All the hopes of the Kennedy-for-Vice-President camp turned now on Governor Stevenson’s winning the presidential nomination. Kefauver dropped out following his primary defeat in California, and Stevenson seemed a sure winner. But the Governor was not showing his hand on the matter of his running mate. When Kennedy’s brother-in-law Sargent Shriver managed to wangle a few minutes with Stevenson at the tail end of a plane ride to Chicago, he found him alert to the problems of a running mate but non-committal on the man. Stevenson asked bluntly about Kennedy’s health and how his father, mother, and wife felt about his running. Reassured by Shriver on both these scores, he turned to the religious question. He had seen the Catholic analysis, Stevenson said, but he was not sure about the statistics. At best, such matters were only an “educated guess.”
“In the final analysis,” Stevenson said thoughtfully to Shriver, “it is not the political advantage of the vice-presidential choice that is crucial but the needs of the United States—who could best perform the duties and responsibilities of the job.” Stevenson went on, “I hope the convention will give a good deal of deliberation to the vice-presidential question.”
Shriver pricked up his ears. Would not the presidential nominee still pick his running mate? Stevenson was evasive but indicated that he would. He went on to say that Kennedy, with his clean, “All-American boy” appearance and TV personality, would be a splendid contrast to Nixon and his heavy, thick looks. Shriver brightened at this, but Stevenson went on to say that perhaps Humphrey could “give Nixon hell” better.
Shriver’s report on this talk left the Kennedy camp more uncertain than ever. If Stevenson should not pick his running mate, it would be well to start organizing for a floor fight. Friends of Kennedy in Stevenson’s headquarters warned Sorensen, however, that it would be best not to engage in extensive campaigning; clearly, the Governor did not want to find himself pressured into a choice he did not prefer.
Other reports from Chicago seemed more ominous. A story had reached the Stevenson camp that Kennedy had contributed to Nixon’s campaign fund in the contest with Helen Gahagan Douglas; Sorensen hurriedly explained that it was the father, not the son, who may have contributed. What about the Senator’s position on McCarthy? Stevenson people were saying that Kennedy was still being evasive on the matter.
The Kennedy camp decided to go ahead with some quiet organizing. Friendly governors, congressmen, and party leaders were asked to talk with their friends about Kennedy. A list of the fifty men closest to Stevenson was drawn up. As the convention neared, plans were laid for a central message room, distribution of material to delegates and the press, “spontaneous” cheering when Kennedy appeared on the rostrum, instructions for the convention orchestra, special contacts with congressional members of state delegations.
It was a shoestring operation, and the situation was too fluid for a definite convention program. But excitement was mounting. Kennedy, who was still letting his aides take the initiative but who was helping out when asked, had an understanding with Sorensen that the whole operation would be conducted on a nothing-to-lose basis and he would not be disappointed if he lost. By early summer, Sorensen wondered if Kennedy’s hopes were rising.
“You’re not going beyond our understanding, I hope,” Sorensen said.
“Well, I must admit—I will be disappointed if I don’t make it—from the time the convention decides on Friday until the time I leave for Europe Saturday morning!”
The First Hurrah
The Stevenson band wagon was rolling smoothly when the Democratic convention opened in Chicago’s International Amphitheatre in mid-August 1956. Harry Truman tried to spike it by plumping for Averell Harriman, but the band wagon hardly slowed down. In its wake were a dozen vice-presidential hopefuls waiting for their own chance to move.
Kennedy got off to a good start the opening night thanks to his role as narrator in a propaganda film on the history of the Democratic party. His appearance on the rostrum afterward set off the convention’s first demonstration, a placard-waving effort by the Massachusetts delegation that set off mild cheers throughout the hall. The delegates were not yet interested in running mates. Earlier, Kennedy was host at a breakfast for the entire New England delegation, and governors and party leaders rose to offer him solid support.
“I should invite you all to breakfast every morning,” Kennedy said with a laugh.
A sudden call came to Kennedy from Stevenson’s headquarters late the second night of the convention. Stevenson told the Senator that he might want him to give the nominating speech for him the next day. It the South were aroused by a civil-rights fight, however, Stevenson said, he might prefer a Southerner for the job to unite the convention. Kennedy had mixed feelings—was this a consolation prize for not being Stevenson’s running mate? No, Stevenson said, he had not made up his mind. Two hours later, a call came from a Stevenson aide: “You’re it. Go to it.” The Senator and Sorensen toiled over a speech until six in the morning. After a few hours’ sleep, Kennedy, speech in hand, took a taxi to the Amphitheatre. En route he rehearsed his remarks; Tom Winship of the Boston Globe, sitting next to him, thought he saw Kennedy clench his fists and whisper to himself, “Go!”
Kennedy made a valiant effort to do justice to his assignment. “We here today are selecting a man who must be more than something of a good candidate, more than a good politician, or a good liberal, or a good conservative. We are selecting the head of the most powerful nation on earth—the man who literally will hold in his hands the power of survival or destruction, of freedom or slavery.…
“The grand alliance of the West that chain for freedom forged by Truman and Marshall and the rest is cracking, and its unity deteriorating and its strength dissipating.…”
But while he was paying fulsome tribute to Stevenson, Kennedy was wondering about his own prospects. The only concession he had got from the Stevenson forces was that they would consult with him before deciding on the vice-presidential nominee. As the hours passed, no such meeting seemed in the wind. Persistent rumors had it that Stevenson had narrowed his choice down to Kefauver or Humphrey. The Minnesotan was making a hit with delegations as he toured their caucuses, giving forth with pithy, humorous talks. Fearing that his selection as Stevenson’s nominator was simply a consolation prize, Kennedy told New England delegates at another breakfast meeting that he had virtually abandoned hope of getting second place.
Delegates crowded around him at the head table. Was he really pulling out? No, said Kennedy, it was not a formal withdrawal.
The next day, Stevenson rolled to a big victory on the first ballot. Massachusetts gave him thirty-two of its forty votes; McCormack was able to deliver only seven and a half to Harriman. Kennedy had produced almost a solid delegation for Stevenson, but what would the Illinoisan do? The convention was soon to find out. Asking permission to make a short statement, Stevenson appeared before the wildly applauding crowd:
“The American people have the solemn obligation to consider with the utmost care who will be their President if the elected President is prevented by a higher will from serving a full term.…” Stevenson did not mention Eisenhower, twice stricken with illness as President.
“In these circumstances I have concluded to depart from the precedents of the past. I have decided that the selection of the Vice Presidential nominee should be made through the free process of this convention.…”
In his suite at the Conrad Hilton, Kennedy met late in the evening with aides and family. He had his staff, family, and assorted college and political friends with him, but he lacked the organization for a full-fledged drive among the fifty-three delegations. Little more than twelve hours remained before the balloting. Through the night, Kennedy and his people ransacked the city for delegates, most of whom had gone to bars or to bed. Far off in France, Joseph Kennedy started making phone calls to political leaders. Kennedy was able to reach some Southern delegations, who seemed favorable. The New England bloc was standing firm, except for New
Hampshire, which had been for Kefauver since his primary victory there. Illinois was friendly. What about New York’s fat bundle of ninety-eight votes? Tammany leader Carmine De Sapio came to offer support after a first-ballot nod to Mayor Robert Wagner; so confused was the Kennedy headquarters that De Sapio quietly waited for a time before anyone recognized him.
What about the New York liberals? Earlier in the week, Kennedy had been around to see Mrs. Roosevelt, who had mightily helped Stevenson get the nomination. The former First Lady was gracious but a bit glacial. She immediately asked Kennedy where he stood on McCarthyism.
“She was hurrying to go downstairs,” Kennedy remembers, “the room was full of Roosevelts and others—it was like eighteen people in a telephone booth. She was giving what I said only half attention because of the confusion. She was giving her views on McCarthy, not listening to what I was saying. My point to her was that, since I had never really been especially vigorous about McCarthy during his life, it would make me out to be a complete political prostitute to be champing and jumping to change, to denounce McCarthy when he was gone politically.”
Even though Kennedy had stated to her that he approved the Senate’s censure vote, this seemed to Mrs. Roosevelt inadequate. She wanted an acknowledgment of the damage McCarthy had done to the whole country, not just to the Senate. This acknowledgment Kennedy did not make. Now, with the vice-presidential fight on his hands, Kennedy knew that he could not hope for support from Mrs. Roosevelt or some of her fellow liberals.
In other ways it was a trying night for Kennedy. It was hard to find delegation leaders, and those he did find were often evasive and unsure of their delegations. He managed to reach McCormack, who talked for two hours about his problems with the platform committee while Kennedy sat tensely, feeling that time was running out. But McCormack was willing to second his nomination.
Meantime, Kennedy workers ranged through Chicago getting placards ready, leaflets printed, noisemakers, buttons, banners. Other vice-presidential aspirants were busy, too; a delegate could hardly cross the street to get a drink without being accosted. Kefauver had strength throughout the country; a half-dozen other candidates had tied up their home states. But everything was obscure. Never had a convention race been so genuinely “wide open.”
Moving their command post to the Stock Yard Inn, just outside the convention hall, Kennedy & Co. settled down for the balloting. Sprawled on a bed, Kennedy watched the turbulent floor action on TV. The first ballot went about as expected: Kefauver got 483½ votes, Kennedy 304, followed by Albert Gore, Wagner, Humphrey, and the others. Ribicoff and Dever huddled with New York leaders on the floor amid a jostling crowd and pleaded frantically for New York’s ballots on the next turn. New York came through; so did several more Southern and border states and parts of other delegations. Texas, spurred by Sam Rayburn, who like other Southerners had little love for Kefauver, left Gore and put a solid bloc of fifty-six votes into Kennedy’s column.
At this point the candidate was in the tub. Torby Macdonald shouted in: “Sam Rayburn just swung Texas to you!” Kennedy rose dripping from the water, wrapped himself in a towel, and returned to the TV set just as Lyndon Johnson announced that “Texas proudly casts its vote for the fighting sailor who wears the scars of battle.…” Kennedy’s name shot ahead on the second ballot, outdistancing Kefauver, 618 to 551½; he needed only sixty-eight more votes for the nomination. Kennedy, who had had two hours’ sleep the night before, was now resting on his bed in his shorts. On the third ballot Kentucky came over with thirty more votes. Sorensen reached over to shake his hand: “Congratulations, Jack. That’s it.”
“No, not yet,” Kennedy said. He began to dress calmly in front of the television screen.
The convention was in a tumult. Sam Rayburn, the chairman, pounded for order. Eagerly waving their Kennedy signs, the Massachusetts delegates milled around the floor, pleading with other delegations to join the band wagon. But there was no band wagon to join. In fact, Kennedy had reached the peak of his strength on the second ballot. The Midwestern and Rocky Mountain states were sticking solidly with Kefauver, partly because Kennedy had voted against rigid, 90 per cent of parity farm props. Other states were breaking toward Kefauver and evening up the race. The next few minutes would tell the story. As confusion mounted, half a dozen delegations were waving their standards for recognition. What state would Sam Rayburn recognize? At this moment, McCormack was down on the floor.
“Sam! Sam! Missouri!” McCormack yelled up at the Texan. Did he think Missouri was shifting to Kennedy? Or did he see a chance to even scores?
Missouri had just caucused and by a narrow margin shifted its vote from Gore to Kefauver. There was a roar as Missouri announced its shift. Now the pendulum swung fast to Kefauver. In a few moments he went over the top.
Kennedy turned from the television screen. “That’s it—let’s go.” He appeared as calm in defeat as in the prospect of victory. At the convention hall, he pushed his way to the rostrum: “Ladies and gentlemen of this convention. I want to take this opportunity to express my appreciation to Democrats from all parts of the country, North and South, East and West, who have been so kind to me this afternoon.…” He moved that Kefauver be nominated by acclamation. The crowd shouted its agreement. As Kennedy left the platform, the band swung into the “Tennessee Waltz.”
Despite his grin, Kennedy looked wilted and disappointed. Yet, as things turned out, this was his great moment—the moment when he passed through a kind of political sound barrier to register on the nation’s memory. The dramatic race had glued millions to their television sets. Kennedy’s near-victory and sudden loss, the impression he gave of a clean-cut boy who had done his best and who was accepting defeat with a smile—all this struck at people’s hearts in living rooms across the nation. In this moment of triumphant defeat, his campaign for the presidency was born.
11SENATOR FROM THE UNITED STATES
Kennedy’s excursion into national politics in 1956 was a milestone in his political and intellectual development. It forced him into the midst of national forces far removed from the parochial influences of Boston. It was appropriate and perhaps symbolic that in this same year, Harvard, which had never seen fit to cite Joseph P. Kennedy as onetime ambassador to the Court of St. James’s, awarded an honorary degree to his son. The citation read: “Brave officer, able Senator, son of Harvard; loyal to party, he remains steadfast to principle.”
It was even more symbolic of the change in Kennedy that, in a speech that same June day to a Harvard audience, he paid tribute to the intellectual’s role. Politicians, he said, needed to have their temperatures lowered “in the cooling waters of the scholastic pool”; they needed both the technical judgment and the disinterested viewpoint of the scholar, “to prevent us from becoming imprisoned by our own slogans.”
But his speech was a defense of the politician, as well, and of the compromises he must make. The goal of education, he said, is the “advancement of knowledge and the dissemination of truth,” but in politics, it is different: “Our political parties, our politicians, are interested, of necessity, in winning popular support—a majority; and only indirectly truth is the object of our controversy.” Both the scholars and the politicians need each other and should call a truce in their misunderstandings, for both operate in the common framework of liberty; political and intellectual freedom are indivisible—“… if the first blow for freedom in any subjugated land is struck by a political leader, the second is struck by a book, a newspaper, or a pamphlet.”
After the convention, where his party failed to follow Harvard’s lead with its own award, Kennedy left to join his father on the Riviera for a vacation, too tired to feel his disappointment keenly. Jacqueline, who was expecting a baby in the late fall, had chosen not to go with him to the Mediterranean; she had gone to Newport after attending the convention to stay with her mother and stepfather and await her child there.
Kennedy’s staff had been amused by a letter that came in from
a Haverhill Irishman shortly after word got out about the expected child, and during the fight with Burke:
“Dear John and Jackie,” the letter began. “God love you both and good luck on the coming event. Now you kids will have one of your own. Whatever it is boy or girl you’ll love it like you never loved anything in your life. Now Johnny boy what in H——are they trying to do to you? Of course I am slightly on your side but this is just a little to rough. Gee, it must be tough to have money. Thank God John I never envied anyone for all they had. In my book Kennedys are the tops. But we know these Irish, particularly these tough ones.… I wrote all this stuff and my little Nova Scotia herring wife says ‘watch your blood pressure.’ …”
But now an urgent message caught up with Kennedy sailing on the peaceful Mediterranean with his brother Teddy: Jacqueline had lost her baby and was in serious condition. Kennedy flew home at once. Jacqueline had gone through an emergency operation at Newport Hospital. For a while she was in a critical condition, but by the time her husband reached her bedside she was recovering.
In their big house in Virginia, Jacqueline had spent many hours planning and setting up a nursery for their expected first child. Within a few months of the miscarriage, they sold their Virginia farm to the Senator’s brother Bob and moved to Georgetown. (There, late in 1957, a daughter, Caroline, was born.)
After Jacqueline’s convalescence, Kennedy turned to the presidential campaign. Eisenhower and Nixon had been renominated at San Francisco, so it was the battle of 1952 all over again, with the same results. Despite the general pessimism, which he shared, Kennedy threw himself into the struggle. He stumped through twenty-six states, campaigning harder than probably any Democrat other than Stevenson and Kefauver themselves. He also went out of his way to make speeches endorsing a host of local candidates.
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