The Promised World of Tomorrow: A Novel of 1939

Preface

The year 1939 began as the world was entering a full decade of Depression. There were rumors and threats of war engulfing the whole European continent. There was war in Asia as Imperial Japan sought territory by any means.

In the United States the populace was ready for some optimism, and they got it with the opening of the 1939 World's Fair in New York City. The Fair was sponsored by nations, industries and companies and states that promised a brighter, better tomorrow and made it real by showcasing their culture, products and entertainment for the millions ready for a look at the promised bright future.

That future came at a price, as first the evil loose in the world had to be vanquished. Some Americans, such as the hero of this novel, saw the evil early, and he saw how unprepared the United States was to face it with a government that made hard choices—and was not always right.

Chapter 1

World of tomorrow

His attention was on the President's hands. They gripped the wood handles inside the modern podium as he spoke. The President's head wagged left and right for emphasis, as was his style. He could not use his arms and hands for gestures.

Myles Finucane watched President Roosevelt from his post behind the third row of dignitaries, through an opening among the top hats and cutaways this April 30, 1939, at the dedication of the New York World's Fair. Finucane perspired in his wool suit. It was New York unusual spring hot, and the large Hollywood-style lights glaring at the assembly added to the temperature. Finucane felt a trickle of sweat run down his back as FDR complimented all for such a swell Fair. He faced the lights and a large television camera from the RCA outfit. The camera was sending a signal by wires to the nearby van, and then to the Empire State Building in mid-town Manhattan, and then to the approximately eighteen-thousand viewers lucky to be near one of the new electronic television sets. The picture of Mr. Roosevelt, no doubt, was grainy black and white, while in reality the bright setting was black and white only in the men's clothing, while the area bloomed with a multi-colored array of spring flowers.

Finucane did not mind being in the third row. He would not have to speak, or talk to the reporters. They would have no interest in him. Rather, they surrounded Grover Whelan, the Fair's Face, the tall, grinning, dapper former New York Police Commissioner who had pulled together commercial outfits, states, and foreign nations to build a Fair on an old city ash dump in the middle of the Queens Borough wetlands. It took a year plus, but Finucane was impressed when he stepped from the government car in the President's caravan, to see the gleaming white and multi-colored buildings in the most modern styles. And the flags, flapping in the hot breeze.

Finucane was stunned by the display, all clean, new and colorful. The way things ought to look, he thought, as the nation entered the tenth year of the crippling Depression. If it had a color, the Depression would be dust gray, and funeral black.

One building at the Fair, Finucane had been told, was completely air-conditioned. Finucane wished he was in it. But he could not slip away. The positive aspect was that he knew FDR would not speak long. He prayed the others would be as brief, especially The Little Flower, as the press called Mayor Fiorello LaGuardia. He had a tendency, Finucane had read in the papers, to veer from a prepared speech and rocket along other oratorical byways. And the sun was getting hotter.

Finucane studied the large boxy camera that was positioned about a dozen feet from Mr. Roosevelt. It was placed to capture FDR's figure above the podium, which was large enough to cover the fact that the President was standing on his locked legs while gripping the handles of the podium to steady himself. James Roosevelt, Jimmy to his colleagues and friends, was off to the side, ready to provide a son's stable arm for his father. The FDR wheelchair was not in sight. The Secret Service had sequestered it until it would be needed, after the event, after all the flashbulbs went off, and the dignitaries were free to move away from the stage. The camera would be turned off, and FDR would be helped back stage, where with Jimmy and the Secret Service's help, the nation's leader would be placed back in his wheel chair, perhaps to be directed to his government limousine and taken back to the Waldorf in Manhattan. The New York police motorcycle escort was ready to provide loud, siren screaming front runners for the trip.

FDR finished, to Finucane's relief, and Commissioner Whelan stopped to the microphones to thank him for the dedication. Finucane quietly prayed that Mayor LaGuardia, would not take another chance to speak. Instead, FDR indicated that the corralled press photographers could come forward to take the numerous hand-shake photos that would appear in local and national papers that day and the day following.

Finucane was not among the handshakers. He stepped off the platform as the lights dimmed and moved to the back of the temporary stage where he stood silent, waiting. Soon, FDR helped by son James came backstage. FDR used a combination of canes and son to leverage himself in an awkward walk. Soon he was placed in his wheelchair, and reached into this suit coat for his cigarette holder. Jimmy placed a Camel in it and lit it for his father.

Well, that went pretty well, FDR said. Jimmy agreed, to murmurs from the Secret Service men that surrounded the party. FDR turned his attention to Finucane.

Fin, I would like to see you tonight, at the hotel. Say about eight. I will explain why I asked you to come up here today. Roosevelt paused. Right now, gents, I would like to see some of this Fair.

Finucane had learned from Jimmy Roosevelt that his father would be taken into some of the exhibits before the public would be allowed to see the worlds of the future each promised. The Fair was the largest of its kind, ever. And companies, industries did not spare the cost of the best architects and designers to provide showcases for their products, present time and future tense. Nations across the globe vied with each other to build and present the best side of their culture, even in a world that Finucane felt, seemed sliding into yet another world war.

As FDR was rolled off to view the gigantic Ford exhibit building that included a speedway with brand new Ford cars for Fair goers to ride in, Finucane decided he too would take the day to inspect the exhibits.

Finucane wished that he could take off his suit coat, shed his tie, and open his collar. But he knew it would not do for an assistant secretary of the U.S. Treasury to be seen wandering the Fair, looking like a plumber on holiday.

Chapter 2

Tight shoes

Finucane walked across to the General Motors building, said to be the biggest at the Fair. The entrance looked like a slit in a large white envelope. Hours later Finucane had only worked his way down one side of the Fair, inspecting various nation's exhibits and corporations boosting their wares. He stopped at one restaurant to buy a cup of coffee and something that was called a Belgian waffle. It was all he had eaten this day; the coffee on the train earlier from Washington was weak and the dry crullers unappealing.

The Fair designers had made provision for tired feet, and Finucane found that by 3 PM he was tired. He found a clean white bench facing a lagoon near the USSR building, perhaps the largest of the national displays. A large poster had somehow been painted on the side of the building--Comrade Joe Stalin.

While staring at the outsize portrait with its big hair and mustache, Finucane thought of Rose Levitan, whom he called 'Red Rose', the leftist girl he had dated last year. Rose was a bright-eyed, dark-haired, Zoftig little thing, using the street-corner Yiddish he picked up in the Bronx of his youth. Rose worked for the Works Project Administration, where she was comfortable among her fellow travelers who thought the New Deal had not gone far enough left to suit them. Finucane also called Rose his little communist. She never disagreed, but told him she knew a lot of communists where she came from in Chicago.

Miss Levitan invited Finucane to socials at various Washington apartments where the ardent socialists gathered to argue about the Spanish Civil War and ways to beat the fascists. Some of the men at these meetings the year before had gone so far as to quit their jobs and join the Abraham Lincoln Brigade to go to Spain and fight with the Republicans against Franco's Loyalists. Finucane noted that the few that came back unharmed, did not speak much about that war. The stay-at-homes, however, had nothing but constant vitriol for fascists. Finucane enjoyed dating Rose if only for her knowledge of good, cheap restaurants in the District and suburbs, and for her passion after two glasses of wine. She called Finucane a capitalist because he owned a new Buick, a car, however, she didn't mind riding in on their dates. Rose was 25 and Finucane enjoyed her company, but never thought to take it further.

As he stared at Stalin, Finucane remembered that the Germans had been invited to put up a Fair building to celebrate the Nazi way-of-life., Finucane recalled reading in The Washington Post, that the Nazis had declined to put up a building for reasons never clear.

Finucane could feel his aching feet and wished he could take off his dress shoes and air them. He looked around carefully, saw no one close by except a few workmen busy by the lagoon, so he reached down and untied his shoes. The relief was instant. Finucane removed his hat and used his handkerchief to wipe the perspiration from its interior band. He placed his hat on the bench beside him.

Finucane leaned back and let the hot sun warm his hair, which at 38 was thinning a bit, and the reddish blonde turning gray by his ears. He ran his right hand through his hair and decided he needed a haircut. Too many late nights in the office, he decided, had kept him from necessary personal grooming.

And there was no one in his life to tell him otherwise since...Since Francine went home to Erie and her ailing parents late in 1936. The decision was easy, as Finucane and Francine were far from getting married. Rather, Finucane was far from getting married. He had been married, and his wife divorced him during the 1928 scandal with the actress in Manhattan.

They spoke by phone each week for the first month, then that tapered off. Finucane realized that Francine was not returning to Washington any time soon, as her parents lingered on with a variety of old age problems. She had given up her job at the Department of Justice, and it would be as difficult in this 1939 to get a job there as it had been in 1933.

Finucane leaned back on the bench and closed his eyes; just dozing he told himself. Mister Finucane, the sharp man's voice snapped him back to reality. A young man in a dark blue suit was standing in front of him.

Finucane nodded. and started to rise from the bench. Don't get up, the younger man said, dropping next to Finucane. He opened his wallet to show the FBI badge.

Agent Cleary, New York Office, the younger man said. Director Hoover asked us to find you here and pass on a message.

What is it? Finucane asked.

Agent Cleary cleared his throat, looked around, then said, Director Hoover knows you are meeting with the chief today. He wants you to press his case on the special project. Mr. Hoover said you would know what that means.

Finucane nodded, I do He paused. What do you think of the Fair? The agent smiled and said, I can't wait to bring my kids down here from the Bronx. You know, we can drive over the new Whitestone Bridge that Robert Moses built.

Finucane laughed. There's enough here for them to see. You will be crossing that bridge many times this year and maybe not see all of it. The young agent did not smile, but rose.

Tell the Director his message was delivered and I will be in contact when I get back to Washington. The agent nodded and walked away hurriedly.

Finucane hoped the agent had not noticed his unlaced shoes, though he was sure the kid did. Even if that went into his report to Hoover, it might give Edgar one of his infrequent chuckles.

Finucane tied his shoes and stood, deciding which direction to head, and whether or not he would