The Aviator's Wife

Kathleen Norris, a popular writer; Robert R. McCormick, the publisher of the Chicago Tribune. We took our seats, “The Star-Spangled Banner” was sung, and one by one the others spoke. Brief, heartfelt speeches on the necessity of staying out of the European war, and of building up America’s defenses instead of building up England’s. I did not pay them any mind; I was concentrating on Charles. He looked relaxed; his limbs loose, his hands still, even as his jaw was set in that familiar angle of determination, and those blue eyes were more focused and intent than I had ever seen them. I was glad he did not turn his gaze upon me, for I felt it might burn a pinpoint hole, just like a magnifying glass would, through my skin.

Finally Charles rose, and every voice in the cavernous arena fought to shout the loudest. “Lindbergh for President!” “Lindbergh for President!”—the chant started in some far-off corner, building and building until my face throbbed from the intensity of it.

Charles did not acknowledge the chant; he simply stood tall, full of purpose and right, and in that moment I knew I was seeing my husband finally make the transition from boy hero to monument. He was giant, he was granite; he was supported by the stone foundation of his convictions. And despite my fears and misgivings concerning the entire situation, my heart thrilled at the sight of him; no one but him could have rallied such a mismatched group of people. Communists, Socialists, anti-government radicals, pacifists; left on their own, they would simply have languished and died.

But Charles had rallied them all; he had taken up the mantle of leadership as easily as he had slipped into his first leather flight jacket. America First, that was his cry. America First—Lindbergh would keep us out of war.

“My fellow citizens,” Charles began, and then waited for the crowd to settle down. “We are assembled here tonight because we believe in an independent destiny for America.” A frenzy of foot stamping, hand clapping, cheering filled the hall. Charles stood humbly, accepting it, before he continued with his speech; his plea for America to stay out of the war now raging all across Europe.

“We deplore the fact that the German people cannot vote on the policies of their government, that Hitler led his nation into war without asking their consent. But have we been given the opportunity to vote on the policy our government has followed? No, we have been led toward war against the opposition of four-fifths of our people. We had no more chance to vote on the issue of peace and war last November than if we had been a totalitarian state ourselves.” Charles didn’t mention Roosevelt by name, but he didn’t have to. And only I heard the sadness behind the bitterness in his voice.

What many people forgot was that my husband was, first and foremost, a military man. His training had been invaluable. He believed, passionately, in the future of a military air force, and in his allegiance to his commander in chief.

But when his commander in chief publicly likened him to an appeaser, a Copperhead, he could no longer remain loyal. Most fatally, President Roosevelt had questioned the Lone Eagle’s courage. “That young man would have wanted Washington himself to quit, given the odds,” the president had recently told a newspaper reporter. “‘We can’t possibly win’ is no reason for an American not to stand up against aggression.”

So Charles had resigned his military commission only a couple of weeks ago; it had troubled him greatly, but ultimately he could think of no other option. And he turned his considerable powers of concentration and charm to the aid of the America First Committee, flying all over the country, making speeches like this on its behalf. With me, naturally, by his side.

I sat there. I sat there, listening intently to his words, increasingly sure, always measured, never giving in to the frenzy that inevitably greeted him. I was ever mindful of the cameras, for I was suddenly a politician’s wife.

I see myself now, from a distance, sitting there, a grim smile on my face, so different from that jaunty, carefree grin of the daring aviatrix I once had been. A young woman, yes—barely in her thirties, her mind almost always on her children at home. But that was no excuse.

A mother who had lost her firstborn in the most horrific, public manner, and whose vision was still often clouded with the residue of tears. But that was no excuse.

An eager young wife who had been shaped, just like every other eager young wife of my generation, by her husband, but I was a wife who had wanted to be shaped, had willingly put herself in his hands and demanded he make her over in his superior image.

But that was no excuse.

Just as I ran out of people and events and coincidences to blame for my son’s death, I have run out of excuses for sitting there and publicly endorsing my husband’s views. Even if, inside, I questioned, even if I wondered, worried, saw the inevitable outcome long before he did and despised myself for not doing enough to prevent it; despised him even more for not being able to see it, too—

I did it. I sat there and nodded and clapped.

And I’ve regretted it every day of my life since.

Charles looked out at the crowds, more and more frenzied as time went on, and spoke straight from his heart. Recognizing this, I questioned my morals, not his. At least, I knew—and I also understood that this knowledge would have to remain foremost in my mind and heart, if we were going to survive the next few years—that he spoke only what he truly believed.

I, however, did not.

That night, after we left Madison Square Garden for the refuge of our Manhattan hotel room, having fielded phone calls from the press, supporters—Frank Lloyd Wright sent a telegram congratulating Charles on his fine speech; William Randolph Hearst invited us to a weekend at his castle, San Simeon; Henry Ford offered him a job for life—Charles was the one who slept the peaceful slumber of those whose hearts and minds are untroubled.

I did not find such peace that night, and I knew I wouldn’t the next night, either.

Nor had I, for many, many endless nights before, and I could not blame only my husband for that.

WHEN WE FIRST RETURNED from Europe, Charles had been able to keep his political thoughts separate from his military duties, and in the beginning, the press backed down, as if to let him prove his patriotism. But after Great Britain and France declared war, Charles could not remain silent. After the Battle of Britain, he began to write articles and give speeches cautioning against any rush to take sides; at first, he was given as much airtime as he wanted by the various networks. After all, in this time of crisis, America wanted to hear from its hero.

But as time went on, he more than cautioned; he became an outspoken critic of the administration. Soon he had become the de facto spokesman for America First—that ragtag group of individuals bent on keeping America out of the war for a number of reasons that didn’t really matter, at least not then, because a significant number of Americans agreed with them. The war in Europe was not our business.

But most of our friends and family, East Coast elites—and many, like my brother-in-law, Aubrey, with family overseas—were appalled; they sniffed, long before it was verbalized, the unspoken anti-Semitism of my husband’s cause. Initially, I was exempt from this; my friends sometimes asked me, point-blank, how I could betray my father’s legacy, but they did so with the indulgent disbelief you would give a child having his first tantrum.

In late 1940, however—finally pregnant again, after years of trying—I did my best to alienate them for myself.

“Anne,” Charles said one autumn evening, “I need you.”

Those words. They would never fail to sway me. They were uttered so seldom, and I couldn’t resist responding to them in a physical way—my body flushing, as if from desire; my nipples even tingling, my pulse racing, reaching.

We were seated in the den of our rented home in Lloyd Neck, Long Island; the boys were in bed. The radio was tuned to Amos ’n’ Andy, a show that Charles loved for its childish humor—he would laugh, slapping his knee, whenever the Kingfish would exclaim “Holy mackerel!” at Andy’s latest misadventure. To all appearances, we were just any American family, and in our hearts, that’s how we saw ourselves. No one else did, however, and I was increasingly lonely and scared, wondering when—if—this madness would stop, when would Charles cease cultivating controversy, when would we once again be the First Couple of the Air, adored, admired. The only thing that would stop it, I knew, was war—and lately, I had almost been longing for it. And then chiding myself for thinking such a thing.

Charles turned the sound down on the radio and came over to the sofa, where I was seated, lazily paging through Life magazine, even though I had to be careful. These days there were too many