After the German capitulation that
summer, I went to Croix Rouge headquarters for the last time. In Paris I well remember joining the hundreds
of military men on leave in a large movie theater. That afternoon before starting the movie, a
news feature was screened showing a big band in the US playing Gonna Take a Sentimental Journey. I couldn’t keep from crying, probably along
with hundreds of others who were hearing that song for the first time. Was I homesick? Yes!
But I hadn’t realized it.
The memory of that song along with
three others from WWII years has always been an intimate part of my
sentimental, emotional life. First came There’ll Always be an England” and the
phrase “and England shall be free’’
played often in the early 40s—motivating me from just hearing to doing
something—don’t just enjoy life here.
And then, before I joined the Red Cross, I started hearing The Last Time I Saw Paris on the radio
in Washington.
In France that late
summer of 1945 my fourth memorable song appeared in cabaret style on the
radio: Symphonie. Sung in French of
course, it became part of the many moments I loved in Bar le Duc when Capt. Dan
Lynch and I were listening to it together. I bought a copy of the French sheet
music to take home and it was played at our wedding the following year. “All alone, in my reverie, it is you I see,
my symphonie.”
It was a languid, slow-moving kind
of summer—almost boring after our previous months of mad activity. Imagine our shock when suddenly we learned
that the US had used a nuclear bomb, dropping it on Hiroshima. My first news came from the Stars and Stripes on August 6th. Ghastly warfare—how would this news affect
us? Did any other country have nuclear
bombs?
And then 3 days later another of
our atomic bombs was dropped, on Nagasake.
Six days later Japan announced its surrender to the Allied Powers. No more concern about going to Japan! We were home free!
But it didn’t happen
overnight—returning home. There were
three months of boredom, waiting.
Several moves and more idle lingering before arriving in Le Havre to
board a regular US troop ship and cross the Atlantic. We Red Crossers from the 95th
General Hospital were packed in along with masses of GIs, a few officers and a
considerable number of European wives of troops, quite a few with babes in
arms. Of the team of five from the 95th
I alone remained from the original group, as others had been reassigned or
replaced.
It was early November and fairly
cold but, unlike our crossing to England nearly two years before, this one was
uneventful. All we could think about was
how wonderful it would be to sail into New York harbor, arrive at our hotel,
enjoy dinner after celebrating at the bar, and tumble into a real bed—home at
last.
Off the ship in the early evening,
we Red Crossers left the military travelers and were whisked directly to the
New Yorker Hotel near midtown New York.
“Great” we thought. What a shock
it was to find the hotel rooms so stuffy and miserably hot—it was the wretched
central heat. Straight to the windows we
went and hoisted them up as far as they would go. Taking a few minutes to tidy up we braved the
stuffy elevator and the furnace-like hallways.
In the main lobby, guided by the sounds of fun, we entered the bar in
great anticipation.
But after a few steps we were
stopped dead by the doorman who glared at us and flatly stated that we couldn’t
come in there. “What?” we said in
astonishment. Looking down his nose he
patiently reminded us, “You know that women can’t come in here without male
escorts.”
Such was our introduction to
stateside. Overseas there were such
crowds of Americans living harmoniously, working so hard to the same ends,
disregarding rules that interfered with a sense of togetherness, equality. We had become misfits. Adjustment for me came slowly that first year
at home.
In my song, Symphonie, each time that word appears in several repeats, it is
sung to the same melody. At the end,
however, although the musical phrase is the same, the words change to “C’est
finis.”
No comments:
Post a Comment