The Course of Honor

Heavy, dark-haired Valeriu Georgescu was just about to leave for the office when the telephone began ringing in his New York apartment. He picked it up offhandedly. A second later, listening to the voice of the strange man on the other end of the wire, he felt a shock of mingled hope and alarm. The stranger began by suavely explaining that his name was "Costapeter," and that he was just in from Rumania. Rumanian-born Valeriu Georgescu understood instantly. He had been stranded in New York during a visit in 1947 by Communist seizure of the Rumanian oil industry, had long since been an executive of Standard Oil of New Jersey and had recently become a citizen of the U.S. But his two sons--Costa, 19, and Peter, 14--were still in Communist hands, and he had not heard from them for three years.

"Dear Daddy." "I do not recognize the name," said Georgescu, fighting to keep his voice level.

That, the stranger replied, did not matter. He had a letter from the two boys. Said Georgescu: "Please come right away. I shall wait for you."

Moments later, the stranger turned up at the front door. He was a dark, personable man in his middle 30s. He had a soft face, a faint British accent and a confidently friendly air.

"This will no doubt prove my identity," he said. He handed Georgescu a photograph of his sons. On the back was written, "Dear Daddy, please do all you can to help us." It was signed, "Costa and Peter." Georgescu left the room for a moment "to disguise my emotion." But when he returned, he said, firmly, "I want to know exactly who you are."

The stranger stared at him, then brought forth a diplomatic identification card. Georgescu, describing the scene later at a Washington press conference, said he noted carefully that the card was made out in the name of Cristache Zambeti, signed by Secretary of State Dean Acheson, dated Nov. 5, 1951, and bore the title: "First Secretary to the Rumanian Popular Republic Legation in Washington."

"Poof!" "Mr. Georgescu," said the visitor, "if you want to see your children, this can be arranged, and I am proposing to you the following deal: you may see your children within the year if you will agree to collaborate with us."

Georgescu: Collaborate with you--what does that mean? You want me to collaborate with the present Communist regime?

Zambeti: Yes.

Georgescu: Do you realize that I am an American citizen?

Zambeti: Yes, but it does not make any difference.

Georgescu: It may not make any difference to you, but I have sworn allegiance to the United States Constitution, government and flag, and I mean to maintain it.

Zambeti: Poof! Do you take things that way?

Georgescu: I certainly do.

Zambeti: Well, if you want to see your children, you have got to do something about it.

Georgescu (firmly): There is no deal there.

For all these brave words, the final decision was hard. That night Georgescu and his wife spent hours in anguished deliberation. The stranger had implied that if they forgot his visit, their children, "as far as he knew," would be no worse off than they were before. It seemed like a threat. But in the end, Georgescu decided that the only honorable hope was a desperate one--spread the story of Zambeti's infamous proposal and hope public opinion would protect the boys.

Next day he went to Washington and talked to the FBI. Last week the State Department made public the fearful little episode, declared Cristache Zambeti persona non grata and kicked him out of the U.S. The Rumanian took a plane to Europe, muttering: "A frame-up. I never saw him." The Voice of America beamed the tale to 40 countries around the world. And the Georgescus went back to New York--to wait.

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