Herb works the anxious-glance-at-the-watch ploy to still the crowd, then signals for the Singing Saints, who lead the congregated in singing Irving Berlin’s sacred classic, “I Like Ike.” And as the chorus mounts to a thundering climax, into it ambles, in that familiar easygoing yet brassy-hoofed putting-green stride, grinning affably but shyly, his grandpa’s belly pushing softly against a brand-new single-breasted suit and his blue eyes twinkling merrily: the 34th President of the United States of America, Dwight David (the Iron-Hewer) Eisenhower! His left arm is raised in a friendly open-handed salute to the screaming, stomping, chanting masses; on his right, smiling graciously: the 30th First Lady of the Land and the prettiest in a coon’s age, the saucy pride of the Hawk-eye State and belle of officers’ clubs these past forty years from one end of the world to the other: Mamie! The place is going wild! America has seen nothing like this man since the day it was born — it is indeed, no fooling, as though George Washington himself were back on earth, alive and well once more and whacking out bogies at Burning Tree! And who knows? it may be so! Ike and Mamie bask briefly in the adulation of the people; then, while the First Lady is escorted by General Jerry Persons to her place in the front pew, the President steps forward, both arms raised as though having his chest measured by a tailor, to address the gathered community, remarking to no one in particular but loud enough for everyone to hear and smile: “I had no idea that our host had such a party as this!”
When things have quieted down enough for him to speak, he assumes a country-philosopher double-chinned pose and, speaking with blurred haste like a man with a mouthful of saltwater taffy, loose teeth, and a hundred things to talk about if he could just remember them, says: “My friends, before I begin the espression of those thoughts that I deem appopriate to this mo-ment I want to say: this one thing — of course, huh! there are a lot of things in a big country such as ours and the kind of world, that we are living in that make interesting subjecks, for conversation and very naturally, I wouldn’t make a serious decoration on such a sujject — supject — uh, at this mo-ment but there are a few thoughts, that crowd into my mind with your permission and I will attempt to utter them in a very informal and homely way…” There is widespread applause at this remark. He tucks one hand awkwardly in his jacket pocket, managing to look bemused, humble, and very important all at the same time. “In many sets — segs — sections of the country in every area, let me say, I have said these things before — and to some of you that are here tonight, some of you here — I hate to be insulting — who I would call contemptries of mine. Whom. What I came to — what I came to repeat — and they are given a new, a sharp meaning by the nature of the tension tormending our whole world and so I don’t mind, repeating what I have said as often as I have spoken pubbick — uh, plubicly, about this sub…ject. What I should like to point out, and I am talking plain common sense — and let me intercheck, whatever the answer be, let it be plainly spoken, I don’t want to sound like Saint Peter. It would be fooling — uh, foolish, to give anything that would appear to be an authoritative conclusion, and certainly I did not come over in the role of a professor to give you a lecher, but I would say this: it is a question that I will not answer, ladies and gentlemen, without a bit more pepprer — uh, pepperation on the thing, of course, I have never thought I had quite all the answers, it’s a damn thorn in the side, but certainly, we can hope for the best — the formula matters less than the fete — faith…”
Thus he yatters on a moment, telling them how he got struck by lightning himself once back in 1917 and recounting in his own inimitable way the saga of the A-bomb theft: “Finally, my friends, we have here this evening to duscuss with you our problems of keeping the internal house. Uh, secure against the boring of subversies and that sort of thing. Now as late as 1949 certain imminent scientists…” But slowly, even as they watch, Eisenhower the happy-go-lucky bumbling oaf gives way to the World Hero, the Man of Destiny: Ike the Divine. Even physically he seems to grow in stature and poise, his voice taking on a new authority and depth as he speaks of the national desire to “stamp out all traces of Communism” and the “power in the Federal Government to defend itself against any kind of internal disease, if it wants to put its heart into it,” the loose charming twaddle fading away, and in its stead: his celebrated “Vision of the War between the Sons of Light and the Sons of Darkness”: “The shadow of fear has darkly lengthened across the world!” he thunders, and in awe they listen. “We sense with all our faculties that forces of Good and Evil are massed and armed and opposed as rarely before in history!”
While he lays it on them, smacking his lips and cracking his jaws like a Dallas radio preacher, ten men slip out quietly from the door downtage right, unheralded and unapplauded, to take up their assigned positions for the final act in tonight’s program. Four of the men — U.S. Marshal William Carroll, Sing Sing Warden Wilfred Denno, and prison doctors George McCracken and H. V. Kipp — line up just inside the door through which they have entered. The official Executioner, Joseph P. Francel, moves upstage past them into his special alcove, and the other five — Marshal Carroll’s deputy Thomas Farley, three FBI agents (technically, the Rosenbergs will be able to confess right up to the last moment, though this is not anticipated; the real hope is that, because God is good, some clue, some word or name, will fly involuntarily like sparks from their charged tongues at the moment of their deaths), and a prison attendant — cross the stage left in front of the electric chair to line up by the disconnected radiator along the wall, just downstage of the Dance Hall door, through which the Rosenbergs are scheduled presently to enter. The prison attendant is carrying a bucket of ammonia with a dark brown sponge floating in it, which he deposits on the floor beside the death chair as he crosses over.
“It is, friends, a spiritual struggle!” the President is declaiming. Dr. Kipp’s stethoscope is showing; he tucks it inside his suit jacket, holding his hand over the button. “And at such a time in history, we who are free must proclaim anew our faith: we are called as a people to give testimony in the sight of the world to our faith that the future shall belong to the free!” Executioner Francel flicks on the spotlight in his alcove, checks the switches, wiring, ammeters, voltmeters, rheostats, flicks the light off again. “History does not long entrust the care of freedom to the weak or the timid — we must be ready to dare all for our country! Whatever America hopes to bring to pass in the world must first come to pass in the heart of America!” The Marshal and the Warden clasp their hands behind their backs, feet slightly apart, a formal at-ease position the others on the stage emulate. Two of the FBI agents tip their heads toward each other. One of them glances at the chair, at the Executioner’s alcove, back at the other agent, who nods somberly as though in agreement. “I know of nothing I can add to make plainer the sincere purpose of the United States!” the President declares.
The stage lights gradually come up and throughout Times Square the houselights dim, casting the people in soft shadows, as Eisenhower moves toward the prayerful climax of his Vision, asking all Americans to beseech “Gawt’s guidance” and pray never to be proven guilty of “the one capital offense against freedom, a lack of staunch faith!” Whereupon, avoiding the nettlesome dilemma of choosing amongst the various schisms — priest, preacher, or rabbi — imported from Europe, he calls upon his own Guardian of the Harvests, Ezra Taft Benson of the Council of Twelve Apostles, former missionary for both the Boy Scouts of America and the Salt Lake Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints, to give the Invocation to the Electric Chair. “For now, good-bye! It has been wonderful to meet you! I will see you again!” he says, and steps down to take his seat, front and center, in the pew beside Mamie — what seat there is left: during his address, Joe McCarthy has managed to elbow his way up into the front row in between Herb Brownell and Helen Rosenberg Kaufman, and Ike only has room on the pew for one cheek. A ripple of unconcealed disgust passes briefly over Eisenhower’s face as he squeezes into his slot, having to alternate between Herb’s lap and Mamie’s, but he can’t seem to bring himself to ask Joe to move.