Washington, D.C.
September 26, 1942
I pace in front of the taxicab door on the north side of the White House. Never have I come here in this manner. Someone has always been expecting me.
Time is a commodity that I value, so I only made this trip after great consideration. I hope Eleanor will understand that this was my only option. Although we’ve corresponded by regular letters and phone calls as usual since I helped coax her out of melancholy, this past week, that changed. I left three messages with Tommy, who politely gave me excuses for why Eleanor couldn’t speak to me. Tommy’s declaration that I couldn’t see Eleanor until tomorrow prompted me to just hop in a cab and head to the White House anyway. This matter is too urgent for delay.
For a moment, I stop pacing. Even though it’s only noon, I am weary. Sleep has evaded me for the last few weeks. And then yesterday, after the visit from the FBI, I couldn’t rest all night.
“Mary.” Eleanor is rushing toward me. She seems hurried but still pulls me into her arms. “I didn’t expect to see you today.”
“I know,” I say. “And I’m terribly sorry to barge in like this.”
“I have no doubt that, if you made this trip, it is something I must hear.”
When she turns to lead me to her quarters, I almost have to trot to keep up as we stride through the corridors. Even though Eleanor is usually fast on her feet, I’ve never seen her move this quickly. By the time we are in her sitting room, I am almost gasping for air. I’m surprised Eleanor doesn’t notice, but I can see that she’s distracted as she speaks to Tommy softly, giving her instructions before we are left alone.
Finally, Eleanor sits beside me. “I’m so sorry to keep you waiting outside,” she says. “There is so much going on right now, but I do like to greet you myself.”
“I promise not to take up too much of your time. It’s just that—”
Before I finish, there is a knock on the door, and Tommy peeks in. “I’m so sorry to disturb you, Mrs. Roosevelt, but the president said he cannot wait for that letter to Mrs. Churchill. It must go out within the next hour.”
She nods to Tommy, who steps outside. Eleanor then turns to me. “Mary, I very much want to hear your news, but I’m afraid I have a crucial matter to tend to right now.”
I stand to face Eleanor and tell myself to breathe slowly. “Eleanor—”
Before I can say more, she holds up her hands to stop me. “Please, Mary.” Her tone is sharp. “Whatever news you have will have to wait. I’m sure anything happening with the Federal Council or the NYA will hold until tomorrow.”
She turns away, but I stand strong. “What I have to talk to you about won’t take too long, and it cannot wait. And I would appreciate you not pushing me aside as if I don’t matter at all.”
She whips around to face me. “How can you say such a thing to me?” she asks. “You certainly do matter; you know that. But right now, I’m asking for twenty-four hours, because we are at war and I have other urgent business—I cannot always only tend to your issues.”
“My issues?” My head rears back. “I never knew that equality was my issue; I thought it was all of our issue. I thought you cared about the same causes that I do.”
“I do,” she says, her tone revealing the same frustration, impatience, and hurt I feel. “You know I do. We’ve been standing together for equality for years.”
“Am I supposed to be grateful to you for that?” I blurt out without thinking.
She raises her hands in the air. “What is happening between us? I’m not asking for gratitude; I’m asking for your understanding, because today I am being pulled in the direction of important First Lady duties.” Eleanor’s eyes flash with anger.
In the passing seconds, I wonder, What am I doing? I can’t allow the pressure I feel to impede our friendship. I collapse into one of the upholstered chairs and hold my face in my hands. “I am so sorry, Eleanor,” I whisper, not able to even look at her. “I can’t believe I barged in here today, all fight and fury, and spoke to you this way. You’ve been nothing but a friend and an ally for years.”
Eleanor’s shoulders relax, and she sits in the chair next to me. “I apologize, too, Mary. I certainly didn’t mean to take out my frustration on you. It’s just that I feel like I’m drowning in demands and pressure in my professional and personal lives.” Her shoulders slump.
For a moment, I forget why I’ve even come. “What is it, Eleanor? What’s going on with you?”
“Oh,” she waves her hand, “it’s nothing for you to fret about.”
“I’m your friend and I can’t help but be worried. Do you want to talk about it?”
She hesitates. “It’s Franklin. The other day, out of the clear blue, he asked if I’d consider living together again as man and wife.”
“Oh!” These are certainly not the words I expected to hear.
“It was such a shock,” she continues, “and when I asked him what that would mean—aside from the obvious—he mentioned wanting me to stay home more and commit myself to our life together.”
She peeks at me, waiting for my reaction. “My goodness. I can imagine your surprise,” I say.
“It’s a bizarre request, isn’t it? Especially since he’s never given me a hint of wanting something like this. Not since I found out about his affair. I suppose I should have been on the lookout for some sort of overture, given our changed circumstances. With his mother gone and his most trusted secretary ill lately, I think Franklin’s been lonely, even though there are always women fluttering around him. He’s a man who thrives on constant companionship, and I guess I became the prime candidate for the role, in these circumstances.”
“So . . .”
She shakes her head. “I’m like an elephant, Mary. After listening to your experience forgiving your husband, I worked hard and chose to forgive Franklin. But I will never forget, and I will never go back to being the naive, trusting woman I was before his affair with Lucy. And in reality, Franklin doesn’t want me back in his bed; Lucy is who he really wants.” Her voice is so mournful. After all these years, she hasn’t quite made peace with that, and my heart aches for the pain she still feels. “I didn’t have the courage you had to walk away, Mary, but I do have the fortitude and presence of mind to stay true to who I am now. So”—she lifts her chin—“I declined Franklin’s offer.”
I squeeze her hand. This must have been overwhelming for her.
Suddenly she shakes her head. “Look at me,” she says, as if she’s just remembering why I’m here. “How could I prattle on about my personal matters when you came all the way to the White House to discuss something important?”
After hearing this, I don’t want to be another burden. Maybe my situation can wait until tomorrow.
“Please, Mary,” she says, sensing my hesitation. “I want to know. Whatever’s important to you is important to me.”
I nod. “I’m under investigation by the FBI for being a Communist.”
“What?” Eleanor says with a gasp.
I continue, “I’ve been placed on a custodial detention list. I’m considered a potentially dangerous subversive, it seems.”
She sputters for a moment, then says, “What are you talking about?”
“I probably should have told you this before.”
“What? How long have you known?”
“I’ve known about the investigation for a few months. A couple of members of my staff at the NYA told me they’d been questioned by the FBI about me.”
Eleanor squints as if she’s trying to make sense of my words. “But why would they think you’re dangerous?”
I shrug. “Because of meetings I’ve had with Communist and Socialist groups as part of my work. That’s what they allege, anyway.”
“Oh, Mary, they should have come and talked to me. You’re no Communist or Socialist. You’re a woman who will work with anyone who will help either Bethune-Cookman or the youth of this country.”
“Thank God that’s what everyone who was interviewed told them.”
“Then perhaps the investigation is over. Maybe they got all the information they need to clear you and they’ve closed your file. So many of these so-called investigations have no basis in reality. They’re just politically motivated. It’s a damn witch hunt.”
“For a few weeks, that’s what I believed. But then yesterday, they came to speak with me.”
Eleanor’s eyes narrow. “The FBI came to your home?” Her voice is low. “Right here in Washington, D.C.?” When I nod, she stands as if she cannot sit. “No wonder you came to me today. Oh, Mary, I’m so sorry for my brusqueness with you. What did they say? Tell me everything.” Eleanor is serious and intense now, and she begins pacing.
I begin with the moment the agents knocked at my town house door. Before the two white men dressed in dark suits identified themselves, I knew who they were and what their motives were.
Now that Russia is on the rise militarily, the fear of “fifth column” Communists has taken hold of the American people. Alarm has spread throughout the country that America is being undermined from within. None of it makes sense, especially since Russia is among our allies in this war. But the most nonsensical piece is the idea that I could be on a list of dangerous Americans—or maybe even at the top of J. Edgar Hoover’s infamous list.
“They asked about my connection to a list of organizations. I explained that my only affiliation with those groups was through their support of my college or community programs. I did my best to convince them that my only goal is the furtherance of racial equality.”
“How long were they at your home?”
“For about an hour. But I didn’t let them go until I explained that I had not one bone in my body nor thought in my mind about Communism. It is the antithesis of everything I believe, especially in its irreverence to the God I serve, Eleanor.” My voice trembles as I speak. “How could anyone ever think that of me?”
Eleanor eases back down in the chair next to mine. “And that’s everything?”
“Yes. I’ve been so worried, because I know the FBI plans to gather up everyone who’s considered a danger to America. Who knows? I could find myself locked up somewhere!”
“I will never allow that to happen.” She shakes her head. “Mary McLeod Bethune, a danger to America? How ridiculous! You are not going to be on any such list. I will handle this.” She pauses for a moment. “I wonder if Steve Woodburn is behind this.”
“That’s what I thought, but I believe it’s actually that congressman from Texas.”
“Oh, Martin Dies, the chairman of that committee investigating un-American activities. How can anyone take him seriously after he included Shirley Temple on the suspicious list a few years back? My goodness, she was only ten. And just like with Shirley Temple, no one will take him seriously about you.”
“There’s a big difference between me and Shirley Temple.”
Eleanor gives me a long look and I know she understands. The color of Shirley’s skin is enough to give her a pass, while my complexion makes me guilty of any crime someone wishes to accuse me of.
But Eleanor shakes her head. “The only real difference between you and Shirley Temple is your age. You are both Americans who love this country. And by the time I finish, everyone will understand that. Even if I have to speak to J. Edgar Hoover myself!”