Before they reached the shade, Lee Harvey Oswald, a disgruntled former US Marine who’d defected to the Soviet Union in 1959, only to return to the States two years later with a Russian bride, fired three shots at the motorcade from the sixth floor of the Texas School Book Depository building. The first bullet missed its mark. The second tore through Kennedy’s throat and struck John Connally in the back. “My God!” the governor shouted. “They’re going to kill us all!” Nellie Connally pulled her husband into her lap and covered his body when a third shot rang out, exploding Kennedy’s head and showering Jackie with blood, bone, and brains. “They’ve killed my husband! I have his brains in my hand!” she cried.
No doubt existed among those who witnessed the fatal third shot that Kennedy was dead. Agent Paul Landis, riding in the backup car, described the sound of the bullet hitting Kennedy’s head as “the sound you would get by shooting a high-powered bullet into a five-gallon can of water or shooting into a melon.” Devastating results followed. “I saw pieces of flesh and blood flying through the air, and the president slumped out of sight toward Mrs. Kennedy. . . . My immediate thought was that the president could not possibly be alive after being hit like he was,” Landis testified. Another agent, Clint Hill, ran toward the car and leaped onto the back of the limousine. He quickly examined the president’s wound and signaled thumbs-down with his hand.
Around one thirty in Washington, DC, just as the first shot rang out in Dallas, Caroline hopped into the backseat of a Country Squire station wagon driven by the mother of her best friend, Agatha Pozen. Mrs. Kennedy had given Caroline permission to sleep over at the Pozen household. It would be her first sleepover without her parents or relatives present. In keeping with Mrs. Kennedy’s orders, Agent Tom Wells maintained a respectable distance in the follow-up car. About halfway between the White House and the Pozen residence on Connecticut Avenue, Wells heard over the radio that shots had been fired at the presidential motorcade. He flashed his lights, pulled over the wagon, and asked a reluctant Caroline to return with him to the White House. “I don’t want to go,” she protested. She complained all the way back. “But why?” she asked confusedly. “Why do we have to go home?” Wells did not want to divulge the real reason. “Mummy is coming back early,” he said. “She’s changed her plans, and she wanted you and John to be home.”
While Caroline was being driven back to the White House, the car containing her parents scrambled madly to nearby Parkland Hospital, where doctors engaged in a Herculean but futile effort to save the president’s life. JFK was declared dead at one o’clock. Shocked and numb, the presidential party rushed to Air Force One for the lengthy flight home. But Lyndon Johnson insisted on taking the presidential oath before the plane took off, and he asked Mrs. Kennedy to stand beside him as a sign of continuity to both the nation and the world. Visibly shaken, the now former first lady insisted on wearing her bloodstained dress so the world could see “what they did to my husband.” As soon as the brief ceremony concluded, the plane carrying Mrs. Kennedy and the body of her slain husband departed for the long, solemn trip back to Washington.
* * *
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Meanwhile, Mrs. Shaw remained unaware of the tragic events unfolding in Dallas. She was waiting for Ted Kennedy’s children to leave so that she could ready John for his afternoon nap. But he resisted. Apparently no one wanted to break the news to the nanny or explain why Caroline had been sent back home. She recalled Caroline and John sitting in the living room when she received a phone call from Nancy Tuckerman, the first lady’s secretary. “Mrs. Shaw,” Tuckerman said gravely, “I have some bad news for you. I’m afraid the president has been shot.” She had no details. “This is all we know right now,” she stated. “I’ll call you back as soon as I hear how it is.”
Shaw was not sure what to do but decided to let the children take their usual naps. “Come along, children,” she said, hiding her fears. “It’s time for you to rest now.” Surprisingly, John, who would often play under the covers for twenty minutes before charging out without ever having closed his eyes, gripping a toy plane or helicopter, fell asleep immediately, and Caroline read from her book before dozing off.
While they napped, a “pale-faced and ill” Secret Service agent informed Shaw that the president had died. The agents had drawn lots to determine who would break the news to her. The Kennedys’ longtime nanny broke down in tears, not only over the death of the president but also over how his death would shatter the lives of the two children now sleeping peacefully in their rooms. “I loved them both,” she reflected, “and it broke my heart to think of the pain and shock that now lay in store for them.”
Around the same time, the nation was also learning the somber news. At 2:35 P.M. EST the United Press International teletype machines reported around the world: “Flash: President Kennedy Dead.” CBS anchorman Walter Cronkite, dubbed “the most trusted man in America,” made the official announcement at 2:37 P.M. “From Dallas, Texas, the flash, apparently official. President Kennedy died at 1:00 P.M. central standard time, two o’clock eastern standard time.” The normally stoic newscaster paused for a moment and looked at the studio clock, stunned. “Some thirty-eight minutes ago.” Fighting back tears, Cronkite removed his eyeglasses and cleared his throat.
Television came of age that ominous day. Never before had a news story traveled so far, so fast. Thirty minutes after the shots rang out at Dealey Plaza, two out of three Americans had heard about the assassination. Most people learned of the shooting itself from friends or colleagues, but they were sitting in front of televisions or radios when word arrived of Kennedy’s death. Within two hours of the shooting, 92 percent had received the news that the president had been shot. By six o’clock EST, nearly every adult in America—99.8 percent—knew that Kennedy had been assassinated. The three major networks canceled all commercial broadcasting for the weekend. More than 90 percent of homes followed the assassination coverage during those three days, and they watched for an average of 31.6 hours—more than ten hours a day.
Americans growing up in the 1940s and 1950s had experienced a variety of big news stories, but none possessed the shock value of the Kennedy assassination. JFK’s death paralyzed the country. The nationwide telephone system crashed from the demand of calls. On street corners and in department stores, crowds gathered around radios and televisions to follow every detail of the news. In New York City, traffic came to a halt as drivers stopped cars and hunched over dashboards, glued to their radios. The garish brilliance of Times Square was replaced by darkness as the massive advertising displays were turned off. Broadway performances were canceled. Nightclubs closed. “In many respects, the biggest city in the nation turned into something of a ghost town,” reported The New York Times.
The same television cameras that had helped forge such a strong emotional bond between the young, charismatic president and the nation he led now transformed his death into a uniquely personal event for millions of Americans. The nonstop TV coverage, which began within minutes of the shooting and continued until after the funeral on November 25, enabled all of America to experience the tragedy firsthand.
On November 22 I was in the first grade at St. Clements Catholic school in southeastern Philadelphia. After lunch, the sisters started scurrying around in the hallway, and when my nun returned a few minutes later, she was crying. She kept pulling tissues, one after the other, from the arm of her habit, which left me wondering what else she had stored up there. Within several minutes, the mother superior announced over the intercom that the president had been shot and instructed us to pray for him. The sister took out her rosary, but before we could start our prayers, the mother superior’s voice came back on the intercom and declared that the president was dead. At that point, she put the microphone up against the radio, and we sat, hands folded in front of us, listening to the live broadcast for the rest of the afternoon.
I’m ashamed to admit it now, but the seriousness
of what had occurred did not register on me that day. I was just shy of my seventh birthday, old enough to be aware of world events. Reflecting on that time, however, I was a rather dull kid who was largely oblivious of the outside universe. Growing up in an Irish Catholic family, I knew that JFK was a Catholic, and my elders told me that his Catholicism was a good thing. In fact, my dad used to call himself a “Kennedy Democrat,” but it was not until years later that I understood what the phrase meant. I knew that something momentous had happened because everyone around me seemed to be either crying or on the verge of tears. When I arrived home, my mom was watching television keenly, but I just went outside and played. What I remember most was being glad that Monday was going to be a holiday.
* * *
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Inside the family quarters of the White House, a new challenge emerged: to insulate John and Caroline from the tragic news and to keep them occupied until their mother returned later that evening. Nancy Tuckerman invited Washington Post editor Ben Bradlee and his wife, Tony, to spend time with the children. They were both close friends of the family, and Ben had developed a fun, playful relationship with John. The two of them entertained the children in the Oval Room, which was the family’s living room. John asked Bradlee if he would tell a story, so as they lay on the floor, Bradlee began spinning adventures about a three-year-old boy named John. The real John listened intently before showing Ben the military salute that he had been practicing. He then ordered Bradlee to “chase me around the house,” and the editor obliged.
As they played, helicopters began landing on the mansion’s South Lawn. Every time John and Caroline heard the whir of a helicopter rotor approaching, they raced to the windows, shouting, “That’s Mommy and Daddy! Mommy and Daddy are coming home!” Unsure what to say, Bradlee simply responded, “Daddy will be back later.” Ben would never forget “those bloody great choppers, one after another, drowning everything out.” Tuckerman believed that Caroline sensed something was wrong, but John seemed oblivious. With the sound of every helicopter blade, he jumped with excitement. “Here they come! Here they come!”
Around five o’clock, as it grew dark outside, Agent Foster called and told Shaw that he had received a coded message from Clint Hill aboard Air Force One. Apparently, Mrs. Kennedy wanted the children taken to the Georgetown home of her mother, Janet Auchincloss. While they were speeding back to Washington on Air Force One, Hill had decided that the first lady would not want John at the White House, where he would hear Marine One land on the South Lawn but not see his father emerge. He concluded it would be best if John and Caroline stayed with their grandparents.
The decision surprised Mrs. Auchincloss, who believed her grandchildren should remain at the White House, but she agreed that if they had to be moved, the best option would be for them to remain with her. Foster informed Shaw that the children needed to be out of the White House by six o’clock, when their mother was expected to land. Shaw wasn’t sure how long the children would be away, so she went into their rooms and started stuffing their suitcases with clothes. John and Caroline then hopped into the family station wagon and arrived at their grandmother’s house a few minutes later. If they knew something was wrong, neither of them let on. They both ate hearty dinners while chatting contentedly with each other. “I was shattered by the thought that such carefree happiness would have to be shattered so soon,” Shaw reflected.
The plane carrying Mrs. Kennedy and JFK’s body arrived at Andrews as scheduled at six. The new president, Lyndon Johnson, delivered a short speech before taking a helicopter back to the White House. Jackie decided to go to Bethesda Naval Hospital, where doctors planned to conduct an autopsy. By seven, family members had joined Mrs. Kennedy on the hospital’s seventeenth floor while doctors examined the wounds on JFK’s body in order to determine the trajectory of the shots that had killed him. Jackie described in graphic detail every aspect of the shooting and the horrific minutes that followed. “I was so startled and shocked she could repeat in such detail how it happened,” recalled Robert Kennedy’s wife, Ethel. Her personal physician, Dr. John W. Walsh, thought it would be good for her to talk about the day. “It’s the best way,” he said. “Let her get rid of it if she can.” A few hours later, fearing that she would collapse from exhaustion, Dr. Walsh injected her with a powerful sedative. It had absolutely no impact.
In an instant, Jackie’s world had been upturned. She worried what it would be like to raise her children without their father. “Bobby is going to teach John,” she said. “He’s a little boy without a father, he’s a boyish boy, he’ll need a man.” She knew that she would have to vacate the White House now that her husband was gone. Her plan was to move back into the Georgetown house they had occupied while Jack was in the Senate. “That was the first thing I thought that night: ‘Where will I go?’” she recalled. “I wanted my old house back.” She would soon learn, however, that the house was no longer on the market.
Janet Auchincloss, who had rushed to the hospital, tried comforting her daughter by assuring her that the children were safe at her house.
“You know they are at O Street now.”
“What are they doing there?”
“I had a message that you had sent from the plane that you wanted them to come and sleep there.”
“I never sent such a message.”
“You don’t want them to be there, then?”
“No, I think the best thing for them to do would be to stay in their own rooms with their own things so their lives can be as normal as possible. Tell Mrs. Shaw to bring them back and put them to bed.”
However, before Janet Auchincloss could make the call, Clint Hill, who had overheard the conversation, called Agent Wells and told him the first lady’s wishes. Wells then relayed the message to Foster. “Mrs. Kennedy is coming back tonight and wants the children in the house with her,” Foster informed Shaw, who then packed up the children for a second time. The nanny recalled that Mrs. Kennedy instructed that she did not want the children “disturbed” and that it was important for them to keep their normal routine until she figured out how to reveal the awful news. “Come on, John-John,” Caroline urged. “Put your coat on, we’re going home again.”
By the time they returned to the White House at eight o’clock, more than a thousand people had gathered outside in a silent vigil. “What are all those people there for?” Caroline asked as she clambered out of the car. “To see you,” Shaw responded as they scurried back into the White House and up to their second-floor bedrooms.
Mrs. Kennedy had numerous issues to consider, including planning a state funeral, but one central question lingered: How would she tell John and Caroline that their father was not coming home? Did they even understand the concept of death? Her mother pressed her on that question at the hospital. “Jackie, are you going to tell the children, or do you want me to, or do you want Mrs. Shaw?” Jackie wasn’t sure and asked for advice. “Well,” Janet contemplated, “John can wait. But Caroline should be told before she learns from her friends.” Jackie agreed and suggested that Shaw should use her own discretion. Janet, however, delivered a different message, saying that Mrs. Kennedy wanted Shaw to tell the children, leaving out the part about using her own discretion. Shaw objected. “I can’t take a child’s last happiness from her. I don’t have the heart. I can’t destroy her little happy day.” Janet, however, insisted. “I know, but you have to.” Shaw agreed eventually and said it would be best to tell Caroline before she went to sleep. “You know,” she told Janet, “when children are Caroline’s age, they do sleep at night, and it’s better for them to get a sadness and a shock before they go to sleep at night so that it won’t hit them very hard when they wake up in the morning.”
Shaw tucked in John and recited prayers with him before going into Caroline’s room and sitting on the edge of her bed. She read to the five-year-old from one of her favorite books, knowing the whole time that she was about to break t
he little girl’s heart. As Shaw held Caroline in her arms, Caroline could sense that she was upset. “I can’t help crying, Caroline, because I have some very sad news to tell you.” She told Caroline that her father had been shot. “They took him to a hospital, but the doctors could not make him better.” She continued, “So your father has gone to look after Patrick. Patrick was so lonely in heaven. He didn’t know anybody there. Now he has the best friend anyone could have.” Caroline buried her face in the pillow and cried herself to sleep.
Shaw claimed that it was decided that the president’s brother Robert should be the one to tell John. But there is no evidence that such a conversation ever took place, and John probably learned about his father’s death the next morning.
The children also weighed on the mind of Lyndon Johnson. Before leaving his office for the night, the new president of the United States wrote notes to them. “Your father’s death has been a great tragedy for the nation, as well as for you, and I wanted you to know how much my thoughts are with you at this time,” he wrote in longhand. He placed the notes in envelopes and sealed them, planning to deliver them in person.
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