A long car waited at the curb. The rear door swung open and a tall man in a dark suit stepped out. A shock of brown hair, neatly parted; a long, thin face; gray-blue eyes that assessed Jimmy through wire pince-nez spectacles. He shook Jimmy’s hand. “Franklin Roosevelt. Let me help you with that.” He reached for Jimmy’s briefcase.
“Thank you, sir.” Jimmy preceded him into the back seat of the sedan.
Jimmy knew the name, as did every Harvard graduate. The Roosevelts were American patricians, members of that elite group of alumni families whose association with the university justified its exorbitant tuition fees. Franklin’s cousin Theodore had recently served as president of the United States. He had been a progressive, a Republican who cared deeply about America’s natural environment and who was known for challenging the power of large businesses. He had lost reelection to Woodrow Wilson, a Democrat with strong support in the South, who allowed segregation based on skin color, resisted taking sides in the Great War—and then finally took sides and advocated for entering the war, despite the objections of his friend and advisor, Jimmy’s father, Paul. Now Franklin Roosevelt, an attorney, worked for President Wilson as assistant secretary of the navy and declared his fealty to the Democratic Party. When you can’t beat ’em, join ’em.
“I wanted to meet you here personally,” Roosevelt told Jimmy as the Packard Twin Six rumbled to life. “Heard quite a bit about you.”
“Not too much, I hope,” said Jimmy.
Roosevelt patted his knee. “Only things a proud father would say.”
Jimmy watched the stately buildings passing along the Mall. He knew Washington well enough to notice they were taking an indirect route. Roosevelt wanted to impress him.
The car slowed to a stop at the Latrobe Gate of the Navy Yard. They ascended wide, worn marble steps to the third floor. Roosevelt led Jimmy into his front office, where a stylish secretary sat typing. “Miss Porter, James Warburg, your new tormentor,” he introduced them.
She smiled. Jimmy touched his hat. “Charmed.”
“Miss Porter is one heck of a typist,” said Roosevelt. “She also brews a mean cup of java, which is crucial the morning after one of our disreputable sausage parties.” He winked.
Jimmie nodded.
“She has a report to finalize, then she’s all yours.” Roosevelt opened the door to Jimmy’s inner office. Tall, arched windows with views of the shipyard, where construction of several large battleships was under way. “That is what war looks like, from here,” said Roosevelt. “Your contribution will be crucial. Just the technological edge we need.” He turned to Jimmy. “Make no mistake about it, Warburg—”
“Jimmy.”
“—war is the means by which mankind tests new technologies. That’s why President Wilson invited Tom Edison to lead our unit.”
“That’s an interesting take,” said Jimmy, dropping his briefcase on the desk. “I thought war was the means by which we tested moral systems.”
Roosevelt shook his head. “Morality is propaganda. Best technology triumphs. That’s how it’s always been, at least since Archimedes invented the catapult.”
“He didn’t invent it, sir,” Jimmy corrected him. “But he did improve it.”
Roosevelt smiled. Yes, I took Classical History 101 same as you. Good ol’ Professor Hornsworth. “We’ve got to get our birds back in the sky as soon as possible.” Roosevelt tapped the sheaf of papers on the rolltop desk. “Our contractors. Sheet metal fabricators, glass fabricators, compass manufacturers, riveters, installers. Fire up their competitive spirit. That’s your mission. But first, let’s nail down the finances. Work up a budget, walk it down to Room 374, we’ll get it approved. Let’s get these compasses built and fitted to the entire air fleet within three months. Can you pull that off, Warburg?”
“I can certainly give it a good Harvard try,” said Jimmy.
Roosevelt nodded, smiling. “You do that.”
Jimmy knew how to write up a budget. After all, he had been class treasurer. And he understood the mechanics of his compass. But no one had ever served him so much responsibility all at once. He thought it astonishing that the navy would entrust so critical a task to a cadet. It daunted him a little and thrilled him a lot.
“Have at it, boy,” said Roosevelt turning to leave. “Need anything, I’m down the hall.” He stopped at the door. “And let’s get you out of that naval reserve monkey suit. Your lieutenant junior grade uniform is being steamed and pressed as we speak.”
“Yes, sir,” said Jimmy with a salute.
Roosevelt went out. Jimmy sat down in the oak swivel chair and leafed through the papers. Names of companies all over the East Coast and the Midwest, with phone numbers and contact people. A budget form. He picked up the telephone earpiece.
“Navy operator.”
“Just checking. Thank you.” He hung up.
He swiveled. He glanced around. His first office—on the third floor of this Greek Revival monument, which had been constructed during Thomas Jefferson’s presidency. Clearly, Assistant Secretary Roosevelt wanted Jimmy to feel important. Jimmy could almost hear his father’s voice pleading with Roosevelt’s superior, Secretary Daniels. A delicate operation. He wanted to be flying, you see.
He opened his briefcase, removed his framed photograph of Katharine and set it on his desk. In a large hat with a peacock feather, a long black skirt, a buttonless blouse, and lace-up boots, Katharine was sticking her tongue out. Jimmy shook his head, smiling. What am I getting into?
Girls were after his money. That was a given. Wealthy girls, whom he had met at dances at Wellesley, lusted for even more wealth. To secure their patrimony. To build a bigger domicile, with more architectural flourishes. To ascend to higher levels of society. Above all, to avoid status slippage. That was the nightmare of the wealthy. Status slippage.
Jimmy abhorred any overt preoccupation with wealth. He regarded his condition as an accident of birth, like the blue of his eyes. Everyone’s circumstances presented not a pedestal on which to preen but a unique set of challenges.
Naturally Katharine was impressed with his family’s position, like the others. But money and social standing were not her unique preoccupations. Chopin meant as much to her as sapphires; probably more. She knew who she was, and she was exceptional. And lovely. The curve of her lips was as disarming as the shape of her body. Effervescent and witty, she held her own with anyone.
He picked up the photograph and wiped the glass over her face. That spontaneity. None of those ladylike Wellesley beauties would have stuck out her tongue like that. Yet Katharine needed no lessons in decorum. She was sharp, delightful, and slightly rebellious. A stimulating companion.
In the society into which Jimmy was born, a woman’s purpose consisted of patronizing charities and presiding at social functions. The idea that a woman should entertain professional ambitions was viewed as selfish if not downright self-aggrandizing. Jimmy’s mother and her friends thought labor degrading for females of their rank. Let the men, the poor darlings, earn their livelihood. Wives were meant to facilitate their husbands’ ambitions, not to compete with them. The life of a society wife was quite busy enough without such distractions. To Jimmy’s mind, however, if a woman sought to contribute something of value to the world, be it a chunk of radium or a piano concerto, society as a whole would benefit.
He glanced at his watch. It was lunchtime and he had skipped breakfast. No point trying to make those calls until two o’clock. He stepped out to his outer office. “Miss Porter?”
His secretary looked up from her work, her fire-truck-red lips slightly parted. “Bette.”
“Bette, is there a galley, or a canteen, or a mess hall, or however you refer to a room where naval employees dine, somewhere in this cavernous building?”
“For you, it’s called the Officers’ Dining Room.”
“Are you allowed to show me the way? And perhaps, as a reward, to accompany me for lunch?”
“If you invite me,” she t
old him.
“Come on, then. You can give me the lay of the land.”
She rose, picking up her handbag.
She smelled like gardenias, Jimmy noticed as they walked down the corridor. Other men in crisp navy uniforms glanced at them, he in his smart suit, she in her red dress.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Jimmy’s position in Washington devolved into a multitentacled headache. “I’m arguing with aviation engineers in New York, negotiating with a compass manufacturer in Boston and riveters in Pittsburgh, and meanwhile we’ve got fleets of grounded planes in several states, as well as Europe,” he wrote to Katharine.
In an angular script on linen stationery, his weekly letters ran to ten or twelve pages. The ink, always Carter’s blue, carried a chemical odor but Katharine detected a hint of his European cologne as well. He wrote of his work, the war, the operas and exhibits he attended, and his future with Katharine. In their salon they would host gatherings of New York’s literati and musicians. They would raise real American children, for whom concepts like monarch and ghetto would be as abstract as imaginary numbers. Jimmy would chomp on hot dogs and cheer with their son at baseball games. Their daughter, with satin bows in her hair, would perfect her croisé in ballet class. Occasionally, tired of the hustle-bustle, Jimmy and Katharine would retreat to their estate in the country, where they would ride horses and play tennis.
Not quite prepared to dwell upon the prospect of raising children, Katharine folded these letters back into their envelopes. Music remained her focus. Music was her future. That was not negotiable. But she comforted herself that in the highest echelons of society, nurses and nannies usually attended to the young ones.
She wrote back: the Edith Rubel Trio was attempting a new direction, performing with a mezzo-soprano who sang folk songs from around the world. Katharine arranged the material, assigning harmonic and melodic support to the cello, violin, and piano. “No rehearsal necessary and the audiences eat it up.” What she did not mention was that even the enthusiasm of twelve or twenty amateur ethnomusicologists left her feeling irrelevant. In her moments of frustration, thoughts of Jimmy soothed her. “I couldn’t sleep last night, thinking about you.”
“Great to know I’m not alone. Keep dreaming that, my love,” he urged.
Katharine remembered their evenings together, their mischief, and as time passed, her reveries acquired an erotic hue. “Mother is asking to meet you,” she wrote. And a few weeks later: “The next time you’re in the city why don’t you stay at our place? Mother agrees!”
“Why, that would be heaven!” Jimmy wrote back. “Simply to breathe the same air as you.”
After reading these words she folded the letter and held it to her breast. Life was full of twists and the most stunning of all was love, that crazy, blood-heating mélange of discovery and certitude.
* * *
She had never seen her mother so flustered as on the day of Jimmy’s visit. He had provided two weeks’ notice but Ellen acted as if two years would not suffice. All talk of vampires and strange accents vaporized and in its place, “help me push this divan, will you, Katharine? What we need is a fresh coat of paint. Are you listening? And these floors,” she groaned. Then, snapping her fingers, “a rug, we need a bloody rug!”
Nor had her mother ever devoted so much attention to the preparation of a meal. Ellen, who had hitherto professed to dislike everything French, borrowed a tattered copy of Easy French Cookery and selected a recipe for baked loin of lamb and potatoes. Due to war rationing, potatoes were scarce and costly. That made them all the more delicious. Ellen mumbled something about advance payment for her work, but Katharine suspected she had pawned an inherited jewel or two. Her mother fussed over the oven while Katharine beat cream and castor sugar for the baked apples and whipped cream dessert.
The knock came twelve minutes sooner than expected. Still in her apron Katharine opened the door. The young man standing before her, in a tweed suit, holding a leather suitcase as well as a shopping bag, was taller and more alluring than the Jimmy she remembered.
Her mother’s voice broke the spell: “Katharine, where are your manners? Please do come in, Mister Warburg. I am so very pleased to make your acquaintance. Charmed. As they say in Spain, mi casa es su casa.” She chuckled.
Jimmy produced a bottle of 1915 Beaune Premier Cru “Les Aigrots” and a box of Jean Neuhaus chocolate truffles. Placing them on the table, he asked how he could help with the preparations.
“Now, now, none of that,” Ellen chided him. “Katharine, offer Mister Warburg a glass of Madeira, won’t you?”
Over dinner Ellen reminisced about her childhood in Leicestershire, her career as an apartment décor specialist, and her taste in music. Katharine glanced at Jimmy, a little embarrassed. The purpose of the meal was not to honor Ellen, after all. But she knew her mother’s volubility reflected nervousness rather than self-centeredness.
Jimmy listened, his chin on his fist, and posed questions. He learned that Ellen was fond of Gilbert and Sullivan, Offenbach, and Kern. Jimmy nodded as if he knew of no greater composers. He refilled Ellen’s wine glass as soon as it emptied. By the end of the meal, he had conquered her.
She insisted on lending him her room. “The bed my dear departed Sam slept in. He would approve, I assure you, my Sam would.” She offered to sleep on the divan in the parlor, and would not be talked out of this arrangement.
Katharine lay awake much of the night, aware of Jimmy in the next room. She imagined he was awake, too, thinking of her.
In the morning, while pouring coffee, Ellen related her dream. She took great stock in dreams and loved to ramble on about them. “You were riding in a train, Katharine. I must have been sitting in the seat opposite because I was watching you. It was the loveliest train. The Orient Express perhaps. Walnut, brass, leather, crystal. And you in a white organza dress, with a hat and parasol. Looking out the window at the passing countryside.” She smiled, pushing the coffee cup toward Jimmy. “That’s all I remember. But that’s plenty.” She served Katharine. “You’re on this train. You’re going somewhere.”
“On what train?” asked Katharine, annoyed by her mother’s veiled prognostication.
“You may not know what storms lie ahead,” said Ellen, “or what land you’re heading to. That is precisely what makes the journey so thrilling. But at least you’re riding in a nice car.”
“Speaking of going somewhere, and despite this delightful conversation and memorable coffee, I’m afraid I’m expected elsewhere,” said Jimmy glancing at his wristwatch. “I have a meeting downtown in forty minutes.”
At the door Katharine kissed him goodbye, feeling suddenly settled despite herself. As if they already lived in matrimony and he were running to the office.
* * *
On a treadle table in the bedroom she had shared with Sam, Ellen kept her Singer sewing machine, black with gold-and-red painted-filigree adornments and a big stop-motion wheel. She handled this contraption the way Katharine played piano, with resolve, reverence, and pride. After purchasing yards of satin and lace and a bag of beads, she devoted her free time to designing and sewing a fashionable gown that would showcase Katharine’s figure without sacrificing her mystique, as well as a beaded headpiece.
The Warburg clan requested that Katharine convert to their Jewish faith but neither Jimmy nor Katharine would hear of it. “I will not ask you to be anyone other than who you are,” he wrote. “And we can do without the mazel tovs and the pageantry, as well.”
“What is a mazel tov?” she wrote back.
“They insist on throwing these silly terms around,” Jimmy replied, “like passwords in a defunct language. I told them we are planning a simple civil ceremony. In your mother’s flat, perhaps? With a justice of the peace. This wedding will be ours. On our terms. Not theirs, for Pete’s sake.”
“My mother’s flat? Why not?” Katharine wrote back.
Why not was that although Jimmy’s parents cared little about religiosi
ty, they were seen as leaders of the Jewish community in New York City. The idea that their son would be marrying a gentile woman, in a humble apartment on the Upper West Side, appalled them, although they knew better than to say so.
Jimmy’s father hoped at least to participate in the selection of an officiant, perhaps a Supreme Court justice or the mayor of New York City. But as fate would have it, the man they settled on fell victim to an attack of the gout the day before and everyone had to scramble for a replacement. Rather than see a confounding omen in this complication, Jimmy and Katharine found it amusing. Deflating, in a way that Jimmy in particular enjoyed.
They had cleared the furniture in Ellen’s front room, except the upright piano, and set up folding chairs. In a nod to Jewish tradition, and for its exotic touch, Ellen draped flowers and sprigs over an embroidered canopy. To hold up this baldachin, and to complement it with Greco-Roman flair, she placed four art-nouveau caryatids representing Venus and Adonis and wrapped with branches, sprigs, tendrils, and flowers.
The Edith Rubel Trio, including Katharine in her striking wedding dress, performed Mendelssohn, Richard Strauss, and Mozart as guests entered. A few of Jimmy’s Harvard friends, in naval and air force uniforms, acted as ushers, seating twenty-three members of the Warburg, Schiff, and Seligman families, as well as seventeen relations and friends of Sam and Ellen Swift. A handful of Katharine’s fellow graduates of the Institute also attended, and two of her instructors, including the celebrated German orchestra conductor, Walter Damrosch.
The judicial officer who hobbled up the stairs to Ellen Swift’s crowded apartment on that blistering afternoon of June 1, 1918, was the magistrate of New York City’s Domestic Relations Court, whose daily task was to preside over marital disputes. “And the amazing thing,” he told the guests after sipping cold water and wiping his sweat-beaded brow, “is how similar most of these stories are. It always comes down to a lethal combination of too much booze and too little money. And that is why I am the bearer of good news for you today. You see,” he looked at Katharine and Jimmy, “although I don’t have the pleasure of knowing you personally, I do know enough about both of you that I can assert with confidence that I won’t be hearing that familiar complaint—too much booze, too little money—from either of you any time soon. And that fact alone is surely a powerful incentive to take delight in pronouncing you”—he rotated his head from one to the other—“man and wife.”
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