The sky was raining confetti. From every skyscraper, every window red, white and blue scraps of paper fell down covering cars, the streets. The hugging, kissing, dancing joined, competed with the horn blowing, drums pounding. Japan gave up. They and their yellow faces, sly, slinky eyes, were destroyed and it was America who did the bastards in.
I was swallowed up, became air borne, a dot in the jumping, screaming cacophony. How I was lifted off my feet, almost drawn and quartered, I can’t remember...but...can still feel hands grabbing me, passing me over heads, heads, heads. Fear took over. The crowd was endless. Am I going to be crucified, stamped on? What have I done? The lights went out. Everything disappeared into blackness. Only the sensation of moving clung to my ribs.
It seemed to me time was not moving. My eyes had tiny slits, enough to barely see white and khaki uniforms around me, strangers kissing strangers. From deep in my chest I managed to let out a shrill scream, then another. It was swallowed up by laughter and happy voices.
Two hands on each of my legs, I don’t know how many on my body, a big strong one held my head, kept it from falling off into the crowd. Together they got me down from my funeral pyre. It was awesome. The noises, the kissing were just the way it was in the beginning. Confetti was still falling before I went into a black hole. Church bells rang. I crossed myself and looked up to where I thought god was and thanked him for the service men who had survived and for the good fortune America had to find the secrets of atomic energy before Japan.
I was aware these were not good thoughts but didn’t care. Somebody, let me, get me, out of this wonderful madness. I pushed my way toward the McCormick building on the corner. It took forever. Bruises were blossoming on every part of me. As I felt the coldness of the building’s stainless steel facade, I was grabbed from behind. I twisted my sore body around and faced a yellow skinned Jap. With all the strength that remained in my hand, I slapped him in the face and was ready to spit on him. He bowed to me, gave me a broad grin, and politely said, ‘How do you do. I think you would like to know that I was on the Enola Gay when the bomb went off. It was something beautiful. We didn’t know then what was happening on earth. We service men rejoiced at what we had done.’ His smile had turned somber.
My conduct, my ugly words embarrassed me. I wanted to get back in the crowd and fade away. The soldier’s hand reached for mine. We shook. ‘Miss, my name is Chinwo Greenberg. I am a Chinese American Lieutenant in the United States Army. Good day, Miss.’ And it was a good day as were many after that.
My name became Mrs. Mary Chinwo Greenberg fifty years ago and still is.
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