humankind, and it was in danger of being stillborn because of this kind of narrow-minded quibble. He said: “The council of the league has to make unanimous decisions, so the United States would never find itself fighting a war against its will.”
“Nevertheless, there’s no point in having the league unless it is prepared to fight.”
The enemies of the league were like this: first they complained that it would fight, then they complained it would not. Gus said: “These problems are minor by comparison with the deaths of millions!”
Dr. Hellman shrugged, too polite to press his point against such a passionate opponent. “In any case,” he said, “I believe a foreign treaty requires the support of two-thirds of the Senate.”
“And right now we don’t even have half,” said Gus gloomily.
Rosa, who was reporting on this issue, said: “I count forty in favor, including you, Senator Dewar. Forty-three have reservations, eight are implacably against, and five undecided.”
Her father said to Gus: “So what will the president do?”
“He’s going to reach out to the people over the heads of the politicians. He’s planning a ten-thousand-mile tour of the entire country. He’ll make more than fifty speeches in four weeks.”
“A punishing schedule. He’s sixty-two and has high blood pressure.”
There was a touch of mischief in Dr. Hellman. Everything he said was challenging. Obviously he felt the need to test the mettle of a suitor for his daughter. Gus replied: “But at the end of it, the president will have explained to the people of America that the world needs the League of Nations to make sure we never fight another war like the one just ended.”
“I pray you’re right.”
“If political complexities need to be explained to ordinary people, Wilson is the best.”
Champagne was served with dessert. “Before we begin, I’d like to say something,” Gus said. His parents looked startled: he never made speeches. “Dr. and Mrs. Hellman, you know that I love your daughter, who is the most wonderful girl in the world. It’s old-fashioned, but I want to ask your permission”-he took from his pocket a small red leather box-“your permission to offer her this engagement ring.” He opened the box. It contained a gold ring with a single one-carat diamond. It was not ostentatious, but the diamond was pure white, the most desirable color, in a round brilliant cut, and it looked fabulous.
Rosa gasped.
Dr. Hellman looked at his wife, and they both smiled. “You most certainly have our permission,” he said.
Gus walked around the table and knelt beside Rosa’s chair. “Will you marry me, dear Rosa?” he said.
“Oh, yes, my beloved Gus-tomorrow, if you like!”
He took the ring from the box and slid it onto her finger. “Thank you,” he said.
His mother began to cry.
Gus was aboard the president’s train as it steamed out of Union Station in Washington, D.C., at seven o’clock in the evening on Wednesday, September 3. Wilson was dressed in a blue blazer, white pants, and a straw boater. His wife, Edith, went with him, as did Cary Travers Grayson, his personal physician. Also aboard were twenty-one newspaper reporters including Rosa Hellman.
Gus was confident Wilson could win this battle. He had always enjoyed the direct connection with voters. And he had won the war, hadn’t he?
The train traveled overnight to Columbus, Ohio, where the president made his first speech of the tour. From there he went on-making whistle-stop appearances along the way-to Indianapolis, where he spoke to a crowd of twenty thousand people that evening.
But Gus was disheartened at the end of the first day. Wilson had spoken poorly. His voice was husky. He used notes-he was always better when he managed without them-and, as he got into the technicalities of the treaty that had so absorbed everyone in Paris, he seemed to ramble and lose the audience’s attention. He had a bad headache, Gus knew, so bad that sometimes his vision blurred.
Gus was sick with worry. It was not just that his friend and mentor was ill. There was more at stake. America’s future and the world’s hung on what happened in the next few weeks. Only Wilson’s personal commitment could save the League of Nations from its small-minded opponents.
After dinner Gus went to Rosa’s sleeping compartment. She was the only female reporter on the trip, so she had a room to herself. She was almost as keen on the league as Gus, but she said: “It’s hard to find much positive to say about today.” They lay on her bunk, kissing and cuddling, then they said good night and parted. Their wedding was set for October, after the president’s trip. Gus would have liked it to be even sooner, but the parents wanted time to prepare, and Gus’s mother had muttered darkly about indecent haste, so he had given in.
Wilson worked on improvements to his speech, tapping on his old Underwood typewriter as the endless open plains of the Midwest sped by the windows. His performances got better over the next few days. Gus suggested he try to make the treaty relevant to each city. Wilson told business leaders in St. Louis that the treaty was needed to build up world trade. In Omaha he said the world without the treaty would be like a community with unsettled land titles, all the farmers sitting on fences with shotguns. Instead of long explanations, he rammed home the main points in short statements.
Gus also suggested that Wilson appeal to people’s emotions. This was not just about policy, he said; it touched on their feelings about their country. At Columbus, Wilson spoke of the boys in khaki. In Sioux Falls, he said he wanted to redeem the sacrifices of mothers who had lost their sons on the battlefield. He rarely descended to scurrility, but in Kansas City, home of the vitriolic Senator Reed, he compared his opponents to the Bolsheviks. And he thundered out the message, again and again, that if the League of Nations failed there would be another war.
Gus smoothed relations with the reporters on board and the local men wherever the train stopped. When Wilson spoke without a prepared speech, his stenographer would produce an immediate transcript, which Gus distributed. He also persuaded Wilson to come forward to the club car now and again to chat informally with the press.
It worked. Audiences responded better and better. The press coverage continued mixed, but Wilson’s message was repeated constantly even in papers that opposed him. And reports from Washington suggested that opposition was weakening.
But Gus could see how much the campaign was costing the president. His headaches became almost continuous. He slept badly. He could not digest normal food, and Dr. Grayson fed him liquids. He got a throat infection that developed into something like asthma, and he began to have trouble breathing. He tried to sleep sitting upright.
All of this was kept from the press, even Rosa. Wilson continued to give speeches, although his voice was weak. Thousands cheered him in Salt Lake City, but he looked drawn, and he clenched his hands repeatedly, in an odd gesture that made Gus think of a dying man.
Then, on the night of September 25, there was a commotion. Gus heard Edith calling for Dr. Grayson. He put on a dressing gown and went to the president’s car.
What he saw there horrified and saddened him. Wilson looked dreadful. He could hardly breathe and had developed a facial twitch. Even so, he wanted to carry on; but Grayson was adamant that he call off the remainder of the tour, and in the end Wilson gave in.
Next morning Gus, with a heavy heart, told the press that the president had suffered a severe nervous attack, and the tracks were cleared to speed the 1,700-mile journey back to Washington. All presidential engagements were canceled for two weeks, notably a meeting with pro-treaty senators to plan the fight for confirmation.
That evening, Gus and Rosa sat in her compartment, disconsolately looking out of the window. People gathered at every station to watch the president go by. The sun went down, but still the crowds stood and stared in the twilight. Gus was reminded of the train from Brest to Paris, and the silent multitude that had stood beside the tracks in the middle of the night. It was less than a year ago, but already their hopes had been dashed. “We did our best,” Gus said. “But we failed.”
“Are you sure?”
“When the president was campaigning full-time, it was touch and go. With Wilson sick, the chance of the treaty being ratified by the Senate is zero.”
