Much has been written in recent days–all of it true–about Kay Graham’s unique blend of vulnerability and strength, shyness and statesmanship. She had come of age in a world of wealth and privilege, but no one worked harder at her job or prepared more diligently for every challenge. She was a certified media mogul, the “most powerful woman in America” (a label she loathed), yet she reveled in good gossip, a good laugh and took a warm, caring and–there’s no other word for it–maternal interest in the lives of the people who worked for her. And while she was NEWSWEEK’s staunchest advocate, a true believer in its mission of joining “mass and class,” she could also be our toughest critic, restlessly and relentlessly urging us to examine what we’d done–and how to do it better next time.
She was every bit as demanding of herself. Whether preparing for an interview, a speech or even a dinner party, she left nothing to chance. There was always one more briefing to do, one more expert to consult, one more moment to look at the seating chart. On the foreign reporting trips she did with NEWSWEEK and Washington Post editors, Kay could easily have sat back and let the editors carry the ball. But she always did her part, taking prodigious notes and often leaning in to ask the tough, embarrassing–and central–question the rest of us had been dancing around. She worked just as hard in her business role. On a visit to Tokyo in 1986 to launch our Japanese-language edition, NEWSWEEK’s promotion people had put together a merciless schedule of press and TV interviews. Sensing that she was badly jet-lagged, I said: “You know, you don’t really have to do all of these.” A fierce, impatient look crossed her face. “A long time ago I had to decide whether to be a lady who lunched or a woman who worked,” she snapped. “Damn it, let’s get on with it.”
Foreign correspondents soon learned never to build too much “free time” or, God forbid, sightseeing into her itineraries. Still, a few of us could occasionally tease her about her gusto for a packed schedule. During a marathon two-week trip through Eastern Europe in 1990, our group had been interviewing from morning till night. Late one afternoon, Kay, her great pal Meg Greenfield, the late NEWSWEEK columnist and editor of The Washington Post editorial page, and I had just finished a particularly dreary hour with a Hungarian party boss. When the session ended, his deputy pulled Kay aside. She came rushing over to us. “The deputy’s got time!” she announced enthusiastically. Meg and I groaned in unison: “We don’t!” Later, we managed to convince ourselves that Mrs. Graham had at least smiled.
She loved to laugh. She relished nothing more than spending time with reporters, hearing their war stories and getting–and giving–good “dish.” Her best laughs came at the expense of pomposity or simply at the improbable situations she often found herself in. After a tense, two-hour Moscow interview with Mikhail Gorbachev that ran well past the lunch hour, Kay called everyone in our traveling party, announcing: “We’ve got pizza!” For an hour, we scarfed slices like college kids and irreverently dissected the talk with the maximum Soviet leader. Earlier, on a visit to Beijing, she found herself in the courtyard of the fabled Forbidden City, where the dowager empress had ruled. When Ken Auchincloss, then our managing editor, dropped to his knees and gave our own empress the full kowtow treatment, Kay’s throaty, explosive laughter nearly brought in the security guards.
As a boss, her own instincts, not textbook teachings, shaped her management style. She didn’t suffer fools–and didn’t hide it. But when a staffer was sick, dealing with a troubled child or struggling with a marriage gone sour, she was always eager to know. Not just to know, but to help by making a call, sending a comforting note or personally lining up a top physician for a second opinion. She had a special feeling for young women on the staff, and often sought them out to see how they were juggling the demands of work and family. Recalling that her return to work had come late in life, she marveled at how they coped. “I just don’t know how you do it,” she often said. And then she shared her own past doubts. “Do you ever wake up in the middle of the night and ask yourself whether you’ve done the right thing, or made the right decisions?” one editor recalls her saying. There was little doubt that Kay, herself, had spent many such sleepless nights.
She had tough questions for herself and for us: “Did we get it right? Are we being fair? How could we have done it better?” If she thought an editor was being defensive or trying to spin her, there would be a flash of temper. But if we had a good explanation or admitted that we’d blown it, the storm passed, and she’d simply ask: “What have you learned?” As always, Kay got to the heart of the matter.
Her loyalty to NEWSWEEK never wavered. When an influential official or a corporate chieftain called or wrote to complain about something in the magazine, Kay and I repeated a minor ritual. “What do you want me to say?” she’d ask, with a great gleam in her eye. “Just don’t agree with him,” I’d respond. She knew, of course, just what to say. The message came wrapped in soothing, almost regal charm, but it was always laser-guided by her own unerring sense of honesty and integrity. She understood that good journalism got under people’s skins–and that such was the price of seeking truth and speaking truth. And she deeply believed that the public good served by honest reporting was more than worth an occasional awkward moment.
In 1997, I tried–and failed–to put Kay on the cover of NEWSWEEK. After reading the galleys of her remarkable memoir, “Personal History,” I was sure it would be a best seller, and that it was worth a cover. “In all these years, I’ve never, ever, told you not to run a cover,” she said (truthfully). “But don’t you dare do this one.” An excerpt from the book ran inside the magazine that week. A few days later, I had two mock covers made up that carried her picture. She kept one; the other hangs on my office wall. This week, that same picture of our beloved friend appears on 4 million copies of the magazine. It’s a beautiful image, filled with all her warmth, intelligence and vitality. But as much as I loved the cover four years ago, it fills me with nothing but sadness this week. All the people of NEWSWEEK felt far, far better when there were only two copies.
