I DARE SAY —
Botched
By Florence Fisher Parry
NEW YORK – Maybe it was the same other places; all I know is what happened here. You may have seen the pictures, but they don’t tell the story. You’d have had to be here to see.
I tried to write, yesterday, how it was here the first delirious hours on Monday. But I got the column off before the celebration had bogged down – that came later, around three o’clock. And it wasn’t pretty to be in on. No.
To see the picture clear, you must remember that it had been raining here steadily for a solid week – and then on Monday the sun broke wide open, like the brass section of a mighty orchestra, and everybody poured out of doors!
The news came, remember, at about 9:35 in the morning? By 10 o’clock the thing had broken loose. It wasn’t pandemonium. It was different, it was deeper, it was a shining, grand thing to see! The faces of the people, the way the people crowded toward Times Square as though moved by some inner compulsion that hadn’t anything to do with celebrating – just a deep fixed habit of years…
To meet there TOGETHER, to gather in a great out-of-door mass-meeting and move and sway there in the wide oblong rendezvous… the way they’d always done here when a tremendous event struck the bell of history…
Gypped again?
Then, after a few hours, the great uneasiness began to set in… You could see it on the faces, you could hear it in the lessening noise of the crowds. Why wasn’t the word said at Washington? Why didn’t anything happen? Where was the guarantee? Were they being gypped again? Again?
A few went on drinking in a dogged, heavy way. But not many. The slow-coming flush in the faces of the throngs was not from drinking this time. It was the flush of resentment. Of being stood up again. The crowds began to disperse. The little flag-and-horn vendors stood numb and bewildered at their corners. The newshawks stacked their papers beside them and stood stonily by.
Presently the sun shrank behind a heavy gray tent-top. By dusk Broadway was a sullen soggy street with stragglers, looking a little foolish, moving sluggishly.
By the time the theaters emptied at 11, the crowds had swollen a little, moving slowly and dispiritedly along the course of what had been meant to be the greatest Mardi Gras of celebration in human history… Empty taxis picked up stragglers. Few bothered to watch the news coursing around the Times Building. For by this time, they knew it by heart.
Peace, they had been told, had come, but its corroboration was still held back; it had not been authentic; the President would not make the formal announcement until next day.
Now we know what happened. We read today the shameful news that a breach of confidence by one correspondent broke the news prematurely – and, on the word of Gen. Eisenhower, imperiled the surrender negotiations between Germans and Russians.
Pledge
Nothing is more sacred to an experienced and qualified newspaperman than respect for off-the-record information. It is given him with the understanding that he will respect it.
This man’s fellow reporters understood their responsibility and lived up to their off-the-record pledges. Even after he disregarded the rules and told the world that capitulation had occurred – as far as the Western Allies and Germany were concerned – they resisted all the terrific pressure from their own employer-newspapers for confirmation.
Taunted by the claim that this correspondent had scored the greatest “scoop” in history, they still respected the agreement.
And so one man botched the great proclamation. And, outside, it was raining on Tuesday; is still raining. The rain falls tiresomely, coldly, all day long. The streets are sodden. Broadway is dull and empty. The little flag-and-horn vendors stand drenched and forlorn, their wares unnoted.
The heart of New York spent itself too soon. The botch of V-E Day is complete and utter.