As Dr. McIntire observed, up to this point the thought of death rarely seemed to enter into FDR’s mind. Aside from his “natural buoyancy and sanguine temperament” there was “the immediacy of the tasks that lay before him,” which seemed to render him incapable—even after the deaths of many dear associates—of losing faith in his own invulnerability.33
But Watson’s death was different. Following lunches in his cabin, FDR spent time on the deck “quietly reading, or just smoking and staring off into the horizon.” Sometimes Anna, Admiral Leahy, or Judge Rosenman joined him, but more often than not they left him “alone with his book—and his thoughts.” When the sun began to sink, the president retired to his cabin for a nap before dinner. Although evening meals were preceded by a “cocktail hour,” during which FDR seemed comparatively more animated, he showed no interest in doing any work after dinner in the evenings, which was highly unusual when he was preparing a major address. Instead, he would retire to Admiral Leahy’s quarters with the rest of his party to watch a film, followed immediately by bed.34
As Rosenman recounted, this somnolent routine continued day after day as the Quincy made its way westward. Exasperated at the president’s unwillingness to help him draft the Yalta address, Rosenman turned to Anna for help. By the time FDR finally turned his attention to the speech—on February 26, one day before their expected landfall—Anna had more or less churned out two complete drafts of her own.35
Once FDR got involved in the drafting of the address, he and Rosenman spent a good deal of time discussing the larger meaning of the Yalta conference. FDR intimated that many challenges lay ahead, not least the task of adhering to the “tough principles contained in the Atlantic Charter,” which, he was convinced, would bring to the surface his differences of opinion with Churchill. But like Churchill, FDR believed that Stalin was a man of his word, and that the Soviet leader was interested in maintaining the peace of the world—in part, because peace would allow the Soviets to focus on their recovery from the war. Overall, he remained optimistic that the Yalta conference “had paved the way for the kind of world he had been dreaming, planning and talking about.”36
As the USS Quincy began its final approach to Newport News, FDR drafted another statement, one conveying the sense of loss he felt in the wake of General Watson’s death.37 Taking note of “a great personal sorrow to me,” and acutely aware that he would be returning to a White House devoid of the warm presence, good humor, and discerning hand of General Watson, FDR admitted that he “would miss him almost more than I can express.” He observed that Watson had been his military aide and, later, his appointments secretary for twelve years, and yet had become such a close friend that “there was never a cloud between us.” Then, in an implied reference to the fact that Watson—like FDR—had been advised by his doctors not to undertake this arduous journey, FDR noted how Watson, out of his loyalty to the president and to the country, had insisted on seeing the war through and “on taking this trip with me.” This statement, which reflected FDR’s emphasis on loyalty and duty, would be repeated almost word for word upon his own death a mere six weeks later.38
THE QUINCY HAD BEEN BLESSED WITH WHAT ADMIRAL LEAHY described as semi-tropical weather since it left the Mediterranean. But during the final hours of their voyage, the president and his party encountered a stiff headwind and some “very rough seas.” In the past, such conditions would not have deterred FDR from going out on deck to take in the sights as the ship made its way through the Chesapeake Channel, past Hampton Roads, and into the harbor. But on this occasion, he remained in his cabin.
At 6:25 p.m., the Quincy finally arrived, docking at the same pier from which it had departed more than five weeks before. FDR did not disembark immediately but, rather, stayed on board to have dinner with Captain Senn and a number of other officers. Just over two hours later, the president was wheeled to his waiting railway car, where he would observe the solemn transfer of General Watson’s body from the ship to the train, under full military honors; his coffin carried by six officers from the Quincy as pallbearers, accompanied by Captain Senn, the ship’s chaplain, and the shrill, plaintive piping of the Quincy’s boatswain.39 After the general’s flag-draped casket was placed on board a special car reserved for that purpose, FDR spent the next thirty minutes on the telephone with various officials in Washington, making sure that all of the necessary arrangements for the burial of his old friend at Arlington the next day were in order. He also spoke to Eleanor and put in a call to Daisy, who was relieved that he was “safely back” but saddened, too, to hear the news about “Pa,” the one person “FDR could lean on both figuratively and physically.” Unbeknownst to either Eleanor or Daisy, however, FDR also spent five minutes speaking to Lucy Rutherfurd, who expressed similar relief that he had returned safe and sound.40
Finally, at 10:15 p.m., the president’s train began its slow trek across Virginia, northwest to Richmond and on to Gordonsville, just east of Watson’s beloved seventy-five-acre estate at Kenwood, nestled in the rolling hills not far from Monticello. FDR spent many a happy occasion there, first in a cottage that Watson had constructed for the president’s use, but more often in the main house, which FDR preferred. It was at Kenwood, in fact, over the course of four anxious days in June 1944, that FDR awaited the long-anticipated invasion of Normandy—an invasion that did so much to seal the fate of the hateful regime that had made his long journey to Yalta a necessity.
Chapter 13
The Last Address
IT WAS JUST BEFORE 9:00 A.M. ON WEDNESDAY, FEBRUARY 28, 1945, that FDR arrived back at the White House. Given that he had been away for a full five weeks, his arrival was met with a good deal of fanfare by the small circle of family, friends, and White House staff who saw the president on a regular basis. One telling aspect of their natural desire to see him was the extent to which one question above all others dominated these encounters: How was his health? Had the long sea voyage and time away from Washington “restored him,” as was often the case in the past? Or had the strain of the long journey and conference produced the opposite effect?
His inner circle arrived at mixed conclusions. Eleanor initially thought the trip had done him good. As she wrote to her friend, Joseph Lash, he seemed rested, and in his conversations with her about the journey, FDR averred that “he felt well all the time.” But Eleanor’s view soon began to change. She found him less and less willing to see people for any length of time. He needed a rest in the middle of the day, and, even though he had been away from Washington for five full weeks, he was soon anxious to get away again.1
William Hassett, who went to see FDR as he was having breakfast with Eleanor that first morning, thought that the president “had come home in the pink of condition” and that he hadn’t “looked better in a year.” Hassett also noted his high spirits. But Grace Tully, who was perhaps the most astute observer of FDR’s state of mind and health, due to her almost constant contact with him, was quite alarmed. The “signs of weariness were etched deeply in his thinning face,” she thought. More troubling, the sea voyage, which was “usually the best tonic for him in any circumstance, had not brought out the ruddy tan and sparkle of eye which we always expected.”2 Even Dr. McIntire, who always tried to cast FDR’s condition in the best light possible, was disturbed, detecting increasing “signs of weariness” as FDR tried to cope with the enormous pile of work that had accumulated on his desk over his long absence.3
Perhaps the most revealing comments came from FDR himself. His frequent mentions of his need for rest during the Yalta trip stood in sharp opposition to his claim that “he was really all right.” In the two brief and affectionate notes he sent to Tully while he was at sea—one written on the way over and the other upon his return—he confessed that he’d had “[l]ots of sleep & still need more” and, two weeks later, that “[a]ll goes well but again I need sleep.”4
Nor would there be any let-up in the responsibilities that confronted him. After spending much of his first morn
ing back working on his still-unfinished Yalta speech, which he would deliver the next day to Congress, FDR traveled to Arlington Cemetery with Eleanor, Anna, Anna’s husband John Boettiger, and a large contingent of the White House staff for the interment services of General Watson. Owing to a driving rain and sleet, the president remained in his car to look on from an open window, “his face grave and immobile,” while Mrs. Watson, Eleanor, and the remainder of the president’s party, along with General Marshall, Admiral Leahy, and a number of other top administration officials, stood under the canopy that sheltered the grave.5
Following the interment and a quiet lunch with Eleanor, FDR went back to work on his speech, aided by Samuel Rosenman, Anna, and John Boettiger. Together they finished a fourth and then a fifth draft, which was then put into a reading copy. Not satisfied, however, FDR went back to work that evening after dinner, altering the speech by hand to such an extent that it had to be retyped as a sixth draft.6
Thus far, the reaction to the Yalta conference had been encouraging—undoubtedly owing to Stephen Early’s talent for spin, but also due to the work of James Byrnes, whose job it was to help sell the conference to the Congress and the American public. As a former congressman, senator, and associate justice of the Supreme Court, Byrnes was a highly respected public figure. After leaving Yalta early, he had returned home to give a major press conference in the packed East Room of the White House on February 13, 1945, only two days after the Crimean summit ended. One purpose underlying this event was to drum up support among the members of Congress for US participation in the proposed world organization.7
In keeping with FDR’s decision to “frame” Yalta as yet another step in his long-running effort to promote the values articulated in the Four Freedoms and the Atlantic Charter, Byrnes highlighted the Declaration of Liberated Europe as “among the most important specific results of the conference.” As Byrnes put it, the declaration meant “the three powers had adopted a policy of acting in concert in liberated areas,” in the hope that “political factions that might resort to violence or appeal to some great outside power for support would be deterred.” The aim, he went on, “was to cooperate in the support of a provisional government” that would eventually hold “free and fair elections” and lead to the establishment of regimes “truly representative of the people.”8
Perhaps most significant was Byrnes’s insistence that FDR had brought the declaration to the Yalta conference to counter the growing fear “in this country that recent unilateral actions were leading to spheres of influence.” Now, thanks to the declaration, the United States would demonstrate that by Washington’s assuming “a share of the responsibility for conditions in such countries as Poland, Yugoslavia, [and] Greece,” such exclusive spheres of influence were a thing of the past.
Byrnes’s “magnificent” handling of the media pleased FDR. But his tendency to present the Declaration of Liberated Europe as a formal agreement rather than as a statement of intent masked many complexities, particularly with respect to Poland. This inclination on Byrnes’s part may have been in keeping with FDR’s plan to use the declaration to put added pressure on the Soviets to control their behavior in Poland and, in the process, inspire greater confidence among the American public for the Yalta accords. But it was a risky strategy in the event that the Soviets ultimately refused to reshape the Lublin regime along more democratic lines—which is exactly what happened.9
At this point, however, with the Soviet Union having signed on to the United Nations, FDR was focused on the need to secure popular support for the world organization. Byrnes’s upbeat and optimistic assessment—which may have reflected his genuine view, perhaps because he was not a party to some of the most important discussions that went on at Yalta, especially regarding Poland—certainly helped set the stage for FDR to address Congress. But it also raised public expectations about the extent to which the “Big Three” had achieved a unity of purpose beyond the battlefield. Those expectations would never be far from FDR’s mind in the days and weeks following what would prove to be the last major public address of his life.
IN THE MEANTIME, ON THE OTHER SIDE OF THE ATLANTIC, CHURCHILL was grappling with what he called “a good deal of uneasiness” in the British Parliament over the settlement the three powers had agreed to over Poland. Some of the opposition resulted from the territorial changes that had been agreed to, as one MP put it, without the Poles being consulted as to “how their coat is to be cut.” Others were more concerned about the political consequences of the deal for Poland, particularly in light of the skepticism with which the Polish government-in-exile greeted its terms.10
Churchill did his best to counter this disquiet in a two-hour address to the House of Commons on February 27. “The impression he brought back from the Crimea,” he said, “is that Marshal Stalin and the Soviet leaders wish to live in honorable friendship and equality with the Western democracies.” He was confident that Stalin would live up to his promises. Indeed, he knew “of no other government… which stands to its obligations more solidly than the Russian Soviet Government.”11 In private, however, Churchill was less sure about the outcome of Yalta, and not only because of potential problems that might emerge from the Kremlin. Soon after the speech, he telegraphed Roosevelt in Washington to inform the president about the mood in Parliament, and to urge that “as many representative Poles as possible should be invited to the consultations in Moscow as soon as possible,” all the more so because the London Poles—who had of course been completely locked out of the negotiations at Yalta—were “playing for a breakdown.”12
Because of the US Constitution’s requirement that any formal treaty must be approved by a two-thirds vote in the US Senate, and because of the greater degree of separation between the executive and legislative branches of government in the American system, FDR faced an even more difficult task than Churchill in trying to win congressional approval for the Yalta accords. Keenly aware of Woodrow Wilson’s failure to secure Senate ratification for US participation in the League of Nations in 1920, FDR had already begun the process of trying to win Senate approval of the Charter of the United Nations by asking an equal number of Democrats and Republicans to serve on the US delegation to the San Francisco conference, where the final draft of the Charter would be negotiated. In private, the president and senior members of his administration had also explored the idea of launching a constitutional amendment to get rid of the two-thirds vote requirement for ratification of treaties in the Senate. They understood that “this would be a tough… amendment to get through,” but nevertheless argued that “the fact that it is being pushed would put the Senate on its toes when any treaty came up before it.” To bolster this effort, senior administration officials also argued that nongovernmental bodies such as “The Americans United for World Organization” should become part of this effort, doubtless as a means to further pressure the Senate to fall into line and vote to ratify the charter. In addition, FDR invited Senate Majority leader Alben Barkley to the White House for a private briefing on Yalta. There was limited time between the president’s return to Washington and his speech to Congress, so the meeting was held early on the morning of March 1—just hours before the president was to make his way to the Capitol.13
Barkley found FDR alone in his bathroom, seated in his wheelchair, and preparing to shave. “Sit down,” the president said. When Barkley asked where, FDR, “with a whimsical glint in his eyes… motioned to a certain functional stool.” Barkley complied, and remained there for well over an hour while the two men discussed the world situation in what turned out to be one of the most unusual talks the senator ever had with Franklin Roosevelt. “Every time the President would start to shave,” he later recalled, “he would become so absorbed in telling me the details of his conversation with Stalin that the lather would dry on his face and he would have to start all over again.”14
Barkley came away from the encounter convinced that the president had not underestimated Stalin—that he had
not been “taken in by him at Yalta.” Nor did he feel there was “any diminution in his mental alertness,” though it was clear that he was beginning to fail physically.” His mind, however, “was keen,” and while in retrospect FDR—like Churchill—“may have overestimated Stalin’s good faith,” in Barkley’s view this was “perfectly natural” for any member of the wartime alliance.15
After seeing the Senate Majority leader off, FDR retired to his Oval Study, to prepare for his noontime address to Congress. As in the past, the president entered the building through a private entrance in the east wing and made his way to Speaker Sam Rayburn’s office on the second floor, before making his entrance to the House Chamber. As he was about to be wheeled into Rayburn’s office, Benjamin West, a young press aide who was in a desperate rush to retrieve printed copies of the president’s address, nearly toppled the president over as he bolted out of an adjacent elevator. West smashed his head on a cast-iron wall cabinet as he flung himself sideways to avoid running into the president and the Secret Service agent who was accompanying him. A bemused FDR said, “Are you all right, young man?” To which the stunned and embarrassed West replied, “Yes, sir, I think so.” FDR reached out his hand to the young aide, who would go on to become the superintendent of the House Press Gallery over two decades later. West never forgot the president’s kind gesture, nor his sallow features. “He looked terribly bad that day.”16
ACCORDING TO THE METICULOUS NAVAL LOGS OF FDR’S JOURNEY TO Yalta, the president had traveled 13,842 miles in the previous five weeks. It was an extraordinary expedition, particularly for a man confined to a wheelchair who could manage “to walk” a short distance only with the help of rigid steel braces, a cane, and the strong arm of one of his sons or close aides. FDR had developed this technique after years of convalescence in Warm Springs, Georgia, out of a sheer determination to never be viewed by the public as a “cripple” but instead to be seen as a man who had largely recovered the use of his legs. The first sign that he had succeeded in this effort came at the Democratic Convention in 1928, when he was asked to place the name of Al Smith in nomination for president of the United States. At the same event in 1924—his first public appearance since the onset of his disease—he had made his way from the back of the stage to the podium using crutches as a crowd of more than sixteen thousand looked on in hushed silence, and then burst into rapturous applause as he grabbed the podium, threw back his head, and flashed that famous smile.17
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