Seventeen Days and counting until the release of “River of January: Figure Eight.” Books will be available at http://www.river-of-january.com.
Tag Archives: wwii
Premier Sunday
Ladies and gentleman! Today, October 2, 2016 I proudly present the cover art for book two of River of January.
Please welcome River of January: Figure Eight, available for purchase one month from today, November 2, 2016.
Huge thanks go out to the talented Brooke Rousseau, and her brilliant mother, Yvonne at Point Rider Publishing.
Perorders available at gailchumbley@gmail.com.
To catch up with book one, River of January is available at www.river-of-january.com or at Amazon.com. Also found on Kindle.
Author Gail Chumbley can be found at gailchumbley@gmail.com or at http://www.river-of-january.com
Guanabara Bay at Sunrise
South Atlantic
1936
Aside from the never-ending Elie issue, the voyage itself passed pleasantly. Helen and Lila scrambled out of their beds each morning ready for fun. They hurried to breakfast in the dining room, joining the other young people on the ship. And depending on their moods, Helen and her cohorts played shuffleboard, ping-pong, or other games on deck. After meals she strolled with Lila around the upper level, and the girls always found time to take in the afternoon sun.
Helen enjoyed the scenic two-week voyage, which included additional ports of call along the way, for passengers and mail. Helen noticed that each time they docked, The Southern Cross steered into harbors increasingly clogged with more ocean-going traffic. Recife, in particular was congested enough the ship had to sit off shore until its scheduled arrival time. Anxious for Rio, Helen asked a crew member why the ship had to sit and wait.
“Must keep to the timetable, Miss. The cost of coming into port early can be as high as $500 a day.”
After another stop in Vitorio, the ship downshifted to a veritable crawl. She could feel the air thicken, heavy and muggy, in the motionless heat. Sweltering, the two American girls grew impatient with the slower pace and filled their time packing then repacking their trunks.
The last night on board, Helen took her time washing and setting her hair. She had painted her nails and toes a bright red, and had gone to bed early; 8:00 PM. Lila did the same. The day before, during lunch, an elderly lady from Connecticut had described the beauty of approaching Rio by sea.
“There is no panorama more exquisite than entering Guanabara Bay at sunrise,” the matron declared, her eyes bright with enthusiasm.
Their curiosity piqued, the girls thanked their luncheon partner, and agreed to greet the dawn as it lighted their nearly mythical destination.
The deck appeared empty, dark, and still just before 4:30 AM. The girls had stumbled out of their beds, pulled on their robes, and stepped out into the cool air. As Helen’s eyes adjusted, she could identify other early risers, also clad in their robes. Clustering at the railing, the onlookers were absolutely overwhelmed with the panorama that gradually unveiled before them.
Helen gazed as the sun, rising from behind her, shadowed an elongated silhouette of the ship on the quiet water. Sugar Loaf Mountain presented slowly, from the summit down, exposed by the rising light, cobalt and gold reflecting on the calm, glassy bay. The relatively dry morning air and growing excitement over their imminent departure from the ship left both girls exhilarated.
“Lila, this was a keen idea!”
“Sure was. Glad I thought of it,” Lila replied, laughing.
*
Helen’s intuition alerted her that something wasn’t quite right. Standing behind Lila, in the customs queue, she watched as a short, balding official approached them from the head of the line. He tapped both girls on the shoulder, gesturing for them to step off to the side.
Innocently, she and her friend complied, dragging their trunks and pulling smaller bags with them. The official then returned to the front of the passageway without a word. The two girls looked at each other, puzzled at the strange request. There seemed to be no special reason they were targeted, and no one who bothered to provide them with an explanation.
The Club Copacabana manager, Mr. Max Koserin arrived to the docks to personally pick up his American dancers around 10:00 AM. He smiled at his new employees, whom he noticed at once. His expression shifted dramatically, however, when he realized they were standing alone, outside of the customs queue, with their baggage at their feet.
“Good Morning, ladies. I presume that you are Miss Thompson and Miss Hart?” Koserin asked.
Helen spoke first. “Yes. I’m Helen, and this is Lila. Thank goodness you’re here, Mr. Koserin. That man at the front pulled us out of line without telling us why. We don’t understand what’s going on.”
“Please try not to worry,” their new boss assured, looking them both in the eye. “I will get to the bottom of this unfortunate misunderstanding.”
Koserin walked to the customs officer and began what quickly escalated into a heated exchange. Helen felt her hope for a quick resolution fade.
“This gentleman has informed me that the city of Rio has recently passed an ordinance requiring all foreign acts coming into the city to deposit a bond with the police,” the club manager explained when he returned.
“We have to…?” Lila began to cry out.
“No, no, my dear, that is my job,” Koserin soothed the frightened dancer.
Mr. Koserin explained that the sum required for their bond totaled the entire eight-week salary for both girls, paid in advance. Strangely, Helen again became calm when the manager didn’t blink at the so-called “news.” In fact he showed no surprise at all. She guessed he expected the snag.
Still, he turned to the girls and cautioned, “Please do not worry, I will be back.”
Lila opened her mouth to speak, but Koserin raised his hand, continuing, “It will take most of the day to generate that sum of money. Stay together and please don’t be alarmed.”
Koserin smiled serenely and then departed.
Again watching the little bald bureaucrat, she noticed that he barely glanced at the passports of travelers he was processing. She quickly understood that the two of them were victims of petty corruption. No actual protocols existed for performers or any other workers to enter the country. She recalled her trips to the police station and consulate in New York, now wondering why she had bothered.
As the day dragged on, Helen grew more certain that their new boss’ presence wasn’t just limited to a warm welcome and a lift to their hotel. She believed that Koserin had rescued other new acts delayed the same way. And though she trusted that he would return with their affidavits, it didn’t help that both girls were stranded in the heat and humidity. No one offered them a chair, a drink of water, shade, or any help. The two Americans just stood miserably under the Rio sun.
When Lila meekly asked, the chief steward refused to permit them to go to their compartment to wait out of the heat.
Wiping her forehead with a handkerchief from her purse, Helen sighed. It had been hours, and there was no sign of Mr. Koserin with their ransom. Her eyes, automatically raked the docks searching for their boss, then toward the departing passengers. It was at that moment Helen locked eyes with the bullish little customs agent.
“That official over there, do you see him? Helen whispered to Lila.
“The man who pulled us out of line?” Lila asked.
“Yes, him.” He keeps leering at me. It’s been getting worse the last hour or so.”
“Disgusting!” Lila scoffed.
“I wonder how often that little twit gets away with his scheme,” Helen quipped. Both girls shuddered, glancing again toward the toad-like bureaucrat.
Time ground on and they watched as a queue of new passengers began boarding from the dock below.
Observing the foot traffic Helen realized, “Lila, I think we have another problem. This ship is scheduled to leave for Buenos Aires at five o’clock.” Swallowing her panic she added, “And we’re going too, if this problem isn’t resolved.”
Out of the corner of her eye she caught the official again, grinning suggestively. Tears traced down Lila’s pink, burning cheeks.
Turning away, glancing automatically toward the dock, Helen gasped as a throng of newspapermen and photographers swarmed up the passageway. “Someone’s tipped a Rio newspaper. We’re news, now.”
Reporters crowded around their trunks, shouting in Portuguese, vying for a story or photo of the two trapped American starlets.
Lila, wet-eyed, stared ahead, not acknowledging the cameras or chaos. Helen, feeling protective of her new friend, held up one hand, blocking the mob, while placing her other arm around her distressed friend. Beginning to lose her own composure, she glanced again from her wristwatch to the dock, as Mr. Koserin suddenly appeared. He had finally returned. Striding with authority up the passageway, carrying papers above his head, Koserin presented two affidavits of money placed with the local magistrates.
“I have never been so happy to see someone in my life!” Helen laughed, now equally as teary eyed. Truly, for both girls, Koserin was a sight for sore eyes. The manager glared coldly as the disappointed official shrugged, accepting the documents—releasing the Americans to enter the city.
After the all-day ordeal the two demoralized girls descended the passageway with their benefactor. Helen asked Koserin for only one kindness, “Could we please have a drink of water?”
Gail Chumbley is the author of “River of January,” and “River of January: Figure Eight,” a memoir. Hard copies are available at http://www.river-of-january.com, and also on Kindle
Questions or comments? Contact Gail at gailchumbley@gmail.com
The Last Flight
Chum returned to uniform by August 1941. Luckily he had worked for Eastern Air Lines exactly one year, vesting his employment, ensuring a job when he returned from the war. But that raises an interesting question, what war? There was no American war. Six more months transpired until the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor. The answer to this intriguing question reads something like this; President Roosevelt instituted the preparations he could–Cash and Carry,The Destroyer Deal, quickly followed by the Lend Lease Act in 1941. America’s first peacetime draft had already been activated the year before, in 1940. Everybody knew what was coming, except for the bulk of the American population. They found out the hard way, later, across the Pacific, on a mild Hawaiian Sabbath.
Gail Chumbley is the author of the memoir, River of January, and the forthcoming sequel, River of January: The Figure Eight.
River of January is also available on Kindle.
A Tattoo?
My husband got a tattoo. I don’t like tattoos. He’s too old for a tattoo. And I didn’t approve until he showed me the result.
This sweetheart chose the Sopwith Camel from my book cover, River of January.
I can’t be too annoyed, dammit.
Gail Chumbley is the author of River of January, a memoir. Also available on Kindle.
Preview: ROJ;The Figure Eight
Feeling Alone
New York
1943-44
“Put that thing down, Helen. You’re not listening!” Eileen reached over, and snatched the pencil from her hand. “Let’s go to the show.”
“Hmm? What? A movie? Well, I don’t know. I need to finish this . . . “
“How many letters have you written this week? Honestly, Helen, you can take some time to go to see a film.”
Helen leaned back and stretched; glancing around toward her mother who was busy feeding the baby wiggling in her highchair. “What do you think, B?”
“Go. Go. We’re fine here. I’ll finish this, give her a bath and put her down.”
She turned back to her sister. “Okay, Eileen. What did you have in mind? What’s playing at Loew’s?”
Eileen smiled satisfied, spreading out a newspaper over Helen’s stationary. “Let’s see . . . Journey into Fear? I suppose not. Oh, here, Sahara. Your pal Bogart stars in that one.”
“Aren’t they both war pictures? I don’t know. I need to think about something else, actually anything else, but the war.”
“Song of Bernadette? Jennifer Jones pulls off a couple of slick miracles. That one ring your chimes?”
“Aren’t there any musicals or comedies? I really could use a giggle or two.” Eileen sighed and hunkered down on her elbows, and the sisters scanned the theater section, side by side.
“Here—it’s your lucky day—we have two selections. Girl Crazy with Mickey Rooney, and Star Spangled Rhythm, starring Crosby, Hope, and Betty Hutton.” The older sister turned her face to Helen.
“I like Bing Crosby.”
“Then kiss your baby and grab your purse. In that order,” Eileen smiled, delighted that she convinced her sister to get out of the apartment.
They dashed into the movie house just as the overhead lights dimmed and the red satin curtains opened. A white light flickered and beamed from above the balcony, and the audience applauded. Distinct images filled the screen and the auditorium resounded in rich sound—a Disney cartoon flashed on the screen, “The Three Little Pigs.” Helen had to chuckle when a hand reached from the house of bricks, offering the huffing wolf a bottle of Listerine.
Quickly following, another clip opened in a solemn choral arrangement of Silent Night. Actress Bette Davis, seated before a Christmas tree, presented her children with war bonds as gifts. She kindly reminded them of the American fighting men, sacrificing their lives overseas while the family enjoyed the holiday in safety. Turning directly to the camera, Miss Davis encouraged those in the tiers to buy bonds as a way to win the war. Helen silently vowed to make a purchase in the morning.
United Newsreels boldly lettered the width of the screen, featuring a talon-bearing eagle, and a forceful marching tune. Hungry for actual footage of battlefronts, patrons waited eagerly for news updates. When the subtitle, War News from the Pacific projected, Helen nearly bolted from her seat, Eileen quickly grasping her sister’s arm—a gentle gesture telling her to stay. Reluctantly she viewed thick disarrayed hammocks of destroyed island palms, battle cruisers spinning turret guns toward exotic beaches, and endless rows of stretchers loading onto hospital ships. She felt slightly nauseous. Only her sister’s hand, and a reluctance to make a scene kept Helen seated. Finally, in what felt like forever an upbeat melody commenced and Star Spangled Rhythm splashed before her eyes. Relieved she literally exhaled her pent up anxiety.
“Holy mackerel sis! I thought I would have to tackle you to keep you in your seat.” The two girls hurried through the wet and chilly evening. “You know Chum is just fine, honey. We would be notified right away if anything had happened to him.”
“I’m awfully sorry Tommy. And I do appreciate you taking me out. But I need to get away from the war, not a firsthand eyeful of the Pacific front.” She frowned for a moment, then managed a grateful smile. “I did like the picture, though. Hope and Crosby were a good choice.”
“Good. Stop worrying. You’ll go gray.” The two continued down the sidewalk silently emitting small clouds of breath. Eileen spoke again, “You know we’ve had similar conversations before. Just like this. Walking home from somewhere.”
“I guess we have. But in those days you quizzed me about boys, passing flirtations. I’m honestly concerned about Chum . . . he is my husband. We have a baby.”
“Oh, I understand that, Helen. And I like Chum, too. Unlike Mother, I think you found yourself a good man. But do you ever wonder about the others? About Grant Garrett or Elie? I mean what they’re doing now.”
“Oh, well, yes. Sometimes. I think Grant is his third marriage, and still in Hollywood. He’s done some film work for Paramount, you know, adding jokes to dialog.” She smiled, remembering. “I don’t recall the movie but you could tell the jokes were Grant’s. Something like, ‘did you shoot the victim through anger—no, I shot him through the heart.’” She chuckled. “I think Grant is doing well, for Grant. As for Elie? I simply don’t know what became of him, and that bothers me. The last I heard he lived in Japan, and now the Japanese are fighting us. He might be back in Belgium, but the Germans have taken over. And considering how Hitler feels about Jews—yellow stars, camps, poor Elie has it coming at him either place.”
“Oh Helen. You’re right! That hadn’t occurred to me. Either place, he is in a mighty dangerous situation. Gosh, I hope he makes it through the war . . . if this war ever ends.”
“I worry, too. And I feel pretty guilty about how things ended with him. Not that I think lousing things up with Elie put him in danger. But we ended on bad terms, I had met Chum, and we were engaged. Still I hope he and his family are safe.”
Gail Chumbley is the author of River of January, and sequel, River of January; The Figure Eight..
1944
A Christmas card from a weary GI to the students of Garfield School.
From France to Spokane Washington, 1944
Gail Chumbley is the author of River of January, a memoir. Available on Kindle.
The Poetry of Protest
Alice PaulToday’s posting has nothing to do with my book. Instead I am moved to comment on today’s news.
The news of Pete Seeger’s passing is popping up everywhere on all my personal media settings. And I, as millions of others loved the music of Pete Seeger. I always have. The beauty of his voice alone, or with his group, “The Weavers” still echoes compellingly in my mind.
Yet, today, with his passing, I’m not thinking of the silenced music. As essentially American as his voice and lyrics resonated, the lessons I learned from Pete Seeger are more linked to political conviction and courage. His was the voice of the non-conformist, the social and political critic who challenged conventional beliefs.
Seeger served in uniform during World War Two. Though he was a young man when he soldiered, his participation says a great deal about the justness of America’s struggle against totalitarianism. But after the war, Seeger seems to have instantly grasped the politics of the Cold War for was it was, an excuse to stifle the voice of opposition. Seeger suffered for his convictions. When popular thought demanded unified anti-Communist behavior, Seeger did not comply. It was justice he sought, and in the days of racism and blind war mongering, Seeger would not close his eyes and pretend America practiced equality and liberty. And his beliefs landed him in political hot water.
His banjo and singing voice were his only sword and sidearm– yet still he made himself a dangerous man to an American government that demanded wall to wall consensus. This troubadour appeared to be fearless in expressing his thoughts, singing anywhere and everywhere he saw injustice.
The Vietnam War provided Seeger and a growing segment of Americans a broader platform to protest Johnson-Nixon policies in Southeast Asia.
I remember that he was to appear on “The Smothers Brothers Comedy Hour,” and sing Waist Deep in the Big Muddy, an anti-war song. Such a powerful message! The lyrics at bottom called out the man in the White House as a “big fool.” CBS pulled Seeger from the show out of fear of retribution from stock holders, sponsors and hawkish politicians. To their credit, the Smothers Brothers refused to go on until Seeger was allowed back on the show. CBS caved, Seeger appeared, the feelings of America soured more on the war, and for a wide variety of reasons America withdrew from that nightmarish miasma.
This blog is a tribute to other voices of opposition across many generations of Americans. The list is long of patriotic citizens who understood the First Amendment meant what it said. We should honor the lives of those who resisted the tyranny of a majority they believed misguided.
William Lloyd Garrison, Frederick Douglass, Sojourner Truth, Margaret Fuller, Elizabeth Cady Stanton, Helen Hunt Jackson, Homer Plessy, Jacob Riis, Henry George, Lewis Hine, “Mother” Mary Harris Jones, Ida Tarbell, Ida B. Wells, Eugene V. Debs, Alice Paul, Big Bill Haywood, Phil Ochs, Mario Savio, Cesar Chavez, Bobby Kennedy, Diane Nash, Bayard Rustin, Daniel Ellsberg, Harvey Milk, and the other thousands of names left off this list.
Hoist one tonight for Pete Seeger and the multitude of others who braved the currents of popular thought, for there is nothing more American than to question the status quo.
Gail Chumbley 