-Caveat Lector-
excerpts from:
Past Forgetting - My Love Affair With Dwight D. Eisenhower
Kay Summersby Morgan(estate of)©1976
Bantam Books
ISBN 0-553-11095-0
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An interesting piece of social history, some tidbits:
--The General is really on a tight leash. He is not his own master." . . . and
told me a bit about how the General was always surrounded by political people
who practically dictated his every move.--
--During the General's first trip to London, the orderly who had been
temporarily assigned to him confided in a burst of democratic exasperation
that he was even expected to help Eisenhower on with his underpants in the
morning. ...Later I learned it was true. The General had learned to enjoy
being waited on hand and foot when he served under General Douglas MacArthur
in the Phillippines, where servants were plentiful.--
Om
K
-----
>From the Publisher
KAY Summersby Morgan wrote this book under a death sentence. In late 1973, her
doctors gave her six months to live, but Kay stretched it into more than a
year-and lived every day until the very last with her customary gaiety and
relish. "There's no point in dwelling on it," she would say.
She kept on working. Her last job was as fashion consultant for the film The
Stepford Wives. On weekends she drove her beat-up secondhand Volkswagen to the
Hamptons, where she played bridge and an occasional few holes of golf with old
friends. And she .wrote. She wrote this book because she wanted the truth to
be known.
"I was always extremely discreet," she said. "But now the General is dead. And
I am dying. Once I am dead, then I would like this book to speak for me. I
would like the world to know the truth of the Eisenhower affair."
p. vii
=====
1
MORE than half my life I have felt like the girl in the hair-coloring
advertisement, the one that asks the question, "Does she . . . or doesn't
she?" In my case, they were not speculating about my hair color.
It used to distress me enormously, but as time went by, emotional scar tissue
formed over the raw nerve ends, and eventually "Did she . . . or didn't she?"
became a curiously old-fashioned speculation. If, through some time warp, I
were to be in my early thirties again, serving as driver, secretary and
confidante to the stalwart and utterly charming Supreme Commander of the
Allied Forces in Europe, General Dwight David Eisenhower, no one would wonder
"Did they ... ?" Today people would simply assume that we did-and given modem
mores, forget the whole thing.
But that was not the way it was. It took years and years, decades, for. people
to forget. And just when I thought the whole issue had disappeared from
people's minds, it was raised again-this time with a vengeance that ripped
open that emotional scar tissue-in Plain Speaking: An Oral Biography of Harry
S. Truman by Merle Miller. Late in the autumn of 1973, even before the book
was officially published, the few, paragraphs in it about General Eisenhower
and me made the front pages of newspapers all over the world.
It was absolutely unbelievable. The General had been dead for four years. And
I had not seen himexcept from a determinedly anonymous distance-for more than
a quarter of a century. It was ancient history. Or so I had thought. But the
world did not agree. As Lloyd Shearer wrote in Parade magazine, "Journalists
began an intensive search for Kay Summersby. But Kay Summersby could be found
nowhere."
There was a reason for that. I had been on the operating table when the story
broke. But journalists axe a persistent breed. An Englishman finally tracked
me down. He had looked up the old newspaper clippings and called a friend of
mine who had been mentioned in one of them.
"Mrs. P——?" he had asked. "I'm calling from London. Weren't you present when
Kay married Reginald Morgan?"
She was quite unsuspecting. "I certainly was," she replied. "They were married
right here in my apartment."
"I'm an old friend of Kay's," he said, "and I've been trying to get in touch
with her. Can you tell me where she is?"
This was a lie. I had never heard of him, but there was no way for her to know
that. She told him, "Kay's in New York Hospital. She has had some surgery."
So there I was, barely out of the recovery room, with an intravenous solution
dripping through a tube into my arm and another tube threaded through my
nostril, and the hospital switchboard was calling to say that it had an
overseas call for me. Did I feel up to taking it? I did not, but I took it
anyway, positive that it was my brother, Seamus, calling me from Johannesburg,
eight thousand miles away. Instead, it was this man.
"I'm calling from London," he said. "What about all this?"
Only someone who has had major surgery can understand the state I was in. The
effects of the anesthetic had not worn off completely, and I was drained, just
terribly fatigued by the shock of surgery. Talking was an immense effort.
"What about all what?" I asked feebly.
"About you and Ike," he said. "Is it true or isn't it?"
I did not know what he was talking about. I thought he was just one more
person raking up that old did-they-or-didn't-they speculation. I have had my
share of middle-of-the-night calls from drunkards wanting to settle a bet and
sick-sick people spilling vituperation into the telephone, but pursuing me
into the hospital to ask about my relationship with General Eisenhower was
just about the worst.
"No comment," I said. And hung up. But he had his story. "Kay Summersby
Morgan, convalescing from surgery in New York City, refused to comment on
report she and Ike planned to marry."
The mischief had been done. Now the world knew where I was. Telephone calls
and wires came into the hospital from all over the globe. I quickly learned
what had prompted that call, of course, and one of my dearest friends brought
me a copy of the book
complete with a bookmark flagging the pages with President Truman's
revelations about General Eisenhower.
It was no secret that Harry S. Truman did not care for Dwight D. Eisenhower,
but I had liked President Truman when he and his Secretary of State James
Byrnes visited General Eisenhower's headquarters in Frankfurt at the time of
the Potsdam Conference in 1945. The Big Three had had serious matters to
discuss at Potsdam, including America's new weapon, the atomic bomb. (When I
had heard Ike discussing the military and political implications of the Bomb
with his top staff members several weeks before its existence was revealed, I
remember thinking, Oh, oh! It's time to leave the room. This is something I
don't want to know about.)
Toward the end of the conference, Truman came to Frankfurt to inspect the 84th
Infantry Division -(there were a lot of men from Missouri in it), and after
driving through the dusty German countryside on that hot July day and talking
to scores of American soldiers, he came back to headquarters. As he walked in,
he said to General Eisenhower that it reminded him of the Pentagon it was so
big, and Eisenhower told him it used to be the hub of the huge I. G. Farben
industrial complex. After the President and the General had concluded their
talk, Ike called me in and introduced me to the President. I thought him
extremely friendly and straightforwardly natural. A very appealing man.
My office diary, in which I often jotted down personal notes as well as the
General's appointments, contains this entry for that day:
E. leaves office early to meet the President . . . Unexpectedly Re brings the
President and Secretary of State Byrnes into the office at 2.30. Ike talked to
the President about my wanting to become an American citizen.
That had truly been a, red-letter day for me, and about three months later, as
a result of that conversation, I flew to Washington to take out my first
papers for American citizenship.
Now, twenty-eight years later, I sat cranked up to a half-sitting position in
my hospital bed reading and rereading a story that I could hardly believe.
President Truman had told his biographer, Merle Miller, that "right after the
war was over, he [Eisenhower] wrote a letter to General Marshall saying that
he wanted to come back to the United States and divorce Mrs. Eisenhower so
that he could marry this English woman."
His request was brutally denied. Even outspoken President Truman seems to have
been shocked at the harshness of the denial.
"Marshall wrote him back a letter," said the President, "the like of which I
never did see. He said that if he . . . if Eisenhower even came dose to doing
such a thing, he'd not only bust him 'out of the Army, he'd see to it that
never for the rest of his life would he be able to draw a peaceful breath ...
and that if he ever again even mentioned a thing like that, he'd see to it
that the rest of his life was a living hell."
President Truman then said, "One of the last things I did as President, I got
those letters from his file in the Pentagon and I destroyed them."
pp.1-5
=====
. . .-it must have been four or five years ago-David Susskind called and said,
"Kay, I want you on the program."
"Oh, lovely!" I said. "What do you want me to talk about?"
"The letter, of course," David said.
"What letter?" I asked, truly mystified. "I don't have an inkling of what
you're talking about."
And he said, "Oh, come on, Kay. You know what I'm talking about. The
Eisenhower letter. The letter Ike wrote telling Marshall that he wanted to
divorce Mamie and marry you."
For a moment I was stunned, and then I thought, Oh, that's nonsense. David's
trying to dredge up some thing sensational for his program.
"David," I said, "I never heard of any such thing. Somebody's been feeding you
a story. It's no good my going on your program. I have nothing to say."
And that was that. I forgot all about it. I never heard another word about the
letters until I was in the hospital in 1973—more than twenty years after the
rumors presumably started. I myself have no way of knowing whether or not Ike
really wrote such a letter. But I have great faith in Harry Truman's
integrity. I do not believe that he would have said such a thing if it were
not true. Nor would Harry Vaughan have said what he said if the letters did
not exist.
I confess that I hope with all my heart, that Ike did write to General
Marshall. I believe that he did. And it is my belief that has given me the
strength and the courage to write this book.
The public reaction to the disclosure of these letters startled me. Who would
ever have believed that one
Irishwoman's (I was born in County Cork and am not an "Englishwoman" as
President Truman described me) relationship with an American general, a rela-
tionship that began more than thirty-five years ago and was abruptly
terminated three years later, could still be of interest to anyone at all? I
suppose the whole thing stayed alive because Ike was not only a war hero and a
two-term President of the United States, he was above all a man who had
captured the heart of America. The heart of the world. And my heart, too.
So for those who are interested, here is the story of a general and his Irish
driver. I feel free to talk about it now. The General is dead. I am dying.
When I wrote Eisenhower Was My Boss in 1948, 1 omitted many things, changed
some details, glossed over others to disguise as best I could the intimacy
that had grown between General Eisenhower and me. It was better that way. And
when Captain Harry C. Butcher, USNR, wrote his book, My Three Years with
Eisenhower, he did the same thing for the same reason. Butch mentioned me
only in passing, often simply referring to me as "the driver." We were both
intent on keeping the General's private life private. in those days anything
that could have been construed as a shadow on the General's character would
have been seized upon as a political weapon. But times have changed. I do not
believe that anyone today will construe our relationship as shameful. it
certainly can cast no shadow on the General's character. I believe that truth
makes for better history than evasions, And somedayperhaps-my truth will serve
as a small, clarifying footnote to history.
The story I am about to tell happened a long time ago. -I ask the reader to be
lenient. My sources are my memory, my old blue leather diary-and my heart. If
an occasional time. sequence is twisted or a fact misplaced, it is only
because of the tricks that memory plays as one grows older. The conversations
in this book ring true to my ear and my heart, but it must be understood that
they have been reconstructed from my memories. The events that I am writing
about meant so much to me, however, and I have lived them over to myself
during so many long nights, that I think my story is as close to reality as if
it were only last night that I said my unsuspecting good-bye to the General,
to Ike, to the man I loved.
2
You never know when something important is going to happen, and when it does,
you often don't realize that it did until long after. That is the way it was
when I met General Eisenhower. He was Major General Eisenhower then, and he
had two stars—and they did not impress me one bit.
I was a member of Britain's Motor Transport Corp& This was the volunteer corps
that the debutantes and post debutantes flocked to when war was declared. I
knew many of them. We had gone to the same dances, watched polo at Hurlingham,
together, spent long weekends in Scotland together, but there was a difference
between them and me. Most of them were wealthy. I was not.
I had recently separated from my husband Gordon Summersby, a young publisher,
and was earning my living modeling for Worth of Paris. Worth represented the
cream of the couture and dressed-with superb materials and elegantly
understated stylegenerations of the solid rich from debutante to dowager. . .
.
pp. 8-11
=====
Then there was Mickey-Sergeant Michael McKeogh, who was Eisenhower's orderly,
and living proof that the saying about no man's being a hero to his valet is
incorrect. Mickey polished the General's shoes, shined his brass, ironed his
shoestrings, changed his razor blades, squeezed the paste onto his toothbrush,
helped him dress and undress, packed for him, unpacked for him, worried about
him-and felt privileged to do it.
His hero worship sometimes struck the rest of us as funny. I remember one
morning in Algiers when the General came downstairs all buffed and pressed and
brushed and polished, and Mickey looked at him and sighed, "He's better
looking than Gary Cooper." The General burst out laughing, and the rest of us
joined in. Mickey could not understand what was so funny.
As I list Mickey's duties, I have to smile when I think of his helping
Eisenhower dress and undress. During the General's first trip to London, the
orderly who had been temporarily assigned to him confided in a burst of
democratic exasperation that he was even expected to help Eisenhower on with
his underpants in the morning. I went into peals of laughter at the thought of
that nice, unassuming American being helped on with his underwear. I could not
believe it. Later I learned it was true. The General had learned to enjoy
being waited on hand and foot when he served under General Douglas MacArthur
in the Phillippines, where servants were plentiful. "When I came back from
Manila," he told me once, "General Marshall asked if I had learned how to-put
my pants on again now that I was back in the States. I told him I'd never lost
the knack. It was tying my shoelaces that bothered me."
Mickey was no mere pants holder. He could never do enough for the Boss. He saw
to it that his bedside table was well supplied with chocolate bars, chewing
gum and cigarettes, and he made it his business to see that the General had a
steady supply of new Westerns, his favorite-and almost only-reading matter
apart from official papers.
pp. 40-41
=====
"You can't possibly know how much I would like to do for you," he said. There
was a strange quality to his voice. He was looking at me, his teeth clenched.
That kind of look from which you cannot tell if a person is going to laugh or
cry. Startled, I sat there at his desk looking at him. Neither of us said a
word. Then Ike took off those reading glasses of his and stretched out his
hand. "Kay, you are someone very special to me." I felt tears rising in my
eyes. He was someone very special to me, too. I had never realized how special
before. But he was. Very.
He laid his hand over mine. And he smiled. This was not the famous Eisenhower
grin. This was a tender, almost tremulous smile, even a bit rueful. And full
of love. I could not return it. I felt shaken, timid, almost as if I were
undressing in front of him very slowly. In my face, in my eyes, there was
nothing but absolute naked adoration. I could not hide it.
We just sat there and looked at each other. I felt overpoweringly shy. We were
both silent, serious, eyes searching eyes. It was a communion, a pledging, an
avowal of love.
And it was an absolutely shocking surprise.
So this is love, I thought. I had been in love before, but it had never been
like this—so completely logical, so right. For over a year, Ike and I had
spent more time with each other than with anyone else. We had worked, worried
and played together. Love had grown so naturally that it was a part of our
lives, something precious that I had taken for granted without ever putting a
name to it.
Yes, I loved this middle-aged man with his thinning hair, his eyeglasses, his
drawn, tired face. I wanted to hold him in my arms, to cuddle him, delight
him. I wanted to lie on some grassy lawn and see those broad shoulders above
me, feel the intensity of those eyes on mine, feel that hard body against
mine. I loved this man.
No wonder I felt shy. This was all in my eyes as I looked helplessly at Ike. I
don't know how long we sat there without speaking. Not too long. Tex burst in
with a file of papers for the General. "I'm next, Kay," he boomed cheerfully.
"That's fine, Tex," I told him. "I was just going." And I picked up whatever
paper I had come in with and left the office.
Back at my desk, I pretended to sort out some pa. perk not knowing what I was
doing, but trying desper. ately to appear busy. It would never do for anyone
to note how moved I was. Oh yes, I loved Ike. I had loved him for a long time
without ever being aware of it. Ike was the person around whom my world
revolved and had been revolving for many months now. Ike was the person whom I
admired more than any other. For whom I felt an aching tenderness and concern.
With whom I always felt comfortable, at home.
I thought of all the times our eyes had met across the bridge table as we
shared an unspoken comment on on one of Butch's girl friends or an instant of
glee over a bluffing bid that had succeeded. our communication was always
instant and complete. I thought of how easy it was to work with him, knowing
just what he wanted and how he wanted it. I thought of how unreservedly kind
he had been to my mother and brother, how he had given me Telek, of the
uncounted and uncountable ways he had befriended me, comforted me and involved
himself in my life.
I thought, too, of the silly excuses we had made for touching each other all
these weeks and months, excuses I had never admitted to myself before. A touch
of the fingers as I handed him his appointment schedule for the day. His hand
on my shoulder as he leaned over to look at some letter I had called to his
attention. The occasional (was it really accidental?) touch of foot and knee
at the dinner table. The times when, as we sat together on the sofa, our hands
had slid together and touched without either of us seeming to notice—or moving
them apart.
That morning, life took on a sweetness that was almost unbearable. I floated
on a cloud of happiness, delighting in my secret, exploring the feelings I had
hidden from myself for months. I felt peaceful and fulfilled.
I had no thought for the future, but went over and over exactly what had
happened in that emotional interlude—what he had said, what he had done, how
he had looked. But the daydreaming had to end. This was headquarters. There
was a war. The General's mail -was stacked on my desk, waiting to be read and
answered. And in just a few minutes it would be time for me to drive him home
for lunch.
I went into what I can only describe as a girlish panic. How was I going to
face him? What should I say? What would he say? There was no time to think
about it. Ike came striding out of his office with his usual "Ready, Kay?" and
I jammed my overseas cap on my head and ran for the car. It was a silent
drive back to the villa. Usually we had so much to talk about that we were
still chattering as we walked into the house. Today-not a word.
The sentries on the terrace saluted as we walked in. Mickey was at the door to
take the General's hat, and he followed us to the dining room, where Hunt and
Moaney were waiting for the signal to put lunch on the table. This was the
goldfish bowl that Ike was perpetually complaining about. Moaney came and went
serving lunch and clearing away. Mickey poured the coffee. Now that I was
aching for privacy, I under. stood what a burden it was to live one's life
under con. stant observation. There was not a moment, not one single moment
when we could exchange a private word, a meaningful look. We sat there mute
and Poker faced, completely caught up in thoughts and feelings that could not,
should not be expressed. As we were leaving to go back to the St.-Georges,
Mickey beckoned surreptitiously, and I stepped back into the dining room.
"The General isn't himself today," he whispered worriedly. "Bad news this
morning,
"I don't know," I whispered back. "Hope not. I haven't heard any," and I
rushed after Ike. As we were driving out of the compound, Ike said, "I'm sorry
about this morning, Kay. That shouldn't have happened. I spoke out of turn.
Please forget it.,
Forget it! Impossible. I was a woman caught up in a dream of love. This man
was the center of my existence. It had taken me long enough to realize it, but
now-how could I forget it? I could not. Absolutely could not. If I cry, I
thought, I will never be able to live with myself. I willed the tears to dry
up. It was like willing the waves to stop breaking. One after another, the
slow tears slid down my cheeks.
"Goddamnit!" Ike's voice crackled furiously into my ears. "Don't you
understand? It's impossible. I was a damn fool. I'm asking you to forget it."
I did not say a word. There were no words.
"Goddamnit, stop crying," he ordered.
I took a deep breath. Swallowed. Managed to say, "I'm not crying. And
furthermore, I do not understand what you are talking about." I stuck my chin
up in the air, damped my lips shut and drew up at the side door of the
St.-Georges with a flourish. I would have given anything to be able to indulge
in the old childish gesture of wiping my sleeve across my eyes to brush away
the tears, but grown women in their thirties don't do that. I simply borrowed
the General's favorite word and said, "Goddamnit, I've got some of this bloody
Algerian dust in my eyes." If General Eisenhower regretted his words and his
show of feeling, I regretted my reaction to them even more. I had made a fool
of myself—a transparent, bloody fool of myself. That afternoon I applied
myself to the typewriter with a vengeance.
Tex came out of Ike's office and warned, "Watch out. He's a real bear this
afternoon."
Butch asked, "What's up, Kay? Did he say anything at lunch? He was in a fine
mood this morning."
"No," I answered honestly. "He didn't say a word at lunch."
Butch whistled. "Hmmm—it's either Monty or the French. Can't imagine anything
else that could have come up." I could imagine something else, but I was not
volunteering.
Suddenly, four buzzes. That was my signal. I took a firm clutch On my newfound
poise, grabbed a pencil and pad and marched in.
"Just wanted to tell you that the tailor will be at the villa first thing
tomorrow morning to take your measurements. Butch can drive me to the office
and you can come along later when you're through." The General did not look at
me. He was flipping through a folder as he spoke.
"Oh, I think not," I said coolly. "What I've got will serve perfectly well.
Thank you, but I think I should say no."
He got so red in the face that I thought he would pop a blood vessel light
then and there. He stood up and walked around his desk. "You are a goddamned
stubborn Irish mule," he said between his teeth. "You're going to get measured
for those uniform& And You're going to get measured tomorrow. That's an
order." He glared at me. I was just as angry as he was. We stood there like
two fighters, each daring the other to make a move.
"Goddamnit, can't you tell I'm crazy about you?" he barked at me.
It was like an explosion. We were suddenly in each other's arms. His kisses
absolutely unraveled me. Hungry, strong, demanding. And I responded every bit
as passionately. He stopped, took my face between his hands. "Goddamnit," he
said, "I love you."
We were breathing as if we had run up a dozen flights of stairs. God must have
been watching over us, because no one came bursting into the office. it was a
lovers' luck, but we both came to our senses, remembering how Tex had walked
in earlier that day. Ike had lipstick smudges on his face. I started scrubbing
at them frantically with my handkerchief, worrying what if someone comes in?
Ike put his hands on my shoulders. "We have to be very careful," he said. "I
don't want you to be hurt. I don't want people to gossip about you. God, I
wish things were different."
"I think things are wonderful," I whispered. I knew what he was talking about.
I understood the problems. And I did not believe for a moment that love
conquers all. But still—everything was wonderful. I did not expect anything to
be easy. But I was not one to deny love. I could see no reason to deny it.
This is part of the business of living in that special dimension, in our case
the tunnel of war, where all your feelings, all your energies are absorbed by
one great purpose. Your world is different from that of other people, divorced
from the world outside the tunnel. What was impor. tant here and now was that
there was love—pulsating irrepressible love.
When I came out of Ike's office, everyone looked up at me. I almost panicked,
thinking that my hair was untidy or there was some other telltale sign. Then
Tex asked, "Well, how is he? Did he bite your head off too? Did you find out
what was wrong?"
"No," I said. "He seems to be over whatever it was. He was cheerful enough."
I wanted to stand in the middle of the office and laugh and say, "listen,
everyone, we're in love. Love!" But as Ike had warned, we had to be careful.
Very, very careful. And until now, I have lived up to that bargain. I have
lied and dissimulated to do it. But it's true. We were in love. And it was
glorious.
NOTHING had changed. Everything had changed. The acknowledgement of our love
heightened the pleasure of every moment Ike and I spent together-and
heightened the frustrations as well. As long as we were in Algiers, all we
could hope for would be a few stolen moments of privacy-to talk. No more mad
embraces. That initial passionate encounter could not be repeated. There were
eyes and ears everywhere.
pp.145-152
=====
This was a strange love affair, if one could call it an affair. Whatever it
was, I have never had such a perfect relationship with anyone else in my life.
Ever. Not with anybody. We were absolutely in love with each other. If he took
my hand and gave it a squeeze, I knew everything that was in his heart. He was
like that. He was never able to come right out and say, "I love you" after
that first time. His way of telling me would be to say, "Kay, you know exactly
what I would like to tell you. You have to understand." And I would say, "Yes,
I understand." And I did.
Tossing about in bed night after night, unable to get to sleep, I went over
and over Ike's last hours in Algiers. After breakfast on the day he left-it
was the last day of 1943—we were drinking a last cup of coffee while elsewhere
in the house Mickey attended to the packing. "I'm going to miss you a lot," I
said. "Two weeks seems like a long time. Especially when you are going to be
so far away."
"Twelve days," he corrected me. "You'll be with me all the time. Don't you-
know that, my darling? You know-you have to know-the things that are in my
heart. You know what I want to say. I don't have the right. But think of me.
I'll be thinking of you." It was a long speech for Ike, the most taciturn of
men when it came to sentiment.
He held my hand and looked at me for a long moment. Then we were on our way to
the airport. We must have looked like a kennel on wheels. Telek was in front
with me, and in back -with Ike and Butch were Telek's son and daughter, junior
and Rubey. The men had decided the puppies were the perfect late-Christmas
gifts for their wives. A small crowd was waiting to see the General off. I was
grateful that he had arranged for those few private minutes for us to say
good-bye. He shook hands with all his staff. I was the last one. He took a
slip of paper out of his pocket and said, "Kay, will you tend to this for me?"
"Certainly, General," I told him. "Have a safe trip."
I stood on the ground watching until the plane disappeared into the haze on
the horizon. Back in the car, I looked at the paper he had given me. Think of
me, he had written. You know what I will be thinking. I cried. I simply could
not help it. But that was a dangerous indulgence; someone might be watching. I
sniffed and angrily scrubbed my fists into my eyes to wipe away the tears and
turned the car around to head back to the St.Georges.
After days and nights of heart searching, playing over scene after scene in my
head, starting from the very first day I had set eyes on the unknown major
general in Grosvenor Square, I finally became very calm and accepting. I loved
Ike. That was all that mattered; I wanted nothing more. It was folly to ink of
the future. There was a war. If it had been peacetime, it would have been
entirely different. An entirely different matter. Then, I believe. I might
after a certain time, I think I might . . . I might nave said, "Make up your
mind." But we were living in a different time. In wartime one has an entirely
different approach to life, based on the here and now. After all, we were
never sure that there would be a tomorrow. We had seen too much. Tomorrow
would have to take care of itself.
I would follow my heart. And every one of my heartstrings led to Ike.
pp. 189-191
=====
I opened the big envelope. It was a photograph of President Roosevelt
inscribed to me. I was very flattered. Ever since the war, I have had my own
photograph gallery of heroes-autographed pictures of General Eisenhower, Prime
Minister Churchill and President Roosevelt. No matter where I have lived, they
have always hung in the place of honor in my living room.
Ike refilled our glasses several times and then, I suppose inevitably, we
found ourselves in each other's arms in an unrestrained embrace. Our ties came
off. Our jackets came off. Buttons were unbuttoned. It was as if we were
frantic. And we were.
But this was not what I had expected. Wearily, we slowly calmed down. He
snuggled his face into the hollow between my neck and shoulder and said, "Oh
God, Kay. I'm sorry. I'm not going to be any good for you." I didn't know what
to say except "You're good enough for me. What you need is some sleep." It was
a bit embarrassing struggling back into the clothes that had been flung on the
floor. Finally we were dressed. Ike looked troubled. "I don't want to let you
go," he said. "But you can't stay here. God, I'm sorry. I can't even drive you
home."
"Don't worry," I told him. "I'll be fine. It's just around the comer." We
kissed good night. As he let me out the door, I saluted. "Good night, General.
I'll be here in the morning." One never knew who might be lurking in the fog
ready to catch an indiscreet word.
I was ready to go to sleep then and there with my head on the steering wheel.
Or was I ready to bawl my head off? I did neither; simply drove another few
blocks through the fog and got myself to bed. My last thought as I dropped off
to sleep was to the effect that things are never the way you think they'll be.
I was back at the house at breakfast time. "Come on, Kay," Ike said. "You
better have an egg. . . .
pp. 196-197
=====
June 19—when Ike heard that the weather over the Channel was so bad that all
shipping was at a standstill. That meant that troops and supplies could not be
landed. When the bad news was telephoned through to the cottage, Ike said, "I
need a drink." This was the first and only time I ever heard him say that. I
mixed him a Scotch and water. "More Scotch," he ordered, so I poured in a very
healthy slug on top of his usual ounce-and-a-half jigger. "That's good. I
needed that," he said as he gulped it down. The reason for his strong reaction
was that if the invasion had been postponed earlier, June 19 would have been
its next possible date. That storm turned out to be the most violent storm in
fifty years, an actual hurricane, and was a real setback for the Allies—but
nowhere near the disaster that it would have been if the invasion had been
scheduled to take place at that time.
p. 226
=====
We sat there for a while, and then Ike said something that shook me almost as
if there had been an earth tremor. "Kay," he asked very quietly, "would you
like to have a child?" We had talked about how much we both liked children
many times. Ike often said that he wished he had had a big family. Four
children, he always said, would be ideal.
I couldn't be coy about this. "Yes," I said. "I'd love to have a baby. Not a
baby; your baby," I corrected myself. Actually, I could think of nothing that
I would like better. I had often daydreamed about having a baby, Ike's child.
I would love, absolutely love to have his child. I smiled thinking about it. I
could see that baby-he was a boy and looked just like his father-toddling
about on the grass, grinning a big grin when he fell down. I could see him
later perched on the back of a horse, his father teaching him how to ride. And
I could see us, when our son was eight or nine, the three of us galloping over
the moors and then coming home and laughing and talking as we ate supper. The
boy would fall asleep in front of the fire after supper, and Ike would carry
him up to bed. We would sit there smiling at each other across his bed as he
lay there, rosy cheeked and deep in his child's sleep.
I sighed. "It's impossible, you know."
"I know," said Ike. "But maybe things will be different later. I'd like it,
you know. I'd like it very much."
We were quiet for a while. Then Ike asked, "You don't think I'd be too old for
the boy?"
He had decided it would be a boy too. "No," I said. "You won't be too old. Not
you. Not ever."
We said nothing more about this, but every time our eyes met that evening, it
was as if we had advanced into a new level of intimacy. That night after the
buzz bombs had chased us to the shelter, Ike reached his hand out to me in the
dark and we fell asleep holding hands between our cots.
pp. 236-237
=====
Then one day there was terrible news. President Roosevelt was dead. This shook
us all. Everyone was devastated by the loss. Especially that he had died
before victory was completely within our grasp. He had seemed so very vital
when I had seen him in Algiers that I could not believe he was dead.
Things were happening so fast now, that there was little time to mourn. There
was talk of surrender. Yes, they would. No, they would not. Then we heard that
Hitler had killed himself, and the atmosphere at headquarters turned into what
I once described as "one grand happy mess." Now we knew it was just a matter
of days before the Germans surrendered. But how those days dragged on!
The Germans let it be known that they were ready to surrender, but the German
generals stalled and dragged their feet, holding out for concessions—none of
which were they granted. Finally, after several false starts, General Alfred
Jodl, the German Chief of Staff, and Admiral Hans Georg von Friedeburg signed
the surrender papers in the War Room that had been set up in our schoolhouse
headquarters at Reims. At 2:41 in the morning of May 7, the Germans finally
surrendered-unconditionally.
Ike was alone in his office, where he had been since midnight, pacing up and
down. I was at my desk in the outside office. And Telek wa's at my feet. We
heard the Germans come marching down the hall, after having signed, at about
three o'clock. They marched into my office, straight past me and into the
Supreme Commander's office, where they stopped, clicked their heels and
saluted. All I could feel was a cold hatred for these men who symbolized for
me the evil that we had been fighting, the evil that we had conquered. Butch
and I stood in the doorway of Ike's office and watched.
The Supreme Commander's voice was cold. "Do you understand the terms of the
document of surrender you have just signed?" I turned to my desk and wrote
down his words in the diary. He continued. "You will get details of
instructions at a later date. And you will be expected to carry them out
faithfully."
That was all. He stared at them. They saluted, turned and left. Telek growled
from under my desk.
Suddenly the office was full of people. The photographers rushed in to take
pictures. just as suddenly, it was empty again. Ike sighed, "I suppose this
calls for a bottle of champagne," he said. There was no triumph in his voice,
none of the elation he had shown when the photographers were there. Now he was
alone with his wartime family. We drove back to the chateau where he lived in
Reims-there were about ten or twelve of us—and drank champagne and discussed
the events of the last few hours until dawn showed through the window. It was
a somber occasion. No one laughed. No one smiled. It was all over. We had won,
but victory was not anything like what I had thought it would be. There was a
dull bitterness about it. So many deaths. So much destruction. And everyone
was very, very tired.
26
"LET'S take in a show," the General said a few days after VE-Day. "Something
light. A comedy or a musical. I'd like to go to London. Everyone else has
celebrated VE-Day. I think we should too."
"Grand," I said. "When do we leave?"
"As soon as possible."
John was in Reims for a few days then, and one Tuesday morning, Ike, John,
Jimmy Gault, General Bradley and I took off for London. Jimmy had brought
along eighteen bottles of the very best champagne obtainable in Reims. When he
declared it at Northolt Airport, the customs officials raised a collective
eyebrow-the duty would be sky high. "It's for General Eisenhower's private VE
party," Jimmy said. That was all that was needed. The customs officers forgot
they had ever seen or heard of those eighteen bottles.
We went straight to Telegraph Cottage. It was a glorious day. Ike and I
inspected every corner of the place. His golf dubs were still in the closet.
"Goddamnit," he said, "I'd like to try that thirteenth hole again." We walked
down the little path to the golf' course and played a couple of holes. We were
pretty rusty. It had been more than a year since either of us had swung a golf
club. On the way back, we passed our favorite rustic bench. Ike took my hand.
"Come on, let's just sit here for a few minutes"
That bench held lots of memories for us. Some happy. Some sad. We had done a
lot of talking, sitting here hidden from the house by the shrubbery. This was
the place where a long time ago Ike had told me about a great tragedy in his
life: the death of his firstborn son, Icky, from scarlet fever. Ike still
mourned him. We had shared many confidences here.
Now Ike asked, "Do you remember what we talked about the day you brought Telek
back from the kennel last summer?"
"About having a baby?"
He nodded. "I want to do something about that. If I can." He turned to me and
took me by the shoulder& "Would you like it as much as I would?"
It was my turn to nod.
"Are you sure?"
"Yes, darling. I am very sure."
"Then I'm going to try my damnedest," Ike said. "That's all I can say. But I
want you to know I'm going to try."
Actually, I was not too sure what he was talking about. Did he mean—could he
have meant that he would try to get a divorce? I don't know. I want to think
so. He was not a man to make careless promises. He always weighed his words.
He was always discreet. But he was very much elated on this personal, very
private VE-Day celebration of his, and I think that a lot of things had been
going through his mind in the days since the Germans had surrendered. I think
he realized that he had to face up to making decisions about the rest of his
life. We had come to the end of the life we had shared for so long. Or almost
to the end. The tunnel of war had opened onto the light of a world that would
soon be at peace. There were a lot of adjustments to be made.
There was no more time to talk. Lunch was served, and then it was time to
leave for London. I didn't want to leave, and I said so. "We'll be back," Ike
said. The car was waiting. I took one last look around the house and started
down the walk. "Kay," he called, "can you come here a minute?" I went back
into the house to see what he wanted. "Come here," he said, stretching out his
arms. "You've never given me a victory kiss."
The next item on the celebration agenda was a buffet supper in General
Bradley's suite at the Dorchester. Ike had invited my mother to spend the
evening with us. John was there, and a friend of mine, a very pretty girl who
was in the WRENS (Women's Royal Naval Service), was there as his date. Jimmy
Gault and his wife were there. And a couple of other dear, dose friends. We
had a marvelous time, and the champagne seemed to evaporate. Then we were all
off to the theater to see Strike a New Note. It was just what Ike had wanted-
an amusing revue.
A box had been reserved for the General at the theater. John and his WREN sat
on Ike's right and I on his left. General Bradley and my mother sat behind us.
I had been dubious about sitting beside the General in such a public place and
had suggested that I sit in the second row with my mother, but Ike said, "Come
on, Kay. This is where I want you."
We settled ourselves very quietly, but people recognized the General and the
word got around in seconds. There were cheers, and everyone clapped and
whistled. I don't think Ike had realized how fabulously popular he had become.
He was a bit surprised and very, very much pleased. When the audience started
shouting, "Speechl Speechl" he spread out his arms to quiet them and then,
standing very relaxed with his hand on the rail of the box, he said a few
words. He told the audience how pleased and happy he was to be back in
England.
"It's nice," he told them, "to be back in a country where I can almost speak
the language." They loved it and cheered some more. It took a long time for
the house to quiet down so that the curtain could go up. It was all
tremendously exciting. None of us had had any idea that we would be caught up
in this kind of heady welcome.
Afterwards we went to Ciro's for dinner. It was quite a while afterwards
actually, because such a crowd had gathered outside the theater that it was
ages before we could move. Finally, the police told the driver to release the
brake and they simply pushed the car along slowly until it was through the
worst of the crowd. Ciro's was marvelous fun. We had a big table against the
wall, and as soon as we were seated, the orchestra played "For He's a jolly
Good Fellow," and Ike grinned as if someone had given him the key to the city.
Then it was more champagne, and our little party talked excitedly about the
welcome the General was receiving. He turned to me. "Kay," he said, "would you
like to dance?" Of course. I would. No question about it. We got up and walked
out onto the floor. And then—I was in his arms. In his arms in public for the
first time. I smiled at him and said, "If anyone here tonight could guess how
much I love you, they would not believe it." "I would," he said. Then he
concentrated on his dancing. A good thing, too. As we circled the floor, a
story that Ike had told me long before floated in my mind. I could not help
laughing. Ike wanted to know what was so funny. "I'm thinking of how you told
me they put you in the awkward squad at West Point because you couldn't march
in time with the band."
"You mean I'm not in time with the music?"
"Well, not quite." It was hard to tell what step we were doing or what beat
Ike was listening to. We were sort of hopping around the floor. But I didn't
care. He had asked me for the first dance. That was my personal victory
celebration. After Ike had danced with the other women in our party, we spent
most of the rest of the evening talking and dancing together. It was heaven.
Supreme Headquarters was moved to Frankfurt about a week later. No more
makeshift advance headquarters for us now. No more camouflaged buildings. No
more tents, no more schoolhouses. Now we were in the immense I. G. Farben
building, which was a small city in itself. It was very elegant-lots of marble
and fountains and indoor flower gardens, great curving staircases and very
luxurious offices. Several tennis courts could have been fitted into Ike's
office. Bouquets of fresh spring flowers were placed in our offices every day.
Mine was like an anteroom to his. We had a little window installed high in the
wall between the two offices so that I could stand up and look in and see what
was going on.
pp. 253-259
=====
It was October 14 when I returned. Ike's birthday. It was a very quiet
celebration. He came over to our house for dinner. We had managed to get some
steaks, his favorite food next to oysters, and of course, there were a cake
and a few bottles of champagne. We all gave him small presents—a handkerchief,
a card, a chocolate bar, things like that. And after dinner we played cards.
As always when he came to, the WAC house, he was the only man present.
The next day we went riding as usual. It was a beautiful golden day. just
crisp enough to make you feel wonderfully alive. Afterwards we went back to
Ike's house. We showered and changed—I always changed there, since we so often
went riding straight from the office and it would have been a waste of time
for me to go back to the WAC house-and then we relaxed with a drink in front
of the fire in our favorite room, the library. There was a big leather
davenport there that you could just sink down into and feel very, very
comfortable. We were sitting there, not saying much, and then Ike got up and
dosed the door. "Come here," he said and I went right to him. "I've got a
surprise for you," he said as he gave me a lot of little kisses.
"Not a cigarette case, I hope."
He laughed.- He loved this little game. Then he told me that it had been
arranged for me to become an American citizen. I had to go to Washington to
take out my first papers. I was terribly pleased. I had been worrying that it
might not have worked out, although naturally I had not said anything to Ike
about it. It would not have been appropriate. But I had thought a lot about
what I would do if I could not go to Washington with Ike. Like very many other
people, I would have to make a new life for myself, a peacetime life. It would
not be easy. More than anything else, I wanted to stay with Ike, work with
Ike—and dream of a time, a place when we would be free to love each other
openly.
I should not have worried. Over the months, Ike had gone ahead step by step
working toward that very end. He had arranged for me to become a WAC officer,
although I was a British subject. And now he had arranged for me to become an
American citizen. There would be no bar now, no impediment to my serving on
his personal staff as an aide at the Pentagon. It was like a reprieve from
heartbreak. I was going to be happy forever after.
"I told you I'd work it out," he said. We were standing, our arms about each
other, our faces close.
I kissed. him. "I know you did. And I'm very happy."
We sat there on that sofa making daydreamy plans for the future, kissing,
holding hands and being quite indiscreet for the rest of the afternoon. Never
in all the time I had known him had I had to hold Ike back. He had always been
very circumspect, but this afternoon he was an eager lover. The door was
closed and I knew that nobody from the household would be walking in. This was
quite a formal household in Germany, not like the villa in Algiers or the
cottage. People did not burst into rooms here. A closed door would never be
opened.
The fire was warm. The sofa was soft. We held each other close, closer.
Excitedly. I remember thinking, the way one thinks odd thoughts at significant
moments, Wouldn't it be wonderful if this were the day we conceived a baby—our
very first time. Ike was tender, careful, loving. But it didn't work.
"Wait," I said. "You're too excited. It will be all right."
"No," he said flatly. "It won't. It's too late. I can't." He was bitter. We
dressed slowly. Kissing occasionally. Smiling a bit sadly.
"Comb your hair," he said. "I'm going to ask them to serve supper in here."
When I came back from the bathroom, there was a small table in front of the
fire, with a bottle of white wine in a cooler, some chicken and a salad. We
drank and ate and talked. The door was closed again. it seemed as if Ike had
decided that he no, longer cared what anyone thought or said. It was strange
after all our years of discretion, but there had been a lot of changes in our
lives and I liked this change.
There was none of the embarrassment between us that we had felt that night so
long ago in fogbound London. We were such a comfortable old couple by now that
we were able to talk about what had happened. Or had not happened.
"It's not important," I told him earnestly. "It's not the least bit important.
It just takes time. That's all. And I'm very stubborn. You've said so
yourself."
"I know you are," he said, "but I'm not sure that you're right." There was no
point in arguing with him, I thought. Only time would show him that he was
wrong. We dropped the subject.
Two weeks later I left for Washington in Ike's Flying Fortress. Everything
went smoothly in Washington, although the days seemed to drag on forever. On
the return trip, I sat willing the plane to go faster. 1 was terribly anxious
to get back.
There was a bit of a shock awaiting me when I arrived in Frankfurt. Ike was
packing.
"I'm going to Washington tomorrow," he told me. President Truman had asked
General Marshall to undertake a special mission in China. That meant that Ike
was needed to take over in the Pentagon immediately. "It's just for a few
weeks though," Ike told me. "I'll be back, and we'll both be leaving for
Washington around the first of the year."
We had dinner together that night. People were coming and going all evening.
The telephone kept ringing. The next morning we were at the office at six to
take care of last-minute details. Then it was time for him to leave. We kissed
each other good-bye there in the office. "Hurry back," I said, and jokingly
added, "I mean hurry back, sir"—and I saluted.
"Christ!" Ike said. "If you ever expect to work in the Pentagon, you'd better
learn how to salute."
That very afternoon I asked one of the West Pointers at headquarters if he
would drill me in saluting just as if I were a cadet. He thought that was
grand fun and really had me whipping off a very snappy salute. Every night
before I went to bed, I practiced in front of the mirror, eager to surprise
Ike when he came back.
pp. 273-277
=====
General Lucius Clay, the Deputy Military Governor, told me that he was very
eager to have me work for him in Berlin. He had a post, he said, for which I
was ideally qualified: running the VIP guesthouse in Berlin. "Ike has told me
how good you are with people." I thanked him for asking me and said that of
course, I would be delighted to take it on. General Clay said that there would
be a promotion involved. I would be made captain after the first of the year.
I thanked him for that, too. But truth to tell, nothing meant very much to me,
neither the new post nor the promotion.
Any sneaking secret hope I might have had that the whole thing was some
ghastly mistake was killed when I received a letter from the General. It had
been dictated. It was quite impersonal. He said that it had become impossible
for him to keep me as a member of his personal official family. The reasons
that he gave were that there would be opposition to anyone who was not a
completely naturalized American citizen working in the War Department, and
also it appeared that I would be discharged from the WACs promptly upon
arriving in the United States, and there could be no question, he wrote, of a
civilian's working in the War Department. I could not understand. It seemed to
contradict everything that we had been talking about for so long. There was a
handwritten postscript saying that he was in bed and taking medicine
constantly. The postscript ended, Take care of yourself and retain your
optimism.
I read and reread that letter. I looked for hidden meanings. I looked for
something personal. He had written that he was distressed because he could not
come back to give me a detailed account of the reasons I could not come to
Washington. I told myself, how. ever, that I should not misinterpret this or
read anything into it. The General was always very courteous.
pp. 280-281
I went to England to spend the summer with my mother, and we read in the
papers that General and Mrs. Eisenhower were in London for a visit. Mummy was
quite excited and said, "We should ask them for tea or drinks. The General was
always so very hospitable." So I wrote a note to the Dorchester, where they
were staying, saying that my mother and I would be very pleased if the General
and Mrs. Eisenhower could come by for drinks one afternoon.
There was no reply.
A few days later, a very charming young major appeared at Mummy's. He
introduced himself and said, "Well, I came around because General Eisenhower
asked me to take you out for a drink." I said, "Oh, that would be lovely." We
talked, and it turned out that we had several mutual friends. Finally, he
said, "Kay, it's impossible. The General is really on a tight leash. He is not
his own master." He was a terribly understanding man and told me a bit about
how the General was always surrounded by political people who practically
dictated his every move. The General had obviously sent him to tell me that
there was nothing he could do.
I was not particularly upset by this. If anything, I felt rather comforted
that the General had cared enough to send this major around to see me. To me
it was his way of letting me know that I still did mean something to him,
although there was nothing he could do about it. And I had realized long ago
that nothing could ever come of it. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing.
pp. 286-287
=====
Aloha, He'Ping,
Om, Shalom, Salaam.
Em Hotep, Peace Be,
Omnia Bona Bonis,
All My Relations.
Adieu, Adios, Aloha.
Amen.
Roads End
Kris
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