Read My Pins: Stories from a Diplomat's Jewel Box Read online

  Giving an important speech on Bosnia at the Intrepid Sea, Air, and Space Museum in New York, 1997. I wore a fleur-de-lis, then a part of Bosnia’s state flag. As is evident from the Queen Mother’s crown (below), the fleur-de-lis was also popular among European royalty.

  ADAM NADEL/ASSOCIATED PRESS

  Rhinestone fleur-de-lis, designer unknown; gold fleur-de-lis, Sofie.

  COURTESY OF THE ROYAL COLLECTION © 2009 HER MAJESTY QUEEN ELIZABETH II

  State crown featuring the famous Koh-i-Noor diamond. Courtesy of the Royal Collection, Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth II.

  For several centuries, European traders competed for the favor of the subcontinent’s leading families. The difficulty was how to bribe rulers who were already so rich. For a time, Portuguese merchants had the advantage because their offerings were novel: Colombian emeralds and Mozambican gold, amber, and ivory. Frustrated suitors eventually realized, however, that gift-giving is not the only means of persuasion.

  By the start of the nineteenth century, the power of the Mogul dynasty was waning just as Great Britain’s might was waxing. The ambition of Queen Victoria, the increased strength of Her Majesty’s navy, and the skill and aggression of English traders forced India into a role it never wanted: the jewel in the British Empire’s crown. The decisive blow came when, in 1849, the East India Trading Company gained control of Lahore, capital of Punjab. Most prominent among the riches claimed by the company and forwarded as a tribute to the Queen was an enormous diamond, the incomparable Koh-i-Noor, or “mountain of light.”

  SMITHSONIAN INSTITUTION NATIONAL MUSEUM OF NATURAL HISTORY

  The Hope diamond. Courtesy of Smithsonian Institution National Museum of Natural History.

  In the British capital, crowds rushed to see the Koh-i-Noor, but many Londoners were disappointed at its seeming lack of brilliance. Similarly unimpressed, the Queen’s consort, Prince Albert, ordered the piece recut. In little more than a month, the craftsmen produced a beautiful shallow oval. Victoria subsequently wore the polished diamond in a brooch, in a tiara, and as the center of a diadem fashioned by Garrard, the crown jeweler. The gem was later placed in a Maltese cross at the front of the crown of Queen Elizabeth—known to my generation as the Queen Mum—and displayed at her state funeral in the spring of 2002.

  The British crown jewels exemplify the connection between perceptions of national glory and the appreciation of valuable stones. This linkage transcends the borders of time, religion, geography, and culture. A traveler today, with sufficient time and the right access, could view everything from the large Manchurian pearls of China’s Qing dynasty to the treasures of the pharaohs, from the crown jewels of Ethiopia to the imperial possessions of the Holy Roman and Austro-Hungarian empires.

  In my own travels, I have visited the Tower of London, the Hermitage in Saint Petersburg, the Museum of Egyptian Antiquities in Cairo, the National History Museum of Romania, and the Louvre, where what little remains of the French crown jewels is on display. The majority of the French pieces were either lost in the Revolution or sold later to discourage attempts at restoring the Bourbon dynasty. As one radical parliamentarian exclaimed, “Without a crown, no need for a king.”

  The United States, of course, has never desired a crowned head and thus has no crown jewels—though the Smithsonian Institution has the Hope diamond and other extraordinary gems. Early Americans provided proof that jewelry is not the province solely of royalty. American Indians were skilled at fashioning white, purple, and black beads out of the shells of periwinkles and clams. The beads, known as wampum, were used to record treaties and for other purposes both spiritual and practical. Like a royal crown, beaded headpieces, necklaces, and belts were employed by American tribes to connote leadership status; as with other jewels, wampum might be exchanged to acquire goods, express friendship, pay reparations, or facilitate peace.

  SMITHSONIAN INSTITUTION NATIONAL MUSEUM OF THE AMERICAN INDIAN

  This wampum belt, sometimes referred to as the “Freedom” belt, is presumed to have been given to William Penn by the Lenape, or Delaware, Nation, as early as 1682. Courtesy of Smithsonian Institution National Museum of the American Indian.

  For the New World’s European settlers, wampum served as legal tender alongside the coins brought from their homelands. Ever alert for ways to push the natives aside, the settlers learned quickly that the more wampum they accumulated, the easier it would be to buy local land. In the most famous transaction, Peter Minuit, an employee of the Dutch West India Company, purchased Manhattan and later Staten Island for a modest amount of wampum, fabric, and farming implements. The Norwalk Indians accepted a comparable bargain in Connecticut, selling much of what is now Fairfield County.

  As these examples suggest, jewelry has played a colorful part in the evolution of world affairs. Because precious stones tend to inspire both admiration and greed, leaders have found convenient excuses for seeking them and have used them to impress crowds, reward friends, deprive foes, forge alliances, and justify war. Jewels may find their highest expression in the decorative arts, but they have also earned a place in the art of the possible.

  SMITHSONIAN INSTITUTION NATIONAL MUSEUM OF THE AMERICAN INDIAN

  A gift from two governors of Arizona, Janet Napolitano and Rose Mofford. Western Sun, Federico Jimenez.

  Eagle Dancer, Jerry Roan.

  The role of jewelry in politics first touched my life at an early age. I was eight when my father served as ambassador from our native Czechoslovakia to Yugoslavia, then headed by Marshal Tito, a formidable dictator. During a diplomatic ceremony in Belgrade, my mother was invited to sit in an anteroom with the wives of two other ambassadors. Suddenly, the door opened and a Yugoslav fighter dressed in faded fatigues strode in bearing a silver tray. On the tray were three velvet boxes; in each was a ring made from the appropriate birthstone. The box presented to my mother—she was born in May—revealed an emerald surrounded by fourteen diamonds. We called it Tito’s ring, and when my father first saw it, he growled, “I wonder whose finger they cut off to get this.” Both my parents spoke of the contrast between the pomp and extravagance of the Yugoslav regime and the desperate poverty that plagued the country’s people in those first years after World War II. Sometimes the finest jewelry is accompanied by moral complexity; there was no diplomatic way to return the gift. Instead, my parents waited until I had passed the orals for my Ph.D., then gave the ring to me.

  GEORGE BENDRIHEM/GETTY IMAGES

  This was my mother’s most valued pin, a gift from her sister.

  GEORGE BENDRIHEM/GETTY IMAGES

  Dignitaries gathered from around the world to attend the funeral of Yugoslav strongman Marshal Tito in Belgrade, 1980. I was standing off to the left, outside of the picture.

  GEORGE BENDRIHEM/GETTY IMAGES

  Tito’s ring, designer unknown.

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  My parents, Josef and Mandula Korbel, during World War II.

  In the late 1970s, I worked for Zbigniew Brzezinski, national security advisor to President Jimmy Carter. Part of my job was to report each morning on international developments that might warrant the president’s attention. The death of a major foreign leader, such as Tito, fit that description. After months of reporting that Tito was ill; then gravely ill; possibly deceased; and then still alive, I was able to confirm that Tito was undeniably and reliably dead. Vice President Walter Mondale led the U.S. delegation to the funeral, and I—because of my childhood association with Yugoslavia—was invited to come along. After three decades, the moment was finally right to wear Tito’s ring.

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  A pin of my mother’s, designer unknown.

  STANISLAV ZBYNEK/NEWSCOM

  I was born in Prague, capital of Czechoslovakia, which later split into the Czech Republic and Slovakia. Both countries remain close to my heart. President Václav Havel, hero of the Velvet Revolution, is among the people I most admire. The art nouveau pins, opposite, are based on d
esigns by Alphonse Mucha, a famed artist and Slavic nationalist of the early twentieth century. At right is the Order of the White Lion, an award I received, in 1997, from Havel and the Czech government.

  STANISLAV ZBYNEK/NEWSCOM

  Bird, Iradj Moini.

  II. Wings

  In the fall of 1955, I enrolled at Wellesley, a women’s college ensconced comfortably within one of the more distant and bucolic suburbs of Boston. The fifties were a period of transition for American women, and although the curriculum at Wellesley was modern, some of the customs were not. Many of my classmates arrived on campus as I did, decked out in the style of the day—with a camel-hair coat, Shetland sweater, Bermuda shorts, circle pin, and a single strand of pearls. Early on, we were sent to the physical education department to pose for what was called a posture picture. This was to see whether we had “an understanding of good body alignment and the ability to stand well.” To ensure accuracy, we were not allowed to wear any clothing above the waist. If we flunked, we were made to do exercises. I always wondered what happened to the pictures, until a few years ago, when they were discovered in a vault…at Yale.

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  Wearing my mother’s ring. High school photo, 1955.

  Wellesley women were, on the whole, excellent students, and many went on to have stellar careers. At the time, however, thoughts of history and philosophy competed with chemistry of a nonacademic sort. The majority of us hoped to be engaged before we graduated. According to the tradition, one became “pinned” while a junior and engaged as a senior before receiving—on the afternoon of commencement day—a diploma at two o’clock and a wedding ring at four. Today, young women are more likely to get pierced than pinned, but back then we viewed the pinning ritual with great seriousness. A boy gave his fraternity pin to a girl, thereby pledging both affection and fidelity. When the girl wore the pin, on a blouse above her heart, she advertised that she was spoken for. The arrangement brought a couple’s standing to a new and higher plane: more than dating, not always formally engaged.

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  Alumnae leaf, Wellesley College.

  The pin from Theta Delta Xi

  As a singularly mature and independent Wellesley woman, I was not the type to get married the same afternoon I graduated. Instead, I waited three days. I had met Joe Albright, my future husband, right on schedule in the summer between my sophomore and junior years; we both had jobs at the Denver Post. Joe, a fledgling reporter, was handsome in a tweedy way, but I kept my distance until verifying that the gold band on his finger was only a class ring. That issue resolved, we were immediately smitten, and within weeks Joe had proposed, offering his Theta Delta Xi pin to cement the deal. I was in heaven—but also in trouble, because I had another boyfriend, who knew nothing about Joe. Until I summoned the courage to break old ties, I kept Joe’s pin out of sight, wearing it on my bra instead of my blouse. At first, only my sister, Kathy, knew of our plans for marriage. When Joe and I eventually told my parents, my father congratulated him for “pinning Madeleine down.”

  My circle pin.

  Returning to Wellesley for my junior year, I virtually floated into the assembly hall at convocation wearing a red sweater accented by Joe’s pin. My friends squealed appreciatively, and I promptly shared most, but not all, of the details of my summer romance and future plans. I quickly learned, though, that getting pinned and staying pinned were separate challenges. That winter, Joe had second thoughts about his career and decided that an early marriage might prove a hindrance. When he disclosed his thinking, I was dumbfounded and began taking my pin off slowly, hoping Joe would stop me. He didn’t, so I dropped the formerly precious object in his lap, whereupon he stood up, opened the window, and tossed the pin away. By the next morning, Joe had experienced third thoughts. Arriving at my room to accompany me to breakfast, he brought with him the keepsake he had tramped out into the snowy New England night to retrieve.

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  Two arms full. My twins, Alice and Anne, 1961.

  The following summer, Joe presented me with an antique emerald-and-diamond engagement ring he had bought in London. I loved it because it was beautiful but also because it was different. Other girls had engagement rings; I had this engagement ring. As I had discovered well after I had fallen in love with Joe, his family was socially prominent in both Chicago and New York. During our engagement, Joe’s grandmother gave me a gorgeous antique jade pin; it was slender and long, decorated with a carved dragon. When Joe’s sister Alice saw me wearing it, she looked as if she had swallowed a lemon. She told me later that she had first seen the piece while shopping with her grandmother and had pronounced it lovely. Naturally, she thought the dragon would one day come to her. I felt guilty—but not so much as to part with the pin.

  COLLECTION OF THE AUTHOR

  Feather, designer unknown.

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  Jade dragon, designer unknown.

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  Ruby fish, designer unknown.

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  Daughter Katie, soon after her christening, 1967.

  My wedding present from Joe was a fish pin with an emerald eye and ruby scales; on the back was the symbol for infinity. This hopeful hint of timelessness did not turn out to be apt, as our marriage ended in divorce after twenty-three years. In that time, I received an occasional gift but rarely shopped for jewelry myself. This was because women were expected to get their finery from men and because I was busy raising three children. I also never thought of the family money as mine to spend. The gifts, however, were much appreciated. From my grandmother-in-law (if there is such a thing), I received a second pin, this one feather-shaped, gold, with rubies. Joe’s Uncle Harry Guggenheim gave my twin daughters little seed pearl hearts. Joe himself bought me a lapis lazuli turtle pin, a small brooch of a spray of violets, and a necklace of irregular pearls from Saudi Arabia that I wore all the time. There were also little gifts of trinkets and beads that were pretty but not built to last.

  COLLECTION OF THE AUTHOR

  Violets, designer unknown.

  and a gift from my parents, a Bohemian garnet set with detachable pendant/pin.

  The piece of jewelry that meant the most to me, then as now, was created by Katie, my youngest daughter. It is a heart-shaped pin, composed of clay, presented to me on Valentine’s Day when Katie was five. I have often worn it since. The pin reflects one of the indispensable purposes of jewelry: to bind families together and connect one generation to the next. When I was a child, my sole treasures were a ring—a gold band with a single small diamond—that my mother had worn and a gold cross that I remember never being without. On my wedding day, my parents gave me a garnet set (a necklace, pin, bracelet, and earrings), featuring the Czechoslovak national stone. Usually, the cherished family gifts go from the elder to the younger, but as was the case with Katie’s valentine, sometimes the giving goes the other way round.

  My most cherished jewelry: A heart pin made by Katie

  After Joe’s Aunt Alicia Patterson Guggenheim died, my daughters and I received a small share of her jewelry. This included a beautiful pink tourmaline heart and a diamond-and-sapphire poppy pin with matching earrings. There was also a pair of earrings with little pearls and a jade fish on the end that were meant to go with the jade dragon pin I had been given earlier. Although I adored these pieces, I so feared losing them that I rarely wore them. In any case, showy jewelry made me uncomfortable. Because of the social status of Joe’s family, he had been considered the perfect escort for Chicago’s well-bred young ladies, taking them to debutante balls and similar high society affairs. Suddenly he began to appear with me. Having nothing suitable to wear, I sewed a dark-red velvet dress to go with the garnets I had received from my parents. It had a tight waist and quite a low neckline so the garnets would show. I still have the dress as a reminder both of the evening and of the years when—for me—a tight waist was possible.


  My life changed when Joe and I moved to Washington in the early 1960s. Jacqueline Kennedy, with her affinity for Givenchy and Oleg Cassini gowns and Schlumberger jewelry, was bringing unprecedented glamour to the nation’s capital and America’s global image. She wore diamonds to Paris, pearls to India, and bangles everywhere. Jackie, as she was called, was recognized as a fashion trendsetter, known by millions for her jewelry, handbags, hats, and hair. This was also the era of such spectacular movie icons as Elizabeth Taylor, Audrey Hepburn, and Marilyn Monroe, who, when singing “Diamonds Are a Girl’s Best Friend,” embodied the stereotype of a woman willing to be possessed but only in return for possessions.

  Still, even in the swinging sixties, status in Washington was determined more by power than by glitter. My husband and I socialized with other young couples turned on by the promise and politics of the Kennedy administration. The men in our group mostly had jobs in government or as journalists; the women were active with children and social causes.