Gazing up at me from the jacket of one of his own massive volumes is Henry Kissinger. I have been living with this face for the past five years. That was how long it took me to write the story of a single year in the life of America’s 56th secretary of state. It says, I hope, more about his restless activity than my indolence.
I share at least one attribute with Kissinger: we were both refugees from Hitler, although rather different ones. As Jewish refugees, he and his family fled Germany in 1938; I was sent from England as a “bundle from Britain” to school at Millbrook, NY, in 1940. He joined the US army in 1943, the same year I returned home to serve in Britain. We were both demobbed in 1947: he as a sergeant, I as a captain.
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