Chapter 40

Other than job hunting and church, Gwen’s life moved along quietly and uneventfully, until Halloween Eve cast its eerie eye over the land, raising goose bumps on America’s flesh.

On October 30, 1938, Ethel walked to the far corner of the living room and switched on the Zenith console radio. It was the proud centerpiece of their home.

Ramón Raquello and his orchestra were performing “La Cumparsita” from the Meridian Room of the Park Plaza Hotel in Manhattan.

“Tango!” Gwen squealed. She grabbed Irene, and the two tangoed from one end of the living room to the other.

Aubrey applauded. Irene and Gwen bowed and curtsied.

“You two are so foolish,” Ethel laughed. “Now come. Sit and eat.”

When a special broadcast interrupted the soothing music, the family fell quiet as they listened to the newscaster’s description of fluorescent gas explosions on the planet Mars.

“Mars?” Ethel clucked.

The music resumed, and so did their dinner conversation. Ramón Raquello’s orchestra segued into the romantic “Star Dust.” Aubrey winked at Ethel, who side-eyed him bashfully.

“You want another piece?” she asked, pointing to the platter of chicken.

“A piece?” Aubrey smiled furtively. “Maybe later.”

Ethel flashed him a coy look before lowering her eyes.

Irene didn’t miss her father’s insinuation. Her eyes darted to Gwen. Had she caught it too? The expression resting on Gwen’s face suggested otherwise. Irene sighed with relief.

Once again, the music was interrupted. The newscaster’s voice took on a level of anxiety: “We have arranged an interview with noted astronomer Professor Pierson, who will give us his views on the event.”

Aubrey set his fork down; his face darkened with concern.

“How do you account for those gas eruptions occurring on the surface of Mars at regular intervals?”

“Mr. Phillips, I cannot account for it.”

“By the way, professor, for the benefit of our listeners, how far is Mars from earth?”

“Approximately forty million miles.”

“Forty million miles,” Irene gasped. “That’s a long way.”

The music resumed.

After dinner, Ethel and her daughters carried the platters and plates into the kitchen. Aubrey slid back from the table, crossed his legs, and stared at the radio, his head slightly lolling to the music.

Above the rush of water and the clatter of silverware came the newscaster’s panicked voice: “A special announcement . . . a huge, flaming object, believed to be a meteorite, fell on a farm in the neighborhood of Grover’s Mill, New Jersey, twenty-two miles from Trenton.”

“What he say?” Irene asked, looking fearfully at her mother.

“We take you now to Grover’s Mill, New Jersey.”

Ethel turned off the water and followed Irene and Gwen back into the living room.

“The ground is covered with splinters of a tree it must have struck on its way down.”

Ethel wrapped her hands around her neck, Irene clenched her teeth, Gwen moved to her father’s side.

The newscaster declared that something large, gray, and snakelike was wriggling out of the shadows.

“Oh Lawd!” Ethel cried out, dancing back from the radio.

An unearthly screech hurtled from the radio speaker. An explosion followed, and Aubrey’s heart skipped three full beats.

The radio air went dead.

Seconds turned into minutes, and then, suddenly, soft piano music.

It went on like that—minutes of comforting music, interrupted by horrific reports of destruction and mayhem.

The listening audience was informed that aliens from Mars had journeyed forty million miles, through a multitude of galaxies, landed in New Jersey, and were steadily moving toward New York City.

Seven thousand troops had been deployed, but only 129 had escaped slaughter. The other 6,871 soldiers had been burned to death by the aliens.

Irene emerged from the bathroom in time to see her family drawing curtains and stacking the dining room chairs in front of the apartment door.

Afterward, they huddled on the couch, joined hands, and recited the Lord’s Prayer.

* * *

Uptown, Sam retrieved his loaded gun from the shoe box beneath the bed, released the safety, and joined Emma on the settee in the dark parlor, leaving Harlan locked away in his bedroom, drinking himself numb.

All across America, people took shelter in closets, in sheds, and dank, dark basements.

Other people—the believers, the stupid, the curious—took to the streets with binoculars, offerings of fruit, buttered toast, waving signs that read: WELCOME TO EARTH. WE ARE YOUR FRIENDS!

The next day, they’d all feel foolish when they learned that the broadcast was a hoax, nothing more than a dramatization of the novel The War of the Worlds by H.G. Wells.

Many of those foolish-feeling people, including the ones who’d been so terrified they’d soiled themselves or piled into their cars in an effort to escape the inescapable­—many of them would call for the head of the person who perpetrated the fraud.

In the end, Orson Welles would not give them his head, just an apology for the prank that catapulted him to fame.

* * *

The real monsters were much closer than Mars. The real monsters were right across the Atlantic. They did not have black serpent eyes or tentacles; they were two-legged, two-armed, beating-heart beasts who were methodically scaring all of Europe to her knees.

The terrified people of Europe didn’t have to watch the skies for monsters or flaming objects because the monsters were their neighbors, and synagogues were burning right there on the ground.