Jack 1939 Read Online Free PDF

excellent man, but those cookie-pushers of his think it’s their job to swap stories at every cocktail party in Europe. Too many of my private conversations are finding their way into Hitler’s office.”
    A
traitor
? In the State department?
    Jack opened his mouth to ask another question, but Roosevelt’s face had suddenly set in stone. There was a warning there; a limit, apparently, to what he would tell Jack.
    Was
Dad
one of the people the President couldn’t trust?
    The thought wormed its way through Jack’s tired brain but he dismissed it irritably. Roosevelt would hardly be talking to him if he had no confidence in his father.
    “I’ve been turning it over in my mind, Jack—this trip of yours,” the President was saying. “To the Nazis, you’re just the American ambassador’s son. But to me, you’re a perfect spy.
My independent thinker.
Arriving in London with a fresh outlook and an unclouded mind. As far as the Nazis are concerned, you’re clean as the driven snow. They know your dad and I don’t always agree. They’ll never expect you to be my man in Europe.”
    His man in Europe.
    Despite his doubts and the lateness of the hour, or perhaps because of those things, Jack’s breath caught in his throat.
Clean as the driven snow.
Like a boy on his First Communion day. Like the Innocent Lamb his mother had always wanted him to be.
    “You’ll have access to everybody,” Roosevelt persisted. “Your father will see to that. You’ll have a diplomatic passport and a hired car. Your own brand of guts. Your charm and your smile and your trick of making everybody underestimate you. You’ll find the German network we’re looking for, Jack—I know you will.”
    He didn’t add that Jack had a body nobody could count on. Or that he would probably be sick more often than he was healthy.
    And because infirmity and physical weakness meant nothing to Franklin Roosevelt, Jack Kennedy would have died for the man then and there if he’d asked.
    * * *
    HE CONCLUDED HIS BUSINESS with the Scribner’s clerk.
    “There’s a book coming out in a few months.
Poland—Key to Europe
, by Raymond Leslie Buell.”
    “Yes, sir. Publication is scheduled for April.”
    “Soon as you’ve got a copy,” he said, “I’d like one sent to a Mr. Sam Schwartz. I’ll write out the address. Do you have a card I could enclose?”
     
    I thought you might enjoy reading this, Mr. President,
he wrote in his cramped, barely legible hand.
Perhaps we could discuss it after I’ve been to Danzig.
    Sincerely yours,
    Jack Kennedy
    P.S.: Please thank Mr. Casey for the use of his comb.
    * * *
    HE BOUGHT A COPY OF
Prelude for War
as a going-away present for his dad. Joe liked a good thriller; it would help kill the boredom of another Atlantic crossing. Even if he refused to admit war was coming.
    They met for dinner that night at the Stork Club. Dad was boarding the
Queen Mary
in the morning and he wasn’t happy about it. London was perpetually dark and chill in February and Rose was traveling through the Middle East. He’d wanted two more weeks of Palm Beach sun and Jack’s company for the crossing. But Roosevelt had changed all that.
    “Franklin’s little joke,” J.P. said with his tight smile. “I could buy and sell the bastard a hundred times over, so he reminds me every once in a while who runs the country.
This
year, at least.”
    Jack eyed his father, the way his chest swelled slightly as he boasted; he was such an innocuous-looking man, neat and trim from his wire-rimmed spectacles to his handmade shoes. Only something about his mouth, the way it twisted when he thought he’d been insulted—or maybe the coldness of those eyes he tried to mask with his round schoolboy glasses—suggested Joe Kennedy’s ruthlessness. As long as he could remember, Jack had ached for his father’s approval. And watched him toss it casually to his older brother instead.
    There were some who called Joe Kennedy a crook to Jack’s face, and