by Glenn Beck
Berlin, Germany
May 17, 1933
The somber-faced man with the Charlie Chaplin mustache and stubbornly straight black hair looked confidently upon the members of the Reichstag. He had waited for this moment ever since his release from prison years earlier. Now, as chancellor of the German republic, his power was absolute and his real mission just beginning.
He had spent years railing against the Treaty of Versailles that had ended the Great War. But repudiating the “Treaty of Peace”—the brainchild of the French, British, and Americans under Woodrow Wilson—had only gained traction in recent years. The Great Depression had hit Germans hard and, as a result, citizens were restive, angry, and vengeful.
These were qualities that a man like Adolf Hitler could appreciate.
“All the problems which are causing such unrest today lie in the deficiencies of the ‘Treaty of Peace,’ which did not succeed in solving in a clear and reasonable way the questions of the most decisive importance for the future,” Herr Hitler charged. He decried the “absurd” terms of the treaty, including the harsh reparations imposed on Germany that would lead to the “economic extermination of a nation of sixty-five million.”
“These terms,” he declared to his approving audience, “will become a classic example in the history of the nations of how seriously international welfare can be damaged by hasty and unconsidered action.”
The worst part of Hitler’s latest diatribe was that it contained an element of truth. Even his fiercest opponents now recognized that the treaty’s harsh terms had played right into the Nazi Party’s hands. Ironically, those very same terms had once been opposed by one of the treaty’s prime architects: Woodrow Wilson. But, in the end, Wilson was too infirm and confused to be of any real use. At a critical moment in world history, the leader of the free world’s power was increasingly and secretly transferred to someone who was wholly out of their league when it came to international affairs.
This, in many ways, is the story of how the Second World War really began.
Princeton, New Jersey
Spring 1906
“Father!”
“How was the doctor, Father?”
The girls rushed to greet Woodrow Wilson and his wife, Ellen, at the front door. Wilson, a thin, bespectacled man of forty-nine, was the president of Princeton University and a growing celebrity not only within academia, but liberal progressive circles.
“All is well,” he told them, scooping them into his open arms.
Beside him, he saw Ellen’s smile freeze across her face.
Poor woman, Wilson thought. She’s not much of an actor. He knew the children could see that she was a portrait of nerves and terror. She had no talent for deception or guile, even when it was in the family’s best interest. He’d always felt women lacked a certain intellectual brain matter or, as he once put it while teaching at Bryn Mawr, his female pupils exhibited “a painful absenteeism of mind.” This, of course, was another reason why the progressive Wilson had long held his view that women would be useless in positions of leadership. He remembered the whimsical delight he took when he once visited a so-called “Women’s Rights” conference in Baltimore that resulted in him telling Ellen about “the chilled, scandalized feelings that always overcome me when I see and hear women speak in public.” Women’s lives must supplement men’s lives, he believed.
Despite the assurances to his children, the truth was that all was not well. Just the other morning, while preparing for Princeton’s graduation festivities, he’d awakened to find that he couldn’t see out of his left eye. He figured a visit to the doctor would resolve the problem quickly, but instead the doctor had grilled him about his entire life history.
Despite the doctor’s being a German immigrant, Wilson put up with the questions. The doctor was, after all, a far higher quality of immigrant than those Wilson typically encountered. Most immigrants, he noted, had “neither skill nor energy nor any initiative of quick intelligence.” It was as though Europe was “disburdening themselves of the more sordid and hapless elements of their population.”
He told the doctor that he’d had episodes like this before—once, years ago, he’d lost sensation in his left arm for months. But the situation had rectified itself, through rest and sheer force of will, and he knew this problem with his vision would do the same. He also mentioned the other symptoms he’d had on and off in the past: Vision problems when trying to play golf, occasional weakness and numbness, and plenty of headaches. It was all nothing, he insisted. Nothing that couldn’t be easily treated. Besides, didn’t the physician know that he had important things to do?
Rather than give him a clean bill of health, as Wilson anticipated, the doctor declared that Wilson had arteriosclerosis—the same disease that had killed his father. Pressure was building on his brain, causing more frequent and severe incidents. The doctor had insisted that Wilson immediately curtail his activities and lead a quiet, sedentary life.
All the way home, Ellen fretted that her husband was dying by inches. But Woodrow Wilson wasn’t quite ready for such dire predictions. He’d already decided to get a second opinion. Then a third. Perhaps even a fourth.
Whatever it took to keep his plans on track.
Prospect, New Jersey
March 17, 1910
As usual, Ellen was a flawless dinner hostess. Colonel George Harvey, the editor of Harper’s, and his wife were having a great evening in the tastefully appointed family dining room. The Princeton president held forth from a carved wooden chair as the candlelight reflected from the chandelier above them.
“Wonderful dinner, Mrs. Wilson,” said the grateful Harvey, whose eyes revealed a man of sophistication and savvy.
Wilson placed his napkin onto the white lace tablecloth. “Shall we, Colonel?”
Leaving the women to gossip, Wilson showed Harvey to his library.
“I want you to suppose something, Mr. Wilson,” Harvey began as soon as they were seated. “If I can handle the matter so that the nomination for governor shall be tendered to you on a silver platter, without you having had to obtain it, and without any requirement or suggestion or any pledge whatsoever, what do you think would be your attitude?”
“Well, the suggestion is flattering,” Wilson replied, feigning modesty.
“I already have Senator Smith on board,” Harvey added, referring to the New Jersey power broker and former United States senator James Smith Jr.
It was clear to Wilson that the case for him to run for governor was a powerful one. The Democratic Party had suffered major losses in the last election. They needed a fresh face, someone who, as laughable as the concept was, given his pedigree, could run as a reformer against the political machine.
Of course, the tempting proposition was not without drawbacks—and Wilson mused about them aloud. Though he’d given a number of speeches, he was largely unknown outside academic and media circles. Surely there were more prominent men who might take up the banner. Would voters really believe that an academic was qualified to serve as governor?
As Wilson played the Hamlet role to perfection, agonizing one way and then the other, Harvey made sure to present a trump card.
“And of course,” he added, “if you were governor, we’d push hard to make you the party’s nominee for president in 1912.”
The presidency—now that was appealing. Wilson had dreamed about it since he was a little boy. And why wouldn’t he have a shot at the nomination? Without him, the Democrats were sure to lose anyway. It would take an improbable implosion by the Republicans, the nation’s majority party, to give the Democrats any chance at all.
His mind raced as he thought about the possible outcomes of his campaign for governor. The Republican candidate was knee-deep in scandals that would contrast sharply with Wilson’s exemplary personal character. Wilson would run as a reformer, an agent of hope and change. But, for now, he would have to play the reluctant supplicant, grateful for the consideration of the party bosses.
/> When Harper finally finished his pitch, Wilson did his best to appear unmoved. It was always best to look like the reluctant politician even if you were nothing of the kind. “I should regard it as my duty to give the matter very serious consideration,” he said.
In truth, Wilson knew he would give it more than just serious consideration. He’d entertained dreams—visions even—of being a great statesman for quite some time. He felt he was destined for high office, though he would gladly defer to others should someone ever come forward with ideas as brilliant and forward-thinking as his own. But he knew that few people could ever match his sterling reputation or unimpeachable integrity. If Colonel Harvey and his crew were a means to that end, he’d humor them . . . at least until he took office.
The White House
Washington, D.C.
March 3, 1913
Cary Grayson, with his bushy dark eyebrows, large nose, and five-foot, seven-inch frame, was a distinctive figure in the White House. As he stood at attention, President William Howard Taft escorted the next president of the United States through the Executive Mansion. Grayson had met Taft while assigned to the presidential yacht, the Mayflower, as the ship’s physician. And it was Taft who, after taking a liking to the young doctor, had transferred him to the White House last December.
Grayson liked Taft as well. He found him to be a gregarious sort, always eager to chat, even if he had proven to be a rather poor president. But his humiliating loss in 1912—trailing Wilson and former president Teddy Roosevelt, who’d run as a third-party candidate—didn’t seem to affect his mood. Indeed, he seemed to Grayson to be downright jovial as he showed President-elect Wilson around.
Grayson had voted for Wilson and looked forward to the new era of progressive, activist leadership he promised. Just before leaving the governor’s office, in fact, Wilson had pushed the New Jersey legislature to approve the Sixteenth Amendment and impose a federal income tax. Wilson, Grayson figured, was a man of action.
“Mr. Wilson, here is an excellent fellow that I hope you will get to know,” Taft said cheerfully, pointing to Grayson and grinning beneath his thick mustache. “I regret to say he is a Virginian and a Democrat, but that’s a matter that can’t be helped.”
It wasn’t clear if Taft had intended to gently tweak Wilson, who shared both attributes with the doctor. Regardless, Wilson let out a small laugh—which was a lot for a serious man from academia like him—and extended a hand to Grayson.
“Pleased to meet you, Mr. President-elect,” Grayson said.
The White House
Washington, D.C.
March 1, 1914
President Wilson had quickly drawn Cary Grayson into his confidence.
Almost a year earlier Grayson had impressed the president with his skill and discretion after Wilson’s sister had tumbled down a marble staircase at the inauguration luncheon. As the young doctor stitched her cut, President Wilson was soon on hand admiring his work. “I am astonished that you were able to act so promptly,” the president told Grayson. “Do you always have such equipment on hand in case of medical emergencies?”
Now, as Wilson’s personal physician, Grayson understood why the president had been so curious about his preparation: Wilson’s health wasn’t exactly robust—he seemed to constantly suffer from stomach ailments, exhaustion, and headaches.
Grayson had recommended the president take long walks and horseback rides, and Wilson asked Grayson to accompany him on many of those trips. He did so gladly. They even attended church together when Ellen was away, with the president praising Grayson for making an excellent imitation of a Presbyterian.
Over the past year, Wilson had confided in Grayson about his wife’s declining health. The occasional fainting spells and general weakness that had plagued her for months was not a topic the president discussed easily.
“It’s her nerves,” Wilson told Grayson as they stood at Ellen’s bedside. “She’s had too much strain.”
The Washington social scene could make anyone queasy, Grayson knew, especially a hardworking and devoted woman like Ellen Wilson—someone whom most of the White House workers had grown quite fond of.
“Yes,” Grayson said, in agreement while giving her a brief exam. “There’s nothing organically wrong with her.”
Rest and time away from Washington. That was what her husband felt Ellen needed. And that, in turn, was exactly what the doctor prescribed.
The White House
Washington, D.C.
August 2, 1914
When it was just the two of them alone in the room, Ellen Wilson lifted her head and turned to Grayson. He could see in her eyes she had something important to say.
As her condition worsened, she could no longer move her arm. She could barely retain any food or water, and she was having some sort of kidney trouble, which he again attributed to a nervous breakdown.
Grayson and the president had been working to keep any distressing news from her, such as the war that had been declared a few days earlier across Europe. They also shielded Ellen from the toll that world tensions were taking on the president. Though he was in reasonably good health, Wilson’s complaints of various ailments prevailed.
Despite their best efforts, Ellen’s health continued to deteriorate. Others recommended bringing in outside experts, but Wilson and Grayson always refused, convinced that it was nothing but nerves. They both adored Ellen. They did not want to think the worst, and so they didn’t. But the First Lady herself was under no such delusions.
“Doctor, I realize that I am going,” the First Lady whispered. Her eyes were wet.
Grayson shook his head. “No, Mrs. Wilson,” he replied, startled.
“You know him and he is devoted to you,” she continued. “Take good care of Woodrow.”
Grayson nodded and vowed to do just that.
The White House
Washington, D.C.
August 12, 1914
Grayson took out his pen and paper and began to write.
Earlier that morning, he had found Woodrow Wilson in tears. The president had been despondent ever since his return from Ellen’s burial service in Georgia, and his condition showed no improvement today.
Wilson confided in Grayson that he no longer took any joy in the presidency. Not without Ellen around. He wanted to escape. At night, he would lose himself in his detective novels. He couldn’t bear to be alone.
Grayson had urged the president to rest. There was no use, Grayson argued, in exacerbating his own maladies, or the greater calamity they might bring on to his own health. Reluctantly, the president had agreed.
It was “a heartbreaking scene,” Grayson now wrote as he reflected back on the day. “President Wilson is a great man with his heart torn out.”
He knew the letter’s recipient would understand. Edith Bolling Galt was, after all, a widow herself.
The White House
Washington, D.C.
March 18, 1915
Edith Galt arrived that afternoon wearing a long black dress imported from Paris and with a severe preoccupation about her shoes. Her walk to 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue had been a muddy one and her shoes were now unrecognizable.
The forty-two-year-old Galt, who readily informed friends that she was a direct descendant of Pocahontas, entered the old, elegant mansion and cast a glance at Ike Hoover, the chief usher. Hoover stared back at her with a look he might’ve given to someone suspected of stealing the candlesticks.
Galt had arrived at the White House that afternoon at the request of the president’s cousin, Helen. The poor girl had been in a state of deep depression since the death of the First Lady. Edith’s friend, Cary Grayson, had implored her to come and visit Helen for months. Over time, Edith and Helen had formed a friendship—so much so that they had spent that afternoon walking the muddy streets of Washington. Now, at Helen’s insistence, she had come inside the White House for a cup of tea.
Though she did not think herself a political sort, Edith marveled at be
ing in the same building where Jefferson had dined, where Lincoln had planned for war, where the Roosevelt children once roamed. As she turned the corner of the old house, Edith struggled not to gasp: there, walking down the long hallway toward them, were her old friend Cary Grayson and a tall man with graying hair. Both were dressed in golf clothes that seemed to have been made by a blind tailor.
“Mr. President, this is Edith Galt,” Grayson said.
Wilson’s eyes twinkled. “Mrs. Galt,” he said. “How do you do?”
She smiled. “Good afternoon, Mr. President.”
As she apologized for the state of her shoes, her curious violet eyes looked down to note that the president’s boots were just as muddy. They both laughed at their unseemly attire.
Edith knew immediately that she had captured the president’s attention, though it was hardly a surprise—she was quite accustomed to attracting the interests of men. They seemed to like her boldness.
Eyeing Grayson, who watched the meeting with great interest, Edith never for a moment considered that he and Helen might have engineered this seemingly chance encounter.
The White House
Washington, D.C.
March 21, 1915
As the motion picture finished—the first ever to be screened at the White House—President Wilson declared it a triumph. D. W. Griffith’s The Birth of a Nation was “like writing history with lightning,” the president gushed. “And my only regret is that it is all so terribly true.”
The film, which depicted the Civil War era, had caused riots in major cities like Boston and Philadelphia for its praise of the Ku Klux Klan and its depiction of domineering and deceitful former slaves taking advantage of white southerners during Reconstruction. The president, whose own administration had worked to resegregate portions of the civil service and the U.S. military, found little in the film to quibble with. In fact, Wilson knew that news of the film’s White House screening would only help the Klan’s efforts to use the film to boost recruitment—and he was just fine with that.
Washington, D.C.