From
Christine Jorgensen’s “Christine Jorgensen: A Personal Autobiography” (p. 286):
I was in
Omaha, preparing to rehearse for an opening night, and had arrived at the club
shortly after the first horrifying news began to sweep the nation. I remember the scene of unreality as if it
had happened this very morning. A group
of a dozen or so performers hung limply around a television set, shocked into a
state of frightening suspension, and watching the events as one horror lurched
after another. Some of us wept, some
watched in mindless trance. Few could
voice what they felt.
After
hours of the nightmare had passed, we were instructed to finish the rehearsal
and prepare for the performance. Most of
us were convinced that no one would show up that night, but we went through the
motions of getting ready, anyway. On the
contrary, the house was packed. People
seemed to feel the need of preoccupation and the security of company, even
strangers, as if they were seeking a confirmation of the truth.
We
performed that evening, though we’d removed most of the comedic material,
leaving little but the musical numbers.
At the end of the show, I was asked to express a few words of our
feelings, and the audience joined the entire company as we sang “God Bless
America.” It will always stay with me as
a painful and touching evening.
. . .
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