Another story in my "Conversations" series, written for the 2015 Short Story Speed Writing Contest. It will make more sense if you have read others in the series: the titles are listed on my Profile page.
ooOoo
June 5, 1944
The train sways gently as we pass over a set of points. I've been looking out the window at the outer edges of New York City, but I now glance over at Ann, who is sorting through ration tickets in her purse. I know she wants new shoes and hopes to find a pair while shopping during this trip. It's been two years since she's bought any for herself, given the shoe rationing that started last year. She also has the sizes of the clothes all our grandchildren, and I'm wondering if we'll need to buy another suitcase if she finds all she wants. I know who'll be carrying it too, of course, on the trip home.
Well, that's fine. Neither of us has been out of Bridgeport since the war started, and when I was asked to come to New York to consult on a legal case, I suggested to Ann that she come too. We've come early, to enjoy the city tonight and tomorrow, then the next day I'll do my work and Ann will do her shopping. She'd say that it's her work, but I know she'll enjoy it. This will be a holiday for both of us.
The train comes to a stop in Grand Central Station, and we disembark, me carrying the suitcase with our clothes in my right hand and my briefcase in my left, and Ann carrying the little overnight bag and her purse. We enter the main hall and pause to gaze at the gigantic photo mural on the wall. "Buy Defense Bonds and Stamps Now!" the bottom caption urges, and I think of the bond books resting in the drawer of my desk back home in Bridgeport.
Pictures of a soldier and sailor stand guard, each dividing the main part of the mural into thirds, with a photo of farmers harvesting a wheat field with a mountain looming over it on the left side, a worker admiring his factory on the right, and a host of children, watched over by a mother holding a young child in the middle. It's "America the Beautiful" in visual images, essentially. In the top section of the mural, curved under the arch, two tanks flank a warship, and planes circle them above. I know this is propaganda, and I see its purpose, yet the part that grabs me is the caption the divides the upper and lower panels: "That Government . . . by the People Shall Not Perish from the Earth."
My eyes blur slightly as I read Lincoln's words from Gettysburg. Was the Civil War worse than this one? I am sure every generation must think its own war is the worst. Lincoln won his war, but barely lived to see the victory. I think of Rob in his prison camp, far away in Germany, where I am certain he continues to fight for this goal in his own way. I hope more than anything that he will survive this war.
I look down at Ann, who is gazing at the mural, similarly mesmerized, then I become aware of the bustle around us. I smile slightly to myself: here we are, staring like country bumpkins in the metropolis for the first time, rather than New Englanders who have been to Manhattan multiple times in our lives. Holding our bags as I am, I cannot take Ann's elbow, but I bump against her lightly to bring her attention back to me, and she smiles, catching my heart in that moment as she has for nearly fifty years.
We step outside, and the temperature is warm, but not miserably hot: one of the grace days of early summer. We stop to look up at the lovely Art Deco-style Chrysler Building, towering just a block away above the Commodore Hotel. I have seen it before on a few trips to New York in the '30s, back before the war, but it still seems new to me: it's only fourteen years old, after all. Not much time by the standards of a man in his mid-60s. I can't help thinking, as I have before, that it is the most beautiful building that I have ever seen.
A fleet of cabs is waiting. "Taxi or walk?" I ask. We're heading to our hotel, a small affair near Times Square that we have stayed in before, simple but always spotlessly clean. Ann hesitates, probably debating between the weight of the suitcase and the cost of a cab—though we can easily afford it. But I'm in a mood to walk and see the city. "The bags aren't heavy," I say, then add, "yet," to tease her.
She laughs. "Then let's walk. I'm wearing sensible shoes, after all."
We walk down 42nd Street, past the New York Public Library and Bryant Park to Times Square. Everywhere I see signs of how the war has changed the city. Uniformed servicemen, Army and Navy sprinkled with a few Marines, throng the streets, mostly in pairs and small groups. A convoy of military vehicles steams down Fifth Avenue, escorted by self-important civilian police on motorcycles, blocking our chance to cross with the light. As we wait, I set the suitcase down for a small break; no sense in carrying it when we aren't moving.
Busses and trolleys pass us, overflowing with passengers. A friend told me that there are fifteen percent fewer busses in operation than before the war, so they are jammed all the time. We notice that cabs routinely sneak through lights just after the lights have turned red, saving a little time and gas, so we quickly learn, like the other pedestrians, to wait until the traffic actually stops before stepping out in the street. We stroll past small diners whose outside walls are cluttered with signs to lure customers in for pineapple or grape drinks, or jumbo malted milks, all for a nickel, or a ten-cent breakfast special of a doughnut and coffee. Some have propaganda posters taped in their windows: an airman proclaiming "You buy 'em, we'll fly 'em. Defense Bond Stamps"; or "Dig for Victory! Grow Your Own Vegetables!" More heartrendingly, one depicts the five Sullivan brothers, proclaiming, "THEY did their part!" Another faded one of a flag against a field of blue, from the end of 1941 I'd guess, urges, ". . . We highly resolve that these dead shall not have died in vain. Remember Dec. 7th!" It has to be an early one, never taken down after it was put up: it doesn't use the name "Pearl Harbor," as has become the custom. Seeing Lincoln's words invoked yet again sobers me.
Ann snorts slightly at one poster that proclaims, "Can all you can: It's a real war job," against a background of a pear, an apple, two ears of corn, a trio of beets, and a couple of tomatoes and peaches. "I note it doesn't say how many forms you have to fill out to get extra sugar to do the canning," she sighs.
When we reach Times Square we turn left to follow Seventh Street down a couple of blocks to our hotel, The Avalon, a smaller hotel with a cheerful doorman. I had thought of treating Ann to a stay at one of the big hotels, but she fondly remembers this much more intimate hotel, and we like the location. Ann suggested that we save money on the hotel, where we don't plan to spend much time, and use the money on taxis instead when we can't walk, given how crowded we've heard the subways often are.
After checking in and freshening up, we leave to find supper at a small Italian restaurant we remember from our last visit to New York, back before the war. To our delight it is still open, and we get a little white-and-red-checked table to ourselves, squeezed in among servicemen who are cracking jokes about the Italian food they'll get if they get sent over to Italy. Ann and I both enjoy salad and spaghetti—with meat sauce even, since it is Monday. Tomorrow will be a meatless Tuesday as required by Mayor LaGuardia, so we enjoy the sauce, which is stretched with mushrooms and onions. It is well spiced and tastes delicious. We have cocktails with dinner: I would prefer Chianti, but of course there have been no shipments from Italy since the end of 1941 and the bottles in residence in the cellar have long been drunk up. It is almost a pleasure to simply pay the bill afterwards, without sorting through ration stamps as we do when buying groceries. As the proprietor, Mr. Garlotti, rings up our check I chat briefly with him about managing a restaurant during war time. Given all the servicemen in town, he is doing well for customers—better than his brother, he says, who owns an Italian restaurant in Newark.
After dinner we head up Seventh Avenue, through Times Square and then over on West 50th Street to Radio City Music Hall, to spend the evening on a movie and a show. They're showing Mrs. Skeffington, with Bette Davis and Claude Raines. It's fine, though Ann likes it better than I do. I enjoy the Rockettes afterwards quite a bit more. Unwisely, I mention this, and Ann gives me a dig in the ribs.
We wander back to our hotel, past nightclubs with jazz pouring out their doors and windows. My mind strays to Rob: I know he'd be in one of these clubs, or racier ones, maybe even up in Harlem, if he were here, preferably a small one where he could talk his way into doing a set on drums after hours if the band would let him. No doubt he'd tease us about being fuddy-duddies and sticking to traditional entertainments.
We reach the still crowded but oddly darkened Times Square, lit by the full moon. I knew that the city is practicing a "dim-out" by not lighting the famous neon signs and curtaining all windows more than fifteen stories high at night. Supposedly, this will prevent the ships in the harbor from being silhouetted against the lights, so that they will be more difficult targets if German submarines attack. I understand the need, but it's sad to see the Wrigley's sign dark, without its beautiful swimming fish. But the Camel cigarette sign is still shooting out a smoke ring every four seconds: the smoker is now a uniformed G.I. instead of an ordinary civilian. I stopped smoking a couple of years ago, partly because Ann had never liked it and partly as a "do without" to help the war effort, but seeing that smoke puff out of the sign does make me long for a cigarette again.
Returning to the Avalon, we get ready for bed, looking forward to our day in the city tomorrow. Two days' holiday is rare for me, and I am enjoying it, even if I'll be paying for it with work here on Wednesday and work piled up in the office back in Bridgeport next week.
ooOoo
We rise early in the morning. Anne bathes, and I take my turn while she's dressing. We plan to get breakfast at Toffenetti, an inexpensive 24-hour restaurant on Broadway and 43rd that has gotten a lot of attention since it opened four years ago. It's said to be "The Busiest Restaurant on the World's Busiest Corner." We decided over dinner last night that we'll go up to the Metropolitan Museum for the day, and then see Oklahoma! at the St. James Theater this evening.
As we walk through the hotel lobby, I notice there's no doorman waiting to greet us at the door. That seems odd, but I hear indistinct voices and a radio behind the desk. The attendant must be having some kind of trouble, and the doorman is helping him. No matter. I dismiss the thought from my mind.
A lot of people are on the street despite the early hour. As I remember, pre-war New York slept late, with a lot of people starting work at 9:00 or even 10:00. But it's not yet 8:00 this morning, and there are crowds of people teeming on the streets, surfacing from the subways and getting off and on buses, on their way to jobs.
In Times Square, we see a large crowd gathered in front of "the zipper," as New Yorkers call the New York Times news ticker. Though it has been here fifteen years and I have seen it before, I still find it amazing that news can be relayed via moving words created by lights, but after all we do live in modern times. Suddenly I realize what the words are spelling out: "Supreme Headquarters of the Allied Expeditionary Forces has issued Communique Number One. This said 'Allied naval forces supported by strong air forces began landing Allied armies this morning on the northern coast of France.'"
I grip Ann's hand tightly as we read.
The invasion has started.
At last.
We've known it has been coming, has had to come: an invasion of France to beat the Nazis is utterly necessary. And now it is here.
I know that my own face reflects the same shock and hope, the dreadful fear and the grim determination expressed on the faces of all of us standing here in this place, reading this sign. Thousands of American boys—and Canadian and British and who knows how many other nationalities—must be fighting for their lives at the moment. And fighting for all of our lives too.
For several minutes we watch, riveted, as the ticker continues its relentless stream of words. Abruptly Ann pokes me. "John, this is too slow and not enough information. We need to find a radio. And a newspaper. Let's not got to Toffenetti—it's too big. Even if they have the radio on, we'll never hear it over a thousand other people. Let's walk north until we find a small diner with its radio on."
It is hard to wrench myself from the zipper—I feel like I'm leaving the news behind. But I know Ann is right. This news will be on for hours, and we'll get more of it from a radio. I feel some regret that we are here in New York City: at home we'd already have known and could listen to the radio in comfort all day. But we're here, not there, so we'll make the best of it.
As I turn, my eye falls on three Navy sailors, all watching the zipper from the sidewalk in front of a photography studio. Two of them, apparently friends despite being dressed in opposite-colored uniforms (one white trimmed with blue; one blue trimmed with white), have each sat down on his suitcase, while the third, apparently not connected to the others, stands a little apart from them, also in blue with a broad band of decorations on his chest. Yet the three of them are united in staring up as the news ticks across. I wonder if they have brothers or buddies who are part of the invasionary force. Perhaps they are wondering the same thing. Perhaps they are regretting not being part of it; perhaps they are relieved they are not over there facing the enemy in this fiercest battle. But they know the course of their lives will change as a result of this news. So many people as America wakes up this morning are realizing the same thing.
Ann and I walk north, out of the square, and I buy a New York Times from a newsboy. The headline proclaims, "Allied Armies Land in France in the Havre-Cherbourg Area; Great Invasion Is Underway." We find a little place called the Tip-Top Diner. Its doors and windows are open and we can hear NBC radio news through them. We spy a single open table for two and take it. When the waitress comes up, her brow furrowed and her mind clearly as much on the radio news as on her customers, we order coffee, eggs over easy, and toast, then listen closely too.
As we wait, and then slowly eat our food, and even more slowly sip our coffee, and several refills, we hear that the first news of the invasion came from German radio reports, that there was no Allied confirmation for over two hours afterwards until the Communiqué No. 1 was finally released. We're told that photo-reconnaissance shows that beachheads have been established and secured, and that Allied troops are now moving inland. The heads of Allied governments in exile—King Haakon VII of Norway, Premier Gerbandy of the Netherlands, and Premier Pierdot of Belgium—have each addressed their own people, following a message from General Eisenhower informing the people of Western Europe of the invasion. Stalin has sent a message of congratulations on the invasion to Churchill.
There is so much news pouring in that the announcers have trouble keeping up. They cut from one source to another. Paris radio reports that Allied planes are bombing Calais and that the invasion beachhead is expanding. From Washington, Secretary of War Stimpson assures reporters that the invasion "is going very nicely." What an odd way to put it, I can't help thinking. We hear reports that German radio, the first to report the invasion, is not providing German listeners with the detailed coverage that its foreign new service is reporting. In a recorded report from Rome, Ralph Howard tells how news of the invasion was received in that city, which fell to the Allies only yesterday. From New York, Elmer Peterson reports that German radio has claimed that Allied troops have landed on the English Channel islands of Jersey and Guernsey. Another commentator notes that the Germans were obviously surprised that the invasion occurred at the widest point of the English Channel where they least expected it, not at the narrow point, Calais, which has long been anticipated. As a result, the Normandy beaches were not as heavily fortified. Once the Allies get control of the airfields in France, they can use them to launch air attacks against the Germans. Airfields could also be built on the Channel Islands. Interspersed among the news reports, Jewish, Catholic, and Protestant religious leaders give prayers for the men fighting.
Most meaningfully to me, one announcer reads part of Churchill's words to Parliament earlier, announcing the invasion. I marvel over the Prime Minister's rhetoric, as I almost always do when hearing or reading a speech of his: "During the night and the early hours of this morning the first of the series of landings in force upon the European Continent has taken place. In this case the liberating assault fell upon the coast of France. An immense armada of upwards of 4,000 ships, together with several thousand smaller craft, crossed the Channel. Massed airborne landings have been successfully effected behind the enemy lines, and landings on the beaches are proceeding at various points at the present time. The fire of the shore batteries has been largely quelled. The obstacles that were constructed in the sea have not proved so difficult as was apprehended. The Anglo-American Allies are sustained by about 11,000 firstline aircraft, which can be drawn upon as may be needed for the purposes of the battle. . . . So far the Commanders who are engaged report that everything is proceeding according to plan. And what a plan! This vast operation is undoubtedly the most complicated and difficult that has ever taken place. It involves tides, wind, waves, visibility, both from the air and the sea standpoint, and the combined employment of land, air and sea forces in the highest degree of intimacy and in contact with conditions which could not and cannot be fully foreseen."
After well over an hour of listening, we reluctantly yield our seats to others who need them and want to listen also. Out on the street, we wonder what to do. The way we had intended to spend our day now seems too frivolous, given the momentous events underway on the other side of the Atlantic.
"Hail a cab," Ann suddenly says.
I look at my wife, and while I don't know her plan I can see that she has one. I decide to wait and be surprised. So I wave down a taxi, and when one stops for us a couple of minutes later we bundle into it.
"The Cathedral of St. John the Divine, please," Ann says decisively to the driver, and I press her hand to mine. How exactly right she is.
"Going to give prayers for all the boys in France?" the cabby asks after he pulls back into traffic.
"Yes, we are," Ann answers firmly.
"Add one for my boys," the driver says, his voice cracking, his hands tense on the wheel. "I got one in the Pacific and the younger one was sent to England a couple months ago. I guess that means there's a good chance he's in this today."
Ann grips my hand. "We'll do that," she murmurs.
I nod. "I hope your boy will be okay," I say, then add, "Both of them, I mean."
He nods back. "You got any boys over there?" he asks, swerving the cab around a stopped car as we drive along the edge of Central Park.
"Our youngest son was in the Army Air Corps. He's been in a prisoner of war camp in Germany since 1942," I say.
"Well," he says, and stops. "Well," he says again, "maybe my boy can help get yours back."
I close my eyes. "I hope so," I say—and I do. But the possible cost of that hope also terrifies me. How many other parents in America today are fearing what this man is fearing—and hoping what we have to hope?
The driver lets us out near the Cathedral, and I pay double the fare as his tip. It is a day to be generous to others, I think. He looks at me in surprise. "For luck," I say, shaking his hand, "for all our boys."
"Thank you, sir," he says with a nod. "I'll put this aside for Bob, give it to him to buy a drink when he gets home."
I shiver slightly on hearing his son's name. "We'll drink your Bob's health too," I promise.
ooOoo
It is just sunset, now, on this longest day. We spent an hour in the Cathedral, where we prayed fervently for all the soldiers fighting, for the wounded, the dead, and all their families. Although it is an Episcopalian cathedral and we are stout Methodists, it was a comfort to both of us to be there. Afterwards, we spoke with the priest, Canon Edward Nason West, to express our appreciation for his service and prayers.
Once we left, I proposed to Ann we take the subway down to Penn Station and walk over to the Empire State Building. "I want to see the city, all of it, everything our soldiers are fighting for," I told her, and she agreed. Although the line was long with servicemen, who apparently all had the same idea, we waited it out and once up at the observation deck we took our time, looking at the city in all its infinite variety of buildings and factories; the rivers separating the boroughs; the piers and wharves; the ships moored to be loaded and unloaded.
My eye strayed most to the Statue of Liberty where she stood holding her torch aloft, facing outwards, her huge figure tiny in the distance. When I mentioned to Ann that I understood why the torch had been blacked out since Pearl Harbor but that it seemed a shame that it stand dark today, one of the guards overheard me.
"I guess you're not the only one thinking that. A buddy of mine told me he heard they're lighting the torch tonight," he told us excitedly.
Ann and I met each other's eyes at once. We both knew where we would be for that. So following an early dinner at Toffenetti, we walked over to Grand Central Station where we caught a very crowded 5 train to Bowling Green and got off at Battery Park. I knew that would have the best view of Bedloe's Island and the great statue that stands on its immense pedestal there.
So here we are. As the sun sinks below the horizon and we gaze at Lady Liberty, I remember the awful news 28 summers ago, during the last war, when a munitions supply on nearby Black Tom Island was sabotaged. Two million tons of munitions, set alight by German agents, exploded and embedded flying shrapnel into the torch-bearing arm of the Statue of Liberty and her skirt, causing $100,000 in damage. The stairs to the top of the torch have been closed to the public ever since. But she stood strong, we repaired her, and now as Ann and I and a reverent crowd watch, the light flashes out from her torch once again, gleaming in the growing dark. Off and then on: three short flares and then a long one, before she goes dark again.
"I guess the light's not working right," says a disappointed girl next to me.
"That was dot-dot-dot-dash," says a kid next to her—her little brother, I'd guess. "That's the Morse code for V."
"For Victory," I say to them at the same moment as two servicemen standing near say the same thing. We exchange amused smiles that quickly fade, our attention reclaimed as the light in the Statue's torch returns, strong and steady this time, beaming out across the Atlantic.
For fifteen minutes we all watch, no one tiring of the view. In one sense it's a small thing: just a night time light on a statue. But the deprivations of the war have taught us its value, and its symbolism seems more important than ever. When I voice this thought to Ann, she nods.
"It's the simple things in life you treasure," she says in agreement, leaning against my arm, her head touching on my shoulder.
Suddenly, the light fades out, and the whole crowd gives a sigh.
I feel a keen regret at its absence, mitigated by a feeling of good fortune that we were able to see it, that we were here in New York on this day of all days.
"Look at the moon," says the young girl who spoke earlier, just as we're about to leave. Turning just a bit to follow where she's pointing, Ann and I also see the moon, still full, which has been slowly climbing over the horizon of the city. Higher it rises as we watch patiently, its light shifting from red to orange to yellow to white, getting brighter and brighter.
When Ann and I finally turn to leave, we walk away bearing the image of Lady Liberty lit by that white moonlight in the midst of the harbor. Though her torch had only a short time to shine this evening, it brought hope to all who saw it: hope for victory and for an end to this war. And the moon, pouring down her light onto the Statue in the center of the harbor, will make sure she is not dark this night.
ooOoo
Author's Note: All the details of what John and Ann Hogan see in New York are based on research. The Avalon Hotel is a made-up name, but it is based on a hotel just off Times Square that I stayed at in 1976 with my parents; although I can't remember its name, I remember our cheerful doorman telling us about how servicemen stayed there during the war. All other named places and people really did exist in that time and place, and I did my best to make the geography of the city correct. A number of descriptions, such as the sailors in Times Square, are based on photographs of New York on D-Day that I found online. The final part, on the lighting of the Statue of Liberty, is what provided the germ of this story. I read an account that it was lit for fifteen minutes, and that it flashed out the Morse-code V, but I couldn't find which occurred in which order. So the scene as it is written is poetic license, but based on research.