Roosevelt (72 page)

LEAN DAYS FOR THE ROAD SHOW, Sept. 14, 1938, S. J. Ray, Kansas City
Star

C
HRISTMAS EVE, 1939.
Bareheaded in the chill of the oncoming night, Roosevelt stood on a wooden platform next to the Washington community Christmas tree. Several thousand people craned their necks to catch a glimpse of the big, glowing face. The President’s words were solemn. “In these days of strife and sadness in many other lands, let us in the nations which still live at peace forbear to give thanks only for our good fortune in our peace. Let us rather pray that we may be given strength to live for others—to live more closely to the words of the Sermon on the Mount.…”

In the distance loomed the brilliantly lighted White House. Bright holly wreaths festooned every window. In the gleaming East Room stood a magnificent Christmas tree trimmed in white and silver. On game racks in the kitchen hung pheasants, quail, ducks, grouse, woodcocks. Ushers and clerks staggered under the weight of tens of thousands of Christmas cards and hundreds of presents from the people to their President—fruitcakes, books, ship models, bric-a-brac, even a buck deer.

The upstairs was filled with the hustle and bustle of four generations of Roosevelts. For days they had been arriving—from eighty-five-year-old Sara, down from Hyde Park, to the newest presidential grandchild, eight months old. Around the family tree, gaily decorated under the personal supervision of the President, stacks of presents were piled waist high. By the tree on Christmas Eve, as was his cherished custom, the President read Dickens’
Christmas Carol
, holding the rapt attention of even the little children as he acted out the parts of old Scrooge and the ghosts. Then every Roosevelt, young and old, hung a red stocking over the fireplace in the President’s bedroom. After the children had kissed “Grandpa” good night, the President helped stuff the stockings with presents, including toothbrush, nail file, and brightly wrapped bar of soap.

Early next morning the youngsters burst into the President’s room and attacked their stockings. Roosevelt sat up in his bed, a small grandchild perched on his lap, while the room filled with
Christmas wrappings and squeals of delight. Later he helped distribute presents around the family Christmas tree, expertly carved a huge turkey at the Christmas dinner, and presided over an evening party for forty persons.

Next day snow came, and in the little interval between Christmas and New Year’s the White House seemed to lie quiet and hushed under its soft white blanket. It symbolized an America at peace. Thousands of miles away French
poilus
made little sorties into devastated villages of no man’s land. German tank commanders squinted through their sights. British bombardiers watched as their bombs fell lazily in long arcs below. But even the Western Front was relatively quiet—so quiet that some Americans dubbed it the “phony war.” Only in Finland did war live up to its reputation. Invaded by Russia a few weeks before, the little nation was putting up a heroic resistance.

New Year’s Eve came. Over a million screaming, cheering, festive men and women jammed Times Square. In the White House the President had a few friends in for a quiet evening gathering. Eleanor Roosevelt was there, gay and spirited as ever after holidays crowded with six Christmas tree ceremonies, a host of parties for children and for the poor, church services, and a hundred other duties. Shortly before midnight the radio was turned on in the President’s small oval study. The group waited, eggnog glasses in hand. At the sound of midnight the President raised his glass and said with solemn emphasis: “To the United States of America.”

It was 1940.

It had long been certain that 1940 would be no ordinary year in American history. For three years politicians in both parties had been jockeying and maneuvering in preparation for a crucial election year. Since fall it had seemed likely, too, that the waiting armies and bombing squadrons in Europe would swing into full action during the new year. And decisive events overseas would have fateful consequences for America.

Above all, 1940 would bring an answer to the riddle of the Sphinx: Would Roosevelt seek—and, if so, could he win—a third term? At one of the annual Gridiron dinners in Washington where costumed newsmen mocked the nation’s mighty in verse and song, there had been unveiled a huge papier-mâché Sphinx. Out of the grinning mouth protruded a long cigarette holder.

The reporters had good reason to celebrate the Sphinx. For three years they had been seeking the answer by every guile and wile. For three years the President had been deftly turning aside their
questions, sometimes with a quick counterthrust, sometimes with real or simulated irritation. More than once Roosevelt had told a reporter to go into the corner and don a dunce cap. But the questioning had continued. In the last press conference of 1939, Earl Godwin had tried a new approach; as the reporters trooped in he called out cheerily:

“We wish you an eventful 1940!”

“Don’t be so equivocal!” the President shot back with a laugh.

“We have learned it here, Mr. President,” Godwin went on.

“It is all right,” said Roosevelt, still laughing. “That is very sweet of you.”

What were the President’s secret thoughts on the matter? Every shred of evidence, every offhand presidential remark, every list of presidential appointments was scoured for possible hints. By 1940 his intentions were a national guessing game. Most of the guessers, however, jumped to the false assumption that Roosevelt had made his decision to run or not to run, and that all his actions stemmed from this set decision.

They did not know their man. Roosevelt was not one to make a vital political decision years or even months in advance and then stick to that decision through thick and thin. His method through most of his career was to keep open alternative lines of action, to shift from one line to another as conditions demanded, to protect his route to the rear in case he wanted to make a sudden retreat, and, foxlike, to cross and snarl his trail in order to hide his real intentions. More than any situation Roosevelt ever faced, the third term demanded this kind of delicate handling.

For one thing, the President was genuinely unsure of his own desires. By 1940 both the fieldstone library at Hyde Park and his hilltop “dream house” were near completion, and they were standing invitations to return to Hyde Park life and to the memoir-writing that had enormous appeal after the grueling presidential years. More than ever by 1940 his talk was turning to the details of Dutchess County life and history. Too, the exactions and frustrations of his second term were beginning to take their toll physically. The strenuous Christmas activities left him tired rather than exhilarated. It took him weeks to subdue a case of flu during the early weeks of 1940. The weariness of his last years had already begun.

“No, no, Dan, I just can’t do it,” Miss Perkins remembered his saying to President Tobin of the Teamsters union early in 1940. “I have to get over this sinus. I have to have a rest. I want to go home to Hyde Park. I want to take care of my trees. I have a big planting there, Dan. I want to make the farm pay. I want to finish
my little house on the hill. I want to write history. No, I just can’t do it, Dan.”

Feb. 21, 1940, H. M. Talburt, © by the Washington
Daily News

The Sphinx

March 30, 1940, H. E. Elderman, Washington
Post

July 15, 1940,
©
Rube Goldberg and the New York
Sun,
Inc.

But it was not so simple as this. Roosevelt could not ignore the compelling reasons that might force him to run again. Certainly he would take the nomination himself if otherwise it would go to an anti-New Deal Democrat or to a fence straddler. Certainly he would take it if the international situation took a serious turn—if, for example, Germany should seem to be winning the war.

Faced by such a situation, some men might spend hours in mental anguish and turmoil as they strove desperately to make a decision. Not so Roosevelt. His decision was to reserve decision. Playing for time had everything to commend it. By keeping alive the possibility of running he could maintain control of the “presidential politicians” throughout the country—his personal friends in the party, high officials holding patronage jobs, programmatic New Dealers—who would jump on someone else’s bandwagon only when they were sure the President was through. He could, without trying, win scores of convention delegates, including those who wanted a neutral figure to support until they saw the way the wind blew. He could husband whatever remaining influence he had with Congress. He could protect his position of strength from which to deal with foreign nations and carry weight on the international scene. Since the Republicans would meet before the Democrats, he could wait and see who would be the challenger.

None of this was remarkable; traditionally presidents considering another term had seen the uses of delay. The remarkable thing was Roosevelt’s shrewdness and dexterity in keeping alive his two lines of action—of running and of refusing to run.

It was charged at the time that the President was ensuring his renomination by killing off the chances of all his prospective rivals. Quite the contrary was true. In a series of shrewd yet bold moves Roosevelt helped build up a host of presidential possibilities. His tactic was quite in keeping with his usual political and administrative leadership—to strengthen his own position by the method of divide and conquer. Now he carried the tactic to a new level: not only did he encourage the rest of the candidates to contend with one another, he enlarged the field so that there would be a host of rivals wrestling for delegate votes.

With tenacity and vigilance Roosevelt pursued this maneuver. In the spring of 1938 he privately encouraged Hopkins to try for the presidency in 1940, advised him on campaign strategy, and said that he would appoint him Secretary of Commerce in order to strengthen his position. The President did everything possible to help the Hopkins build-up until the latter’s almost fatal illness in 1939. Then, during that year, he appointed former Governor Paul
V. McNutt of Indiana chief of the newly established Federal Security Agency, and he encouraged McNutt’s aspirations to such an extent that the handsome, white-haired Indianan seemed to conclude that there had been a “laying on of hands.” On several occasions during 1939 and early 1940 Roosevelt indicated to Hull—without absolutely committing himself—that he hoped the Secretary of State would be his successor. He told Barkley early in 1940 that “some of the folks here at the White House” were for him as the next Democratic nominee. (Barkley did not bite.) He told Governor Lehman of New York that Lehman deserved the vote of his state delegation at the convention, and the President asked Boss Flynn of the Bronx to make these arrangements. At various times he encouraged the hopes of Jackson, Wallace, and other members of the inner circle.

The President did not miss a trick. He never closed the door completely on the possibility of his own availability. Yet he told visitors time and time again that he neither desired nor intended to run. White House intimates came out with “inside dope stories” that the President would not be a candidate. Letters importuning him to be a candidate went unanswered. He pressed for Chicago as the Democratic convention site because Boss Kelly could be relied on to pack the galleries with Roosevelt supporters. In states where presidential candidates were supposed to make known their intentions before the primaries he privately arranged that he would not be asked about his candidacy. Still keeping his own intentions secret, he sent emissaries to California and other states to make peace among the factions and line them up on one pro-Roosevelt ticket. The result of these and other maneuvers was that Roosevelt kept open a line of retreat—refusal of the nomination—at the same time that he maintained a strong position in case he decided to run.