U.S. At War: Dinner at the Waldorf

Six hours after his tour of New York City (see above), Franklin Roosevelt appeared in the grand ballroom of the Waldorf-Astoria Hotel on Park Avenue. The diners—2,000 members and guests of the Foreign Policy Association—were already at their tables. The organ struck up Hail to the Chief; the diners rose, stood for seven minutes until Franklin Roosevelt was wheeled in to his place at the center of the head table.

In days gone by, at such dinner speeches, there was usually before Franklin Roosevelt’s place a row of short flower vases. Behind the vases stood several Old-Fashioned cocktails, which he would sip during dinner.

But tonight there were no cocktails. He smoked only two cigarets all evening —one before the speech, one after. Silently, engrossed, unsmiling, he passed rapidly through his crabmeat, turtle soup, breast of chicken, then pulled out his speech text and went to work. Pencil in hand, wetting his big thumb from time to time as he turned the pages, he read the speech over to himself, speaking softly, gesturing slightly. In the unflattering light of the little reading lamp, his weary face looked seamed and haggard. As he read he would jot down little interpolations, asides and personal stage directions. This was the old ; experienced actor, going through the final” rehearsal. Much depended on this speech.

Lights Up. Suddenly the floodlights came up; the hard-working craftsman disappeared. In an instant the President was his old broad-smiling self, waving gaily as the diners applauded, smiling and joking with others at the head table. He remained seated during the speech.

He began with the assurance that he would not lose his head or his temper. Then, in the tone of a Dutch uncle, he reviewed his Administration’s foreign policy. Since this was frankly a political speech —although the Foreign Policy Association is nonpartisan—the President obviously reviewed only the good points.

Then he shellacked the Republican isolationists, with a passing reference to his highly successful “Martin, Barton & Fish” line from the 1940 campaign. Martin and Fish are still there, he said, and in a Republican Congress they would become, respectively, Speaker of the House and chairman of the House Rules Committee. And, said the President, he just wanted to remind the voters that, if Republicans should gain control of the Senate, his “old friend,” California’s 78-year-old, rock-ribbed isolationist Hiram Johnson might become chairman of the Foreign Relations Committee, and North Dakota’s isolationist Gerald P. Nye would head the powerful Appropriations Committee.

The internationalist-minded audience heartily booed the isolationist names including the McCormick, Patterson, Gannett and Hearst press.

“The Whole Story.” With solemn gusto, Franklin Roosevelt then read the roll of the war measures which the Republicans in Congress had opposed: Repeal of the Arms Embargo, 1939; Selective Service, 1940; Lend-Lease, 1941; extension of Selective Service, August 1941.

“You see,” said Franklin Roosevelt, “I’m quoting history to you. I’m going by the record, and I am giving you the whole story, and not a phrase here, and a half phrase there. …”

At this crack at Tom Dewey’s campaign of quotation by ellipsis, Franklin Roosevelt got a tremendous hand. He took it like a veteran trouper. “In my reading copy is another half sentence,” he said, “but you got the point and I’m not going to use it. I happen to believe that even in a political, campaign we ought to obey that ancient injunction—Thou shalt not bear false witness. . . .”

Authority to Act. In the second half of his speech he spoke of his own views. One of them: the United Nations organization, well begun at Dumbarton Oaks, should be completed before the war is over. And he stated flatly that, in his opinion, the U.S. representative on the United Nations Council “must be endowed in advance by the people themselves, by constitutional means through their representatives in Congress, with authority to act.”

This was an advance over any position either he or Tom Dewey had yet taken on this point. Then Candidate Roosevelt used a homely illustration. He did not think, he said, that a policeman would be very effective if, on seeing a housebreaker, he would first have to call a meeting of the town council to get a warrant.

He concluded with his program for a conquered Germany. It was stated in the broadest general terms, and might soothe the troubled feelings of German-American voters. Said he :

“We bring no charge against the German race, as such, for we cannot believe that God has eternally condemned any race of humanity. . . . [But] there is going to be stern punishment for all those in Germany directly responsible for this agony of mankind. The German people are not going to be enslaved. . . . But it will be necessary for them to earn their way back into the fellowship . . . of law-abiding nations. And in their climb up that steep road, we shall certainly see to it that they are not encumbered by having to carry guns.”

He was applauded 42 times during the address, to which the blue-ribbon audience paid closest attention. After the ovation he was wheeled out again, and the diners went off to argue the question only Election Day would answer: was the speech as good as it had to be?