by James Mauro
Out of the darkness came a thousand-voice choir as images of marching men were projected overhead, “trooping from the distant skies until the whole arch of heaven is filled with towering figures, arms upraised, singing the song of tomorrow.”
“Listen!” Kaltenborn’s voice commanded. “From office, farm and factory, they come with joyous song.” Just before exiting, spectators heard the symphony swell as the entire scene vanished behind drifting clouds. Then, suddenly, the music stopped and a great flash of polarized light ended the show. Blinking their way out of the Perisphere and into the blinding reality of the World’s Fair itself, the crowd was noticeably hushed in a silent aura of wonder, already transported from their ordinary lives into the heretofore unimaginable World of Tomorrow.
From their vantage point at the height of the Helicline, the curved walkway leading downward out of the Perisphere, visitors could view the multicolored layout that divided the Fair into categorized “zones.” Each had been landscaped according to color: “façades drenched in color, vistas as modulated in color, cocktails of color,” as the guidebook described them. The observant may have also noticed that the Theme Center was the only structure painted pure white. Below them, extending outward like the spokes of a giant wagon wheel, three large avenues at forty-five-degree angles stretched outward in deepening tones of primary color.
To their right, facing east, the Avenue of Pioneers ran the gamut of blue, from pale violet to ultramarine; to their left, the Avenue of Patriots bloomed from canary yellow to deep gold; and directly in front of them, the multilaned Constitution Mall blushed from rose to burgundy. Intersecting each of these was the curving, appropriately named Rainbow Avenue, which connected all three spokes of the wheel and reflected their prismatic shifts in hue. All in all, it was an ingenious design; not merely decorative, the color-coded zones enlightened each fairgoer as to his or her exact location through the use of a similarly shaded map.
There were seven zones in all, and each housed its own particular wonder. Transportation held General Motors’ Futurama, the second exhibit everyone wanted to see; Communications offered RCA and the new wonder of television; Production and Distribution featured General Electric, where spectators were literally shaken by its ear-splitting ten-million-volt lightning display.
They had so much to see. Over at Chrysler, you could don a pair of car-shaped glasses and watch a 3-D movie of an automobile being assembled by invisible workers. In the same building, designer Gilbert Rohde’s exhibit offered a rocket ride to London (the moon not yet the focus of such excursions). At Ford, you could gasp at the daredevil exploits of stunt driver Jimmie Lynch, and after that you could catch your breath while admiring Kodak’s enormous projections of their new color slide film or even pose while standing on top of a miniature version of the Trylon and Perisphere, where Kodak instructors would offer helpful hints for taking better photographs.
But for some, the most titillating exhibits were to be found in that staple of every modern American fair: the Amusement Zone, an overgrown midway set off of the man-made Fountain Lake at the southwestern quadrant of the grounds. At two hundred and eighty acres, the area was larger than the entire Paris International Exposition of two years earlier. As soon as they could, thousands of its eager male visitors headed straight for the risqué offerings of Dolores, “the Uninhibited Voodoo Dancer;” or the Sun Worshipers, an oddly zoological park that featured topless women cavorting outdoors as if that were their daily routine; or the “none too heavily clad” Amazon Warriorettes, which needed no explanation at all.
Picture taking was allowed in most of these exhibits. What you did with them afterward, including how you explained the film to your local developer, was your business.
And so, after a decent interval spent touring a few educational exhibits, husbands urged wives and children to visit the Borden Company’s “Dairy World of Tomorrow,” where Elsie the Cow was milked by the new “Rotolactor” vacuum method. Bachelors got loose from their dates and made appointments to meet up later, and the rather sheepish crowd slunk their way into what was winkingly referred to as “the Play Center.” Unfortunately for the prurient-minded, on Opening Day more than half of the Amusement Zone exhibits weren’t open yet. Actors from the unfinished Globe Theater smoked cigarettes and eyed the gawkers who at first feigned interest in Frank Buck’s “Bring ’Em Back Alive” wild animal exhibit or Little Miracle Town’s one hundred and twenty-five resident midgets, then chuckled knowingly as they headed straight for Oscar, the Obscene Octopus, a rubber creature who slowly “stripped” the bathing suits off of female swimmers.
For most of the morning, the weather held up nicely. In fact, it may have been a little too nice. As high noon approached, the prediction of an unusually warm day seemed an understatement. Men began to broil in their heavy suits, loosening their neckties and wiping their brows with handkerchiefs before returning their hats to their heads. Ladies wilted in the baking sun, while children begged to be taken indoors and treated to ice cream or sodas.
Grover Whalen, on the other hand, looked out the window of his office at the clear sky and then at the vista below him, wondering: Where are all the people? Pacing the halls of the Administration Building, he could see the long lines queuing up outside Futurama and the steady parade up the escalator to the Perisphere, but everywhere else, it seemed, the avenues and walkways were clear of all but the lightest foot traffic. Perhaps they were all indoors, Whalen mused, escaping the heat and enjoying the exhibits. Perhaps they were stuck in massive traffic jams on their way to his Fair. Then, reminding himself that it was Sunday, after all, Whalen tried to calm himself with thoughts that many potential ticket buyers had spent their morning in church; after the services were over, they would surely be coming his way.
For the first time, Whalen began to understand the tremendous responsibility he had taken on. In selling the Fair, first to an astounding number of foreign nations and then to Corporate America, he had never considered the idea that it was perhaps becoming too big and too expensive. The building he was now standing in had cost almost $1 million alone; his executive office looked to one observer like “a Hollywood scene representing a super-luxury hotel.” The dining and conference rooms were walled in copper, and the paintings lining the various corridors gave “the effect of a modernist art gallery.”
The corporation itself had estimated that the Fair needed fifty million visitors in order to turn a modest profit. That figure hadn’t shaken Whalen’s spirit; he personally expected at least that many would show up in the first year alone, plus another twenty-four million during the second season. And for Opening Day attendance, he had publicly predicted an inaugural gate of over one million5 wide-eyed, open-walleted guests. But unless there was a huge afternoon surge in late sleepers, that figure now seemed impossibly high.
Whalen’s boast was an unfortunate but characteristic blunder—his inherent enthusiasm often burst forth in grandiose overstatements before he had a chance to check himself. In this case, if fewer than a million showed up, the Fair’s Opening Day might appear to have been less than spectacular. Still, it was early yet, and the president was scheduled to speak that afternoon. Surely that would bring out the crowds. Readying himself for the formal ceremonies to come, Whalen may or may not have noticed one more crucial detail: the darkening shadows advancing on the Theme Center. A sudden blanket of angry clouds was turning the sky bullet gray.
As noon came and went, the weather got progressively worse. The rain was holding off, but a chilly wind began to kick up, carrying the spray of various fountains and giving nearby fairgoers a taste of what was coming. For NBC, however, the heavy cloud cover was a blessing in disguise: At precisely twelve-thirty, television was introduced to the country with a static view of the Trylon and Perisphere. The stark white structures silhouetted nicely against the darkened sky and made for a very fine transmission. Hundreds crowded around the two dozen receivers in the RCA Building* to squint at a two-inch-by-three-inch view they
could have seen in real life if they had simply turned around.
It didn’t matter; the public was hooked. Television sets were already on sale in several New York stores, selling for then astronomical sums of between $150 and $1,000.6
Fifteen minutes later, at twelve forty-five, fairgoers gathered around the Theme Center to witness an extraordinary sight. A seemingly endless parade of flags emerged from the Perisphere like a multicolored string of yarn out of a big white ball. Standard-bearers from the armed forces were followed by the spectrum-filling parade of banners from sixty participating nations, and finally by the orange-and-blue theme colors carried by World’s Fair staffers. This whirling, dizzying fan dance circled down the Helicline and then waited for the grand unspooling to finish.
But what began as a dignified procession ended in a footrace. The parade’s grand marshal was an army man, Major General William Haskell, and he saw to it that all the pomp and finery was metered with military precision. But at the base of the Perisphere, another major, Allan Smith of the World’s Fair Police (a special corps supervised by Whalen, who had again personally designed their uniforms, these with bright orange Bakelite buttons and batons), decided to step off on his own, leading his unit up the south walk of Constitution Mall. Haskell didn’t like what he saw, and as soon as the rest of his marchers fell in, he took the opposing route and led them briskly along the north walk.
It turned out to be a good choice, since sections of the south side of the mall were still roughly paved and some stretches unfinished.* When Major Smith came across several lengths of rope that blocked his path, he showed the fortitude of any New York City cop: He pulled out his pocketknife, sliced through them, and marched on.
The procession was neck and neck until they reached Washington Square, where costumed groups representing the foreign nations joined them. One such group, the Armagh Patriotic and Benevolent Association, was led by a proud and burly Irishman named James Gorman. Seeing the diverse routes the two parade leaders were taking, Gorman instructed the men of Armagh, “in their sovereign kilts and Balmoral tams,” to take the center path. This one, he noted, led directly to the grandstand from which President Roosevelt and other dignitaries would give their speeches.
As Gorman marched his men at the quickstep, the crowd around them, as if cheering on a horse race, clapped wildly and shouted words of encouragement for the Irish brigade to win the contest.
At the head of the parade’s final section was Mayor La Guardia: short, squat, stocky, and not entirely comfortable in his top hat and striped trousers. Yet despite the tightness of his coat, he remained La Guardia, prancing ahead of Governor Lehman, Grover Whalen, and the remaining officers and directors of the World’s Fair Corporation like a potbellied Pied Piper. The crowd, as always, loved him. And with each cheer, La Guardia gave them more and more to love, more of the Lou Costello arm swinging and head bobbing, until with every fourth or fifth step he was bowing at the waist in time to the festive music.
In the end, Haskell won the race, of course. And he waited, savoring his victory and shaking the hand of every official who marched up to the grandstand area. The major general was immensely proud of himself; his parade had ended precisely at one fifty-five. He had timed it to the minute.
At two o’clock, just as the threat of rain seemed at its peak, Grover Whalen and an elite group of dignitaries began taking their seats around the presidential podium. A few minutes later, Eleanor Roosevelt came down the steps of the U.S. Federal Building, alone, sporting a brown silk dress patterned with the Trylon and Perisphere. Her matching hat and bag were similarly adorned. She may have felt a little silly in the outfit, but her namesake niece, Eleanor (who was trying to break into the fashion business), had designed it. Grover was delighted.
In front of them sat a sea of invited guests: high-end World’s Fair bondholders, governors and mayors from around the country, and various foreign diplomats representing their nations’ participation. Unfortunately for everyone else, the entire area surrounding the Court of Peace—an open-air mall wedged between two opposing corridors of the Hall of Nations, where countries that could not afford pavilions shared smaller exhibit space—was off-limits to the general public. This did not sit well with jaded New Yorkers who had paid their seventy-five-cent admission fee on the assumption that it would allow them full access to the president of the United States. Fights broke out as the police struggled to turn away thousands of would-be spectators.
When the loudspeakers began announcing the festivities, Patrolman Bartholomew Nicastro was nearly crushed against the wooden sawhorse he was so avidly defending. A Queens woman, Mary Pease, decided to take matters into her own hands and climbed over a guard rope near the Lagoon of Nations, an oval pool in the center of the Government Zone. She fell and fractured her left leg. If not for the thickening rain clouds, there might have been a full-blown riot. It was the only good news the weather brought to the Fair that day.
For the next hour, the privileged crowd listened nervously as Whalen, Lehman, and La Guardia spoke, tilting their heads periodically at the sky and wondering whether their commemorative programs could serve as makeshift umbrellas. When the preliminary speakers were finished and back in their seats, the president’s car drove up the ramp behind the grandstand.
The plan, as usual, had been carefully worked out in advance for FDR to “walk” as little as possible while seeming to have made the journey up to the podium by himself just the same. To complete this diversion, Secret Servicemen surrounded his car, ostensibly for the president’s protection (although they were nowhere near as close when he actually spoke), and screened it from view.
Roosevelt’s mother, Sara, left the car first; then John Roosevelt, FDR’s youngest son, helped his father stand up out of the backseat and locked the braces around his knees that allowed him to stand for brief periods of time. The president would walk to the podium, as he always did, by utilizing the strength of his upper body—one hand gripped tightly on a cane he used as a crutch, the other leaning heavily on John’s crooked elbow for support. By rocking from side to side in this manner, he managed a slow forward motion with the help of the steel grips around his legs.
This speech, like most of FDR’s public appearances, would last no longer than fifteen minutes, the maximum amount of time he could spend on his feet. And it would not be the longest of the day; that honor would go to Whalen, whose own address had already clocked in at nearly twice as long.
Just as FDR got ready to speak, the clouds were at their most ominous, as if they were ready to burst at any second. A single RCA/NBC camera trained its lens on the podium from which, one news report boasted, “the televised image of the President will be carried within a radius of fifty-five miles in all directions from the Empire State Building.” At that singular moment, television had indeed arrived.
The threat of rain notwithstanding, the speech itself was astounding, as much for what the president said as for what he didn’t say. Despite the rise of Nazi aggression, the only war to which Roosevelt referred was the one Americans had fought with themselves seventy-five years earlier: “an internal war7 … which resulted eventually and happily in a closer union than before.”
Leave it to 1930s optimism to put a positive spin on the Civil War. But Roosevelt took it further than that.
“The United States stands today as a completely homogenous nation,” he stated, straight-faced and stern, “united in a common purpose to work for the greatest good for the greatest number, united in the desire to move forward to better things … and united in its desire to encourage peace and good will among the nations of the earth. Here at the New York World’s Fair of 1939 many nations are represented, indeed most of the nations of the world, and the theme is ‘The World of Tomorrow.’ This general, and I might almost say spontaneous, participation by other countries is a gesture of friendship and good will towards the United States for which I render most grateful thanks.”
From his seat directly behind FDR, G
rover Whalen was beaming. He couldn’t have written it better himself. The president of the United States was reaffirming the peacemaking promises of the World’s Fair and declaring publicly that through this occasion, the nations of the world were coming together to stave off conflict. It was exactly what he’d hoped for, the justification of Whalen’s status as statesman over salesman.
“All who come to this New York World’s Fair will receive the heartiest of welcomes,” Roosevelt continued. “They will find that the eyes of the United States are fixed on the future. Yes, our wagon is still hitched to a star. But it is a star of friendship, a star of international good will, and, above all, a star of peace. May the months to come carry us forward in the rays of that eternal hope.”
Hope indeed. At the time, Roosevelt himself clung to the ideals of Einstein’s previously derided isolationism as firmly and fervently as he held the podium’s specially built grips upon which he depended for balance and support. Any slip threatened to topple him over, though very few in the crowd understood the full extent of his struggle, physically or morally. Just two months earler, Secretary of State Cordell Hull, during one of the weekly World’s Fair broadcasts that used political speeches as a means to publicize the Fair, spelled out the administration’s head-in-the-sand take on war:
“As a nation,”8 Hull had stated, “we are convinced that there are no international differences which cannot be settled … by mutually fair and peaceful adjustment than by armed force.”
