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For Greg, who’s always up for an adventure
CHAPTER ONE
I saw the marquee first, jutting out onto West Forty-second Street with bright white letters—ZIEGFELD FOLLIES OF 1927—all full of light bulbs and ready to illuminate the street when the sun began to fade. The building above the New Amsterdam Theatre towered over its neighbors. The names Eddie Cantor, Lora Foster and the Brox Sisters were painted in huge lettering on the side. I allowed myself to imagine for a moment that it was my name up there—big, bold lettering, shouting out for all of New York City to see.
During the walk over from Lord & Taylor to the theater, I’d felt quite proud of myself. Mr. Ziegfeld had approached me at a show in California and told me to call on him if ever I was in New York. And look at me now, I thought. Despite everything, I was about to knock on his door, ready to get on that stage. A twinge of nerves fluttered through me as I approached the theater entrance, but I shooed them away.
Inside was equally impressive—black-and-white marble floors, elaborate carved wooden friezes, illustrations of beautiful women adorning the walls. But there was no one in sight. The box office windows were closed, the glass doors to the theater were locked. Looking around, I could see no indication of where to go, so I called the elevator and heard the churning of machinery as it slowly made its way down to the lobby.
“Good morning, miss,” the elevator attendant said as he opened both doors. “How can I help you?”
“I’m here to see Mr. Ziegfeld,” I said.
“Of course. He’s on the sixth floor. Is he expecting you?”
“Yes, I believe he is,” I said, smirking slightly as I stepped inside. It had been a little over a year since we’d met, and in that time my life had been turned upside down and back again, but Mr. Ziegfeld didn’t know any of that. Surely he was expecting me to show up at some point.
In his office I gave his secretary the same answer I’d given the elevator attendant because it had worked so well and it tickled me as I said it.
His secretary looked through the calendar. “I don’t see a meeting scheduled, Miss McCormick.”
“Really?”
“Are you sure he’s expecting you?”
“Oh yes,” I said, enjoying this more than I should be.
“Okay, let me see,” she said, getting up and going through a heavy dark wooden door. When she reappeared she said, “You can go in now.”
I quickly walked into the office before anyone had a chance to change their mind, taking a deep breath, willing the confidence to stay with me.
The rich burgundy-and-gold carpet was thick under my feet, as if I were in someone’s bedroom, not their office. Mr. Ziegfeld stood up from his large mahogany desk and walked around to the front to greet me. He looked just as I remembered, slight of build but tall, a full head of silver-grey hair, thick black eyebrows and an impeccably tailored suit.
“Hello, Mr. Ziegfeld, so lovely to see you again.”
He stopped and appraised me, frowning slightly. He looked confused or possibly angry at me for showing up without an appointment. I couldn’t decide.
“And you are?”
“Olive McCormick,” I said, laughing a little nervously. “We met in California at the Manila Theater.” He looked at me blankly. “San Jose, California. I sang in the performance of The Mikado with a traveling opera company.” I was sure this would bring that moment back to him. But nothing—just a blank look. “There was an earthquake, remember? You said that my singing stopped a moment of sudden panic.” Panic? I was in a panic. This was not going at all as I’d expected. How could he not remember? He’d been so complimentary. I had imagined how this second meeting would go just about every day of the past year, envisioning it as a turning point in my career, a necessary stepping-stone in my life, yet he couldn’t recall ever seeing my performance.
“I’m terribly sorry. I see a lot of beautiful women, a lot of talented singers and dancers. I cannot possibly remember them all.”
“Well, let me jog your memory,” I said, a little sternly now. “You told me you’d like me to come to New York and be in your show.”
He raised his bushy black eyebrows, and a slight grin appeared under his thin mustache.
“Or, perhaps you said if I was ever in New York then I should pay you a visit at your theater, or something to that effect. Anyway, here I am.” I curtsied sarcastically.
This time he smiled and sat on the edge of his desk. “Well, Miss McCormick, you’ve certainly got the spirit of one of my girls. I can see now why I must have liked you. Please take a walk to the wall, slowly, turn, and walk back towards me.”
I did as he instructed, trying not to rush, trying to calm myself down. I was here now, he’d already seen me perform, he’d already complimented my voice, my figure, what more did he need? It felt strange and uncomfortable to be observed doing a simple, everyday act such as walking. His eyes on me made me feel as though I were doing it wrong.
I’d read a few magazine articles about Ziegfeld over the past year. One was called “How I Pick My Beauties,” and I remembered it saying that personality is what gets a girl into the Follies and that she should be jolly, happy, and lighthearted. Another article, “When Is a Woman’s Figure Beautiful: Florenz Ziegfeld Tells How He Judges,” was more specific, saying that a beautiful, rounded, lovely figure is an attribute to the stage and that the measurements he considers right for the girl of today is height: five feet five and a half inches—I was spot-on there. Weight: 120 pounds—well, in my normal state I danced back and forth between 118 and 122, and in the past few months I’d worked harder than ever to stay right in the middle. Shoe size: five. Mine was a whopping size seven—I curled my toes in my boots as I recalled this detail. It went on to say he tried to choose the “American type,” with a perfect profile, a straight nose, a short upper lip, rose-and-cream-colored skin, large melting eyes, an expressive mouth and a mass of crinkly, bright golden hair—well, I was a brunette, but I knew he’d selected brunettes before; even his former wife was a brunette. When I’d read these articles, I’d thought I fit perfectly, but now, as he took his time looking me up and down, I started to wonder and sucked in my stomach.
“Thank you, Miss McCormick, do sit down.”
“Do you recall the evening we met now?” I asked, smiling, remembering to appear jolly.
“It’s coming back to me, yes.”
“It would be an honor to join your show, Mr. Ziegfeld, I live in New York now and I’m…”
He held his hand up to stop me. “Before you go on…” He paused, as if to make sure that I was willing to listen, which I was, obediently yet reluctantly. “This is a wonderful time for the theater. It’s a time when we as producers and performers”—he nodded to me, which gave me a little hope—“know that we are doing something good for our country. We entertain, we lift spirits, we make people laugh, we tell stories, we bring communities together, we celebrate and gl
orify the American girl and therefore we celebrate our country and our heritage.”
He paused as if for some applause or a pat on the back. “That’s wonderful, I agree,” I said, not sure what else to say. “I think it’s brilliant and that’s why I came here to tell you…”
He put his hand up again. It was really starting to bother me when he did that.
“Having said all that, I’m afraid that we don’t have any openings for chorus girls at the present time. With your proportions, your long legs, good features and”—he opened a drawer and pulled out a transparent screenlike mask, with various lines and measurements, and held it up to my face—“yes, and with your near perfect facial symmetry, you would make an excellent chorus girl. I believe I said you’d be perfect for the ponies, but on second thought you’d make a marvelous chorus girl.”
He did remember me! He’d told me when he came to my dressing room that I could be one of his ponies, and I remembered thinking how awful that sounded until I read up on it and realized it simply meant a dancer. But now he saw me as a chorus girl—even better, I thought.
“So a chorus girl, then?”
“Yes. But I’m afraid not at this time.”
What was wrong with this man, getting my hopes up and then shooting them down repeatedly? Maybe I wasn’t good enough, maybe performing in small-town shows had allowed me to believe I was better than I really was. I suddenly felt foolish for barging into his office, but I refused to let those feelings get the better of me or to let him see my weakness.
“It’s all very well to have the looks, Mr. Ziegfeld,” I said. “But let’s not forget the importance of talent supported by a lifetime of training. No one is going to light up a stage if they can’t sing or dance. I can do both, very well I’ve been told, by newspaper reviews, audiences and very important producers such as yourself.” I got up to leave.
“Do come back. We’ll be holding auditions again early next year.”
I was mad as hell. Really, who did this man think he was, anyway, God? Picking out what he considered to be the perfect specimen of a woman with no account for her talent and perseverance? I might not be the best dancer out there, but I sure worked at it. He had no idea what I’d been through in the past year, and in that time I’d worked on my voice constantly. It was about the only thing I could do. Before that, I’d taken any part I could get in any theater company in town just to continue my training onstage. Sure, they were small-time, amateur productions, but he didn’t need to know that, and I did it all to be ready to finally show off my hard work in New York City.
“Auditions?” I turned back toward him with my hand on the door.
“Yes, I’ll have my—”
I held my hand up this time, stopping him midsentence. “Oh, Mr. Ziegfeld, I can’t simply wait around for you. I’m sure I’ll be cast in another show by then. Hopefully, we’ll meet again sometime.”
CHAPTER TWO
I met Florenz Ziegfeld for the first time the previous year when I was nineteen and traveling with the Pollard Opera Company, much to my father’s dismay. We’d been performing The Mikado at the Manila Theater that night in San Jose, California.
I’d had a wild streak in me since I left Minnesota. My father and I had gotten into a rip-roaring fight where he all but forbade me to go on the road, saying this “performing hobby” of mine was turning out to be some sort of crass ploy for attention and that no daughter of his should be parading herself onstage for other people’s Saturday night entertainment. He hadn’t minded so much when I sang in small shows in our hometown of St. Cloud or even over an hour away in Minneapolis, but I was itching for something bigger.
“I’m going to make it big, Pa, just you wait and see, and you’ll feel differently about it then, I know you will.”
“Ha,” my father scoffed. “That’ll be the day. I’ve told you once already I don’t want you showing yourself off like that, it’s vulgar.”
“For goodness’ sakes, Pa, I’m singing light opera, not selling my body on the streets.”
The minute it left my lips I knew I’d gone too far. My outburst sent his large, broad hand searing across my face and me and my travel bag out the front door as fast as I could move.
The whole train ride from Minneapolis to San Jose I’d been furious, still feeling the burn on my cheek, yet I was quietly thrilled at the thought of him worrying about me—wondering where I’d stay and how I’d get by—and I was determined to prove him wrong. I didn’t need his money or his approval, and if my mother couldn’t stick up for me, even though she’d always encouraged my talents, then I didn’t need her either.
The theater was packed door-to-door with patrons, and I’d caught wind that there were some important people occupying the boxes that night, a governor-general of some sort and the famous Florenz Ziegfeld from New York City. It was unusual for our traveling company to draw that kind of crowd, but that only thrilled me more. While some of the girls in the group got wobbly when they heard about a full house or dignitaries in the boxes, I got bolder, more excited. Minutes before the curtain went up I always had a buzzing sensation surging through me, a desperation for it all to start; the sound of the applause only intensified that feeling, until I felt I was lifting off the ground, gliding inches off the stage as I heard my voice fill the space around me.
That night, in Japanese dress, my face painted white, my lips red, I entered stage left and began to sing Yum-Yum’s aria “The sun whose rays are all ablaze” when my voice was overtaken by a tremendous rumble, as if a roar of thunder were right outside the theater doors. Almost instantly there was a great jolt, the whole theater shaking violently from side to side for no more than a few seconds. The red-and-gold Japanese lanterns hanging from the catwalk overhead began to swing left to right, and someone in the orchestra screamed, “Earthquake!”
Members of the audience began to jump from their seats with cries of terror, but I suddenly had the strangest thought. Rather than fear for my life or panic that the ceiling would fall in on us, I was distressed that they would all leave, I wouldn’t be able to perform and then I’d be devastated. What would I do with all this pent-up, buzzing energy, this absolute need to sing?
“Sit down!” roared an official-looking man from one of the boxes. The audience looked up at him, and without a second thought I picked up where I had left off, three lines in, with more intensity than I’d started out with. The thunderous noise was gone, the shaking ground below us was still and people stood for a moment, seeming unsure whether they should stay or go. Then they began to find their seats again. The orchestra had stopped playing, but that didn’t bother me. I gave one hell of a performance, and when I sang my last note everyone stood up and frantically applauded. The show went on, the orchestra resumed and it was as if nothing had happened. That is, until Mr. Florenz Ziegfeld knocked on the dressing room door at the end of the night.
“I’m looking for the director, Mr. Elvie,” he said.
“Oh.” I pulled my robe tighter around me. I had taken off my kimono and was about to remove the white makeup and red lipstick. We’d been expecting Mr. Elvie, too—he usually knocked on the dressing room door soon after the show to give us his notes onstage while they were fresh in his head.
“He hasn’t come backstage yet, I’m afraid. I can pass on a message if you’d like.”
“Please do. Tell him that Florenz Ziegfeld came by to compliment him on his production and on his spectacular cast.”
I nodded, trying not to appear too eager to meet him.
“And you, you were quite spectacular yourself, Miss…?”
“Miss McCormick,” I said. “Olive McCormick.”
“Yum-Yum indeed.” He took my hand and kissed it, holding a beautiful bouquet of flowers in his other hand. “You saved the show this evening.”
“Oh, I don’t know about that.”
“Indeed, your bravery, your calmness and your presence of mind to keep singing in that beautifully sweet voice of yours averted what c
ould have resulted in a stampede.”
I hadn’t thought of it that way; I’d just really wanted to sing. In fact, since the show had ended, and I’d heard the cast members in the dressing room talking about the terrifying earthquake and how we could have all been crushed to death in the rubble of the theater, I briefly thought that my continuing to sing could have actually done a lot more harm than good if there’d been another tremor.
“Truly, Miss McCormick,” he continued, “hundreds of lives could have been at risk if everyone panicked and tried to flee.”
“Well, I suppose you’re right; I did save the day. Thank you for the lovely flowers,” I said, reaching for them.
“Oh…” Mr. Ziegfeld hesitated, laughed, then handed them over. “I like your confidence.”
I realized as I took them that they weren’t intended for me. After all, we’d only just met. He hadn’t come backstage to meet me, he’d come to meet the director. I suddenly felt foolish, but I wasn’t about to let on, so I breathed in the scent and smiled one of my best.
“I have a little show in New York City,” he said. “You might have heard of it.”
Of course I had. This was the Broadway showman and creator of the Ziegfeld Follies, the man who turned young women into overnight sensations if they could sing or dance. But I’d be coy, play it as if I hadn’t a clue.
“I don’t believe I’ve heard of it.”
“Oh yes, the Ziegfeld Follies. I have the most beautiful, most talented girls in the country. I know from one glance if they have the proportions and beauty to be a Ziegfeld girl.”
“Really? One glance? And I suppose she must disrobe for you to have such insight?”
“Not at all. She can be fully robed. One look at her ankle and her neck will tell me exactly how her whole leg will look. I like a straight American girl’s nose and a short upper lip.” He eyed me, moving his head to the side to analyze my facial structure.
The Show Girl Page 1