call your attention to. When Cynthia Tedesco writes: ‘Mt. Rosa was active during her [mother’s] illness,’ this cannot be true because Mt. Rosa is not a volcano. However, because the story was told by grandmother to mother to daughter an error might have crept in. There are three major volcanoes in Italy: Vesuvio, Stromboli, Etna. Any one could have been active at the time. I mention this for accuracy, in case anybody wants to follow this story further.”
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