General MacArthur addresses Congress, April 19, 1951.
MacArthur’s replacement as Far East Commander, General Matthew B. Ridgway (with hand grenades strapped to his chest).
Though often called one of Truman’s most courageous decisions as President, the firing of MacArthur was to Truman simply something that had to be done to keep control of the military where it belonged, in the Oval Office. Left: The outlook from the seat of responsibility and (below) a cartoon from the time by Herblock.
Chicago, July 26, 1952: Truman introduces to the Democratic National Convention the new, somewhat reluctant standard-bearer, Governor Adlai E. Stevenson of Illinois.
Oxford, England, June 20, 1956: The former President is congratulated by Lord Halifax, Chancellor of Oxford University, after receiving the honorary degree of Doctor of Civil Laws.
Florence, Italy, May 27, 1956: Truman chats with Renaissance art authority Bernard Berenson, who found him very unlike the “Give ’Em Hell Harry” of the cartoon at left.
Washington, November 1, 1961: To the delight of President John F. Kennedy, the First Lady, and guests, Truman plays a bit of Paderewski’s Minuet in the East Room, after an absence from the White House of eight years. The principal performer of the evening, Truman’s favorite concert pianist, Eugene List, stands at right.
Margaret and Clifton Daniel on their wedding day, April 21, 1956.
From the window of the Daniels’ New York apartment, Truman greets reporters with grandsons Clifton and William.
A resident of Independence for the last twenty years of his life, Truman said of his time as President, “I tried never to forget who I was and where I’d come from and where I was going back to.”
Did she think there would ever be a woman President of the United States?
No.
Would she want to be President?
No.
Would she want Margaret ever to be First Lady?
No.
If she had a son, would she try to bring him up to be President?
No.
If it had been left to her own free choice, would she have gone into the White House in the first place?
Most definitely would not have.
What was her reaction to musical criticism of Margaret’s singing?
No comment.
Did any of the demands of her role as First Lady ever give her stage fright?
No comment.
What would you like to do and have your husband do when he is no longer President?
Return to Independence.
“She seems to think Harry ought to run the country, not her,” a Washington cab driver was quoted as saying. It was a sentiment widely shared, and according to Jonathan Daniels, Truman “conspired willingly” with her to protect her privacy.
Asked once if she was interested in any particular period of White House history, Bess said the Monroe years—an interesting observation that the press passed by. James Monroe’s wife, another Elizabeth—Elizabeth Kortright Monroe—had followed the gregarious Dolley Madison, who had been as much the center of attention in her time as had Eleanor Roosevelt. A quiet aristocrat, Elizabeth Monroe married a hard-drinking politician and made a good marriage. In the White House, she had insisted on keeping her life a private matter.
As manager of household expenses, Bess was extremely frugal. She cut back on the size of the White House staff. Mrs. Nesbitt, the elderly housekeeper responsible for years of dreary food on the Roosevelt table, had been sent packing, with the result that both the cooking and the housekeeping improved. Most objectionable had been the cold, hard, dinner rolls, long a White House staple, but which to anyone raised as Bess had been on traditional hot southern biscuits—biscuits baked with Waggoner-Gates “Queen of the Pantry Flour”—were altogether inedible. “It was only on the command of President Truman,” wrote the American correspondent for the BBC, Alistair Cooke, “that her recipe was passed on to the chef and the Trumans reverted to breaking the bread of their fathers.”
“Mrs. Truman was no fussier than her predecessor…. It was just that she had been brought up to be house proud,” recorded J.B. West. She kept close watch on the cost of food, kept her own books, went over all the household bills “with a fine tooth comb,” and wrote every check herself.
According to West and Lillian Parks, both of whom later wrote books about their years of service in the White House, the staff felt closer to the Trumans than to any of the other presidents and their wives, which was saying a great deal, considering how long some of the staff had been employed. John Mays, a doorman who also cut Truman’s hair every two weeks, had been on duty at the White House since the time of Woodrow Wilson. The way the Trumans lived, remembered West, the White House “might as well have been in Independence. As far as everyday living goes, they were no different.” And for all the President’s talk of not liking life in the White House, said West, “He liked living there better than living in his mother-in-law’s house in Independence.”
Truman’s salary in his last years in the Senate, plus what Bess had earned, came to $14,500. As Vice President, his pay was $20,000; as President, it was $75,000. But nearly half of that would go to taxes, and while the government paid for the White House servants, Bess had to pay for their food, plus all meals for the family and guests. In Roosevelt’s time, monthly food bills alone sometimes reached $7,000. Bess had been able to cut that back to about $2,000. In their twelve years in the White House the Roosevelts had never lived within the President’s salary, but the Trumans had no family fortune to fall back on. Margaret would later describe her mother as a chronic penny pincher, of necessity. Still, she was able to save very little year to year. After expenses and taxes on his $75,000 salary, it was reported, the President had about $4,200 left.
In a smart Washington dress shop, browsing one day with Mrs. John Snyder, Bess told the sales clerk mildly but firmly there was no use for her to try on anything, since she couldn’t afford the prices.
According to J.B. West, Bess guarded her privacy like a precious jewel, yet within that privacy played a role far exceeding what any but a few suspected. She did indeed advise Truman on decisions. “And he listened to her.”
Margaret would later write that in her father’s first months in office, Bess had felt shut out of his life, “more and more superfluous,” and especially after the realization that he had not discussed with her his decision on the atomic bomb. The feeling of being left out, wrote Margaret, combined with Bess’s original opposition to Truman’s ever becoming President “to build a smoldering anger that was tantamount to an emotional separation,” which may explain some of her long absences from Washington. Still, Margaret, too, would stress her mother’s influence on her father, saying he constantly talked things over with Bess and would often do as she said. He was “very, very conscious” of her views and needed her approval. “Have you ever noticed Father when he’s with Mother at any sort of public gathering?” Margaret remarked to a reporter at the time. “He’s always trying to catch her glance to see if she approves of what he is saying or doing.”
She remained, as she had been for more than thirty years, the most important person in his life.
Among family and old friends, he freely acknowledged the difference “Miss Lizzie” had made to the course of his life. “Suppose Miss Lizzie had gone off with Mr. Young, Julian Harvey or Harris,” he wrote to Ethel Noland from the White House, recalling old suitors from days long past. “What would have been the result? For Harry I mean. He probably would have been either a prominent farmer in Jackson County or a Major General in the regular army….”
To judge by the letters he wrote to Bess in the fall of 1947, while she was with her mother in Independence, he did indeed want her to know his mind and the details of the problems he faced in a “topsy-turvy world.”
He was preoccupied with the immense projected cost of the Marshall Plan.
Marshall and Lovett were in yesterday and went over the European situation from
soup to nuts with me. If it works out as planned it will cost us about 16 billion over a four-year period…. This amount of 16 billion is just the amount of the national debt when Franklin took over. He ran it up to 40 odd and then the war came along and it is 257 but we can’t understand those figures anyway.
A few days later, on September 30, he went on, telling her more:
Yesterday was one of the most hectic of days…. I’m not sure what has been my worst day. But here is the situation fraught with terrible consequences. Suppose, for instance, that Italy should fold up and that Tito then would march into the Po Valley. All the Mediterranean coast of France then is open to Russian occupation and the iron curtain comes to Bordeaux, Calais, Antwerp, and The Hague. We withdraw from Greece and Turkey and prepare for war. It just must not happen. But here I am confronted with a violently opposition Congress whose committees with few exceptions are living in 1890; it is not representative of the country’s thinking at all. But I’ve got a job and it must be done—win, lose, or draw.
Sent letters to Taber, Bridges, Vandenberg, and Eaton requesting them to call their committees together as soon as possible. Had my food committee together and will make a radio speech Sunday. To feed France and Italy this winter will cost 580 million, the Marshall Plan 16.5 billion. But you know in October and November of 1945 I cancelled 63 billion in appropriations—55 billion at one crack. Our war cost that year was set at 105 billion. The 16.5 is for a four-year period and is for peace. A Russian war would cost us 400 billion and untold lives, mostly civilian. So I must do what I can. I shouldn’t write you this stuff but you should know what I’ve been facing…. I haven’t resumed my walks yet but will in a day or two. Too much to read. General Bradley made a report to me today on his European trip and he remarked on my having had to make more momentous decisions than nearly any other President. He’s right, and I hope most of ‘em have been right….
In a month’s time that fall he wrote twenty-two letters to her. That he adored her as much as ever was also among his reasons for the letters. The following June, on their anniversary, he would write:
Dear Bess:
Twenty-nine years! It seems like twenty-nine days.
Detroit, Port Huron, a farm sale, the Blackstone Hotel, a shirt store. County Judge, defeat, Margie, Automobile Club membership drive, Presiding judge, Senator, V.P., now!
You still are on the pedestal where I placed you that day in Sunday school in 1890. What an old fool I am.
Except for Bess and Margaret, and his secretary, Rose Conway, few women ever had the opportunity to observe Truman close at hand or privately. There were no women on his staff in any but secretarial roles, none who sat in on staff meetings or who worked with him or accompanied him beyond the White House. But in that crucial year of 1947, a young Austrian-born artist named Greta Kempton came to the West Wing and with the help of two Secret Service agents set up her heavy wooden easel in the Cabinet Room. She was the first woman who had ever been invited to do a presidential portrait—Truman’s official White House portrait as it would turn out—and she had never met the President. In all there would be five sittings.
“I was very impressed with him,” she remembered. “He came in. I asked him to sit down. He had some papers, but I told him he couldn’t study papers. ‘Oh, no!’ I said. ‘This is the time I’m working. You are going to relax.’”
Unaware that the two who had helped her get set up were Secret Service men, she turned and said there would be nothing more, they needn’t stay. Truman, amused, nodded to them and they left.
He sat down…and I could only see a big important man and a big important portrait. I had to switch canvases. It had to be bigger….
The smaller the person, the more against posing they are, the more they feel they’re doing you a favor. Not Mr. Truman…. He never seemed irritated or annoyed…never seemed impatient. He would settle down…and [the room] seemed to take on a feeling of grandeur and peacefulness. I felt very inspired…. He was always helpful. He wanted the finished portrait to be as good as I could possibly make it.
The more he sat the more interested he became in the work, my work—the technique of painting, the canvas. He took a serious interest….
She had told him at the start that under no circumstances was he to see the portrait until it was finished. But once, during a break, he decided to take “a little walk” around the enormous Cabinet table, his direction, as she remembered, “easing toward the canvas.” Sensing what he was up to, she told him again there could be no peeking.
“You mean I can’t have a look at my own portrait?” he said.
She told him no, and with good grace he went back to his chair.
When she had finished and asked if he would like to take a look, he stood in front of the easel for several minutes. “Well, I certainly do like that,” he said, “but, of course, I wouldn’t really know. I’ll have to ask the Boss.”
He telephoned Bess, who came at once, looked at the picture, and heartily approved. It was exactly as she saw him herself, she said.
Against a darkening sky, he sat foursquare, unsmiling, jaw firm, hands at rest on the arms of a wooden chair—a figure of strength and determination in a dark double-breasted suit, white shirt, dark striped tie, the familiar handkerchief in place, the service pin on his lapel, and in the distance, the Capitol Dome.
Now and then, during the sittings, Greta Kempton remembered, he had seemed a little hurried. “But in general I felt he had a great confidence in himself, as if, ‘I know what I’m doing.’ But also some humbleness…. I think he was very even.”
In the summer of 1947, in the journal Foreign Affairs, George Kennan had published an article in which he introduced the idea of “containment,” an expression already in use at the State Department by then. Kennan recommended “a policy of firm containment [of Russia]…with unalterable counterforce at every point where the Russians show signs of encroaching”—until the Soviet Union either “mellows” or collapses. The article was signed simply “X,” but the identity of the author was known soon enough, and in another few months Walter Lippmann issued his own strong rebuttal to the concept in a book called The Cold War, an expression Bernard Baruch had used earlier in a speech, but that now, like the Iron Curtain, became part of the postwar vocabulary.
When and why the Cold War began—whether with announcement of the Truman Doctrine, or earlier, when Truman first confronted Molotov, or perhaps with the eventual sanction of the Marshall Plan by Congress—would be the subject of much consideration in years to come. But the clearest dividing point between what American policy toward the Soviets had been since the war and what it would now become was George Marshall’s return from Moscow. The change came on April 26, 1947, when Marshall, of all men, reported to Truman what Truman had already privately concluded, that diplomacy wasn’t going to work, that the Russians could not be dealt with, that they wanted only drift and chaos and the collapse of Europe to suit their own purposes.
Chip Bohlen, who had been witness to so much—Molotov’s first call on Truman in the Oval Office, the meetings at Potsdam, Marshall’s pivotal session with Stalin at the Kremlin—said the Cold War could really be traced to the seizure of power by the Bolsheviks in 1917. It had begun then, thirty years before.
Truman, looking back on his first years in office and the decisions he had made, would regret especially that he had been unable to stop wholesale demobilization after the war ended. It had been a grave mistake, he felt.
The Cold War was an expression he never much cared for and seldom used. He called it “the war of nerves.”
In later years, he would be charged with acting too impulsively and harshly with the Russians, with making snap judgments as a new President, without the benefit of experience or understanding. But “patience, I think, must be our watchword if we are to have world peace,” he had written to Eleanor Roosevelt less than a month after assuming office, and, in fact, it had taken two years to arrive at a policy toward the Soviet
s. He had moved slowly, perhaps too slowly, and always with the close counsel of the same people Franklin Roosevelt too had counted on, and particularly George Marshall.
In September, Truman received a handwritten note from Churchill, to say “how much I admire the policy into wh[ich] you have guided y[ou]r g[rea]t country; and to thank you from the bottom of my heart for all you are doing to save the world from Famine and War.”
In a note of thanks, Truman said no man could carry the burden of the presidency and do it all right, but that he had good men around him now.
In mid-October, at an informal meeting in his office with newspaper editorial writers from around the country, he spent most of the time expounding on the vital need for the Marshall Plan. At the end, he was asked whether the United States would ever “get any credit…for sending this stuff to Europe?”
“I’m not doing this for credit,” Truman answered. “I am doing it because it’s right, I am doing it because it’s necessary to be done, if we are going to survive ourselves.”
The Marshall Plan was voted on by Congress in April 1948, almost a year after Marshall’s speech at Harvard, and passed by overwhelming majorities in both houses. It was a singular triumph for the administration, “the central gem in the cluster of great and fruitful decisions made by President Truman,” as Arthur Krock would write. Indeed, it was to be one of the great American achievements of the century, as nearly everyone eventually saw.
“In all the history of the world,” Truman wrote privately a few days after final passage of the program, “we are the first great nation to feed and support the conquered. We are the first great nation to create independent republics from conquered territory, Cuba and the Philippines. Our neighbors are not afraid of us. Their borders have no forts, no soldiers, no tanks, no big guns lined up.”
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