Fall of Giants

Wilson worked on improvements to his speech, tapping on his old Underwood typewriter as the endless open plains of the Midwest sped by the windows. His performances got better over the next few days. Gus suggested he try to make the treaty relevant to each city. Wilson told business leaders in St. Louis that the treaty was needed to build up world trade. In Omaha he said the world without the treaty would be like a community with unsettled land titles, all the farmers sitting on fences with shotguns. Instead of long explanations, he rammed home the main points in short statements.

Gus also suggested that Wilson appeal to people’s emotions. This was not just about policy, he said; it touched on their feelings about their country. At Columbus, Wilson spoke of the boys in khaki. In Sioux Falls, he said he wanted to redeem the sacrifices of mothers who had lost their sons on the battlefield. He rarely descended to scurrility, but in Kansas City, home of the vitriolic Senator Reed, he compared his opponents to the Bolsheviks. And he thundered out the message, again and again, that if the League of Nations failed there would be another war.

Gus smoothed relations with the reporters on board and the local men wherever the train stopped. When Wilson spoke without a prepared speech, his stenographer would produce an immediate transcript, which Gus distributed. He also persuaded Wilson to come forward to the club car now and again to chat informally with the press.

It worked. Audiences responded better and better. The press coverage continued mixed, but Wilson’s message was repeated constantly even in papers that opposed him. And reports from Washington suggested that opposition was weakening.

But Gus could see how much the campaign was costing the president. His headaches became almost continuous. He slept badly. He could not digest normal food, and Dr. Grayson fed him liquids. He got a throat infection that developed into something like asthma, and he began to have trouble breathing. He tried to sleep sitting upright.

All of this was kept from the press, even Rosa. Wilson continued to give speeches, although his voice was weak. Thousands cheered him in Salt Lake City, but he looked drawn, and he clenched his hands repeatedly, in an odd gesture that made Gus think of a dying man.

Then, on the night of September 25, there was a commotion. Gus heard Edith calling for Dr. Grayson. He put on a dressing gown and went to the president’s car.

What he saw there horrified and saddened him. Wilson looked dreadful. He could hardly breathe and had developed a facial twitch. Even so, he wanted to carry on; but Grayson was adamant that he call off the remainder of the tour, and in the end Wilson gave in.

Next morning Gus, with a heavy heart, told the press that the president had suffered a severe nervous attack, and the tracks were cleared to speed the 1,700-mile journey back to Washington. All presidential engagements were canceled for two weeks, notably a meeting with pro-treaty senators to plan the fight for confirmation.

That evening, Gus and Rosa sat in her compartment, disconsolately looking out of the window. People gathered at every station to watch the president go by. The sun went down, but still the crowds stood and stared in the twilight. Gus was reminded of the train from Brest to Paris, and the silent multitude that had stood beside the tracks in the middle of the night. It was less than a year ago, but already their hopes had been dashed. “We did our best,” Gus said. “But we failed.”

“Are you sure?”

“When the president was campaigning full-time, it was touch and go. With Wilson sick, the chance of the treaty being ratified by the Senate is zero.”

Rosa took his hand. “I’m sorry,” she said. “For you, for me, for the world.” She paused, then said: “What will you do?”

“I’d like to join a Washington law firm specializing in international law. I’ve got some relevant experience, after all.”

“I should think they’ll be lining up to offer you a job. And perhaps some future president will want your help.”

He smiled. Sometimes she had an unrealistically high opinion of him. “And what about you?”

“I love what I’m doing. I hope I can carry on covering the White House.”

“Would you like to have children?”

“Yes!”

“So would I.” Gus stared meditatively out of the window. “I just hope Wilson is wrong about them.”

“About our children?” She heard the note of solemnity in his tone, and she asked in a frightened voice: “What do you mean?”

“He says they will have to fight another world war.”

“God forbid,” Rosa said fervently.

Outside, night was falling.

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE – January 1920

Daisy sat at the table in the dining room of the Vyalov family’s prairie house in Buffalo. She wore a pink dress. The large linen napkin tied around her neck swamped her. She was almost four years old, and Lev adored her.