BACK PAGES: On the evening of the day in 1939 that Britain and France declared war on Germany following its invasion of Poland, an Irish Times journalist walked the streets of central Dublin to gauge public reaction and began his report with the story of the boy who cried wolf too often, writes JOE JOYCE
Is it possible that Dublin, too, has heard the cry of “Wolf!” too often for it to sound genuine now that the real wolf has come? Last night an Irish Times reporter spent some two hours wandering about in OConnell Street and other main thoroughfares in the city.
He sat in restaurants, rode on tramcars, mixed with the people in the bus queues, stood about in the crowds at street corners, and listened; but the one subject about which people were not talking was the war.
In the city itself there was no lack of signs that something unusual was happening. Every suburb was in darkness. Windows were heavily curtained, and while the pavements were crowded with pedestrians, there was no suggestion of life in the houses.
On the dark, wet roadways, motor cars and buses groped their way slowly by the faint light of the parking lamps.
In O’Connell Street the scene was even more forlorn, for only every fifth street light was burning, and these served only to accentuate the gloom. Faces could be seen but faintly in the dim light, and traffic moved haltingly and nervously.
For all these evil omens, however, there was little talk of the war. People had been going [about] their lawful and normal occasions all the evening, just as if nothing had happened, and as if all was still well with the world.
Young men and girls poured out of the cinemas in their usual Sunday night thousands, but most of them were discussing the picture. One young woman said that she never liked that “that fella Pat O’Brien.” He was too rough. Someone else thought another picture was “lov-ely”, and further along the street two others, who had been in another cinema, agreed the show there was “rotten” and “not worth looking at for nothing”. There was no mention of war – but what can a young man say to his girl about war?
At the bus stops there seemed to be more people than usual, and the buses seemed more crowded. They swept by, with their passengers clinging to the straps, and their conductors standing on guard to see that no others tried to force their way on board.
Conversation at the bus stops was confined almost entirely to complaints about how few buses there were and about how long people were kept waiting . . .
In the tramcars there was the normal flow of small talk. Two young Volunteers, however, who looked interesting, had even less to say than their neighbours.
They sat silently side by side for about 10 minutes. Then one asked: “Have you seen Mary lately?” His companion replied: “Ay, on Friday night”, and they were silent again.
Two elderly women talked about how well Mrs So-and-So was looking. It was clear that she had come over from London, but no reference was made to her reason for coming.
In another tram two soldiers were discussing the speed of the British bombing planes and about how long one of them would have to take to fly from London to Berlin; but at that moment they were joined by someone else, and conversation turned to the weather. They agreed it had been “shockin”. They had never seen the like of the rain . . .
Shortly before midnight an aeroplane roared over O’Connell Street, but few people paid it any attention.
Dear Dublin! London, Paris, Berlin and Warsaw are living in fear and terrible dread. They know not the day nor the hour when the terror will come; but Dublin, despite “black-outs”, the roar of midnight planes, or wars or anything else, remains just the same “aisy-going” Dublin.
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