The General's Women

by Susan Wittig Albert

  Dinner that night was lively—Patton had invited two Red Cross girls to join them. Afterward, Kay went to her room in the guest house to which she’d been assigned, knowing that the generals would sit up late, discussing strategy over drinks. It was well after midnight when Ike knocked on her door—with bad news.

  He had just gone to bed when Patton woke him. Patton had noticed that his wristwatch had stopped, so he turned on the BBC to learn the time. What he heard was a news bulletin. Franklin Roosevelt was dead.

  Kay’s breath caught in her throat. America without FDR—it seemed impossible. The sixty-three-year-old President had appeared so well at their picnic in Tunisia. But she knew that the war was a killer, not only of troops on the ground but of the men who were responsible for those troops. She put her hand on Ike’s arm. He was nine years younger than the President, but the war had aged him. He looked like a man in his sixties.

  “A goddamned shame,” Ike said softly. “He didn’t live long enough to see the victory. And it’s so close now. So close. So close.”

  He sat down on her bed, put his head in his hands, and wept.

  • • •

  A few days later, in the middle of April, Kay and Ike flew to London, where they had dinner with the Churchills. Ike attended a Cabinet meeting, and then he and Kay hosted her mother at an informal picnic lunch in the garden at Telegraph Cottage. Kay had visited with Kul on several of the trips back to England, but this was the first time the three of them had been together since late 1942—which seemed, Kay thought, like a century ago.

  The roses and rhododendrons were in full bloom and the garden was lovely. Ike had gone for a walk and Kay and her mother were left alone.

  Kul put her elbows on the table. “Do you remember what I asked you after we had dinner with your General Eisenhower in his rooms at the Dorchester?”

  “I’m not sure,” Kay said evasively.

  “I asked you if you were sure that you knew what you were doing.”

  Kay sighed. “I remember,” she said, wishing her mother would let it go.

  “It’s true now, too, Kathleen. Perhaps even more true. I hope very much that both of you know what you’re doing.”

  Kay looked away. “I’m afraid that things are too much of a muddle to know anything for certain, Mum. The war—”

  “We know all about the war, dear.” Her mother’s voice was sympathetic. “He’s still married, isn’t he?”

  “Yes.” Kay thought of Mamie, barricaded behind her photographs. “Please don’t ask, Mum. I don’t have any answers.”

  Her mother regarded her, a frown between her eyes. “He’s theirs, Kathleen. They’ve made him. They’ll never let you have him.”

  Kay frowned. “I don’t know what you mean. He just won this bloody war. Nobody can tell him what to do—especially in his private life.”

  “Oh, my dear.” Her mother shook her head pityingly. “You don’t know what you’re up against.”

  Kay smiled. “You think my heart will be broken, then?” she asked lightly.

  “I’m sure of it, love. Are you ready for that?”

  Kay thought of what had happened since the beginning of the Blitz, the unending horrors she had seen, the countless lives lost. What was a little personal heartbreak compared to all that?

  “Yes, I’m ready.” She smiled. “But if that’s what comes, it won’t be the end of the world, you know.”

  “I see.” Kul was silent for a moment. At last, she nodded. “I think I’ll stop worrying about you, my dear.”

  • • •

  On April 27, Benito Mussolini and his mistress, Clara Petacci, were apprehended in an attempt to escape north to the Swiss border. They were both executed.

  • • •

  On April 30, Adolf Hitler, hiding in his bunker in Berlin, shot himself. Eva Braun, his longtime companion and wife of forty hours, died of cyanide poison.

  • • •

  On May 7, at 2:41 in the morning, the surrender documents were signed in the red-brick schoolhouse in Rheims. The war in Europe was over.

  Immediately after the Germans left, General Eisenhower and his staff posed in the General’s office for the official photograph. A jubilant Ike, grinning, was holding up a pair of pens in a victory V. Kay was standing behind him and to his right, smiling happily over his shoulder.

  When the photograph was published, her image had been removed.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN:

  “The Woman Who Knows More Secrets of the War . . .”

  England—Germany—Washington, D.C.

  May–November 1945

  Two days after V-E Day, Ike, Kay, and Ike’s son John flew to London. Kay and Ike visited Telegraph Cottage again, played a couple of holes of golf, and sat on their bench holding hands, relishing the quiet time. That evening, they drove to London, to the Dorchester Hotel, for a cocktail party in General Bradley’s suite. Kul was invited, and John and his date (a friend of Kay’s, a WREN). Afterward, the six of them went to the Prince of Wales Theater to see Strike a New Note, a light-hearted song-and-dance revue. A box had been reserved for their group, and when the audience saw Ike come in, they exploded in applause.

  At last, to stop them, he stood and spoke a few words about how glad he was to be back in England: “a country,” he said, “where I can almost speak the language.” When he sat down, he gestured to Kay to sit beside him. She took her seat defiantly, even proudly. To her, it felt like a declaration, although of what, she scarcely knew—or was reluctant to imagine.

  After the theater, they went to Ciro’s, where the orchestra played “For He’s a Jolly Good Fellow,” to Ike’s delight. They had a late supper and then Kay and Ike danced together for the first time in public, among strangers. And then again, and again.

  “I love you, Kay,” Ike said, resting his cheek against her hair. His voice was deeply serious.

  “I love you too, Ike,” Kay said. “So much, so much.”

  She could feel the curious eyes on them as they danced. Ike seemed to be throwing off all attempts at discretion, to be making a public declaration of their relationship. But she had seen the official V-E Day photograph that had appeared on the front page of the Stars and Stripes. She knew that she had been erased. She remembered what her mother had said.

  He’s theirs, Kathleen. They made him. They’ll never let you have him.

  She buried her face in his shoulder and felt his arm tighten around her.

  • • •

  If the last months of the war had been like a speeded-up newsreel, the first months of the peace were even more frantic. Every day brought some new change that required Kay to bend and stretch and reach to meet it. And each change not only altered the present but the future as well, so that it became even more impossible to tell what lay ahead. All she knew was today. Just today and today. Never tomorrow.

  Telegraph Cottage was permanently closed on the last day of May. Sadly, Kay pinned a photograph of it to the wall beside her desk in her office at Frankfurt. The little house seemed more like home than anywhere she had ever lived, and her throat ached every time she looked at it.

  Ike, who had been appointed the Governor of the American Zone of Occupied Germany, was showered with honors. In Moscow, the Russians gave him the Order of Victory. In Paris, de Gaulle pinned the Compagnon de la Libération on his uniform and the French gave him a triumphant parade along boulevards jammed with cheering crowds. The British gave him the Order of Merit—the first to go to an American. But the award that he cared about most was the Freedom of the City of London, and he worked hard on his acceptance speech. Kay and Ike flew back to London for the award ceremony, which took place in the ancient Guildhall. That evening, there was a dinner for both of them at Number Ten Downing Street, with the Prime Minister and Mrs. Churchill.

  And then Ike was off to the States, for a tour that General Marshall had arranged for him. While he was gone, every morning, over her eggs and coffee, Kay read newspaper stories about his triumphal progress. He
had been greeted at the Washington airport by his wife and a crowd of some thirty thousand well-wishers. There were reports of his address to a joint session of Congress, dinner at the White House, a ticker-tape parade in New York and victory parades in cities across the country. Mrs. Eisenhower was with him in almost every photograph, beaming and waving and blowing kisses to the crowd, whose eager hands reached toward them, toward both of them. Some were carrying signs: WE LIKE IKE! and IKE FOR PRESIDENT!

  Kay stared at the photographs, hearing her mother’s voice. He’s theirs, Kathleen. They made him. They’ll never let you have him.

  And now she understood.

  • • •

  Their time together wasn’t quite over—not yet. When Ike returned from the United States, he settled into his new command: managing the American occupation forces in Germany from headquarters in Frankfurt. He expected to be there until Japan was defeated, and he wanted Kay with him.

  But there was some time for actual vacationing. They spent a precious week at Sous le Vent, where they slept together every night, not caring who knew it. In August, they went fishing with Beetle in Bavaria. Later that month, they visited Mark Clark in Salzburg and went to see Berchtesgaden, Hitler’s mountain hideaway. There were always photographs snapped on these trips. Kay had learned to stay out of camera range, but now Ike insisted that she stand beside him when the photographers wanted photos. She wondered if he had seen the official photograph of V-E Day and wanted to somehow make up for what had happened—or perhaps to defy whoever had taken her out of the picture.

  And one afternoon, back in Frankfurt, he offered her a gold and platinum Cartier cigarette case decorated with a ring of five sapphire stars and a sapphire-studded clip. It had been given to him by General de Gaulle after V-E Day. Inside the case, de Gaulle’s name had been engraved, in his own handwriting.

  “The sapphires match your eyes, Kay,” Ike said. “It was a personal gift, so it’s mine to give.”

  It was on the tip of Kay’s tongue to say Oh, yes, thank you! What a wonderful gift! But instead, she heard herself saying “I’d love to, Ike, but I don’t think I ought to take it. It’s too valuable. And if de Gaulle ever found out, he’d be insulted.”

  Ike scowled at her. “You have the damnedest way of turning down my offers,” he growled, and she knew he was thinking of the uniform. He thought for a moment, then nodded. “I suppose you’re right. Now I’ll have to come up with something else for you.”

  It was a summer for traveling. Ike flew to Berlin and back every day during the Potsdam conference—and the new American president, Harry S. Truman, came to visit the General’s Frankfurt office in the huge IG Farben Building, where Kay and the rest of the staff were personally introduced to him. After that, Ike was off again, this time by himself, to Luxembourg, Warsaw, Belfast, Brussels, Moscow, Amsterdam, and Prague.

  While the Boss was gone, Kay traveled, too, with Averell Harriman, the U.S. ambassador to the Soviet Union, and his daughter Kathy, who was by now a good friend. The three of them visited Copenhagen, Vienna, Budapest, and Moscow. In Moscow, she attended the world-famous Bolshoi Ballet, visited the Kremlin, and heard the Red Army men’s choir sing “It’s A Long Way to Tipperary” in Russian, just for her.

  Tipperary was not far from Inish Beg, and the sweet, remembered melody made her homesick for Ireland. But she had indeed come a long, long way. She had no idea where the future was taking her or what kind of life she would lead. But she knew she couldn’t go back.

  • • •

  She had just returned from Moscow when Ike called her into his office and told her she was going to Washington.

  “Washington?” she asked in surprise. “Why?”

  He grinned at her, obviously pleased with himself. “You wouldn’t take the cigarette case when I offered it to you. But you can’t turn this down, Irish. I’m sending you to Washington to take out your citizenship papers. The State Department will expedite your application.”

  “Citizenship papers?” she squeaked.

  He took off his reading glasses and leaned back in his chair. “Marshall is retiring at the end of the year, and I’m to take his job as Army Chief of Staff. I want you with me, Kay. It’ll be easier to keep you on the staff if you’ve already applied to be a citizen.” He gave her an intent look, hesitating, measuring his words, speaking deliberately. “I want you to come with me. Will you?”

  Kay was trembling. She did indeed want to become an American—had wanted that for a very long time. But she wasn’t a naive young girl, venturing out into the world for the first time. She knew what Eisenhower was saying. He intended to stay with his wife, for (she thought) good and honorable reasons, reasons she knew and understood and, yes, respected. He was a good and honorable man, but he was also ambitious. He was obviously a rising star in the American political world. He could be anything he wanted to be. We Like Ike. Ike for President. Yes, that too, if he chose.

  But he also loved her. He wanted to continue being what they had been, together. He wanted her to continue to work with him, to be his lover. There would be no marriage, no children, and if there was a cottage hidden away somewhere, their visits would be brief—and secretive. Would she go with him, under those terms?

  She thought of everything they had done together in the past three and a half years—all the victories, the losses, the triumphs, the disappointments. Of the thousands of miles they had driven and flown together, many of them in desperately difficult conditions. Of the thousands of hours of work, the too-brief hours of intimacy.

  She thought of today, today, and today. Did she dare to think of tomorrow?

  She thought of all that, and then nodded. “Yes,” she said.

  He bent to kiss her.

  • • •

  On November 1, Kay flew from Frankfurt to Washington in the General’s Skymaster, traveling with Ambassador Robert Murphy and General Lucius Clay, the deputy military governor. This time, the schedule was less rushed, the weather was decent, and there were no uncomfortable parties with army wives. She went to the State Department and applied to become a citizen, saw a few friends, and took a quick trip to New York for some shopping. Everywhere, she was as discreet as she could be. She didn’t want any attention from the newspapers.

  But somebody in the State Department must have leaked the news about her application. It caught the attention of political journalist Doris Fleeson, who wrote a daily column for the Washington Evening Star that was syndicated to newspapers around the country. Fleeson’s November 5 column was headlined WAC AIDE OF EISENHOWER FLIES TO U.S. TO SEEK CITIZENSHIP. Kay sat on the bed in her hotel room, smoking one cigarette after another as she read and reread it, feeling more and more vulnerable.

  “The woman who knows more secrets of the war than any other member of her sex is in this country exploring the possibilities of becoming an American citizen,” Fleeson wrote. She reported that Eisenhower was expected to return to the Pentagon to become Army Chief of Staff. “Presumably, like other secretaries, Lt. Summersby is eager to take steps in time to hold on to her good job when and if her present employer changes stations. But it would be an unlikely situation that would find a British subject holding a post as administrative assistant in Washington to an American Chief of Staff.” In an acerbic aside, Fleeson added that Kay held the rank of a WAC lieutenant. “Just how this was managed WAC headquarters here cannot say and they have no record regarding it.”

  It was a hurtful piece. Kay was dismayed at its sardonic assumption about secretaries’ ambitions—and about the suggestion that there were hard feelings in WAC headquarters about her commission. That, she feared, might be very real, although it surely wouldn’t cause trouble for Ike. When he became Chief of Staff, he’d be the most powerful man in the army, second only to the Commander in Chief.

  But when she thought about it, what troubled her even more was the possibility that Mamie—and perhaps even General Marshall—might read the column. But surely not, she thought, trying to comfor
t herself. It was so obviously one of those tittle-tattle gossipy pieces, designed to make the writer look as if she were in the know. In London, such things appeared all the time. Lots of people read them, yes, and they sold newspapers. But nobody took them seriously.

  Still, Fleeson’s column spoiled the rest of the trip. She ordered room service for supper and stayed out of sight until it was time to go to the airport. She was anxious to return to Germany, and Ike.

  • • •

  Back in Frankfurt, Ike was also having a difficult time. In fact, he thought the goddamned war was easier to manage than the unmerciful hell he’d been going through for the past few months. From the time he had been able to admit that he loved Kay, he had told himself that it was only a wartime romance. Yes, she was an extraordinary woman, and their relationship had been a comfort and a refuge for him. It had kept him sane, during pressure-filled months when he’d thought the lid was going to blow off the whole crazy world. But his loyalty belonged to his wife, to Mamie, and he had fully intended to return to her after the war. He had assured her of that almost every time he wrote—because he really meant it, damn it. Meant every word of it.

  But in the weeks just after V-E Day, when the war pressures eased up and he had to make decisions about the future, he had begun to reflect how deeply he loved Kay, how much he needed her, how goddamned much he hated the idea of giving her up. What he wanted, more than anything else, was to marry her and have a baby—hell, two babies, three, however many the good Lord saw fit to send them. To live somewhere quiet where he could fish and write his memoirs and put the war behind him—maybe in England or Scotland. He’d have to retire from the army, but wasn’t it time for that, anyway? He’d given his country the past thirty years; surely to God he could lay his own claim to the next thirty. He deserved that, didn’t he? Hell, yes, he deserved it, and then some. Kay made him happy, happier than he had ever imagined he could be. She made him more of a man, too, than he’d been in nearly a decade. And that was no small thing, for chrissakes.