Cheesecake for Victory

Buying war bonds was patriotic but dull for months on end, a duty of the stuffiest kind, which wounded one's wallet at the same time it depressed the spirit. Then the Treasury soft-pedaled the grim reminders of danger, need and duty, and called in Hollywood and Broadway. As one man the pressagents ordered: "Cheesecake."

Long before last week the Treasury bond campaign had become one of the liveliest phenomena of the American scene. Bonds were sold by tomfoolery, parades, fanfare, gags, spectacles, fol de rol--and everywhere. Breathed no man alive in the 48 States, excepting only (possibly) hermits, night watchmen and astronomers, who was not exposed almost daily to lures, enchantments, traps, and high-pressure selling designed to milk his pocketbook of every possible cent for the war effort. Men might groan and women resist, but on the street, in railroad stations, in shops and stores and factories and offices, in restaurants, cafes and lunch-wagons, in movies, theaters and stadiums, over the radio all day and all night, they were exhorted, begged and bewitched into buying war bonds.

Cheesecake Did It. Bathing beauties did it. Big, beautiful eyes and slim, wonderful legs did it. The supreme Empress of Cheesecake, the very Marlene Dietrich herself, last week was fittingly crowned by the Treasury as the champion bond seller of all. On three cross-country trips she upped the pulses and unsnapped the purses of thousands of U.S. males. At Cleveland's General Electric plant, when Worker Edward LaCuoco signed away 10% of his pay for the duration, Miss Dietrich rewarded him with a long cine-kiss (see cut). Mr. LaCuoco said it was worth it.

The bonds were sold in all the ways Americans could think up.

P: To the sprawling resort hotel at French Lick Springs, Ind., famed for Pluto Water, Owner Tom Taggart invited 1,000 rich and prominent Indianans to spend a free weekend. Even the Pluto Water was free. Only expense for each guest: he must buy at least $1,000 in war bonds. The guests outdid themselves. Slapstick Cinecomedians Bud Abbott and Lou Costello conducted an auction. Boldest bid: $103,000 in bonds for a cocker-spaniel pup donated by Cinemactress Irene Dunne. Total sales that weekend in French Lick (pop. 2,042): $2,203,000.

P: Nineteen showgirls en route to Miami, Fla. from Manhattan by train, donned scanty bathing suits, covered themselves and the suits with war stamps. In nine minutes flat, passengers had peeled off and paid for all the stamps (see cut). Value: $500. In Los Angeles a model named Judith Gibson appeared on the I. Magnin department store steps in a strapless suit made of stamps, cheerfully sold bonds to four men, all fully clothed (see cut).

P: An alternative to Cheesecake was its cousin Celebrity. At the Metropolitan Opera, Soprano Lily Pons, Author Fannie Hurst and Tenor Lauritz Melchior each bought $5,000 worth, urged operagoers to do the same (see cut). For the New York premiere of the movie Yankee Doodle Dandy first-nighters subscribed $5,450,000 in bonds. Two months later, the Hollywood premiere boosted this by $350,000.

P: When Sweater Girl Lana Turner made a sales trip to San Francisco's Treasure Island Naval Base, workers hoisted her to a platform, where she hoisted sales.

P: In St. Joseph, Mo., Grecian-born Gregory Lagos bought $50 in stamps, tore them up. Said he: "I want to donate it to the Government."

But with all the hoopla, celebrity and cheesecake, sales were still below the massive quota which Treasury Secretary Morgenthau had set. In June the quota was $800 million, sales $633 million; in July the quota was $1 billion, sales $900 million. Mr. Morgenthau and his promoters racked their brains for more appeal.

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