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Marguerite & Harold
on their wedding day,
April 29, 1942
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World War II catapulted our national
capitol — almost overnight — from a fairly quiet, semi-southern
city to an international center of wartime operations. Along with
the city's inevitable change in focus came the new arrivals needed
to staff the wartime effort — all looking for rooms, apartments
and houses in an area that was ill-prepared to receive them.
Thousands of stenographers, clerks, engineers, administrative
personnel and military families were added to the fold. Whether
they came in search of a good job or to be near loved ones soon
was overshadowed by the need to find some place, any place,
to stay. For many of them, locating even a temporary home became
an ongoing nightmare. Where, oh where, were they going to live?
Most of them had heard of the housing shortage in
Washington. Until they arrived, however, the term “housing
shortage” was just two words, lacking any real meaning or
personal importance. After all, they weren't planning to live
here permanently — any place to hang one's hat would do.
They never dreamed they would still be looking months, even years,
later.
But now they knew…
They had tried everything. Their eyes ached from scanning the
want ads and their fingers were swollen from dialing hundreds
of telephone numbers, always with the same disappointing result.
Their feet hurt from pounding the pavement. Their voices were
hoarse from repeated inquiries. They had driven themselves and
their friends crazy. They had outstayed the wartime “five
day limit” at every hotel they could afford, slept on the
floor of friends' apartments and used up their gas rations on
fruitless searches.
As the months of 1942, 1943, 1944 and 1945 slipped
by, the availability of housing seemed to become worse, certainly
no better. The Washington Post, Star, Times Herald and
Daily News were filled daily with hundreds of pleas for housing,
ranging from humorous to desperate:
“We promise not to drink, not to smoke, not
even to play cards if you will only consider us.”
“We have no cats, no dogs, no pets of any kind.
We shall be quiet and inconspicuous if you will only please, please
offer us shelter.”
“I've headed south on 16th Street, turned left
at 6th, gone north to 23rd. All the resident managers know me
and all say they want to help, but still no apartment. My arches
have fallen and my back aches. Is there no one in D.C. to help
me?”
Entering the Hunt…
Yes, apartment hunting in wartime Washington was an unforgettable
experience. I'm sure it was just as overwhelming a pursuit in
every other crowded war center in the United States. But I want
to tell you about snaring one in Washington. I feel qualified
to tell you...after all, we did it!
Our reason for moving was basic and simple —
we were expecting a baby. As soon as we discovered there would
soon be three of us, we began to worry about space. We arranged
the few pieces of furniture in our adorable but tiny apartment
in every conceivable way. But no, there was no room for even a
tiny bassinette, let alone a playpen, carriage, crib or high chair.
So the countdown was on; we had only seven months
to locate a larger apartment. You say you could locate 70 apartments
in seven months? I thought the same thing at first, but then a
haunting memory flashed back. How could I have forgotten this
important obstacle? When we searched for our present apartment
we found that to possess a child was a crime ranking next to treason
from the landlord's viewpoint. How well did we remember reading
the “apartments for rent” ads. The most conspicuous
part of each seemed to be neither the description nor the price,
but "no children, no pets" — and we thought we had our troubles
in the first move!
Some landlords insisted that their tenants be of
a certain religious faith. Others were equally insistent that
both man and wife work. (I have always wondered if these folks
didn't have a lucrative scheme of renting the apartment by day
to workers on the night shift.) Many wanted us to do a little
light housework in exchange for a portion of the rent, with renovated
quarters in the basement. Still others wanted us to care for their
preschool children while mama and papa worked — only a few
children, say four or five!
But every now and then, intermingled in these carefully
crafted apartment advertisements, there would be one for which
we could actually qualify. The first time we spotted one I jumped
up and shouted enthusiastically, “So it's all settled! Hurry
and call them and tell them we'll take it!”
The number was hastily dialed and we were at once
met with a busy signal. “Goodness, some one else is on their
phone. Try again!” We did try again. I might say we tried
again and again and again. When at last we received an answer,
it was a weary monotone informing us as it had probably told hundreds
during the last hour, “Sorry, but the apartment has already
been rented.” As the days passed and this performance was
repeated, often this speech was condensed to a mere shout, “Rented!”
An emphatic click then ended the one-way conversation.
We took another newspaper. Finally, we took all
the newspapers. Not one prospective apartment ad escaped our feverish
perusal. We would even drive in and meet the paper boy in order
to read the want ads sooner. We thought we were getting experienced
in this game. Ha! We were still mere novices pitted against more
professional house hunters.
Increasing the Odds…
I suppose even the most innocent of us, goaded by so many disappointments,
will develop cunning. Maybe some kind friend put us wise. At any
rate we soon realized that the only way to stand any chance of
securing an apartment through the want ads was to go to the newspaper
office and wait for the paper to come out — hot off the press.
Even there we were far from alone. Long before the
paper was due to appear, noisy crowds of humanity were gathered
in the office, on the sidewalks, in the street, anywhere within
striking range. It wasn't so bad waiting for the release of the
afternoon papers. We only had to be on hand about 11:00 a.m. to
be in the running. It was getting the morning papers which proved
rugged. Maybe to the suburban subscribers — those happy,
complacent, self-satisfied souls — living in comfort in a
real honest-to-goodness house, the morning paper came in the morning.
But to the desperate apartment seeker, the morning paper came
out before midnight. Unless we were right there, johnny-on-the-spot,
we had but a small chance of ever having a permanent Washington
home address.
One thing which did develop from our daily stations
near the Washington Post and the Evening Star was
the realization that hundreds of others were really in much worse
straits than we. At least we did have a roof over our heads —
it just wasn't big enough, that's all.
Weary mothers, holding their unhappy offspring,
waited their turn with the rest of us. Whole families were in
attendance, not daring to leave even for food. Youngsters were
running everywhere, munching on candy bars, playing games, tripping
one another — restless, irritable, uncomfortable — adding
yet another worry to anxious Mother and Dad.
As time passed, we could gradually sense an expectant
air growing in the mob. It was nearly time. Once more fresh bait
would be dangled before our eyes. The crowd began to close in.
The stragglers drew nearer. Newcomers jockeyed for a better position.
In this connection strategy entered the picture. Was it better
to be close to the central door through which the news vendors
would make their appearance and then stand the chance of being
delayed in getting through the crowd? Or was it more advantageous
to stand near the street where we could make a hasty exit?
Suddenly the hum of voices would subside to a whisper.
The time had arrived. At any moment the paper would be out. Everyone
began to gather their personal effects and grab their children
so there would be no last minute delay. Finally! The paper! A
new set of clues! The first lead in that day's treasure hunt.
Tally Ho!
Everyone grabbed his paper and ran — to a waiting car —
to a cab — to a nearby telephone! We did not bother to waste
valuable time reading through the ads. It was far more important
to be on our way at once and snare a place in line at the phone
booth. We had time enough there to select the few apartments or
houses for which we might qualify.
Newspaper in hand, we dashed frantically to the
nearest telephone. But no matter how fast we ran, some of our
fellow apartment hunters were always there ahead of us. As we
became more experienced we realized that again we had been suckers,
that many were working in pairs, one holding a booth while his
or her partner bought the newspaper. So we did the same, planting
a confederate near a telephone.
Another restless wait developed. As one by one the
other hopefuls left the booth, we edged forward impatiently. Everyone
was afraid that the person just in front was going to dial the
very number he or she planned to ring.
Eventually you would arrive at the phone booth.
With jittery fingers you dialed the number. So far, so good. Maybe
that day the sun would shine on you. No busy signal! The telephone
actually answered on the second ring. No, the apartment hadn't
yet been taken. Yes, there had already been several inquiries
and a few persons were on their way out to see it. No, she was
very sorry but she couldn't rent it to anyone sight unseen. There
was the matter of a deposit and then, too, she wanted to see her
new tenants. But if it was not rented by the time we arrived she
promised to consider you.
When I located such an apartment I would bolt out
of the booth, nearly knocking down everyone in my path. I rushed
to the parking lot for our car. Thank goodness I had one, but
hated to think how low the gasoline was and no more rations for
two weeks. Here's hoping the apartment wouldn't be so far out
as the other ones had been lately.
Racing toward my hoped-for apartment I cursed every
red light, every through street, every taxi, every bus or streetcar
that got in my way. It seemed like hours before I reached the
correct street. My heart was pounding with excitement. Could it
be that I might be the first one there? I scanned the numbers
on the houses. Why, there was the number across the street. Now
to park. There seemed to be a minor traffic jam in front of the
house. Finally I struggled into a parking spot nearby, ran down
the sidewalk, leaped over the hedge and rushed up the steps. Possibly
by some miracle no one else wanted this apartment. Maybe this
was to be our new home.
I only wish I could report that this had been true.
Alas, I was not the lucky one. Every day some few fortunate souls
solved their housing problems in this manner, but the ratio of
those succeeding to those hunting was miserably small. Though
we continued to haunt the newspaper offices and bite at all the
bait in the daily ads, we started working on alternate plans.
Our education was advancing.
Widening the Search…
We now tried to have several irons in the fire at the same time.
We made application for a unit at all the apartment villages and
any place at all where they would accept our name. Though we were
advised at some larger apartments that there were hundreds, even
thousands of names ahead of ours, we still insisted that we be
included on the waiting list.
We had all our friends on the lookout, hoping for
advance notice at the first inkling that a present tenant was
contemplating a move. Our daily newspaper activities continued
uninterrupted. We scoured the area by day and by night hoping
to discover a new or unadvertised opportunity, but the only signs
we ever saw carried the discouraging “no vacancy” symbol.
Next we turned to new construction, even to the
sight of newly turned earth which might in due time become new
construction. Again, thousands of others had the same idea and
competition was just as intense. As soon as plans for a new apartment
building left the architect's hands, word filtered through the
system overnight. Of those apartments nearing completion every
apartment was reserved. There was even a waiting list large enough
to fill last minute cancellations and any vacancies for many months
thereafter.
Luck and Determination Beat the Odds…
Finally, Lady Luck landed on our shoulders. During one of our
daily apartment hunts, we spotted what was eventually to become
our new home. On Lee Boulevard in nearby Arlington, we saw the
beginning of an apartment village. Only the first unit was erected
and that was far from complete. The second unit consisted of a
basement; additional units existed at that time only in the minds
of the architects and builders. Even so, all this represented
a wonderful opportunity to us and we turned toward investigating
this new clue.
First we had to wade through miles of red tape
to secure the "V" housing card required to be eligible for any
housing in the county. And so we submitted our application to
the Arlington War Housing Board. We found the interviewers there
as overwhelmed as the apartment seekers.
When our turn arrived we were put through the third-degree:
• Where were we living?
• Why were we moving?
• Why were we living in Washington anyhow?
• What was our work? Was I employed, too?
• How many persons in our family unit? Only two? Surely we
must realize how fortunate we were to have any type apartment
already.
I had to outline the transportation difficulties
from our present apartment to my husband's duty station. I told
them in detail of all the streetcars and buses he had to catch
and described the long, monotonous waits frequently required in
making transfers. I pictured the tiny apartment we were then occupying
and begged that we be allowed to move in order to provide room
for the child we were expecting. I answered a thousand questions,
it seemed.
Finally the interviewer must have been satisfied,
for at last she smiled, reached for her pen and started preparing
our “V” card. We were eligible! The first major obstacle
had been overcome ... but we still had to find an apartment.
The following morning I was waiting in front of
the new apartment real estate office long before they opened for
business. Finally, I learned that applications for the new apartments
we had seen would be received on a definite date in December.
Best of all, I received a promise that it would be a question
of first-come-first-served.
We vowed that nothing would prevent our being first
in line, even if it meant an all-night vigil. With hopes high
and fingers tightly crossed, my husband left in pre-dawn darkness
and stood in the bitter cold of the December morning for hours
awaiting the opening of the office. But he was first! He was alone
but a few minutes before he was joined by another hopeful companion.
Soon another and then another fell into line behind the first
ones. Long before the 8:30 a.m. opening the line reached around
most of the block.
But our story had finally reached a happy conclusion.
We had succeeded, signed on the dotted line and paid our deposit.
The race was done, the hunt was finished. We had stalked our prey
to its lair and found our pot of gold at the rainbow's end.
