History in a Handshake

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Time for a handshake was worked into the 26-page script meticulously crafted by the White House and the State Department. The President rehearsed with aides in the Oval Office minutes before he was to step onto the sunny lawn, where 3,000 of the old warriors and the new trustees of peace had been summoned. For four days the diagram of the proceedings had been drawn and redrawn, the seven chief figures moved like chessmen on their tiny stage, chairs put in the blueprint, then withdrawn, until finally it was agreed they all would stand to talk, sit to sign, stand again. Clinton was to act as stage manager. He would reach for the hand of Rabin at the crucial moment, turn next to shake the hand of Arafat, then step back half a pace and enfold the two in a wide and gentle extension of his arms with the expectation that the weight of history would bring their two hands together. It did. First Arafat reached out, then after what seemed like endless minutes, Rabin responded. Simple, shattering.

Oded Ben-Ami, a spokesman for Rabin, watched it in wonder. "It was a handshake with someone who just a moment ago was the devil in person," he said, "and from now on is your partner in negotiation." The Lebanese daily L'Orient-Le Jour made a cooler but no less momentous assessment: "A prodigious moment this handshake, soberly, none too warmly exchanged between Rabin and Arafat, as if they were crushed by the terrible responsibility that their historic gesture condemned them to share." This is the stuff of modern diplomatic power. It is impulsive and ephemeral and can vanish with the morning mist, but it plants in the minds of millions of people a solemn promise, making it harder for leaders to go on defying logic and decency.

The young people invited were suitably impressed, but for the old it was something truly special. Clark Clifford, 86, still recovering from heart surgery, glanced at the Oval Office and thought of the day in 1948 when at the last minute word came that "the Jewish State" would be called "Israel" and the documents for recognition had to be altered by pen before Harry Truman could sit down and firmly stroke his name. Present at the creation -- and now at what Clifford thought could be a renewal for the entire Middle East.

Henry Kissinger, Secretary of State for both Richard Nixon and Gerald Ford and so often a player in the Middle East game, seemed subdued, even misty- eyed. He walked slowly, graying head bent. "A stunning moment," he murmured. James Baker, Secretary of State for George Bush, thought time had done its work as he watched the tableau of peace. He had convened meetings, pushing the old adversaries together at Madrid 23 months ago. Clinton knew how much that legwork had counted. He reached through three rows of people to make sure Arafat and Rabin shook hands with Baker.

It was a triumphant but curious time for Bill Clinton. He deserved credit not for what he had done but for what he had not done. This agreement was the work of others over decades. Clinton stayed out of the way in the last act and let it happen naturally. He did not posture or seek personal acclaim, but paid tribute to those who had long carried the heavy burden. Such acts are far too rare in the presidency, but they are just as much a measure of honor. Bill Clinton enhanced himself as well as those who had braved the road to the South Lawn by the courage of his restraint.