The Man of Spirit

(See Cover)

In the two-month wait between the primaries and the real preliminaries of election year 1956, the U.S. voter had a little trouble keeping his eyes open. The U.S. was at peace, its people were more prosperous than ever, President Eisenhower was on the mend, and moderation was the spirit of the day. The voter nodded drowsily while Democratic candidates trudged busily around the country. Last week he woke up with a start to discover that Adlai Stevenson held a runaway lead for the Democratic nomination. And next week even the most somnolent of the U.S.'s 120 million televiewers will know full well that the biggest and boomingest and showiest convention extravaganza in the history of national politics is at hand.

The show's star billing will go to the Democratic nominee ("the next President of the Yewnited States"), and the odds are long that he will be a man of moderation. But a moment of rare drama will come when the face of a man with thick glasses, sharp nose, a cocky grin and a jutting jaw appears on the television screen. At that moment Harry S. Truman, 33rd President of the U.S.--the ranking elder statesman (he hates the words) in a party that has not had an active ex-President around since Grover Cleveland--will begin to give 'em hell. Truman's aim: to send his party into the 1956 campaign with the lusty, brawling, they-can't-beat-us sort of Democracy that Truman himself represents.

Harry Truman will never have seen anything quite like the 1956 convention, which should bug even Chicago's convention-jaded eyes. Into the city, beginning late this week, will stream up to 20,000 conventiongoers, led by 2,477 delegates and 1,850 alternates, to jam hotels and motels for 50 miles around. A fantastic corps of 4,000 reporters, pundits, photographers, radio and television performers, spielsmen and technicians (almost double the number in 1952) will swarm around Chicago's International Amphitheatre employing 400 veteran telegraphers to transmit 600,000 words an hour, sending photo plates whirlybirding from a rooftop heliport, poking television's Cyclopic eye into every nook and cranny of the amphitheatre (see RADIO & TV).

Seats for Thoughts. Oldtime Democrats, accustomed to their party's brawling, disorganized conventions of old, may think for a while that they have walked into the wrong building. Gone will be the traditional broad center aisle, scene of many a wild parade and impromptu caucus; instead, in the interests of good order and discipline, the convention managers have made space for only two side aisles. Gone, Democratic publicists promise, will be the fevered brows and sweat-stained shirts; air-conditioning equipment has been stepped up to a capacity equaling 2,000,000 Ibs. of ice daily, will lower the temperature by ten degrees. To replace the backbreaking wooden chairs on the convention floor, the Democratic National Committee has latched onto 2,500 softly cushioned seats from the defunct Paradise Theater--"Thus," says a party publicity puff, "enabling our delegates to concentrate more intently on the very important decisions under consideration."

Best of all, the Democrats will be hiring their hall for almost nothing; most of the rental costs will be met by the promoters of a commercial exhibit called "American Showcase." Delegates can get free shaves at the Ronson booth, pick up free samples of Coca-Cola, Pepsi-Cola and, from the Norex division of Schenley Industries, Amitone, a relief for acid indigestion (common at conventions).

By the fourth night, Frank Sinatra will long since have warbled the Democrats' new campaign song (still a top secret, it goes under the code name of "Baby Shoes"). Seven Democratic Congresswomen will have orated on family and home and the political issues of the day. The state-by-state roll calls will be over. (To keep up the TV pace, delegations that ask to be polled will be temporarily bypassed on the roll call while the chairman's aide conducts an off-camera canvass.) The convention will have roared with cries of "The man who ..." Then, finally, will come Harry Truman's big moment.

Picked for the Job. Harry Truman's appearance has been carefully timed. His role will be vital because, in the era of moderation, a lot of steam has gone out of the Democratic Party. To the party of the common man, an Illinois squire and a New York millionaire have presented themselves as candidates, and the squire has won the lead. In the party that thrives on its never-say-die struggles for power, Estes Kefauver withdrew in the name of "unity." While they approve of moderation, most good Democrats hunger for that old spirit--for the man who, in the convention's last moments, can soar through and above the electronic gadgets, the political gimmicks and the leaden harmony. They need a man who can revive the party's fighting spirit and send the delegates away from the convention believing that their party will win against all of Dr. Gallup's odds.* They have picked Harry Truman to do the job.

A Place in the Party. Today Harry Truman stands higher in Democratic affections than he did when he left office on Jan. 20, 1953. Fondly remembered is the way he met international crises with sharp decision: the atomic bomb, the Berlin blockade, the Marshall Plan, Greek-Turkish aid, Korea. Fading into the mist of memory is the fact that his Administration not only failed to prevent domestic crisis but produced it wholesale: mink coats, Deep Freezes, red herrings, limited war, peacetime recession, agricultural waste, steel seizure. Since he left the White House, Democrats have come to look on Truman as a character, sometimes amusing, always indomitable, certainly admirable, almost always lovable.

Democrats roar when Truman whales away at Dwight Eisenhower: "Any Democrat can beat him." They delight in his jibes at Republicans: "The country needs a Democratic Administration as bad as it ever did in history. [Pause.] No, it couldn't be worse than in 1929." They grin when he describes his talents: "I never was overly blessed with brains, but had a lot of energy and liked to work." They approve when he lectures parents: "I believe in the woodshed treatment ... I got plenty of it when I was a boy. I don't know whether it did any good, but I've never been in jail."Most of all in the Year IV of Dwight Eisenhower, Democrats find cause for hope in the Harry Truman who stood before them at 2 o'clock on the stifling Philadelphia morning of July 15, 1948, and told them how to win an election they were ready to concede to Tom Dewey. Senator Barkley and I will win this election and make those Republicans like it," cried Truman. "Don't you forget that! We will do that because they are wrong and we are right." That is the Truman the Democratic Party hopes to see next week. It is the Truman who represents the unquenchable Democratic spirit of the past -- which the party must rediscover if it is to leave its clearest mark on the present.

Between the Eyes. Missouri's Truman was born and bred in the Democratic whirl. One of his treasured memories is the scene of his father raising the American flag over the house in Independence to celebrate the election of Grover Cleveland in 1892; Fighting Democrat John Truman vowed to keep Old Glory flying for as long as a Democrat was in the White House (as it happened, four years).

As a page boy at the Kansas City convention of 1900, 16-year-old Harry joined full-throat in the bedlam when William Jennings Bryan ("He was one of my heroes") stampeded his second convention with his silver-tongued, silver-oriented (16 oz. of silver to 1 oz. of gold) oratory. In 1924, then a member of the Jackson County Court under the auspices of hard-knuckled Democrat Boss Tom Pendergast, Politician Truman sat with ears growing numb under his crystal-set earphones. He listened to almost every word of the 14-day, 103 -ballot convention in Madison Square Garden (Alabama--"24 votes for Oscahhh W. Undahhhwood") that finally nominated John W. Davis to run against Cal Coolidge (and Charles G. Dawes). At that convention the governor of Colorado was trampled in a melee, and the convention chairman banged so hard for order that his gavel flew apart, its head striking Delegate Herman Schoernstein squarely between the eyes.

Up to the Eyeglasses. That boisterous Democratic spirit has not flagged in Private Citizen Truman. At 72, his grey hair is thinning, his belt is let out a little (Vietta Garr, the Trumans' longtime cook, has orders to hold down on her specialty, chocolate pie). Nowadays, without the White House valet to start him out, he sometimes wears his tropical suits a day too long. The white dress shirts of his presidential days have given way to soft sport shirts, the crisp handkerchief is no longer inevitable in his breast pocket.

But he keeps on the go--and he sets a cruel pace. He has traveled to Washington, Manhattan, Hawaii, Chicago, Atlantic City, San Francisco, Los Angeles, Seattle and Des Moines, and, for seven lively weeks, to Europe. At every stopping place he has increased his reputation as a character, whether by calling Richard Nixon an s.o.b. or by calling a general a squirrel-head (TIME, June 4). He acted as Father of the Bride with gracious dignity, and the entire nation shared his pride and his sadness. He wrote his memoirs and delighted in being called a liar by Douglas MacArthur and Jimmy Byrnes and Henry Wallace and Bernard Baruch and Pat Hurley and Francis Biddle. He also stayed up to his eyeglasses in politics.

By 8 o'clock each morning Harry Truman is tooling his green-and-cream Royal Lancer Dodge through the heavy interurban traffic on Truman Road from Independence to his five-room office in Kansas City's Federal Reserve Bank Building. He keeps three secretaries working full time, spends about $5,000 a month keeping up with the duties of an ex-President. All his expenses come out of his own pocket, but Truman was one of the few U.S. Presidents to save money in office, has since picked up some handsome fees, e.g., from LIFE and Doubleday for his bestselling memoirs, from King Features for his European series. His main office chores: answering the weekly mail, which ranges from 2,000 to 7,000 letters, autographing his Memoirs, and--increasingly with the convention drawing closer--greeting Democratic visitors who troop in to see him--some old friends, some on the make, some on the wane.

Mossy Was Burned. One day late last month, Averell Harriman landed in Kansas City to get a farm-state tour off to a flying start by being photographed with Truman (who has permitted Harriman's aides to use his name in their approaches to delegates). On Harriman's heels was Truman's Interior Secretary Oscar Chapman, a Stevenson leader, arriving for a weekend in Independence; he felt confident that Truman would not try to block Adlai. Two days later Tennessee's Governor Frank Clement, the convention keynoter who--at 36--has hopes for the vice-presidential nomination, checked into Kansas City. Truman walked over to Clement's Muehlebach Hotel suite, explaining: "I wanted to take an hour or so so we can talk in a peaceful way. My office is full of customers, as you know, all the time."

The next Kansas City caller was Kentucky's Governor "Happy" Chandler, who is absurdly serious about his chances for the presidential nomination. Harry Truman stayed in his office for Chandler, granted him a brief (12 minutes) interview. When newsmen arrived, Truman wagged his finger at the photographers, remarked to Chandler: "I have to fuss at these birds because they punch holes in my rug with those tripods. The Shah of Iran gave me this Persian rug. Old Mossadegh found out that the Shah had given me the rug, and he was burned up."

Had Truman and Chandler talked politics? "Whattayou suppose?" snorted Truman. "Did you ever see two politicians get together without talking politics?" By way of parting small talk, Happy mentioned Truman's relatives in Shelby County, Kentucky. Replied Truman: "My daughter stopped by once to make sure my grandparents were really married." He grinned and added: "And they were."

Grass Roots. At home in Independence, Harry Truman rests up from his political exercises. The iron fence around the big white house with the gingerbread eaveswork was originally put up by Secret Service men as a security measure; it has been kept to hold out the tourists who flock around the house all day, every day. Mostly, the Trumans stay out of sight, but sometimes of an evening Harry can be seen in the backyard in an aluminum lawn chair. Bess Truman (who has a political mind of her own and is an enthusiastic admirer of Stuart Symington--toward whom Harry is cool) likes to putter around in her small garden. The day she came home from Europe she was out watering the lawn.

Encouraging her husband to work on the lawn (and, incidentally, trim off his extra poundage), Bess bought a new power mower. Every time she asked him to use it, Harry would grunt his agreement, do nothing. Bess kept nagging. One Sunday morning she was putting the breakfast dishes away, when she heard the whir of the mower. Harry Truman was mowing the grass--and waving happily at church-going friends.

Good Episcopalian Bess Truman was horrified, called out to Harry to stop--but he seemed not to hear. Recalls Bess: "I had to walk before the Baptists and the Methodists and tell him to stop cutting the grass on Sunday morning. He grinned at me, shut off the mower, put it in the garage--and he has not cut a blade of grass since that Sunday morning."

Even without the benefits of lawn-mowing exercise, Harry Truman seems in good health, although one of his favorite dishes, chili con carne, has been banned by Dr. Wallace Graham, former White House physician, now a Kansas City surgeon. Bess "almost froze to death" in unheated springtime Europe, now has a touch of arthritis.

Bathroom Phone. Last week Harry Truman walked from his office to the barbershop of Frank Spina, who served as guidon for Captain Harry of Battery D, 129th Field Artillery, in World War I. Truman was especially careful about his haircut; he had an appointment in Chicago next week, and he wanted to look his best.

In Chicago Democrats were already coming to life in anticipation of Truman's arrival: a heated dispute was under way over whether he should be met at the station by a white or a black limousine (available for convention use are 150 Fords, 60 Mercurys and, for the VIPiest VIPs, 15 Lincolns). The consensus, as expressed by a member of the host committee : "Mr. Truman is not Marilyn Monroe. I think he should be met in black."

At the Sheraton-Blackstone Hotel, Truman will find No. 508, the presidential suite (former occupants: Wilson, Harding, Coolidge, Hoover, Roosevelt and Eisenhower), considerably changed. The old French decor is gone. Now, raves a hotel publicist, there "are vibrant colors. Wood Brown. Bittersweet. Tiger Lily Flame. Cocoa. Now it's really a man's room." In the men's room of the man's room, close to the bathtub, hangs a private beige telephone. In case of political necessity, Truman can make direct calls to Adlai Stevenson in the privacy of the bathroom of suite 308, or to Averell Harriman in the bathroom of suite 408.

Will Truman ever pick up his phone to try to swing the convention to Old Friend Harriman? The question may have been answered four years ago, when Truman was President and had the power to make or break. In 1952 Candidate Harriman sat disconsolately in his Blackstone suite, eyes glued to his telephone for three days. He was awaiting The Call from Harry--but it never came. "We knew there would be no call," says a former Harriman aide. "We all knew it--except Harriman. We didn't say so, of course, and he just kept looking at the phone."

The Catalyst. Harry Truman is fond of Averell Harriman, who took on many a tough chore under the New and Fair Deals. All other things being equal, he would like to see Harriman nominated. But for Harriman, all other things are far from equal (see box), and Truman is too old a pro to get out on that shaky limb. More important, Truman takes a realistic Missouri view of his role in this year's convention: he sees himself not as the Democratic Party's kingmaker but, as he says, its "catalyst."

This summer, in a jocular discussion of the hereafter, Harry Truman in a sense placed his life in its true Democratic context. He was standing on the screened porch of a friend's home in Kansas City, sipping on a Scotch and branch water. He would, he said, like to be buried in a mulberry coffin. "Did you ever see mulberry wood burning in a fireplace?" he asked. "Well, it cracks and pops--and I want to go through hell crackin' and poppin'."

Chances are good that this is precisely the way he will go through next week's convention: crackin' and poppin'--and giving 'em hell on earth.

* Last week's report: 61% for Eisenhower, 37% for Stevenson. In 1952 Eisenhower won with 54-9% of the popular vote.

This file is automatically generated by a robot program, so reader's discretion is required.