August 14, 1945: A Moment of Spontaneous Jubilation
The scene in Times Square on that Tuesday afternoon was one of historic pandemonium. The weight of six long years of global conflict had been lifted in a single announcement. People from all walks of life—soldiers, sailors, office workers, mothers, and children—converged on the “Crossroads of the World,” creating a tidal wave of humanity. The air was thick with cheers, the blare of car horns, and the flutter of ticker tape raining down from office windows.
Among the throng was Alfred Eisenstaedt, a German-born photojournalist for Life magazine. Armed with his Leica camera, he was frantically trying to capture the raw emotion of the day. He moved through the crowd, snapping pictures of laughing faces, tearful reunions, and impromptu parades. He described his method as moving ahead of the action, anticipating moments rather than just reacting to them. Then, he saw him: a sailor running through the street, grabbing and kissing every woman in his path. “I was running ahead of him with my Leica looking back over my shoulder,” Eisenstaedt recalled. “But none of the pictures that were possible pleased me.”
At the same time, George Mendonsa, buoyed by celebration and a few drinks, saw Greta Zimmer Friedman in her white uniform. In that split second, she didn’t look like a stranger; she embodied the nurses he had so admired in the Pacific, the women who had cared for his wounded comrades. “I saw that nurse,” he explained years later. “I grabbed her, and I kissed her.” His girlfriend, Rita Petry, can be seen in the background of the photograph, smiling over his shoulder.
Eisenstaedt saw the dark uniform against the white dress and knew he had his shot. He raised his camera and took four pictures in rapid succession. He didn’t have time to ask their names or get any details. The moment was over as quickly as it began. The sailor let go, and he and the woman in white disappeared back into the anonymous, celebrating masses. Neither Mendonsa nor Friedman gave the brief encounter a second thought. They were just two people among millions celebrating the end of a global nightmare.
A week later, Eisenstaedt’s photograph was published as a full-page spread in Life magazine, part of a photo essay titled “Victory Celebrations.” It was an instant classic, one of several famous photos capturing the day, but it was Eisenstaedt’s composition that resonated most deeply. The dramatic dip, the contrast of black and white, the implied narrative of a returning hero and the grateful woman awaiting him—it all coalesced into a powerful, mythic image that perfectly encapsulated the national mood. The history of the photograph had begun.
