Julian Nundy
Derek Jameson's recollections
Monday 05 December 2011
I met John Peet in 1973 at a most memorable party (for those who could remember anything at all the next morning) given by Donald Armour, then the Reuters bureau chief in Berlin. Others from the twilight zone that I came across that night included Wilfred Burchett, an Australian journalist who had reported most favourably about local conditions from North Korea and who was at one point deprived of his Australian passport, and Stefan Heym, the American-German writer who chose to live in East Germany after World War Two yet still became a vociferous critic of the regime.
In 1973, the Western powers had just recognised East Germany and opened embassies in East Berlin. Peet had turned up in the early morning before the British Embassy opened for the first time so he could be first to register as a British resident. During my chat with Peet (with a thick handlebar moustache and a tweed sports jacket, he looked like a caricature of a WWII RAF officer), I discovered that he and his family regularly took holidays in Britain. Although he may have defected in his eyes, under the laws of the country of his birth he had done nothing wrong (not possessing any official secrets) and was allowed to come and go as he pleased.
Although he did write the story of his own defection, isn't the real story that Reuters never published it?
Julian Nundy
nbnbn
In 1973, the Western powers had just recognised East Germany and opened embassies in East Berlin. Peet had turned up in the early morning before the British Embassy opened for the first time so he could be first to register as a British resident. During my chat with Peet (with a thick handlebar moustache and a tweed sports jacket, he looked like a caricature of a WWII RAF officer), I discovered that he and his family regularly took holidays in Britain. Although he may have defected in his eyes, under the laws of the country of his birth he had done nothing wrong (not possessing any official secrets) and was allowed to come and go as he pleased.
Although he did write the story of his own defection, isn't the real story that Reuters never published it?
Julian Nundy
nbnbn
Robert Eksuzyan
Monday 26 September 2011
What very sad news [● Obituary: Robert Eksuzyan].
What I always remember about Robert, from the first time we met in 1971 to the phone conversation four or five years ago (when Richard Balmforth kindly sent me an e-mail suggesting Robert would like a call), was his mischievous side.
I remember him bounding into the office day after day in 1973-1974 to read the latest on, first, the campaign against Sakharov and, then, the campaign against Solzhenitsyn which led to Solzhenitsyn’s arrest and exile. One morning, Robert told me he had taken to getting up earlier to get into work to find out the latest. I also remember him sending the driver out to buy the Builders’ Gazette, not a journal Reuters subscribed to, because, on his way from the metro, he had stopped to read the boards displaying the day’s papers and had seen a rattling good tale of ripped-off building materials in some racket, an “economic crime” that could bring the death penalty, giving one of those insights into the Soviet Union beyond the propaganda.
As John Morrison said, there were no pubs for us to go to in the 1970s, but, with Robert, I maybe had the next best, or even better, thing. In my trainee year, when Robert and I had been working a dayshift on a Saturday, he took to leading me off by bus and metro (unknown, I think, to anyone else in the bureau) to the basement studio of a Georgian artist friend, Shota. I never saw much of Shota’s art but he was a damned good host and always had a good spread of Georgian dishes to feed us on. The place was a regular haunt of Moscow Caucasians and the conversation there was remarkably free and jovial.
When I returned to Moscow on a second assignment, Robert took me back to Shota’s a couple of times, but then the atmosphere began to grow more and more tense, both inside the Soviet Union in general and in the bureau in particular. Robert whispered to me one day that, at the closed trial of a dissident, I had been named as one of the “bourgeois journalists” the defendant had frequented. After that, by a sort of common accord, our Saturday outings petered out.
There was an odd sequel to this: in mid-1975, after Reuters had posted me to Paris, I was walking round the corner of my street in Montmartre when I was hailed in Russian. A man of about 40 asked me “What are you doing here?” He was, it turned out, yet another Georgian artist who had married a Frenchwoman and was living in the building adjacent to my own. He remembered me, he said, from seeing me “at Shota’s place with Robert”.
Julian Nundy
nbnbn
What I always remember about Robert, from the first time we met in 1971 to the phone conversation four or five years ago (when Richard Balmforth kindly sent me an e-mail suggesting Robert would like a call), was his mischievous side.
I remember him bounding into the office day after day in 1973-1974 to read the latest on, first, the campaign against Sakharov and, then, the campaign against Solzhenitsyn which led to Solzhenitsyn’s arrest and exile. One morning, Robert told me he had taken to getting up earlier to get into work to find out the latest. I also remember him sending the driver out to buy the Builders’ Gazette, not a journal Reuters subscribed to, because, on his way from the metro, he had stopped to read the boards displaying the day’s papers and had seen a rattling good tale of ripped-off building materials in some racket, an “economic crime” that could bring the death penalty, giving one of those insights into the Soviet Union beyond the propaganda.
As John Morrison said, there were no pubs for us to go to in the 1970s, but, with Robert, I maybe had the next best, or even better, thing. In my trainee year, when Robert and I had been working a dayshift on a Saturday, he took to leading me off by bus and metro (unknown, I think, to anyone else in the bureau) to the basement studio of a Georgian artist friend, Shota. I never saw much of Shota’s art but he was a damned good host and always had a good spread of Georgian dishes to feed us on. The place was a regular haunt of Moscow Caucasians and the conversation there was remarkably free and jovial.
When I returned to Moscow on a second assignment, Robert took me back to Shota’s a couple of times, but then the atmosphere began to grow more and more tense, both inside the Soviet Union in general and in the bureau in particular. Robert whispered to me one day that, at the closed trial of a dissident, I had been named as one of the “bourgeois journalists” the defendant had frequented. After that, by a sort of common accord, our Saturday outings petered out.
There was an odd sequel to this: in mid-1975, after Reuters had posted me to Paris, I was walking round the corner of my street in Montmartre when I was hailed in Russian. A man of about 40 asked me “What are you doing here?” He was, it turned out, yet another Georgian artist who had married a Frenchwoman and was living in the building adjacent to my own. He remembered me, he said, from seeing me “at Shota’s place with Robert”.
Julian Nundy
nbnbn
Gilbert Sedbon
Monday 27 June 2011
I have been at something of a loss to add to the tributes about Gilbert. Others on this site have well described his kindness, his constant good humour and his devotion to work and to Reuters.
What I can contribute is one of his reporter’s stories.
As a young journalist in Cairo during World War II, Gilbert, for reasons unknown, interviewed the then Aga Khan in his suite in the Shepheard’s Hotel.
As the interview progressed, the Aga Khan asked Gilbert, “Would you like a whisky?” Gilbert, somewhat surprised, said he would and the Aga Khan, head of the Ismaili Shiya Muslim sect, rang a bell.
A few minutes later, a butler appeared with a silver tray and poured two glasses of whisky – one for Gilbert and one for the Aga Khan.
Gilbert, forgetting that the Ismailis allow alcohol, watched open-mouthed as the Aga Khan lifted his glass to his lips.
The Aga Khan paused to reassure Gilbert: “Don't worry. The faithful believe that in my mouth it turns to water.”
Julian Nundy
vbnbnbn
What I can contribute is one of his reporter’s stories.
As a young journalist in Cairo during World War II, Gilbert, for reasons unknown, interviewed the then Aga Khan in his suite in the Shepheard’s Hotel.
As the interview progressed, the Aga Khan asked Gilbert, “Would you like a whisky?” Gilbert, somewhat surprised, said he would and the Aga Khan, head of the Ismaili Shiya Muslim sect, rang a bell.
A few minutes later, a butler appeared with a silver tray and poured two glasses of whisky – one for Gilbert and one for the Aga Khan.
Gilbert, forgetting that the Ismailis allow alcohol, watched open-mouthed as the Aga Khan lifted his glass to his lips.
The Aga Khan paused to reassure Gilbert: “Don't worry. The faithful believe that in my mouth it turns to water.”
Julian Nundy
vbnbnbn
Cy Fox and Wyndham Lewis
Wednesday 31 March 2010
What fun it was to read about Cy Fox and Wyndham Lewis [● Cy Fox and Wyndham Lewis: one man’s obsession at the vortex].
I remember driving Cy in my mustard Mini Clubman circa 1975 from 85 Fleet Street to Charing Cross (now the Embankment) tube. As Cy opened the door – this was not in a jubilant moment – the plastic door handle snapped in his hand.
Cy was mortified and insisted that I bring him the bill. In those days, I was young, under the illusion that I was rich and successful and in no way litigious. I remarked only that Cy had done nothing untoward and that it was plainly time for the handle's natural demise.
A couple of days later, I found a large envelope in my pigeonhole containing Lewis' The Revenge for Love. I had read a lot on the Spanish civil war and this, which I consumed with great pleasure very soon after the door-handle trauma, was a very welcome addition. I remember leaving Cy a note in which I said I had attached the novel with string and sellotape and now the door opened perfectly. It wasn't true – I still have the book.
Julian Nundy
I remember driving Cy in my mustard Mini Clubman circa 1975 from 85 Fleet Street to Charing Cross (now the Embankment) tube. As Cy opened the door – this was not in a jubilant moment – the plastic door handle snapped in his hand.
Cy was mortified and insisted that I bring him the bill. In those days, I was young, under the illusion that I was rich and successful and in no way litigious. I remarked only that Cy had done nothing untoward and that it was plainly time for the handle's natural demise.
A couple of days later, I found a large envelope in my pigeonhole containing Lewis' The Revenge for Love. I had read a lot on the Spanish civil war and this, which I consumed with great pleasure very soon after the door-handle trauma, was a very welcome addition. I remember leaving Cy a note in which I said I had attached the novel with string and sellotape and now the door opened perfectly. It wasn't true – I still have the book.
Julian Nundy
