by Lee René
What woman doesn’t have hair on her nether parts? “But, Betty, every woman has hair, uh, down there.”
“No, miss, not her.”
The image disturbed me, but a trip to the shower-bath soon erased Jill Carpenter and her lack of pubic hair from my thoughts. When I emerged, Betty offered me a sanitary pad. “Just in case.”
It wasn’t my time of the month, but I told her about one of our rituals. “Did you know that when a Jewish girl first starts her cycle, her mother slaps her?”
She blinked her eyes in disbelief. “Why?”
“Don’t know. It’s an old custom, a lousy one at that. My mother died in the influenza epidemic, so she never slapped me, but I knew a girl whose mother hauled off and smacked her really hard.”
Betty arched an eyebrow, a cagey grin on her face. “Aren’t your monthlies bad enough without someone beating you up over them?”
The doors opened before I could reply. Jill Carpenter slithered into the lounge, her hapless maid in tow. She wore a white chenille robe, her hair wrapped in a silken turban. Minus her heavy makeup, Miss Carpenter seemed more like a sullen child than the seductive beauty I’d seen at the station.
Miss Carpenter didn’t utter a sound, simply looked me up and down before turning away. Perhaps no one had taught her manners, so I introduced myself.
“Hello, Miss Carpenter. My name is Mitzi Schector, and I’m honored to meet you.”
I extended my hand and she ignored it, dismissing me with an absentminded, “Hello.”
Miss Carpenter walked to the shower, stood as still as a statue, then dropped her robe to the floor. There she posed, naked as a jaybird, for her audience of three. I tried to avert my eyes but couldn’t. Betty hadn’t exaggerated one bit. Jill Carpenter had the skin of a cadaver. She looked as if someone had carved her from a block of marble, and yes, she was completely hairless. Miss Carpenter stepped into the shower bath and called out to her servant, “Mary, don’t dawdle. I need you to wash my back.”
Her maid rolled her eyes but scurried off to attend to her. I couldn’t stop myself from smirking. Jill Carpenter might be a famous movie actress with diamonds and furs, but my bosoms were bigger than hers. I wasn’t bragging, simply stating facts.
She turned away. I got a view of her rump, and I couldn’t stop from chortling. I had a rounder tush and a smaller waist too. Take that, Jill Carpenter. Then I stopped gloating. She possessed flawless skin, while I was as hairy as a great ape. Most of my Barnard sisters shaved their legs and underarms, but Zisel wouldn’t let me near a safety razor. I made up my mind, then and there, that one day I’d rid myself of my excess hair. Still, I drew the line at shaving my pubic area. Looking like a five-year-old from the waist down held no appeal for this girl.
I slipped on a navy blue sweater and dark gray skirt, left the ladies’ lounge, and Jill Carpenter and her bald privates. I had to figure out a way to explain four pairs of silk stockings and thirty dollars. As luck would have it, I came up with the perfect story to tell Leah: Mr. Roth and I met by chance and I told him of our plight; he remembered the Schector family and Uncle Baron’s tragic death; though he couldn’t tell me where Uncle Baron had been laid to rest, Mr. Roth took pity on two poor refugees from New York, yet wanted no thanks for his charity. Leah would be pleased by my concoction, a heartwarming tale of Jewish camaraderie. I thought it best to leave out the Rex Dallas part.
I returned to an empty compartment, the bed made and a note on the pillow. “My darling sister, I am waiting for you in the dining car.”
The scent of fresh coffee lured me to the dining room where Leah sat. She looked every inch the stylish traveler in her woolen suit as she signaled to a waiter, who laid out the grub.
“Mitzi dear, eat it while it’s hot.”
I devoured a bowl of Cream of Wheat, plus stewed prunes to keep me regular, then washed it all down with a cup of the Santa Fe’s famous hot cocoa. Leah smiled so sweetly I knew something was percolating besides the coffee.
“Darling, I had the best sleep I’ve had in months. You were already gone when I awoke. On my way to the shower bath, I passed some newspaper fellows who were following Jill Carpenter. Did you hear about the nasty business last night with Rex Dallas?”
The jig was up. She knew. I felt the color working its way up to my face.
Leah continued torturing me. “I met a reporter, a rather angry fellow, who’d run into Rex Dallas when he was as drunk as a skunk. Mr. Dallas complained to him about a ‘little tart’ who had caught his eye. He planned to have his way with her, but Ben Roth rescued the poor little thing and told off the big, nasty man. Mr. Roth sent her on her way, and paid for her silence.” She gave me the Look. “Why didn’t you tell me about that gorilla?”
“Because I knew if I did, you’d probably punch the chump in the nose.”
Leah threw down her napkin. “You’re right, I would have. We escaped Joseph Nussbaum’s lechery only to have another degenerate pursue you. Lucky for us, the newsman didn’t catch the girl’s name. The guy hates Rex Dallas’s guts and was miffed when he couldn’t report the story.”
I stared into the remnants of my cocoa, wishing I could squeeze into the cup and drown in a wave of liquid chocolate.
Leah picked up her tossed napkin and fiddled with it. “Omar said you just wanted Rex Dallas’s autograph.”
I had to fess up. “Yes, it’s true. Omar told the truth about Dallas—he’s a real jerk. Mr. Roth gave me the thirty dollars along with some silk stockings to keep quiet. Maybe we should give it back.”
She didn’t say a word. A thrashing would have been preferable to her silence. I started sobbing. “Please, Leah, say something. I’m so sorry, but Rex Dallas is a horrible man. He called Mr. Roth a ‘Jew bastard’ and Buster Sweet a ‘jigaboo.’ I hate him.”
Leah rifled through her pocketbook and handed me a handkerchief. She watched in silence while I dabbed my eyes and blew my nose.
“There’s something else. I asked Mr. Roth about Uncle Baron.”
She gazed at me, and I read the anticipation on her face. “I’m sorry, Leah, but he wouldn’t answer. I don’t think we’ll find out anything from Mr. Roth.”
Her lovely face fell to the floor. “Oh, how disappointing. Mitzi, except for Zisel, you’re all I have in the world, and I get a little overprotective. They call the Chief ‘the rolling boudoir,’ and it sure lived up to its name. Well, we’re not giving back the thirty dollars, or the silk stockings either. You earned it after that jerk put his filthy paws on you.” When she took my hand in hers, I knew things were all right again.
“Mitzi, the Schector girls need a little comfort right now. It’s still early, but how would you like to share a banana split with your older sister?”
Who could say no to an offer like that?
****
The Santa Fe chugged on through Colorado, the land of pine trees, mountains, blue skies, and green earth that shimmered in the late autumn light. We rolled past Utah and made our way to Nevada. A porter said the conductor pushed the speed and we’d arrive in Los Angeles before dusk. Unfortunately, I’d finished The Bridge of San Luis Rey and had nothing else to read. I was itching to explore the train. “Please, Leah, I’m bored.”
She hesitated for a moment but thankfully didn’t give me the Look. “Promise me you’ll be back in ten minutes. Remember, no autographs, and no Rex Dallas.”
Off I went. I followed the narrow corridors and passed the train’s barbershop. The place buzzed with male energy and smelled of Bay Rum and talcum powder. Mr. Roth sat there. A pert manicurist buffed his nails while an obsequious barber shaved him. I tapped on the glass and waved to him. He looked up at me with such a plaintive expression I feared he might break down again. After staring at me for a long moment, he averted his eyes. Perhaps I should have waited to ask him about Uncle Baron, but it was too late. I continued my trek.
Light spilled from Jill Carpenter’s regal stateroom. The place reeked of fine perfume and movie star hauteur
. Miss Carpenter looked over a bunch of photos that were sitting on a small table. One of the photographs so upset her that she flung it across the chamber with a bejeweled hand, then tossed the remaining images to the floor. What a charmer.
When I arrived at the entrance to the ladies’ lounge, I found Omar sharing a laugh with Betty at Rex Dallas’s expense. “He said he needed his ‘medicine’ brought to him from the baggage car, the one-hundred-proof kind of medicine.”
I decided to join in the frivolities. “Golly, in all the excitement, I haven’t seen Buster Sweet. I’d love to meet him. Where is he?”
Omar stopped smiling, a sheepish expression on his handsome face. He gave Betty a sideways look. “I’m afraid Mr. Sweet doesn’t come on these jaunts. You see, the railroads don’t allow some people to ride in the sleeping berths or staterooms. They have separate accommodations.”
“Buster Sweet is a movie star, isn’t he?”
He sighed before answering. “Yes, Mitzi, but not a white movie star. Mr. Roth rents a private car for him, so he won’t have to mix with the other passengers.”
We looked away, embarrassed; then Omar sighed and changed the conversation. “Do you and your sister have a place to stay in Los Angeles?”
I answered with a shrug. “No, not yet. We got in a real pickle in New York and left so quickly we didn’t have time to rustle up a place. I guess we’ll find a cheap hotel. There’s a place in Los Angeles called Boyle Heights where a lot of Jews live, but who knows where we’ll end up? Leah thinks we should live closer to downtown for jobs.”
I suddenly thought of Mr. Stein’s handsome mug. How could I forget? “I have a job, at least I think I do, at the Broadway Ritz.”
His eyes twinkled, and he grinned as if he’d thought of something. “Then downtown would be the perfect location, especially if you’re working there. Perhaps I might—”
Before he could complete his sentence, Leah rushed down the corridor. She and Omar stared at each other for an uncomfortable moment. Leah nodded to Betty, then acknowledged him with a shy smile before glancing my way. “Young lady, I said ten minutes.”
She turned back to Omar, a grin dancing across her lips. “I’m sorry to disturb you all, but Mitzi and I have to finish packing before we reach Los Angeles. The conductor says the train will arrive ahead of schedule.”
Omar’s face had turned a bright shade of red. “Ladies, please excuse me. I better be on my way.”
He left the lounge before I discovered what he’d wanted to tell me.
Chapter Seven
The Dorchester
By late afternoon, Leah and I had packed up our luggage in preparation for our new lives in a strange city. Before we departed, I went searching for Omar. He’d been a real brick and I wanted to thank him for all his help. Unfortunately, I couldn’t find him.
I bid adieu to Betty in the ladies’ lounge and gave her a farewell gift, a Flaming Crimson lipstick from my Fuller Brush man. “Maybe our paths will cross again, Betty.”
She gave me a sad little smile. “Maybe, who knows?”
We hugged our goodbyes, and then I left to help Leah with our luggage.
Fifteen minutes later, Leah and I stepped off the Santa Fe and immediately shed our winter coats. The calendar said November, but even the night air warmed us. We found ourselves in a Mesopotamian palace straight out of A Thousand and One Arabian Nights, La Grande Station, Los Angeles’s portal to the rest of the country. A massive dome that resembled a mammoth golden onion crowned the gargantuan terminal. The design mingled Moorish, Russian, and Arabic architecture, with flourishes from who knows where. Palm trees lined the walkways, and oranges and lemons scented the air. We’d left New York behind us.
We passed a magazine kiosk where Jill Carpenter’s face pouted from every cover. The Mischief Makers, the premier child performers in Hollywood, smirked like imps from the cover of Movie Classic. Zisel’s favorite actor, Bobby Fayette, America’s favorite juvenile, struck a pensive pose for Gentleman’s Quarterly.
The frantic pace exhausted me. Porters zoomed around the station moving mountains of luggage. Ladies tossed fox stoles about their shoulders, gentlemen positioned their fedoras, and those who could afford it made their way to the rows of waiting taxis and limousines. The less affluent carried their bags to the Alameda Street trolley.
Rex Dallas left the station under a canopy of flashes from popping camera bulbs. A pack of speeding newsmen almost knocked me over. Mr. Roth paced up and down on the platform as a mass of photographers stood in wait for Jill Carpenter. Leah stared at him for a moment before wringing her hands. “Mitzi, do you think if I made my way to him, I could ask about Baron?”
I shook my head. “You could ask, but I don’t think he’ll answer. So many years have passed. Perhaps he’s forgotten Uncle Baron, if he even knew him in the first place. I’m afraid he won’t be of help.”
A porter rolled down a set of stairs, and the Chief’s doors opened as if by magic. Jill Carpenter emerged, looking more glamorous than any mortal had a right to be. Her heavy silk frock clung to her like molten silver. From the smoothness of her silhouette, I doubted she wore undergarments. The reporters whistled in unison, and she smiled triumphantly.
An alien perfume, tantalizing and spicy, wafted throughout the station. My stomach growled. The enticing fragrance held my nose captive. I followed it to a young boy in a striped serape, hawking his wares in front of a steaming clay pot. “Get your fresh tamales here!”
Leah and I were starving, but I picked up a Red Car schedule instead of sampling the local cuisine. We collected our bags, and a porter helped us with our trunk as we made our way toward a taxi. Then, the honk of a motorcar and a masculine voice shouting our names stopped us.
“Leah! Mitzi!”
Omar sat behind the wheel of a sleek limousine. He jumped out and opened the back door. “Ladies, I have the loan of this vehicle and can take you to a vacant flat that might interest you. It’s even within walking distance of Broadway.”
Who could decline such an offer? He deposited our luggage in the motorcar’s trunk, and at his insistence, we sat in the back seat like two swells. Omar took his place behind the wheel, stuck a chauffeur’s cap on his head, and laughed at our shocked faces. “It’s just a precaution. The Los Angeles police aren’t the friendliest lot and might look askance at two lovely white ladies driving with a fellow of color, even a light-skinned one.”
He turned onto residential streets, many full of signs offering vacant apartments, but all featured the same coda in bold print: “No Coloreds, No Mexicans.” Others proclaimed, “No Dogs, No Jews.”
Golly, we didn’t even get top billing.
Mr. Fournier made a jaunt down Los Angeles’s Broadway, the theater district, the highlight of the tour. Streetcars and automobiles packed the narrow boulevards. The Edwardian-style buildings lining the street were dwarfs compared to New York skyscrapers.
At the start of our little trek, we passed a garish marquee with the words “Broadway Ritz” spelled out in neon. I noted a sign on the kiosk, “Organist wanted.” Omar pointed to it.
“Mitzi mentioned the Broadway Ritz. It’s the only movie house on the street not wired for sound. Who knows how long it will stay in business.”
Mr. Stein hadn’t lied about the place; it wasn’t grand like the New York Ritz, but my heart began pounding a fast tempo.
I pulled his business card from my pocketbook and remembered I hadn’t mentioned that I’d once played the Wurlitzer on Youth Night at the Capitol Theater in New York. A job as an organist had to pay more than working as a mere usherette. If I could land that job, Leah and I could repay everyone who helped us flee from New York. I’d visit the joint as soon as we found a place to live.
We drove past movie palaces with façades so ornate they rivaled those in New York. I’d read film attendance had dropped around the country, but not in Los Angeles. Well-dressed folks stood in line, queuing for the picture shows. Omar pointed out the Million Dollar
Theater, the most opulent place on the street.
“Even New Yorkers are impressed when they walk up the grand staircase. The restrooms have gilded toilets with golden flush handles. Dreams are made from less.”
We traveled farther down Broadway, then turned onto the steep drive to our destination. When Omar drove up 3rd Street, he pointed to two electric trolleys chugging up and down a track. “They call those the Angels Flight. For a penny you can take one up the hill.”
I looked up the steep walkway. “We’ll need our pennies, Omar. The exercise will do us good.”
He pointed to a collection of elegant mansions in the distance. “That’s Bunker Hill, once the swanky part of town, but I’m afraid those days are gone.”
He hadn’t lied. Although a few of the mansions were beautifully maintained, many had lapsed into disrepair. The paver stones covering the streets hinted at its once swanky past. They led to a rather decrepit rooming house, nestled alongside other Victorian-era mansions that also had seen better times. Leah’s shoulders slumped the moment she saw it. Omar drove us up the path to the ruined beauty, its paint faded and peeling.
“That’s her, the Dorchester Arms. I know she doesn’t look like much now, but in the years before the Great War, she was quite grand. Unfortunately, the swells abandoned Bunker Hill for choicer pickings, and the Dorchester became a boarding house. Still, the old gal is like a plain woman of great virtue, a lot prettier inside.”
The Dorchester had gone to seed, but even in dusk’s dim light I could see someone had given a great deal of attention to her flowerbeds and filled them with night-blooming jasmine and petunias. A trio of ancient pensioners sat on the veranda listening to Russ Colombo crooning from the radio as they rocked away their fragile lives. I’d never seen old ladies so highly rouged, with hair dyed in colors ranging from lemon yellow to jet black. They weren’t at all like the bubbes back home.