Campobello Island, Canada
June 25, 1941
I feel lighter than I have for a long time. I’ve left behind the oppressive humidity of Washington and cast off the heavy weight of the impending war, if only for a few days. Soon after I set out for the holiday home that once brought Franklin and me joy, Germany invaded Russia. This was a move that surprised Russia but wasn’t entirely unexpected by the Allies, though it did put American planning in some disarray. Franklin wasn’t joining us anyway and we were already en route, so we continued to Campobello Island.
“Mrs. Roosevelt, it’s even lovelier than you described,” Mr. Lash calls over to me. He is overseeing the unloading of our trunks and baggage from the ferry.
This young man, a former Communist and now an organizer of the Student Leadership Institute, impressed me when we met two years ago. After working with him and his organization, I decided to let him use the Campobello house for a monthlong summer camp for his students. Franklin believes that Mr. Lash is another stray—one of my ragtag rescue projects he likes to tease me about—and, glancing over at the earnest fellow, I chuckle, thinking Franklin might be right. Although my track record is not always successful. Look where my efforts got me with Marion and Nan, although they rescued me in some ways. Or even my poor brother Hall, whose alcoholic ways have landed him in a small cabin on the Hyde Park property since he lost his engineering job and his family cut him off. How I hope this “rescue project” turns out differently.
“It is, Mr. Lash, isn’t it?” I answer. Staring out at the vast expanse of navy blue ocean juxtaposed with the dark emerald of the evergreen trees covering the island, I think about the summers we spent here when the children were small. We’d sail together along the Maine coast, returning to the lovely red-shingled house that my mother-in-law gifted to us as a belated wedding present in 1908. Although Sara hasn’t yet arrived for the season, our home is next door to her cottage, the same one where Franklin spent his childhood summers. This rock-ringed, evergreen-laden island in the Bay of Fundy across from Maine is indescribably beautiful. I’ve always lamented the fact that our regular Campobello jaunts as a family dried up when Franklin’s illness made it nearly impossible for him to visit. The terrain is simply too hard for him to navigate.
With the bags crammed into the waiting automobile, Mr. Lash, Tommy, Earl, and I squeeze into the back of the already crowded car. As we drive to the house, I congratulate myself on not leaving its seasonal opening to an assistant. That was my initial plan, but when it became clearer that the March on Washington was not going to happen, I leapt at the opportunity to accompany Mr. Lash. With war on the way, who knows when the chance could come again?
As we pass the large hotels established here in the late 1800s to serve the wealthy families from Boston, Philadelphia, Montreal, and New York desperate to escape the sweltering heat, I’m grateful that Franklin’s parents adored Campobello Island enough to build their own compound. With its saltwater coves, vast forests, beaches of gravel and sand, high cliffs, and breathtaking array of wildlife, it is truly a place like no other.
Our longtime seasonal housekeeper awaits us, although, to my surprise, she’s not lingering at the front door. She strides directly toward me. “Mrs. Roosevelt,” she says, handing me an envelope, “this telegraph came for you more than two hours ago. It is marked urgent.”
My stomach clenches, and I tear open the envelope. Thankfully, the telegram isn’t bad news from Franklin or the White House staff or the children. To my surprise, it is from Mr. Randolph and Mary. They are quite concerned. The draft of the executive order has been languishing on Franklin’s desk for weeks and his office is ignoring their repeated efforts to contact him. What happens if the date for the march arrives without him signing it? Or if the terms of the executive order are so whittled down by the military men that it is stripped of all power?
How could Franklin let it come to this? Even though I try my darnedest not to be irritated, I am livid that I have to deal with this from afar, particularly since we have no electricity in the house and no telephone.
“I’ll be back shortly,” I call out to Tommy and Mr. Lash, waving off the efforts of the security detail to accompany me. I need the walk to clear my thoughts and defuse my fury.
I march the half mile to the home of Mrs. Mitchell, the island’s lone telegrapher, who also happens to have one of the only telephones. My anger fades by the time I arrive, replaced by determination. Mrs. Mitchell greets me with no more than raised eyebrows, in typically stoic Canadian fashion. She follows my instruction to telegraph Franklin and then set up a call with him. Knowing from experience that this might take some time, I wait on the front stoop of her small cottage and allow the refreshing breeze to dry the perspiration on my forehead.
Fifteen minutes, then thirty, pass before Mrs. Mitchell finally fetches me. “How’s the old stomping ground looking?” Franklin asks, all jocularity, as if he doesn’t suspect the reason for my call. This is the man who’s able to detach himself from any emotionality when it suits him.
I play along. “The island is in fine form, and the house along with it. The hydrangeas are in full bloom, in fact.”
“Lovely, just lovely. I long for that Canadian cool right about now.”
“I bet. Why didn’t you tell me about the invasion?” I say. There is only so long I can tolerate this small talk.
“It only happened yesterday, and you’ve been traveling. It’s not as if it’s easy to reach you in transit or on Campobello.”
“Fair enough,” I say. “Will the invasion be good or bad for us?”
“Probably good—divide and conquer and all that. I won’t be making a statement about it just yet, although we’re making plans to provide aid to Russia.”
The German invasion of Russia does not seem to be weighing too heavily on him, either, so I will give him no slack. On to the real purpose of my call.
“Franklin, is it true that the draft executive order—the one related to Mr. Randolph and the march—is sitting on your desk? That all the terms have been reached and the lawyer’s given it his blessing, but you still haven’t signed it?”
The line is silent for so long that I wonder if I’ve lost the connection. Just as I’m about to call for Mrs. Mitchell, he says, “Yes, that’s true.”
“What is the reason for the delay? We are days away from the march. Mary and I have worked tirelessly to get it to this point. All it takes to forestall the protest is the signing of this order. Mr. Randolph even walked away from the demand to desegregate the military, so I cannot see what your objection might be. Even your military leaders are willing to agree.” I pause for emphasis, then say, “Even Steve.”
Franklin exhales with a deep, weary sound. For a moment, the immense weight he bears is visible to me, and I feel pity for my husband as he shoulders the rights of his citizens and quite possibly the future peace of our world. But this is the job, one he sought out for a third term.
“I know, Eleanor. It’s just that it’s an unprecedented step, and that alone gives me pause.”
“It’s an overdue step, as well as an unprecedented one,” I say firmly. “It should not give you pause that you are finally correcting the wrongs of your predecessors.”
“All right, Eleanor, I hear you.” He doesn’t mask his irritation at my little diatribe. “Would you like me to read it to you before I sign it?”
“Yes, I would like that very much.”
He clears his throat and, sounding very presidential, says, “Executive Order 8802. This order calls upon employers and labor unions alike to provide for the full and equitable participation of all workers in defense industries, without discrimination because of race, creed, color, or national origin.” He continues on, detailing the creation of the Fair Employment Practices Committee, which will monitor compliance with the order and investigate complaints.
“It sounds perfect, Franklin.” I want no more hemming and hawing over vagaries in language or the groundbreaking nature of this order. This moment must be seized. “Do you have your pen handy?”
“I do.”
“No time like the present. I’d like nothing more than to hear the scratching of its tip on that paper,” I say, and to his credit, he laughs.
A moment of silence passes, and then he announces, “The deed is done.”
A rush of euphoria courses through me, banishing the sense of hopelessness that has been plaguing me of late. Franklin and I say our farewells and I begin the half-mile walk back to the house. I wish Mary was with me to celebrate. An idea occurs to me, and I race back to Mrs. Mitchell’s house. Climbing the stoop once more, I call to her through the screen door.
“Can you send another telegram for me, Mrs. Mitchell? To a Mrs. Mary McLeod Bethune.”