National Story Project
with Paul Auster

October 2001 -- Paul Auster reads a story from Reginald Thayer of Palisades, N.Y. This story is included in Auster's new book, I Thought My Father Was God. Note: Story contains some offensive language.

Listen to Paul Auster read The Celebration, and discuss the story with the author and Weekend All Things Considered host Jacki Lyden.

The Celebration

Capt. Reginald Thayer, 1945 in Thurleigh, England Photo: Courtesy Reginald Thayer

August 14, 1945 - VJ-day, the day Japan surrendered, ending World War II. I was stationed at an airbase on the outskirts of Sioux Falls, South Dakota. We received word of the surrender late that afternoon, and immediately just about everyone on the airbase headed into town to celebrate. There weren't nearly enough jeeps and trucks, so most of us hitchhiked in. How peaceful it was as we passed through the gently rolling farmland, with a few cows munching away under a sky that was a bluer and brighter than ever, with a few puffy white clouds that were whiter and brighter than ever.

What a wonderful state of affairs. I had flown and survived seventy-nine combat missions over Europe without a scratch, would not have to fight in the Pacific, and would soon be going back to college at Columbia after four years of military service. The world was at peace, and I was headed into town to celebrate.

When I got there, the celebration was well under way. Thousands of soldiers had gathered in the center of town, along with hundreds of civilians. Liquor was flowing freely. As the celebration progressed, I bought a bottle of beer and made my way up to the roof of a one-story building, joining the group that was observing the wild, noisy scene below. Grateful civilians were hugging and kissing the soldiers and thanking us for winning the war.

A farmer arrived in a battered old pickup truck and immediately and unwillingly sold the truck to an intimidating group of drunken soldiers who had passed the hat for donations to pay for it. Promptly upon taking possession of the truck, they set it afire. The fire department arrived quickly with sirens shrieking, hooked up their hoses and were promptly overpowered by the mob that grabbed the fire axes and severed the fire hoses. As the fire consumed the truck, the crowd, including soldiers, civilians, and even firemen, roared their approval.

As the center of action shifted down the block, I came down from the roof and followed. The drunks got drunker and noisier, and what had started out as a joyous celebration of the end of the bloodiest and most terrible war in the history of mankind became a wild, chaotic, violent scene. Store windows were smashed and fights broke out. The few policemen on hand were powerless to bring order to the situation. It didn't even appear that they wanted to.

A scuffle broke out involving six or eight white soldiers pummeling a black soldier. There were shouts of "Kill that nigger" and "Kill that black bastard." He managed to break free and run up a side street with a look of stark terror on his face, a look that I'll never forget as long as I live. The mob pursued him, brandishing empty whiskey bottles. To the black soldier's surprise, he found that the side street was a dead-end alley, and there was no way out. I felt that I should go to his rescue, but I was afraid of the mob.

As soon as he reached the end of the alley, he turned, faced his pursuers, and stood waiting for their next move. He was dripping with sweat. The look of terror on his face became a look of steely determination. His pursuers all came to an abrupt halt, except for one soldier who advanced toward him, took a swing at him, and got the surprise of his life when he was knocked out flat with one punch. Stepping over the unconscious body of his assailant, the black man clenched his fists and said, "I'm leaving now." There was total silence. Everyone stepped aside, and they let him go. I was tempted to congratulate him, but I was afraid that he would say, "Where were you when I needed you?" After that, I lost interest in the celebration and hitchhiked back to the airbase.

Thinking about that ugly incident, I felt guilty that I had not gone to the man's defense. That guilt reminded me of something I had once read in a short story. A man watches in silence as another man is lynched in the Deep South. He is at once shocked and fascinated by what he has witnessed.

The mob disperses, leaving the corpse dangling from a tree limb, and the man walks home ashamed of himself for having been too afraid to intervene. When he walks in the door, his wife, noticing the look of guilt and shame on his face, blurts out, "You've been with a woman, haven't you?"

– Reginald Thayer
Palisades, N.Y.