Stage Door Canteen (12 page)

“And YES, we have baseball! The Yankees in the Bronx, the Brooklyn Dodgers—guess where?—and the Giants in Manhattan at the Polo Grounds! And folks, don’t forget a visit to the Museum of Modern Art. We know you’re on leave and there some things you don’t want to be reminded of, but this one you can’t miss. Three years ago Pablo Picasso sent it to the Museum of Modern Art to keep it safe—his great painting that says it all about WAR. Don’t forget the name—it’s called Guernica!

“Finally, ladies and gentlemen of America and men and women of all the fighting Allied forces, New York City has been called Baghdad on the Subway, where there’s a broken heart for every SIN—tillating light bulb on Times Square. But New York still opens her arms to the fighting men and women of the free world and says—’Bless you, enjoy yourselves—this is our way of saying—THANKS!’

“And that, ladies and gentlemen, until next week at the same time, is your New York correspondent, Mrs. Winchell’s little boy Walter, who thinks this gallant wartime metropolis is like none other on this earth—and reminding you that in this year, in this day, this hour, New York is the nearest thing to a world capital that we have. Her lights may be doused for the brown-out, the electrifying sparkle may be gone from Broadway, but for those who come here to take a well-deserved breather from the present conflict, remember—New York’s hospitality, like her heart, is never dimmed!”

“I hear,” George Kanarakis said, “the Theater Guild is getting a lot of calls from cowboys with toe shoes who want to audition for your new musical.”

Jenny said, “That’s not even remotely funny, George.”

They were standing at the counter in the crowded kitchen, filling up paper cups of coffee to carry to the line of GIs waiting outside on Forty-Fourth Street. George had stayed past his usual quitting time to take down the Halloween decorations. Ordinarily Monday was a slow night, but the canteen was so mobbed there were two volunteers on the door keeping count. As soon as a number of servicemen left, approximately the same number were let in. “Really, we can’t figure out why he did that,” Jenny said. “Everyone thought Winchell liked Terry Helburn and Larry Langner and the Theater Guild.”

The kitchen manager filled up two sugar shakers and put them on the tray. “Winchell is a poisonous snake, but actually I think he was just trying to be funny. You know a lot of people hate him.”

“Yes, he’s very powerful.” She looked down at the tray. It was going to take some luck to get a load of hot coffee safely through the main room. A Hollywood contract player named Ava Gardner was guest hostess for the evening and the crowd was six deep around the dance floor, waiting for a chance to dance with her. “I mean, anything Winchell says, either on his radio broadcast or in all those newspaper columns, his listeners do, you know. If he tells them to write Congress for more ships and guns, millions of people do it. Right now the cast can’t help feeling Walter Winchell and his big mouth just ran off any possible backers.”

He shrugged. “Darling, maybe it’s just what Away We Go needs, something to pique a backer’s interest. Who knows? Maybe Winchell’s crack about cowboys in ballet shoes will do it. Stranger things have happened.”

“Ugh, please, it’s no joke. Dick Rodgers was furious. He called Winchell right away. And Agnes de Mille had hysterics. Real hysterics. After all, it’s her ballet. She wanted to go over to Winchell’s office and punch him in the nose.”

He laughed. “Oh God, that woman! Is it true they call her ‘Agony de Mille’?”

She made a face. “Why does everyone think Agnes de Mille is Cecil B. de Mille’s daughter? He’s her uncle, her father is C.B.’s brother. Neither one of them encourage her career from what she says. I hear she’s always broke. But I think she’s wonderfully talented.”

“I saw her dance the lead in her ballet, Rodeo. She has a funny little body, but it was a nice piece of work.” He lifted the tray. “Look, why don’t I take this as far as the front door?”

“Would you?’ Jenny looked grateful. “They really need something hot out there. Some of the GIs have been waiting in line for hours and they’re frozen. When you ask them why they don’t try some of the other USOs in Times Square, they say there’s no room in them, either.”

The canteen had been overflowing all weekend. Troop movements, was the rumor. Loose Lips Sink Ships. Everyone was on edge. The soldiers themselves said, Yeah, we’re probably shipping out.

Ann Bennett and Carmen Thompson were standing, along with a small group of junior hostesses, close to the pillar that marked the dance floor boundary. The band was playing a slow, sultry tune, “Deep Purple.”

“I hate this.” Carmen bent her head toward the canteen director. “I suppose it’s great to have guest Hollywood starlets, but what do we do when our own volunteers just stand around being ignored? They might as well have not bothered to even come in tonight!”

“It’s not as bad as all that.” Ann Bennett was watching Ava Gardner dance with a British marine. “There will be more dancing later, I’m sure. You know, I’d never heard of her, Ava Gardner, before this evening. Have you seen any of her movies? Kid Glove Killer? Or Calling Dr. Kildare?”

The dance floor was almost empty. All eyes were on the beautiful Hollywood actress. Beyond the GIs waiting their turn to dance with her, a clump of canteen hostesses in striped aprons stood watching, just as fascinated.

“Lord,” Ann Bennett murmured, “she’s really gorgeous, isn’t she?” “I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone that naturally—lovely. It’s hard to drag your eyes away.” The music stopped, and another soldier stepped out of the waiting line. “Well, whatever she’s doing, it certainly works. I asked a sailor what he thought of her, and he said she was very nice. She only wanted him to talk about himself. And his family, and where he was from. ‘I’ll remember this all my life,’ quoth he. It was like he’d paid a visit to the Holy Grail.”

The small band struck up another slow tune. Miss Gardner’s new partner was a tall youth in khaki who bent over her while she smiled up at him, talking animatedly. There were still only a handful of other couples on the dance floor. Everyone preferred to watch.

“Well, if they feel that way about it,” Carmen Thompson said, “God knows they’re entitled. After all, who knows where these kids will be next week?”

At that moment a compact body in the uniform of a U.S. Army Air Force sergeant stepped in front of them. “I need to leave a message with somebody.” Belligerent, cornflower blue eyes studied Ann Bennett. “They told me Dina Flaherty’s not here tonight, but I need to leave a message. It’s urgent.”

Carmen Thompson said quickly, “I’m sorry, soldier, we don’t accept messages for the hostesses, it’s against the rules. Why don’t you come back some other night?”

The blue stare turned on her bleakly. “I can’t come back some other night, I’m leaving. Look—I need to write her a note, or something.”

She shook her head. “Stage Door Canteen rules are posted there at the entrance where you come in. If you haven’t read them, I suggest you go over and do so now.”

“I’ve got to leave a message for her,” he insisted. “Dina Flaherty. Can somebody just tell her something for me? That’s not going to break any rules, is it?”

“Sergeant,” Ann Bennett interrupted, “haven’t I seen you around here a lot? Not that we try to discourage anybody, you understand, any Allied service person is welcome at any time.”

“Ann,” the hostess supervisor said, “the sergeant is with that bomber crew doing War Bond rallies in New York. They went to Washington to get medals before they came here. The picture was on the front page of the New York Times.”

“What has that got to do with anything?” Sergeant Struhbeck demanded. “It says on the sign up front that this place renders a service to the enlisted men and women of the Allied armed forces. I want somebody to render me a service and take a message.”

The band was playing a bouncy rendition of I’ve Got Spurs That Jingle Jangle Jingle. Ava Gardner and her partner were doing a decorous Lindy Hop. The canteen director raised her voice. “Sergeant, all I can tell you is, go back and read the rules again. We don’t accept mail sent care of the canteen, telephone calls, or any other messages. We’re not a clearing house for that sort of thing, and we wouldn’t have the manpower to handle it even if we were. Furthermore dating, as you know, is strictly prohibited.” She turned to the other woman and said, “Carmen, I have some things for you to do in the office. Right now, if you can manage it.”

She turned and walked away. The hostess supervisor hesitated a moment, then followed her. Annemarie van Troup, who was standing with the other hostesses, reached out and grabbed Gene Struhbeck’s arm. “Don’t pay any attention to what they say. I know Dina Flaherty. What is it you want to tell her?”

“Thanks a lot.” He gave her a burning look. “I could kiss you for that.”

She giggled. “No, don’t do that, you really will get me in trouble. You’re ‘way too cute!”

“This is important to me. If I write it in a note, can you give it to her?” He hesitated. “You promise, no fooling around?”

One of the other girls said, “You really got to her, you know. About that part on the board that says that the canteen ‘renders services.’ She really couldn’t think of a thing to say to that, could she?”

“I promise,” Annemarie van Troup said. “No fooling. Really.”

“They don’t bend the rules,” someone said vehemently, “they never bend the rules. And they need to, sometimes.”

“Do you have a piece of paper?” Eugene Struhbeck said, reaching into his jacket. “I’ve got a pen.”

Dina Flaherty and her cousin, Angela Casabono, sat in the next to last row of the Church of the Blessed Incarnation. It was a cold November night and drizzling rain, but the church had a sizable crowd for the Monday night novena to Our Lady of Perpetual Help with the young wives of men in the service, and their middle-aged mothers and aunts and grandmothers. Incarnation was an Italian church; some of the masses were in Italian as well as Latin, and many older women wore black lace veils, a somber sight when one looked toward the altar from the back of the church. The crows , the New Utrech High girls used to call them.

The location, in the back near the holy water font, was a popular spot with parish high school girls. There they could whisper and pass notes, and escape the notice of Father Paul Victor and his assistant Brother Anselm, as well as the Blessed Incarnation’s ever-vigilant nuns.

For some years the back pews of Blessed Incarnation had been claimed by a group from the all-girl Bayshore High School, who wore pastel pullover sweaters and pleated skirts and saddle shoes, and were studiedly glamorous. Dina and Angie Casabono and their friends who went to New Utrech High spent most of their junior year secretly envying them.

Now the Bayshore clique no longer occupied the back of Blessed Incarnation. They were war wives, and sat up front at Sunday mass with their babies and their mothers and fathers. Only a handful came to the Monday night novenas to Our Lady of Perpetual Help for the safety of the parish boys who were in the war.

Dina rested her chin on her hands on the back of the pew in front, and watched the parish priest, Father Paul Victor, face the congregation to offer up a prayer. She wouldn’t have come to the novena if it hadn’t been for her cousin, Angie. Who had practically begged her to sit with her because she said she didn’t think she could survive another novena with her mother, Dina’s Aunt Marie. Who went faithfully every Monday night and had never missed even one novena that whole year. Angie’s brothers, Vincent, aged nineteen, and William, twenty, were on ships somewhere in the South Pacific. Marie Casabono worried herself sick. It was hard on everybody.

“My mother,” Angie confided, “is a basket case. God forbid anything should happen to Vincent or Billy, I don’t want even to think about it. It would kill my father, too. Mama is also scared out of her mind because she heard what happened to Mrs. Livoti. She went to answer the door and there was a Western Union messenger standing there with a telegram. So Mrs. Livoti took it and opened it and the telegram said, ‘We regret to inform you that your son has been killed in action.’ Just like that. That’s the way the government lets you know—you just open a telegram not really knowing what to expect and it’s there. It just says your son is dead. Or your husband is dead The shock was too great for Mrs. Livoti, and she fainted dead away. She was all alone in the house, too. When she woke up she was having a heart attack. She had to get up off the floor while she was having the heart attack and go over to a neighbor’s and get the neighbor to call an ambulance. They called her husband at work and told him about the telegram and that it had put his wife in the hospital. Now my mother won’t even answer the front door. Not even to get the milk in the morning, she makes my father do it. Not even to pay the paper boy. My mother is not only terrified she will get a telegram saying something’s happened to my brothers, but that it will kill her at the same time. She says the war is this evil thing that reaches out to people and kills them. She says she dreams about it.”

They heard Father Paul Victor announce a prayer for special intention. Dina and Angie slid forward to kneel. The sanctuary of Blessed Incarnation was cold and many of the lights were turned off to conserve energy. It was hard from the back of the church to make out the faces of the larger-than-life-sized statues of St. Anthony with the Infant Jesus in his arms, St. Francis, St. Theresa, and the Blessed Virgin, that flanked the nave. By contrast, the votive candles on both sides of the church were banks of fire in their ruby-colored glasses. The odor of melted candle wax was strong. Several rows ahead Dina’s Aunt Marie bent her head and prayed for the safety of Vincent and Billy.