Surprise Encounter
Before and during World War II, Americans worked six-day weeks. That meant Saturday was a workday. Sunday was the only day off.
Once Jock and I had grown older and supposedly more responsible, Dad asked us individually whether from time-to-time we would like to spend a full Saturday with him at his office. Thrilled with this idea, over the next several years each of us accepted Dad’s standing invitations. During that period, I must have spent at least three glorious Saturdays with Dad at various office locations.
It must have been in 1943 or 1944 when Dad’s first invitation was offered to me. To spend a full day and to share lunch with him was indescribable. I was either six or seven at the time.
In referencing State Department’s records, 1943 to 1947 were heady years for Dad. During that period he was promoted from the State Department’s Chief Informational Liaison Officer to the Department’s Section Chief. In 1945, he was appointed information officer to Secretary of State James F. Byrnes, newly appointed by President Truman. During the war, the word “information” being bandied about the halls of government, did in reality refer to “intelligence.” In 1946, Dad accompanied Mr. Byrnes to the Paris Peace Conference. It was an exciting moment when our family witnessed the Secretary of State’s team (and Dad) depart from the National Airport. The four- engine, propeller-driven DC-4 carried the American contingent to and from France. shortly after World War II.
Dad’s Washington office was located in the State Department, then known as “Old State” at Pennsylvania Avenue and 17th St., NW, just west of The White House. The classic building had been designed in Napoleonic style in the late 1800s.
Old Executive Building c.1917 - photo courtesy of Wikimedia/Harris & Ewing
As Dad and I entered the impressive building for my first Saturday visit, I saw its entrances filled with both military and civilian guards. I was carrying my painted lunch box containing two sandwiches and a thermos for our lunch. Once inside the proud building, I was reminded of a beehive. In great numbers, everyone was moving about at high-speed. Even the elevators and hallways seemed to be guarded. At first impression, it was seen as a scary place. An armed guard was on duty outside Dad’s office. He received us with a “Good morning, sir.” Once inside, more busy people were scuttling back and forth through doors among the inner offices. Desks seemed to be everywhere. To me the scene came across as being very serious and important. For a six year-old, “Old State” provided a real eye-opener.
As we neared Dad’s office, he pulled out a key to open the door. The office was full of light shining through the windows. It was handsome, perhaps twenty by twenty-five feet in size and was nicely appointed. I was led to a table against a wall across the room from Dad’s desk. He had already set out on a table a yellow pad, some pencils, a stapler, Scotch Tape, an eraser, and assorted colored pencils in anticipation of my arrival. As he returned to his desk, he looked back at me and made it abundantly clear he was not to be interrupted until lunchtime. I was in “hog heaven.”
Later, I saw Dad rise from his desk, don his hat and coat while picking up a Manila envelope from his desk. Turning to me he asked if I’d like to join him. He had documents that had to be delivered to another building. I jumped at his offer. After all, I too needed a break from my complex drawings of that morning.
We headed towards a single elevator located down a long hallway. Once inside, the operator was asked to take us below ground level to a large room with a well-guarded exit on its far side. Dad held on to me as we approached more guards. I assumed he was checking before being allowed to pass through the exit door. Dad told me where we were headed. The destination didn’t register with me at all. Once through the exit door, we walked down a long, bare corridor totally devoid of windows. I recall the passageway being perhaps ten feet wide through which only a few people were passing to-and-fro. I was so busy looking at my surroundings I didn’t chat much with Dad. We walked along quietly holding hands.
After a short distance, I noticed three individuals navigating their way through the doors at the far end of the passageway. As the trio moved towards us on their way to “Old State,” I noticed one of the gentlemen had dark eyes, wore a hat and was being pushed in a wheelchair. Having approached one another, all five of us suddenly stopped in the middle of the corridor. Niceties and brief introductions were exchanged. The only two who chatted briefly were the man in the wheelchair and my father. I sensed he recognized Dad as they were the only two who shook hands. In their brief exchange I heard my name mentioned as the gentleman in the wheelchair turned towards me with a broad grin and patted the top of my head. The interaction lasted but a few moments before continuing on. As we exited the passageway Dad informed me that we were now inside The White House.
At that stage of my life, I was totally nonplussed when it came to comprehending my father’s job, much less the government, certainly not the war, or, for that matter, even The White House. Until that day with my father, I was never even aware of a President of the United States, much less Franklin Delano Roosevelt.
As a six or seven year-old, my world was totally unrecognizable from the real one in which I was then living.
As we four children matured, still from time to time Mom would reinforce the family’s mantra, namely, that Dad’s work was never to be discussed, even within our family. All we knew was that he worked at the State Department. However, only during the last few years of his all-too-short life, did he actually share with us a few snippets of Mom’s, our family’s and his own intriguing life.
