On the morning of August 14, 1945, people across the nation hoped for an end to the war in the Pacific but faced the grim prospect that its extension might include the dreaded invasion of mainland Japan. Similar concerns weighed heavily upon Americans during most World War II mornings. But on Tuesday, August 14, optimism outweighed worry. Stories were afoot that Japan was ready to surrender. And unlike many rumors during the war, this reporting bore truth. In fact, on August 11 Emperor Hirohito had declared to Japan’s Supreme Council for the Direction of the War that they must “bear the unbearable” and surrender.1 By daybreak on August 14, Japan had sent an official surrender statement to the U.S. commander in chief. As President Truman waited for Japan’s official admission of defeat, Americans across the country continued to anticipate the end of the war, listen to the news, and feed the rumor mill.
At times, the eagerness for peace tried to hurry its arrival. And on Sunday, August 12, a little persuasion almost made that possible. On that day a Washington, D.C., radio station broadcast that Japan had surrendered. A victory celebration ensued. The guilty sources later retracted their premature announcements, ending what turned out to be a victory celebration dress rehearsal throughout Washington, D.C., and the nation.2
By August 14, 1945, the anticipation of peace once again reached a fever pitch. That morning the New York Times ran the front-page headline, “An Imperial Message Is Forthcoming Soon.” The accompanying story reported the following: “The Japanese Government has accepted the Allies’ surrender formula embodied in the note dispatched to Tokyo by the United States, Smei, the Japanese news agency, said today (Tuesday) in a wireless dispatch recorded by the Federal Communications Commission. ‘It is learned that an imperial message accepting the Potsdam proclamation is forthcoming soon,’ the English language wireless dispatch said, as directed to the American zone.”
The Providence Journal ran even more optimistic (and accurate), bold, front-page headlines. On the morning of August 14, 1945, the Rhode Island daily newspaper declared: “Tokyo Broadcast Says Japan Has Surrendered.” A smaller subtitle on the same front page reported that in Times Square, “hilarious, singing crowds formed impromptu parades” to celebrate Japan’s expected surrender. There, celebrants reduced the actual news of a Japanese capitulation to a formality. New Yorkers had waited long enough. More than three laborious and sacrificial years had passed since their enemy struck at Pearl Harbor. Clearly the Japanese had little left with which to attack any more.
Even without the official word, New York residents and visitors wanted a victory party. Some decided to jump-start festivities. Individual conversations that probably began with, “Did you hear?” led to higher-pitched and more confident declarations. Loud laughter, animated facial expressions, and demonstrative gestures followed. The merriment spread from tall skyscrapers down to subway stations. As the early afternoon progressed toward evening, coworkers danced in offices and strangers hugged on streets. Almost everyone got caught up in the contagious euphoria. For at least this moment in time, every American and ally was a brother, a sister, a friend, or a lover. The military man on leave and the nurse who ended her shift early fell prey to the same pervasive optimism.
While much of New York hosted early celebrations, Times Square drew the largest crowds. There, drinking establishments lined the streets to quench the city’s thirst for liquor. No bar suffered from a shortage of patrons.3 And war, with transient servicemen, proved good for commerce. On August 14, 1945, business would be particularly brisk. Like the war, peace, or the anticipation thereof, served saloons’ bottom lines well.
But, of course, misleading broadcasts, premature victory parties, and swirling activity, no matter how persuasive, outrageous, or spectacular, do not equate to peace. And on that Tuesday morning, most Americans did not know that by evening the war would expire. At daybreak, August 14, 1945, most expected to wish and wait one more day.
No doubt many who made their way to New York on the last day of World War II wanted to forget the miseries of the prolonged Pacific campaign. They sought distractions, not news. Times Square proved the perfect destination. Within almost every city block a treasure chest of diversions presented themselves. People-watching offered the most readily available and cheapest pastime. The parade of inhabitants and visitors included businessmen in suits hurrying to appointments, ladies with flowers in their hair meandering about, boys in short-sleeve shirts looking for mischief, and proud sailors in uniform pursuing pretty women. On August 14, 1945, the nation’s most populated square was hopping.
But even with all the neatly pressed military uniforms and festive women’s outfits, the city’s brilliant lights stole the show, at least for the time being. Colorful ads, oversized neon logos, and theater entrances’ blinking bulbs enticed the passersby. The spectacle made it difficult to pass up seeing a play, listening to a symphony, or taking in a movie.
Of course, there were reasons to venture beyond Times Square. One of the city’s most popular movie theaters, Radio City Music Hall, stood at the corner of 6th Avenue and 50th Street. On August 14, 1945, A Bell For Adano played at the “Showplace of the Nation.” The movie starred Gene Tierney, John Hodiak, and William Bendix and took place in an Italian town recouping from World War II. The feature film ran at 10:30 am, 1:05 pm, and 4:00 pm. In between showings, the Rockettes, Corps de Ballet, and an orchestra entertained moviegoers. The mixture of acting, dancing, and music amused audiences. Arguably, the ensemble made for the best performance in town—but not on August 14, 1945. On that day, the greatest celebration in the city’s history kicked up several blocks south of Radio City Music Hall, where, as in decades past, people met.
By that morning’s end, New York workers let out for lunch and visiting shoppers poured into Times Square seeking bargains. As a steady stream of pedestrians exited the 42nd Street subway station, the sidewalks became increasingly congested. Soon, so did the city’s streets.