Radio and television mirror (July-Dec 1942)

I WANTED Nell Burnham to stay with me. I didn't want to be left alone. But I couldn't tell her that. "You'd better rest until the broadcast, Janice," Nell said. She pressed my arm and her soft gray eyes smiled gently. "I'm so glad." she whispered. Then, she was gone. And I was terrified. The dressing room was so still that my thoughts became almost tangible things, tearing at me. At the rehearsal, it had been easy to evade my thoughts, to hide my sense of shame, even from myself. There had been dozens of people in the radio theater. I had been able to concentrate on them, their voices, their kindness. But now I was alone. I couldn't escape the memories that had been haunting me for days, the terrible recollection of the understanding that had come to me too late. Miserably, I turned away from the closed door. On the opposite wall, there was a row of mirrors, each one of them casting a shadowy reflection. It took me a few seconds to recognize myself in that slender, black clad figure with the soft, blonde hair so effectively set off by a small, heavily veiled, black hat. I shuddered, suddenly engulfed by that same sick feeling that had swept over me, a little while before, when I'd heard the glowing words with which Mr. Bradley was planning to introduce me to the radio audience. I moved toward a chair. And, as I stepped forward, a scrap of white gleamed like a beacon in my blackgloved hand. I sat down and spread that piece of paper on the make-up shelf. "Unconfirmed report Lt. James Nichols found. Trying to confirm by. short wave. More later." Mr. Bradley had handed me this Radio Press dispatch after the re "Maybe I don't love you, but I want you," Ray said. "You're lovely and very desirable." The world called her a heroine, but Janice knew she deserved nothing but contempt because she had let Jimmy go into danger without her love. Now, at the broadcast, she prayed for strength to confess July, 1942