JIMMY. WASHINGTON
Wearing his naval reserve uniform, Jimmy looked out from the sliding door as his train rolled into Union Station. There was his driver, in a seaman apprentice uniform. Jimmy waved and the driver saluted him. Two porters, also sailors, rushed to help with his trunk.
A long car waited at the curb. The rear door swung open and a tall man in a dark suit stepped out. A shock of brown hair, neatly parted; a long, thin face; gray-blue eyes that assessed Jimmy through wire pince-nez spectacles. He shook Jimmy’s hand. “Franklin Roosevelt. Let me help you with that.” He reached for Jimmy’s briefcase.
“Thank you, sir.” Jimmy preceded him into the back seat of the sedan.
Jimmy knew the name, as did every Harvard graduate. The Roosevelts were American patricians, members of that elite group of alumni families whose association with the university justified its exorbitant tuition fees. Franklin’s cousin Theodore had recently served as president of the United States. He had been a progressive, a Republican who cared deeply about America’s natural environment and who was known for challenging the power of large businesses. He had lost reelection to Woodrow Wilson, a Democrat with strong support in the South, who allowed segregation based on skin color, resisted taking sides in the Great War—and then finally took sides and advocated for entering the war, despite the objections of his friend and advisor, Jimmy’s father, Paul. Now Franklin Roosevelt, an attorney, worked for President Wilson as assistant secretary of the navy and declared his fealty to the Democratic Party. When you can’t beat ’em, join ’em.
“I wanted to meet you here personally,” Roosevelt told Jimmy as the Packard Twin Six rumbled to life. “Heard quite a bit about you.”
“Not too much, I hope,” said Jimmy.
Roosevelt patted his knee. “Only things a proud father would say.”
Jimmy watched the stately buildings passing along the Mall. He knew Washington well enough to notice they were taking an indirect route. Roosevelt wanted to impress him.
The car slowed to a stop at the Latrobe Gate of the Navy Yard. They ascended wide, worn marble steps to the third floor. Roosevelt led Jimmy into his front office, where a stylish secretary sat typing. “Miss Porter, James Warburg, your new tormentor,” he introduced them.
She smiled. Jimmy touched his hat. “Charmed.”
“Miss Porter is one heck of a typist,” said Roosevelt. “She also brews a mean cup of java, which is crucial the morning after one of our disreputable sausage parties.” He winked.
Jimmie nodded.
“She has a report to finalize, then she’s all yours.” Roosevelt opened the door to Jimmy’s inner office. Tall, arched windows with views of the shipyard, where construction of several large battleships was under way. “That is what war looks like, from here,” said Roosevelt. “Your contribution will be crucial. Just the technological edge we need.” He turned to Jimmy. “Make no mistake about it, Warburg—”
“Jimmy.”
“—war is the means by which mankind tests new technologies. That’s why President Wilson invited Tom Edison to lead our unit.”
“That’s an interesting take,” said Jimmy, dropping his briefcase on the desk. “I thought war was the means by which we tested moral systems.”
Roosevelt shook his head. “Morality is propaganda. Best technology triumphs. That’s how it’s always been, at least since Archimedes invented the catapult.”
“He didn’t invent it, sir,” Jimmy corrected him. “But he did improve it.”
Roosevelt smiled. Yes, I took Classical History 101 same as you. Good ol’ Professor Hornsworth. “We’ve got to get our birds back in the sky as soon as possible.” Roosevelt tapped the sheaf of papers on the rolltop desk. “Our contractors. Sheet metal fabricators, glass fabricators, compass manufacturers, riveters, installers. Fire up their competitive spirit. That’s your mission. But first, let’s nail down the finances. Work up a budget, walk it down to Room 374, we’ll get it approved. Let’s get these compasses built and fitted to the entire air fleet within three months. Can you pull that off, Warburg?”
“I can certainly give it a good Harvard try,” said Jimmy.
Roosevelt nodded, smiling. “You do that.”
Jimmy knew how to write up a budget. After all, he had been class treasurer. And he understood the mechanics of his compass. But no one had ever served him so much responsibility all at once. He thought it astonishing that the navy would entrust so critical a task to a cadet. It daunted him a little and thrilled him a lot.
“Have at it, boy,” said Roosevelt turning to leave. “Need anything, I’m down the hall.” He stopped at the door. “And let’s get you out of that naval reserve monkey suit. Your lieutenant junior grade uniform is being steamed and pressed as we speak.”
“Yes, sir,” said Jimmy with a salute.
Roosevelt went out. Jimmy sat down in the oak swivel chair and leafed through the papers. Names of companies all over the East Coast and the Midwest, with phone numbers and contact people. A budget form. He picked up the telephone earpiece.
“Navy operator.”
“Just checking. Thank you.” He hung up.
He swiveled. He glanced around. His first office—on the third floor of this Greek Revival monument, which had been constructed during Thomas Jefferson’s presidency. Clearly, Assistant Secretary Roosevelt wanted Jimmy to feel important. Jimmy could almost hear his father’s voice pleading with Roosevelt’s superior, Secretary Daniels. A delicate operation. He wanted to be flying, you see.
He opened his briefcase, removed his framed photograph of Katharine and set it on his desk. In a large hat with a peacock feather, a long black skirt, a buttonless blouse, and lace-up boots, Katharine was sticking her tongue out. Jimmy shook his head, smiling. What am I getting into?
Girls were after his money. That was a given. Wealthy girls, whom he had met at dances at Wellesley, lusted for even more wealth. To secure their patrimony. To build a bigger domicile, with more architectural flourishes. To ascend to higher levels of society. Above all, to avoid status slippage. That was the nightmare of the wealthy. Status slippage.
Jimmy abhorred any overt preoccupation with wealth. He regarded his condition as an accident of birth, like the blue of his eyes. Everyone’s circumstances presented not a pedestal on which to preen but a unique set of challenges.
Naturally Katharine was impressed with his family’s position, like the others. But money and social standing were not her unique preoccupations. Chopin meant as much to her as sapphires; probably more. She knew who she was, and she was exceptional. And lovely. The curve of her lips was as disarming as the shape of her body. Effervescent and witty, she held her own with anyone.
He picked up the photograph and wiped the glass over her face. That spontaneity. None of those ladylike Wellesley beauties would have stuck out her tongue like that. Yet Katharine needed no lessons in decorum. She was sharp, delightful, and slightly rebellious. A stimulating companion.
In the society into which Jimmy was born, a woman’s purpose consisted of patronizing charities and presiding at social functions. The idea that a woman should entertain professional ambitions was viewed as selfish if not downright self-aggrandizing. Jimmy’s mother and her friends thought labor degrading for females of their rank. Let the men, the poor darlings, earn their livelihood. Wives were meant to facilitate their husbands’ ambitions, not to compete with them. The life of a society wife was quite busy enough without such distractions. To Jimmy’s mind, however, if a woman sought to contribute something of value to the world, be it a chunk of radium or a piano concerto, society as a whole would benefit.
He glanced at his watch. It was lunchtime and he had skipped breakfast. No point trying to make those calls until two o’clock. He stepped out to his outer office. “Miss Porter?”
His secretary looked up from her work, her fire-truck-red lips slightly parted. “Bette.”
“Bette, is there a galley, or a canteen, or a mess hall, or however you refer to a room where naval employees dine, somewhere in this cavernous building?”
“For you, it’s called the Officers’ Dining Room.”
“Are you allowed to show me the way? And perhaps, as a reward, to accompany me for lunch?”
“If you invite me,” she told him.
“Come on, then. You can give me the lay of the land.”
She rose, picking up her handbag.
She smelled like gardenias, Jimmy noticed as they walked down the corridor. Other men in crisp navy uniforms glanced at them, he in his smart suit, she in her red dress.