The entry of America into the war brought with it just one piece of good news: Maxim and Ivy Litvinov were coming to Washington. Coming to stay, in fact, as Maxim had been named by Stalin to replace the outgoing Soviet ambassador, Konstantin Umansky. I planned to welcome our Moscow friends with a splendid party, and I used my newfound status as celebrated District hostess to ensure that the entire capital was in attendance.
The Russians were suddenly not only Hitler’s enemies but also America’s friends, and our president had made it clear that we were to treat the Litvinovs as such. My guest list for this gathering thus included senators, congressmen, ambassadors, reporters, members of Roosevelt’s cabinet, Harry and Bess Truman, and of course, my new friend Betty Beale, who told me, her eyes wide, “I had to be here, Marjorie, darling. It’s the biggest to-do in town.”
The night was a cold one by Washington standards—though of course Ivy and Max would not find it so—but a thin dusting of snow gave the grounds of our home a lovely pearled appearance. Inside, the house sparkled, with our Russian paintings covering the walls, our tables set with our priceless dishes and crystal from the Romanovs. Dressed in a sheath gown of silver silk and a choker of diamonds, I put on my warmest smile as I saw my guests of honor approach. “Ivy, my dear friend, it is such a pleasure to have you here with us.” I could tell by her expression that Ivy was a bit stunned, taken aback by the steady procession of my gowned and tuxedoed guests, by the small army of liveried servants who milled about offering flutes of chilled champagne and hors d’oeuvres of paté and caviar. A spread of oysters and lobster filled one banquet table; boards of charcuterie filled another. The air was fragrant with the aromas of hothouse flowers and perfume and jockeying self-importance.
“Marjorie, my dear, thank you.” Ivy took my hands in her own and leaned in for a kiss. “But goodness, you call this winter? It is so warm here.”
“We hope you’ll find it so. Ah, here, for you, with our heartfelt welcome.” I gave her the package I had wrapped for her before the party. She opened it, smiling when she tore aside the tissue paper to see what was inside: a loaf of bread and a small pinch of salt, held in a fine porcelain bowl from the American Sandwich Glass Company.
“And this, Ambassador, is for you,” I said, turning toward her husband.
Litvinov accepted and then unwrapped his package. “Mission to Moscow,” Maxim said, reading the title aloud. “By Ambassador Joseph Davies.” Maxim and Ivy both turned toward my husband, their faces questioning.
“You wrote this?” Ivy asked.
Joe nodded. “All about my time in the Soviet Union. President Roosevelt himself asked for this book. It’s all of my official memos and letters to the president and the State Department. Journal entries. Reports. All previously classified information. Our president wants the American people to see things as they really are in Moscow. Show them that the Russians are not our enemies—the Germans and the Japanese are.”
“Published by Simon and Schuster, and a bestseller already,” I added. As the proud wife, I could not help but chime in. I, after all, had been the one to compile many of the documents to send to his publisher, as Joe had spent large portions of the past months too ill to rise from bed for more than a few hours. And now I wanted my husband to feel proud, too. “People cannot get enough of it. We want to show the public that the Russians are people just like us, and my Joe—”
“Marjorie, that’ll do,” Joe interrupted, with a quick pat of my hand as he flashed me a strained smile. “Now you’re my literary agent?”
“No,” I said, my voice sounding like that of a chastened child. “Just your proud wife.”
“I think they get the idea.” Joe turned to Maxim, beckoning him to walk toward the tables of food. “Ambassador, shall we?” I remained in my place, a bit off balance, but forcing myself to keep a gracious smile on my features, hoping in silence that it was just his stomach troubles again.
* * *
Just as with the Great War, this global conflict meant that things had to change in my own home as well. “Our boys are going off to war,” I said to my social secretary, Margaret, that winter during one of our morning meetings. “Which means we are going to be making some changes to my calendar.”
“Yes, Mrs. Davies. Changes…what sort of changes?”
“This isn’t the time for me to escape to Florida or Long Island for swimming and parties. It is the time for me to get to work.” With that declaration, I closed up Hillwood, Topridge, and Mar-a-Lago; all my hosting would be in Washington and would have a purpose. That spring and summer I gave parties to raise money for the Red Cross, I funded performances of the National Symphony Orchestra to raise money for the army and navy, I opened a public kitchen in New York City where any member of the armed services could eat for free, and I raised money for the growing number of refugees who were scattered across Europe, particularly those from the Soviet Union.