The post-war period is rightly remembered as a nadir in women's rights. When "the boys came home," many women who had been doing 'mens' jobs' were dismissed and told it was time to become 'wives and mothers.' Most women were probably glad to see the last of an ordinance factory, but others were frustrated to be thrown out of responsible and challenging work. As always, there were also women who defied the trend and found ways to remain active professionally. Virginia Cox-Gordon is such a woman.
Virginia is one of those women who has found herself during the war. The daughter of a millionaire, she was the "catch of the season" when she made her debut just before the outbreak of the war. Beautiful, rich and spoiled, she enjoyed being 'daring' and dating not-so-suitable men such as the aerobatics pilot Robin Priestman. Yet fundamentally, she was bored to death with life -- until the war broke out. The war opened up opportunities that she had never dreamed of and also fed her insatiable curiosity with real news rather than gossip. She became a journalist for The Times.
Yet while opportunities of women journalists opened up during the war, the profession remained male-dominated. Competition for the best stories and first report was cut-throat. Virginia had to play the game by the brutal rules -- or get left by the wayside. By the end of the war, she has established herself as a first-rate reporter, but the prejudice against her sex is worse than before. She uses the weapons she has -- beauty, sex-appeal and a powerful and wealthy father -- to hold her own. But her struggle has warped her and she has paid a heavy price in personal happiness for her success.
An excerpt with Virginia:
“Mrs Hart, please try to understand.” Virginia Cox argued patiently with the WAAF officer. “Everyone is talking about these parachutes with sweets attached. There were scores and scores of witnesses, but no one has a photo of it. A picture is worth a thousand words. All I’m asking is that you lend me your adorable little daughter for a few hours. With her bright blond hair, she looks German. We can braid it the way the Germans do and dress her in the oldest, most faded clothes she has. I’ve already made a parachute with one of my old scarves and have attached some Hersey’s chocolate that an American friend gave me to it.” Virginia held up her contraption. “We can throw the parachute out of an apartment building window and position Hope below, waiting with uplifted arms. It will be a sensational shot!”
“It would be fake,” Kathleen answered tartly and indignantly. She did not like this idea at all.
“No more ‘fake’ than most of the films and photos we made during the war,” Virginia countered. “You know as well as I do that all those laughing ‘Fighter Boys’ lounging around waiting for a scramble were posed for the photographers. And so were the images of Bomber Boys intently waiting to hear the ‘target for tonight.’ But they weren’t lies. They were staged, yes, but they replicated reality as accurately as possible. That is what I propose to do now. What is so wrong with that?”
Kathleen didn’t have an answer. She looked over at Hope, who at once started begging. “Please, Mummy! Please!” Kathleen hated being manipulated and all her instincts said this was wrong, but she lacked the arguments to plead her case.
Yes, she could slam the door in the reporter’s face, but that would probably land her in more trouble. The reporter worked for the Times, and her father sat in Parliament. Perhaps more relevant, the WAAF OC was on very good terms with her and had brought her over, saying she was “sure” Assistant Section Leader Hart would have no objections. She took a deep breath. “I’m sorry, but I’m not going to let you just borrow Hope. If you want to take Hope anywhere, then I am coming with you. It is my day off.”
“Oh, splendid!” Virginia agreed with exaggerated enthusiasm.
An hour later, Kathleen and Virginia were sitting in the back of a confiscated “Kuebelwagon” with British occupation licence plates while Virginia’s photographer drove them along the edge of the Havel on their way to Tempelhof. Hope was sitting in the front seat beside the photographer. She was happy as a lark in the open vehicle with the wind blowing her hair. Where Virginia got the petrol rations for this outing, Kathleen could not fathom, but apparently the press had privileges and it was not her place to question them.
Virginia had Kathleen trapped as she turned to ask, “Why is it, Mrs Hart, that I get the feeling you disapprove of me? We’re both career women, after all. We ought to be allies! We should join forces against a world that would like to shoo us both back behind the stove.” Although she tried to make the question sound light-hearted, Kathleen knew she was deadly serious.
“What I don’t like,” Kathleen answered, meeting the reporter’s eyes, “is that you are turning Hope’s head, making her feel special and glamorous. It’s quite misleading. She’s just an ordinary seven-year-old.”
“Is she?” Virginia asked with a raised eyebrow. “I think Hope is an adorable and photogenic child. She’s sure to grow into an attractive girl. Every beautiful woman should learn to use her charms to get what she wants as early as possible.”
That was not the way Kathleen had been raised. Then again, she hadn’t been happy in the world her parents had made for her. Would she have been happier following Miss Cox’s advice? She didn’t think so. It was too mercenary, too exploitative, and didn’t leave room for giving as well as taking. Out loud, she reminded Virginia, “Beauty is ephemeral. It can be shattered in a single accident or fade over time. Either way, it is better for a woman not to depend on it too heavily.”
“Beauty is the most powerful weapon women have and ought to be used mercilessly as long as one has it,” Virginia countered. “Which doesn’t mean one can’t develop other skills. I think it’s marvellous that you’re an air traffic controller. I was serious about wanting to interview you. I’m sorry you didn’t get in touch with me after our last meeting.”
“I am very busy.”
“I’m sure you are, but we have lots of time until we get to Tempelhof. Why don’t you start by telling me how you landed here? Weren’t you worried about bringing a child into what is practically a warzone?”
“When I volunteered for Gatow, it was a sleepy, forgotten backwater, and I wanted to be near my husband.”
“Your husband?” Virginia gasped, glanced at Kathleen’s hand. Only now did she notice her wedding ring. “Silly of me! I assumed you were single. What’s his role?”
“Navigator on a Lancaster. He’s in the Commonwealth War Cemetery.”
“Oh! You mean he’s dead! Well, that doesn’t count then, does it?”
“To me it does,” Kathleen retorted, thinking how the longer she was here, the more often he seemed to visit. Mostly he came in her dreams, but sometimes she sensed his presence when walked beside the perimeter fence to get fresh air, or when she sat alone in her flat after Hope had gone to bed.
Virginia had been talking and when Kathleen didn’t respond, she repeated her question, “Do you feel you are treated the same as to your male colleagues?”
“Most of the time,” Kathleen answered, appending her answer with, “it depends on the CO.” Soon, without realising what was happening, Virginia had drawn Kathleen into a conversation so successfully that Kathleen was surprised when they reached Tempelhof. American Skymasters were swooping down at them, and the roar of their engines was deafening. Their wheels and flaps were down as they passed directly overhead, and one could see the oil stains on the wings and the bolts holding the fuselage together.
“Oh, look!” Virginia exclaimed. “There’s a group of German children over there. They must be hoping for a sweet drop! Let’s go and talk to them.” Flinging the car door open, she made a beeline for German boys and girls, Hope and Kathleen forgotten. Kathleen took a disgruntled Hope by the hand and followed.
Virginia emerges as a more important character only in "Cold War."
Berlin is under siege. More than two million civilians must be supplied by air -- or surrender to Stalin's oppression.
USAF Captain J.B. Baronowsky and RAF Flight
Lieutenant Kit Moran once risked their lives to drop high explosives on Berlin.
They are about to deliver milk, flour and children’s shoes instead. Meanwhile,
two women pilots are flying an air ambulance that carries malnourished and
abandoned children to freedom in the West. Until General Winter deploys on the
side of Russia. Buy now!
Based on historical events, award-winning and best-selling novelist Helena P. Schrader delivers an insightful, exciting and moving tale about how former enemies became friends in the face of Russian aggression — and how close the Berlin Airlift came to failing.
Winning a war with milk, coal and candy!
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