Since Bess never cared for the spotlight, it’s not surprising she and Harry celebrated their anniversary in privacy.
Besides, when you’re in a suite at the Waldorf Towers, why bother going out?
I had neither the connections nor the cash to spend a week at the Waldorf, where a cheap room nowadays runs about five hundred dollars a night. So I e-mailed the public relations firm that handles media requests for the hotel. I told them about the book and asked if it would be possible for me to get a reduced rate. The response, in so many words: “Nice try.”
Nonetheless, in the interest of research, I was determined to stay at the Waldorf, and with minimal prodding, my wife, Allyson, agreed that yes, it might be nice. I booked a room online for two nights, careful to mention the book again. When we checked in, we were pleasantly surprised to be upgraded to a room in the Waldorf Towers—where Harry and Bess stayed.
At the Waldorf, I interviewed James Blauvelt, the hotel’s executive director of catering—and unofficial historian. When he’s not overseeing banquets in the Grand Ballroom, where Carnegie Hall and the Metropolitan Opera hold fundraisers with ticket prices beginning at a thousand dollars and tables costing a million, Blauvelt manages the hotel’s archives. He is well suited to both tasks. Punctilious, erudite, and jovial, his words are well enunciated, and he speaks in complete paragraphs. He looks like the kind of guy who goes to a lot of cocktail parties—and kills at every one. Blauvelt’s father was a globe-trotting pharmaceutical executive, so he practically grew up in hotels. He studied hotel management in college and has been working at the Waldorf for nearly thirty years. He became the hotel’s unofficial historian by accident. About twenty years ago, he found the archives in cardboard boxes, abandoned in a storage area. Blauvelt couldn’t help but organize them, and soon he found himself the de facto go-to guy for questions about the Waldorf’s history.
Blauvelt gave me the abridged version of that history. The hotel was the result of a feud between two Astor cousins, William Waldorf Astor and John Jacob Astor IV, who had built competing hotels next to each other on Fifth Avenue in the 1890s. Eventually the two hotels merged, though the feud apparently continued. The cousins couldn’t agree on whose name should go first in the merged hotel’s name, so, as Blauvelt emphasized, officially it is spelled with an equal sign, not a hyphen: Waldorf=Astoria.
In 1929 the original Waldorf was demolished to make way for the Empire State Building. Legend has it that the financing for the new Waldorf was secured the day before the stock market crashed. However, as Blauvelt explained, the Depression had a silver lining. “It turned out that labor was so inexpensive and abundant that they were able to lavish great detail and quality into the construction of the building.” There was no rush to finish the building either, since business wasn’t expected to be brisk anyway.
When it finally opened on October 1, 1931, the Waldorf was the largest and most luxurious hotel in the United States, if not the world. Each of its two thousand rooms had a private bathroom. It had twenty-four-hour room service, and a pneumatic-tube system for delivering messages to rooms. It even had its own radio station. President Hoover, a future tenant, spoke at the grand opening. “The erection of this great structure,” he said, “has been a contribution to the maintenance of employment, and an exhibition of courage and confidence to the whole nation.”
As expected, however, business was bad, and the Waldorf barely survived the Depression.
If the Trumans were to come back today, Blauvelt told me, they would have no trouble recognizing the place. Not that it hasn’t changed a lot since 1953. Major “renovations” in the 1960s and ‘70s that obscured the building’s grandeur have been reversed. “It was decided that the building was something of a treasure trove—one of the largest art deco structures in the United States, filled with that detail in its furniture and fixtures, as well as its architectural design. And also a lot of important beaux art elements. So restoration began in 1982 and continues to this day. There’s been over four hundred million dollars spent on this constant restoration of the original. So when you look at old photographs of the hotel, it looks remarkably similar to the way it does now.”
I asked Blauvelt if the arrangement whereby the Trumans were allowed to stay at the hotel for free was unusual. Resisting the urge to roll his eyes, he patiently explained to me the facts of hotel life. “The publicity that their visit would bring would be important to the hotel as a marketing strategy.” But Blauvelt speculated there was another reason the Trumans got comped. “They had probably been very nice guests when he was in office, and that also makes a difference.”
I’d noticed a Mexican flag flying over the entrance to the hotel when we checked in. It turned out that Felipe Calderon, the president of Mexico, happened to be staying at the Waldorf as well. This wasn’t unusual, Blauvelt explained. “There isn’t a day that goes by that there isn’t at least one head of state in residence.” The hotel even has a diplomatic affairs department. “Heads of state, if they’re coming to New York”—here Blauvelt waved his hand in a fait accompli gesture—“they know.”
Our stay at the Waldorf was expensive (Sunday brunch, ninety-five dollars per person) but uneventful. Which is exactly how the Waldorf wants it. We never ran into President Calderon. The suite that Harry and Bess stayed in, 32-A, was occupied, but I did manage to sneak a peek at the door. It was white. (In 2008, the suite directly upstairs, where Cole Porter—and, later, Frank Sinatra—once lived, went on the market. The rent was $140,000. Per month. But that includes a washer and dryer. And pets are allowed.)
While in New York, I also went to the River Club, where Harry, Bess, and Margaret had lunch with Life editor Daniel Longwell and his wife. It was, and (as I discovered) still is, a very exclusive private club on the east side of midtown Manhattan, in a grand building that overlooks the East River (as well as the FDR Drive, but the FDR Drive Club doesn’t have the same ring, I guess). The New York Times has described it as “ultra-discreet.” The club was founded in 1931. Its early members included Theodore Roosevelt’s son Kermit and department-store heir Marshall Field III. The current membership list is closely guarded, of course, but it’s worth noting that the club is located inside the River House, an exclusive co-op whose residents include Henry Kissinger.
Rather naively, I walked in the front door and asked the guard, a gentleman in a green uniform with gold trim, if he had any pamphlets with some information about the club. Maybe an application form. Like it was a Gold’s Gym. He looked a little confused. “No,” he said. “We don’t have nothin’ like that.” Clearly, the River Club is not hurting for members. Then I asked him if he could tell me a little bit about the club, how old it was, who belonged to it, that sort of thing. “No,” he said. “They don’t want us to be talkin’ about nothin’ to nobody.” I was under the distinct impression he wanted me to leave. So I did. All I got to see was the lobby, which, truth be told, was quite nice, with lots of plush carpeting and brass fixtures.
Harry was up bright and early again on Monday, June 29, emerging from the hotel for his walk at 6:57. He took a slightly different route than the day before, but the spectacle was the same. Everywhere he went he was met with welcoming cries: “Hi, Harry!” “Try again in three years!” “We miss you, Harry!” It was hard to believe that barely a year earlier he had been the least popular president in American history. Even Truman himself had a hard time believing it. “The whole trip has been heart-warming,” he said. “I am amazed at the friendliness, and it makes me think that I haven’t spent my life in vain.” But the constant attention also gave him a greater appreciation of his life back in Independence, where his presence was regarded with nonchalance. “I couldn’t live in New York,” he observed, “although I’ve enjoyed this visit very much. I don’t like going around wearing false whiskers and dark glasses.”
At noon, Harry, Bess, and Margaret had lunch at the Waldorf with Basil O’Connor, president of the National Foundation for Infantile Paralysis and th
e head of the Harry S. Truman Library, Inc. O’Connor was spearheading the library’s fundraising efforts. After lunch, he announced that four hundred thousand dollars had been raised and another four hundred thousand pledged toward a goal of $1.75 million. The rest of the money, O’Connor told reporters, would be raised in “small sums” from a “substantial number of the American people.”
Truman noted that he personally received none of the money raised. He also pointed out that he and his brother and sister were planning to donate up to eighty acres of the family farm in Grandview for the library. “And it’s very valuable property; it’s a real gift,” he added. “I don’t mind telling you some of the family are not as happy about it as they should be.” Then, referring to his old nemesis, the senator from Wisconsin, he added wryly, “If any of you want to take a look at the property to see if there are any financial advantages to me, you might ask McCarthy to make the investigation.”
That night the Trumans had dinner at the 21 Club with a group of friends. Margaret joined them as well, accompanied by her “escort” (as the papers put it), a Marine colonel and former White House aide named Warren Barker.
Opened at 21 West 52nd Street on New Year’s Eve 1929, 21 survived repeated raids by Prohibition agents to become one of the most popular and famous restaurants in New York. Sometimes the maître d’ had a hard time figuring out where to seat all the movie stars, politicians, sports heroes, and business titans who dined there. He faced a special challenge when, shortly after the Truman party was seated, New York Governor Thomas Dewey arrived. “It was completely coincidental,” a 21 spokesman said. The two rivals in the 1948 presidential election were seated on different floors. Each probably didn’t even know the other was in the restaurant until reading about it in the papers the next day.
After dinner, Harry and Bess went to see Wonderful Town, a musical comedy at the Winter Garden Theater on Broadway. Written by Joseph Fields and Jerome Chodorov, with music by Leonard Bernstein and lyrics by Betty Comden and Adolph Green, Wonderful Town is the story of two sisters from Ohio who move to New York City in search of fame and fortune in 1935. Starring Rosalind Russell and Edith Adams (the wife of Ernie Kovacs), and directed by George Abbott, the show opened to rave reviews just four months before the Trumans went to see it. The New York Times called it “the most uproarious and original musical carnival we have had since Guys and Dolls” and said Russell gave “a convulsing and ingenious performance.” The musical would go on to win six Tony Awards, including Best Musical and Best Actress (for Russell).
Margaret, an accomplished singer in her own right, may have suggested her parents see Wonderful Town, although Harry, at least, didn’t need much convincing. He was a big fan of musical theater. As a young man he often ventured into Kansas City to see shows at the Orpheum and the Grand.
As the Trumans entered the Winter Garden, everyone in the audience of fifteen hundred rose and applauded, and the orchestra struck up “The Star-Spangled Banner.” At intermission they cheered again. “I didn’t know what to do about it,” Truman said. “They cheered as if I were still president. So I pretended I was still president and waved back.”
After the closing curtain, the Trumans were ushered backstage, where they were introduced to the stars of the show. Truman told Rosalind Russell he “loved” her performance.
In New York, I had lunch at the 21 Club with an old friend from college. Unfortunately, the meal was preceded by two very large vodka martinis (up, dry, with olives). As a consequence, I don’t remember much about 21. I seem to recall football helmets hanging from the ceiling, and at some point I ended up getting into a long, friendly, animated discussion about FDR and Truman with the men’s room attendant. The foie gras and steak tartar, which my friend insisted I order, were, to the best of my recollection, eaten. My memories of the subway ride back to Brooklyn, where I was staying with friends at the time, are hazy.
Harry never would have let this happen to himself. Though he was far from a teetotaler, he almost never got drunk. He could nurse a single bourbon for hours, savoring every drop. “I don’t think he ever takes over two drinks at a time,” his friend Mize Peters once observed. Though there are numerous accounts of his drinking, there are none of his being inebriated, much less half passed out on a New York City subway at three in the afternoon. When I got back to my friends’ apartment, I went straight to bed for a “nap,” which, come to think of it, is what Harry did most afternoons.
After 559 performances at the Winter Garden Theater, Wonderful Town closed on July 3, 1954. Apart from a brief Broadway revival in 2003, the musical has been largely forgotten. That’s partly due to the sheer complexity of the songs. Frequent and unusual meter and key changes render Wonderful Town too challenging for all but the most accomplished high school and community theater groups. (One song, “Christopher Street,” has seventeen key changes.) Absent the rejuvenating energy of summer stock productions, Wonderful Town has faded into obscurity. It was too complicated for its own good.
On Wednesday, July 1, Harry took another morning walk. This time his route took him down Park Avenue to 49th Street, where he turned west. Just past Rockefeller Plaza, he noticed a small group of people standing on the sidewalk, looking into a building through a large plate-glass window. Curious, Harry looked inside too, and, seeming a little like Mr. Magoo, he appeared as one of the faces in the background of the Today show.
The program had debuted on NBC a little more than a year earlier. Hosted by Dave Garroway, an affable disc jockey from Chicago, Today was an experiment in early-morning television, combining news and entertainment, and airing live from coast to coast. The show was broadcast from the “fishbowl,” a studio on the ground floor of the RCA Exhibition Hall that was visible from the street. The unusual studio wasn’t just a gimmick. It also helped fill the show. When a segment ran short, cameras would pan the crowd standing outside while music played, sometimes for as long as five minutes.
The early reviews of the show were bad, and the ratings weren’t much better. Who was home to watch TV at that hour anyway? Children— and their mothers, of course. After the program introduced a year-old Cameroonian chimpanzee named J. Fred Muggs on January 28, 1953, ratings skyrocketed, though not everyone was amused. The show’s newsreader, Jack Fleming, didn’t care to deliver the headlines seated next to a chimp (and not a particularly friendly one, by most accounts), so he quit. Fleming was replaced by Frank Blair, who was less offended by the simian; Blair stayed with the program for twenty-two years. Today, of course, grew into a colossus. It now generates about a half-billion dollars in revenue annually for NBC. (J. Fred Muggs “retired” from the program in 1958, reportedly after biting Martha Raye on the arm. Believe it or not, in 2008 the chimp was still alive and well, living with a handler in Florida.)
Harry hated the way television turned politicians into “play actors,” but he understood, perhaps sooner than most, the power of the medium. “Television is on the threshold of great development,” he declared in a speech on August 13, 1943—when most people barely had any idea what television was. “It is true that there are many technical and commercial difficulties that must be overcome. But the day cannot be far off when our homes, schools, offices, and automobiles will be equipped with television sets. We will see news and sporting events while they are actually happening.”
Truman’s State of the Union address on January 6, 1947, was the first to be televised. Transmitted from the House chamber by coaxial cable, the speech was carried on stations in New York, Philadelphia, and Washington. According to one report, the picture was “for the most part … of acceptable clarity.” Not that a lot of people were watching. Only about fourteen thousand sets were in use at the time.
Later that year, Truman installed the first television set in the White House, a $1,795 behemoth that he plopped down next to his desk in the Oval Office. In 1949, Truman’s inauguration was the first to be televised. By then there were stations in fourteen cities as far west as St. Louis, a
nd as many as ten million viewers watched the ceremony—more than had witnessed all previous inaugurals combined.
Four and a half years later, when Tom Naud, one of the Today show’s announcers, spotted Harry Truman’s bespectacled visage in the window behind Dave Garroway, he grabbed a microphone and ran outside to grab an impromptu interview with the former president. Naud asked Truman how he stayed in shape and how fast he walked. Then Truman had a question for Naud. Pointing through the window into the studio, he asked, “What’s that fellow doing with the baby in there?” The baby in question was J. Fred Muggs.
His cameo complete, Truman smiled and waved and went his merry way.
I was determined to appear as one of the faces in the background of the Today show too, so early on the morning of Friday, May 2, 2008, I set out from my friends’ apartment in Brooklyn for the NBC studios at Rockefeller Center. How hard could it be? All I had to do was stand there.
I had forgotten, however, that Today hosts live concerts on Rockefeller Plaza most Fridays. By the time I reached the plaza, it was already teeming—with women of a certain age. They were there to see Neil Diamond.
The crowd was impenetrable. I couldn’t get anywhere near the stage, where all the cameras were.
Not only that, I hadn’t brought a sign. A sign, it turns out, is nearly a prerequisite for getting your mug on Today. The cameras favor people with signs, especially signs that mention the Today show. The handmade Today show sign is practically a modern form of folk art. A stocky guy next to me was holding a large piece of red cardboard with Magic Marker letters: WHERE IN THE WORLD IS MATT LAUER? (Lauer, one of the program’s hosts, periodically disappears to strange and exotic locales, leaving viewers to guess his whereabouts.) I asked him why he’d made it. “To get on TV,” he said with a shrug. Why else? Soon he waded fearlessly into the crushing mob, a strategy for which I had neither the inclination nor the physique.
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