Summer at Tiffany

by Marjorie Hart

  Less than five months after cousin Paul’s accident, in the spring of 1944, Lieutenant Richard Munsen, Katherine’s high school boyfriend with whom she still traded letters, was reported missing in action. When his father received the Western Union telegram from the Secretary of War, the news had circulated through Story City by the twelve noon whistle.

  The telegram read:

  Washington DC 8 pm April 12th 1944

  Serral Munsen

  Story City Iowa

  The Secretary of War desires me to express his deep regret that your son first Lieutenant Richard S Munsen has been reported missing in action since eighteen March over Italy period Letter follows

  Dunlop Acting The ADJ General 8:45 am

  The very next day, in the Story City Herald, a story ran with two large black-and-white photos captioned “AS WE REMEMBER THEM BEST, MISSING IN ACTION.” The photos were of Lieutenant Richard Munsen and Lieutenant Colonel Hubert Egnes.

  Mother wrote Katherine that same day—long-distance calls were very expensive and hardly ever made. Dick had joined the Army Air Force, become a pilot, and been assigned to the Fifteenth Air Force in Italy. He had written Katherine, “I’ve flown 22 missions before my 22nd birthday!”

  After the telegram and confirmation letter, the Munsen family didn’t receive another word of news until Mother’s Day, 1944. That’s when Dick called home, the minute he arrived in New York City. “My mother almost had a heart attack when she heard my voice,” he would recount many times. The family did not receive the army’s telegram about his safety—or Dick’s cable from Casablanca saying the same thing—until he reached home.

  What an extraordinary story of survival he had to tell.

  On March 18, 1944, almost a full month before the telegram had arrived in Story City, a German fighter plane had shot off the right wing of Dick’s plane. A piece of shrapnel had cut his right arm. “I put the plane on automatic pilot and called over the intercom, ‘Pilot to crew: Bail out! Bail out!’ After all nine of my crew had bailed, I stepped down to the catwalk by the bomb bay. . . . Abandoning the plane I counted to ten, then reached with my right hand to pull the ripcord. It wasn’t there. Panic-stricken, I reached on my left side. Saying a prayer, I found it and pulled the cord.” In his haste he had strapped his parachute on upside down.

  The crew landed in the mountains of Yugoslavia, and for forty-five days the men were hunted by Germans, finally being rescued thanks to the aid of Tito’s underground Partisans, who had their headquarters in a cave. After a makeshift airstrip had been lit with burning oil-soaked rags, an American pilot made a night landing with his C-47.

  Months later, when Katherine had finished her internship in Ohio, she took the train back to Story City, stopping along the way to visit me briefly at the University of Iowa. Katherine was relieved that Dick was safe, but there was no hint of a big romance and she had not seen him in almost two years. My sister was focused mostly on her plan to join the army as a dietitian. When she got back on the train, she had no idea that Dick would be waiting for her when she finally arrived home.

  My father called me at school the very next day with the stunning news. “Katherine’s getting married—come home for the wedding!” Dick had not only met the train but proposed in the car on the way home.

  When I got off the telephone, I ran screaming to share the news with my friends who had met her just the day before. I had had no idea that Dick and Katherine were serious—they were always with their group of high school friends, but on a special date the two had seen Gone With the Wind. I was ecstatic. This felt more like a scene from a movie than real life. Would something this exciting, this romantic ever happen to me?

  Twelve days later, on September 17, 1944, the church was filled with gladioli from Magne Idse’s carefully nurtured field of flowers, and Ilza, a violinist from Ames who had once been Katherine’s violin teacher, was the soloist. I was the maid of honor, and Dick’s sister Helen was a bridesmaid. Dick’s brother and cousins were attendants, and my brother, Phil, was a junior usher. Although the bride stole the show with an elegant, shimmering white satin gown and train, no one ever forgot my mother’s gown, found in Des Moines and quite the shock for traditional Story City: a striking black sheath sprinkled with tiny silver sequins.

  After so much sadness, it was a glorious day. As my great-aunt Margretha said, “Even the gladioli waited to bloom!”

  Chapter Nineteen

  TIMES SQUARE? Don’t you girls even think about going there,” Mr. T.C. said with alarm. “If the surrender is announced today—it’ll be pandemonium.”

  “Don’t worry about us,” I said, surprised by his concern. “Remember the millions who turned up for the Eisenhower parade? Wouldn’t have missed that for the world.”

  It was Tuesday, August 14. All anyone could talk about was when Japan would surrender . . . and now it seemed that time was very near.

  “I don’t want to miss a thing,” Marty said, “but no one knows when Truman will be announcing it and I don’t want to stand around Times Square for nothing!”

  But Carolyn and I had already agreed that we didn’t want to risk the chance of missing this historic moment, so we made a plan, promising to call Marty if there was news.

  Carolyn said she’d be waiting outside Saks Fifth Avenue at four o’clock, and I knew I’d have no trouble spotting her. Carolyn was a head-turner. Once, when we were walking past Rockefeller Center, an admiring crowd of sailors had wolf-whistled, following up with a hearty “hubba-hubba,” as she sidled past. Today, from almost a block away, I spotted a smart black-and-white-striped dress with a black patent-leather belt and black ankle-strap heels, and knew immediately that that was Carolyn.

  When we reached the subway platform, two nuns in their fastidious habits were sitting on a bench waiting for a train. Carolyn curtsied in front of them and asked if she could help. They smiled, murmuring Merci, Merci, but did not need assistance. And I admired her thoughtfulness for the sudden throng of people trying to board the train for Times Square might have crushed them.

  We could scarcely breathe—or didn’t want to—as we were pushed inside the next train without an overhead strap to hang on to. When we emerged from the station, the streets were bursting with people, and traffic was at a standstill.

  Carolyn and I decided to head for one of our favorite restaurants, Toffenetti’s. Carolyn forged ahead and I kept my eyes tethered to her black-and-white dress as we dodged past barelegged girls with flowers in their hair, kids with flags and balloons, men and women in military uniforms, and mothers wheeling baby buggies.

  When I stepped on freshly discarded bubble gum, my shoe pulled right off my foot, but Carolyn wasn’t stopping for anything. Carrying one shoe and stepping more carefully, I finally saw the Toffenetti sign with the tantalizing billboard promoting cantaloupe and ice cream. When Carolyn finally stopped to wait for me, she pointed to the line for the restaurant that ran down the block.

  I would have waited forever for a booth at Toffenetti’s, but Carolyn would have none of that. We would go straight to the Hotel Astor, on Broadway between Forty-fourth and Forty-fifth Streets, and claim our spot for the perfect view of all of Times Square.

  “Elbows out,” she yelled as we pushed on, but only after I stopped long enough to scrape the bubble gum onto the curb. A group of sailors was marching arm-in-arm singing “Anchors Aweigh,” boys were climbing a light pole, and servicemen were pouring out of the Astor Bar, around the corner from the main hotel entrance. As we reached our destination, two navy commanders were giving us the eye. The taller, dark-haired officer strolled over to Carolyn, and offered her a Lucky.

  “Hey—what’re you girls doing in this mob?” he asked as he pulled out his Zippo lighter and lit her cigarette. “How about joining a party—our squadron has a suite here at the Astor.”

  We exchanged hesitant glances. That would be one way to escape this crowd, I thought. And Carolyn was thinking the same thing.

  “Come on,” she
said when the other commander joined us.

  The four of us headed for the lobby. We were silent in the elevator, a welcome relief from the hubbub on the street, but awkward. I didn’t know what to say to the sandy-haired commander who seemed to be—my date? He said his name was Brian, from Philadelphia. Carolyn chatted away, lighthearted and laughing.

  I tried to join in, wishing I had her gift for small talk. Finally I gave up and stared at my shoes. My right one was still sticky. I had the distinct feeling that this older guy with the solemn face was a married man.

  When we entered an upper-floor suite, we collided with an officer who had a girl on each arm singing “Chattanooga choo-choo—choo-choo . . . ” as they staggered past. A blue haze of smoke enveloped the room; chairs and sofas had been pushed to the wall to make room to dance. Peanut shells, popcorn, and cigarette butts crunched under my feet. Only one couple was dancing, to “Stardust,” which was playing on a Philco phonograph, the volume turned up, while other couples were drinking or necking on every available sofa or chair. Bright posters on the wall spoke of the last four years: Loose Lips Sink Ships and Sock Your Money in War Bonds. The room reeked of smoke, whiskey, and stale beer.

  “How do you like your Scotch—water or on the rocks?” I was asked.

  The rocks? What was that?

  “Water, please,” I said, grateful for anything wet and cold. A bellboy was supplying ice, cigarettes, and bottles of rum to a makeshift bar that had been set up in the middle of the room. Though it was a bright, sunny day, the suite was gloomy and dark, except for flashes of neon lights from the street below.

  I nudged Carolyn. “Let’s leave.”

  She gave me an eye-roll as her commander lit another Lucky for her. She was in no rush.

  The Scotch quickly numbed my lips, though I was trying to sip it slowly. What an awful drink! Brian—or whatever his name was—rescued pillows from a couch so we could sit on the windowsill. He took out his pipe, filled it, and reached for my knee. I reached, too, to keep control of my accordion-pleated skirt. I was desperately trying to think of something—anything—to say. What about: Do you have a picture of your wife—or kids? Instead, I stared into my glass of Scotch as though I were fascinated by the melting ice.

  “We need another round,” he said. No, that was definitely not what I needed.

  A burly officer was leaning against the bar crooning “Rum and Coca-Cola.” He stopped singing when he saw us. “Whoa-whoa-whoaaa,” he said in a suggestive voice as his date, a woman in a satin fuchsia dress, sent him a cross look.

  Whoa is right! I looked for Carolyn, and couldn’t see her.

  As I scanned the room more anxiously, the commander handed me another Scotch. He pointed with his pipe to an open door leading to other rooms. I shook my head “no.”

  “I have to find my friend,” I said firmly, trying to hide any desperation. “We’re supposed to meet someone. . . .”

  Crash!

  “Judas Priest!” wailed the woman in the fuchsia dress.

  Now what! This place was out of control.

  The bar had collapsed and the lieutenant went with it. On the floor, he was surrounded by broken glasses, gushing bottles, and spilled ashtrays, with most of the ash in his hair. He looked up through bleary eyes to see his date, whose fuchsia dress was now drenched in spirits. She let out a louder “Judas Priest!”

  I hurried through the melee, the smoke so thick I could barely find Carolyn. “So much for this bash!” she said, grabbing for my hand.

  “We’ll just slip right through the door,” I said as we linked arms.

  She laughed. “How about singing ‘Chattanooga Choo-Choo’?” as we charged past the doorway for the elevator.

  “I prayed,” she said breathlessly. “I vowed if I could make it out of there, I’d crawl on my knees to the closest church!”

  “Me, too!” What were we thinking? How naive could two girls be!

  The lobby of the Astor was reeking with perspiration and smoke. I could hear Nat King Cole playing his popular version of “Sweet Georgia Brown” and servicemen, three deep, were trying to crash the famous circular bar.

  “I’ve got to call Marty,” I told Carolyn once we had regained our equilibrium. “She can’t miss this.” Everyone seemed to know that the announcement of the end of the war would happen sometime that night. Marty picked up the phone immediately, and agreed to meet us in front of the Astor at 6:30. Surely she could make the trip in an hour.

  By the time we reached the street, people were leaning out of windows, perched on overhead ledges and fire escapes, clinging to light poles, or sitting on someone’s shoulders. Everyone was jockeying for the best view of Times Square. Broadway was packed tighter than tobacco in a smoker’s pipe, and I began to panic. How would Marty ever find us in this mob?

  As we waited, eyes glued to the Motogram Zipper on Times Tower for a change in message, I saw an army sergeant who looked miserable and lost.

  “Hey, gal,” he said, questioning the concern in my face that was simply mirroring what I saw in his. “Why aren’t you smiling and laughing? My buddy’s never going to laugh again.”

  His words stopped me cold. Seeing his eyes fill with tears, I groped for a comforting response. “I’m so sorry,” I said at last. “I know how you feel—my cousin died, also.” We stood there speechless, until someone yelled, “Hey, Sarge. Over here!” and he was gone.

  “IT’S SIX-THIRTY,” CAROLYN broke in. “Where’s Marty?”

  A sea of people were in the street, pressing and shoving to reach the corner of Forty-fourth Street. It was no place to be; we should have heeded the warnings. I shuddered to think of Marty by herself.

  “We have to wait—she’ll be here,” I assured Carolyn, as if Marty would magically land in front of us. We stayed rooted to our spot with one eye on the Times Tower and the other on the street. Suddenly, at three minutes after seven, the big screen went dark. The crowd seemed to pause momentarily in anticipation. When the lights came on the screen read:

  ***OFFICIAL*** TRUMAN ANNOUNCES Japanese SURRENDER

  A thunderous roar rose from the crowd. Church bells pealed, air-raid sirens wailed, cars honked, tugboats tooted, firecrackers exploded, and people cheered as confetti and paper fell from the windows. Near me, an old man threw his cane in the air.

  An army private kissed every girl he could find. Including me. Streams of tears ran down the cheeks of an elderly woman as she watched the words circling the tower.

  No one was a stranger in that crowd. We had all heard FDR’s “Fireside Chats” and Edward R. Murrow’s “This is London,” listened to H. V. Kaltenborn for the evening news, and watched the newsreels before the movies. We’d read Ernie Pyle’s columns, planted victory gardens, written V mails, sent care packages, gathered phonograph records for the USO, given up nylons for parachutes, saved bacon grease for explosives, and turned in tinfoil, saved from gum wrappers, for ammunition. Most of all, we’d prayed that our loved ones would be safe.

  But still no sign of Marty.

  Carolyn and I had managed to keep our spot in front of the Astor, and we both resumed our crowd-watching, looking for any sign of her and growing more nervous as the throngs became more aggressive, pushing and shoving. It was so loud, it was difficult to even talk to the person standing next to you. Was that flash of blue Marty? No. I would jump up to get a better view over the crowd. That familiar head of hair? Marty? Yes, it was! We waved and shouted her name though we quickly realized she couldn’t hear us. If I could only whistle! Finally, we did catch her eye and she struggled toward us.

  “It took an hour and a half to cross the street!” Marty gasped, her face damp with sweat. “I can’t believe I found you!”

  We hugged each other. We were together. Reunited.

  Caught in a chaotic stream of people, Marty, Carolyn, and I were driven up one block and down another. Where were we? We didn’t know, we didn’t care. Flowerpots were smashing. Firecrackers were tossed from fire escapes. Feathers from
pillowcases floated through the air. Sidewalks were buried in confetti, shredded telephone books, and ticker tape. People were dancing on top of cars and every bar and nightclub overflowed in the streets, with celebrants shouting, kissing, and singing. Filled with that wild sense of exhilaration, we could have walked forever. Later, the three of us never recalled what streets we’d taken until we found our way home. When we finally reached our apartment at 3 o’clock in the morning, not even the desk clerk was surprised. The papers later reported two million celebrants were in Times Square that night!

  And the celebration did not end there. Harlem celebrated for days, firecrackers exploded for weeks, and in Little Italy the wine flowed for a month. After three years, eight months, and seven days of war, it was VJ Day. A day that would never be forgotten.

  106 Morningside Dr.

  Dear Family,

  Just a quick note to let you know—we did go to Times Square. When we saw the news of the surrender everyone went wild! There were over two million people there—can you imagine that? You asked about the lights on Times Square. On the building there are fifteen thousand lightbulbs. They move in a panel five feet high around the building—two men operate it! Yesterday it read: OFFICIAL—TRUMAN ANNOUNCES JAPANESE SURRENDER. I’ll be curious to hear about your VJ Day.

  I can’t help but wonder what life will be like now that this war is finally over.

  Please give my love to Aunt Olive and Uncle Peter.

  Love, Marjorie

  The carillons were playing “America the Beautiful” as Marty and I hurried across the Columbia campus to the Riverside Church. I could feel the vibrations under my feet from the seventy-four bronze bells—the largest carillon in the world. The church towers loomed over Morningside Heights like a beacon that morning, and crowds poured in from every direction. We found a seat in the nave, and I held my breath as sunlight streamed in through the sixteenth-century Flemish stained-glass windows and the organist played a Bach prelude. We had come to celebrate the day with Reverend Harry Emerson Fosdick—better known to New Yorkers as “Fearless Fosdick” due to his outspoken views on social injustice. Never had his famous words “Liberty is always dangerous, but it is the safest thing we have,” sounded as true as they did that day. And I never heard a congregation sing hymns so urgently and vigorously. It was an unforgettable experience to be present at the Riverside Church that day, August 16, 1945—the day after the war’s end—and to express how we felt with tears, joy, and thanksgiving. I was surrounded on all sides by New Yorkers, but had never felt closer to home.