On the other hand, my hometown was so small that I had no idea what street I’d lived on until years after I had finished college. My social life in Story City had revolved around Luther League meetings for teenagers in the basement of St. Petri Norwegian Lutheran Church, complete with regular warnings of what “dancing might lead to.” Unlike Marty’s finery, my clothes were fashioned by my great-aunt Margretha, based on Simplicity patterns and fabric from one of the dry-goods stores in town.
Our social mores varied also. We were not a hugging-kissing family, though no family could have felt a stronger bond. Our Norwegian heritage taught us not to show emotion (“We don’t go for that kind of show,” Great-aunt Margretha sniffed) but we learned to be strong and stoic. The three Lutheran churches that anchored Story City also sent the message that girls did not swear, party with strong drink, or wear shorts downtown. Those who dared to smoke were headed for a life of sin, whereas Marty could hold a silver cigarette holder like Bette Davis.
Marty and I had met at college through our sorority after we both transferred from Iowa State College at Ames. When she asked me to be her roommate, I was ecstatic and, truthfully, a bit shocked that she had chosen me. But running off to New York City together? When I told my parents, they were dumbfounded. That surprised me since they had always encouraged us to travel, and Katherine had even spent two summers working at Yellowstone while she was in high school. But talk about questions—they had lots of them! Where would the money come from? Where would we live? Didn’t we know there was a war going on? As the support-the-war posters constantly reminded us: Use It Up, Wear It Out; Make and Mend; Save Scrap for Victory! In the spring of 1945, losses were escalating in the Pacific and submarines were still cruising the Atlantic coast. To my parents, wartime meant sacrifice, not frivolous escapades.
“I can do it on my own,” I assured my father. “I have enough money.”
BUT DID I, really? Marty’s idea of cashing in on empty soda bottles, at a nickel each, hadn’t even begun to cover the $40 round-trip train ticket. During final exams, there had been bottles everywhere in the Kappa house, but we did have studying to do, so the collecting had been short-lived.
Marty’s backup plan was simple: We’d use our savings. On that point, she didn’t have any worries. The previous summer she had worked at a defense plant, wearing a special protective uniform to make tracer bullets. “I made sixty-four cents an hour because it was so dangerous,” she had announced proudly, and she still had savings from another job, at Central Bank.
My job, playing cello with the Tri-City Symphony in Davenport on an as-needed basis, wasn’t nearly as dangerous—unless you counted flirting with those cute musicians from Chicago—and it wasn’t nearly as lucrative, though it paid well. Ultimately, it was my job at Towner’s dress shop and an Iowa heat wave that had saved the day. On commission, I had sold swimsuits faster than tickets to a Humphrey Bogart movie. Everyone wanted to look like Rita Hayworth—with the barest midriff possible—so the two-piece suits practically sold themselves!
Still, after the train ticket, I’d have only $30. And as my parents argued, “You may have the money, but where will you live?”
Finding a place in New York City seemed an insurmountable obstacle from the rumors we heard. One of the preflight guys at Iowa U. warned us that leasing a furnished apartment was impossible. His father, a journalist for the New York Times, had to share one room with three other writers. They’d used a plywood board across the tub in the bathroom to create a desk for typewriters and a cushion on the toilet turned the “throne” into a chair.
Our prospects looked dim.
But on May 18, just as an Iowa City summer filled with German classes and swims in the old quarry loomed large—and just five days before our self-imposed deadline for giving up our New York City dreams—a postcard arrived from a Kappa sister, Mickey Shuttleworth. She had promised to look around at the Manhattan apartment building where she lived with her family. Her penny postcard read:
106 Morningside Drive, N.Y.
Dear Marge,
I await with apprehension your decision about a room. Just heard about someone who wants two girls—but it doesn’t sound too hot. I’m still recovering from two shocks, “A” in Phil. And (this will stun you) an “A” in Music Apprec.!!!!!!!!! Making a 3.8. Life is too good to me!
Love, Mick
Two girls? I ran up the stairs, shouting for Marty. What could be safer than living in the same apartment building as Mickey’s parents? We rushed to get our folks’ approval, cancel summer school, collect our war ration stamps for meat and sugar, and purchase round-trip coach tickets for the Union Pacific train. Most trains were already full, and servicemen got top priority, but in less than two weeks, we were at the Des Moines station, with our families in tow.
My heart raced when I heard the train whistle. I had never been on a train before, never been far from Iowa, but I was ready. Katherine had advised me always to keep a dollar hidden in my bra, so I had. My mother handed me a box of freshly baked kringla, my favorite Norwegian sweet bread. And Philip, my fourteen-year-old brother, pressed a five-dollar bill into my hand. I was flabbergasted. He must have mowed lawns all spring for that!
I’ll never forget how my father’s blue eyes misted when he handed me my suitcase on the steps of the rumbling train that would speed me away to a menacing city far from home.
I thought of him as I tried to write a letter home. The theater schedule had been tacked near the telephone. It included Fredric March in A Bell for Adano, Margaret Sullavan in Voice of the Turtle, and Laurette Taylor in The Glass Menagerie. My father would have been thrilled. His passion was to act in plays, and he could recite Edgar Allan Poe like Lionel Barrymore. I didn’t have the heart to tell him in a letter what he was missing.
106 Morningside Dr.
Dear Family,
Monday can’t come soon enough! We’re on pins and needles every second about that job possibility!! Can you blame us? This will surprise you—the first thing I saw at the Shuttleworths’ apartment was a cello! Mrs. Shuttleworth had been a cellist and said I could practice anytime. Mr. Koelbel will be relieved—he was worried I’d be out of practice for the fall concert. The Shuttleworths’ apartment on the top floor has a spectacular view of Morningside Park, and it’s very homey with books everywhere. Mickey’s father is very impressive—he’s on the City College faculty. No wonder she’s won so many honors—she has a job here for Psychology Corp. and is so busy we scarcely see her. Her roommate is Abby, another Kappa sister, which makes seven of us in New York! It’s hotter than heck here. Mrs. Shuttleworth makes delicious iced lemonade by stirring in whipped egg whites—try it, it’s wonderful. The girls from Long Island were here for the weekend. There’s not one dull moment when they’re around.
Love, Marjorie
Never a dull moment. Our Russian neighbor, on the way to the elevator, shook a disapproving finger at us. Could it have been last night’s party? In what language could we apologize? Joannie threw her hand over her heart, Marty whispered, “Sorry,” Anita said, “Excusez-moi,” Sheila crossed herself with a mea culpa, and I prayed we wouldn’t be tossed out.
Fortunately we were dressed to the nines, as if we were heading for Riverside Church to hear Reverend Fosdick. Instead, the five of us trooped over to the library at Columbia U. and sat on the steps. The plan was to feed the pigeons our last box of crackers—as if it were our life’s mission—in hopes of meeting midshipmen.
The girls were gorgeous, with golden tans from the beach, while Marty and I looked like shut-ins from a sanitarium. They talked a blue streak about the Broadway stars they’d seen at Sardi’s, their discount clothes deals, and Joannie’s boyfriend. Anita rattled on about weekends at “our” pied-à-terre. I glanced at Marty—what was that? When she pulled a long face, I knew. Good grief! Our apartment!
So there we were, baking in the sun, waiting endlessly for lonely midshipmen to stop by. We didn’t see a single one. Should have known. Guys
don’t hang around libraries on the weekend.
Chapter Three
THE BESPECTACLED superintendent stood by his desk; the secretary’s chair was vacant.
“There is a job opening for you young ladies,” he said, staring at a space over our heads.
Ohmygosh!
“Due to the war there’s a shortage of young men—and we need pages,” he continued.
A page? The sudden image of that page “calling Philip Morris” with the daffy red pillbox on his head came to mind.
I had to ask, “What does a page do here?”
“They deliver packages to the repair and shipping department for the salesmen. It’s an important service in the store.”
“What would the salary be?” Marty asked immediately.
Marty!
“Twenty dollars a week.”
Whoa! I didn’t dare look at Marty—how could we live on that? We had both anticipated that any job at Lord & Taylor or Tiffany would pay well. Especially Tiffany.
Sensing our concern, he added, “Our young men are from eastern colleges. Sidney Greenstreet’s son was one of our last pages.” He left little doubt about living more on the honor than on the money—easy to do if your father was a movie star.
He continued, “Tiffany’s has never employed ladies on the sales floor before—you’ll be the first. Would you be interested in the position?”
We answered “Yes” in unison. He met our eyes for the first time, and there was a hint of a smile.
“Well, then, we’ll sign a few papers. My name is Mr. Wilson.” He invited us to sit across from him. His polished mahogany desk was fastidiously furnished with engraved leather and silver accessories, and a photo of a lady in a bronze and abalone frame.
In my excitement I sat down and bumped my foot against the chair leg. My blistered heel sent up shock waves. I bit my tongue to stifle a cry and tried to force a smile. From the corner of my eye, I noticed Marty scrutinizing the papers, not making a move to find her fountain pen. What was she waiting for? Would she try to negotiate the salary? I fidgeted while the superintendent cleared his throat.
I was so relieved when Marty finally reached in her purse for her pen that I quickly opened mine—but it was upside down. Lipstick, bobby pins, mirror, comb, fountain pen, coin purse, Juicy Fruit gum, Tootsie Roll wrappers, and two loose nickels clattered to the floor. Marty shot me a look, but helped to scoop up my stuff. I was after the money, which had rolled out of sight. Calmly I bent down on my hands and knees, inched my hand as far as possible under the desk, found one nickel, reached for it, but gave up on the other one. My subway nickel was next to Mr. Wilson’s shiny black shoes. When I tried to get up gracefully, I banged my head on the ledge of the desk, and shrieked, “Oops!” I sank back in my chair, frozen with shame. All my efforts to acquire proper poise with a swagger of confidence had vanished. I figured I’d better reacquaint myself with that humble position on the floor. With that salary, Marty and I would be scrubbing floors by the weekend. The well-meaning Mr. Wilson handed me his silver pen. I smoothed my hair, tried to compose myself, thanked him, and signed the papers with an extra flourish.
“Next, I’ll show you the employees’ entrance and then your locker room,” he said, glancing at the secretary’s empty chair. I was relieved by her absence. Did she know about us? Had she left in a huff?
As he led us down a narrow hallway, I admired the superintendent’s meticulous razor-sharp-pleated trousers and Windsor-knot tie, and the way each hair was combed in a perfect row across the top of his head. Still, it was disconcerting the way he avoided our eyes and seemed to speak to a ghost over our heads. But who was I to be picky?
Marty and I trooped behind him like Camp Fire girls on a field trip, startling employees along the way. Mr. Wilson led us past closed doors and hallways to an enclosure by the exit door. He introduced us to a small, uniformed man sitting at a counter.
“This is the gentleman who will clock you in each day,” he said, handing him a slip of paper. “And this is the employees’ entrance door from Fifty-seventh Street.” He opened the door as a gust of hot air rushed in. When he closed it, he reached for his monogrammed handkerchief and wiped his brow.
“It’s a scorcher today,” Mr. Wilson commented as he led us back to a nearby bank of elevators. “We’re fortunate to have central air-conditioning—the first store in the city. The old Tiffany store was twenty blocks down the avenue, but our new building has all the modern innovations.” I could sense his pride. The showplace on Fifth Avenue.
“These elevators are only for employees,” he emphasized.
I had goose bumps when he said only for employees. This behind-the-scenes tour reminded me of being backstage before a concert. We had to be the luckiest girls in town to be part of the Tiffany family and watch the curtain open to the toniest display of jewelry in the world. As I daydreamed about our newly acquired status, Mr. Wilson was patiently waiting by the elevator.
The elevator operator, a ruddy-faced, rotund man, did a double take when we entered, the surprise on his face pretty obvious. When we reached the right floor, he cautioned, “Watch your step now, lydies,” and rolled his blue eyes. I giggled.
My giggle came to an abrupt halt when the superintendent led us to the locker room and opened the door. There was the secretary, sitting on a bench in front of a row of gray metal lockers. She stood up, all but snapping to attention.
“I have the uniforms here,” she said to Mr. Wilson, pointing to the box on the floor.
“Thank you, I’m sure they’ll be the right kind.” To us he said, “I’ll see you later in my office,” and was gone.
We’re going to wear uniforms? Brass buttons, epaulets, and braid? Marty’s eyebrows shot up.
“I hope they’ll fit,” the secretary said, reaching for the box. When she folded back the tissue paper, she lifted up two of the most perfect day dresses that I had ever seen—shirtwaist style in an aqua-blue silk jersey.
I didn’t know what to say, I was so in awe.
“These are elegant!” Marty cried. “May we try them on?”
The secretary motioned us toward a full-length mirror. “Of course. That’s why we’re here—I need to see if they’ll fit.”
I ran my hand over the silky material. “I can’t wait to try it on.” I’d make mine fit. But did I feel guilty. How Marty and I had mocked the poor secretary last weekend: her 1930s hairdo, her disapproving frown, and her quivering double chin. My face was hot with shame. How could we have been so mean?
Marty modeled her dress in front of the mirror. “It fits perfectly.”
“And mine,” I said, cinching my belt into the last notch. “We’re going to look so smooth!”
“They’re in very good taste.” The secretary seemed pleased. “You’ll be the only young ladies on the sales floor, you know.”
She looked at me with saucer eyes. I turned red, remembering my ill-timed “We can sell jewelry” remark. Good heavens. “I almost forgot,” she added, “the superintendent will have black leather shoulder bags for you tomorrow—you’ll need them for deliveries. But now you have an appointment at the nurse’s office. Keep the dresses on for the moment—I want her to see them.”
“A nurse?” Marty looked at me in surprise.
“Yes—Mrs. Ross, our nurse.” She led us down the hall.
As we stepped into the nurse’s office, Mrs. Ross opened her arms. “I’ve been waiting to meet you—it’s time we had young girls for pages.” With her soft hazel eyes and dark hair parted in the middle, she reminded me of my mother.
“Are these the uniforms?” she asked. “The color is fabulous—where in the world did you find them?”
“At Bonwit’s.” The secretary was beaming. “When the salesgirl brought these out, I knew they’d be perfect.”
Marty and I stared at each other. Bonwit Teller? That exclusive store?
“Well, I must say,” the nurse said, pointing to the scale, “you two could be Powers models. Won’t you
brighten up that main floor!”
Her enthusiastic comments bowled me over. Our height, our hairdos, our complexions, our “Midwest rosy cheeks.” She was even thrilled with my teeth. “No fillings?” she said, after checking my mouth. “You’ll never see that out here—it must be that good Iowa water.” After the hysterical episode in Mr. Wilson’s office, her praise sang to me like a Schubert melody. “But, one more thing. Didn’t I notice you limping?” she asked me. “Is it a sore blister?”
I nodded, and she reached for a bandage, “Here now, slip off that shoe a minute.” She capably and carefully wrapped my foot. I blinked, my eyes wet—she was so much like my mother. Horrified that I might cry, I stammered, “I don’t know how I could’ve taken another step. It’s so—” and I couldn’t say another word. She patted me on the shoulder. “It’s going to feel better in no time. But you do need to take care of it.”
She sat down at a small desk to fill out a form, and then turned. “So have you girls had a tour of the upper floors?”
“Not yet,” the secretary answered for us.
“Well then, you’re in for a treat. The second floor will take your breath away—all in sterling silver—with candelabras, I swear, as tall as you are.” Mrs. Ross gestured. “But now the third floor—with the china and crystal—that’s my favorite . . . just wait till you meet Mr. T.C. on that floor—”
“The important thing,” the secretary interrupted, moving toward the door, “will be for them to see the repair and shipping departments.”
“And the secret—?” Mrs. Ross started to say.
“No,” the secretary cut her off sharply. “Oh, no.” And with that, we were ushered out the door.
On the way home, we flew. There were postcards to send, the Shuttleworths to tell, and the Long Island girls to call. That night, Marty and I replayed every scene from the day like frames in a home movie. The most mind-boggling detail was—“the secret” what?
Summer at Tiffany Page 3