Irish Above All

by Mary Pat Kelly

  “That might not be so easy,” Kathleen Quinn said. “Those reporters have set up in the lobby now. Only way we could control them. Keep them off the other hospital wards. And they seem to have commandeered every cab in Miami. Hard enough to get one at three o’clock in the morning any time, but now most of the taxis are parked in front of the hospital, hired by the reporters. There are some rooms set aside for staff,” Kathleen said. “You can stay here if you wish.”

  “Oh, I would. Thank you. Thank you so much. But that wouldn’t get you into any bother would it?”

  “This is a big place. Lots of nooks and crannies,” she said. “This is the only hospital for the whole area. The East Wing is for whites, and the West for colored people. Some people object to having Negroes and white people in the same hospital.” She was looking at me.

  “Not me!” I said. “How could you think…”

  “Well, I’m never sure who I’m talking to down here. I’ve lived in Florida for twenty-five years, and I’m still a Yankee to them. I couldn’t take those Minnesota winters anymore. Come on. A wash and a few hours’ sleep are what you need. A medical necessity.”

  Kathleen found me a room, and I took off the navy blue linen suit and the Chanel blouse I’d put on that morning. A lifetime ago. I washed out my underwear and stockings and got into a hospital gown. My sister Henrietta always said wear clean underwear in case you were ever taken to the hospital. The thought made me giggle, and then I was sobbing, and I fell asleep crying, not only for Mayor Cermak and those wounded in the attack, but for all the senseless violence I’d seen in my life.

  * * *

  “Here you go,” Kathleen said, carrying two cups of coffee. She handed me one. Still dark in the room. “It’s nearly seven,” she said. “My shift is over.”

  I sipped the coffee. “You really are an angel of mercy.”

  “You should get something to eat in the cafeteria,” she said. “It’s open. It’ll make you feel better.” And I was better. Last night was already becoming part of the story I’d tell Ed and Pat. I nodded at Kathleen. “How is Mayor Cermak?”

  “He got through the night. I still think that bullet should come out, but these doctors don’t listen to nurses. Mrs. Gill survived her surgery … so it looks like everyone survived.”

  She sat down in a chair at the side of the bed and sipped her own coffee.

  “Do you know what time the president is coming?” I asked.

  “He’s supposed to be here early,” Kathleen said. “More and more reporters have showed up. The lobby looks like a newsroom.”

  “Are you going to wait for him?” I asked her.

  “I am,” Kathleen Quinn said. “I voted for him. Amazing that he carried Florida with the way people down here talk about him. Lots of Roosevelt haters. After the election, I heard one of the doctors tell another he hoped that the polio would do him in so John Nance Garner would be president. He’s more their style.”

  “If not for a few inches he’d be president right now,” I said.

  “Hard to believe that some crazed gunman could change history,” Kathleen said.

  “I remember Sarajevo,” I said.

  “So do I,” she said.

  “Of course that was a plot, but then this could be too,” I said.

  I told Kathleen how afraid Cermak was of Nitti and of Winchell’s interview with Zangara.

  “Lots of Chicago mobsters down here in Miami. We had Al Capone himself in the hospital, but it won’t be a bullet that does him in,” she said.

  “Right, he’s in jail.”

  “With syphilis. He’ll die raving,” she said and stood up. “I’ll look for you in room 307.”

  “Is that Cermak’s?” She nodded and left.

  The Florida sun had risen and was pouring in the double windows. I saw a palm tree. My underwear was dry. I was clean. All last night’s victims were alive. Good.

  So. With a breakfast of eggs and grits to sustain me, I stood in front of the hospital, waiting for Ed to arrive at 9:00 a.m. More reporters than ever in the lobby. It looked a bit like one of Mont Tennes’s horse parlors with telephones everywhere.

  A taxi pulled up. But it wasn’t Ed. Manny Mandel jumped out of the cab. “Nice of you to be looking out for me, Nora,” he said. He handed me the Miami newspaper. “Here ya go. Front page. On the Trib, and every goddamn newspaper in this country. You did it, Nora. You cracked the big time.”

  I looked down. There were the photographs I’d taken. Cermak and Roosevelt, hands clasped, big smiles and then in the next one, the mayor being held up by those two fellows. The bloodstain very visible. A dark blob on his white shirt. A headline over both—“Roosevelt Escapes Death. Mayor of Chicago Critical.” And then below “Eyewitness Report, and Exclusive Photographs from Manny Mandel, Chicago Tribune.”

  His name was on the line below each photograph.

  “Those are my pictures. How dare you steal them!”

  “Well, Nora you can’t expect newspapers to print pictures taken by a PR flack. Haven’t you ever heard of journalistic integrity?”

  “You little snake,” I said.

  “Jesus Christ, Nora. I didn’t think you were such a glory hound. You recorded an important moment in history. What do you care where the credit goes? Especially at a time like this.”

  And with that Manny Mandel walked into the hospital leaving me holding the newspaper. I looked at the photos again. Cermak will be pleased. Roosevelt’s grasping his hand and smiling. He probably won’t care that Manny Mandel’s taking credit. I’ve earned my hundred dollars. At that moment I wanted nothing more than to get on a ship and get off in Ireland. Away from reporters and politics.

  Another cab pulled up. And this time it was Ed and Pat.

  “Nora,” Ed said. “Are you alright?”

  I nodded.

  “How was the flight?” I asked.

  “Would’ve been better if we weren’t over water the whole time,” he said.

  “What about the mayor?” Pat Nash asked me.

  “He’s holding on. Made it through the night. The doctors aren’t going to operate. Though this nurse friend of mine thinks they should.”

  “You’ve got somebody on the hospital staff?” Pat Nash said. “Good.”

  We entered the hospital lobby. Manny Mandel headed right for us.

  Pat and Ed stared straight ahead.

  “Hiya, Ed,” Manny said. “Top o’ the morning, Pat.”

  They didn’t turn.

  There was a commotion behind us. Sirens.

  “Here comes Roosevelt,” Ed said.

  We stopped.

  Two police cars, their sirens and lights going, pulled up in front of the hospital. The Buick followed with the top up this time. Four motorcycle cops on each side of it. Secret Service agents riding on the running board. A black Packard came up behind Roosevelt’s car, and more agents got out.

  Plenty of protection now. Talk about shutting the barn door. Unless the Secret Service and the cops knew more than we did. Maybe Zangara really did have accomplices. I thought of the stunted little man in the Miami jail. Could he be somebody’s patsy? An unlikely conspirator.

  The pack of reporters came yip, yip, yipping at Roosevelt’s car. The agents and the police formed a box that kept the press away.

  Jim Farley got out of the front seat, and the same husky fellow who brought Cermak into the car last night opened the back door.

  Ed was taller than any of the mob and shouted over their heads, “Jim, Jim.”

  Farley saw him. Spoke to a policeman, who waved Ed and Pat through the pack.

  The husky fellow reached into the back seat and more or less hauled the President-elect up and onto his feet. Roosevelt lurched sideways. Ed stepped forward. Offered his arm to Roosevelt who clamped onto it with one hand, while holding on to the agent with the other. Steady now, he pushed one leg forward, then the other, until he slowly moved through the screen of cops and agents into the hospital.

  Farley was in front o
f him, and Pat Nash behind.

  “Over here, Mr. President,” a reporter shouted at FDR as he moved through the lobby.

  “Any more information on the gunman?” I recognized Manny’s voice.

  Roosevelt stopped. “I’m here to see Mayor Cermak. You boys should go down to the railroad station. We’ll have a press conference there. Leave the sick in peace.”

  I walked up behind Ed. Farley saw me, but before he could speak, the elevator doors opened and Kathleen Quinn stood there with a cane-back wheelchair.

  We all stepped onto the elevator, but Roosevelt waited for the doors to close before he let Ed and the agent ease him down into the wheelchair.

  Roosevelt noticed me and asked, “And are you one of the Fourth Estate, too?” pointing at my camera.

  “She’s not,” Ed said. “Nora’s my cousin. Nora Kelly.”

  “Always good to have a cousin. Do I know you, Nora? Were you there last night?”

  “I was, sir. Mayor Cermak hired me to get the photograph that would save Chicago. I photographed you with him.”

  “Oh yes,” he said. “You took your picture just as the gunman fired.”

  “I … I did,” I said. Did he remember “move closer”? Please God, I hope not.

  Roosevelt looked right at me and nodded, but said nothing. The elevator doors opened. He smiled up at Kathleen Quinn. “Hope I’m not too much of a burden for you,” and turned around and patted her hand.

  “I’m honored, sir,” Kathleen said.

  Cermak was propped up on pillows. He didn’t look too bad for a man with a bullet inside him. Kathleen wheeled Roosevelt to the head of the bed. He touched the mayor’s shoulder. “You’ll be out of here in no time. I’m saving a front row seat at the inauguration for you,” he said.

  “More important that you take care of our teachers,” Cermak said.

  “They’ll be paid,” Roosevelt said. He looked at us. “Even as we rode to the hospital, your mayor was thinking about the citizens of Chicago.” He turned back to Cermak. “Why don’t we take a photograph so all the voters in Chicago can see their brave mayor and a very grateful president-elect. Are you ready, Nora?” he asked me.

  “Yes,” I said, and lifted the camera.

  “Wait. I’ll stand,” Roosevelt said. “Ed?”

  Roosevelt used Ed’s arm to lever himself onto his feet. Then he took hold of the railing alongside Cermak’s bed with his left hand, while taking the mayor’s hand with his right.

  The handshake again. The same smiles.

  I took four shots. Got to get this right.

  “Why don’t you get into the picture, Ed,” Pat Nash said.

  “Good idea,” Roosevelt said.

  A matched pair, Ed and the president-elect, I thought. Both good-looking, and each wearing similar blue blazers and gray flannel trousers—at ease. Can’t imagine Pat Nash or Cermak or Farley wearing anything but dark suits. Even dressed in pajamas and sitting up in bed, the mayor looked like he was ready to preside over meetings.

  “Would you like to step in?” Roosevelt asked Kathleen Quinn.

  She said, “I think you should sit down.”

  Ed and Farley helped Roosevelt back into the chair.

  “Move up here, Kathleen,” Roosevelt said. He had her stand next to the chair and put his arm around her waist. “Take our picture, Nora,” he said.

  Jim Farley said, “It’s time to go, Franklin.”

  “You won’t forget now will you?” Cermak said. “A million dollars right away.”

  “I don’t have my checkbook on me,” Roosevelt said, “but the day after the inauguration I’ll be asking Congress for emergency disbursement to Chicago.”

  I took a breath. “And, Mr. President,” I said, “when I send the photograph of you and the mayor to the Chicago paper, may I include a press release announcing the money for the teachers?”

  “You may,” Roosevelt said to me.

  Cermak leaned back on his pillows. “That’s the best medicine I could have. Thank you, Mr. President.”

  “I think you can call me Franklin, now,” he said.

  “Why don’t you come to the station and see me off?” Roosevelt said to Ed. “One or two things I wanted to ask you.”

  “Delighted,” Ed said.

  “I’m staying here with the mayor,” Pat Nash said.

  “You’d better come, Nora,” Roosevelt said to me. “Who knows what pictures you might want to take. Nice to have a personal photographer,” he said to Ed. “One who’s so concerned about her city.”

  3

  So. We were behind Franklin Roosevelt on the observation platform of the private rail car he would take to New York, where he’d prepare for his March 4 inauguration in Washington. The husky fellow, whose name I’d learned was Gus Gennerich, had helped him out of his car, up the steps and now Roosevelt stood holding the railing. He was entertaining the reporters … dozens of them now, with a radio hookup and multiple newsreel crews, including the fellows from last night. Hope that cameraman notices that I’m with the president-elect.

  Roosevelt was appropriately serious—very concerned about those wounded in the attack, but grateful that Mabel Gill, the most seriously hurt, had come through her surgery and was doing well. He also assured them that Mayor Cermak was recovering. But there wasn’t a bother on him. From the easy way he went back and forth with the press you would never know he could be dead right now.

  “Anton Cermak is an amazing man, fellows,” Roosevelt said. “I thought we were going to lose him on the way to the hospital but I kept talking to him until finally, perhaps at an attempt to shut me up, he said, ‘I’m glad it was me instead of you.’”

  Roosevelt shook his head and smiled.

  A voice yelled up at him, “To which you answered the mayor, ‘I am too.’”

  It was Walter Winchell who had somehow gotten into the front row. The other reporters laughed.

  “Well now, Walter,” Roosevelt said, “I heard you got scooped.”

  “Some ignatz on the desk at the paper didn’t believe an assassin had tried to pop you,” Winchell said.

  “Maybe your boss Hearst was disappointed the gunman missed,” Roosevelt said.

  More laughter.

  “It’s not so funny, Franklin, there’s more to Zangara than meets the eye,” Winchell said. “Ask that dame behind you—Nora Kelly.”

  And now Roosevelt half turned to me and said, “What is he talking about?”

  “I photographed Zangara when Winchell interviewed him.”

  Now Roosevelt faced back to the reporters. “The man was delusional, Walter. Don’t let your imagination get the best of you.”

  Roosevelt had been leaning against the railing, stiff legged, the iron braces holding him up. He had to be tired.

  “Well, that’s it. See you at the inauguration,” he said.

  The reporters moved away. Ed started down the steps to the platform with me following, but Roosevelt stopped us.

  “Why don’t you two ride along with me to Palm Beach. Joseph Kennedy is getting on there. He’s coming with me to New York.”

  I’d followed Kennedy’s career because he was Irish and married to the daughter of John Fitzgerald, a mayor of Boston known as Honey Fitz. They had a big good-looking family. Even the Tribune had run a picture of the nine Kennedy children. Though the caption read “Wall Street Irish Tycoon and His Brood”—as if to say even the rich Irish have too many children. Never called the five Roosevelt children a brood. Ed hadn’t had much to say about Kennedy after he met him at the convention except “Lets you know he went to Harvard right away.”

  “We’ll all have lunch and then you and Nora can catch the next train back,” Roosevelt was saying. “You’d like Joseph Kennedy, Nora. Very charming to the ladies, isn’t he, Ed?”

  I wondered if “charming” meant that Joseph Kennedy was not a faithful husband. Ed respected Margaret and didn’t like to see any man cheat on his wife. I wondered if that was why he was refusing Roosevelt’s invi
tation.

  “Thank you, but I don’t think it’s wise for us to leave,” Ed replied. “Cermak’s not out of the woods.”

  “Oh, come on. You’ll be back in a few hours,” Roosevelt said. “My son and the other fellows who were traveling with me left last night. I’d enjoy your company, have some things we could talk over. Nora here could take some photographs of us together.”

  Roosevelt was famously persuasive, and Ed agreed, so we followed him and Gennerich inside, where Roosevelt immediately sat down in a straight-back chair with wheels attached. This was not the armored railroad car that Pullman would customize for the president in a few years, but it was still very impressive. Mahogany paneling and green plush seats were everywhere.

  “My lair,” Roosevelt said to Ed and me as he pointed us over to a pair of chairs. We sat facing him, the two of us on one side, Jim Farley on the other.

  “Listen, Ed, I want to sound you out about Joe Kennedy,” he said.

  “Joe’s an able man, no question,” Ed said. “I watched him during the convention. He knows how to operate.”

  “That’s what concerns me, Ed. He’s an operator. You don’t make a pile on Wall Street without knowing how to pull the levers. I’ve got a lot of people telling me Kennedy was one of the fellows manipulated stock. Jim here blames him for the 1929 collapse.”

  “Now I never said exactly that, Franklin,” Farley said.

  “But Wall Street did get out of hand,” Ed said. “Isn’t that why you were elected? To rein in those boys. I’d say Joe knows where the bodies are buried and could help you there.”

  “Unless he’s the one who buried them,” Roosevelt said. “What do you think, Nora?”

  “About Joseph Kennedy?” I asked. Flattered that he wanted my opinion.

  “You Irish understand each other,” he said.

  You Irish. As if we’re some kind of subspecies.

  Roosevelt waited for me to say something.

  “Well there is that saying, ‘Set a thief to catch a thief,’” I said, which made Roosevelt laugh.

  “That’s what I think,” he said. “But Jim said the papers will crucify me.”

  “If you mean Hearst, he’ll be after you no matter what you do. Believe me, I know,” Ed said.