One afternoon, one of the station’s organists, Mary Lee Read of Denver, who volunteered to play each holiday season, launched into a rousing version of “The Star-Spangled Banner.” This brought the main concourse to a standstill, all commuters holding hands to their hearts as they stood to listen, causing legions of missed trains. The stationmaster asked Mary not to play that song again, and she became the only organist in New York ever barred from playing the United States national anthem.
Security at Grand Central was tight, since two German spies had been caught trying to sabotage the station, but a small corps of volunteers, including Mother and me, were allowed in to sell bonds. All agreed Mother had missed her calling, for she was quite the rainmaker. Woe to the weary traveler who refused to part with at least ten cents for a war stamp, for once in her thrall, they all ended up forcing additional funds on her, which she happily accepted.
There were large numbers of women commuting through the station then. With so many men at war, women joined the workforce in droves. Even Betty had a job typing reports at the armory. Not exactly Rosie the Riveter, but it was a big step for her.
Mother and I spent Christmas morning of 1943 at Saint Thomas Church, not far from Grand Central Terminal at Fifth Avenue and Fifty-third Street. We listened to Rector Brooks at his magnificent carved-oak lectern, resplendent in his Christmas finery, as he did his best to lift our spirits. The war weighed heavily on the congregation, mostly women and older men at that point. There were a few uniformed servicemen in the pews, but most had been deployed to Europe or the Pacific theater by then, including our elevator boy, Cuddy. Every one of us knew someone who’d been impacted by the war. I said a prayer for those aboard the French ship Roger had been forced to turn away the day before, thousands of Europe’s displaced seeking asylum, still waiting off the coast.
I couldn’t bear to count the months since I’d heard from Paul. Roger’s best guess was that he was still at Natzweiler concentration camp. From what information I could gather, many French men had ended up there in the Vosges Mountains doing hard labor in extreme cold. Could anyone survive two years at such a place?
That year another development had surfaced, troubling and ominous. It was clear not only from the scanty reports we got from the Swiss Red Cross but also from New York and London papers that Hitler was moving ahead with his plan to annihilate Jews, Slavs, Gypsies, and any other people he considered Untermenschen, subhumans, in order to make room for his Lebensraum. Reports of gas vans at Chelmno, Poland, and mass exterminations had surfaced. Hitler even stated his plan openly in his ranting speeches, yet Roosevelt was slow to react and kept immigration at a bare minimum.
Saint Thomas was our life raft of hope. Kneeling there in that great church, the air perfumed with frankincense, the magnificent stone altarpiece behind the altar, I felt the world might just untangle itself after all. When I was a child, Father and I began memorizing all sixty saints and famous figures carved in stone there. Saint Polycarp. Saint Ignatius. Saint Cyprian. We’d made it to number forty-six, George Washington, when Father died, so I’d never learned the rest. Being there made me feel close to him, especially when the organist got all 1,551 of the organ’s pipes playing “God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen,” Father’s favorite Christmas song. Just hearing the flush-cheeked choirboys sing of God’s glory renewed one’s sense of positivity.
As Rector Brooks told us of his plans to enlist in the military and join “the old Seventh Regiment” of New York as chaplain, I read the names cut into the wall of those who served in World War I. Twenty of those, their names painted in gold, gave their lives for their country. How many more would we lose to this second world war? Our parish had more than four hundred members in uniform, and we had already surpassed World War I in the number of those mortally wounded.
I’d snuck one of Paul’s letters into my hymnal, a straggler that had arrived well after France had been invaded. I’d read and reread it so many times it had become thin as facial tissue. I read as Rector Brooks continued:
Thank you, my love, for the packets of Ovaltine. Believe me, this is a welcome change from the hot beverage Rena’s father makes from ground acorns. Do not be alarmed if this letter is my last for a short while. Every newspaper is predicting an invasion soon. But in the meantime know that I miss you and you are not outside my thoughts for more than a few minutes and that is when I am asleep. Please keep us in your prayers and sleep soundly on your pink satin sheets, knowing we will be at H&H Automat soon, enjoying the air conditioning and the apple—
I felt someone’s gaze and turned to find David Stockwell across the aisle from me one pew back. He stared openly at me. What was that on his face? Curiosity? A bit of sadness? I closed my hymnal as Sally Stockwell, who even in the chill of the great hall appeared to be perspiring in earnest, leaned forward and smiled in my direction. Betty leaned forward as well and rolled her eyes for my benefit, a commentary on Rector Brooks’s lengthy sermon.
At the end of the service, Rector Brooks left the altar and followed a sparse procession of choirboys and old men. As they made their way down the center aisle, it was clear their ranks had been decimated, since many had gone off to war, trading their scarlet cassocks and white surplices for military uniforms. Once they made it to the rear of the church and back to the sacristy, the congregation began filtering out.
Mother and I caught up with Betty, David, and Sally in the narthex of the church, the exquisite entryway with its lovely coffered ceiling. All three stood out in the crowd, Betty since she wore a suit of pure white under her Denmark mink coat; Sally since she was about to burst with twins, her crimson coat fighting a losing battle trying to cover her belly; and David because he was practically the only man in Manhattan not in a uniform. He claimed his job at the State Department was an equal sacrifice, but compared to going to war, long lunches at “21” didn’t seem a hardship.
Mother and I reached the three as Sally fanned herself with a church program.
“Oh, hello, Caroline,” said Sally with a tremulous smile.
“Looks like we’ll have two Christmas babies?” Mother said.
“Three,” Betty said. “Now it’s triplets. Mother’s having fits. She has to have three baby nurses lined up.” It wasn’t enough that the Dionne quintuplets were on every billboard, reminding me of my own childlessness. Sally Stockwell had to be an overachiever as well.
I took David by the elbow. “Can I speak to you? Privately?”
David looked startled. Afraid I wanted to discuss our past? Despite my still-bruised feelings, I couldn’t help but notice he seemed to be getting better looking with age.
“I hope he’s not in trouble,” Betty said.
“I can spare a minute,” David said. “But we do need to get home. Cook has a roast on.”
I pulled David to a quieter corner, and he smiled. “If this is a last-minute bid for my affections, maybe church isn’t—”
“Why won’t you return my calls?” I said.
The war had not impeded David’s ability to dress well—classic, but almost to the edge of fop, his necktie arched, the pockets of his camel-hair coat with perfectly swelled edges.
“When was the last time you did me a favor?”
“I just need you to call someone about—”
“Only Congress can loosen immigration quotas, Caroline. I told you.”
“You’re in a powerful position, David.”
“To do what?”
“Roger had to turn down another boat this morning. Sailing from Le Havre. Half of them children. If you could just ask—”
“The country doesn’t want more foreigners.”
“Foreigners? Half this country just got here a generation ago. How can you just let people die, David?”
David took my hand. “Look, C. I know Paul Rodierre is over there in a bad situation—”
I pulled my hand away. “It’s not that. How can we just do nothing? It’s appalling.”
Rector Brooks joined Mother, Betty, and Sally in the narthex. He waved his hand in a sign of the cross over Sally’s belly, which only seemed to cause Sally to fan herself more.