“Mr. Secretary, you are far too kind.”
Schneider’s drilling of correct titles of address was already paying off, “For God’s sake call me Henry.”
“I rarely get to Washington, as I work out of Chicago mainly and it’s such a wonderful city. You know, I love all the big American cities, they are so much more vibrant than cities in Europe,” Louise said, careful not to mention Germany.
“I see, so you don’t live here?”
“Oh, no, I came to this very important meeting, I am staying here and I return to Chicago tomorrow morning on the Chicago Spirit.”
“OK. I see.”
“But I have a friend here, Peter the barman. I always have a nightcap.”
As she finished her sentence the group of male reporters descended on them.
Returning to his formal Mr. Secretary mode, Morgenthau said,
“Welcome, gentlemen. Let’s get started, shall we?”
It was clear from his manner that Morgenthau was as bored as the reporters were excited—it is not every day that a humble foreign correspondent gets to interview the American President’s right-hand man.
For two hours, the reporters droned on, asking a wide array of questions, from the perceptive to the ridiculous. It seemed to Louise that the reporter from the London Times, a chap named Harold, was by far the most astute. His stutter was a little off-putting at first, but he was intelligent and charming, as well as very handsome. He said he had reported on the Spanish Civil War for the Times. One of the other reporters at the far end of the table seemed to refer to him as “Tim,” but Louise suspected she may have misheard.
Most of the questions centered on the success of the President’s New Deal. Towards the end of the dinner, the Englishman asked about the books that Morgenthau read and had been influenced by. Deftly, Morgenthau turned the question around, back to the English reporter. At this stage, the reporter had downed a little over a bottle of wine, and three small tumblers of port, and instantly he replied “Feuerbach.” Morgenthau looked at the Englishman very directly and simply said, “Interesting choice.”
“But, but, but, but simply from a purely philosophical viewpoint, none of it much applies to the real world,” the English reporter was quick to stutter a disclaimer.
Louise was pretending to write notes, and looked up at Morgenthau; he was looking directly at her; she smiled.
The dinner ended and the reporters all thanked the Treasury Secretary. The men made their way to the lobby, while Louise went first to the ladies’ room, and then to the bar. Peter was delighted to see her. She had only sipped her wine and had taken no port.
Sipping her glass of champagne at the bar, she was not surprised to see the Secretary of the Treasury of the United States of America amble over and sit down beside her. As it was a quiet Tuesday, the bar was empty apart from the two of them and Peter.
“Here is a confident gentleman with brains and charm; while he is not going to try to sleep with me (all he needs do is ask), he clearly enjoys female company,” she thought.
“Peter, how are you this evening, I understand you are lucky enough to know this beautiful young lady?” Morgenthau asked suavely.
Peter nodded, “That I am sir.”
“And Mr. Secretary, what would you like this evening?”
He ordered a brandy.
“And Peter, call me Henry, please.”
Louise compared this true gentleman with the other men she had met at Peter’s bar.
“So you were very quiet at dinner, were those the only two questions you had?”
Morgenthau restated Louise’s two questions with precision.
“Well, sir, my real interest and the interest of my readers is what is the man behind the wonderful voice like? I understand that, like me, you are a great admirer of Mr. Roosevelt.”
“That is an understatement—I am the President’s greatest fan and I think everyone knows that. I have the highest respect and regard for Franklin. He is a man of extra-ordinary talents and unequaled political skill and acumen. People often call me his Yes-man, and I suspect I am too pliant at times, but yes, I am a huge admirer. And his use of radio is unequalled, that glorious baritone voice, so smooth and powerful, like an iron fist in a velvet glove.”
“So you mean he is a saint?”
Morgenthau laughed, “Oh, by no means. He is human and he is sometimes all too human.”
“So give me one of his human foibles. Nothing too indiscrete, just something of interest.”
“You are in a sticky situation here, because I can do one of two things, I can speak on the record, which you can print, or I can speak off the record for background for you, but you can print not one word. So what’ll it be?”
Louise’s choice was obvious, but she tried not to rush it.
“OK, well let’s sit over here at this table by the window and I will give you some background.”
“Peter, one more of these, please.”
Peter nodded at Morgenthau.
The two sat down. Louise and made a show of putting away her reporter’s notebook, she then asked,
“Mr. Morgenthau, can I ask you why you are doing this. I mean why are you sitting down with a young reporter, and a woman at that? And I work for an obscure Chicago business paper.”
“Well, I think some things need to be aired, and a change of direction or an adjustment to the course needs to be taken, and I think foreign newspapers can lead the way, and you are an outsider. Franklin has the White House reporters at his press briefings in his pocket and he is such an operator—he never forgets their birthdays; for his favorites, intimate dinners at the White House and little snippets before the press release is made public,” Morgenthau said without the slightest hint of malice.
As Morgenthau had explained to Louise, he felt the White House reporters were far too chummy with the President. And while pleasant was not necessary a bad thing, too friendly was a bad thing—the White House reporters had tended to lose all objectivity and to see the President’s policy as fact, rather than a political agenda with its inherent strengths and weaknesses—for the White House reporters it was all strengths. And Roosevelt was breathtaking—and unequalled—in his ability to control and connive and con the White House reporters. Some sunlight, especially if it came from foreign reporters, could be useful, or so Morgenthau thought.
“So I think the airing of a slightly different opinion is healthy. You see, my dear, I am a little worried, no, concerned would be more precise. We’ve run up a huge deficit and unemployment is still very high; we’ve increased the tax rate from 24% to 79% but we’re getting in fewer total dollars,” he stopped, first looking at his drink, and then at Louise.
What put Louise into the top rank of agents was her ability to very quickly instill confidence. Mostly, she did this simply by looking and smiling and saying nothing.
“I don’t understand, Mr. Morgenthau.”
“Henry, for Christ’s sake,” he laughed.
She was getting very aroused this close to real power. Not a “Major Sir,” but real, genuine power—the Treasury Secretary of the United States of America. She felt herself getting excited, she could feel her nipples swelling. It was so typical—the powerful men are suave and quiet, the water beetles are loathsomely noisy.
“So… Henry… what is the man really like?”
“Well Franklin is an odd old bird in many ways. As a business man, before he became governor of New York, all his ventures failed. He tried a live lobster business and lost a lot of money; he tried vending machines and that was a complete catastrophe; he tried farming in Georgia at Warm Springs and lost his shirt. My good friend Henry Wallace, who knows Franklin as well as I, told me that he would have no business dealings with Franklin because Franklin lacks the essential patience that all business men need to succeed. In other words, Franklin does not think methodically but just jumps to conclusions—he is like an impatient child who loves to try new things. So should we entrust the nation’s economy to a failed business man? That itself is very disturbing.”