The Aviator's Wife

“Your little speech to the reporters was unnecessary, Anne,” he had said after he pecked me on the cheek.

“You might have remembered to send two cars to pick us up, as we had to leave the trunks behind,” I had retorted.

I wondered if that was how it was going to be, now that we were back in the United States, back among so many others who had claims on us; so many issues suddenly crying out for attention. One thing I had learned— among all the lessons he had set out to teach me, and others he had imparted unconsciously—was that we were at our very best, as a couple, when alone.

“Mother’s not petty like that.” I chose an outdated brown evening dress I had left behind, years ago, as my trunks had not yet been unpacked; even before I put it on, I felt dowdy. I turned around so Charles could zip me up. “She’s like you, actually. You both believe you’re absolutely right about everything.” I was surprised by the bitterness in my voice. Still, I made no effort to hide it. “You forget how active she was in the fight for women’s votes, back when I was a child. And she and Daddy—well, they were both Wilsonians, and passionate about the League of Nations. She hasn’t changed.”

“She knows perfectly well how I feel about the situation.”

“She’s not married to you, you know. She’s her own person.”

“What does that mean?” He turned to me, eyes narrowing.

“Nothing.” I turned away and started rummaging in my travel case for some earrings.

“Well, she’s agitating for war, don’t think otherwise. And now she’ll have the whole of Smith College behind her. She’s beating the drums, just like Roosevelt.” He sneered that last word; Roosevelt had become a bitter taste in his mouth.

“Well, you yourself said it’s inevitable.”

“It’s inevitable in Europe. But not here—unless people like your mother scare the American public into thinking that it is.”

“She’s not scaring anyone—for heaven’s sake, she’s done nothing yet! She doesn’t even take office until next term.”

“She’ll probably join one of those Jewish refugee societies next,” Charles said, as he tied his tie with vengeance.

“So what if she does? You yourself said how awful it was that England was having to deal with so many refugees.”

“That doesn’t mean I think they should wash up here instead. You think we should allow more Jews into America? To influence the press? The government? The movie industry—for God’s sake, they’re all Jews there, every one of them, running all those studios, brainwashing the American public. Any minute now they’ll start making movies portraying Hitler as a clown, or worse. Yet not one of them has been to Germany recently. Not one of them has seen anything firsthand, like we have. Do you honestly think we should send our young men—our sons—to fight because of them?”

“I don’t—no, I guess, not when you put it that way—I don’t think that; I don’t think we should send young men off to fight. But, Charles, Mother believes in what she’s doing. Just as you do. Don’t you see how I admire you both for being so passionate?”

“What do you believe?” Again, his eyes narrowed challengingly. For the first time, my husband asked me this question. Until now, he had always assumed I believed what he did. And I had assumed that, too. Wasn’t that one of the reasons I had married him—because I wanted to be just like him? Heroic and grand and good?

But now I wasn’t sure what “good” meant. Too many participants in this increasingly terrible situation claimed to have goodness on their side.

Anne Morrow—the Smith College graduate daughter of Ambassador and Mrs. Morrow, both advocates for the League of Nations—would answer, “I’m with Mother. The Jews need to be saved. Hitler is a dangerous man.” But I would say these things because they told me to, or hoped, by their example, that I would come to believe them on my own.

But I was no longer Anne Morrow; I was Anne Morrow Lindbergh, the wife of a legend who was an admirer of Hitler—and an increasingly vocal proponent for keeping America out of any European war.

Fleetingly, guiltily, I envied my mother; old enough to have outlived her parents, a widow without a husband to think of. What if, like her, I had the time to think for myself? To have the honest courage of my own convictions, and not the false courage of borrowed ones? My marriage would be different, that much I knew.

But would it be better?

I shook my head, tempted by the notion but not blinded by it. My duty now was to my sons, whose needs I had neglected for their father’s for far too long. I had to settle Jon into school, find a doctor because Land was prone to ear infections, and move us all into a house. I had also just come out of years of purgatory, purgatory I had wandered with only my husband for companionship and security. Once, I had thought I could leave him, but it had only been Jon and me. Now, with two sons and hopefully another child on the way (for I suspected I might be pregnant, although it was too soon to be certain), I couldn’t risk pushing Charles away from me. “I’m on your side, of course. I mean—I’m on our side,” I continued, sitting on the edge of the bed so that I could slip my feet into a pair of evening shoes. “It’s our side. I’m with you. Of course, I don’t think we should go to war. Not over Germany, anyway; not over the Jewish influence.”

“Good girl.” Charles smiled, that rare, prized personal smile, relaxed, so that all his teeth showed. And I smiled back, waiting for that familiar, belonging glow to fill me up, make me better, stronger; as good as him.

But I waited in vain. For the only thing that filled me up was a shameful weariness, an enveloping languor that made me wonder how on earth I was going to make it through dinner, let alone the next few weeks, seated between my husband and my mother. Forced to decide, once and for all, who I was now: the ambassador’s daughter?

Or the aviator’s wife?

CHAPTER 14

May 1941

WE DROVE THROUGH A TUNNEL, so dark I felt like a ghost, my skin a pale wisp of smoke. I moved closer to Charles, who patted my shoulder absently as he smoothed the papers on his lap. And then we were born into the light; dazzling, blinding, relentless light. A roar greeted the sight of our car; a wild, frightening roar. The driver steered the car down a narrow path, lined on all sides by waving, shouting throngs fielding, like weapons, signs bearing my husband’s name. Then we stopped, and Charles emerged from the car first. His appearance whipped the crowd into an even greater frenzy; the cheers were so unhinged I heard violence simmering just beneath the surface of approval. I was afraid to step out of the car; afraid of what could happen tonight. It seemed that anything was possible these days; anger was so prevalent, rippling like waves over our country. Outside Madison Square Garden, the anger had been directed toward us. Cries of “Nazi! Fascist!” had greeted our arrival. Rocks had been thrown at the armored car.

There was anger inside the Garden as well, but Charles was not the source of it. Rather, he was the white knight leading this seething crowd toward their common enemy—President Roosevelt. The guards were having a difficult time holding back the swarming crowds; my limbs felt like lead, my chest as if I’d swallowed a block of ice, as I finally slid out of the car.

“Lindbergh! Lindbergh for President!” roared the crowd. Flashbulbs popped, more blinding than ever in my life; I had to shield my eyes from the relentless glare. My ears rang from the noise of the crowd, all around me, above me, as well—I felt like we were truly in a fishbowl. And I couldn’t help but think of what good targets we would be, were someone to aim a rifle at us.

Somehow I followed Charles down a red carpet to the podium, where others were already seated—Father Coughlin himself, the leader of the Christian Front; Norman Thomas, the leader of the American Socialist Party;