by Lee René
He turned to me, his teeth gleaming white and feral like a wolf’s. “Doll, we’ll need publicity shots. Ida will meet you in Wardrobe, so you better be on your way.” Leah grinned like an escapee from a loony bin when he moved in closer and took my hand in his. “Little lady, I’m afraid we’ll be seeing a lot more of each other in the next few weeks.”
The thought of having to work with this heel almost ruined the good news about the test. Still, I managed a smile and a quick, “Thanks, Mr. Stein.”
Leah went on her way, and I hotfooted it over to Wardrobe Department. Mr. Roth made his way across the lot as he did every morning, a human hurricane speeding through the narrow studio paths. He’d march around the studio in a cloud of Carnival in Venice cologne, moving at the speed of light, walking the length of his kingdom, poking his nose into every production, large and small. His subjects greeted him like a king, and he either ignored his serfs or acknowledged them with a curt nod.
As usual, Mr. Roth had dressed to the nines in an elegant suit with a white carnation boutonniere. We were heading in the same direction, past the Scribes’ Palace, a Spanish-style bungalow where the screenwriters cranked out the spine of a movie, the scenario. In his rush, Mr. Roth almost knocked me on my tush. He stopped in his tracks, but not because of me. He stood in front of the building, his face scarlet, eyes blazing. Normally, the place pulsed with the tapping of Underwood typewriters, but that day, the building had the energy of a mausoleum. He yelled out in the silence, “You lazy bums, I don’t pay you good money to loaf. I should fire the lot of you.”
Without warning, the clicking of a hundred typewriters exploded the silence. Mr. Roth screamed to the heavens, “Liars! I’m surrounded by liars!”
He muttered a few choice words in Yiddish, then caught sight of me. “Why the hell aren’t you working, girlie?”
“Mr. Roth, I’m meeting Miss Cohen in Wardrobe. I’m supposed to be measured today.”
His eyes lit up. “So the great Alexandre of Paris is waiting for you, huh? You better hope he’s had his oatmeal, because he eats little girls like you for breakfast.”
Before he said another word, a battered Conrad Brothers Piano Tuners truck chugged past us. Ben Roth demanded a perfectly manicured lot. Trash, bubble gum, and banged-up autos were persona non grata. Mr. Roth took one look at the heap, and nearly went into an apoplectic fit. “What the hell is wrong with you guys? Make sure to hide that piece of junk before you clowns set foot in my office.”
He gave a loud cackle in my direction, then walked off to inspect the rest of his fiefdom while I continued to Wardrobe.
The world of international style bowed to the feisty little Frenchman Alexandre of Paris. My stomach knotted at the thought of meeting him, but thankfully, Ida hung around to protect me. Mr. Roth hadn’t exaggerated Alexandre’s reputation as a heartless martinet who devoured actresses alive if they gained an ounce. I shuddered to think what he’d make of me.
Five minutes later, I walked into the Wardrobe Department, an older brick building housing a tailor shop, sewing room, and assorted fitting rooms. I heard the drone of sewing machines and stuck my head into the sewing room. Fabric dust blanketed the air, and the place smelled of coffee, cigarettes, and sweat. Bolts of cloth, of every hue and texture, fell against each other in cupboards. Harried seamstresses rolled fabric out onto massive cutting tables or draped it over dressmaker manikins.
Sketches and photos of evening gowns, modern frocks, and period costumes plastered the walls. Only one image held any interest for me: a faded shot of Clarice Dumont. Clarice had struck an aristocratic pose in a ruffled eighteenth-century gown, a powdered wig covering her blond curls. An older, fleshier version of the young actress imprisoned Clarice in her bejeweled arms.
“Ida, who’s the lady in the picture with Clarice Dumont?”
Ida turned her head toward the photograph. “That’s Clarice with her bitch of a mother. Take the damn thing down.”
A hapless worker plucked the photograph off the wall and handed it to her. Ida promptly ripped it in two. Tailors and dressmakers who’d been slaving at a fevered pitch stopped and stared at her. She didn’t say a word.
A little fellow dressed in a vest and checkered trousers stormed into the room and glared at the paralyzed crew. “Get on with your work, you goldbricks.”
In an instant, the din began anew. The diminutive man ignored the bedlam and continued perusing each frock, poring over every seam and hemline. Ida called to him, “Hey, Al, here’s the new girl.”
He marched up to Ida, bussed her on the cheek with a cursory peck, and gave me the once-over. If he’d worn a skirt, he could have been Ida’s double. “So she’s the girlie David’s been blubbering about. Well, at least she’s got a pretty face and a trim figure.”
Ida threw a protective arm around me and pushed me over to the tiny tyrant. “Her name is Mitzi Charles. Mitzi, allow me to introduce my brother, Al Cohen, known to the world as Alexandre of Paris.”
My jaw must have dropped to the floor. Regal had imported the famed Alexandre of Paris straight from Hester Street. I extended my hand, and he gave it a limp squeeze. “Yeah, yeah, pleased to meet you, too. Don’t call me Alexandre—the name’s Al. Alexandre is some baloney Ida dreamed up, like the great Adrian at Metro. He’s Adolph Greenberg, from Naugatuck, but what the hell does it matter? She renamed my little girl too. Rose Amelia Dupree, what a pile of horseshit.”
He looked me over again and pulled out his measuring tape. “Kid, be prepared to work nonstop until you learn the ropes or get canned. They’ll put you in a few shorts, a couple of programmers, a gangster film, and you’ll probably work with the Mischief Makers.”
Ida’s mouth tightened. “David would be crazy to put her with those little shmendriks.”
Al snorted. “Aw, he knows what he’s doing. Let’s get her measured. Follow me, girlie.”
We left the bedlam of the sewing room for the tranquility of the dressing rooms. Paul Whiteman played on the phonograph to set the mood, mirrors reflected the light from walls painted in soft azure tones. Al fixed his eyes on two contract players being fitted by his assistants. “Look at the hips on this one! Sister, believe me, you won’t have any problems with childbirth. As for the other one, put her in the rust-colored gown. We’ve got to hide her giant tuches.”
The girl with the giant rear end broke into tears, but the vile little fellow ignored her. He raked back the hair from his forehead and looked around the shop for someone else to torment.
Al pulled a tape measure from around his neck and began barking out the numbers to a harried assistant. “Hmmm, bust thirty-six. She may look like a kid from the neck up, but she’s got a set of knockers on her.”
Ida stepped in. “Al, the kid’s shy.”
He shook his head. “She’s shy? So what the hell is she doing in movies?”
I ignored his glare and thought about seventy-five dollars a week instead. I stepped out of my dress and stood in the middle of the room in my camisole and panties. Heat came to my face, I must have turned ten different shades of red, but no one looked at me. Maybe I wasn’t a glamour puss, but I’d hoped Al would dress me in something special. He did—a black skirt slit up to my panties, along with a satin blouse cut low enough to expose my bosoms. Fishnet stockings and a pair of stiletto pumps, the kind trollops slithered around in when they pounded the pavement, finished the ensemble.
“Put these on.”
I had a hard time hiding my disappointment. The greatest designer in motion pictures had costumed me like a chippie. When I changed into the outfit, he sketched me from different angles and then ordered me to stand as still as a dressmaker’s dummy.
Al clasped his hands together, and Ida applauded.
“Can I pick an outfit, or what? Exactly what David wants, a baby-faced vamp with a woman’s body, a tootsie who’ll bring every horny shmendrick in America to the movies.”
I glimpsed myself in the mirror and almost burst into tears. All I needed w
as a pimp and a lamppost.
Chapter Eighteen
Hurrah for Hollywood
Dear Zisel,
Life is fine in Los Angeles and Leah is doing well with her young man. Can you believe it, my screen test was a success! Unfortunately, if you ever see me on the screen, the credit will read Mitzi Charles. Mr. Stein decreed that “Schector” is too Jewish and changed it. My dear sister, keep your fingers crossed that I make good and earn enough money for Leah and me to get back to New York. If I do, I’ll look up Mr. Nussbaum and spit in the bum’s eye, and then we’ll paint the town red, maybe even go to Harlem and meet Duke Ellington.
Your loving sister,
Mitzi, once Schector, now Charles
****
A gangster flick called Havana at Midnight marked my first appearance in motion pictures. Regal shot Havana at Midnight on a miniscule budget in nine days. I played a tousle-haired floozy who sang a peppy little rumba in a Cuban nightclub. Max put me in a bias-cut skirt covered with embroidery and sequins and a lovely ruffled blouse that showed off my shoulders. The ensemble achieved the desired effect—I looked like a hussy. Judging from the reactions of the fellows on set, I must have been hot stuff. In fact, Ida called me to her office a week later. “Mitzi, David wants to use you for the Havana at Midnight foyer posters.”
Rose started working on the photo image right away. I posed in the elaborate outfit against a sultry backdrop, a pair of maracas in my hands.
“Mitzi, you look like a million bucks. The fellows in the art department will turn this into a color poster, and your gorgeous mug will be everywhere. Now, sit up, toss your head back, and give me a big smile.”
I did as requested, pushed out my bosoms, smiled, and waited for the camera’s flash. It didn’t come. Seconds ticked away. Nothing happened. I wondered if Rose had dashed off to the powder room, but she hadn’t. She’d gotten into a discussion with a man whose voice I knew only too well.
“But David, Aunt Ida said to go for a winsome look.”
I heard his annoyed sigh. “Rose, I’m the one who signs your paycheck, not your Aunt Ida. I’ve told you a million times, I hate winsome. Fellows pay to look at a real tomato, not a winsome one. Get her to pout and show off those lips. She’s got terrific gams and great shoulders, so let the world see them. Get rid of those crummy maracas while you’re at it.”
I could feel the color working its way from my toes to my face. Mr. Stein caught my eye, winked like some dime-store Casanova, and then walked off tossing his coin. A costume assistant slit the skirt up to my thighs, then lowered the ruffled bodice enough to expose my shoulders and most of my bosoms.
“Mitzi, you heard the man. Look over your left shoulder and pout.”
I pouted all right, like a big, fat floozy.
After an afternoon of photos and costume changes, exhausted and sore, I dragged my weary bones from Rose’s studio, silently cursing David Stein. Why I took a different path to the gate, I’ll never know.
I almost missed it, an alcove covered by white bougainvillea. The flowers concealed a rose-filled garden with stone benches flanking a small fountain. No one had ever mentioned it, but I knew how special it was the minute I saw it. I pushed my way through, looking for anything that would tell me about the place.
A bronze plaque glinted through the floral wall:
Samuel Roth, Senior
Clarice Dumont
Bernard Charles
Forever in Our Hearts
April 25, 1923
Thank goodness I wasn’t wearing mascara. I’d have had a million black streaks trailing down my cheeks.
Chapter Nineteen
The Mischief Makers
March 2, 1932
Dear Zisel,
Isn’t it awful about the Lindbergh baby? That sweet little thing kidnapped from the safety of his bed. It’s all anyone talks about nowadays, and everyone is keeping watch over those darling tots the Mischief Makers.
I made three more musical shorts, sang on the radio, and made a live appearance at the Orpheum Theatre. Regal has cast me with those adorable tykes the Mischief Makers, and I can’t wait.
You wrote about Uncle Baron. Sorry, no news on that front.
With love and great affection,
Your Mitzi
****
On that March morning I showed up for the first movie in which I had real dialogue, a comedy short starring the Mischief Makers, Regal Pictures’ premier troupe of child actors. The sound stage bustled with workers positioning giant electric fans around the stage. Janitors mopped the floors with bleach. An assistant director stopped me before I walked inside.
“Sorry, honey, there’s no filming today. Some of the little bastards had a pissing contest and peed on the lights. The whole place reeks to high heaven. We’ll start work tomorrow.”
So went my introduction to the Mischief Makers. They may have looked like adorable moppets, but demons lurked behind those angelic faces. The children spent sunup to sundown in high-paid drudgery, shooting, while their greedy parents stood by, their palms open. The little monsters let off steam by tormenting each other with spitballs, flicking nose pickings, having flatulence contests, and worse. Then puberty reared its head and rendered them obsolete. With the exception of Buster Sweet and snotty Jill Carpenter, most faded into obscurity or ended up working as bit players.
I arrived on set the next morning just as Mr. Stein escorted his girlfriend, the braying shiksa from Vassar, off the set. He’d cast her as a plucky orphan, but with her false eyelashes, finger-waved hair, and manicured claws, orphan material she was not. From the gossip on the lot, everyone found her phony, hoity-toity accent off-putting. The director didn’t think much of her either. I took her place after one of the Mischief Makers screamed, “Hey, this broad is stinking up the joint.”
Mr. Stein placed a protective arm around his sweetie’s shoulders. I overheard him whispering to her as he spirited her away, “Don’t worry about this piece of fluff, Beth. I’m working on a little drama with a perfect part for you.”
Miss Vassar flashed a triumphant smile that faded when the cast and crew applauded her departure. We had five days to complete this masterpiece, so shooting started immediately.
Edna had warned me about the Mischief Makers. “Mitzi, take it from me, you’ll never survive unarmed. Get yourself a knife and a gun.”
They were just children. How bad could they be?
I soon learned, and it wasn’t pretty. Most of the kids behaved more like simians than humans, except monkeys had nicer manners and smelled better.
The smaller children acted as if possessed by demons, and no female was safe from the pranks of the older boys. When I arrived on the stage that first day, three boys got down on all fours and crawled about the floor, sniffing up my skirt. They barked like dogs, and then one snapped at my ankles.
When the director rushed to my defense, the tiny monsters gave the poor fellow the ol’ fingeroo. After he stormed off the set, the tykes regaled the crew with new tricks they’d perfected, belching and farting in unison.
One of the worst of the pack, a pint-sized Lothario, already smoked. He couldn’t have been older than ten, but he sidled up, cigarette in his hand, and declared his animal attraction for me. “Listen sister, I’ve got a yen for you.”
“Beat it, you little pipsqueak.”
He took a drag on his ciggie and slunk away.
I spent every moment bucking myself up to work with those chimpanzees. I vowed to keep my job, work with Chick Hagan, and maybe one day, with God’s help, find Uncle Baron’s grave.
For some reason, only Mr. Stein could handle the little terrors. He actually seemed concerned about their welfare but made no effort to hide his disdain for parents who pushed their children in front of the camera. I overheard him talking to one mother who always dolled herself up like a society matron yet dressed her little girl in the rattiest dresses.
At first, Mr. Stein spoke politely, but his voice took on an icy edge. “I hav
e a special place in my heart for mothers, but not mothers like you. Lady, you should be ashamed of yourself, dressing that sweet kid in dime-store rags while you wear the finest fashions. By the way, I know about that fancy man you’re keeping on your daughter’s dime. I hope you enjoyed your ride on the gravy train, sister, because you’re getting off right now.”
The lady stammered, “But Mr. Stein, uh, I depend on my little girl.”
I could hear Mr. Stein’s barely controlled rage. “Yes, I know you do. I’ve taken a personal interest in her welfare and arranged to have her next check spent on decent clothes and toys. I’ll be watching you, lady. If you keep throwing away her money like a drunken sailor, when her contract is up I’ll have you both barred from every studio in Hollywood.”
He lowered his voice. “Once the poor kid can’t get work, I guess you’ll have to get off your fat rump and find a job like everybody else.”
With that, he strolled away, leaving the lady in tears. Her little girl ran over to Mr. Stein, who picked her up and tossed her in the air. That sight would normally have warmed the cockles of my heart. It didn’t. His act didn’t take me in. I knew the real David Stein, a sex maniac and a cold fish without feelings. Everyone on the lot knew it too and called him the Icebox behind his back.
He walked past, tossing his gold coin high in the air, savoring his power with a wiseacre grin on his arrogant mug. I wanted to give him a swift kick in the pants.
Still, except for one mishap with a whoopee cushion, I survived the Mischief Makers and lived to tell the tale. For that, I gave thanks.
****
March 20, 1932
Dear Leah and Mitzi,
Seymour and I took in a double bill at the Strand, Havana at Midnight and Shanghai Express. When we entered the lobby, we saw a gigantic lobby poster of a beautiful raven-haired gal with a lovely smile. The lovely creature resembled my beloved sister, but who is Mitzi Charles? Oh, yes, now I remember. Our Mitzi had to sacrifice her Jewish roots on the altar of Christian artifice!