Willi put his opera glasses in his coat pocket. “They’ve all lost their youth already,” he said. “They come down here for what? To lose their youth!”
· · ·
Miss New York State’s picture was in the New York, Philadelphia, and Atlantic City newspapers the next morning. She was shown at the Atlantic City Hospital, wearing her uniform and holding a two-year-old girl who had just had her tonsils out. Photographers from the wire services had accompanied the moviemakers to the hospital, and pictures of her had been sent out across the country. Miss Arizona had dark circles under her eyes when I encountered her in our hotel lobby after lunch, and she said that she was going to spend the afternoon thinking about Shakespeare and listening to a recording of Tchaikovsky’s Romeo and Juliet overture, to get in the mood for her talent demonstration that night—Juliet’s potion scene. She had stayed up all the night before talking about it and other Pageant matters with her chaperone. Miss Arizona had played Juliet at Phoenix Junior College, having been chosen from five hundred girls who had tried out for the part. She wanted to be an actress; she wouldn’t go to Hollywood until she had attended drama school and spent several years in the theatre. “Hollywood would try to make me be something they wanted me to be,” she said. “I won’t do that. My grandfather always said that you can have anything you want in the world, any way you want it, if you want it enough to work hard enough for it.”
That night, Miss Arizona came out in a wispy white nightgown and, in the auditorium that could be transformed in a few hours into a full-size football field, called up the faint, cold fear thrilling through her veins that almost freezes up the heat of life. The audience was restless and noisy as she expressed her fear that she would die ere her Romeo came. She was followed by Miss Greater Philadelphia, playing “I’m in the Mood for Love” on an electric guitar. Miss Mississippi did Hagar berating Abraham, in a dramatic reading popular with elocution teachers. Miss California acted the part of a girl who had been wronged by a man, in a reading even more popular with elocution teachers. Miss Florida sang “Put Your Shoes On, Lucy,” which was announced in a release to the press as “Put Your Shoes on Lucy.” Miss New York State, wearing her ice-blue evening gown, gave a short talk on nursing. She spoke without any expression at all, as though she were reciting something she had memorized with difficulty. “Ever since I was a little girl, I was taught that people were here for the purpose of serving others,” she said. The audience shifted unsympathetically in their seats. Somebody muttered that Miss Illinois ought to stop flirting with the judges. Miss New York State said she had decided to become a nurse when she visited a friend who was a patient in a veterans’ hospital during the war. She had been shocked by the men’s helplessness. She would now show a film of herself going about her usual duties. While the film was being run, she made flat, realistic comments on it. She was pictured in the children’s ward, in the maternity ward, and assisting a surgeon at an operation. At the end of the picture, the audience applauded halfheartedly. The winners: Bathing Suit, Miss Illinois; Talent, Miss Arizona.
I met Miss New York State as she was going back to her hotel. She felt pretty good, she said. She had enjoyed standing before all those people and telling them about nursing, and she had liked watching the talent of the others. “Wasn’t Miss Arizona good?” she said. “She got hysterical so easily.”
· · ·
I was awakened at seven by the sound of gunfire. Some former Seabees had arrived in the city for a convention, and the Navy was welcoming them with a mock assault landing on the beach. It was the last day of the Pageant, and the boardwalk seemed to sag with the crowds.
The auditorium that night had a capacity audience, including standees, of twenty thousand. The Seabees came en masse. Most of the police at the hall felt that Miss California would be the winner, but the captain in charge of the detail was indifferent. “All you can do is look, and you get tired looking,” he said. “I been guarding the beauties since 1921. An old lady come up to me during the parade the other day and says hello. I must of looked at her strange, because she says she was Miss Maryland of 1924. She was a grandmother! That kind of thing don’t make me feel no better.”
The contestants arrived and were counted. No one was missing; no one had walked out on the Pageant. The girls had had breakfast that morning with the judges again and then had voted for Miss Congeniality; Miss Montana and Miss New Jersey had tied for the honor and split the thousand-dollar scholarship. An only fairly congenial Miss wanted to know what kind of education you could get with a five-hundred-dollar scholarship. “Why, same as you can do with a bigger one,” said Miss New Jersey. “Take voice lessons, or go to tap-dance school, or even go to Europe and learn something.” Miss Slaughter nodded staunchly in approval. Also at the breakfast, Miss America of 1948 had made all fifty-two Misses members of the Pageant sorority—Mu Alpha Sigma, whose letters stand for Modesty, Ambition, and Success—and each girl had been given a gold-filled pin. “The most thrilling thing a girl could have,” Miss America had said. “It means that all of you are queens. Remember that when the fifteen semifinalists are named tonight, all of you are queens.” Miss New York State had asked if the sorority high sign was a big smile, a remark that didn’t get much of a laugh. “Well,” said Miss New York State to me that evening, looking at her sorority pin, “I finally belong to a sorority.” She had voted for Miss Montana as Miss Congeniality. “I knew that I would never be elected,” she told me. “In nursing, I got to know too much about human nature to be able to act congenial.”
Mrs. Shermer was looking very pleased. She told Earl Wilson she had a hot item for his column—she had discovered some contestants putting on false eyelashes. Mr. Wilson looked pleased, too. He had spent the afternoon autographing copies of his latest book at a department store in town. Miss Arizona had received a wire from her father (who was staying at a nearby hotel) saying that she had made first base, second base, and third base and concluding, “Now slide into home!” Miss Arizona was excited, and so was her chaperone. Miss New York State was unusually high-spirited and talkative; another photographer had called her photogenic, she said.
Mr. Russell was in tails for the big night. The curtains opened on the “beautiful old-fashioned Southern garden” again. One by one, the fifteen semifinalists stood up as their names were called: Miss Arizona, Miss Arkansas, Miss California, Miss Canada, Miss Chicago, Miss Colorado, Miss Hawaii, Miss Illinois, Miss Kansas, Miss Michigan, Miss Minnesota, Miss Mississippi, Miss New Jersey, Miss New York City, and Miss Wisconsin. Each of them was now sure of at least a thousand-dollar scholarship. The losers sat motionless in the Southern garden, some smiling, some in tears, others trying unsuccessfully to look indifferent. Out front, Miss Florida’s mother cried softly, but Miss Florida was still smiling. Miss New York State, this time only half hidden behind a potted plant, looked puzzled but interested in what was going on.
The semifinalists paraded before the judges once again, then withdrew to change into bathing suits. Mr. Russell asked the losers to walk the ramp, one by one, for the last time. “Give the valiant losers a hand, folks,” he said. “They’ve got what it takes. They are your future wives and mothers of the nation.” The valiant losers got a big hand. Miss New York State walked very gracefully—better than she had walked in competition. She waved cheerfully as she passed me and with her lips silently said, “Bob—is—here.” She received more applause than any of the other losers and quite a few whistles from the gallery. Then Miss Omaha of 1947 and Miss Atlanta of 1947 did their tap dance. Miss New York State watched them with a look of resigned but genuine appreciation.
The semifinalists paraded in bathing suits, and then demonstrated their talent all over again. While the judges marked their ballots, a six-year-old girl named Zola May played Chopin’s “Minute Waltz” on a piano. The M.C. then spoke glowingly of the three donors of the prizes, and introduced the president of the company that makes Everglaze, the president of Catalina, and a delegation of three st
out men in white linen suits from Nash. They all took bows. Then the M.C. asked Eddie Cantor to come out of the audience and up on the stage. Cantor did, and said hoarsely and passionately, “Communism hasn’t got a chance when twenty thousand people gather to applaud culture and beauty.”
Then the five big-prize finalists were announced: Miss Arizona, Miss California, Miss Colorado, Miss Illinois, and Miss Mississippi. Mr. Russell interviewed them, and their manner in replying was supposed to help the judges measure them for poise and personality. Each girl was asked three questions: “How do you plan to use your scholarship?” “Do your future plans include marriage, a career, or what?” “What did you get out of the Pageant?” Miss New York State peeked attentively around the potted plant as Miss Arizona, leading off in alphabetical order, replied tersely but politely that she planned to study dramatics at Stanford University, that she wanted marriage first and a career second, and that the Pageant had given her a chance to test herself before a new audience in a new part of the country. Miss California wanted to study interior decorating at the University of California and then go into the furniture business with her father; she wanted a career, so that she could help whomever she married; she was grateful to the Pageant for giving her the opportunity to meet so many wonderful girls from all over the country. Miss Illinois said that music was her first ambition. Mr. Russell, breaking the routine, asked her if she had ever been in love. She replied that she was in love but that music was still her first ambition. Miss New York State watched and listened carefully. No entertainment was at hand while the judges were voting again, so Mr. Russell asked the audience to sing “Smiles” until the ballots were counted, and he waved at the valiant losers to join in.
The winners were announced in reverse order: Fifth place, Miss California ($1,500); fourth place, Miss Colorado ($2,000); third place, Miss Illinois ($2,500); second place, Miss Mississippi ($3,000); first place, Miss Arizona ($5,000, plus the new four-door Nash sedan, the dozen Catalina swim suits, and the wardrobe of sixty Everglaze garments), now Miss America of 1949. There were hoots and boos, as well as cheers, from the audience. The Governor of New Jersey, who had arrived after Miss Arizona had done her Juliet scene, awarded her a gilt statue, half as high as she was, of a winged Miss and said, “The world needs the kind of beauty and talent you have.” Most of the losers then straggled out of the Southern garden into the wings, and a number of chaperones, hostesses, parents, and press people crowded onto the stage. I went along. Miss New York State came forward to watch Miss America of 1948 crown her successor. Miss America of 1948 wept, and her mother, standing nearby, wept with her. The new Miss America, tremulous but happy, said, “I only hope you’ll be half as proud of me as I am of the title Miss America.” Her mother, who had suddenly been surrounded by a group of admiring strangers, was much too occupied with her own emotions to notice her daughter coming slowly down the ramp, crown on her head, purple robe over her shoulders, and sceptre in her hand. The orchestra (the violinist holding a cigar in a corner of his mouth) played “Pomp and Circumstance,” and Miss America of 1949 walked the length of the ramp, smiling graciously.
“This is the beginning,” a reporter said to me. “She’s going to spend the rest of her life looking for something. They all are.”
“She is now the most desirable girl in the United States,” another said.
When the Queen got back to the stage, Miss New York State offered her her solemn congratulations. “I’m glad you won, kid,” she said. “I was rooting for you.”
Then the new Miss America was engulfed by still photographers, newsreel men, and interviewers. Miss New York State stood beside me on the fringe of the crowd and watched.
“Everybody wants my autograph because I’m her father,” Miss America’s father was saying.
Her mother wanted to know whether the parents were to get a badge or ribbon, too.
“We rehearsed what she would say for hours,” Miss America’s chaperone was saying.
“We got to get her in the Nash!” one of the Nash triumvirate in white suits was saying.
A group of people were asking Miss Slaughter about the new queen’s plans. “She’s going to have breakfast with all the newspaper people in New York,” Miss Slaughter said. “Then she gets outfitted with a whole new wardrobe by Everglaze, and she wears Everglaze whenever she goes out in public—it’s in her contract. She’s got to fly to California to preside at the Catalina swim-suit show, and after that she’s got to make a couple of screen tests in Hollywood. I’ve been going mad arranging for those screen tests.” A perspiring gentleman said that the winner of the recent Mrs. America contest at Asbury Park had invited the new Miss America to compete in a contest with her and he wanted to know how the Queen felt about this. “She says no comment because I say she says no comment,” the head of the Pageant public relations said firmly.
Miss New York State shook her head at the wonder of it all. “Going to Hollywood!” she said. “She’ll probably be in the movies.”
The two of us walked back to the dressing room, where we found Miss Missouri tearfully folding up her Catalina swim suit. Miss New York State looked puzzled at her tears and said that she hadn’t cried, because when you don’t expect very much, you’re never disappointed. She was returning to New York with Bob the next morning. She had the name of a photographer who wanted to take a lot of pictures of her to sell to magazines, and another man wanted to talk to her about becoming a model. She was not going back to nursing if she could help it. “You get more when you’re a model,” she said.
A NOTE BY LOUIS MENAND
The word finally came at 7:03 p.m., Eastern War Time, on Tuesday, August 14, 1945. That’s when the message went up on the ticker in Times Square: “Official—Truman announces Japanese surrender.” Rumors and false alarms had been circulating since the bombing of Nagasaki, five days before, and by the time the news flashed, there were half a million people in Times Square. “The victory roar that greeted the announcement beat upon the eardrums until it numbed the senses,” the Times reported. “For twenty minutes wave after wave of that joyous roar surged forth.”
Hats and flags were flung in the air; confetti and paper streamers were thrown from the windows of office buildings. Strangers embraced. People wept. By 10 p.m., there were two million men and women jammed into the area from Fortieth to Fifty-second streets between Sixth and Eighth avenues. The celebration went on until after 3 a.m., and continued the next day. Wednesday and Thursday were national holidays. More than nine million men and women under arms were on their way home. The war was over.
The war turned the United States into a world power and New York City into a world capital. Paris had been occupied by the Germans for four years; London, Rome, Berlin, Tokyo, and Leningrad (St. Petersburg) had been devastated by bombs. Hundreds of European scientists, writers, artists, and intellectuals had fled to America, many of them ending up New Yorkers. Apart from a few Japanese fire balloons and inconsequential shellings, the mainland United States had never been attacked. Of the more than fifty million people who had died in the fighting, only some four hundred thousand of them were Americans.
France, Italy, Germany, and Britain were broke: after four hundred years, the age of European empire was coming to an end. The United States found itself nearly the only healthy economy in a world of damaged states. In the late 1940s, with 7 percent of the world’s population, the United States had 42 percent of the world’s income; produced 57 percent of the world’s steel, 62 percent of the world’s oil, and 80 percent of the world’s automobiles; and owned three-quarters of the world’s gold. Per-capita income was almost double the incomes in the next most well-off nations, and Americans consumed 50 percent more calories a day than most people in Western Europe did. The war economy had pulled the country out of a long depression: unemployment was less than 4 percent. And, as everyone knows, one way Americans found to express their faith in the future was to start having lots of babies.
Harold Ross, who
was hypochondriacal about the magazine under the best of circumstances, had worried that the war would ruin The New Yorker. Instead, it transformed it. As Brendan Gill put it, many years later, “From a publication deliberately parochial in range and tone, consisting of a few funny drawings, some funny short pieces, an occasional serious short story, and the Profiles, limited enough in both length and intentions to deserve to be called profiles, it became a publication in which it was natural to look for the highest quality of reporting in almost any field of activity, from almost anywhere on earth.”
Among the writers whom Ross brought in to replenish his staff, many of whom had joined the military or been sent overseas to report, was E. J. Kahn, Jr., who did both: he fought in the Pacific while contributing a column, The Army Life. A specialist in detail, he went on to write more than three million words for the magazine. His typically pointillist account of the Berlin airlift of 1948, the first major postwar confrontation between the United States and the Soviets, is included here. Edmund Wilson, Lillian Ross, Richard Rovere, Rebecca West, and John Hersey all joined the magazine’s staff during the war, and all became exemplars of the more serious and sophisticated journalism that characterized the postwar New Yorker.
Wilson became the magazine’s book critic in 1944, when he was forty-eight. He was hired to replace Clifton Fadiman, and he was one of the greatest book critics of his time, but he had many other talents as a writer. One was reporting. This was surprising to people who knew him. Wilson was a physically unprepossessing and mechanically challenged man. He did not know, for instance, how to drive a car. When Isaiah Berlin met him for the first time, in 1946, he was startled to find “a thick-set, red-faced, pot-bellied figure not unlike President Hoover.” And Gill wondered, “This short, fat, breathless, diffident man—how did he so quickly gain the confidence of strangers?”
The 40s: The Story of a Decade Page 29
