Mrs. Roosevelt's Confidante (9 page)

Von Braun loved rockets, and his goal, ever since he was a boy, had been to put a man on the moon. Now, all his boyhood dreams were coming true. Hitler had funded the rocket program to build a large-scale ballistic missile to destroy and demoralize the British. Von Braun's rockets, the Nazis hoped, would decide the outcome of the war.

Von Braun rose, wiped his sweaty palms on his jacket, and went to greet Todt.

The rocket was enormous, over thirteen tons. It stood nearly forty feet high and five feet wide, covered in black and white panels, and was the world's first large-scale, liquid-propelled rocket. Men in dark coveralls and heavy black boots who worked in the massive rocket's shadow looked like ants as they made last-minute adjustments.

Von Braun, Todt, and other Nazi scientists and officers gathered in a concrete bunker under packed earth, a safe distance away, to observe the launch.

“We call this one
Washington, D.C
.
,
” von Braun told Todt.

Todt glanced at him. “I thought these were for use on London and British production sites?”

“For now.” Von Braun's eyes were alight. “Tomorrow—who knows? We've started naming our rockets—
New York, Philadelphia,
and
Boston,
too.”

While the workers ran for cover, the two men watched through periscopes as orange flames shot from the rocket's base. There was an earsplitting rumble and vibrations that rattled their very bones as the flames ignited. Against all rules of credibility, the
Washington, D.C.,
rose, slowly, slowly, then faster and faster. As it climbed higher, von Braun whispered, “It's broken the sound barrier!”

All at once, without warning, the rocket veered right—off course. It rolled and tumbled, finally crashing to the shore in a red fireball.

Von Braun's shoulders slumped.

One of the engineers said, “Sorry, Herr von Braun.”

“Shut up,” he hissed. Then, to himself, “The engines are underpowered. We still can't control them in flight.”

“It's a fragile and expensive weapon.” He heard the words inches from his ear.

He looked to Todt, and the two men locked eyes. Von Braun said, “Sir, we believe a rocket can reach the speed of five thousand kilometers per hour in only thirty seconds. Once we fix the rudders…”

Todt clapped the younger man on the back. “We will continue to fund the project, Herr von Braun. But not forever. I will be back before the new year to see your progress.”

Von Braun's face paled, and the scientists and engineers looked down at their polished boots. “That's not very much time!”

“Yes, I know,” Todt agreed. “But your project here is excessively expensive and taking a huge percentage of our resources—without anything we can use.” His eyes narrowed. “And we need more men to fight in the East.” He raised his hand. “Heil Hitler!”

Von Braun straightened and lifted his chin. “Heil Hitler!”

The next morning, Maggie took John to a diner for breakfast. As bells pinged, a waitress called to the kitchen, “Two eggs, sunny-side up!” A radio in the corner played a tinny version of Glenn Miller's “Jingle Bells.”

“There's so much food,” John said in awe, surveying the Formica-topped table in front of them, piled high with plates. “I don't think I've ever seen so many eggs in one place in my entire life.” It was hot and close in the diner, which smelled of grease and damp wool coats. Maggie had ordered for them—scrambled eggs, bacon, orange juice, and coffee with cream. A glass dispenser full to the brim with sugar stood on each table.

She nodded, taking a forkful of eggs, ignoring the din of conversation around her. All the booths, tables, and even the seats at the counter were full. “It's insane, isn't it? Look, about last night—”

“I understand,” John interrupted, reaching for his mug. “Mrs. R needed you.”

“Well,” Maggie continued, looking up through her eyelashes. “Maybe tonight?”

David slid into the booth with them before John could reply. “Knew I'd find you two here! Concierge at the Mayflower said he told you about this place.”

Maggie and John exchanged a look of
so much for privacy.

“Merciful Minerva, it's a real pea souper out there!” David declared, referring to the fog. He shrugged out of his coat and slapped a newspaper on the table. The headline was
THE QUESTION OF JAPANESE AMERICANS.

“Old Man gave me the morning off, so I thought I'd tootle around Washington. Oh, heavens and little fishes, is that bacon? And so much of it! Mind if I have some?” He grabbed for John's strips without waiting for an answer. John smacked his hand, causing the strips to fall back to the plate.

Maggie grinned. “I thought you were Jewish.”

“Not
that
Jewish,” David said as he snatched a slice from John's plate and chewed, eyes squeezed shut in ecstasy. “Ambrosia! Food of the gods!” A waitress stopped at their table, her hips round beneath her uniform. Her bottle-blond hair was coming loose from under her gingham cap, a yellow pencil stuck behind one ear.

“Wattayawant, hon?” she asked, withdrawing the pencil.

David looked helplessly at Maggie.

Maggie patted his arm. “She asked you if you wanted anything. For yourself, that is. And she called you ‘honey.' ”

“Oh!” He looked to the menu. It was enormous. “Please tell her I'll need a minute.”

“Tell her yourself!”

David looked up. “I. Need. A. Minute. Please,” he said to the waitress. “Thank. You.”

Maggie looked up at her. “Thanks.”

“No problem, sweetie.” The waitress leaned down a little closer to Maggie. “My brother's a bit slow like that, too. Bless their hearts.”

Maggie suppressed a giggle. David, deep into study of the menu, didn't notice. “Jumping Jupiter, did you know they've crossed off hamburgers and written in ‘liberty patties'? And they're calling spaghetti ‘freedom noodles'? And what is this ‘French toast'?”

“It's similar to
pain perdu,
” Maggie said.

“I'll have that!” he declared.

“Great,” Maggie said; she ordered. “And do you want coffee or tea?”

“
Don't
get the tea,” John muttered.

“I'll have coffee, then—that Whitmanesque beverage of energy and freedom!”

“A coffee and French toast please,” Maggie told the waitress. “Do you want bacon or sausage?” she asked David.

“You can have either?” He was shocked.

Maggie knew her friend's voracious appetite. “He'll have both.”

“This isn't America,” he declared, grabbing the creamer and flipping the lid. “This is
heaven
! Maggie, do you think there's any chance we could go to some sort of sporting event? Maybe a baseball game?”

She shook her head. “Baseball season's over, I'm afraid. As a Bostonian, I'm a loyal Red Sox fan. And I'm sorry to say that the Yankees won this year—beat the Brooklyn Dodgers.”

“Won? Won what?”

“The World Series, of course.”

David knit his brows. “Do any other countries play in this so-called World Series?”

“Er, no,” Maggie admitted.

“I see. All right then—are there any sports we
can
see now? This so-called American football? Hockey?”

“Football's over, too. The Bears won.”

“The Bears!” He rubbed his hands together. “I love it!”

“It's Christmas,” Maggie explained. “So it's still hockey season. I'm a Boston Bruins fan, I'll have you know—but there aren't any games this week.”

David looked disappointed.

“If you're keen on going to a sporting event, I'm seeing Aunt Edith on Christmas Eve day—holidays with her often feel like ten rounds in the ring,” Maggie announced. “I'll be going before the Prime Minister's speech—I've already cleared it with him. We're meeting at Peacock Alley at the Willard for tea. Would you care to join?”

“As tempting as the offer is,” David said, “I'll be with the Prime, as they seem to call him here—but I'll do my best. John, I'll see to it you can go.” Though they were still best friends, David did everything possible to remind John who was now in charge.

“Oh, thank you so very, very much,” John managed.

“Oh,” Maggie said, realizing. “I need to get her a Christmas present!”

“Yes!” David said, as the waitress put down his plate and coffee mug with a bang. “Shopping! What fun! There are things here in shops that one can actually purchase!”

John sighed. “Last night I was invited to a party.”

Maggie lifted an eyebrow. “Really? By whom?”

“Some ridiculously rich woman and her entourage. Of course I'll get out of it.” He reached for Maggie's hand under the table. They clasped hands, smiling at each other.

“Oh, for Saint Peter's sake, stop it, both of you,” David growled through a mouthful of sausage. “You'll put me off my breakfast.”

They ate in genial silence, then David glanced up at the clock. “Suffering Sukra! Come on, we must dash! Get the bill, won't you, old chap?” he said to John.

John went to settle up at the cash register, and Maggie followed. As he paid, he murmured in her ear, “Tonight.”

She reached for his hand.

“Come on, lovebirds!” David was at the diner's front door. “Chop, chop! Mustn't be late on our first day!”

Outside in the dreary, cold mist, a Salvation Army officer in dark blue uniform rang a bell and called for donations while a brass quartet played Vera Lynn's “The Little Boy That Santa Claus Forgot” behind her. Several colored men wearing wool caps leaned up against the brick wall of the alley, eating egg sandwiches. A young girl with coppery skin and a worn coat passed out flyers. “You can save an innocent life!” she called, as an exhausted-looking young mother pushed a carriage and a gray-haired man in a tweed hat walked his pug.

“Why are those men eating in the alley? Why aren't they inside?” David asked Maggie.

“Segregation,” she responded, pointing at the W
HITES
O
NLY
sign in the window, next to an American flag. “They order at the kitchen door there, then eat in the alley. It's not so bad in Boston, where I'm from.”

“Do you—they—you—have segregation in the North?” David's awe of America was evaporating.

They were interrupted by the girl, who handed Maggie a flyer. “Please come,” the girl said, looking up at the trio with large eyes. “Hear Miz Andi and Mother Cotton speak about Wendell Cotton, and help them save him from the electric chair.”

Maggie looked down at the thin piece of paper as David took several. “Thank you, miss.”

John read as they walked through the polluted mist. “The electric chair?”

David shuddered. “I had no idea you Yanks were so savage.”

“Yes, the death penalty. And Britain has it as well.” Maggie sighed. “Again, I'm from Massachusetts. It's not used as frequently there, and many of us hope they'll do away with it for good soon.”

“But it's used more often here?”

Maggie glanced at the flyer and frowned. “In Virginia, where this man is scheduled to be executed, yes.”

“In 'thirty-eight, the issue of the end of capital punishment was brought before Parliament,” John noted. “A clause within the Criminal Justice Bill called for an experimental five-year suspension of the death penalty. When war broke out, the bill was postponed.”

“What was Mr. Churchill's position on it?” Maggie asked.

“I've heard him say, ‘Contemplate that if Hitler falls into our hands we shall certainly put him to death,' ” John responded.

David added, in his best Churchill impression: “ ‘And the American electric chair, no doubt, will be available to us on lend-lease.' ”

Overnight, the White House had been transformed into a winter wonderland. Walking in, Maggie, John, and David were met by the delicious smell of evergreens. A tub of box trees had been set up on the portico, while two tall pine trees stood guard on each side of the front door.

Inside, almost every surface was covered in garlands and greenery. All the windows of the lower floor had wreaths, and the front hall was resplendent with red poinsettias in carved stone tubs. The Blue Room and East Room, as well as the West Hall upstairs, boasted Christmas trees decked out with colored lights and shining tin ornaments. But the two world leaders—exhausted by their late night's work—were still asleep.

Their staffs were wide awake, though, and hard at work. In the Prime Minister's map room, David went over the P.M.'s “box.” Momentarily free, Maggie read the flyer.

WENDELL COTTON is innocent!

Wendell Cotton is in Virginia today under sentence of death!

ANDREA MARTIN, a well-known writer

and liberal leader, will speak.

Tuesday, December 23, at 8 o'clock in the evening

Metropolitan Baptist Church, 1400 1st Street NW

(at the intersection of 1st and P)

ADMISSION FREE

There was a bellow through the thick oak door. “Miss Hope! Hope! I must have Hope!”

Maggie recognized the voice instantly. “Coming, Mr. Churchill!” she called, scooping up the portable noiseless typewriter and taking it with her to the Rose Bedroom.

The P.M. was sitting up in bed, dressed in his favorite monogrammed silk pajamas and emerald silk robe embroidered with dragons. The satin-covered down quilt and linen bedclothes were hopelessly tangled, and newspapers littered the floor.

“Sit!” he barked at Maggie.

“Sir, I wanted to tell you—”

He ignored her and chewed on his unlit cigar. “For the War Cabinet,” he said without a preamble, and began to dictate: “There was general agreement that if Hitler was held in Russia he must try something else, and that the most probable line was Spain and Portugal en route to North Africa…”

Maggie's typing was rusty, but she'd had a chance to practice on the trip across the Atlantic. And now it felt just like old times, when she'd typed for him on her noiseless Remington at Number Ten during the Blitz.

Churchill lit the cigar, inhaled, then continued: “There was general agreement that it was vital to forestall the Germans….The President said that he was anxious that American land forces should give their support as quickly as possible wherever they could be most helpful, and favored the idea of a plan to move into North Africa being prepared…with or without the Vichy French's invitation. It was agreed to remit the study of the project to Staffs….”

When finished, he waved a hand, blurring the blue smoke. “Gimme,” he demanded.

She handed the paper to him.

He read it over. “Give it to Mr. Greene and have him send it as a telegram.” He looked at her. “How did it go last night?”

Maggie swallowed. “Sir, I went with Mrs. Roosevelt to Blanche Balfour's apartment. The young woman was dead—apparently committed suicide in the bathtub. She left a note—
allegedly
left a note—saying that Mrs. Roosevelt…” Maggie wasn't sure how to put it. “Mrs. Roosevelt's, er…attentions…had made her uncomfortable…”

There was a long moment as the Prime Minister's cigar burned. “What? What's that?”

This was no time for delicacy. “In the note, she alleges that Mrs. Roosevelt made sexual advances to her. And there's something else, sir. When I say I took the note, I mean I took a notepad that still had the imprint of a note. The note itself was missing. And no, it wasn't in the trash.”

Churchill stood, his ankles thin and white, covered in ginger and white hairs. “Bloody hell!”

“Yes, sir. Someone must have snuck in after Blanche had written it and taken it. For what purpose, I don't know. But it hasn't been released to the press. Yet. Whoever took it either meant to protect the First Lady. Or to use it at some point for blackmail.”

The P.M. nodded. “Two quite different scenarios.”

“I called the police,” Maggie continued, “anonymously, of course—and took the notepad. We left, and later I burned it in the fireplace.”

The Prime Minister paced in front of the bedroom's mantel. “You did well, Miss Hope.”

“Thank you, sir. And I don't think there's any truth in it, sir. The allegation, that is.”

Churchill turned to the fireplace, watching the reddish orange flames dance. “Hmmm. And the actual note is, as far as we know, still at large.”

“Yes, sir. Which is troubling. And I'm also concerned about the First Lady's enemies. She has plenty, she says, starting with Mr. Hoover and ending with the Ku Klux Klan.”

“Those damn fools who run around in white bedsheets?”