Roosevelt (99 page)

In Los Alamos the lights burned late in the laboratories; thousands of Oppenheimer’s scientists and technicians labored in their tiny sectors of the vast project. On the next to last day of 1944 Groves informed Marshall: “It is now reasonably certain that our operations plans should be based on the
gun type bomb,
which, it is estimated, will produce the equivalent of a ten thousand ton TNT explosion. The first bomb, without previous full scale test which we do not believe will be necessary,
should be ready about 1 August 1945.
The second one should be ready by the end of the year and succeeding ones…at intervals thereafter…the
509th Composite Group, 20th Air Force has been organized and it is now undergoing training
as well as assisting in essential tests….” Stimson underscored the key words in presenting the report to Roosevelt within hours after Marshall received it.

Tokyo was ablaze during the first hours of January 1945 from the bombings of B-29’s that were now making regular runs from the Marianas. As the Emperor returned from family prayers he could smell smoke drifting across the gardens of the Imperial Palace. Only the day before he had sharply questioned Prime Minister Kuniaki Koiso about the setbacks on Leyte. What measures were being taken to retrieve the situation? Imperial Headquarters, unable to reinforce the outlying islands or pull troops back because of American air and naval attacks, began to prepare for a last-ditch stand in Japan. Air Forces were instructed to indoctrinate their pilots in the kamikaze spirit of death-dealing self-sacrifice.

A peace group was arising around the Emperor, but the Army was still in control of the war. The peace party feared that Communism might spread from North China to Japan if political chaos
developed in the wake of military defeat. The Americans were insisting on unconditional surrender. What to do? The Emperor showed Prince Konoye a verse he had once written:

“Sublime is the moment

When the world is at peace

And the limitless deep

Lies bathed in the morning sun.”

In Washington the White House came to life as Franklin Roosevelt returned from Hyde Park and swung into the typically heavy January work load of the American President—the budget, the annual message to Congress on the state of the union, the legislative program, major appointments. He had also to prepare for his fourth inaugural—and make plans for his climactic meeting with Churchill and Stalin.

It was time, too, to gauge public attitudes toward the great international issues that were coming to a head. Cantril’s reports in January 1945 were worrisome. He had discovered, he informed the White House and the State Department, a significant decline since the previous June in public confidence that the President and other officials were successfully handling the nation’s interests abroad, though support personally for Roosevelt remained high. There had also been a decrease, he reported, in the appreciation and knowledge of Britain’s own war effort. Over twice as many Americans now felt that Britain was fighting mainly to keep its power and wealth as felt it was fighting to preserve democracy. The Russian war effort rated much higher in public attitudes.

Cantril’s summary of opinion on postwar organization carried a sharp warning to the President. Although the vast majority of Americans now favored a strong international organization necessarily dominated by the big powers, their outlook was a mixture of expediency and idealism. Without roots in any broad or long-range conception of self-interest or extensive knowledge, internationalist opinion had little intellectual basis and was hence prone to fickleness and skepticism as events occurred that did not fit into the framework of idealism. “With opinion uncrystallized and with people generally disinterested in the mechanics needed to achieve lasting peace, there is little doubt that they expect and desire strong leadership and would support the policies and mechanics the President felt necessary to achieve the ideals he has expressed—particularly if the reasons for proposed steps were made clear.”

Roosevelt had little time to ponder such implications in January
1945. Events great and small crowded in on him. At the first Cabinet meeting of the new year Stettinius announced that the Russians had recognized the Lublin committee as the Polish government. Stimson stated that even though the Germans were making probing attacks at the head of the Bulge, the Allies were continuing to exert pressure at the bases of the enemy salient and would not be diverted from this basic tactic. Forrestal reported on battleship repairs on the West Coast, Byrnes on shipping problems, Jones on a patent question, Ickes on the “truculent” John L. Lewis and on the waste of electric power. When the Secretary of the Interior also discussed the future government of Pacific islands, Forrestal suggested solemnly that Ickes be made King of Polynesia, Micronesia, and the Pacific Ocean area.

The stunning setback in the Bulge still hung heavy over Washington even as Montgomery, Bradley, and their comrades slowly pressed in on the flanks of the salient to pinch off its head. An even greater national effort seemed necessary. After Stimson and Forrestal jointly wrote to the President early in January requesting a national war-service law—promptly dubbed a “work or fight” bill—in order to achieve total mobilization of manpower, he promptly asked Congress for the measure not only on the ground of mobilization but also to assure the fighting men that the nation was making its total effort and to warn the enemy that he could not get a negotiated peace. The President also asked Congress for legislation to use the services of the four million 4-F’s. The President’s budget for fiscal 1946 proposed only a moderate decline from the prodigious spending of 1945—a clear indication of the administration’s expectation of a long, hard war against Japan.

The President’s message on the state of the union ran to 9,000 words; it was the longest such message he had ever sent Congress. It was as though he wanted a culminating speech that would cover all that he had been fighting for during the past twelve years, all that he had promised the people in his last campaign, all that he hoped for the future. The message was far too long for Roosevelt himself to read; he gave a shorter version as a fireside chat in the evening. In his message he defended his Europe First strategy, praised the campaign in Italy, expressed his confidence in Eisenhower’s leadership, warned against enemy propaganda and agents seeking to divide the grand coalition, called for a “people’s peace,” invoked the Atlantic Charter, demanded a strong and flexible United Nations, and again proposed a second bill of rights, promising new proposals on social security, health, education, taxation.

“This new year of 1945 can be the greatest year of achievement in human history,” his message concluded.

“Nineteen forty-five can see the final ending of the Nazi-Fascist reign of terror in Europe.

“Nineteen forty-five can see the closing in of the forces of retribution about the center of the malignant power of imperialistic Japan.

“Most important of all—1945 can and must see the substantial beginnings of the organization of world peace….”

As usual, Cabinet members submitted their resignations; as usual, he rejected them—all but one. On Inauguration Day he sent Secretary of Commerce Jesse Jones a letter that reached a new high for combined frankness and dissimulation. “Dear Jesse,” he began.

“This is a very difficult letter to write—first, because of our long friendship and splendid relations during all these years and also because of your splendid services to the Government and the excellent way in which you have carried out the many difficult tasks during these years.

“Henry Wallace deserves almost any service which he believes he can satisfactorily perform.” Though not on the ticket himself, he had worked hard for the cause. Wallace had decided he wanted Commerce and he should have it. “It is for this reason only that I am asking you to relinquish this present post for Henry.” But the President said he was very proud of all that Jesse had done.

“During the next few days I hope you will think about a new post—there are several Ambassadorships which are vacant—or about to be vacated. I make this suggestion among many other posts and I hope you will have a chance, if you think well of it, to speak to Ed Stettinius.…” A battle instantly broke out in the Senate.

Secretary Perkins tried to resign, too—and she really seemed to mean it. Roosevelt kept putting her off. She suggested possible successors—Byrnes, Winant, and others—but with no response from the White House. Finally, on the eve of Inauguration Day, she went to the President after a Cabinet meeting.

“Don’t you think,” she said, as she later remembered, “I had better get Early to announce my resignation right now? I’ll go in and write out the announcement.”

“No,” he said, “Frances, you can’t go now. I can’t think of anybody else. Not now! Do stay there and don’t say anything. You are all right.” Then he pressed his hand over hers and said in a voice filled with exhaustion:

“Frances, you have done awfully well. I know what you have been through. I know what you have accomplished. Thank you.”

Rumors spread in Washington that the Roosevelt administration was falling apart—that Byrnes and Morgenthau were feuding over tax matters, that Hopkins had blackballed Ben Cohen as counselor
to the State Department, that Rosenman was about ready to quit. As usual the stories were exaggerated, but there was trouble enough for the President. He could not escape even the trifling disputes. When Lilienthal wrote a piece for the New York
Times Magazine
entitled “Shall We Have More TVA’s?” and answered predictably with a resounding yes, Ickes told his chief that “that master propagandist” was trying to force the President’s hand. “I cannot sit quiet longer under his covert attacks,” which “are aimed principally at me.” Wearily Roosevelt asked Jonathan Daniels to handle the matter and “try to keep Lilienthal from getting Ickes mad.”

Frances Perkins had known Roosevelt a long time; she had followed him through his physical as well as political ups and downs. She had put little stock in the stories about his physical decline. But at that Cabinet meeting the day before the inauguration she was struck by his appearance. His face was thin, his color gray, his eyes dull, his clothes too big for him. Still, he seemed gay and happy. It was only at the end of the meeting two hours later that she felt he had the deep-gray color of a man who had long been ill; he supported his head with his hand; his lips were blue; his hand shook. Yet so strong was Roosevelt’s recuperative power that next day Leahy, who had seen the President day after day, found no decline in his physical condition, and Lilienthal thought he looked well.

Weeks before Election Day Roosevelt had checked on the history of presidential inaugurations and found that on more than a dozen occasions, especially in the earlier years, Presidents had taken the oath of office elsewhere than on the Capitol steps. Gleefully he told the press a week after the election that while Senator Byrd—the head congressional economizer—and his committee had appropriated $25,000 for the inauguration, “I think I can save an awful lot of money.…I think I can do it for less than $2000.” The ceremonies would take place on the south portico of the White House.

Would there be a parade? a reporter asked.

“No. Who is there here to parade?”

Saturday, January 20, 1945, was a cold day with a gray sky. Several thousand people stood on the hard-packed snow on the White House lawn. The Marine Band in resplendent red uniforms struck up “Hail to the Chief.” The President moved through the crowd on the portico with his slow, locked-knee motion to his chair. He sat there with no cape or coat. Then his son James and a Secret Service man leaned over him; he wrapped his arms around their necks, and they raised him, stiff-legged, until he could grasp the edge of the speaking lectern; then he lowered his arms, calmly nodded to Jimmy, shook hands with Truman, and turned to face Chief Justice Stone. The President gazed at the crowd, at the thin layer of snow
on the Ellipse, then lifted his eyes to the Washington Monument and to the Jefferson Memorial beyond. He repeated the oath clearly and firmly after the Chief Justice. Then he spoke.

“…We Americans of today, together with our allies, are passing through a period of supreme test. It is a test of our courage—of our resolve—of our wisdom—of our essential democracy.

“If we meet that test—successfully and honorably—we shall perform a service of historic importance—of historic importance which men and women and children will honor throughout all time….”

The President was speaking quietly, with occasional emphasis.

“We shall strive for perfection. We shall not achieve it immediately—but we still shall strive. We may make mistakes—but they must never be mistakes which result from faintness of heart or abandonment of moral principle.

“I remember that my old schoolmaster, Dr. Peabody, said—in days that seemed to us then to be secure and untroubled, ‘Things in life will not always run smoothly. Sometimes we will be rising toward the heights—then all will seem to reverse itself and start downward. The great fact to remember is that the trend of civilization itself is forever upward; that a line drawn through the middle of the peaks and the valleys of the centuries always has an upward trend.’

“Our Constitution of 1787 was not a perfect instrument; it is not perfect yet. But it provided a firm base upon which all manner of men, of all races and colors and creeds, could build our solid structure of democracy.

“And so today, in this year of war, 1945, we have learned lessons—at a fearful cost—and we shall profit by them.

“We have learned that we cannot live alone, at peace; that our own well-being is dependent on the well-being of other Nations, far away. We have learned that we must live as men and not as ostriches, nor as dogs in the manger.

“We have learned to be citizens of the world, members of the human community.

“We have learned the simple truth, as Emerson said”—and here the President spoke very slowly and rhythmically and with great emphasis—“ ‘The only way to have a friend is to be one.’