“Sweetheart, I told Mutty his mother is a remarkable woman. And you know what? I was right”

June 1964

IT had been a sleepless night, but a productive one. At least Annie knew now what she had to do.

Not a decision; not yet. But perhaps a way she could think cooly and rationally about the irrational situation she’d been dragged into. A way she could cut through the thicket of emotions that was threatening to entangle her and find the path that would lead to her goal, and, yes, to Abie’s goal as well: to do what was best for their son.

Last night, when she’d calmed down from her outburst, she and Abe had discussed the situation for more than an hour. But all her husband’s speculation — would LBJ send in ground troops, could the US advisors train the South Vietnamese army properly, was the South Vietnamese government so corrupt that it could not govern — had meant very little to her.

They’d finally agreed to discuss it further in the morning. Abe — whose uncanny ability to sleep through every crisis, large and small, was a running joke between him and Annie — was asleep in minutes, leaving Annie alone with her thoughts and fears. And, eventually, her idea for how to make a decision.

When Abe woke up as usual at six, he was shocked to find that his wife was not in the room. He flew down the stairs and found her calmly drinking a cup of coffee. Two large pots were bubbling on the stove.

“Boker tov, Abie,” she said, her voice deliberate and steady. “Want a cup of coffee?”

“Well, you’re up early.”

“Not quite. I never fell asleep. So at about four in the morning I came down and started to cook dinner. Chicken soup and goulash.”

“Comfort foods.”

“So dinner will be all ready for you and Artie to serve.”

His eyebrows shot up. “Me and Artie? Where will you be?”

“I’m going away today. With Mutty.”