by James Mauro
As August wore on and Einstein sailed and Szilárd sweated, there was still no word from either Lindbergh or Alexander Sachs. Einstein, still not entirely convinced that atomic weapons would become a reality in the near enough future for Germany to use them against its enemies, was content to wait for the slowly spinning wheels of government to complete their revolution. Szilárd, on the other hand, could not be dissuaded from the idea that the Nazis were further along with their research than anyone realized, and that if the United States government didn’t catch on very soon, the matter would be moot because Germany would have gobbled up all the uranium anyway.
As Labor Day approached, the situation in Europe looked bleak, if not hopeless. Poland seemed poised to fall at any moment. On Saturday, August 19, thirty-six thousand Polish Americans gathered at the World’s Fair to celebrate Polish Falcons Day. The Falcons, members of a national Polish American social organization, took a solemn pledge to “sacrifice their lives4 for the sacred cause which Poland is ready to defend.”
The Poles, many of them dressed in native costumes and more than twenty thousand of them in the blue uniforms of the Falcons, began arriving early that morning and took their seats in the Court of Peace. They smiled and clapped one another on the back as various chapters of the organization met members from such faraway places as Chicago, Baltimore, and Pittsburgh. Despite the solemnity of the occasion, it started out as a happy affair. Then, around eleven-thirty, they began to notice the sky. The rain began shortly after noon.
Undeterred, the Falcons held their ground, remaining in their seats even as the downpour grew more intense. They sat for hours, praying that the dances and military drills that had been planned for the afternoon would not be called off. But by five o’clock, it was hopeless. The ceremonies were canceled. After the formal announcement was made, many of them remained in their chairs, thoroughly drenched and weeping openly.
At the Polish Pavilion, instantly recognizable by its latticed brass tower fronted by a statue of King Jagiełło, the crowd, undeterred, stirred itself into a swell of national pride by a statement that was being cabled to Edward Rydz-Śmigły, commander in chief of Poland’s armed forces, in Warsaw. “[We] send you5 cordial greetings from the World of Tomorrow, which will be a world of justice and democracy. We are proud that our Poland is again called by destiny to become the bulwark of democracy.”
The cheering went on for several minutes, the crowd finally breaking up after an emotional singing of the Polish national anthem. After that, the organization promised to hold another Falcons Day at the Fair to present the pageant that had been canceled. The rain did not let up all afternoon and continued on into the night.
Five days later, Hitler and Stalin signed the Nazi-Soviet pact and began working out a plan for which piece of the Polish pie each would be allowed to carve up for himself. The so-called phony war was coming to an end; the Falcons never got their second “Day” at the Fair.
If there was any “good” news at all, at least for Whalen, a Gallup poll in late August showed that 83 percent of people who had visited the Fair responded that they “liked it very much.” Another 14 percent said they “liked it moderately.” Only 3 percent said they disliked it. Further, 84 percent stated they wanted to visit the Fair again. The overwhelming reason people gave for not visiting the Fair was that they “can’t afford it.”
But by this point, it didn’t really matter much. Enough money had been secured to keep the doors open, but just barely, till the scheduled Closing Day at the end of October. Yet Grover Whalen’s heart just wasn’t in it anymore. Despite his earlier assurances, war was now a certainty, at least in Europe. He’d be lucky if they could manage another season without the Luftwaffe flying over the Trylon and Perisphere. More and more, Whalen chose to spend the afternoons sitting alone in his office, if only to stay dry.
The weekend after Falcons Day, yet another torrential rainstorm struck the city, forming puddles eight inches deep and raising the surface of Fountain Lake by nearly a foot. Performers in the Amusement Zone, where flooding was the worst, took the opportunity to shed most of their clothes and stomp around through the makeshift river that flowed through their streets. Then they stood, transfixed, when a flash of lightning ignited a series of fireworks set to go off that night, dazzled and delighted by a sputtering display of unexpected pyrotechnics.
Later, when they learned that the fireworks were part of a program called “The Three Little Fishes,” the actors convulsed in laughter. Anything could happen at this World’s Fair, and it usually did.
Not too many showed up that day, but those who did tended to gravitate toward the foreign pavilions, especially Poland. Parents of Polish descent took their children inside and gravely pointed out on the giant, illuminated maps the cities and towns where their relatives lived. The Polish Corridor, noted one observer that rainy afternoon, was “now the prospective storm center of the world.”
The next day, the sky remained overcast, but the rain held off and more people came. Again, the talk seemed to have turned away from things like Futurama and Railroads on Parade and focused instead on politics. In the dining room at the Czechoslovakia Pavilion, several groups argued loudly whether Poland would soon suffer the same fate they had.
But life, at least at the Fair, went on. New Jersey hairstylists had journeyed to Flushing for “Beauty and Bustle Day,” giving demonstrations on the latest styles, including “the bustle silhouette” and “the high-in-front hairdo.” There was a “Jitterbug Jam” featuring Ben Bernie’s Orchestra, and the National Association of Ice Dealers gathered in the Court of Peace to anoint the handsomest man in attendance. He was chosen by a pretty young girl and then made to sit on a throne carved out of an enormous block of ice. In the heat waves that rippled up from the concrete, he was probably the coolest customer in attendance.
The crowds, struggling hard to maintain their gaiety throughout it all, couldn’t quite seem to muster the merriment and hang-it-all carefree spirit from the early days of the Fair. It all seemed too suddenly serious for such frivolity.
For Whalen, the ax came down on the last day of August. He had been expecting it for weeks, and now that the announcement came, he felt almost relieved.
In the agreement worked out by the board of directors, Whalen would keep his title as president of the World’s Fair, but Harvey Gibson, whom the corporation now voted to be its new chairman of the board, would be running the show. Whalen would become largely a figurehead as far as day-to-day operations went. He hadn’t even made it a full season. Now, at what should have been the pinnacle of his career, they were booting him out. In the end, he was no better than Joseph Shadgen, who Whalen suddenly wished to God had never heard of George Washington.
Gibson had asked for forty-eight hours to make his decision, fully aware that he would be taking command of a ship that was sinking fast and perhaps could not be righted again. No matter what strings he managed to pull, the World’s Fair would almost certainly lose money in the end. It was now just a question of how much. But at least he would have the satisfaction of seeing that spendthrift Whalen get his comeuppance. There was some satisfaction to be had in that.
After two days, he sent the committee “a very long telegram,” as one of them put it. Gibson must have thought it important; he didn’t like wasting money on telegrams, especially long ones. The exact text was never made public, but one committeeman, who refused to be quoted, said it all came down to one thing. Gibson would take the job on one condition: Grover Whalen must be completely out of the picture.
At a meeting on August 31, the board of directors looked over the numbers “with considerable gloom.” A silent pall hung over the boardroom. There was no surprise, just reluctant acceptance of a very sad state of affairs as the sheet of figures was passed around to every chair, showing exact paid attendance figures to date:
April 30–May 31: 3,699,038
June 1–30: 3,876,437
July 1–31: 4,263,241
Au
gust 1–30 [the figures as of twelve-thirty that morning]: 4,020,333
For a grand total6 of just under sixteen million. Twenty-four million short of what they’d hoped for in 1939, with two months to go. No, scratch that. Twenty-four million short of the smallest possible estimated attendance. The other, more grandiose estimates … well, it didn’t pay to get into that. And with school starting and summer vacations over, you could bet the attendance for September and October was going to be less than the previous two months, even with the expected rush of visitors as people finally decided to show up before the Fair closed its doors for the winter. Possibly for good.
No one in the room blamed Whalen directly for the failure, though you could feel the disapproval of certain factions as thick as a dense fog. Everyone, including George McAneny, had agreed that the Fair would draw at least forty million, based on Chicago’s attendance. It hadn’t been Whalen alone beating the drum. But now he was sitting there taking the brunt of it.
The meeting, actually, was a formality. Gibson had already agreed to take charge. There would be an announcement as soon as it was over. The press boys had been told to be on alert for a big piece of news that afternoon. They were pretty sure they knew what it was.
Around six-thirty p.m., from the windows of the Press Building in the Communications Zone, they saw two figures emerge from the Administration Building and stroll across the Bridge of Tomorrow over the Administration Gate. One of them was dressed conservatively in a plain brown suit and dark necktie, and they had no idea who he was. The other was impeccably attired in a blue suit with a natty bow tie, a maroon boutonniere once again in his lapel, and a homburg perched on his head, and everyone recognized him. Neither man spoke to the other; in fact, they seemed to walk at opposite sides of the bridge, in step but physically as far apart as they could manage.
Grover Whalen took Harvey Gibson into the Press Building, walked him upstairs, and introduced him to the boys as the new chairman of the board of the World’s Fair Corporation. No one said anything. No one even asked any questions.
“Haven’t you received7 the statement yet?” Whalen, clearly exasperated, finally broke the ice.
The newsmen said they hadn’t.
“Well …” Whalen stammered.
Suddenly Leo Casey burst in the door and frantically began handing out copies of the typewritten statement. The look on Whalen’s face froze his blood. Thank God he wasn’t the boss anymore.
The official notice didn’t really say anything much, however. It gave the background about McAneny’s resignation and some of Gibson’s history as chairman of the finance committee and mentioned, almost in passing, that Whalen’s duties at the Fair would “remain the same.” But it neglected to answer the question that was on everyone’s lips: Who was really in charge now?
Whalen answered first: “Mr. Gibson will give8 attention to fiscal matters and executive duties.”
Gibson was quick to add that he would not take a salary for his services. For an instant, Whalen winced at the remark. His own exorbitant salary had been something of a sore point among those who felt that a civic undertaking should not be paying $100,000 a year to anyone.
A reporter asked whether Gibson planned on making any additional cuts to the payroll or laying off any more staff members. “I can’t tell whether9 there will be further economies until I have had a chance to study the situation further,” he answered. Although, as head of the finance committee, he damn well knew what the situation was.
Was the World’s Fair in that much trouble? another reporter asked. Gibson smiled, denying that any kind of an “emergency” brought about this change with only two months left to go in the first season.
It was an uncomfortable moment for both men. Whalen was effectively being fired, and he knew it. So did everyone else in the room. But neither man let on that there had been any friction between them in the past; in fact, each seemed to go out of his way to compliment the other.
“The World’s Fair10 is a pretty big job,” Gibson went on. “I want to do everything I can to help Grover.”
Whalen interjected, “I’d like to say11 that this help from Mr. Gibson has not just come today. It has been constant since the inception of the Fair.”
What about the reports that Grover would leave for Europe soon to sign the foreign pavilions on again for next summer?
“I may go back to Europe at some point in the future,” Whalen answered. “But I have no intention of doing so while the present war crisis still exists.”
Gibson, a bit surprised at that, held his tongue. Without the foreign pavilions, what kind of a World’s Fair would it be in 1940? With the European representation, what sort of World of Tomorrow would it really represent?
That afternoon, in fact, Whalen had called a meeting of the sixty foreign commissioners in order to determine their feelings about returning next season in the face of possible, if not probable, war. He was flabbergasted to learn that, while war was indeed a big factor in their determination, most of the commissioners were more concerned about a repeat of this season’s labor problems and whether they’d get a break in their operating costs next year. Whalen came away feeling as if the whole world had gone mad—the real one overseas and its miniature representation here in Flushing Meadows. How could they talk about money while Germany was pointing a gun at their heads?
The conference over, Gibson and Whalen left the Press Building and walked back over to the Administration Building. The next day, Gibson would even be taking possession of Whalen’s office. To Grover, it was as if he were handing over the keys to the whole shebang.
In the final stripping of Whalen finery, Gibson ordered that Perylon Hall be opened to the public; now, for a few measly dollars, anyone could dine where he had once entertained kings and scientists. There was no longer anything sacred about the place.
At ten-thirty the next morning, Whalen and La Guardia flew out of Newark Airport for a meeting with President Roosevelt in the White House. Whalen needed FDR to extend another formal invitation to the European nations to return next summer, and he wanted the president’s assurances that the United States government would be behind him in his dealings with the various heads of state.
The date was September 1, 1939, and although neither of them was aware of it at the moment, World War II had just begun.
On Closing Day in 1939, the Perisphere was lit to look an enormous jack-o’-lantern, complete with blinking eye.
(© Bill Cotter, worldsfairphotos.com)
22
“S’LONG, FOLKS!”
That day, a Friday, the German army invaded Poland. Two days later, Great Britain declared war, joined quickly by Australia, New Zealand, France, Canada, and other nations. The anticipation of war had now become a reality.
“With bombs bursting in Poland yesterday,” wrote The New York Times, “the impact of the general war that seemed to threaten Europe finally broke with full force in the International Area of the World’s Fair, which such a short time ago was dedicated with brave speeches of international peace and good will.”
That Friday was also the first sunny day at the Fair in almost a week. Not knowing what else to do in the wake of the war news, a record crowd turned out at the fairgrounds, which had once again become the gathering place for those who wished to congregate and commiserate over world politics. Most of them headed toward the foreign pavilions, which “acted as magnets” for those seeking comfort or solace or merely a reassurance that this representation of the world, at least, was not yet under attack. Not surprisingly, the pavilion they flocked to see was Poland.
All afternoon, families entering the building through its Court of Honor stood gazing reverently at a bronze portrait of Józef Piłsudski, the Polish chief of state who was a leader in the fight for his country’s independence from Russia in the wake of World War I. That he had fought alongside Germany against the Russian Empire was duly noted and looked upon with great sadness and irony. Here they were, thirty years later, b
eing invaded by their former allies in the fight for freedom.
The pavilion, it was noted, was designed to present the story of Poland “as she is today and as she intends to be in the future—an active, vigorous member of the family of nations.” All day long, visitors streamed through the various halls, some of them teary eyed, the women holding handkerchiefs to their faces and the men putting on as brave a face as possible under the circumstances.
It was as close as anything yet to a preview of what was to come—finally, an all-too-accurate representation of the World of Tomorrow.
Joseph Jordan, the pavilion’s manager, watched the sorrowful procession as long as he could before returning to his office, where he spent the rest of the day listening solemnly to radio broadcasts from Europe.
Even more ironic, almost unbelievable, the following day, September 2, had long been scheduled as Polish National Alliance Day. Again, it was a record turnout, the largest Saturday crowd so far: more than 312,000. A long parade kicked off at twelve-thirty and marched through the fairgrounds to the Court of Peace, led by a band playing first “The Star-Spangled Banner” and then the Polish national anthem, which, adding to the unreality of the occasion, translated into “Poland Is Not Yet Lost.”
More than ten thousand members of the Polish alliance gathered in the court to hear speeches by La Guardia and Whalen, who stated, “We welcome you here1 with hearts full of understanding and sympathy, because we know you can’t celebrate today without looking back home…. In the World of Tomorrow you are entitled as well as we are to happiness, peace and contentment.”
“This is an hour of sorrow2 to the entire world,” La Guardia said. “When the World of Tomorrow writes the history of today, the people of Poland will have a glorious page in that history.”
Whalen shifted in his seat, looked at the same vista he had seen countless times in innumerable ceremonies like this one. The World of Tomorrow had been rewritten before his eyes; they were all confirming that today. If that was the case, then maybe he didn’t want it anymore.
