Radio and television mirror (July-Dec 1942)

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NATIONAL GEM CO., P.O. Box 466. Dept. E, Chicago, III. 74 Now and Forever Continued from page 17 parted as if to speak. He stopped and a kind of tenderness came into his eyes, but only for a moment before he whirled and I heard his footsteps echoing over the night. I hid my face in my hands and the tears came and I was grateful for them, for the release they gave. It was nearly three in the morning when I dropped off to sleep. Always I seemed to see his face, even in my dreams, bitter and angry. And those words — "The you I loved is somebody else . . . somebody I may never meet. But if I do, she won't be selfish and cold . . ." I HAD no idea what awakened me. I lay there in the darkness and then I heard that wailing sound, grotesque and out of place and shattering the silence of night. But now my mind was clearing and I realized it was the sirens, the air raid sirens, and I leapt out of bed. A kind of panic swept over me. This could only be the real thing. Certainly it could be no test, not at four in the morning. I hurried to the window. In the darkness I could make out the air raid wardens with their armbands, patrolling the streets. Stay calm in case of air raid, the posters had said. But I couldn't stay calm. There was an empty feeling in my stomach. I could feel my body trembling. Then even as I drew back from the window, I heard it, the ghastly droning sound of planes in the sky. Enemy planes — enemy planes bent on destruction, enemy planes that would drop down death in black packages and there was no place to hide, no place to be safe. The droning grew louder, coming closer and closer, like birds of prey. Then I heard another sound, the batteries of guns on the ground, sending up long streaming lines of fire, burning into the sky. I had no idea what I was doing. The room was dark but the searchlights that reached up like fingers in the darkness cast a flickering light into it and I started to dress. In the distance, I heard detonations. They were soft, like the thudding of shoes on the floor. Yet they were ominous. Now the detonations were coming nearer and I could hear the screeching as the bomb plunged down. The explosion was close and the sound rocked me like a blow. I clapped my hands over my ears. I couldn't stay there. Get somewhere. Get somewhere where bombs can't hurt you, Sylvia. That beautiful face is your fortune — managers of theaters wouldn't like scarred actresses. The bombs were falling closer now. Flames from nearby houses flared into the sky. I could hear the cries of people, trapped and suffering. The voices of frightened children, the screaming of women in this horror of the night. I don't remember what I was thinking or reasoning. Only instinctively, I knew I'd be safe with Bill. It wasn't a thought so much as an emotion. And I had to get out of that apartment, that loneliness, I had to get out. I remember that I wanted to laugh at the same time I wanted to cry. I ran down the stairs. I was thinking half-consciously. Get to Bill. He'll keep you safe. Get to Bill. Quickly. I would be safe with him. I hurried out into the street, running, hardly realizing which way I was going. Then I felt a hand grab me, roughly, holding on to me with a firm, hard grip. "Let me go, let me go," I cried out. "I've got to get to him." Maybe I wasn't hysterical. I don't know. I do remember that the warden calmly lifted back his hand and slapped me on the face. It was a sharp, stinging blow. And I heard his voice, "There are people dying and you want to waste our time on a crying jag." The contempt in his voice was plain. I almost felt ashamed of myself. But fear gripped me too firmly, stark terror at this thing we were going through. "I want to get where I'm safe," I managed to say. "You mustn't stop me." It didn't make sense, of course. I wouldn't be any safer with Bill than anywhere else. It only seemed that way to me at that moment. It was an act of emotion, of fear. I heard the warden's voice, "You'll have to wait in the shelter. I'm sorry." He took my arm, led me to a shelter some yards away, in a specially-built, bomb-proof basement. It was crowded with people, some in bathrobes and night dress, some with children and babies. A strange sight, poor people and rich, high and low, mingled there in that shelter. I was still quivering as I stood there. The others seemed to take it good-naturedly. Some were laughing and telling stories and one man started to sing "God Bless America" and the rest joined in. There was a stoutish woman in one corner with three little girls. She had a bag of cookies and she saw me and held out the bag. "Have one. Do you good." She was beaming. I said, "No — thank you very much. I — I'm not hungry." I couldn't tell her I was terrified, that my heart was pounding, that those incessant bombs bursting outside with their horrible noise that seemed to shatter my eardrums had filled me with horror, that my whole body was limp. Each time the dreadful booming sound came, the children would cling to their parents and the men would sit stony -faced and each time I wanted to scream but I didn't. I was trying to hold on, trying desperately. A TREMENDOUS explosion came, just outside. The entire shelter shook and people were thrown to the floor. You felt as if the place would split to pieces. There were cries outside, cries of people wounded. I had said it meant nothing to me. But it did mean something, it had to mean something, because these were human beings. Human beings who were injured and needed help. Only I couldn't help. I couldn't help because I didn't know how. And because I was terrified myself. Useless. Then finally it was over. Over with a deathly silence more frightening than the bombs. After some moments, wardens appeared and told us we could leave, and we heard the allclear sirens whine across the sky. To get to Bill. To get to him through that debris of ruined houses, of flame RADIO MIRROR