January 9 to February 10, 1941
London, England
We must enlist the Americans in this war. We are alone in this fight, and I wonder how long we can last. The Luftwaffe is flattening the country, and the Nazi U-boats are destroying our ships with critical supplies. How will we make it through the winter without some kind of commitment from the Americans? This is what I’m thinking as I discuss a luncheon menu with Mrs. Landemare.
Winston and I are hosting a luncheon for Harry Hopkins tomorrow. This emissary of President Roosevelt, a member of his inner circle, landed in England yesterday evening and would arrive at Downing Street late tomorrow morning. We understand that Roosevelt’s right-hand man—decidedly anti-British—has been sent in a fact-finding mission to assess whether America should strongly aid us or should even consider entering the war. Until now, America has been noncommittal at best about sending troops and equipment into the fray, and yet, we desperately need them.
Jock pokes his head into my office. “Winston is wondering if you have a minute?”
My husband knows better these days than to summon me for unimportant queries, so he must have something critical to review. Turning to Mrs. Landemare, I ask, “Any more questions about the luncheon?”
“No, ma’am,” the ever-pleasant, full-faced cook answers.
“I know you will work your magic with whatever we manage to forage for you.” Somehow, Mrs. Landemare manages to whip up the tastiest confections from the most basic of ingredients, making her an indispensable weapon in the rationing of wartime.
Striding past a queue of staffers waiting to procure a moment of the prime minister’s time, I open the door to Winston’s office. “You sent for me, Winston?”
“How are the plans for Hopkins coming, Clemmie?”
Has he really called me down to his office to discuss a menu? I’m irritated, so I fiddle with my double strand of pearls as I answer. “As we discussed. A luxurious meal in the basement dining room at Downing Street, which I’m having elegantly decorated—”
Winston interjects, “Insofar as a reinforced subterranean space with steel shutters and metal pit props in the ceiling can be ‘elegantly decorated’—”
I interject right back, “Precisely, meaning that I’ve had the space painted a soft coral color and arranged to have silk curtains and paintings by French masters Ingres and David hung. It looks surprisingly lovely.”
He barks, “But is it lovely enough? You know we’ve been told that while this Hopkins professes to be anti-British, he’s susceptible to the finer things, to the aristocratic life. We must bring him around to the British cause.” He huffs and takes a deep draw on his cigar. “Don’t make me regret calling you my secret weapon.”
How dare he brandish his compliment around like a carrot and stick? I raise my voice to match his volume. “So you are placing the success of wooing the Americans into the war on my shoulders? If that is the price of your compliments, please don’t bestow any others upon me.”
I march out of the room, letting the door slam behind me. Looking straight ahead, I ignore the queue of staring faces and return to my own office. Fury builds within me, threatening to spill out between my carefully stitched seams. I pace around the confined space, seething at the pressure Winston has put upon me. After everything I undertake on his behalf, after all the projects I assume myself, how dare he. I have served as a sort of prime minister’s wife like no other before me, and Winston demonstrates his gratitude by burdening me with a Sisyphean goal? One he’s been unable to achieve himself?
I take a deep breath in and remind myself about my recent epiphany about the reasons behind my labors—the greater good of the British people. By the time I hear Winston’s knock on the door, I have composed myself. I’ve also conceived of an approach to Winston and Mr. Hopkins.
I allow him to grovel and apologize, as I knew he would, and then I take command of the conversation. “Winston, let’s not focus on what divides us but what unites us. Right now, we are unified in our desire to bring the Americans into this war, to give Britain a fighting chance. This visit by Mr. Hopkins is a unique opportunity to make that happen, but we can only do so if we work as a team. Together, if we follow the plan I’ve devised, I know we can entertain, persuade, and charm Mr. Hopkins into becoming our emissary.” I pause and ask softly, “Can we do that, Pug?”
He almost purrs, “Of course we can, Cat.”
“Good,” I answer briskly. “Then by the time he leaves, we shall be one step closer to having an ally in this bloody war.”
* * *
“Come, Mr. Hopkins, let me show you.” I gesture toward the gaunt gentleman, who, I must remind myself, is the second most powerful person in America. With his sunken cheeks and hollow eyes, he appears so sickly, his influence is difficult to fathom.
From the moment he stepped into our makeshift dining room, I understood that Mr. Hopkins has survived thus far on sheer will alone. His body—ravaged by stomach cancer that left him permanently malnourished—had long ago abandoned him. I resolved in that moment to deliver him a constant stream of Mrs. Landemare’s delicacies, no matter the cost, such that his memory of the time spent with us would be cast with the glow of health and goodwill. Savory soups, tender beef, fresh green salads, fine cheeses, sponges, rich coffee, and rare wines from Winston’s own stores made regular appearances at lunch and dinner until the American glowed with health, an impossibility in the White House, I’d heard, with its notoriously poor cuisine, and I vowed that this would be his fare the entirety of his six-week visit. I employed a parallel tactic in the matter of his accommodations—which always had roaring fires and hot water bottles tucked in between his bedsheets—and our weekend abode, ensuring we stayed in the finest English country house manor at Ditchley Park, Ronald Tree’s estate in Oxfordshire. How could he think anything but favorable thoughts toward us when he was so well fed and comfortably cared for?
The weekend at Ditchley proceeded even better than we’d hoped. The quintessential country house experience I arranged for Mr. Hopkins—no mean feat in wartime—entranced him and softened his harder edges. The man who’d been described as irreverent, even contentious, proved a delight, and we spent two pleasant evenings gathered around the great hearth at Ditchley. Yet this cosseting was hardly the most critical aspect of our plan. In London, we would unfurl the key components of our project to woo the Americans.
* * *
Silence reigns behind me, where there should be the sound of footsteps crunching through debris. I see the backs of Winston and two military escorts ahead of me, but where the devil is Mr. Hopkins? I turn around to discover that he stands stock-still in a rubble pile where the church entrance had once been, staring at the ripped-out walls of the destroyed church. His face appears incredulous at the very notion of entering this burned-out hull of a place of worship. This is his first time accompanying us on one of our regular Blitz tours, and he appears every bit as shell-shocked as the buildings we have passed.
I retrace my steps through the piles of stones and rocks to where Mr. Hopkins is frozen in place. Linking my arm through his, I say, “Would you lend me your arm? These ruins can make for unsteady walking.” Chivalry can make for strong motivation, as I’ve learned from Winston.
“How often do you undertake these Blitz tours, Mrs. Churchill?” he asks in his flat American drawl when he recovers himself.
“Winston and I take them whenever his schedule allows. But I take them alone—with guards or Red Cross representatives, of course—every night I’m in London.”
He looks aghast. “You trudge through this dangerous debris every night?”
I stop walking and stare directly into his eyes. “Mr. Hopkins, the British people do far worse than trudge through this debris every night. They live and die through it. The Blitz destroys their homes, their schools, their churches”—I gesture around—“their families. The least I can do is bear witness to the devastation. That and create safe air-raid shelters for them, of course.”
“Air-raid shelters?” he asks.
Does he really not know about the shelters? Where does he think the people ride out the nightly bombings? Of course, to the Americans, the actual threat seems unimaginably far away, but for us, havoc arrives every evening like Swiss clockwork.
As I explain the shelter system to Hopkins, we approach Winston. Whispering in his ear about the detour I’d like to take, he assigns one of the men to escort us. As we walk to a shelter that I hope will leave a lasting impression upon Hopkins, I describe the Anderson shelters, the most common type, made of curved steel sheets, partly sunken in the ground, freely distributed by the government, and installed in the private gardens of a million homes. I explain that because the Anderson shelters often become insufferably cold and damp, many citizens prefer the sturdier, communal shelters such as the surface shelters, long brick-and-concrete structures built on sidewalks or beside buildings, or the sunken shelters, often heavily reinforced basements or trenches.
“And of course, many people choose to use the Underground as shelter, even though we don’t specifically sanction it. Each type, of course, has its benefits and drawbacks,” I finish.
His mouth, already off-kilter with a slightly mangled jaw, gapes. “How on earth do you know so much about the range of shelters?”
I glance at him and answer matter-of-factly, “Mr. Hopkins, the adequacy, cleanliness, and sanitary conditions of these shelters is my special project. Winston and many of the governmental leaders are overwhelmingly busy with the military aspect of the war, as you might imagine. The Nazis are literally in the air above us and in the sea on our shores. So when I identify a domestic problem, I take it on—with the assistance of the requisite governmental agency, of course—to free others to focus on the war itself.”
“That is admirable, Mrs. Churchill. You go above and beyond what duty demands.”
“No, Mr. Hopkins. It’s our people that go above and beyond. They stare down the barrel of the Nazi artillery every night and summon the courage to face that barrel again the very next day, oftentimes losing everything and everyone they have in the process. I have simply become the prime minister’s wife that these brave citizens deserve. Or at least I strive to be.”
As I say these words, I wonder at their truth. Indeed, I try to serve our deserving people and ensure they aren’t forgotten. But do I undertake this work for their sake alone or for my own sense of self-worth as well? Or a combination of both?
Although his face has grown pensive, Mr. Hopkins doesn’t respond to my statement, and I suspect that my message will be emblazoned upon his consciousness once he sees the people in the shelter for himself. We approach a squat concrete structure on a wide sidewalk. I have inspected this particular shelter before. It accommodates up to fifty people, a surprise given its small footprint.
I nod to our military escort, who opens the door for us. As we step inside, I tell Mr. Hopkins about the alterations we made to this particular shelter to make it more habitable. “After all, they regularly spend ten to fourteen hours here.”
“Fourteen hours?” Mr. Hopkins sounds astonished. I’d been whispering, but he makes no effort to keep his volume low.
His voice and the light from the torches rouses some of the women and children. As they slide out of the triple-stacked bunks, I hear them whisper, “Mrs. Churchill.”
A young woman whose hair appears inky black in the low shelter light, with two young girls clinging to her legs, approaches me with a tentative step. To assuage her trepidation, I reach out and clasp her free hand with both of mine. “Thank you for your bravery and patience,” I say.
“Ma’am, Mrs. Churchill, I mean, some other mums and I were chattin’ over there”—she points back toward the bunks—“and we’re ever so thankful for the work you did to fix up these shelters. They were downright horrible before.”
I answer her in a practiced phrase about what an honor and privilege it is to serve the English people, one I’ve uttered hundreds, if not thousands, of times before. Yet when I look into this lovely creature’s eyes—the shelter is dark, and I can’t discern their precise color—I mean it, and I know with certainty that I serve the people, in large measure, out of my sense of duty toward them.
I chat with the young mothers for a few minutes, marveling at their tenacity in these circumstances. With their husbands off fighting the war—one husband was at sea, two others on land in France—they are not fraught with nerves and fear, as I would have been. They are not sick with worry over the children they’ve sent off to the safety of strangers’ homes in the countryside or the toddlers and infants who still cling to them. They are better wives, mothers, and human beings than I’ve ever been.
Mr. Hopkins is still quiet as we stroll back toward Winston and the bombed-out church. “I suppose you wish to know what I am going to say to President Roosevelt on my return,” he finally says.
I stop and turn to him. My heart beats wildly, and I feel my stomach churn. The fate of thousands depends on his decision. “Most desperately, Mr. Hopkins.”
“Please call me Harry.”
“I most desperately wish to know what you’re going to say to President Roosevelt, Harry.”
“Where you go, I’ll follow.” Then he adds softly, “Even to the end.”