Marty and I flew up the stairs without waiting for the pokey elevator, shrieking all the way.
ONE WEEK LATER, I stood by the bedroom mirror trying out my eyelash curler, clamping it on like a vise.
“Do those things really work?” Marty asked, looking over my shoulder.
“Can’t you tell the difference?”
“Ah reckon, so—Tallulah,” she mimicked. I knew she’d love it—we both liked the very latest. During our lunch hour we’d try on perfumes, turbans, and lacy gloves we couldn’t afford. But that eyelash curler was mine. Aunt Olive had given it to me—I was shocked she’d heard of one.
“You might use this in New York,” she told me. “One of the boys’ girlfriends left it at our house.” Which one of my cousins had a glamorous girlfriend like that, I wondered? Probably Chuck, who was a dive-bomber pilot in the South Pacific and could attract girls from southern California and exotic cities like Pasadena, Beverly Hills, and Venice.
“Hey, better not paint any more Stocking Stick on your legs with navy guys,” Marty warned. “So—what are you wearing?”
“I can’t decide,” I said, as if I had a closet full of choices. “Either my sundress again—or this blouse. Then again, it’s so hot—the sundress. But then he’ll think that’s all I have. I just wish we knew where we’re going.”
“Probably a matinee—midshipmen get theater passes, you know.” She went to look at the Broadway clippings tacked above the desk. “I think I’ll suggest Glass Menagerie, with Laurette Taylor.”
“How about the Astor Roof—with Gene Krupa?”
“Or Myrtle Gertle—how about the smorgasbord at the Icelandic?” Marty had the singsong Norwegian accent down pat.
I laughed till tears rolled down my cheeks.
Holy smoke—my lashes! I ran to the mirror. They were ruined. I washed my face and started all over again—when the doorbell rang. They’re here. Barely dressed in my black, I bolted for the door. There they were, Jim more handsome than I remembered. My voice was paralyzed.
“We thought we’d take you girls downtown—” Jim began.
“—To the Jack Dempsey Bar,” John broke in, smiling broadly.
A bar? Were they kidding?
“Jack Dempsey—the fighter?” Marty asked, her voice sliding up an octave.
“You bet! The world champion prizefighter,” John said.
Charmed, I’m sure, Marty muttered to me as we left.
It was a glorious sunny afternoon, the sky as clear and blue as a Tiffany sapphire. We waited at Riverside Drive near Grant’s Tomb for the next bus. When it arrived, Jim took my arm to board and the four of us found seats on the top deck in the front row. On Riverside Drive, couples were strolling hand in hand along the leafy parkway, children were running with kites; and the rooftop terraces of the penthouses were dotted with colorful umbrellas. It was the kind of scene you’d see in a movie with subtitles and French impressionistic music.
But here we were, heading for a crummy saloon for boxing fans: pool tables, cigar butts, smelly spittoons, and counters sticky with spilled beer. No telling what riffraff would be roaming around. I couldn’t believe it. Both of our dates were so nice.
What were they thinking?
“Here we are!” John exclaimed. In big letters, the sign read: JACK DEMPSEY’S BROADWAY BAR AND COCKTAIL LOUNGE: THE MEETING PLACE OF THE WORLD.
As we walked through the door, and I caught my first glimpse inside, I gasped. This was a bar? Every bit of wood gleamed and hundreds of sparkling glasses filled the cabinets. I glanced at Marty, who rolled her eyes. John nudged Jim when a stunning brunette in a backless white chiffon dress was seated with a navy commander. A waiter ushered us to one of the upholstered booths. Along the wall was a colorful mural of a boxing match.
“Hot damn! That’s Jack Dempsey and Jess Willard!” John pointed to the painting. “Must be their championship fight.”
“You’re right,” the waiter said, pointing out the artist’s signature, too: James Montgomery Flagg. Marty and I looked at each other again. Everyone knew that name. Flagg’s most famous poster, with the caption—Uncle Sam pointing—I Want You!, was hanging in just about every public building.
We studied the mural in more detail: Jack Dempsey with his glove raised for a punch; the boxers with sweaty, sinewy muscles; and a crowd of men around the ring, wearing cocky straw hats, smoking cigars, and yelling at the fighters. It was so real you could smell and hear that fight. Our dates were talking excitedly to the waiter about the championship when a girl came by selling gardenias. Jim and John were easy marks.
“Why don’t you wear it in your hair?” Jim suggested.
I melted. How could I have misjudged them? Why did I jump to such hasty conclusions?
The waiter took our orders for Cokes and beer. A photographer followed and snapped a picture—just like at La Martinique! I knew he’d be back in a little while with the photo, wanting us to buy it. Does every fancy place in New York City have its own photographer? When the photographer did return, Jim bought a cardboard-framed copy, for one $1.00.
The photographer didn’t want us to miss any of the real celebrities, either. He leaned over to say, under his breath, “Don’t look now, but Walter Winchell just arrived.”
Walter Winchell! My eyes widened and I couldn’t help but look.
Jim winked at me. “I’ll bet this is a great place for him to pick up the latest scandal for his broadcasts.”
“Do you think there’s any chance that we’ll see Jack Dempsey today?” I asked Jim.
“I don’t think so,” John answered. “He’s a commander in the Coast Guard. I doubt he’ll be back till the war’s over.”
The guys kept talking about Dempsey, and Marty and I kept watching the door, wondering who might walk in next. When the waiter returned, he was carrying menus.
“May I suggest a dessert?”
Dessert?
Did I ever think of anything else? Almost every day we’d walk past Schrafft’s, with their fresh peach sundaes, peppermint sodas, and chocolate malts. Marty and I had been so proud, marching fast, not daring to glance, or to breathe. I could smell chocolate a block away. Just the other night I had dreamed of how my mother would pour hot chocolate syrup over chocolate cake with whipped cream. The next day we couldn’t force ourselves away from Schrafft’s. It cost us a whole week’s allowance.
The waiter handed me a menu—my mouth watered as I read the list. There were ten tempting items, and too little time to consider carefully.
“Our specialty is cheesecake,” he said.
Cheese cake? What will they think up next? I knew about weird sugar substitutes due to rationing, but a cake made with hard, yellow cheese? No siree. Not for me.
Everyone ordered the cheesecake.
I stared at the menu. “The rum ice cream, please.” That sounded exciting—and sophisticated.
“With brandy sauce, Miss?”
“No—the strawberry sauce, please.” The waiter raised his eyebrows.
I could scarcely wait. I’d share mine with Jim—he deserved it.
When the waiter arrived with the desserts, the others didn’t have cake at all—it was a slice of velvety cream pie with a luscious-looking graham-cracker crust. They raved. They said they’d never had anything so delicious, so scrumptious.
No matter—my sundae looked wonderful, too. I took a large scoop.
Holy moly! What is this? The rum was strong—real rum, like in a stiff rum and Coke, and I had tasted only a couple of those, on the sly at parties with preflight guys. And the sugary-sweet strawberry sauce? Mixed with the rum flavor, it tasted more like bad cough syrup. My eyes began to tear.
“How’s yours?” Jim asked.
“It’s—it’s incredible,” I stammered, trying to sound cheerful. I prayed I could finish. I had to—Jim had spent all that money. I’d try—or moosh it around the dish.
“Those strawberries remind me of my mother’s shortcake,” John said. “She piles on the berr
ies over the cake with whipped cream—saves sugar stamps all year for it.”
“What I’m homesick for is my grandmother’s salt-rising bread—that’s my favorite.” Jim was smiling, remembering.
I had a flash—an inspiration. Of course guys love homemade bread. I could do that; I’d watched my mother kneading bread a hundred times. Easy. I’d just add a lot of salt. Our apartment would have that yeasty fresh-bread aroma and I’d look homey with an apron on—if Mrs. Shuttleworth had an extra one.
“Hey, look at the time.” John jumped up. “We’ve gotta scram! I’ve got the watch tonight.”
On our table, when we left, were the Coke and beer bottles and a puddle of melting ice cream with a sorry-looking strawberry floating on top.
106 Morningside Dr.
Dear Family,
Last night we went to a dance for midshipmen at Barnard—a girls’ college. Marty and I met two very nice guys. The midshipmen are college graduates and train at Columbia University to become officers—they’re called “ninety-day wonders.” Marty and I had a fun double date this afternoon with them. They took us to—sort of an art museum with a stunning mural by James Montgomery Flagg!
Tell Katherine, all the stores in NYC are closed on Saturdays because of the war—no shopping on the weekends. Only the banks, restaurants, movies, and theaters are open. So the weekends are free for sightseeing, and our list is long—we must visit the beach of course!
And yes, I know exactly where Riverside Drive is—Aunt Cosette lived there? Very snazzy! And near Juilliard. We love taking that Riverside bus!
Love, Marjorie
P.S. Do you have a recipe for salt-rising bread?
Ooooh—that Riverside bus! On the way back, Jim and I squeezed into the last two seats on the top deck. When he reached for my hand, I prayed he wouldn’t notice my calluses from the cello. I tried to hide them, to turn my fingers in—like Scarlett O’Hara. Maybe he’d think it was our hard work at Tiffany’s. . . .
When we reached the bus stop at Grant’s Tomb, Jim asked, “How about next Saturday . . . I know a place where we can sing college songs.” Ohmygosh!
In a tumbler on our dresser, our gardenias faded and turned brown. But the scent brought it all back. Six more days. Six whole days!
Chapter Eight
WHY IS it,” Marty sighed, “that our lunch hour’s never long enough?”
The choices were staggering when you worked at Fifth Avenue and Fifty-seventh Street, the luxury corner of the world. A glance first at Mainbocher’s entrance (in case the duchess was in town), then to Bonwit’s, and Bergdorf’s, on to the rare-instrument shops, or to read The New Yorker in the lobby of the St. Regis Hotel. Also there was Sheila’s friend who worked at Saks Fifth Avenue. The day we heard that she’d been propositioned by the manager, we couldn’t run there fast enough to check him out. Ohmygosh! He was fat, bald, and old.
But that noon I was on a mission. Saturday’s date with Jim meant finding a new dress that would be dazzling and on sale. Fortunately, I still had the five-dollar bill Phil had given me, plus a few hoarded quarters—every last cent was needed. As Anita would say: “Money may not buy happiness, but it sure takes you shopping.”
“Let’s try Bonwit Teller first,” Marty said. Around the corner, we sauntered past perfumes, lacy gloves, scanty Riviera two-piece bathing suits, and exotic Hawaiian dresses, but nothing was on sale. The haughty salesladies, in their classic black, never noticed us.
“Let’s move on to Bergdorf’s,” Marty said, loud enough for them to hear.
Crossing Fifth Avenue with the Upper East Side ladies in their spiffy Lilly Daché hats and debutantes sporting golden beach tans headed for the Terrace Room at the Plaza, I felt out of my league in my scuffed saddle shoes. When I spotted a man lugging his French horn hurrying in the direction of Carnegie Hall, I smiled. At least I was following someone who knew a quarter note from a bank note.
“So where do you think the bargains are?” I asked Marty. Nothing set my heart racing like a for sale sign.
“Hattie Carnegie?” She laughed. “No—Bergdorf’s, like we planned.”
“Are you serious?”
Bergdorf’s wouldn’t have a sale, I muttered, as we peered into their surrealistic show windows. But Marty was right; a SUMMER SALE sign was discreetly displayed. Once inside, the tantalizing scent of Chanel No. 5 sent me into a dreamlike trance as I milled around with the elite. How my mother would love this store. She had the greatest eye for high fashion and would have had one of the designers’ dresses copied in no time.
As soon as we spotted the MARKED DOWN sign, we made a dive for it. Marty snapped up a pair of white gloves immediately—great bargain. Buried in the back, I found a crisp pink and white piqué dress, with a fitted bolero.
“It’s five dollars!” I cried, showing Marty how the tiny pleats in the skirt billowed out like a Ginger Rogers dress, a show-off number to dance in. Even she gasped.
When I marched to the front counter to buy it, a snooty saleslady squinted through her chic glasses to examine the price tag.
“This dress is fifty dollars,” she said, pointing to a tiny zero with her lurid red fingernail. Fifty dollars! Was she kidding?
I looked to make sure—that dress was meant for me. How could a meager snip of a summer dress be on sale for fifty dollars? I almost keeled over.
When we left the store with Marty carrying her smart Bergdorf bag, I swore in Norwegian never to darken their door again.
As we crossed the street, my spirits lifted. Fifty-seventh Street was the Gold Coast with Carnegie Hall two blocks away and the high-fashion shops in between. So sacred to shoppers that the ashes of a grande dame had been scattered along the street. For me it was the place of rare-instrument shops on the second floor, with legendary names like Stradivarius, Guarnerius, and Tourte. Luckily, Marty was a good sport and tolerated my interest. We climbed the stairs hearing strains of a Bruch violin concerto before we entered the sunlit room smelling of rosin dust. Violins and violas were in special cabinets and cellos lined up against the back wall like soldiers.
“I’m only looking,” I warned when I asked the luthier about a cello. He found a modern French instrument for me to try, and I played a few cadenzas.
“One moment, please,” he said and returned with an old dark red cello with crackled varnish.
“This cello should interest you,” he said, with a glance at Marty’s Bergdorf bag. “Are you studying at Juilliard?”
“I’m afraid not—we work at Tiffany!” I said quickly, enjoying the immediate eye-opening reaction when they heard that magic word.
“This instrument is special,” he said proudly, “Italian—seventeenth century.”
It was more than special! I’d barely touched the strings to play the opening chords of a Bach saraband when the sound resonated through the store.
The timbre. Unbelievable! Marty’s eyes were as big as silver dollars.
“Good night! What do you think Mr. Koelbel would say?” I asked her. My teacher, Mr. Koelbel, had searched Iowa for a fine cello; and cosigned a note for $350. Each month I’d been eking out the payments with my part-time jobs.
“That cello is a Carlo Guiseppe Testore,” the luthier said. “A bargain at two thousand!”
Whoa! I looked at Marty.
“It’s too nasal.” Marty shook her head. “And I heard a wolf-tone.”
I had taught Marty to say that so we could leave gracefully—but the sound wasn’t nasal, it was glorious. Reluctantly, I handed back the cello. It had been effortless to play. Effortless. But two thousand dollars was a bargain? New York City was making me dizzy.
Marty tapped her watch. We were missing the crucial time to stake out a window seat at the Automat to watch the lunchtime crowd.
“Hold on a minute,” I said before we entered, looking down the street at the entrance of the Russian Tea Room, the famed restaurant next to Carnegie Hall.
Marty stopped, putting her hand on her hip. “Not again!”
“I’m just taking a peek,” I insisted.
How could I admit my infatuation with Gregor Piatigorsky—that irresistible Russian, so tall his cello looked like a toy when he marched onstage like a Cossack. It was not a schoolgirl crush. Mr. Koelbel was a colleague of his, and had introduced me at a party after a concert. I almost fainted when Piatigorsky examined my hand for calluses, and then winked at me after telling the ladies, scattered at his feet, how he crossed the Volga River on his cello. But when he gazed at me with his penetrating eyes and said, “Meez Maw-zhor-ee,” I’d never been the same since.
“I’ll bet anything Piatigorsky might remember me and invite us in,” I said.
Marty pointed to her watch again. “Are you crazy? I’ll bet he’s an old married man—”
“Don’t I know it—and to Jacqueline de Rothschild!” I’d read all about it in the paper—devastated, of course. “But he said the Russian Tea Room was his second home with their pickled tongue, imported caviar, and vodka—”
There wasn’t a sign of Piatigorsky in the Russian Tea Room, or on the way to Carnegie Hall. So we ducked into the Automat, grabbed a sandwich, and raced back to Tiffany like a pair of greyhounds.
106 Morningside Dr.
Dear Family,
We are so lucky that Tiffany is on Fifty-seventh Street—Carnegie Hall is only two blocks away. There are rare instrument shops in between and musicians all over the place. Someone saw Toscanini in a restaurant called the Russian Tea Room next to Carnegie!
I was so sorry to hear about Al Ose—after all these years as a Japanese prisoner! How ironic that it was one of our planes that bombed the Japanese ship he was on. Remember how the Ose boys played basketball at the end of the block? Please give them my condolences.
The girls from Long Island will be here again tonight—it gets pretty crowded on the weekends!
Love, Marjorie
Pretty crowded? It was a calamity! Anita was dressed to kill in an off-the-shoulder white eyelet dress, red heels, and dark glasses trimmed in sequins, with a navy lieutenant in tow. In the morning there were cigarette stubs in every ashtray, dirty dishes in the sink, peanut shells on the floor, and beer bottles lined up against the wall, to say nothing of nauseating stale beer fumes.
Summer at Tiffany Page 7