Mrs. Roosevelt's Confidante (11 page)

“Quite politic. And have you met with his lawyer?”

“No, he asked, but I felt that would be too much. And I would not allow the letter I sent to the Governor to be made public. Despite all that, however, the
Village Bee,
oh, let's see”—Mrs. Roosevelt went through the file again and pulled out a newspaper clipping—“ah yes, here we are:
‘The First Lady has made gratuitous intrusion into matters that don't concern her. Let the President be warned that if he doesn't restrain his wife's sociological impulses he risks losing the support of the people of the South.' ”
Mrs. Roosevelt blinked and pulled out another sheet of paper. “And this is the original letter Miss Martin wrote to me.” She handed it to Maggie, who read:

MRS. FRANKLIN D. ROOSEVELT

THE WHITE HOUSE

WASHINGTON, D.C.

Dear Mrs. Roosevelt:

We respectfully urge and petition you to ask the President to appoint a Commission of inquiry to investigate the case of Wendell Cotton, the Negro sharecropper of Bloxom, Virginia. He is sentenced to die on December 28, 1941.

We believe it will be a national catastrophe if Wendell Cotton goes to his death, when millions of his fellow citizens are unconvinced that he was tried by a jury of his peers.

Your intervention, and that of the President, will help restore the badly shaken faith of our Negro minority in American democracy.

The best of the American people know that it is Hitler and his fascists who must be destroyed. Not Negro sharecroppers goaded into killing in defense of their own lives.

It is a dangerous situation. Did Wendell Cotton receive a fair trial? Is he being electrocuted because he's a Negro? This is the crux of our case.

IT IS IMPOSSIBLE TO EXAGGERATE THE HARMFUL EFFECT ON RACE RELATIONS THAT THE EXECUTION OF WENDELL COTTON COULD BRING.

Thank you.

Yours sincerely,

Andrea Martin

Workers Defense League

As Maggie looked up, the First Lady was watching. “As incredible as it may seem, Miss Hope, the execution of a Negro sharecropper may lessen the chance the U.S. and allies have to win this war. I'm planning on attending a rally for Wendell tonight and then meeting with Miss Martin afterwards. Would you be interested in coming with me? It's after the Prime Minister's press conference.”

“Yes, ma'am.”
Could this be the link? Wendell Cotton's execution?
If Blanche Balfour was in favor of it and was trying to cause trouble for those attempting to have the execution stayed, could that be a motive for her allegations? Maybe Miss Martin knew something about Blanche—maybe Blanche had threatened her, or some other supporter of Wendell. Maggie wondered if she could speak with Miss Martin about Blanche after her talk. Then she remembered John and their plans.
Well, we've waited this long—it's just one more night.
She realized then that she felt the slightest bit relieved.
Are things going too fast?
“Thank you, ma'am. I'd be honored to join you.”

At the Washington Office of the Governor of Virginia, on North Capitol Street, Byrd Prentiss flashed a wide smirk to the receptionist. Prentiss was the personification of Southern charm—young, tall, lanky, cleft chin, and a face just five degrees left of handsome. His muscles were earned hunting and playing polo, his tan from days out on his boat,
The Blackjack
. And he had the “good ol' boy” persona down—with just a hint of a drawl, a hearty handshake, a penchant for lavish parties liberally fueled by bourbon.

Prentiss had been the campaign manager for Governor King. On paper he was the perfect Southern aristocrat, son of a Virginia senator and one of the Sons of Confederate Veterans. He'd graduated from Virginia Military Institute and the University of Virginia, then the university's law school. Supported by his father's cronies, he'd tried for his father's seat.

And he would have won, if certain unsavory personal details hadn't come to light. Details such as a fondness for cocaine, a fortune lost by gambling, and the frequenting of certain brothels.

Then there was the dead prostitute and Prentiss's inability to provide an alibi. And while old money could certainly silence the scandal, he couldn't continue his run—and so he left the campaign “for personal reasons.” After a suitable time away from politics, he began to work for Campbell King's gubernatorial campaign.

In his second-floor office, he sat at a massive desk that had once belonged to Patrick Henry. Behind him was a large window looking out over Capitol Street. Mist blurred the edges of the view, bleeding away color. On the walls were mounted stag heads with glassy black eyes, a Hessian sword and scabbard, and a torn and singed Confederate battle flag hung in a gold rope-and-bead frame.

Prentiss called out to his pretty, young secretary. “Get me Governor King, won't you, doll?” He had gone through any number of bright and beautiful typists, graduates of the Madeira School, and called them all “doll.”

“Yes, sir.” She was young, slender to the point of fragility, with pale eyes and hair so blond it was almost white. She shivered in her thin dress; Prentiss didn't like his girls covered up in cardigans.

“And close the door for me, will you, doll?”

“Yes, sir.”

There was the usual static and a few clicks on the line. “Hold for the Governor,” said a switchboard operator; then came King's gravelly voice: “What?”

“Governor,” Prentiss began, “the situation's been handled.”

Governor King's tone was clipped. “Good.”

“May I suggest you keep a close eye on the papers, sir? A certain scandalous letter that we've discussed will be making news any day now.”

“Excellent. This should keep our friend Kissing Fish out of the Cotton execution. We
need
this execution. If I'm to look Presidential, we can't have this bungled.”

“Yes, sir. Anything else, sir?”

“No.” And before Prentiss could say any more, he heard a few more clicks on the line and then the connection was severed.

In 1941, the Executive Branch of the government of the United States of America was engaged in covert wiretapping.

The taps, mostly—but not exclusively—on telephones of foreigners from Japan and Germany, were carried out despite prohibitions by Congress and the Supreme Court. The legality of wiretapping was being debated publicly by the legislative and judicial branches, and there were any number of letters to the editor on the subject in all the major papers.

Despite the controversy, President Roosevelt had long been working on authorizing a program for the “surveillance of communications” within the United States, ostensibly seeking to prevent acts of domestic espionage. The President himself ignored the statute that forbade wiretapping and continued the program regardless of opposition from several high-level judges.

The President had issued a secret memorandum to Attorney General Robert H. Jackson in 1940 stating:
You are, therefore, authorized and directed in such cases as you may approve, after investigation of the need in each case, to authorize the necessary investigating agents that they are at liberty to secure information by listening devices directed to the conversation or other communications of persons suspected of subversive activities against the Government of the United States, including suspected spies.

And so, in a small former cedar closet, on the third floor of the White House, Samuel Reynolds, an aide to Frank Cole, put down the telephone receiver. A tap on Governor King's office in Virginia had been authorized first, then one on Byrd Prentiss's office in Washington and, based on information gathered, on Blanche Balfour's telephone line.

Sam used an electrical recording device called a Dictograph to record Byrd Prentiss and Governor King's conversations. The Dictograph was a wooden console studded with buttons and dials, with a black handset on top. Inside the wooden console was a highly sensitive receiver, which allowed the Dictograph to record telephone conversations.

Sam was a recent Princeton alumnus, and his father, also a Tiger as well as the owner of the
New Jersey Eagle,
was a longtime friend of Frank Cole's, who had gotten him this job after he'd graduated the previous year. The young man was painfully thin and took to wearing multiple layers of sweaters in the winter both to give himself extra bulk and to stay warm. It was drafty and cold in the storage rooms of the White House, now taken over by any number of surveillance activities, and Sam found that a wool union suit and an extra pair of socks helped.

Just under the roof of the White House, Sam could hear the scratch of squirrels' claws as they scrabbled back and forth over him. He listened once again to the conversation and tried to piece together what it was about. Kissing Fish was Governor King's code name for Eleanor Roosevelt. And, of course, the Cotton execution was in the news. But a “scandalous letter”? That sounded bad.

Since the conversation had referenced the First Lady and the potential for public disgrace, Sam realized it was something to tell Frank Cole about. But not by a memo or telephone—of all people, he knew better than that. He'd take a taxi to Cole's office at the paper and deliver the news himself.

Sam's thin hands reached for his trilby hat and camel-hair coat, and a black-and-orange striped Princeton scarf on the hook behind the door. “This is not going to go well,” he muttered as he put on his coat and hat and wrapped the scarf about his long, thin neck. Whenever he brought bad news about Kissing Fish, Cole was prone to yelling, his different-colored eyes bulging, the veins in his forehead throbbing.

He didn't want to go, but what choice did he have? “Not going to go well at all,” Sam muttered as he closed and then locked the closet door.

The P.M.'s press conference took place in what was known as the Press Closet, a small room just outside the entrance to the West Wing. The official reason for the conference was the formation of the Office of Defense Transportation under Joseph Eastman to coordinate the nation's rail, road, and water traffic. But rumors of Winston Churchill's appearance in the Capitol had already spread like wildfire through the press corps.

The Press Closet was a cramped and cluttered space, with tiny desks and battered chairs, the wood blackened by cigarette burns, and the walls and ceiling stained yellow by smoke. It reeked of tobacco, sweat, and whiskey. But despite the shabbiness, the atmosphere under the low ceiling was electric.

Roosevelt and Churchill were already in place. The debonair President wore a pin-striped suit with a black satin mourning band around his arm in honor of his late mother. Next to him sat the Prime Minister, his round face ruddy, in a navy blue suit with a blue-and-white-polka-dot bow tie, chewing on his cigar. Harry Hopkins, his long face drawn and sallow, stood to one side, leaning against a wall for support. Frank Cole stood beside him, his different-colored eyes inscrutable behind thick glasses.

Maggie and David stood against the stained wall as well. As the journalists all mumbled and smoked, the energy grew even more intense. Maggie was glad to see that Churchill still looked serene.

“We can't see!” came a shout from the back from Ron Kantor of
The New York Times.

Tom O'Brian was beside him with his camera. “Shouldn't that be ‘We still can't see, Mr. Prime Minister'?” Ron only smiled.

President Roosevelt looked to Churchill, beamed, and nodded. “Would you mind standing, dear friend? So those in the back can get a good look at you?”

The Prime Minister stood.

“Still can't see!” chorused the voices from the back of the Press Closet.

And so Mr. Churchill climbed onto his chair, gesturing broadly and waving his cigar.

“Oh, dear Lord,” David whispered to Maggie, tensed and ready to come to the rescue should the P.M. falter or fall.

But he did not.

And once they got a glimpse of him, the assembled reporters and photographers applauded and cheered.

“Go ahead. Shoot,” the Prime Minister called grandly from his perch atop the chair, gesturing with his cigar.

One of the journalists in the back thrust up a hand. “Mr. Prime Minister, isn't Singapore the key to the whole situation out there?”

Churchill nodded—but, as a seasoned politician, refused to be led down that path. “The key to the whole situation is the resolute manner in which the British and American democracies are going to throw themselves into the conflict.”

As he answered, the tension lightened. The P.M., schooled in the House of Commons, was used to public questioning, and the crowd felt his confidence.

A silver-haired man in the front row raised a hand. “Mr. Minister, could you tell us what you think of conditions within Germany—the morale?”

The P.M.'s blue eyes flashed. “Well, I always have a feeling that one of these days we might get a windfall coming from that quarter, but I don't think we ought to count on it. We need to go on as if they were keeping on as bad as they are, or as good as they are. And then—one of these days—as we did in the last war—we may wake up and find we've run short of Huns.”

Laughter filled the smoke-filled room. Another reporter yelled out: “Do you think the war has turned in our favor in the last month or so?”

“ ‘Our' favor,” David muttered. “Only been in the war two weeks and already it's ‘our…' ”

Maggie put a finger to her lips in warning.

But the P.M. beamed. “I can't describe the feeling of relief with which I find Russia victorious, and the United States and Great Britain now standing side by side. It is incredible to anyone who lived through the lonely months of nineteen forty. Thank God.”

There was a murmur of approval. “Mr. Minister, can you tell us when you think we'll lick those boys?”

Churchill looked down to Roosevelt, confused. David groaned. “He means
beat
!” a deep voice chimed in helpfully.

“If we manage it well,” Churchill said with a nod and wink, “it will take only half as long as if we manage it badly.”

Another roar of laughter, then, “How long, sir, would it take if we managed it badly?”

“That has not been revealed to me at this moment.” The Prime Minister shook his head and wagged a finger. “We don't have to manage it badly.”

“Mr. Prime Minister, do you have any doubt of the ultimate victory?”

Churchill stood even straighter on his perch and raised his chin. “I have no doubt whatsoever,” he growled.

Tom called out in a clear tenor voice, “What about a Christmas message for the American people?”

“I'm told I'm to give that on Christmas Eve,” the P.M. replied with a cheeky grin, “so I won't give it away beforehand.”

Throughout the press conference, Mr. Roosevelt glowed with pride. When it was over, and all the requisite photographs had been taken, the President said, “Thank you, gentlemen.” The crowd began to disperse.

“Hey, there's the redhead.” Kantor elbowed Tom. “Now's your chance!”

“Maggie? Maggie Hope?” Tom called.

She stared for a moment, then recognition dawned. Of course she recalled him—Thomas O'Brian, with his square-jawed, all-American charm, and the Tom Sawyer–like glint of mischief in his eyes. “Why, Tommy O'Brian from Harvard—now here and larger than life!” She gave him a huge hug. “What are you doing in Washington?”

Tom had stepped out with Maggie's roommate, Paige Kelly, when they were both at Wellesley. He and Paige had met at Mass at the Church of St. Paul in Harvard Square and found much in common as Irish Catholics whose families both knew the Kennedy clan. Tom lived at Winthrop House, the only dormitory at Harvard that allowed Catholics and Jews, and persuaded Maggie, a viola player, to join their string quartet. “I didn't know that I'd recognize you without your violin tucked under your chin.”

Tom grinned and raised his camera. “Reporter and photographer for the
Buffalo Evening News
now.”

“That's right, you took photographs for the
Crimson,
I remember. And you had me convinced at one party that Buffalonians had fifty words for snow, like the Eskimos.”

“But we do!” Tom laughed. “And I learned them all at Canisius High School. But what brings you to the White House, Maggie?”

“I'm, ah, Mr. Churchill's secretary. Well, typist, really.”

He whistled through his teeth as they started to make their way out of the room. “How'd you get that job?”

“I moved to London after graduation with Paige. My grandmother died, and I needed to sell her house….Well, it's a long story.”

“I'd love to hear it. You were a math major, right? And a Red Sox fan! Can I take you out for a drink later so we can catch up?”

They reached a large plantation table in the corridor that had earlier been covered with men's hats. Now there were only a few left. Tom picked up his, a gray Stetson with a small enamel New York Yankees pin affixed to the band.

“And you're a Yankees fan.” Maggie frowned with mock disapproval. “It's a wonder we were even on speaking terms…”

John appeared at her side. “Time for the Children's Hour upstairs,” he announced, taking Tom's measure. John was taller, but Tom was more muscular.

“Oh, John—meet Tom O'Brian. He was at Harvard when I was at Wellesley. A decent enough fellow, despite his rooting for the Yankees.”

“The
World Champion
Yankees,” Tom corrected.

Maggie rolled her eyes. “Maybe this year, but we'll see about next. Tom and I played in Winthrop House's string quartet. Mostly Bach, a little Mendelssohn and Haydn thrown in for good measure.”

“Maggie's an ace viola player. We had to recruit her from Wellesley and ply her with chocolate ice cream sodas from Bailey's.”

“That's the problem with Harvard, as I see it,” said Maggie. “All first-chair violins, but no violas.”

“Say, do you remember the Winthrop Ball we all went to? You went with the cellist. What was his name? Oh, good Lord, that was the night Paige threw me over for Joe Kennedy.”

“I remember! Do you ever hear from Joe? What's he doing?”

“He was at Harvard Law, but I hear he got his wings in the U.S. Navy—went across the pond to shoot down some Nazis. Still there as far as I know.”

John did not look pleased.

“Well, it's perfectly grand to meet you!” Tom grabbed John's extended hand and pumped it with enthusiasm, then gestured to John's uniform. “One of ‘the few,' huh? I'm off to Fort Bragg myself after New Year's.”

“Army?” John's expression thawed slightly.

“Army,” Tom confirmed. “Still not sure if I'll be sent to Europe or the East.”

John nodded. “Good luck to you.” Then, to Maggie, “We need to go.” He offered his arm.

“It was wonderful to see you again, Tom,” said Maggie as she turned to leave and slipped her arm through John's.

“Yeah, you, too!” Tom called after her. “Maybe we can reminisce later?”

But she was gone.

“You're not actually going to meet up with that mick while you're here, are you?” John took a sip of the Whiskey Sour the President had mixed, grimaced, and put it down.

This evening, Children's Hour was being held in the White House's Green Drawing Room, with more guests than the previous night. The walls were covered in green watered silk, and there were enormous vases of red roses dotted with tiny white spirea blossoms on the tables. Poinsettias and holly as well as flickering tapers decorated the mantel of the fireplace, which was piled high with blazing logs. A pianist played “Winter Wonderland” in the background, while Lord Beaverbrook and Ambassador Halifax conferred in one corner. Behind the bar cart, President Roosevelt used silver tongs to drop more chipped ice into his Chinese silver cocktail shaker. “Ah, sweet music!” he intoned over the din.

Maggie smirked—just a bit—and sipped her drink. “I'd like to, but there's really no time.”

“Did you date him?” John was trying to look unconcerned but failing.

“No, we did
not
date. Tom stepped out with Paige, actually.”

“Oh,” John said. Their friend Paige, who'd been working for Ambassador Joseph Kennedy in London, had died during the summer of 1940. “Well, he seems like a decent chap.”

“He was. Is,” Maggie corrected. “Terrific violin player, too. Besides, I already have a date for tonight.” But again, Maggie felt a wave of uncertainty.
It's all just going so fast….

“Hello, lovebirds!” David trilled. “Today has been a
great
day!”

Maggie clinked sour glasses with him. “Indeed.” She sneaked a peek at Mr. Churchill. He looked nothing like the man from the press conference. He seemed unusually subdued and wan, his cheeks ashen. “Is the Boss all right?”

“He saw a doctor last night,” David confided. “We're on top of it.”

Maggie nodded, watching as Churchill took a seat. “How did the meeting with the State Department officials go?”

“ ‘Worldwide strategy and worldwide supply—leading to worldwide victory.' ” David raised his glass in a mock toast. He was about to take a sip when John warned, “Trust me—don't.”

Harry Hopkins used a silver bar spoon with its long, twisting handle to clink his own glass—filled with water—and the room quieted instantly.

Mr. Roosevelt treated everyone to his dazzling grin. “Thank you, all,” he said, raising his glass. “To the unconditional surrender of the Axis!”

“To unconditional surrender!” everyone echoed.

Mr. Churchill excused himself and made his way to the door. When he saw John, he paused. “Mr. Sterling,” he intoned. “Mr. Greene told me about your invitation from Mrs. Regina Winthrop Wolffe. Enjoy yourself at your party tonight, young man.”

John looked to Maggie and then back to the Prime Minister. “Thank you, Mr. Churchill. But I'm not going, sir.”

“Not going? But you must!”

“I already have plans, sir.” He avoided Maggie's eye.

“Then cancel them, my dear boy! As an RAF pilot loose among the elite of Washington, you are an invaluable asset!”

“Mr. Churchill.” John tried to choose words that would make the P.M. understand. “They're the American equivalent of the Cliveden set.” The reference was to a group of pro-Nazi British aristocrats who met at Cliveden, Nancy Astor's manor house in Buckinghamshire.

“Mr. Sterling.” The P.M. dropped his voice and leaned in. “We are not only fighting a war abroad but fighting a shadow war with American public opinion.”

John's mouth twisted. “I'm no whiskey warrior, sir.”

“No, of course not. But we all must do our duty.”

“Sir—”

“No, not another word. On the contrary, young Sterling, you
must
go. You're our secret weapon, spreading charm, glamour, and British goodwill throughout the District. Go!” He motioned with a finger for John to lean down and whispered to the younger man, “Lie back and think of England, if you must.” And then he disappeared.

At that moment, Mrs. Roosevelt approached them. “Miss Hope, I'm leaving now to see Miss Martin's talk at the Metropolitan Baptist Church in Shaw. Are you still interested in going with me?”

She looked at John. John looked back at her.

Maybe it's for the best?
“I'll get my coat, ma'am.”

Sam Reynolds had gone to Frank Cole's office and was told on arriving that Cole was headed back to the White House. The young man retraced his steps, out of breath from his exertions when he reached the President's study, where the celebration continued. He found Cole in the throng and approached. “Mr. Cole, may I speak with you, please?”