"The Rest of the Story"

December 8, 1941

Dear Ma and Pa,

I know I just sent you a letter the other day, but so much happened yesterday I had to write again. By the time you get this letter, you will have heard what happened on December 7, 1941.

You heard President Franklin D. Roosevelt's speech. What you do not know is, your son played an important role in that speech and I will not be coming back to New Market, Iowa. I have been offered a job with the President's staff here in Washington, DC.

Ma, no need to worry about me. I have a room in a dormitory for the staff. I'll be working for a trial period of two months and then I may be offered a full-time position. Would you please send my things to the address at the end of the letter?

Pa, you won't believe all the important people of Congress and the White House I've seen in the last twenty-four hours: President Roosevelt, Mr. Stephen Early, other members of his staff, and some of the President's cabinet members.

This is what happened and how I came to have this job. Yesterday, our group went to the Capitol Building for a tour. I took notes on everything I saw. I had planned to write articles for our paper on famous buildings in Washington if Mr. Marshall would let me. That will have to be later.

We left the Capitol Building and arrived at the White House. After halfway into the tour, I noticed people running past us and whispering. Our tour leader announced, "The Japanese have just bombed Pearl Harbor." We were shocked, of course, but the tour guide said we would finish the tour as we were near the end.

I could see people as they went back and forth in the halls like our bees do, in and out of flowers. I lagged behind a little and saw a sign that read PRESS with an arrow pointing down a hallway. I know you've always taught me to follow the rules, Ma, but sometimes a bit of rebellion can lead to great things. Maybe I was inspired by the ghosts of Washington and Jefferson and a few of those who wrote the Declaration of Independence.

I slipped away and followed a man rushing down the marble hall to a door. When I found the door, the word PRESS ROOM had been lettered on the glass. Inside, men and women typed from Dictaphones, like a tape recorder, or from shorthand notes. It was chaos, with runners going back and forth between typists and those who picked up their finished work. My heart beat faster as I watched all the excitement. I wanted to be a part of what was going on.

I heard voices behind me, and someone pressed next to me. At the same time, a man opened the door from the inside and pushed his way out into the hall.

I stepped inside the noisy room and held the door open for the men behind me to go through. One of the men grabbed my arm and growled, "Can you type, boy?"

"Yes, Sir." My voice was firm, but I was shaking.

He pulled me to a typewriter and pushed me into the chair. "You type this up. When you're through, hand it to this man, "he pointed to a man in a black suit standing beside him. And no one else. You don't speak a word to anyone or let anyone read what you are typing. Got that, Son?" He leaned his fist on the desk, his face at my level.

I nodded, grabbed paper from the box next to the machine, rolled it into the typewriter and began to type the words from the paper as he left.

Ma, thanks for making me stick to typing class when I wanted to quit. Being the second fastest typist in the class was an honor, but here I was, in Washington, DC., typing something for someone important, and they wanted it fast.

As I typed, I read the words with changes that had been made on the original sheet. I made some additional changes that sounded better. I didn't think it would matter, no one knew who I was. I thought when I finished, I'd slip out the door and be on my way. I rolled out the last page and took them all to the man, who had kept his eye on me. He took the original sheets and looked over the ones I'd typed, then nodded, "Good job, son. How long have you worked here?"

My heart pounded, and I swallowed hard over the lump in my throat. What would he say if I told him the truth? I coughed and answered, "Long enough to know when to keep my mouth shut."

The man laughed out loud and squeezed my shoulder. "You go back and stay there until I come and get you." He walked out, and I went back to my chair. Another young man, not much older than myself, pushed a cart, setting folders or papers next to the typists. He came to my desk, and I waited to be ordered to leave.

"You new here?"

I nodded.

"Here, type these up and put them in a new folder along with the originals, then put them in that box." He pointed to a wooden box at the front of the room with a slot in the side to accept the folders. I nodded and began typing.

I finished the last page when the man I gave the papers to came to my desk. "Come with me." He turned to walk away without waiting for me.

"Wait, Sir, let me put these all together and send them on their way," I called out. He stopped, looked at me for a moment, and nodded. I assembled the stacks and put them in their designated box.

We moved down long hallways at a brisk pace. I sometimes had to skip a bit to keep up. Men passed us, and others saluted the man and gave me an odd look. I wondered who he was, but he didn't speak to me. We went through a number of doors and through offices with men and women working. He knocked on a door, and we went in. Groups of men talked loudly, almost trying to out-talk each other.

"Wait here," he ordered and walked to one group. One of the men stepped away, and the man pointed at me. All the others stopped talking and turned to look in my direction. I felt nervous. I wanted to turn and run out the door as fast as I could, but I didn't know where to run, so I just stood there.

"Come here, son." A voice came from the middle of the group. It was President Roosevelt. When my leaden feet moved toward him, he shook my hand. "Thank you for your service. Where are you from?" He stood stiffly, his hands resting on an ornate cane.

"Iowa, Sir."

"You live in Washington, DC, now?"

"No, Sir, just visiting."

He frowned at me, "But you're working here."

"No, Sir, I was on a tour and stopped to look into the Press Room. A gentleman asked me to type something. I did what I was told, Sir"

He took a moment to digest what I said, then laughed aloud. Everyone else laughed at the same time as the President and stopped when he did.

"Early, here's the kind of man we want working on our side." He spoke to the man who had ordered me to type the pages. We're really impressed with your work. You did a good job, and I like your changes. If you're willing, we've got a spot open on our staff. I like a man who 'knows when to keep his mouth shut', especially when he isn't an employee." He grinned at me.

I still had that big stone in my throat, so I just nodded.

That's how your son got a job, working for the President of the United States. When you heard the words that started his speech,

"Yesterday, December 7, 1941, a date that will live in infamy," spoken by President Roosevelt, the last words are mine. He had written 'world history' and I changed them.

Here I sit at my new desk, at a new typewriter, waiting to put history-making facts on paper. These are exciting times, and I'm thrilled to be a part of them. I work directly for Mr. Stephen Early and Melissa LaHand, the President's secretary. The President calls her Missy. She does everything for him. Early wishes he had as much influence with the President. Already, I've been sworn to keep a secret about the President from the world, and I cannot tell you either. National Security, I'm told.

Ma, I'm sure you want to know if I've seen Mrs. Eleanor. No, I will tell you everything about her when I do.

I will send you letters with all the news I'm allowed to write.

Your Son Always,

Barton Robinson.