The 35th

(See Cover)

The great day was at hand, and all seemed ready. The White House and the dome of the Capitol shimmered under fresh coats of paint. Timetables had been meticulously planned; the parade, for example, would last two hours and 46 minutes, not a moment longer. The invitations had gone out; and from all the states of the Union swarmed victorious Democrats, rushing jubilantly from party to party, Andy Jacksons in black ties.

Then came the storm. The snow began to fall at noon, Jan. 19. It strangled Washington. Out like shattered glass went all the best-laid plans. For agonizing hours the huge event seemed destined to become a fiasco. Foulups, fumbles and failures fell upon one another in a tangled heap. The inaugural ceremony itself might have to be postponed.

But it was not postponed. Snow stopped falling, the sky cleared, and a white winter sun shone down. At 12:51 o'clock on Jan. 20, John Fitzgerald Kennedy, his breath frosty in the frigid air, raised his right hand and pronounced the fateful words: "I do solemnly swear . . ."

Thus last week did Jack Kennedy become the 35th President of the U.S. This was his time of personal triumph. But it was more than that. For the moment of Kennedy's oath taking gave meaning to all the ritual and ceremony, to all the high jinks and low capers, to all the confusion bordering on chaos, that had gone before in a wild and wonderful week.

Getting Ready. Into that week had gone hundreds of thousands of man-hours. For more than a month before, workers on double shift had labored at constructing the stands in front of the Capitol. No detail was overlooked. The National Park Service, seeking to achieve a touch of spring, sprayed fresh green dye on the lawns surrounding the Lincoln Memorial. Trees along the inaugural route got a light coating of Roost-No-More, a compound guaranteed to put Washington's pesky starlings to flight. Secret Service agents battened down manhole covers on the right of way to forestall any bomb-planting saboteur, set up surveillance posts on rooftops and other strategic spots, organized an overall security guard of 5,000 men.

In Rock Creek Park, the police cavalry, worried lest its horses should react violently to the roar of the parade and crowds, spent hours conditioning the mounts by feeding them heavy doses of Spike Jones recordings over loudspeakers. As a result, by Inauguration Day the horses were immune to noise, but the cops were nervous wrecks. Parade officials put on a small-scale dry run down Pennsylvania Avenue, pronounced everything satisfactory. They arranged for a helicopter to hover over the parade and radio traffic information to an Army-run command post. There, in a van off Pennsylvania Avenue, a control center was fitted out with radio-telephone connections to a swarm of roving observers. Closed-circuit TV cameras focused on possible bottlenecks, relayed their pictures to a row of TV monitors at the command post.

The Boom. The rush to Washington began early, and by midweek it seemed easier to get a Cabinet job than a bed. Hotels, motels and boardinghouses were jammed, and the overflow reached as far away as Baltimore and Annapolis. Inaugural committees, swamped for tickets to the official functions, were in despair. It was hard enough to satisfy the requirements of the bigwigs who poured into town; even more embarrassing were the littlewigs who had been sent souvenir inaugural invitations and, mistaking them for the real thing, commandeered white ties and tails and rushed straightaway to Washington. Scalpers swept into action, unloaded $3 grandstand seats for $15 apiece, sold reservations for windowside tables in key restaurants along the route.

And then, adding to all the excitement and giving even more bang to the boom of the Washington real estate market, came the members of the Kennedy clan. They congregated in the Georgetown area soon to be vacated by Jack. The President-elect's sister and brother-in-law, Jean and Steve Smith, already lived on O Street. Now old Joe Kennedy and his wife Rose rented a P Street home for a tidy $200 a day. Ted Kennedy and his wife took overa place just across the way, next to the Christian Herters. Kennedy Sisters Eunice Shriver and Pat Lawford rented still another, a block away.

Bouffant & Beads. Swirling with Kennedys, Washington society turned itself inside out in its most glittering display in years. Dinner dances, luncheons, buffets, receptions, cocktail parties--they flashed on and off like the lights on an electronic computer. No event could be considered a success without the appearance of at least one Kennedy--and, since there were more than enough Kennedys around, there were few failures on that account. The inaugural committee threw a huge affair at the National Gallery to welcome Bess Truman, the Cabinet wives, the Kennedy and Johnson ladies, and other women of importance; the hall became a rustling sea of mink and jewel, bouffant hairdo and beaded gown. Over at the Statler-Hilton, House Speaker Sam Rayburn hosted a party for Lyndon Johnson; at the Mayflower, Young Democrats danced with anxious glances at the entrance, hoping for the arrival of Jack Kennedy. He did not show--but Brother Bobby and his wife Ethel saved the day. Hour after hour, top names turned up at parties given by other top names. Kennedy looked in on a dinner for Harry Truman; Pundit Walter Lippmann gave a cocktail party for some seven score luminaries in arts and science ("nobody below the rank of Nobel prizewinner"); Eleanor Roosevelt and former New York Senator Herbert Lehman tirelessly made the rounds.

Amid all the gaiety, the first flakes of snow were barely noticed. But they kept falling--and falling and falling. By nightfall on inaugural eve, confusion was complete. At least 10,000 cars were stalled and abandoned. Airplanes stacked up over the airport, then flew away; Herbert Hoover, winging up from Miami, had to turn back, never got to the inaugural. It took Pat Nixon 2 1/2 hours to get from her Wesley Heights home to the Senate Office Building, where her husband was holding a farewell party for his staff. Secretary of State Christian Herter got stuck for two hours in the traffic jam. At the White House, 30 members of President Eisenhower's staff were snowbound for the night. Determined partygoers struggled through the storm, some of the men in white ties and parkas, some of the women wearing leotards under their gowns.

But despite the blinding snow and the treacherous ice and the marrow-freezing wind, Democratic hearts stayed high. "To hell with it all," cried one celebrator. "We've elected a President!" They had indeed--and Jack Kennedy moved relentlessly through his week, seemingly never pausing even for breath and totally unfazed by the soaring confusion. He was at all times the central and dominating figure of inauguration week.

Leaving Wife Jackie in Palm Beach early in the week (she flew up to Washington later), Kennedy climbed aboard his twin-engined Convair Caroline for a quick trip to the capital. As the plane turned northward, Kennedy removed his coat, slouched down in his seat behind a desk, drank a glass of milk and sawed away at a medium-rare filet of beef. Lunch done, he squinted out the window, picked up a ruled pad of yellow paper and a ballpoint pen. Over the first three pages, he scribbled a new opening for his inaugural speech--even while, just a few feet away, Secretary Evelyn Lincoln was hammering out an older version.

"It's tough." mused Jack Kennedy. "The speech to the Massachusetts legislature went so well. It's going to be hard to meet that standard." He read the three pages aloud, ticking off historical allusions. He paused for a moment, then murmured some doubts about the long introductory part of the speech. "What I want to say," he explained, "is that the spirit of the revolution still is here, still is a part of this country." He wrote for a minute or two, crossed out a few words, then flung the tablet on the desk and began talking, ranging over a wide variety of subjects, both personal and political. He was concerned about the Eisenhower budget, felt that it was unrealistically balanced and that all the red ink to follow would be blamed on the new Administration. He was pleased with his Cabinet: "I've got good men. It looks good." He was sure that Lyndon Johnson would do well in his new job, though he was worried about Johnson's weight (L.B.J. has lost 30 Ibs. since Election Day). Things would start happening the moment he moved into the White House: on the day after the inauguration he would issue an executive order doubling the allotment of surplus food sent to depressed areas. "I'm going to start seeing people right away," he said. Secretary Lincoln had already begun to book appointments, and an order had gone out to the Kennedy staff to be at work at 9 a.m. on Saturday.

Arriving in Washington, Kennedy kept on the move. He watched Ike's farewell speech on TV, struggled into his formal clothes and hurried over to Sister Jean's house for a dinner dance. Then, after dropping in at a party tossed by West Coast Financier Bert Lytton, Kennedy took off again, in a chartered DC-6, for New York and a peaceful night away from the social demands of the capital. He got his final fittings for his inauguration outfit (cutaway, grey waistcoat, striped pants, topper), ordered a few business suits at $225 apiece, got a checkup from his dentist ("No cavities'') and hopped on the plane for Washington again.

Friend in a Hurry. On the morning before Inauguration Day, the light had just begun to creep down Georgetown's N Street when a motorcycle messenger clattered to a stop beneath Jack Kennedy's shuttered window. Awakened by the noise, the President-to-be rose, looked out, grimaced and went back to bed. A little later, the motorcyclist returned, and Kennedy called down to the Secret Service man on guard and asked for quiet. The guard shooed the driver away; but soon newsmen began to gather, and Kennedy abandoned his bed, snapped on his light and got dressed.

Alone in the back seat of his cream-colored Lincoln, he rode to the White House for his last preinaugural meeting with Dwight Eisenhower. The two talked privately for about 45 minutes, during which Ike demonstrated the procedure for evacuating the White House in case of emergency. Ike lifted the phone, spoke a few words; five minutes later, an Army helicopter was hovering over the White House lawn. Suitably impressed, Kennedy strolled over to the Cabinet Room with Ike to meet with incoming Secretaries Dillon, McNamara and Rusk and their outgoing opposite numbers. Laughed Ike: "I've shown my friend here how to get out in a hurry."

With President Eisenhower presiding, the group reviewed the problems of state that would soon become the responsibility of the Kennedy Administration. Each Eisenhower Cabinet member explained programs and policies existing in his particular field, and after each presentation Kennedy asked sharp, probing questions. At the end of the session Jack Kennedy thanked Ike for his help and cooperation. Replied President Eisenhower: "You are welcome--more than welcome. This is a question of the Government of the United States. It is not a partisan question."

Missing Musicians. As Kennedy left the White House, the snow began to fall. It did not slow him down--then or later. Jackie Kennedy, arriving on the Caroline, had taken over virtually the whole house on N Street for her hairdressers and other attendants; Kennedy, fleeing from this female world, decided to make his temporary headquarters at the nearby home of a friend, Artist William Walton, an erstwhile journalist. In the afternoon, he drove to a Governors' reception at the Sheraton-Park, paid his respects all around, picked up Harry Truman and drove back home again. By now the traffic was tied in knots, and Kennedy canceled out on two receptions.

That evening came a moment for which all Washington womanhood had been waiting: Jacqueline Kennedy, stunning in a white gown of silk ottoman, emerged coatless from the house with her husband, lifted her skirt daintily above the snow and headed off for the festivities of inauguration eve. The first big event was the inaugural concert, held in Constitution Hall, unmarred for the Kennedys even by the fact that 60 out of 100 musicians, including Soloist Mischa Elman, had failed to make it through the snowstorm for the occasion.

Next on the list was Frankie Sinatra's Hollywood-style Gala at the cavernous National Armory. Happily for the Democratic Party coffers, the tickets had been sold long before the snowstorm--and just as Sinatra had predicted, the show made a mint: nearly $1,400,000 (single seats, $100; boxes, $10,000). Unhappily for the showfolk, however, only two-thirds of the ticket-holders (some 6,000 people) turned up, and what with the traffic delays, the extravaganza got under way nearly two hours late. The biggest stars, of course, were the Kennedys themselves, and they had a fine time watching Conductor Leonard Bernstein, Ethel Merman, Milton Berle, Nat King Cole, Mahalia Jackson, Juliet Prowse, Sir Laurence Olivier, Jimmy Durante and a squad of others, including Brother-in-Law Peter Lawford.

Father Joe Kennedy's big bash at a downtown restaurant followed Frankie's Gala. An exhausted Jackie Kennedy went home, but all the rest of the clan, surrounded by the Hollywood troupe and scores of Kennedy friends, crowded in for a sedate but delightful few hours of champagne, caviar, hors d'oeuvres and supper. It was 4 a.m. before Jack Kennedy slipped into bed.

Inaugural Day came clear and cold. Three thousand men, using 700 plows and trucks, had worked throughout the night removing almost eight inches of snow from Washington's main streets. Jack Kennedy's big day began when he attended Mass at nearby Holy Trinity Church, then drove to the White House with Jackie for coffee with Dwight and Mamie Eisenhower, the Lyndon Johnsons, the Richard Nixons and several congressional leaders. Then, the day's preliminaries done, President Dwight Eisenhower and President-elect John Kennedy emerged in top hats and smiles, stepped into the black, bubble-top presidential limousine, and drove down Pennsylvania Avenue toward Capitol Hill and the drama that awaited them there.

"Father Joe?" Shorn of snow, shining in the sun's glare, the wide avenues and the Capitol plaza bristled with tens of thousands of onlookers in bright stocking caps, fur coats and warm blankets as protection against the 20DEG temperature. The big inaugural platform on the steps of the Capitol's east portico was studded with eight white Corinthian columns matching those of the Capitol itself. U.S. flags whipped in the stiff wind above the great marble office buildings and the Library of Congress.

Slowly the platform filled with the great figures of Washington and the nation: the Justices of the Supreme Court, the members of the U.S. Senate and House of Representatives, the diplomatic corps, the new Cabinet officers, the Joint Chiefs of Staff--and, of course, the Kennedy family. "Is that Father Joe over there?" asked Arkansas' Senator John McClellan. "I do believe it is." It was. Joe Kennedy, beaming and laughing, was telling his friends that "this is what I've been looking forward to for a long time. It's a great day."

Inevitably, the ceremony ran behind schedule. Jack Kennedy, waiting in a small chamber near the rotunda, whistled softly to himself. At last he got the word that everything was ready, walked out onto the windswept platform, sat down next to Ike, and the two passed a few minutes in an animated discussion of Cornelius Ryan's book on DDay, The Longest Day, which Kennedy had been reading. It was 12:13 o'clock--and even though he had not yet taken his oath of office, Kennedy, under the U.S. Constitution, had been President of the U.S. since the stroke of noon. The Marine Band struck up America the Beautiful. Contralto Marian Anderson sang The Star-Spangled Banner. Then, as Boston's Richard Cardinal Cushing delivered his long invocation, smoke began wafting from the lectern. On and on the cardinal prayed--upward and upward poured the smoke. When Cardinal Cushing finished, Dick Nixon and several other volunteer firemen rushed to the lectern. The fire was located in a short-circuited electric motor that powered the lectern; the plug was pulled and the smoke drifted away.

Dedication. The ceremony moved on: Lyndon Baines Johnson rose, raised his right hand and took the oath, administered, at his request, by his friend, mentor and fellow Texan, Sam Rayburn. Poet Robert Frost, his white hair fluttering in the wind, tried to read a newly written dedication to his famed poem, "The Gift Outright." But the bright sun blinded the old (86) New Englander, the wind whipped the paper in his hands, and he faltered. In the front row, Jackie Kennedy snapped up her head in concern. Lyndon Johnson leaped to shade Frost's paper with his hat, but it did no good. At length Robert Frost, proud of the fact that Jack Kennedy had invited him and 155 other writers, artists and scientists to the inaugural, turned boldly to the microphones and said, "This was supposed to be a preface to a poem that I can say to you without seeing it. The poem goes this way . . ." The crowd left off its embarrassed titters over the old man's bobble and listened quietly as Frost recited from memory his finely chiseled lines:

. . . Such as we were we gave ourselves outright

(The deed of gift was many deeds of war)

To the land vaguely realizing westward,

But still unstoried, artless, unenhanced,

Such as she was, such as she will become.

Raised Hands. At last came the event that Jack Kennedy had awaited so long and worked so tirelessly to bring into reality. To the ring of fanfares he arose, removed his black topcoat, stepped forward with Chief Justice Earl Warren and, over a closed, family Douay Bible, repeated his oath in a clear, crisp voice. Whatever lay ahead of him. this would always remain the high moment of John Kennedy's life.

Kennedy's inaugural speech, destined to be famed within minutes of its delivery, was about the last solemn occasion of the day. That afternoon the new President and his First Lady drove to the reviewing stand in front of the White House to see the inaugural parade. With a steady thump-de-thump of the drums and a silvery splash of cymbals and brass, the marchers tootled endlessly down the avenue. Trundling along, interspersed with the 32,060 marchers, were more than 40 huge floats: Massachusetts' contribution portrayed highlights of Kennedy's life; Texas proudly hoisted a big portrait of Lyndon Johnson between an enormous Lone Star and a globe that sprouted rockets ("From Lone Star to Space Star"); Hawaii launched a star of orchids fitted with a device that pumped scent out along the way; the Navy trucked in a PT boat carrying members of Kennedy's wartime crew--and when the President spied it, he raised his hands and cheered.

Now and then, a Kennedy sister or brother joined President Kennedy at the front reviewing position. Father Joe shared the spotlight for a long while, and Mother Rose watched too. They came--and they left, and even Jackie Kennedy disappeared after a suitable time. Two and a half hours passed, then three, then 3 1/2. The sun went down, but the President of the U.S., popping his topper on and off his head, stuck it out to the very end-and seemed to be having the time of his life.

Do It Again. It was a shuddering thought, but there was still more--much more--to come. The time had arrived for the partymakers to get back to work, and Jack Kennedy is no man to shun parties. Leaving Jacqueline to rest at the White House, Kennedy headed off for the most important private social function of the week: a dinner party at the home of his Choate schoolmate (now a Washington lobbyist) George Wheeler. Dashing back to the White House, he picked up Jackie and started a tour of the five inaugural balls. For a while Jackie, glowing in a silver-embroidered gown, stuck it out; then shortly after midnight, she gave up. Touching down at each of the massive balls, Kennedy found the halls so jammed that dancing was impossible. To one crowd he cracked: "I hope we can all meet here tomorrow at the same place at 1 o'clock and do it all over again." To another he quipped: "I must say that you dance much better than at any of the other balls. I don't know a better way to spend an evening than for you to be standing and looking at us and for us to be looking at you." To a third he said: "We still have one unfulfilled ambition. We still would like to see somebody dance."

At 2 a.m. Kennedy dropped his police escort and churned through the snowy side streets with his Secret Service and press detail to the Georgetown home of Columnist Joe Alsop. He tarried at a party there for about an hour and a half, came out alone, puffing serenely on a cigar, and rode off to the White House. And so, at last, to bed in the home he would occupy for the next four years.

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