Rest of First Liberty

In view of the fact we’d have no evening meal away from barracks, we decided to find one more free thing to see and we’d get back to Hunter before suppertime. We looked for notices posted on kiosks and walls, indicating free admission for military personnel. We found only one, now that we were looking for such. It was a play at the famous Provincetown Playhouse. And where was that? In Greenwich Village. Warning or no warning, we decided to see the play.

Many a playwright got a start at Provincetown Playhouse, including Nobel laureate Eugene O’Neill. (There is even a blog about it today.) So we expected something special. I don’t recall the name of the play we saw, but I well remember that only about a dozen people made up the audience, most of those sitting alone, some on the very front row. We sat farther back, behind all of them. They seemed not to know we were there. I didn’t see any of them turn around to look behind them, a human trait. They must have been stoned. It was a possibility. How gloomy it all was, in a small semi-darkened, level-floored auditorium, remodeled from a stable, that looked as if it might need a good dusting. We left the second the play was over, caught our subway and returned to barracks. One of the girls had some candy bars. We ate candy and went to bed, each one of us likely wondering what we could do tomorrow without money. We knew the first item on our agenda, however.

After a substantial Sunday morning breakfast, we caught the El again and attended service at the famous St. Pat’s, so endeared to the people that that was what they called it, St. Pat’s. It was the first time I’d been inside a Catholic church. It was packed, often the case for churches in large cities in wartime. I recall no congregational singing and only a very short sermon. It was almost all ritual, but the collection of the offering was unique in my experience. First of all, the pews were short, about six or so seats, with the far end of the row enclosed. I felt boxed-in. The usher, or whatever the offering-taker was called, carried a long pole from which dangled a deep pouch into which parishioners placed their contributions. The man almost stopped the pole in front of each individual. I felt for a moment his arm might get awfully tired as the pouch paused in front of me, for I had no money to give. Instead I looked into the face of the man who had a stern countenance. I wanted to explain to him I’d give if I could, but I didn’t make any motion to that affect. I looked away first and the pouch moved on to the next WAVE. I didn’t watch.

We got back to Hunter in time for the noon meal, after which we caught the El again. I recall visiting a rose garden somewhere. Out of this world beautiful. But this first liberty is beginning to get mixed up with other liberties in my memory. A more important one is coming up; so this one is about to come to a stop. The weekend had taught us a good lesson in high finance. Next time we’d be prepared.

♥