Stage Door Canteen (21 page)

Drinking wasn’t the answer.

He was awake because the dogs were barking. The light was bright beyond the picture window, so the sun was up. Someone was pounding on the side of the trailer.

He got out of bed, aware that sometime during the night he had kicked off his shoes. The hangover was there, too.

Slowly, blinking, feeling his headache hammering behind his eyes, he groped his way down the trailer in his sock feet to let Morley in. Bright Texas sunshine streamed in the kitchen window revealing the dishes, a couple of days old, that were still in the sink. But when he opened the door and peered out it wasn’t his father but an Army Air Force officer standing there in the yard, the sun bouncing off the polished visor of his garrison cap, his military buttons, his spit-and-polish shoes. A Midland taxicab was drawn up behind the officer, the motor running.

“Sergeant Struhbeck?” The officer seemed to be taking in the sorry state of his attire with some bemusement. “Relax, you don’t have to salute. I’m Lieutenant Malcolm Sandover, ISPD, Washington. Your leave has been cancelled.”

TWELVE

The Stage Door Canteen wished to remind everyone it was engaged in preparations for the first Thanksgiving holiday of the war. It was difficult to believe, but all you had to do was count back and remember that Thanksgiving was just a couple of weeks before the Japanese bombed Pearl Harbor. Almost one year ago.

Goodness, how time flies, the Canteen staff told each other. So much had happened, not all of it that good. In fact, things still looked pretty bad. American troops were fighting in every corner of the globe, and now there was a big offensive in North Africa. Here at home there was a stringent wartime rationing of food, gasoline, even clothing. You had to pray that the coming year, 1943, would be a lot better.

The Stage Door Canteen, the committee explained through a notice sent to all staffers and volunteer hostesses, would not offer holiday dinners on the premises because kitchen equipment was inadequate to attempt the job, and space was always a consideration. However, the board of governors wanted to assure everyone that no member of the Allied fighting forces who wanted to celebrate America’s great national holiday would be prevented from doing so. There were thousands of Thanksgiving dinners being offered in the New York metropolitan area, not only by the USO canteens but by various churches in all four boroughs, and many veterans’ organizations. New York City restaurant chains like Childs,’ Stouffer’s and the Brass Rail, as well as the world-famous Stork Club and the elegant Rainbow Roof on top of the RCA building in Rockefeller Center, were contributing traditional Thanksgiving dinners with all the trimmings. During the week of the holiday every member of the Allied armed forces entering the canteen would get a number at the door, and the drawing for free Thanksgiving dinners available all over the city would be held at eleven o’clock each night.

In addition, some of the theater families from the governing boards of not only the canteen but the parent organization, the American Theater Wing, including Broadway producers like George Abbott and Billy Rose, stars like Helen Hayes and Tallulah Bankhead, and songwriters like Irving Berlin, were having GIs as Thanksgiving guests in their homes. The canteen would be open on Thanksgiving and the holiday weekend because, of course, the Stage Door Canteen never closed.

At the regular Tuesday meeting for the B team senior hostess committee, Ann Bennett was of the opinion that if the past few weeks were any indication, they would be swamped at Thanksgiving. In fact, the canteen would have to prepare for the heaviest traffic it had seen so far. “Of course we don’t actually want to refer to anything that’s going on,” she noted. “We don’t want to be accused of loose lips or anything like that, but I don’t have to remind you the place is so jammed every night that any food we have disappears as fast as we can put it out.”

“Ann,” Carmen Thompson said, “I don’t think it’s any big secret that troops are going overseas from New York City. There’s a war going on, remember?”

The director gave her a disapproving look. “Let me remind all of you we don’t know anything about troop movements, that’s not our job here! Please, please, everybody, don’t comment on what might even seem like the obvious, such as troop movements. We have an obligation not to even think about such things. The canteen has made a very solemn commitment to the armed forces. We may be a volunteer organization, but that doesn’t mean we can’t have unity on this and operate in a totally professional way.”

“Ann, it’s in all the newspapers,” the supervisor of hostesses said. “Everybody in the New York area knows what’s going on. Our army is chasing Rommel to catch him and beat the starch out of him. At least that’s what the New York Times says this morning.”

Jenny, the peacemaker, said quickly, “Not to change the subject, but did you see the colored WAACs? Monday night, there must have been a whole platoon of them.” She looked around the table. “That’s right, a platoon? Company, platoon, battalion, I can’t keep these things straightened out. Anyway, they were absolutely beautiful. They came into the canteen about eight o’clock, unfortunately we had only recorded music, no live band. But goodness, they were impressive in their WAAC uniforms!”

One of the senior hostesses down at the end of the table said, “Don’t worry, they didn’t miss the live band. There was nobody for them to dance with, anyway.”

“Yes, that is a shame,” Jenny admitted. “The colored WAACs sat and watched everything going on. Then they got coffee and cookies, and talked. They didn’t stay long.”

Someone laughed. “Tough luck. You can dress them up in fancy uniforms, but they’re still jigaboos.”

The meeting went suddenly still. Elise Ginsberg, eyes wide, said, “Jigaboos?”

Carmen Thompson said, “For goodness sakes, why did you laugh? I don’t think that’s funny at all.”

Ann Bennett looked pained. “I didn’t think a subject like this would ever come up in senior hostess’ meeting. Besides, it’s all been taken care of. The canteen has a policy, you know.”

“That word is not one,” Carmen maintained, “we use in here.”

“Oh, come off it!” The senior hostess was unrepentant. “It was just a joke, for heaven’s sake. But I’ll tell you, if the coloreds are going overseas, maybe they can do something constructivefor a change. I mean, you have to wonder how loyal they are to America anyway, when they say they’re going to call a strike if they don’t get paid big money for working in defense plants just like everybody else.”

“Is this a ‘racial slur,’ ‘jigaboo’?” Elise said. “I am not familiar with the word.”

“Oh, please, look what you’re doing to our poor interpreter.” Ann Bennet looked around the table. “Elise, believe me, you don’t need to add any words like jigaboo to your vocabulary. Just forget it.”

“Well, Negro workers in defense plants didn’t strike,” Carmen Thomson maintained with some heat, “but I think they should have. You know, this sort of thing really irks me, it’s so unfair. Other workers can threaten to strike, the unions do it all the time, but not Negroes. That’s disloyal. There’s such a lot of inequality, but nobody wants to talk about it! Frankly, I don’t see any reason why there should be all-Negro WAAC companies, either, I really don’t. That’s segregation, pure and simple. The same with colored men, making them serve in all-Negro units in the military! And why shouldn’t Negroes be paid the same as white workers in defense plants with government contracts? That’s all they’re asking!”

One of the other hostesses said, “I don’t have anything against Negroes. But they shouldn’t try to sabotage the war effort by saying they’re going to strike if they don’t get more money.”

“Are you kidding? They only want equal wages, for God’s sake.”

There was a pause and someone said, “Well, talk about segregation, we don’t have any colored Stage Door Canteen hostesses, do we?”

“How else are they,” Carmen persisted, “going to get the same pay as white workers if they don’t take some sort of stand? The NAACP knows it looks bad, but asking politely for something certainly hasn’t gotten Negro workers any sort of break in the past.”

“The canteen is going to have some colored volunteers,” Ann Bennett put in quickly, “I’m sure of it. We’ve been trying to recruit colored hostesses for some time. I’m sure most of them would prefer to volunteer for their own colored organizations in Harlem.”

“There, you see?” the senior hostess said. “It’s not that big an issue. The colored feel more comfortable running their own canteens up there.”

“Have they got any USO canteens in Harlem?” someone wondered.

There was a groan.

“I don’t know,” Ann Bennett said, “and frankly I don’t care. We have the only Stage Door Canteen in New York City, and we do have Negro servicemen and women come here. Not many, it’s true, but they get the same treatment as everyone else. Frankly, everyone is entitled to their own opinion. The Canteen does have a policy. That is, all enlisted service personnel are welcome, and everyone is treated the same.” Her lips tightened. “Now that the subject has come up, if you feel you are unable to agree with that, then you are free to turn in your apron. With our thanks for all that you’ve done.”

Elise said, curious, “Is this true, are the coloreds doing the same work in war plants as the whites, but are getting paid less for it? How can this be?”

“I think we are through with this as a subject, aren’t we? We all should all be aware of canteen policy by now.”

The senior hostess who had made the original remark shrugged. “Oh, I’d expect you to be sympathetic, Miss Ginsburg. You people always are.”

Carmen looked up. “What does that mean? I seem to be missing something, Who are ‘you people’?”

“I mean Jewish people. Isn’t Miss Ginsburg Jewish? You know, liberals. They have to stick together.”

“That’s ridiculous,” someone cried. “Elise has nothing to do with this.”

“But I am sympathetic,” Elise murmured. “In a democracy everyone should get fair treatment, no?” She looked around with a hesitant air. “Perhaps the Negroes are right. In a democracy they should get paid like everybody else.”

There was another silence. Jenny said meekly, “I’m really sorry I brought this up.”

“Oh Jenny, no,” Carmen told her. “We need to—”

Ann Bennett, seizing the opportunity to switch subjects, said jokingly, “Nevermind, Miss Rose, you’ve done enough, leaving us in the lurch for Thanksgiving!” She managed a smile. “I know you want to spend leave in Washington with your husband, but the Stage Door Canteen demands some dedication to duty, you know. You have to see his picture,” she went on to the others. “I don’t know where Jenny found him, but I’d spend a leave with her husband anytime. He’s a major now, isn’t he?”

Jenny dug in her purse for snapshots so she could pass them around. “Yes, he’s a major now. Brad’s expecting to be shipped out, and of course I’m hysterical about it. I just can’t seem to manage the traditional stiff upper lip.” She grimaced. “Oh, why am I saying this, when most of you have people you love in the war, too? Believe me, I apologize!”

A sympathetic murmur ran around the table. Carmen Thompson put her hand over Jenny’s. “Not all of us have loved ones in the service, Jenny dear. But we know how you feel.”

Jenny looked around the table at the senior hostesses now regarding her compassionately. The group consisted of a staff nurse at St. Vincent’s hospital, an English teacher from Horace Mann High School, two doctors’ wives, an heiress from the family that owned Rupert’s Brewery on Manhattan’s East Side, and the wardrobe mistress of an off-Broadway show. The only theater person besides Jenny.

“We have only two days. The show has a Saturday rehearsal, and I have to be back by then. And Brad’s group is bring shipped overseas at just any time. It’s been so long since we’ve spent any time together, I can’t tell you how revved up I am. They call these furloughs the ‘Uncle Sam honeymoon.’” She laughed. “It was so hard to get a train ticket to Washington over the holidays, and they told me it would probably be standing room only as far as Trenton. But after that I should be able to get a seat.”

There was a chorus of good wishes from the senior hostess’ committee. They all knew about the housing and hotel room shortage in Washington, and expressed hope Jenny’s husband had found a place for them to stay. Jenny told them Brad complained about the accommodations at the Shoreham, that room was designed for single, not double occupancy. Luckily his roommate, Captain Brownlee, planned to spend Thanksgiving with his family in Tennessee, which at least gave them the room to themselves. They were actually the envy of ISPD. It was practically unheard of, to have your wife in town and a hotel room to take her to.

Under their interested gaze, Jenny colored a little. Wartime laid it on the line plainly enough. The opportunity for intimacy was out in the open in a way no one would have dreamed of in peacetime.

After the meeting Ann Bennett told Jenny the senior hostesses had taken up a collection to buy her a corsage to wear on her “Uncle Sam honeymoon.” Since many kinds of delivery were a wartime casualty, she would have to pick it up at the florist on her way to Penn Station. Everyone wanted Jenny to understand that they wished her a wonderful time with her husband in Washington. It was just too bad, they agreed, that they didn’t have longer.

The corsage was a purple orchid with loops of silver ribbon. Jenny said yes to the Riverside Florist Shop’s suggestion that she wear it instead of carrying it in its cardboard box, since she would have enough to manage with her purse and suitcase. It was a struggle, though getting it pinned to her suit; the pearl-tipped florists’ pins didn’t seem to want to penetrate the jacket’s black serge. The taxi driver, waiting at the curb on Broadway, leaned on his horn in true New York cabbie-style to protest the delays.