Unexpected Gifts (23 page)

“See my pistol?” the first lady called out across the White House lawn to Hick and me a few weeks later, proudly displaying her gun-filled holster. Outfitted in new jodhpurs, high boots, and riding cap, she made quite a picture.

“Eleanor, you're being ridiculous,” Hick shouted back. Then, muttering to me, “If she had taken those threatening letters seriously and accepted the Secret Service, she wouldn't have to even carry a gun.”

“Threatening letters? Why does she refuse their escort?”

“Adriana, you're going to learn a lot about Eleanor. She does what she wants and nobody can tell her otherwise.”

I loved the Roosevelts' rambunctious get-togethers as well. After our conferences, I'd walk past the back lawn, the sound of giggles, shrieks, and singing of her grandchildren surrounding me like a live concert. Sistie, Sara, Ruth, and little Buzzie were obviously having the time of their lives and suddenly, I thought of Rose. How lonely she seemed in our quiet, joyless apartment. And poor Daria, trying so hard to nurture Rose, unaided by a husband, vacant both physically and emotionally. I continued on to my own mother, cowed by Papa, unable to create the kind of vibrancy so apparent in this boisterous family. Was I to blame? Should I have stayed with Mama when she pleaded so hard? Should I be more attentive to my niece and sister-in-law now? I pondered, as I went over to Val-Kill for a Rundown-of-the-Week's-Events meeting with Hick.

When I arrived, Eleanor was already there. “Adriana, I have heard such good things about you from Hick. Are you enjoying your job?” She leaned in so close, I could smell her lavender toilet water.

“Yes, it is a great opportunity.”

She smiled. “Tell me a little bit about your family. Are you, ah, close to them?”

“No, not really. I didn't have a great childhood.”

Her eyes turned wise. “I know about that. What was the problem? If you don't mind my asking.”

Mind? I was flattered beyond belief. “My father was terrible to us. He didn't start out that way, but something happened to him before we came to this country.”

“That sounds similar to my father. After my mother died, he changed. Did he drink? Mine did, well, tell me about yours.”

“He made me feel ugly. He made fun of me.”

“My mother called me Granny.” Eleanor's voice turned bitter.

“My God. My father used to say I was like a woman, old before my time!”

She cleared her throat. “Ah, perhaps we are kindred spirits, my dear.”

I nodded, looking down.

“Just remember, Adriana, the bottom line is, a woman is like a teabag; you never know how strong she is until you put her in hot water.”

That made me laugh and as the famous First Lady's female reporters filed into the room, Eleanor reached out to give my hand a gentle squeeze before taking the floor, leaving me with the strongest feeling that with her around, we would all be safe.

Our next journey took Hick and me across the U.S., to delve into general living conditions in 1934 America. We stopped in one neglected small town after another, each one possessing a hard gripping poverty that could turn the heartiest person into a skeleton.

Out in California, a transplanted Oakie said it best. “I have worked hard my whole life and all I have is my broken body,” he grunted, his stubbled face highlighted by flecks of gray, his collar threadbare by multiple washings, and as he hobbled away from me, his bowed, ricketed legs reminded me of a wishbone lumbering off into the distance.

In Chicago, we stopped at the apartment of a tubercular mother. Her torn housedress was pinned together haphazardly, her greasy hair like an oil slick on the road and her black, hollowed eyes tracking through me as if I weren't really there asking any questions. When I requested a chance to see their bedroom, I noticed her picking unconsciously at bedbug bites on her arms before nodding yes.

The bedroom walls were completely covered with flattened Post Toasties Corn flakes boxes for warmth, the one iron bed gritted in rust and dirt. Five frail children sat or lay on the punctured mattress, their faces and bodies caked with soot, their eyes already registering shame. I gave them their privacy by returning to the main room, but not before I heard one of them toss out a question to her siblings, “Do you think they have food for us?”

I calmly wished the poor mother well; however, outside on the landing it was a different story. “If only we could force Congress to witness this!” I cried, one hand fisted down at my side, the other busy wiping away a tear.

“Oh, Adriana, I know it's bad, but you've got to buck up. We're reporters. We have a job to do, for God's sake,” Hick snapped, and as I shadowed her down the tottering stairs and back to the hotel where we were staying, two thoughts passed through my mind; how differently Eleanor would have reacted to this whole scene and how come they were such good friends?

I was right about the First Lady. She was sensitive enough to recognize my need for a bit of rest and giving me the weekend off, suggested I spend quality time with my own family. That was my cue. I would devote myself entirely to Tony, Daria, and Rose no matter what.

But since when had my little adoring brother, the one who used to follow me around like a well-trained puppy, ready to do my bidding, become such an unhappy man? When did alcohol replace everyone and everything?

I walked into our apartment to the strains of
Amos n' Andy.

I was appalled. “How can you listen to those two?”

From the sofa Tony looked up at me with sleepy, bloodshot eyes.

I continued. “You know, Amos n' Andy aren't really Negroes. They are two white actors named Freeman Godsen and Charles Correll.”

“So? Who cares? They're funny.”

“Tony, listen. They're making a mockery of the entire Negro population in this country, don't you get it?”

A wide-gestured swat was his answer.

I turned to my niece. “Hey, Rose. What are you doing?”

Her mouth was locked into pursed position. “Nothing,” she muttered, arranging and rearranging the line-up of her dolls and sparse china tea cup collection in slow motion.

Just then, the
Father Charles Coughlin
program came on the radio. I stiffened and reached out to turn the knob.

“Don't you dare touch it!” Tony snarled. “I wanna hear him. You got to listen to your damn Roosevelt, now it's my turn!”

The next half hour was filled with pure venom. Apparently, FDR's New Deal was just a Communist plot designed by Jewish bankers and labor union bosses and thus, only the very wealthy could save the country. As one of the most powerful men in America sermonized, I kissed Rose goodnight and gave a gentle pat to Daria's back, a tight smile stretched across my lips. I thought of my own mother after we had moved to Detroit, singing Tony lullabies From the Old Country, trying so hard to remain peaceful and loving while in the next room, a furious Andrei was relentlessly railing against everything.

By Monday I was more than ready to get back to work.

In recent years, the small town of Jere, West Virginia, was the site of various coal miners' strikes. Nicknamed Bloody Run, it was also an area where the brown muck of mine waste and human feces ran down the hills and emptied into the Monogahela River, and it was also there that Eleanor Roosevelt had decided, against the advice of many government insiders, to create the country's first Utopia:
Arthurdale.

“But we're in the middle of a depression, Eleanor,” Hick complained as we sat perched on first-class cushioned train seats on route to our designated area. “How are you possibly going to pass this funding by FDR, let alone Congress?”

“Don't be so snide, dear. Franklin actually supports me in my effort and besides, Congress is about to pass funding. I believe with all my heart that if we can give these people back their dignity and let them be self-sufficient, then we will have played a great part in helping America. Don't you agree, Adriana?”

I wasn't so sure, but was thrilled that she even bothered to ask. “I suppose only time will tell, but I do hope it all turns out wonderfully.”

“That's what I like about you, Adriana. You're always open to new things.” She ignored Hick's snorts.

“Vere, next stop. Next stop, Vere!” the conductor bellowed.

Having been shown our meager lodgings, I could tell an already irritated Hick wasn't exactly pleased with being told she was to share a room with me, but by nightfall, none of that mattered. We were just a small part of the packed crowd watching Eleanor dance the Virginia Reel with one miner after another at their local town hall. Appalachian fiddlers, pounding heels on the wooden floor, and waves of claps and cheers energized the room to the point of vibration. They loved her.

Two weeks later, armed with a twenty-five million dollar endowment for the Subsistence Homestead Program under the auspices of the National Industrial Recovery Act and FDR's “Go-Ahead,” Eleanor met with the Homesteaders Committee, to set up an intense first fifty family application process.

Eleanor immediately made it abundantly clear that this was a Democratic Process. She was only there to help implement things, and whichever family the committee named, she would back up their decision. But after several weeks, she lamented bitterly to us. “I made a mistake. These people are refusing to let any of the Negro families in their new community. They claim that by admitting Negroes, they will lose the respect of the rest of the community. My God,” she moaned.

“Well, Eleanor, you set it up that way.” Hick's voice iced through the room.

“Even so, it's not fair and you know it, Hick,” Eleanor retorted. “I specifically urged these Negro families to apply, and over two hundred of them did. Oh, I feel so bad…”

“Where will they go?” I asked.

“They're talking about eventually setting them up at a different location, like they did with the Jewish families. Jew Hill they called it, with only one public outhouse for the entire community. The hygiene problems were horrendous, as you can well imagine.” She sank down into a chair.

Within two months, the homesteaders were ecstatic as they watched luxurious indoor plumbing for bathrooms and kitchen sinks, along with homemade furniture, being installed. But back in Washington, Eleanor was bombarded by the press, her husband's cabinet and quietly, ever so gently, by FDR himself. The Arthurdale Community was costing far more money than had been previously agreed upon and with so much of America out of work, the general gossip was that Eleanor's pet project was becoming a liability for the presidency.

Out of curiosity, I studied some of the larger programs FDR and Congress were instigating. A special branch of the WPA (Works Project Administration), where thousands of artists, musicians, and writers were given ninety four dollars and ninety cents a month just to create. That was amazing to me. Canvases were being painted by the likes of Jackson Pollock, Willem de Kooning, and Ben Shahn. Actors sprang up everywhere entertaining America, and an unknown writer named John Steinbeck was just launching his career.

The CCC (Civilian Conservation Corps) planted trees, dug drainage ditches, cleared beaches, campgrounds, and built firebreaks. It gave over two million jobs, at thirty dollars a month, to young indigent men from families on relief, turning them into proud firefighters and park rangers.

But according to Hick, it was the PWA, (Public Works Administration), that was FDR's real pride and joy. Huge construction projects started immediately: The Pennsylvania Railroad electrical system, the New York Lincoln Tunnel, the Washington, D.C. Mall, the Federal Trade Commission, and last but certainly not least, Boulder Dam, which held back the Colorado River.

It was heady times for me, assisting in such noble causes, but just watching Eleanor and Hick's close friendship, I began to see how spending time with
my
family had a new urgency attached to it. But it was not to be. Arriving back in D.C., Eleanor surreptitiously pulled me aside, explaining she had specific plans for just me, plans that she knew Hick couldn't handle, and there was simply no time to see my family.

“What plans would that be?”

“Race relations and prejudice,” she replied, stepping in closer.