John F. Kennedy

by Lucy Post Frisbee

  One morning, Jack burst into his office, filled with mock indignation. “Can you imagine? Some tourists got into the elevator and asked me to take them to the fourth floor!”

  His secretary looked at him with an amused smile and made no comment. Following the direction of her eyes, Kennedy looked down at his old khaki pants, his rumpled seersucker coat, with his shirttail hanging out.

  Sheepishly, he said, “I know just what you’re thinking! No self-respecting elevator boy would dare enter these stately halls dressed as I am. He’d lose his job!”

  His secretary would have been even more amused if she could have seen her boss after hours, hurrying to a nearby Georgetown playground. In an old sweatshirt and sneakers, Jack Kennedy was the center of a gang of neighborhood boys who had no idea they were catching football passes from a millionaire congressman.

  Kennedy may have been young in looks, but he was maturing politically. The voters liked and trusted him, yet nearly everyone was astonished when he decided to run for the Senate in 1952. His opponent would be the incumbent Senator, popular Henry Cabot Lodge. Senator Lodge was a “Proper Bostonian” from a family long prominent in Massachusetts. It had been his grandfather who had soundly trounced “Honey-Fitz” when that “Irish upstart” ran for governor.

  Again Kennedy started campaigning ahead of the opposition. While Henry Cabot Lodge was boosting Eisenhower for president, Jack covered Massachusetts with family and friends solidly behind him. The dynamic Kennedy sisters and their beautiful mother showed a brand of petticoat politics that proved devastating to the Republicans. In a race that had been considered political suicide, John F. Kennedy became the senator from Massachusetts.

  “And,” said his proud father, “A Kennedy-Fitzgerald beat a Lodge!”

  Jack had been a congressman when he first met Jacqueline Bouvier. Her rare combination of grace, beauty, and intelligence ended the Senator’s bachelor days. The wedding of the year, society columnists called the marriage. Her stepfather’s Newport mansion was filled with twelve hundred guests from the social, financial, and political worlds.

  Handicapped by ill health for most of his life, Jack Kennedy now found himself in agony with his bad back. Doctors were hesitant to risk surgery, but the Senator insisted. He would not, he said, live his life as a cripple.

  The delicate operation was performed. Twice his condition was considered critical, and twice his great will to live pulled him through.

  During the long weeks of convalescence, Senator Kennedy read and studied. With the help of Mrs. Kennedy and his aide, Ted Sorenson, a brilliant young Nebraska lawyer, he began the research for a series of articles which would eventually become the Pulitzer-prize-winning book Profiles in Courage.

  Once his health was restored to normal, young Kennedy set out to prove himself a capable legislator. As the 1956 Democratic convention rolled around, his name was mentioned as a possible running mate for presidential candidate Adlai Stevenson. Jack lost the nomination for the vice presidential spot by a hair.

  This was the turning point in his political career. From that 1956 convention, the Kennedy bandwagon started to roll. Although Jack had three strikes against him—youth, inexperience, and religion—he met each of these issues head-on. He sold himself to the public.

  In 1960, after a fierce struggle, he won the Democratic nomination for the presidency. As his running mate, he chose his chief contender, Lyndon Baines Johnson.

  Organization, family, and school loyalties, a superb sense of timing, and political shrewdness, plus an unlimited campaign fund, all worked together for Jack Kennedy’s success. Yet in the final analysis, it was Kennedy himself who won the voters and the votes.

  “Lend me your hands and your hearts,” he told Americans. “Join me on the New Frontier.”

  The election in November was one of the closest in the history of the United States. John Fitzgerald Kennedy became president by what the old pros would call “a handful of votes.”

  United in the president-elect was the boy who loved history and the man who wanted to make history. It was that boy and man who walked in solitude on the dunes at Hyannis Port on election eve. It was he who jubilantly sailed his boat on Nantucket Sound the morning after elections. He remembered with a smile that he had named the boat Victura because it had something to do with winning!

  “LET US BEGIN”

  THE STIRRING NOTES of the “Star-Spangled Banner” echoed over Washington. Sharp gusts of wind ruffled the snowdrifts on the Capitol grounds. The air had a frosty bite even in the shelter of the Inaugural Platform.

  Dwight D. Eisenhower, oldest president to serve in office, was ready to hand the reins of government to John F. Kennedy, youngest man ever to be elected to the presidency.

  The Inaugural ceremonies began.

  Speaker of the House Sam Rayburn administered the oath of office to his fellow Texan, Lyndon Baines Johnson, the new vice president.

  The Chief Justice of the United States, Earl Warren, arose and the president-elect stepped forward. Over the Fitzgerald family Bible, John Fitzgerald Kennedy repeated the Oath of Office in a crisp, clear voice.

  The thirty-fifth president of the United States struck the tone for his administration in the first moments of the presidency. “Let the word go forth from this time and place, to friend and foe alike, that the torch has been passed to a new generation of Americans—born in this century, tempered by war, disciplined by a hard and bitter peace, proud of our ancient heritage—”

  The eloquent voice continued, “Let every nation know, whether it wishes us well or ill, that we shall pay any price, bear any burden, meet any hardship, support any friend, oppose any foe to assure the survival and the success of liberty.”

  Applause interrupted again and again.

  “All this will not be finished in the first hundred days. Nor will it be finished in the first thousand days, nor in the life of this Administration, nor even perhaps in our lifetime on this planet. But let us begin.”

  John F. Kennedy was America’s first twentieth-century president. The nation, reflecting its new leader, had a new look. Not since the days of the New Deal and F.D.R. had Washington seen so many bright young men. The White House became a showplace for the nation’s art and artists. Poetry and painting were recognized as powerful forces. The sense and the symbols of culture were everywhere.

  America’s “First Family” became headline stuff. In spite of the First Lady’s wish to keep the children out of the limelight, Caroline’s antics amused millions. Even John-John’s first steps were sensational news.

  Touch football became a national pastime. Sailing and water-skiing and fifty-mile hikes became popular. Even rocking chairs became a fad. One political observer was heard to remark, “Any administration that can turn a rocking chair into a symbol of vigor and vitality can do anything.”

  The work of the president is a deadly serious business on which the fate of millions of people around the world depends. Yet, with all the necessary sense of purpose and dedication, the White House has its human side, too.

  At the first reception for the diplomatic corps, Caroline helped greet the guests in a party dress. “It’s my very best one,” she confided to her admirers. Every diplomat in Washington will remember Caroline standing on the red carpet in the White House foyer, listening to the Marine Band, her feet tapping in time to the music. When the Band’s conductor granted Caroline a request number, she asked for “Old MacDonald Had a Farm.” The conductor choked but quickly regained his composure. Never before had that particular tune been played with such polish and style!

  The White House, famous for its formal receptions, could be informal, too. There was the day, for example, when Caroline bounced into the press room unexpectedly.

  A reporter, idly hoping for a mild scoop, asked, “What’s your daddy doing?”

  “Oh, he’s upstairs,” Caroline replied, “with his shoes and socks off. Just doing nothing.”

  Even the First Family wasn’t immune to
the “telephonitis”! According to Grandfather Joseph Kennedy, he was phoning Caroline from Palm Beach. In the background, the elder Kennedy could hear the president of the United States saying, “Hurry up, Caroline, I want to use that telephone.”

  The Kennedy wit had long been legendary. Now it was still refreshing, still spontaneous.

  “I used to wonder,” he said once, “when I was a member of the House, how President Truman got into so much trouble. Now that I’m president,” he added, with a broad grin, “I’m beginning to get the idea. It’s not difficult at all.”

  Another wry comment came from his relations with an uncooperative Congress. “I never realized how powerful the Senate was until I left it and came up to this end of Pennsylvania Avenue.”

  As always, he continued to rib his younger brother, Bobby. According to an article in a weekly news magazine, Robert Kennedy was rated the second most powerful man in the nation. Shortly after reading it, President Kennedy commented on the article to his brother.

  “Well, Bobby,” he said, “there’s only one way you can go now. Down!”

  But behind the quick and ready wit, the Irish charm and gay spirit, was a deeply sincere and purposeful man who loved America and her people. A close observer of the political scene said of the new president, “He is capable, he is dedicated. He’s the best-trained man to become president in this century.”

  The first official trip outside the country was across the friendly frontier to Canada. The president and Mrs. Kennedy were greeted grandly by the Canadian prime minister and an elite corps of scarlet-coated Mounties.

  At Ottawa’s Government House, the president was asked to plant a tree in commemoration of the visit. As he took the silver shovel and bent over, he felt a sharp blinding pain. The photographers and reporters noticed nothing. The president did not make the slightest wince.

  But, as Jack Kennedy felt the dull familiar ache tormenting him again, he thought of all the demands and responsibilities that lay ahead. The bad back that had plagued him since his college days, that had racked him with pain when he was injured in the South Pacific, and for which he had undergone major surgery in 1955, was once more his enemy.

  However, immediate plans were made for the president and Mrs. Kennedy to take a European trip which would include a conference with President de Gaulle in Paris and a meeting with Soviet Premier Khrushchev in Vienna.

  John F. Kennedy spent his forty-fourth birthday in Hyannis Port, quietly resting and studying for his European trip. (Kennedy’s youth amazed the Europeans. At forty-four, he was young enough to be the son of any of the aging world leaders.)

  White House physician Dr. Janet Travelle prescribed special treatment for the painful back condition, which still persisted. Although crutches relieved the strain, Kennedy insisted that he would not be seen on crutches in public—neither before nor during the vitally important European visit. Only the members of the family and the ever-present Secret Service were aware that the president of the United States was a temporary invalid, hobbling about on crutches.

  As all the world knows, the Kennedy trip to Paris was a bonanza of popularity and goodwill. A million Frenchmen greeted the handsome couple on the route from Orly Airport to the city. Trumpets sounded at the Elysée Palace.

  Both the president and Mrs. Kennedy plunged immediately into the round of activities, the schedule of talks. All that day in the grueling and demanding routine of official functions, John Kennedy was never once seen to limp or slump. Yet his back was giving him severe trouble.

  Lem Billings, who was in Paris with the presidential party, recognized the symptoms. Billings, the president’s closest friend since his early teens, never failed to marvel at Jack’s ability to endure pain without complaint.

  In all the years he had been associated with Kennedy, as boy and man, Billings could not recall any period when Jack had really enjoyed normal health. Yet neither he nor anyone else could recall hearing Jack Kennedy complain.

  All of Paris was enchanted with the Kennedys. America’s First Lady charmed everyone with her beauty and regal bearing. The French exclaimed, “Elle est plus reine que toutes les reines”—She is more queenly than all the queens!

  But it was a teenage advice column in a Paris newspaper that gave Mrs. Kennedy the highest compliment. “All young girls who want to be beautiful should practice sitting and standing gracefully. Then they should look at Jacqueline Kennedy, the example!”

  The last evening in France was a brilliant one set in the splendor of the Palace of Versailles. They dined with one hundred and fifty other guests in the Hall of Mirrors. Here, where French rulers had once lived, history was everywhere.

  President de Gaulle bade farewell to America’s young leader on the steps of the Elysée Palace. The General said, “Now I have more confidence in your country.”

  Paris had been three days of enjoyment. Vienna would be different—much different. Premier Khrushchev and President Kennedy met at the American ambassador’s residence. The talks began immediately and continued throughout the day. Neither fruitful nor fruitless, the conference appeared to be a stalemate, a draw. Yet it served several purposes to President Kennedy. He recognized that the Soviet Premier was not the roly-poly clown of the cartoons. On the contrary, the Russian dictator was a well-informed, alert, proud, and extremely formidable adversary.

  During the grim business of discussing the future of the world, President Kennedy was able to hold his own. As well-informed on each issue as the Russian leader, Kennedy also showed great patience and sense of purpose.

  As the time came for the discussions to close, the tension was marked. There had been no agreements, no concessions, no deals. Formal farewells were said with unsmiling faces.

  Air Force One, the president’s jet, sped toward London and still another conference. President Kennedy reported to Prime Minister MacMillan and the London visit was climaxed by dining at Buckingham Palace with the Queen.

  Back in the States, the president talked to the American people immediately over a nationwide network. “I went to Vienna to meet the leader of the Soviet Union. It was a very sober two days . . . We have wholly different views of right and wrong, of what is an internal affair and what is aggression, and above all, we have wholly different concepts of where the world is and where it is going.”

  John Kennedy concluded his message to his fellow Americans by saying, “But with the will and the work, freedom will prevail.”

  President Kennedy’s New Frontier was marked by triumphs as well as by defeats and stalemates. Yet he never gave up hope of success. Again and again, he said, “We can, I believe, solve a good many of our problems. They are man-made and they can be solved by man.”

  In June of 1963, President Kennedy was bound for Europe once more. In Germany, the young leader was cheered from Bonn to Frankfurt and on to Berlin. In West Berlin, two million enthusiastic Germans stood ten to twenty deep to glimpse the president of the United States.

  When the presidential car reached the Brandenburg Gate and the Berlin Wall, John Kennedy stared in silence. He clenched and unclenched his fist as he saw the infamous Wall. No longer smiling, he looked at the dead waste, at the ugly, barren city of East Berlin.

  The president brought a reassuring message to the thousands of West Germans massed in front of Berlin’s City Hall.

  “Your liberty is our liberty,” he said. With deep emotion, he added, “There are many people in the world who really don’t understand—or say they don’t—what is the real issue between the free world and the communist world. Let them come to Berlin! There are some who say that communism is the wave of the future. Let them come to Berlin!”

  Later that week on his visit to Ireland, John Fitzgerald Kennedy stood on the New Ross Quay from which his great-grandfather sailed to America. “Welcome home” said the signs and the Irish crowds echoed the words.

  “I am glad to be here,” Jack Kennedy said. “It took three generations, one hundred and fifteen years, and six thousa
nd miles to make this trip. When my great-grandfather left the Old World for the New, he carried nothing with him to America except two things, a strong religious faith and a strong desire for liberty. I am glad to say that all of his great-grandchildren have valued that inheritance.”

  The autumn of 1963 saw the president lead America toward a great step for peace. In early October, the Nuclear Test Ban Treaty was signed after its ratification by the Senate. To John F. Kennedy, this marked the most gratifying achievement of his administration.

  The president could now turn to domestic affairs. Earlier in the fall, two Westerners, Secretary of the Interior Udall of Arizona and New Mexico’s Senator Anderson, had urged him to make a conservation tour. Because of the remarkable success of the Western trip, Southern political leaders asked the president to make a good-will tour of the South.

  The third week in November started out to be the kind of political crusade which John Kennedy enjoyed. On Monday, he spoke to several audiences in Florida. He flew back to Washington for two days of official business before departing again for another political safari.

  This trip would take the president and Mrs. Kennedy to Texas. It began, as so many others had before it, on the South lawn of the White House. John-John and Caroline said good-bye as the Marine helicopter arrived to pick up their father and mother, and take them to the airport.

  The president’s visit to the Lone Star State was primarily for political reasons, to help hold Texas for the Democrats in 1964. The receptions in San Antonio, Houston, and Fort Worth were all warm and enthusiastic.

  John Fitzgerald Kennedy looked forward to the next day when he would once again take to the campaign trail that he loved so much. The date would be Friday, November 22, and the place would be Dallas.

  BEYOND THE NEW FRONTIER

  FRIDAY, NOVEMBER 22, dawned gray and gloomy. The clouds over Fort Worth were dark with the threat of rain. But not even the persistent drizzle could discourage the crowd of Texans gathered to see the president.