Paris was my connection with the
world outside the World of War. By the
winter of 1944-45 typically the city was swarming with GIs in town for R &
R. The city offered every new and old
American movie and all sorts of night life.
While in college, I first had heard of the famous spectacle, Folies Bergere, in Paris.
Long had I thought of getting to
see its tasteful, beautifully designed, gorgeously dressed and presented
variety show, with singing and dancing par
excellence. Though well known to portray no values on
“clothed” compared to “nude”, the Folies
for years ranked with grand opera and the best of ballet in the minds of
world-wise cultivated American tourists.
And finally, although alone on a trip to Paris, I was determined to get
to see it this time!
After finishing my work at the
Croix Rouge headquarters I walked back to my hotel and found myself walking
beside a young GI on R & R. He was
from Iowa, was fascinated with Paris but complained that he didn’t know what to
do. So I suggested several things—movies, museums, etc. Getting up his nerve he asked me what I was
doing. So I told him Folies Bergere whereupon he asked—not
just to go with me—but to take me. After
some argument I agreed that he could buy my ticket too and drop by my hotel to
pick me up for the “date.”
Upon arriving at the theater I was
surprised to see that the hundreds of seats, orchestra, and balconies were
completely full of GIs. The moment Mr.
Iowa and I became visible to the back rows, we ignited a full-house applause,
the guys clapping loudly and whistling.
I was dying to get into my seat and out of sight. Imagine my embarrassment (highly visible with
my unique white gloves and Red Cross uniform) with all eyes on the two of
us. Mr. Iowa just kept on going, leading
all the way through a balcony to the most expensive, most cherished, most
obvious box high above and directly over the stage. The crowd then really whistled and roared.
But that was just the beginning of
my evening’s mortification. Sitting
right over nudity is very different indeed from the romantic, imaginative
sensations of watching the stage action from afar. Mr. Iowa turned beet red and stayed that way
all evening. I probably did too. As I remember, we sat in total silence all
the while.
I’ve often wondered how many of his
people back home pass along the story that the Red Cross is full of totally
depraved women.
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