The Rise of Senator Legend

(See Cover)

By midnight of primary day in New Hampshire, a cramped, L-shaped bedroom on the second floor of Manchester's Eagle Hotel was jammed and seething. Coats & hats were piled on the twin beds, and people were perching cheerfully on top of the coats & hats. Others helped themselves to the open bottles of Scotch, bourbon and rye on the dresser, or dug into the communal paper buckets of chop suey, chicken and egg rolls on the table. Looming above the pandemonium, with the air of a prophet who has just been slugged by a vigorous vision, was Candidate Estes Kefauver. He moved slowly through the throng, sipping a Scotch highball, dropping an affectionate long arm around shoulder after shoulder, and murmuring fervently: "I certainly did appreciate your help."

By 2 a.m. the news was good and getting fabulously better: not only was Estes Kefauver* beating Harry Truman in the preferential "beauty contest," but he was winning all twelve of the delegates to the Democratic convention. Kefauver had been rated an outside chance to win a single delegate. Whispered one guest to another: "I was afraid the voters wouldn't know our delegates." "Hell," snorted his friend, "I didn't know a one of them myself." An old Kefauver admirer, who had come up from Tennessee for the fun, shook his head admiringly and drawled into the din: "Handshaking seems to work as well in New Hampshire as it does in Tennessee."

Seven Days. Handshaking--with a lot of help from Truman's unpopularity and Kefauver's vague stand on issues--had worked a political miracle in New Hampshire. Hardly anybody in the state could remember one word of Estes Kefauver's formal speeches. He had drawn such small crowds (except for a rousing reception at a Dartmouth basketball game) that, five days before the election, he was in deep despondency. In Keene (pop. 15,638), only 30 people came out to hear him, and he was introduced by the mayor, who was running as a Truman delegate. In Claremont (pop. 12,800), Kefauver took one look at the 60 people scattered in the big auditorium, then invited them all to come down front for a chat. In an evening address in industrial Nashua, the crowd that heard Kefauver was much smaller than the one that Republican Bob Taft had drawn at the unhandy hour of 9:30 that same morning.

But for seven solid days Estes Kefauver and his attractive, redheaded wife Nancy had trudged the sidewalks of the small towns, from the Canadian border (where Nancy spoke rusty French) to Massachusetts. They would stop their borrowed car on the outskirts of each town and walk up Main Street, introducing themselves to the store owners, shoppers, cops and kids. In the cities, they headed for newspaper offices and courthouses to shake more hands. In Manchester (pop. 82,732), Kefauver walked through a slaughterhouse, a shoe factory, a brush plant, an insurance office and several mills. Beside each workman he stopped to shake hands and say: "My name is Senator Kefauver, and I'd appreciate your help next Tuesday." Or simply, "I'm certainly glad to meet you."

He tried a variant of this in a roadside diner. Approaching a counterman, he said: "My name is Estes Kefauver, and I'm running for President."

"President of what?" asked the counterman.

"President of the United States," said Kefauver.

"Hey, Ma!" yelled the counterman. "Here's a guy says he's running for President--and he ain't kidding."

The Great Rebellion. Estes Kefauver's sensational success in New Hampshire was the first proof of a theory that has tantalized political experts for the last six months. The theory: after a long siege of public investigations, scandals and exposes of corruption, the U.S. voter is in rebellion against the professional politician. If the voter can avoid it, he doesn't want to argue about the complexities of government or foreign policy. Kefauver was something simple, evident, and evidently nonprofessional, and that was what New Hampshire's Democrats wanted. The campaign registered an image in their minds: 1) Estes Kefauver, the firm, fearless crimebuster of last year's televised hearings; 2) Kefauver of the coonskin cap, who had come out of the Tennessee hills after defeating a political boss in his home state in his campaign for the Senate; and 3) Kefauver, the declared opponent of that greatest politician of them all, Harry Truman.

New Hampshire's Democrats didn't want to know much more. And if, between handshakes, Kefauver uttered blank nothings on foreign policy or left gaping holes in his political platform, the New Hampshire voter seemed quite willing to fill in the blanks himself. Through no particular design, Estes Kefauver was, in fact, a kind of Senator Legend--half man, half fiction, a candidate conjured up by the disillusioned New Hampshire Democrat to answer his own yearnings.

The Non-Professional. For such a role, Estes Kefauver is superbly equipped. At 48, he is a tall (6 ft. 3 in.) oak of a man with a durable constitution and strong, homely features--a long nose, horn-rimmed spectacles over blue eyes, thin lips that break easily into a wide grin, and grey-streaked brown hair. When he bends low to talk, his serious, attentive manner and his gentle, soft half-drawl are a guarantee of his sincerity and personal dedication. "You just know he's honest," sighed a New Hampshire housewife after Kefauver had passed her way.

In Congress he has few friends or even admirers. He is rated one of the dullest, most fumbling speakers in the Senate. At Washington cocktail parties, his "I am Estes Kefauver" routine is by now old hat. Washington's lion-hunters regard his "Let's talk about you" approach as a confession of mental bankruptcy. But on the hustings all these liabilities are to his credit. He may slop around with untied shoelaces, but he has a Jim Farley-like memory for names, and follows up every contact with a personal letter from Washington. His scuffed oratory is proof, at least, of unprofessionalism. His willingness to listen is a rare boon.

He flashes no sharp edge of wit, nor has he even much sense of humor to lighten his heavy sense of destiny. Yet he has the homely touch that spawns humorous, kindly anecdotes. On one campaign trip Kefauver discovered that his wife had packed only his light tan shoes, when he was due at a formal dinner in black shoes. He went to the hotel elevator, took a look at the elevator boy's black shoes, and promptly traded his tans for the blacks. It made a good story, but Kefauver didn't think it was funny. When he got home he coldly announced that he would do his own packing thereafter. Next time he packed two black shoes, both for the right foot, and grimly wore them at a party all evening without cracking a smile. ("He looked," says his wife, "like he was coming around the corner all the time.")

In Lebanon, N.H., Kefauver stopped at the movie theater to shake hands with the ticket seller. When he stuck his hand through the loophole in the box office, the hand stuck fast. A small crowd laughed and giggled while he wrenched and twisted, trying to get loose. Kefauver himself didn't crack a smile until, a few minutes later, he finally freed himself.

A Simple Soul. Since the start of the campaign he has studiously avoided putting together anything that sounds like a platform. Nowhere does he make it clear that, in his twelve-plus years in the House and the Senate, he has been one of the most regular of party men; he voted pro-New Deal and pro-Fair Deal nine times out of ten. Kefauver is against organized sin. He is in favor of good government, peace, kindness, vision and purity. The U.S. budget of $85.4 billion "would stagger the imagination of a mathematical genius--let alone the mind of a simple soul like mine," he says. But he offers few concrete ideas for cuts. In practice, he supports the Administration's present foreign policy, but in theory, preaches the doctrine of Clarence Streit's visionary plan for Atlantic Union. On China he still agrees with Dean Acheson's "Wait until the dust settles" policy. Said Kefauver in New Hampshire: "We must now wait and see what revolutionary spirit becomes paramount in China before giving support."

He drew anti-Truman headlines by hitting at the lack of "healthy public morals," by challenging, inferentially, Truman's Pendergast background, and by announcing that he--Kefauver--did not think primaries were "eyewash." But as soon as the New Hampshire votes were counted Kefauver went on the air to say that New Hampshire was certainly no verdict against Harry Truman. He is against compulsory FEPC, but promises he will carry out any FEPC platform voted in the Democratic platform. When questioning about his views gets too warm for him, he is likely to pick up a book from his desk and say: "Have you ever seen these pictures of early automobiles?"

Reluctance to discuss the issues does not mean that there is anything shady about Kefauver's background. There isn't. It simply means that if the shadows of the television screen have made him a conquering legend, Kefauver is not the one who is going to spoil the picture by turning on too many lights.

"I'm Going to Yale." Legend has it that Carey Estes Kefauver was a poor-but-honest youngster raised in a rough Tennessee mountain cabin. This is just a legend. The Kefauvers were a branch of one of the first families of Madisonville. Tenn., a small (pop. 1,487) town in the foothills of the Great Smokies. Aside from Depression stringencies, father Robert Cooke Kefauver was comfortably fixed. He owned a local hardware store and served five times as mayor of Madisonville. To pick up extra money and toughen himself for football at the University of Tennessee, young "Keef" worked through one summer in a Harlan County (Ky.) coal mine. There he lived in a sweaty attic with four other miners and developed a real sympathy for coal miners and unions.

At Tennessee he went Kappa Sigma, high-jumped, set a local discus record and played tackle on the varsity football squad. He was a good campus politician and was elected president of the student body. After getting his A.B. (in 1924), he taught math and coached football for a year in a high school at Hot Springs, Ark. One day he told a friend: "If I go on to be a football coach, I'll be through at 40. I'm going to Yale and be a lawyer."

The Country Boy. He graduated, from Yale Law School in 1927, and was a good lawyer right from the beginning. He turned out to have a special way with juries that brought him a bid from the topflight Chattanooga law firm of Sizer and Chambliss. "Keef handled a jury like a country boy," said one of his ex-partners recently. "He would establish himself as a country boy, then recite the facts and lead the jury along. He used language the jurors could understand. He never tried to be eloquent or quoted poetry."

On a blind date one night in 1934 Keef met Nancy Piggott, a lively redhead who was visiting her well-to-do aunt in Chattanooga. Nancy was an American girl born near Glasgow, Scotland. Her U.S.-born father, Stephen Piggott, was a designer of marine engines for a Scottish firm, became a British subject and was subsequently knighted. Keef followed Nancy home to Scotland, and married her there. Back in Chattanooga, Keef's new wife--witty, wise and devoted--was a great social asset to a close-mouthed young lawyer. They were a popular couple. In 1937 the Chattanooga Junior Chamber of Commerce named Keef the young man of the year.

There are some friends who think that Nancy started Kefauver toward a political career. Others say he has wanted to be President ever since he was born. At any rate, he joined a young reform group called the Volunteers, and after an unsuccessful try for state senator in 1938, easily captured a congressional vacancy the following year. In Washington he was assigned to the important judiciary committee, developed a keen interest in federal government, and turned out a book on congressional reorganization, A 20th Century Congress. But in his nine years in the House, young Congressman Kefauver was noted principally for championing TVA, voting the straight New Deal ticket, and --most remarkable of all--working hard and keeping his mouth shut.

Electric Coonskin. Then, overnight, he became the man in the coonskin cap. Early in 1947, Kefauver shrewdly saw that a factional split in Boss E. H. Crump's Tennessee machine might give a non-machine Democrat a chance to be Senator. He broke precedent by declaring a full ten months before the primary. He and Nancy set up campaign organizations in each of the state's 95 counties, probably shook more hands than anyone in Tennessee political history, and nettled Mistah Crump into a roar that made Kefauver famous. "Kefauver," wrote Crump in full-page newspaper advertisements through the state, "reminds me of the pet coon that puts its foot in an open drawer in your room, but invariably turns its head while it is feeling around in the drawer."

Kefauver's retort was mild: "I may be a pet coon but I'll never be Mr. Crump's pet coon." A more imaginative friend clapped a coonskin cap on Kefauver's head at a luncheon rally. The gag grew until Kefauver eventually blossomed out in a coonskin cap haloed with electric lights. In the primary he polled 42,000 votes more than his nearest opponent.

And that was without television.

Upright Judge. Unnumbered millions of people got to know Estes Kefauver as he presided over the hearings of the Senate Crime Investigating Committee a year ago. From Manhattan as far west as the coaxial cable ran, the U.S. adjusted itself to Kefauver's schedule. Dishes stood in sinks, babies went unfed, business sagged and department stores emptied while the hearings were on.

Kefauver could not have made his debut to better advantage. His role was that of an upright judge in a grim, real-life morality play. On one hand, aggressive little Rudolph Halley shrilled and barked at the forces of evil. On the other, Costello (only his hands), Greasy Thumb Guzik, Jim Moran and Anthony Anastasia defended themselves with all the genius and resources of Satan. In the background, New Hampshire's Charles Tobey wailed like a Greek chorus singing its lines from Bartlett's Familiar Quotations. And right in the middle of the scene, calm, judicial, and unruffled, Estes Kefauver meted out justice--or at least soft words--for all.

Abject Apology. While he kept a sharp senatorial eye on his fan mail, deadlines & headlines, he was several cuts above the average for congressional investigators. In the eyes of the public the whole performance accrued to his personal credit. Actually, much of the investigative initiative was Rudy Halley's. Much of the evidence was old stuff contributed by friendly cops and newspapermen. The committee achieved one really important result. It brought the decent, dishwashing, baby-feeding public face to face with the curled lip of organized crime, and taught the people to vote against public officials who have condoned it.

Such public education was what Kefauver said he wanted. But in practice, it distressed and embarrassed him more than anything he has ever done in his political life. An example of his distress is the Tubbo Gilbert case. A reporter from the Chicago Sun-Times got his hands on some secret Kefauver committee testimony about Tubbo, who was the Democratic candidate for sheriff of Cook County. The Sun-Times story touched off a political chain reaction, Tubbo was defeated in the election, and in the general revulsion against Tubbo & Co. Illinois' Scott Lucas, a Democrat and the Senate majority leader, went down the drain. Kefauver apologized for the leak, turned with a vengeance to investigate how it happened, and begged Lucas for forgiveness. Kefauver does not brag about his committee's influence for clean government. Said he: "I don't believe it is fair, and I don't believe the record will sustain the complaint that we were instrumental in swaying the elections anywhere."

Eisenhower, Only Smaller. Just exactly when Estes Kefauver became aware of his own presidential possibilities, nobody knows for sure. Says Washington Congressman Henry ("Scoop") Jackson, one of the capital's few Kefauver disciples: "It was his trip around the country last fall that did it. He felt quite a bit of grass-roots support which he didn't expect --something like Eisenhower, I'd say, on a smaller scale." Nancy Kefauver thinks something clicked when Estes got a rousing presidential draft call in Nashville last December. Soon afterward, Kefauver confided to a friend: "Right today I have a better chance of becoming President than I had of becoming Senator when I decided to run."

Once decided, Kefauver went about declaring himself in his usual, offend-nobody way. He humbly asked the advice of friendly newsmen, and if they suggested that he had too little support he retorted: "I can't wait for the professional politicians." But he conscientiously paid a call on Professional Pol Harry Truman and came away in high spirits, convinced that Truman was not opposed to a Kefauver campaign. In late January Kefauver announced publicly that he was "in to the finish."

From that day to election eve in New Hampshire, the pundits underrated him. He had, they said, neither professional funds nor professional organization. But, like Cornelia of old, Kefauver had more precious jewels. In a pleasant grey brick house in Washington's Spring Valley district, he has a lively, lovely, photogenic household consisting of his wife, three daughters, an adopted son, two cocker spaniels and a tame, deodorized skunk named Shanghai. He has amateur Kefauver-for-President clubs in every state in the Union. And he has behind him the power of the Kefauver legend.

Swamps & Pitfalls. Has Estes Kefauver really got a chance? The answer lies only at the end of a tortuous route, beset by every conceivable swamp, pitfall and booby trap known to politics. Kefauver's immediate strategy is to prove his popular strength. He will head, first, into the important primaries in Wisconsin and Nebraska, April 1. Wisconsin looks hopeful because the Truman forces are split there. Nebraska puts him squarely against Oklahoma's Senator Robert Kerr. as yet an untried, but supposedly potent, Midwest contender. If Kefauver vanquishes Kerr and picks up odds & ends of strength along the way, his next obstacle will be Georgia's Richard Russell (in the two Florida votes May 6 and May 27) and Illinois' Governor Adlai Stevenson (in Oregon May 16). Kefauver's prospects are (in this respect only) somewhat like that of a professional burglar: a good average isn't enough--he has to win every time.

The greatest unknown quantity is Harry Truman. If Truman runs, he will throw the whole weight of the Democratic machine against Kefauver, and can probably mangle him at the Chicago convention, regardless of primary showings. If Truman stays out and stays neutral, Estes has a chance at Chicago because he might be acceptable to the Solid South as well as to the North. TIME correspondents across the U.S. last week reported that Kefauver's New Hampshire victory had made a definite impression on Truman Democrats, who are afraid Harry is a bit of a liability. They will not desert Truman, but their sensitive ears caught Kefauver's post-New Hampshire overtures to Truman, and they liked what they heard.

There is a third possibility. Harry Truman's open opposition might prod Kefauver into a fight. Perhaps New Hampshire proves that Truman is already treed on Kefauver's television antenna. If the Chicago delegates have proof positive that the Legend is a better vote-getter than the Liability, they might--just possibly--rebel and nominate the man in the coonskin cap.

But this speculation hangs on Senator Legend. As yet, handshaking, mild, compromising Senator Kefauver hasn't caught up with him.

* Pronounced (in Tennessee, at least): Ess-tess Kee-fawver.

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