Mrs. Roosevelt's Confidante (3 page)

“Ha! Well, it would be quite lovely of Santa to remember a nice Jewish boy, but I wouldn't say no to a bottle of bourbon,” said David. “What about you?”

John considered. “Reams of paper.” The rationing of paper had been hard on him. “More pens and notebooks.”

Maggie didn't know exactly what he was working on, but she'd glimpsed a number of sketches. “Our own Leonardo da Vinci. But I'm getting you books—by American authors. You're both far too parochial in your reading choices.”

As they talked about Christmas, their car approached the White House through the murky darkness. Blackout curtains hung at each window. Sentry boxes were set up at driveway entrances and along the perimeter fences. Police patrolled where only weeks before onlookers had promenaded. The wrought-iron gates to the once-accessible White House were now closed and locked. These days, anyone who wanted admittance had to show a “pass with picture engraved on it.”

And then there were the soldiers—guards brandishing M1 rifles with bayonets affixed. All carried full field packs and wore steel helmets. Guard towers had been built, and one-inch steel cables ran every which way, controlling the flow of foot traffic. Fifteen days after Pearl Harbor, the White House was in full lockdown.

“My God,” Maggie breathed. “Washington's a war zone.” After passing the guard booth at the northwestern gate, their car headed along the sweeping semicircular drive up to the entrance. There were antiaircraft batteries on the roof and sandbags surrounding the front door. “Limestone cut by Scottish masons and then built by slaves,” Maggie said. She realized as they pulled up under the portico that the White House's luminous whitewashed frontage was cracked and peeling. Still, it was beautiful.

I'm back,
she thought again. And then, with surprise and delight—
and it feels right.

As the Prime Minister and his party were making their way to the White House, Presidential Press Secretary Steve Early had announced to the press corps the arrival of an “important visitor” at 6:45 p.m., and they were out in force, jostling their way to the front of the line, muttering guesses about who it could be, their breath making indistinct clouds in the cold. “Bet you a dollar it's Churchill,” said Ron Kantor from
The
New York Times
.

Kurt Schmidt from the
Chicago Tribune
belched. “Ha! Betcha it's only Beaverbrook. Isn't Churchill a bit long in the tooth for the boat ride?”

Thomas O'Brian, a recent Harvard graduate originally from Buffalo, New York, was covering his first Presidential press conference, bouncing on the balls of his feet with excitement. He was young, with blue eyes so dark they were almost black, wavy golden-brown hair, and a smattering of freckles across the bridge of his nose. He was long and lean and filled with sharply focused energy. “But then why all the secrecy? I think you're both wrong. I say Molotov.” Vyacheslav Mikhailovich Molotov was Russia's Deputy Chairman and had brokered the Molotov-Ribbentrop Pact in 1939. “But whoever he is, I wish he'd hurry up.”

But the “important visitor” and President Roosevelt were running late. “Before the President and his special guest arrive,” the Press Secretary intoned, “I'd like to remind you of the Censorship Act.” There was a collective groan through the press corps but not a murmur of disagreement. The Censorship Act was another name for the First War Powers Act, approved days before, increasing the Executive Branch's power—including the President's ability to gag the press.

Just as Early was finishing, the line of long dark sedans pulled up through the haze to the porte cochere. There was a rap at the window of Maggie, John, and David's car. John rolled down the window, and the assistant press secretary told them, “The President will get out first and will be helped into position. Then the Prime Minister will join him. They'll be photographed. Then, when they're done, you'll follow behind.”

“Ten paces behind or just a few steps?” David muttered when the assistant press secretary had left. “Shouldn't we be up ahead? Perhaps sprinkling rose petals?” Maggie elbowed him, but the three fell silent when they saw President Roosevelt taken from the sedan by a naval aide and thrown over the aide's back in a fireman's carry. Maggie smothered what would otherwise have been a gasp behind her hand.

Tom O'Brian put his camera up and prepared to take a picture. But Kantor reached out and forced the camera down. “No,” the
New York Times
reporter admonished. “Never. We
never
photograph the President unless he's standing and ready or seated. Then and only then.”

Tom flushed and nodded. He, along with the rest of the press corps, waited for the President to be secured in position.

Once Roosevelt was standing with assistance on the South Portico, Winston Churchill emerged from the car, blue eyes twinkling with excitement, flashing the V for Victory symbol.

“Oh, merciful Minerva,” David sighed.

Maggie was confused. “What? They adore him!” There was an explosion of flashbulbs and camera clicks as the Prime Minister made his way to the President.

“If I've told him once, I've told him a thousand times,” David said, “the V sign with the palm out means Victory, but the V sign with the palm facing in means—”

“—er, means something else entirely,” John finished.

The President had a cane in his right hand, while his left tightly gripped the arm of his naval aide. Churchill stood alongside, beaming, drinking in the flashes of light and the applause. As he and the President bantered with the press and posed for photographers, the Prime Minister hid his cigar behind his back.

Maggie shivered in the damp air, knowing how much this moment meant to the P.M.—to all of them.

President Roosevelt was now officially, and publicly, on their side. At last there was more than a remote possibility they would win. It had been a long and lonely fight, but at least Britain wasn't on its own anymore. When the photographs were finished, the assistant press secretary came to get Maggie and the rest of the party. “Follow me,” he instructed them.

David nodded to an ancient oak. “A beautiful tree.”

“Yes, one of the ones you Brits didn't burn in 1812,” retorted Maggie with a wry smile. While she wasn't yet sure if the United States was home or not, it felt good to be on familiar ground for a change. In London, she'd often been the odd one out because of her nationality and upbringing. But not here.

She intended to do her all to help the Prime Minister succeed in this mission. Just above their heads, she knew, parts of the White House had been painted over to cover the scorch marks made by the fire the British had set to it in the War of 1812, nearly burning it to the ground. Then, the two countries had been bitter enemies. Now they were allies.

While the rest of the reporters were rushing off to file their stories, Tom O'Brian spotted the redhead in the Prime Minister's entourage. “Maggie? Maggie Hope?” he called. But she didn't hear him.

“You know that girl with all that red hair?” Kantor asked. “She's a looker.”

“I used to. Used to date her roommate at Wellesley when I was at Harvard, as a matter of fact. And we played together in a string quartet.”

“Should have dated her instead, Mozart.” Kantor tilted his head, considering. “But you have an in with someone on the Prime Minister's staff. That could be useful.”

“By now she must be married. And I'm sure she's just a secretary.”

“A drink with a pretty girl, married or not, at the Round Robin never hurt anyone. Besides, aren't you off to basic training in two weeks?”

“I am. Fort Bragg, and then wherever the U.S. Army sees fit to send me.” Tom grinned. “You'd better believe I'll try to chat her up before I ship off.”

“Welcome to the White House, Prime Minister!” Eleanor Roosevelt trilled as her husband and the P.M. entered with a gust of frigid air.

The P.M. blinked, shocked by the First Lady's impressive height. He bowed low before her, kissing her hand. “My lady.”

Mrs. Roosevelt blushed. Then she addressed the group in her high, birdlike tones. “You all must be exhausted,” she exclaimed. “Such a long trip—and the Atlantic is a shooting gallery these days.”

And all at once, they were off on a tour of the White House, given by the First Lady herself. The first floor was impressive, filled with handsome dark wood furniture, dotted with oil paintings framed in gold. The travel-worn British worked hard to keep up with Mrs. Roosevelt, whose long legs and incisive stride kept her well ahead of the weary newcomers.

With her sensible shoes and toothy smile, the First Lady led them quickly through room after room—her skirts flapping, her hair pulling loose from its chignon, a shine on her nose. She was the opposite of the elegantly English Clementine Churchill, Maggie decided, but she couldn't help but be impressed by Mrs. Roosevelt. She'd always admired her, her writing, and her charitable works, but now she felt certain that if she had the chance to know this remarkable woman better, she'd like her as a person.

The President and Mr. Churchill took the rickety elevator up to the second floor while the rest of the group headed for the stairs. For all the grandeur of the public rooms, the private space was dingy and in need of repair, rather like a grand hotel that hadn't been kept up over the years. The threadbare Chinese carpets held the faint odor of dog. The floors squeaked underfoot, the ceilings had water stains, and the walls were chipped and yellowed.

“Sorry about the mess, but we haven't redone anything since the Depression,” Eleanor explained. “Could hardly justify it, with everyone else suffering so much.” Which made Maggie like her even more.

The First Lady's sitting room held an overstuffed sofa, wing chairs with tasseled cushions, and a few substantial Dutch Colonial pieces. The walls were painted in fresh cream and covered by black-framed photographs—hundreds of them, of family, friends, ancestors, sights from travels around the world. There was a radio in one corner and a desk in the other. Books were everywhere, and they could all hear the faint
clank
of a radiator. “As you can see, this is my office,” Eleanor announced. “My bedroom's through there, that's Lorena Hickok's room, and there's also an indoor swimming pool fifty feet under the West Terrace, if you'd like to use that while you're here. Franklin swims every day—swears by it. Oh, and here's Franklin's study!”

The President's private office was painted battleship gray and glossy white, softened by puddles of light from glowing green Tiffany lamps. Tall mahogany bookcases were crammed with models of ships. A massive oak desk stood in one corner, its blotter covered in stamps and collectors' albums. Burning logs popped and crackled behind the grate of a marble fireplace, and a shabby Persian rug was spread in front. Layered on top was a lion-skin rug, head intact and fangs gleaming. “From Ethiopia's Emperor Haile Selassie,” the First Lady explained. “We call him Leo the Lion.”

“The first shot against the Empire,” John muttered under his breath.

The President was already holding court, seated in a streamlined wheelchair made from a regular dining chair. He was in position behind a small brass cart, mixing drinks, Fala at his feet. Churchill, looking every inch the English bulldog, made his way around the room, hand extended, saying, “How-de-do? How-de-do?” Fala was busily inspecting the Prime Minister's shoes and trousers, then sat back on his haunches as if to say,
Yes, he passes my inspection.

“Welcome to Children's Hour!” the President called to Mrs. Roosevelt's small tour group as the P.M. stooped to rub Fala's furry head. “It's my tradition of having cocktails at the end of the day!” he explained. “And today I daresay you all deserve one.” He looked sideways at Churchill. “Or perhaps two.” The bar cart was crowded with different-colored bottles of gin and French vermouth, Kentucky bourbon, Tennessee whiskey, rum, tonic, and various bitters. As the President took a sip from his glass, he closed his eyes in delight. “Oh, yummy—that's good.”

Maggie took in the scene before her. She knew all too well that the Prime Minister's usual drinks were sherry, whiskey, brandy, and champagne—and only rarely a Martini, but with no vermouth, only “a bow toward France.” As she saw the generous amount of vermouth Mr. Roosevelt poured into the jigger to mix with his gin and how graciously Mr. Churchill accepted the cocktail glass from the President's hands, she realized for the first time exactly how much the Boss would sacrifice to get on with the American leader.

John nodded in approval. “An Anglo-Saxon alliance, to meet the problems of the world. Well done.”

President Roosevelt flashed his thousand-watt toothy grin. “Forgive me if I don't get up,” he joked, then wheeled himself over, Fala following with a wagging tail. “My adviser Harry Hopkins, you already know, of course,” he said, indicating a gaunt, chain-smoking man. “And this lovely lady is Grace Tully, my secretary—and Lorena Hickok, Eleanor's friend. Oh, and let me introduce Frank Cole, my right-hand man.”

Frank Cole was a thoroughly average-looking man with wide-set eyes behind heavy black-framed glasses and a rumpled suit that suggested moneyed eccentricity. Giving him a long look, Maggie realized there was something off: one of his eyes was a bright green, while the other was a true hazel. “Who's Frank Cole?” she whispered to David when she could.

He sipped his Martini and nearly choked. “Heavy on the vermouth and—horrors—I believe a splash of Pernod.” He shook his head. “Frank Cole is the economic specialist for the State Department who then became a rather successful journalist. Outspoken supporter of the New Deal and the Roosevelts. And, from what I hear, FDR's odd-job man.”