* * *
Sitting before the roaring fire at Chequers feels wrong after witnessing the devastation through which the people are suffering. How can we be enjoying a glass of port after dinner when the citizens are living in rubble, thankful for the shelters to offer protection not only from the air raids but the elements as well? Winston seems comfortable enough, and in some ways, I envy his ability to compartmentalize the devastation we’ve just observed.
Surrounded by Gil, Averell as we now call Mr. Harriman, his grown daughter Kathleen, Winston’s chief military assistant General Pug Ismay, Winston’s private secretary John Martin, Commander Thompson, and Pamela, Winston and our guests are lamenting the state of the war. Through my peripheral vision, I study Pamela and Averell, who sit near one another but do not touch. My suspicion about the attraction between them has recently been confirmed by Winston via his crony Lord Beaverbrook. The spark I saw at the Chequers dinner in April apparently ignited in the spring when Pamela paid Averell a visit in his Dorchester Hotel suite. Beaverbrook was among the first to discover the affair, and once he explained to Pamela how beneficial the relationship could be to Britain, she began passing along information about the Americans’ decision to enter the war. And vice versa. Pamela began doing what she could to influence Averell’s decisions about armaments and America’s participation. Who would have believed that the solicitous and coquettish but otherwise innocent young woman who joined our family only two years ago could become the epicenter of such intrigue? Who would believe that I, who’d once been routinely called a prude and a prig, would tolerate such behavior? Is it another legacy of my time on the Rosaura? Or borne from the necessities of wartime?
Another woman might have been enraged if she discovered her daughter-in-law was cuckolding her son, but I am no longer that woman. Randolph has treated poor Pamela terribly, with no remorse whatsoever, and I cannot begrudge her this affair, which, by all accounts, she initiated. I do occasionally berate myself for assessing the benefits Britain might reap from the relationship—what sort of a mother am I, after all—but I now realize the lengths to which average citizens will go in the national interest. Is it acceptable to change—or even lose—one’s moral compass in the miasma of wartime?
“I wish your Roosevelt would bloody well make up his mind,” Winston says to Gil and Averell with a slam of his fist on a side table, interrupting my musings about Pamela. His scotch splashes out of his glass at this outburst, and I signal to the staff for a cloth.
Despite the fact that we now technically have an ally—after the Germans attacked Russia in June, Winston aligned with Russia despite his aversion to Communism—we are essentially still alone in our fight. Even though the Russians watched while Britain suffered at Hitler’s hands pursuant to the pact of nonaggression toward Germany that Russia signed in 1939, the now-beleaguered Russia has no compunction demanding troops and assistance from Britain while offering no military help. The reports from the front remain disheartening, despite the military aid that America has offered, and Winston is simmering. Consequently, everyone is on edge, bringing the mood in the room low. How many people rely on Winston as an external source of courage and inspiration? I think. And yet, of all his many complaints, that is never one.
I glance at the circle of people commiserating around the fire. I know I’ve been instrumental in knitting together this cadre of British and Americans—bringing the Americans as close to involvement in the war as they’ll come—but I wonder if my influence here has reached its natural end. I wonder, in fact, whether the American supplies and assistance, which I worked hard to help secure, will even impact the outcome of the war. It simply may not be enough without the Americans actually fighting.
But what more can I do? I feel helpless, as helpless as I’d felt while consoling my grieving sister. Surely there must be some project I can undertake, some task I can conquer. I must take action instead of submitting to this despair, and a restlessness takes hold of me. I take deep breaths as I’d been taught at Champneys, and I remind myself that there is only so much I can control. But those measures do not alleviate the mounting anxiety. Pushing myself up from the high-backed brocade chair, I stroll around the room as if I’m taking inventory, and while I’ve been known to undertake such a task, it is odd timing. But I simply cannot sit idly by for one more minute.
“Clemmie?” Winston asks when he finally notices I’m not sitting in my chair alongside everyone else.
“Over here, dear,” I call back, knowing he doesn’t really want anything in particular. He just needs to know where I am at all times. I try not to let his needs add to my own sense of disquiet.
What course should I take? I ask myself as I pace around the room. Since February, I’ve served as president of the Young Women’s Christian Association’s wartime appeal, raising thousands of pounds for hotels, clubs, and canteens for female war workers and the increasing ranks of servicewomen, a task I’ve relished. Should I work on my BBC script for my YWCA appeal? I wonder.
Perhaps I should turn my attention to my work as the chairman of the Red Cross Aid to Russia Fund. I’d conceived of the idea of a Red Cross fund specifically dedicated to sending medical supplies to Russia when I received a petition from the wives and mothers of servicemen requesting a second front to help relieve the pressure on Russia. I knew that a second front wasn’t possible yet, but I felt compelled to show the petition to Winston. When he confirmed my suspicions—offhandedly mentioning that the only support we could offer for months if not years was supplies—a seed was planted. In order to demonstrate the desire of our country to help the Russians, even though we are cash-strapped ourselves, I headed up the fund and spearheaded the effort. I am nearing my goal of a million pounds, with the hopes we’ll soon send over emergency operating outfits, surgical needles, medicines, and cotton wool to help the wounded soldiers and the civilian population in a good faith show of support, even though we can’t yet send troops.
Although I’ve happily shouldered both these jobs in addition to serving in my regular nighttime shifts as a fire watcher, none have lessened my responsibilities to Winston or my other family members, who have suffered their own losses this year. Diana’s husband was injured in a car accident this spring, necessitating a departure from the military, and Sarah and Vic officially parted ways, though I suspect that Gil has filled that gap. I had to insert myself into an ill-fated, war-hastened engagement that Mary entered, and we all grieved for the loss of Goonie from cancer, my longtime friend and one of my few confidantes. I often find myself thinking that I must discuss a particular issue or story with Goonie, only to remember that she’s gone. But I cannot allow myself to give way to sadness or grief, as I know the actions I take can assist the thousands in distress.
Stop, Clemmie, I tell myself. This is the sort of circular thinking that nearly caused me to crack. Restorative sleep and personal space are what I need, what Dr. Lief would prescribe, I think.
I excuse myself for the night and retire to my bedroom. Perhaps in the morning, the path will be clearer and so will I. Just as I drift off to sleep, I hear pounding on my door. Groggy with sleep, I smell Winston’s cigar before I feel his hand on my shoulder. Suddenly awake, I sit bolt upright.
“What’s happened?” I ask, instantly thinking of the children and then our beloved Britain. “Have we lost the war?”
Winston sinks beside me on the bed. “Something wondrous and terrible, Cat.”
“Stop speaking in riddles. Say it plainly.”
“Gil and I have just gotten off the phone with Roosevelt. We are no longer alone in this war.”
“You finally convinced Roosevelt?” I exclaim.
“I wish I could ascribe it to my power of oratory, Cat, but it took the Japanese to bring the Americans into the same boat as us.”
He is too excited for clear conversation, so I admonish him again. “Speak plainly, Pug.”
“The Japanese
have attacked Pearl Harbor, the American naval base in Hawaii. America is going to declare war.”
Chapter Forty-One
October to November 1942
London and Buckinghamshire, England
I rise from my deep curtsy to King George VI and Queen Elizabeth and lock eyes with Mrs. Roosevelt. Photographs do not do her justice. In the monochromatic black, gray, and white of the newspaper pictures, she appears dowdy with her unkempt hair, unflattering dresses, and prominent overbite. But her piercing blue eyes, intelligent and discerning, draw me in, making one forget about all her other features, even the sack-like remade gown she wears.
Before I make her formal acquaintance, I must make my way through the throngs of other guests. We exchange pleasant small talk, but I never let Mrs. Roosevelt out of my line of sight.
Finally, the protocol permits Mrs. Roosevelt and me a brief conversation. “I have been looking forward to making your acquaintance, Mrs. Roosevelt, ever since you and your husband hosted Winston at the White House last Christmas. I will be forever in your debt.” I mean, of course, that we are all in America’s debt for finally entering the war and fighting these past ten months—far more than hosting Winston for Christmas—but I suppose she understands my sentiments.
Last December, after America made its declaration of war, Winston traversed the Atlantic through a frightful series of gales and ensconced himself at the White House through the December holidays into January. I’ve heard from the staff who traveled with my husband that the tension over Winston’s drinking habits and unusual schedule of sleeping and working was palpable and tried the patience of the Roosevelts, Eleanor in particular, who was a teetotaler after suffering through her own family members’ alcoholism. Harry wrote me that Winston had done his valiant best to be good-natured, but in a White House with unpleasant food and a hostess who did not deem it her duty to pamper her husband, let alone her guests, I could only imagine how he must have acted. Still, Winston came away from the overlong visit with a strengthened relationship with Roosevelt, which was indeed the purpose of the encounter.
Winston had known that a strong connection would facilitate the critical next steps for a total and unconditional surrender by the Nazis. Both men agreed that a massive invasion of mainland Europe was necessary to accomplish this goal, and in this first meeting, they’d begun to hash out a multistage plan. But internal and external pressures about the details of that plan would necessitate further meetings, Winston had reported on his return, and the many conferences that have followed have been the focal point of Winston’s energies and time. Yet the war has not stopped while the leaders map out strategy at these conferences. At first, the new Allies dealt with the surging Japanese military and the fall of Tobruk in North Africa with the surrender of thirty thousand British troops, but they finally celebrated the success of regaining ground against the Nazis, including the momentous Egyptian victory of securing the Suez Canal, as I celebrated my own success of maintaining my health throughout this tumult by adhering to my Champneys’ teachings.
“I feel the same, Mrs. Churchill. Your husband certainly sang your praises during his time with us, and the opportunity for us to get to know each other better is an opportunity to unite our countries further as allies.” She speaks with warmth, although I imagine that she did not come away from Winston’s visit feeling particularly warm toward him.
“Indeed, Mrs. Roosevelt. Beautifully said.”
We are swept up again in the tide of mindless court chatter. When the current recedes and she and I have another moment alone, I say, “I am delighted that I will be serving as your tour guide while you are in London. Also, I’m happy to have the chance to repay your kindness to Winston by hosting you at Chequers over the weekend.”
“Oh, Mrs. Churchill, that’s very kind of you, but I don’t think I need a tour of the London sites. Since he cannot make the trip, I am here to serve as my husband’s eyes and ears and assess wartime England.” I’m assuming she alludes to her husband’s infirmity, if nearly full paralysis can be described as an infirmity. But it is well understood that his condition is not to be labeled out loud.
“How perfect. Because that is precisely the sort of tour I have planned.”
After her three-day stay at Buckingham Palace with the king and queen, I sweep Mrs. Roosevelt up in a flurry of visits over the following days. I want her to witness the endeavors of our women, so we stop at branches of women’s military services, talking to girls staffing antiaircraft gun crews. We meet with female pilots shuttling planes between RAF stations as part of the air transport auxiliary services. We tour munitions factories where women keep working despite the sound of sirens. But, of course, she must also see the indomitable British spirit, so I arrange a visit to the bomb-torn East End. There, after Mrs. Roosevelt is received by cheers, we talk with an older couple who elect to stay in the remains of their house by day and sleep in a shelter by night rather than evacuate to the countryside: “This is home, and we won’t let the Krauts take it from us,” they insist.
She is boundless in her energy, defeating even me in her indefatigability. The final afternoon of our week of visits, with days beginning at eight o’clock in the morning and ending at midnight, we planned on traveling to three locales in rapid succession: first, a nursery for evacuated or wounded children, then two locations of the Women’s Voluntary Service, which moved into neighborhoods that had just been bombed and assisted with everything from food to laundry. After a day of Eleanor’s long strides and fast pace, I find myself breathless by the time we reach the second Women’s Voluntary Service location, a clothing distribution center to be exact, not a state in which anyone else has ever left me. Watching Eleanor take two steps at a time up to the second floor of the building, I realize that I simply cannot proceed one step farther, and I sit down upon a staircase. Noticing that I am not at her side, Eleanor slows and glances down the marble stairs at me.
“Oh, Clementine,” she exclaims, pronouncing my name with an American inflection, “shall I join you for a moment?”
As she descends a few steps to my level, I laugh and say, “Please don’t slow your pace on my account. Eleanor, you might be the first person to have ever winded me.”
She guffaws, almost as loudly as I do myself, and I join her. “You aren’t the first person to say that.”
“I’m usually leaving everyone in my wake.” Smoothing my moss-green skirt out to cover my legs, I look up at her. “Please go ahead. I only need a moment, and then I’ll join you.”
“If you’re sure?” she asks, but before I can really answer, she is already up the stairs again.
I find Eleanor, as she insists I call her, fascinating, with her easy, familiar manner and her ability to put people at ease, whether they are factory workers, air-raid victims, American soldiers, reporters, or aristocrats. Man or woman, royal or regular, she has the unique ability to move calmly and purposefully through the world, pursuing her own egalitarian agenda. Was she always this way, I wonder, or like me, is it a skill she’s had to learn? From the reception she receives and the dignified manner in which she carries herself, I see that she is a public figure in her own right, no mere backdrop for her husband.
As we travel to Chequers for her first weekend in Britain, Eleanor shares her astonishment at the resilience of our people in the face of the constant assault and the vast array of roles undertaken by women. I am flattered, and I tell her so. “Those are the first two projects I undertook when the war began: providing safe shelters to ride out the nightly Nazi storm and ensuring that women serve in meaningful capacities. Of course, by now, I have a long, long list of other projects I oversee as well, typically those of domestic importance that Winston hasn’t the time to tend, given the overarching international emergencies. Not to mention serving as Winston’s confidante and partner, although I’m certain you understand what that is like.” I arch my brow in a knowing expression; I don’t need
to tell Eleanor Roosevelt all the work involved for the wife of one of the most important men in the world.
Her brow furrows in confusion. “I must say, I’m surprised, Clementine.”
“Whatever about, Eleanor?” Did I say something unusual? Surely this woman, sometimes referred to as “Madame President” by the White House staff because of her far-ranging influence, would find nothing shocking about my desire to place women in key jobs in wartime. Other women, yes, but Eleanor, no. Nor can I imagine anything else I said that could have startled her.
“In his visit to Washington last Christmas, your husband told us with great pride that you did not engage in any public activities or services of any sort. In fact, he praised you for your inclination to stay at home and tend to him.” She says this slowly and tenderly, as if she intuitively understands Winston’s statement might pain me, now that she knows me and comprehends the falsity in my husband’s remark. But she is not one for dishonesty.
I am speechless. To have Winston diminish me and my contributions, to make the whole of my life so small, is more injury than I can bear. I have not minded serving in the backdrop of public life—I know my worth and actively dislike the spotlight—but to have my contributions publicly discounted and privately dismissed is another matter. How could Winston have brushed all my work aside as if it was meaningless? As if all I did all day was cater to his needs? I begin to process his statement—why he might have said it and how it makes me feel—when Eleanor clears her throat, interrupting the silence that has overtaken the automobile.
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