Bess Truman (40 page)

Three days later, Bess arrived on schedule and went to work as First Lady. A letter she wrote to me in October gives us a good idea of how frantic some days could be. Dad was speaking at the UN in the late afternoon. Bess stayed in Washington to attend the Community Chest luncheon, keeping a promise she had made to one of her close friends among the Senate wives.

Later in the fall of 1946, Bess launched the first full-fledged White House social season since 1941. It was, to quote Edith Helm, “pressed down and running over” because there now had to be two of everything where only one had done the job before the war.

In 1916, when Mrs. Helm went to work for Mrs. Woodrow Wilson, there were only thirty-five chiefs of mission (diplomatic jargon for ambassadors) in Washington. In 1946, there were sixty-two. The official guest lists (VIP’s of all stripes and nationalities) had doubled from 1,000 to 2,000. The State Dining Room, which seated 104, could not hold all the chiefs of mission and their wives at one dinner so there had to be two dinners. The official receptions, which, believe it or not, could handle 1,000 guests in the good old days, also had to be twinned to keep everyone happy.

Here, from Mrs. Helm’s records, is a list of the Trumans’ official entertaining for that first season.

November 26, Tuesday, Diplomatic Dinner, 8 p.m.

December 3, Tuesday, Diplomatic Dinner, 8 p.m.

December 10, Tuesday, Judicial Reception, 9 p.m.

December 17, Tuesday, Cabinet Dinner, 8 p.m.

January 7, Tuesday, Diplomatic Reception, 9 p.m.

January 14, Tuesday, Dinner to the Chief Justice and the Supreme Court, 8 p.m.

January 21, Tuesday, Reception to the Officials of the Treasury, Post Office, Interior, Agriculture, Commerce and Labor Departments and Federal Agencies, 9 p.m.

January 28, Tuesday, Dinner to the President Pro Tempore of the Senate, 8 p.m.

February 4, Tuesday, Army and Navy Reception, 9 p.m.

February 11, Tuesday, Speaker’s Dinner, 8 p.m.

February 18, Tuesday, Congressional Reception, 9 p.m.

These, of course, were only the highlights of a schedule that included innumerable teas, luncheons, and personal appearances to cut ribbons and to beam on various groups from the Washington Committee for National Civilian Rehabilitation to the Girl Scouts.

For the official dinners and receptions, Dad and Mother decided to revive the “Little Procession,” which had been dropped during the Roosevelt years because of FDR’s crippled condition. Here is how it went on one of the most spectacular evenings, the Diplomatic Reception. At about 8:30 p.m., the ambassadors arrived in splendid uniforms or full evening dress, their coats ablaze with decorations. They marched into the East Room, four abreast. Meanwhile, the Cabinet members and their wives were being greeted by Dad and Mother in the president’s study on the second floor.

At 8:45 p.m., four young servicemen, led by an officer, came to the door of the study and asked permission to remove the colors. These were the flag of the United States and the president’s own flag, flanking his desk. The president gave his permission, and two of the young men removed the flags. They saluted and marched down the stairs and took stations to the right and left of the door leading to the Blue Room.

As the clock struck nine, the president and the First Lady began the “Little Procession.” They descended the stairs, followed by the Cabinet members and their wives. Dad and Mother, looking dignified (my friend Drucie Snyder and I were practically falling over the upstairs railing to see all this), took up positions beneath the chandelier in the Blue Room. The Cabinet retreated to the Red Room, and my parents began greeting the representatives of the nations of the world on behalf of the United States.

Dad loved this aspect of his presidency. He thought the pomp and ceremony encouraged respect as well as friendship for the office and the American nation. Gradually, Mother came to feel the same way.

After shaking hands with the president and First Lady, the diplomats were escorted into the Red Room to meet the Cabinet. Then everyone went to the State Dining Room, where coffee, tea, sandwiches, and cake were served, and the Marine Band played dance music until midnight.

It was exhausting to shake hands with 1,000 people and get up the next day and perhaps shake hands with another 300 at a tea. There sometimes were two teas in a single day. Toward the close of the social season, Mother wrote to me: “These two weeks are really going to be a handshaking two weeks - conservative estimate forty-one hundred - I’ll be plenty glad when February 19th arrives!” When someone asked her how she did it, she laughed and said: “I have a strong tennis arm.”

The truth was somewhat more painful. Mother wrote me two letters about the February 1947 reception for Lord Alexander, the governor general of Canada, and his wife. “They arrive at four for tea, then dinner & the lengthy reception. Help! (or leave off the “p” and add an “L”).” The next day she wrote to tell me how much she liked the handsome British couple. She added almost casually: “The reception of course was horrible - 1341 - & my arm is a wreck this a.m.”

During the fall of 1946, Mother rang down the curtain on another White House activity that had attracted a lot of attention from the press: her Spanish class. In the fall of 1945, a friend had persuaded her that it might be good for inter-American relations - and also good publicity for the Trumans - if the First Lady invited a group of Cabinet wives and prominent Washingtonians to study the language with her in the White House. Study groups were an old independence tradition, and Mother said yes. Soon she was meeting each week in the White House library with Mr. Ramon Ramos, a dignified, earnest professor of Spanish, and a dozen ladies, including Graham Black, Supreme Court Justice Hugo Black’s wife, Margaret Patterson, wife of Army Secretary Robert Patterson, and Mamie Eisenhower.

I had more than enough studying to do at George Washington University, so I stayed away from this sideshow. But Dad and I got a lot of laughs from listening to Mother’s complaints about some of the members of the class, who apparently thought it was a strictly social occasion and never looked at a book from one week to the next. Mother studied hard and acquired a working knowledge of Spanish.

For the climax of their matriculation, Mother turned the White House kitchen over to Mr. Ramos, and she and several others joined him to cook a Spanish lunch. I have no recollection of the menu, but I will never forget the odors that were still wafting through the executive mansion when I walked in that afternoon. Dad said the place smelled like a garlic factory. We teased “Senora” Truman about it for days.

During these same months, Mother really took charge of the White House. Under her first ladyship, she was determined that the place would be clean. She did not go so far as to don white gloves and inspect for dust, navy and marine style. But she was constantly eyeing end tables and windowsills and pointing out to Mr. Crim, the head usher, that his large staff was less than perfect in the dustcloth department. She also took an interest in the grounds. When people all over the country sent her iris bulbs, because a friend in Independence had said she liked them, she issued special instructions to the gardener to plant them in a single bed behind the executive offices in the west wing.

One battle Bess fought largely in vain was with her maid, Julia, who was proud of her efficiency. The moment Mother took off a dress, Julia would pounce on it and put it away on the third floor. One of the less charming aspects of life in the White House was the complete absence of closets, which meant you could keep only a few dresses within reach - a frustrating experience when you were trying to decide what to wear. Mother repeatedly told Julia not to take anything upstairs until she got a specific order. Julia never seemed to get the message.

It is somewhat mind boggling to go through Mother’s papers and see the incredible mishmash of problems with which she dealt. Here’s a typical month in the fall of 1946:

She had to issue a statement denying a Walter Winchell story that I had spent the summer in New York having an operation on my nose.

Saks Fifth Avenue started sending her free nylons. She told them to stop it.

A soldier appeared at the gate with a gift for me, a pearl pin. The guards found out he was AWOL and using an assumed name. The Secret Service wanted to know what to do with the pin. Mother told them to send the pin back to the store and refund the money to the soldier, who was in enough trouble already.

A theatrical friend of a New York friend applied for a Reconstruction Finance Corporation (RFC) loan and asked her to put in a good word for him. She asked RFC examiners to check him out, and they reported that he was a deadbeat, had been blacklisted by a half dozen government agencies and was being sued by his own lawyer for an unpaid fee. He did not get a good word from the First Lady.

On one aspect of her first ladyship, Bess remained adamant. No press conferences. She entertained the women reporters at teas and even went to their luncheons. But it was off the record all the way. If they wanted any information, the questions had to be submitted in writing. There are about two dozen of these forlorn questionnaires in Bess’ papers, with her answers written beside the questions. If the reporters had any sense, they would have given up in 1945. Here is how she answered the first question of a relatively short list, then.

“On what date were the President and Mrs. Truman married? Was it a church wedding, if so where is the church located and what is its name? Who performed the ceremony and is he still living? Who attended the bride and who served as best man? How were the bride and groom dressed? How many guests were present? Was there a large or small reception afterwards? Where did the couple go on their honeymoon?”

Bess’ answer consisted of one line: “June 28, 1919.”

She was surprisingly candid about some things, even though her answers remained terse. When someone asked her in 1946: “If it had been left to your own free choice, would you have gone into the White House in the first place?” she replied: “Most definitely would
not
have.” Asked if she found being First Lady enjoyable, she answered: “There are enjoyable spots . . . but they are in the minority.”

“Do you think there ever will be a woman President of the United States?”

“No.”

“Would you want Margaret ever to be a First Lady?”

“No.”

“If you had a son would you try to bring him up to be President?”

“No.”

“Has living in the White House changed any of your views on politics and people?”

“No comment.”

As time passed, that last answer got to be her favorite on these lists. In 1947,
Newsweek
magazine became so exasperated, they printed an entire set of Bess’ replies, as read by Reathel Odum, under the head, “Behind Mrs. Truman’s Social Curtain: No Comment.”

Having married a newspaperman, I can sympathize somewhat with the press’ vexation. But the American public did not seem to be bothered in the least by Bess’ taciturnity. In fact, they rather liked it. Harry Truman, who was no slouch at judging the reaction of the man and woman in the street, was of this opinion. In the fall of 1947, he sent me clippings of the stories that the desperate reporters had constructed out of non-answers to another questionnaire.

The New York Times,
for instance, tried to find political significance in the statement that Bess “wouldn’t miss a Democratic Convention if she could help it.” This reduced Dad and me to helpless laughter. In this letter, Dad wrote: “It looks as if your mamma has gone ‘Potomac,’ as all people do who stay in the White House long enough. When you write to her you might ask her what caused this outburst.

“I’m glad she did it,” he added. “It will make a hit everywhere.”

Along with politics and diplomatic receptions. Mother had another worry on her mind during these closing months of 1946 and the beginning of 1947: me.

I had graduated from George Washington University in June 1946 and forthwith announced that I intended to pursue a career as a professional singer. Mother was not pleased, and Grandmother Wallace, who had quite a lot to say on the subject, was appalled. In her opinion, a lady could not possibly have anything to do with show business, even the classical music branch of it, and remain a lady. Mother persuaded me to go home with her to Independence, consult with my voice teacher, Mrs. Strickler, and think it over for the summer. I can see now that she hoped I would change my mind. Mary Paxton Keeley’s son had gotten married by this time and presented her with a grandchild that fall. Bess wanted me to do the same thing.

She said as much to Dad in an August letter, hoping to solicit his support. “Of course I’d like to be a grandpa,” he replied. “Except for having to call you gramma it would be very nice. But if the child wants to sing, let her try it. She has a lovely voice but I hope the prima donnas . . . do not spoil her. Think maybe she is past the spoiling stage by now, anyway.”

Perhaps you can see why I tend to favor my father, just a little, in my writing about the Trumans. Dad supported my ambition wholeheartedly, even though he knew that it would complicate his presidency, and the presidency would complicate my career. To give Mother her due, she refrained from throwing her weight around in any dictatorial way. But she continued to lobby against me behind the scenes.