Now I must rescue my husband too.
FIFTY-ONE
BEATRICE
New York City
April 1918
When the newspapers sent Mitzi Miller to interview me, I decided I could afford to be magnanimous. After all, the years had proved me so right and her so wrong! I took the greatest satisfaction in answering her polite questions about my war relief work.
Thoroughly chastened, she asked, “Are you going to accept the government’s invitation?”
“Of course.”
I’d spent ten months at the home front, gnashing my teeth at newspaper headlines about how the Germans were taking advantage of our delay in transporting American troops. I still thought President Wilson was a jackass who should have better prepared for this war, but now that he was committed to winning, his muleheadedness was turning out to be a real asset. No matter how much it stuck in my craw, it was important for patriots to be loyal to our commander in chief, which is why, when called upon to lead a mission of American labor leaders across a war-torn sea, I had no choice but to agree. “I hope to be of real service.”
And truthfully, I was honored that my government believed I could be. I’d come a long way from the days when people whispered, She’s just an empty-headed actress who should stick to what she knows. “There’s so little one can do to help our brave allies that if the opportunity does come, one must be quick to embrace it.”
I was also pining for my friends and loved ones on the other side of the ocean. Emily—having returned to France with her husband—had worked miracles at Chavaniac with Clara and Marie-Louise, but I was increasingly convinced that I was needed there myself.
Is it really necessary for you to risk yourself this way again? Max complained in a letter. I begin to think that after your time in France, no party in Manhattan could be exciting enough for you unless it ends with artillery fire!
I ignored this not entirely lighthearted teasing and packed my bags, bracing myself against the pain of leaving my boys again. But of course, I reminded myself that they’d be at boarding school, so we’d be parted anyway. For my journey, I wore a black velvet tam with a gold tassel instead of my fur Cossack hat, because after all, this journey was partly Russia’s fault.
Oh, we’d all applauded the February Revolution to topple the czar and install a democratic republic, but the October Revolution by the Bolsheviks was a despotic Soviet dictatorship. Now Lenin’s Russia was neutral, out of the war just as the kaiser wished. Naturally, the Germans hoped the same trick might work twice. Thus, their Bolshevik agitators fanned throughout Europe to wreak the same havoc in remaining Allied nations, dividing patriotic common working people and socialists from disloyal pacifists, anarchists, and other misguided idiots. The Soviets called for an international conference of labor organizations to force a peace before the United States could send enough troops to turn the tide.
A rather ingenious villainy, I thought. All eyes had turned to the 2.5 million American skilled workers represented by Samuel Gompers’s American Federation of Labor. Would American workers undermine the war effort? The answer was a resounding no. And to give that answer, a delegation of patriotic labor leaders trooped aboard a ship bound for Europe in order to reassure our war-weary allies to hold out against Germany a little bit longer. Of course, most of the delegates had never traveled overseas before—necessitating an experienced leader. And because I was an officer for ARCH with several sea crossings to my name, I was chosen as chairwoman, presumably to prevent pandemonium on the gangplank.
I led the delegation aboard a refitted and armed luxury liner in a convoy with troop ships, a battle cruiser, and six torpedo boats—more protection than I’d ever had in making the trip before. Among the male delegates of the mission were the president of the Pattern Makers’ League, the executive officer of the Molders’ Union, the president of the International Association of Machinists, and the president of the Brotherhood of Railroad Trainmen. Lady leaders joined us too, including the presidentress of the Straw Hat Trimmers’ Union and the vice presidentress of the Glove Makers’ Union.
Working people, every last one.
When I tried to tell a gentleman where to put his portmanteaux, he said, “I suppose we’ll be a trial to you, Mrs. Chanler. I don’t guess millionaires like you rub elbows too often with the wage-earning riffraff.”
Before I could make a diplomatic reply, the presidentress of the Straw Hat Trimmers’ Union whacked his arm. “Stuff and nonsense! She’s one of us. Even former chorus girls know what it’s like to go hungry.”