At precisely ten in the morning, on July 2nd, 1941, President Roosevelt appeared at the Hyde Park train station, along with Harry Hopkins, for their trip to New York City. The Hyde Park station was small and quaint, the wooden structure looking nothing like the brick and stone monolith station at Poughkeepsie, one stop to the south. Its most important features were that it was no more than a mile away from the Roosevelt home and that it had been adapted to accommodate access by a wheelchair. Secret Service agents lifted the President from the vehicle in which he had arrived, and they put him in a chair with wheels, pushing him to the end of the train.
Mac and his parents stood at the rear of the last car of the train, as directed by the Secret Service agents before the president had appeared. The train had a few cars, along with an engine, the last of which belonged to the First Family, while the others held staff, and the Secret Service agents. The president would tell Mac that the Ferdinand Magellan, as it was called, was built by the Pullman Company as an Observation Car, along with six others, all of which were named after explorers. This particular car, designated U.S. Car No. 1, was being modified to meet the needs of the President during a possible war, having just returned from Buffalo, where the process had begun. The rear platform of the car had been elongated, to accommodate a wheelchair lift.
Mac and his parents had been asked to board the newly fitted platform, past the Presidential Seal, after the president had been lifted, and secured inside the car.
“Welcome, Martini Family,” said the president jovially, a cigarette holder standing tall in his mouth, as they entered through the bank vault door from the outside platform. “Isn’t this something?” remarked the president, as he held his hand out toward the Observation Lounge, he was seated in. “Take a look around!”
The car, in addition to the Observation Lounge, featured a paneled dining room, with a six-foot mahogany table, which seated eight, and four bedrooms. Two of the bedrooms had been converted to a suite for the President and the First Lady, complete with a fully equipped bathroom, including a bathtub.
“How would you like to take a bath on a moving train, Mac!” yelled the president, as the Martini family had their heads poked into the bathroom.
“This is something else, sir,” responded Mac, as they returned to the Observation Lounge.
“Wait until it is finished!” remarked the President. “They are apparently going to armor plate the whole damn thing, floor to ceiling. I don’t know how it will even move! They said it will be the heaviest train car ever built!”
“It will be obsolete before it is even done,” added Harry Hopkins, seated in a comfortable chair in the Observation Lounge, with the New York Times opened on his lap. “Plane travel will be the future, I am afraid. It gets us where we are going ten times faster, but admittedly, not as pleasantly as on the Magellan.”
“Well, Mac, say so long to your parents, before they get dragged down to New York, as well. I must be in Washington by the 4th, for the fireworks. No time to dawdle. By the time they move this behemoth from the New York Central tracks to the Northeast Corridor tracks, that takes a good part of an afternoon in and of itself.”
The Martinis said their goodbyes to the president and to Mr. Hopkins, and their son walked them to the rear of the car, to the outside observation platform, where the family hugged, and cried together.
“Be careful, Mac,” said Mr. Martini. “No unnecessary chances, son, you understand. We want you home in one piece, and healthy.”
“Yes, Dad, don’t worry. If the worst happens, and we end up in a war, I will make my way to the Vatican, and move in, until I can get out safely.”
“Oh, Mac!” cried Mrs. Martini. “Please come home to me and bring that pretty little Italian girl with you!”
“Yes, Mom,” said Mac, as he hugged his mother, mostly to hide his own tears.
The Martinis climbed down off the train, with the help of a porter. They stood there waving by the side of the track, as the train began to move, not knowing if they would ever see their only child again.
When Mac returned inside of the Magellan, the president and Harry Hopkins had moved to the dining room, where a steward was serving them freshly made eggs, bacon, and beautiful bakery fresh petite rolls, fresh squeezed orange juice, and black coffee.
“Mac, come sit and eat, young fellow. A man has got to maintain his strength,” said the president, chuckling, as he patted his own stomach.
Mac sat at the table with the president and Harry Hopkins, waving off the bacon and eggs, but accepting a roll and coffee. Hopkins still had the newspaper, now folded in quarters, telling the president about what the Times was reporting about the progress of the Germans in the Soviet Union.
“Hell of a thing, those Germans, attacking half cocked, anywhere they damn well please,” said Hopkins, while smearing a bit of butter on his roll.
“Do you think we should have told the Russians that the Germans were coming in their direction?” asked the president, dabbing his egg yolks with a piece of roll. “I feel a little guilty about that, to be honest. Millions will die, and for what?”
“No, you did the right thing, Mr. President,” said Hopkins. “Let them fight each other. With any luck, the World will be rid of the Nazis, the Fascists, and the Communists in one fell swoop, without the loss of American boys that would have been necessary to accomplish the same thing.”
“Mac, it was an incredible cache of intelligence you got for us,” said Mr. Roosevelt. “Knowing that the Germans were going to direct their attentions eastward, allowed us the luxury of taking the time to shore up England, and prepare ourselves for the eventuality of war. I can tell you that Churchill would have liked to have pinned a medal on you himself,” laughed the president, as he took a sip of hot coffee.
“I’m glad it turned out to be real, Mr. President,” said Mac, as he spread orange marmalade on his roll, now wishing he had accepted the eggs the steward was serving.
“Damn well, it was real,” said Hopkins. “Look at this,” he remarked, pointing to the map in the newspaper showing the march of the German troops through Russia. “They are attacking both to the north and to the south, just like the Directive set out. It was clearly the real thing, Mac.”
“Amazing,” said the president. “Mac, we all love your reports, son. They are so rich in detail, and they make us laugh so. You have quite a sense of humor.”
“Thank you, Mr. President. I try to make them entertaining, sir, but factual.”
“And those photographs you send, very helpful to the boys over in war planning,” replied the President. “I can tell that you take it very seriously, son.”
“Yeah, that's because he has his Carla in her bathing suit in every picture,” laughed Hopkins. “She is quite a hit in Washington, I can assure you. They call her Carla Lollobrigida,” said Hopkins, almost choking on his food as he laughed.
“Oh no,” laughed Mac. “They taught me to take pictures with people in them, so it did not look like I was taking surveillance shots. Oh my,” laughed Mac, thinking about how embarrassed Carla would be if she heard about this. “How do you know her name, Mr. Hopkins?”
“Ambassador Phillips filled everyone in, when they inquired as to who the incredibly beautiful girl was in all the shots,” replied the president, with a sly smirk on his face. “You should have known we would not have let that go, Mac. Phillips told us that Carla is your girl, and that her brother is some high-ranking fascist official. Otherwise, they would have hung posters of Carla all over Washington. Good work, old boy! A pretty girl, and a good source, all in the same family. You have learned well, Commander.”
“Yes, sir,” said Mac, not knowing whether he should feel embarrassed, or proud.
“You better lock her up, Mac,” said Hopkins. “She is the most popular girl in Washington right now.”
“She will be thrilled to hear that, sir.”
“Mac, we need more photographs,” said Hopkins, as the president sipped his coffee with the train lurching. “Tuscany is interesting as a landing spot, if it becomes necessary, but they need to see other parts of Italy to be sure of where the best place would be. They are interested in Sicily, in particular. General Eisenhower seems fascinated with the possibility of ultimately landing there. It is the shortest distance from North Africa, so he could have air and sea support for any landing.
“I can understand now why Churchill had such an interest in pushing the Italians out of North Africa,” said Mac.
“Right, Mac. We also want you to talk to the Sicilians and gauge what their attitude might be if we were to have to land there,” said Hopkins. “We had a meeting with Dulles and Donavan at the dedication. They seem to feel we should talk to the Costra Nostra there in Sicily. There is no love lost between them and the fascists, apparently.
“That is true, sir. The fascists have tried to drive them out of Italy, unsuccessfully.”
“Well, Foster is going to meet with you this week about this, Mac,” said the president. They want you to talk to that Luciano fellow again. We know what you did to open the Navy Yard, Mac. Splendid, old boy! I think we need that Luciano's help again.”
Well, Mr. President, we need to get him moved down closer to home before we go to talk to him. He helped us last time upon my promise that I would see what I could do to get that done. I will have lost all credibility if I go back to him without accomplishing at least that.”
“Consider it done, Mac,” said the President. “I will get them to move him by Monday. Do you know where he wants to go?”
“He wants to be closer to home, sir, Comstock, perhaps. If you can get this done, he will much more likely be in a cooperative mood.”
“That should not be a problem, I would think. Harry, check into that right away. We know people at Corrections, no?”
“Yes, Mr. President. Consider it done,” said Hopkins.
“Mac, you look hungry. You sure you do not want some eggs?” asked the president, as he shoveled a fork full of bacon and eggs into his mouth.
“I must say, sir, the smell is making me hungry.”
“Sammy,” yelled the president to the steward in the kitchen. “Get this young man a plate of bacon and eggs.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“See that, Mac?” asked the president, pointing out the window of the train, across the river. “West Point! Every time I go by here, I think about our boys preparing to go off to war. The burden of my possibly having to send them to their deaths is indescribable. Those who think I am too much of an isolationist, have no idea how I struggle with this. Those who say I am pushing the country to war do not realize how this burden weighs upon me. Being Commander in Chief is certainly not a job for the faint of heart.”
“I cannot even imagine the weight you carry, sir.”
“We will have to get involved eventually, I know that,” remarked Roosevelt, pensively. “Tell me more about what the rabbis had to say, Mac. This disturbs me to no end. I am losing sleep over it.”
Mac filled the president in on what he had been told, and the pictures and writings that the rabbis had provided as proof.
“The best relief we can give these people is to get there and defeat the forces of evil, I would think. Nevertheless, see what else you can find out, Mac. I am very interested.”
“Yes, Mr. President.”
“Well, Mac, how about them Yankees?” exclaimed the president, clearly looking to change the topic of conversation. “Ever get to the ballpark son?”
“Not since I was a little boy, sir. My father loved Lou Gehrig. He would take me to see him.”
“Yeah, the luckiest man on the face of the Earth, that Gehrig! That was an incredible speech. The courage that man had,” said the man in a wheelchair. “Did you notice the baseball I keep in my office, up on the top of the shelf behind my desk? Gehrig signed that ball for me. Dignity and grace in the face of the terror of the unknown, a truly remarkable man. Every time I fuss over my own physical limitations, I think of Lou Gehrig, and I scold myself. It can always be worse, Mac! He is my hero!”
“He was loved, sir, that is for sure.”
“Everyone loves a hero, Mac! Keep it up, son!”
“I will, sir, but I do not feel like a hero. Life has a way of putting us in situations where we have no choice but to be brave. You certainly know about that, Mr. President.”
The President smiled at Mac as he pushed his wheelchair away from the table, finished with his meal. He lit a cigarette in a holder, and he just sat there looking out the window at the Hudson River, at the Bear Mountain Bridge.
“When are you returning to Italy, Mac?” asked Harry Hopkins.
“I will be leaving in a few weeks. I am flying. Can you imagine it only takes twenty-four hours to get to Europe?”
Mac took his Lucky Strikes out of his seersucker suit pocket, lighting one up.
“I heard you took that Dixie Clipper into Port Washington,” remarked Hopkins. “How was it?”
“Top shelf, sir. Good food, great service!” replied Mac, as he blew smoke up towards the ceiling.
“Landing on water, it must be different.”
“A little scary, but I was with Bill Donavan. His stories can drive you to distraction.”
The president chuckled slightly, from the other side of the car, while still seemingly deep in thought as he looked out the window. His cigarette ash had gotten so long, it seemed as if it were about to fall to the floor. The train passed Croton Point, as Harry Hopkins opened his newspaper once again, and Mac finished his eggs in silence. The remaining thirty miles to the city passed with little conversation, as Hopkins read the paper, and the president caught a quick nap in his chair. As they pulled into the president's special train station under the Waldorf Astoria Hotel, the steward prepared the president for debarking. Mac stood by the door to the observation deck at the rear of the train.
“Well, good luck, son,” offered the president, as he waved, his cigarette holder pointing up, in his mouth. “Keep those reports coming.”
“God speed to you, Mr. President. I will get your pictures as well. Mr. Hopkins, good to see you again.”
Mac stood on the platform watching the Secret Service agents whisk the president away towards his private elevator up into the Waldorf.
The stress that man must be under. It would kill most men, but not Franklin Roosevelt. He is the true American hero.