My Life With F.D.R.

53

affered a cerebral hemorrhage. It
ad happened about a half hour be-
3re, and he was still unconscious,
here was nothing we could do,
othing that could be said until he
^gained consciousness—if he did.

Mother flew that day to Warm
prings. I returned to the hospital
d be with my son. At the end of
bout half an hour, someone came
d tell me that a car was waiting to
ike me immediately to the White
iouse. Nothing more was said, but
knew the end had come.

I stayed in Washington to be with
ohnny and to help with the arrang-
ag of the funeral services in the
Vhite House and the details of the
iurial at Hyde Park.

Throughout those two or three
[ays the entire staff at the White
douse could not have been more
houghtful and helpful. At the same
ime, it was hard for many of them
lot to show their emotions as we
alked over the necessary arrange-
nents. Tears would start to run
[own a man’s face as we conversed,
ind the maids would cry openly as
hey went about their work.

I’ll never forget that train trip to
Hyde Park for the burial. The pri-
vate car that Father had used for so
nany years was once more the last
:ar on the train. As usual, the Secret
Service had assigned staterooms and
icrths to each individual. I’ve never
mown who assigned it to me, but I
,vas given Father’s stateroom. All

night I sat on the foot of that berth
and watched the people who had
come to see the train pass by. There
were little children, mothers, fathers,
grandparents. They were there at
eleven at night, at two in the morn-
ing, at four—at all hours during that
long night.

I’ll never cease being thankful to
those people, for watching their faces
gave me great comfort. They truly
and deeply mourned a man who had
given them hope when they badly
needed it, a man they had grown to
love as a human being who under-
stood them and had worked for
them and with them, in peace and
in war.

They mourned him because they
loved him. But each of them could
remember something he had said or
done which made them, even at that
moment, feel courage in their hearts
. . . courage for the future.

Perhaps some of them, as they
watched that train go by, remem-
bered this small part of Father’s mes-
sage to Congress in January, 1939:

“Once I prophesied that this gen-
eration of Americans had a rendez-
vous with destiny. That prophecy
comes true. To us much is given;
more is expected.

“This generation will nobly save
or meanly lose the last best hope on
earth. . . . The way is plain, peace-
ful, generous, just—a way which, if
followed, the world will forever ap-
plaud and God must forever bless.”

The End