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April 1992 | Volume 43, Issue 2
Mrs. Roosevelt, The Russian Sniper, And Me
Text Complexity Grade Level
9
In October of 1957, in an astonishing series of events, I found myself at the Shoreham Hotel in Washington, D.C., as an all-expenses-paid delegate to the First Congress on Better Living, sponsored by McCall’s magazine. At the time, I was a typical fifties housewife, with a split-level in the suburbs, a husband, three kids, and a dog. However, I had a closet vice—I entered contests. McCall’s had announced a Remodel-A-Room contest and I sent away for an entry blank. The builder of our house had skimped on eating quarters, so I sent off as my entry a plan to convert our garage into a dining room. Early one morning in April the phone rang. It was McCall’s “House and Home” editor. She wanted to fly out to see if the plan I’d entered was feasible. She came, she measured, she nodded: it was. I’d won! In the fall the room I’d designed would be built. But there was more. In July I was invited to the Congress on Better Living. The magazine had decided to send one hundred of the top contest entrants to Washington, D.C., to share their ideas about the American homes of the future. This invitation was the contest’s greatest gift. I felt truly important. The trip was even more exciting than I’d imagined, running the gamut from practical discussions to a tea hosted by Pearl Mesta. And on the final night, if she got back from Russia in time, Eleanor Roosevelt would be the keynote speaker. Now, I knew Mrs. Roosevelt. Well, let’s say I had met Mrs. Roosevelt. In 1942, as America adjusted to life during wartime, I was a student at the University of Washington in Seattle. The war didn’t seem quite real until Mrs. Roosevelt came to the campus. We had a reception for her and a band of foreign students she was traveling with, and I was invited by virtue of holding some campus office. I remember standing in the receiving line feeling awed by the prospect of meeting Mrs. Roosevelt. I actually was quaking by the time my turn came to shake hands with her, but she was warm, friendly, and smiling. I came away glowing, but then my attention wavered somewhat because a circle had formed about Wing Commander David Scott-Maiden, a devastatingly handsome Royal Air Force fighter pilot who was in Mrs. Roosevelt’s group. Also with her were another RAF pilot, one Danish and two Dutch naval officers, and a woman sharpshooter from Russia named Ludmilla Pavlichenko. That night at a general assembly, Mrs. Roosevelt introduced each of the visiting students and asked them to tell us a bit about what was happening in their countries. The Russian sharpshooter’s tale was
She strode in wearing her Russian army uniform, surveyed our posh entry hall with distaste, and said, “Second Front!”