Mitzi of the Ritz Read online

  Table of Contents

  Excerpt

  Praise for Lee René and MITZI OF THE RITZ

  Mitzi of the Ritz

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  A word about the author…

  Thank you for purchasing

  Also available from The Wild Rose Press, Inc.

  We descended the grand staircase. The flash of teeth, eyes, and diamonds nearly blinded us. The maître d’hôtel led us through a grove of papier-mâché palm trees everyone swore were leftover props from Valentino’s The Sheik. The scent of perfume mingled with plumes of smoke from a thousand cigarettes. The gods and goddesses deserted Mount Olympus that night—hair coiffed to perfection, skin suntanned, teeth perfect, they had descended into the Cocoanut Grove.

  A baritone crooned “Prisoner of Love” and caressed the microphone as if it were his lover, while a throng of extra girls stood at the foot of the bandstand in silent adoration. Mr. Factor had personally supervised the girls’ transformations, and watched as an army of cosmetologists plucked, powdered, and rouged them. Hairdressers had lacquered every lock of hair, whether lemonade yellow or flaming red, into submission. They wore gowns of cerise, chartreuse, teal, and pale pink, blossoms of a giant bouquet cast at the singer’s feet.

  Votive candles illuminated every table, along with the tiny flares from cigarette tips. That night everyone drank “coffee” mixed with ginger ale or Coca-Cola. Omar smiled mischievously. “A cup of joe here is at least a hundred proof.”

  Stars flickered on the blue ceiling, but I kept my gazing to the celestial bodies crowding the dance floor.

  Praise for Lee René and MITZI OF THE RITZ

  “The dialogue is so telling of the era and the mind-set of a young girl. This writing is filled with the specifics of the era, the feelings, the bits and pieces of a girl caught up in a situation that is moving and engrossing, sad and fearsome at the same time.”

  ~Publishers Weekly

  Mitzi of the Ritz

  by

  Lee René

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

  Mitzi of the Ritz

  COPYRIGHT © 2020 by Francesca Miller

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  Contact Information: [email protected]

  Cover Art by Tina Lynn Stout

  The Wild Rose Press, Inc.

  PO Box 708

  Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708

  Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com

  Publishing History:

  Previously published by Solstice Publishing, 2016

  First Vintage Rose Edition, 2020

  Trade Paperback ISBN 978-1-5092-3199-7

  Digital ISBN 978-1-5092-3200-0

  Published in the United States of America

  Dedication

  To my parents, William and Thora,

  who planted the love of film and Hollywood in me.

  Thank you to my late friend Steven Whitfield,

  who is always close to my heart.

  Chapter One

  New York, New York

  October 1930

  Jews will tell you grief brings on a ferocious appetite. After Pops died, my older sisters and I buried him the next afternoon. Shiva, our week of mourning, began that evening. Most of our neighbors could barely feed themselves, yet food came in by the minute. By the second day, the tables in our tiny apartment groaned from the weight of fruit baskets and bowls of chopped liver. Plates of prune Danish blanketed our piano, and the starving mourners fell on the offerings like a pack of hungry lions.

  Gloomy predictions lurked behind condolences, and some offered veiled prophecies of our inevitable downfall along with dishes of food. “Such a wonderful man to pass away so young. We heard he lost all his money in the horrible mess in ’29.”

  One old biddy put it bluntly. “You poor girls, unmarried and with so much debt, how can you survive? Your father is dead. What will you do without husbands?”

  I wanted to tell the nosey parker to buzz off, but kept my lips buttoned. Even in those desperate times, I knew I’d find a job. Nothing, except mourning my father, would stop me from looking.

  My older sisters, Leah and Zisel, ignored the doomsayers and took comfort in the words of Pops’ musician friends from Harlem. Times were tough, especially for performers, but the fellows had managed to scrape together fifteen bucks as a funeral offering. Between sips of coffee and nibbles of babka, a trombone player named Sneaky Pete regaled us with stories about Pops.

  “No one played jazz fiddle like your pops. One night he gigged with Louis Armstrong and Bix Beiderbecke, and the three of them blew the roof off the joint. Isaac Schector, Benny Goodman, and George Gershwin were the hippest white cats in New York!”

  By the third day of Shiva our apartment reeked of boiled eggs, stale grub, and humanity. Some of the ancient grandmothers and grandfathers suffered from flatulence that added to the stench. After each wave of visitors, I’d open the windows to air out the rooms and spritz our flat with Arpege perfume. It didn’t help.

  The seven days of Shiva ended, and my job search began the next morning. Leah had once earned a pittance teaching piano to pampered brats, but she’d changed occupations. She’d found work as a taxi dancer at Roseland, the biggest dance hall in New York. Leah shielded me from her dime-a-dance chums, yet she remained philosophical about her new occupation. “Being a nickel hopper isn’t my dream job, but it sure beats starving.”

  The idea of tangoing with men reeking of tobacco and hair oil, sweaty fellows stepping on her feet while trying to cop a feel, made me want to puke. How could I expect my twenty-year-old sister to support me? I felt like a moocher every time I asked her for a quarter. After all, hadn’t I turned eighteen in August? Although it nearly killed me, I’d said farewell to college, dropped out of Barnard, put my dream of teaching music aside. Somewhere a job awaited me.

  Before I left on my hunt that morning, our next-door neighbor caught me at the stairwell. The old fellow made a ritual of reading The New York Times cover to cover every day. He handed me the Help Wanted pages. Amidst somber advertisements for experienced stenographers, waitresses, and telephone operators, he’d circled the one bright light.

  “The ad says, ‘The famed Broadway Ritz Theater seeks an usherette. No experience required. Applicants must be
willing to work multiple shifts. Only attractive young ladies need apply. Ask for Mr. Stein.’ ” He turned to me, a bright smile on his face. “This would be a perfect job for a pretty girl like you.”

  Only attractive young ladies need apply. I checked my face in my compact mirror, powdered my nose, and then applied lipstick and rouge. I’d heard makeup clogged the pores, but Leah pooh-poohed it. “As long as you pile on the Pond’s cold cream to take it off, you can roll in it.”

  Not that my looks were so bad to begin with. Perhaps nature hadn’t blessed me with the sultry beauty of my two older sisters, Leah and Zisel, but no one would call me a dog, either. With my round face, dark eyes, and dimpled cheeks, people swore I resembled the movie star Clara Bow, minus the red hair and penciled-in eyebrows. Folks, especially Gentiles, said I had very “American” features, which I guess meant I didn’t look Jewish.

  Zisel’s new beau worked in the garment industry and had given me a très chic black-and-scarlet woolen dress. The frock looked very professional, yet the bodice showed off my bosoms to full advantage. The new, longer length would set the ideal tone for my job search. I turned my red beret at a jaunty angle and marched off to the subway station, my nickel the ticket to the great White Way.

  I stared up at a steel-and-concrete forest of skyscrapers that reached all the way to the heavens, where a sliver of blue sky peeked out. A fashionable belle in a fox fur smiled in my direction as I hurried down Broadway, and the jazzy trumpet of my favorite musician, Louis Armstrong, blared from the entrance to a music store. I took a precious minute to pop my fingers and tap my toes to the hot rhythm, but then remembered the time, and off I went.

  As I rushed past the beautiful movie palaces and theaters dotting the street, an agent tipped his hat in my direction. The air smelled crisper than the first bite of a McIntosh apple, birds chirped, and despite the chilly weather, the sun cut through the concrete forest and beamed down on me. All at once, life was peachy keen again. It would be my red-letter day. Then I reached the Broadway Ritz. The queue of girls wanting the usherette job reached the end of the block. Some red-letter day.

  I walked through a maze of cheap perfume to the back of the line. A few of the candidates glared at the additional competition. Some of the girls weren’t exactly what I would call attractive, but what did I know? Several went heavy on the makeup with mascara and penciled brows. A couple even wore eye shadow, a product my late, lamented Aunt Sylvia swore only floozies used. I noticed a profusion of bottle blondes and henna-heads and felt a pang of jealousy because some had the money for finger waves. I possessed a shoulder-length mane of black, curly hair, longer than most, but longer hair was back in fashion, or so I hoped.

  A muscular young man in a dark gray overcoat and Homburg hat, probably a lackey for Mr. Stein, walked past, sizing up the talent. He stopped before one, then another, and dismissed the flashier girls with a scowl. By the time he reached me, his mood hadn’t improved, and he looked as if he’d swallowed a green persimmon.

  From a distance, the fellow had a chiseled, Arrow-shirt air about him, and with his baby face, looked to be in his early twenties. Up close, I noticed the cut of his jaw, the full lips. He possessed the looks and arrogance of a movie actor, along with brilliant come-hither eyes, the most beautiful I’d ever seen. Tall, elegantly dressed, he smelled of Pinaud Clubman aftershave.

  Mr. Handsome gave me a quick once-over, then turned away. My career as an usherette had ended before it began. But then, without warning, he doubled back, why I don’t know, and took a second look. I’d never seen such a gorgeous guy before, and my heart almost beat out of my chest.

  His eyes narrowed, he smirked like some wisenheimer fraternity boy, crooked a finger, and said, “Hey, girlie, follow me.”

  We walked past the losers, their bitter faces glaring in my direction. I glared back. I wanted to shout, “Don’t blame me because he picked me. The guy knows what he wants and I need a job.”

  I forgot the sourpusses the moment I crossed the Broadway Ritz’s threshold.

  Stepping into the lobby could have been a stroll in Versailles. I followed Mr. Handsome through gargantuan marble columns flanked with giant mirrors shot through with gold. The reflection of the crystal chandeliers on the glass nearly blinded me. I almost collided with an usher in a scarlet uniform, who stood at attention like a palace guard.

  My guide removed his hat and overcoat, then tossed them to his lackey. He had “debonair” written all over him, right down to his polished oxfords and the black suit that fit his tall frame to a T. He ran a hand through his dark hair, glanced back, and signaled for me to follow him. “Walk this way, sister.”

  We passed a Louis XIV-style fountain with perfumed water and dancing cherubs. I looked up at a massive bronze-and-mahogany staircase, the steps covered with the finest crimson carpet. The young fellow opened a door with a sign affixed to it reading “David Stein.” He motioned me into Mr. Stein’s office, pulled up a chair, and beckoned to me to sit.

  “Take a load off those tootsies, little lady. What have you got for me?”

  I didn’t know what game he was playing, but I took the seat as ordered. He looked at my bosoms and smirked once again. I wanted to wipe the leer off his face, but I needed the job. Instead of telling him off, I handed over my high school diploma along with letters of recommendation from our rabbi and two of my Barnard professors.

  “Will you please give these to Mr. Stein?”

  He took a seat behind the desk and leaned back in his chair like the cock of the walk. “Mr. Stein? I’m David Stein.”

  Just what I needed, a spoiled playboy acting like a hotshot. He kept looking from my face to my bosoms. Perhaps I should have picked another frock. I was on the verge of walking out when I noticed the wedding band flashing on his left hand. A married man wouldn’t try to put the moves on me, would he?

  While Mr. Stein examined my papers, I glanced around his office. The place matched the theater for elegance and smelled of furniture wax and lemon soap. A paperweight embossed with the Harvard insignia sat on a highly polished desk with every scrap of paper, fountain pen, and inkwell perfectly positioned. Paper flags dotted a huge map affixed to the wall behind him, marking his theaters around the country. Mr. Stein finished his perusal and sat back in his chair, a big grin plastered across his kisser.

  “These are very nice letters. So you’re from the Washington Heights and a ‘Barnyard’ girl to boot? Swell.”

  “Yes, Mr. Stein, but my father just died, so I’ll have to pack college away for a while.”

  He gazed at me so intently I averted my face. “So when did your old man pass away?”

  The fact that Pops was no longer with us struck me once again, his death still so fresh it took a moment to answer. “Last week, sir. Shiva ended yesterday.”

  He folded his manicured hands into a pyramid. From the look of them, he’d never lifted anything heavier than a fountain pen in his whole life. “Sorry, doll.”

  His condolences seemed hollow, but he looked up at me, and the pain in his eyes took me aback. Could I have been mistaken? Was he sincere?

  “Life’s hard, isn’t it? I’m a Harvard man myself, even graduated at the top of my class just to make those goy schlemiels choke on their own bile.”

  I’d heard about the trials and tribulations of Jewish boys at Ivy League schools. The outright hostility sometimes escalated into fistfights, much worse than the genteel anti-Semitism I’d experienced at Barnard. His mouth tightened.

  “Mama wanted me to go on to law school, but my dad had other ideas. When he died last year, I had to take over the family business. Things fell apart. Pardon my French, but it was pure hell.”

  He stopped speaking. For a moment, we were two kids who’d had the rug pulled out from under us. Then the smirking started all over again.

  “What the heck, I’m sure talking shop is boring to a charming young thing like you. So tell me, Miss Mitzi Schector, what can you offer the Ritz?”

  I ha
dn’t expected the question. “Uh, oh, uh, well, Mr. Stein, as you know, America is in a dreadful jam, and it’s getting worse by the day. Maybe the bankers have stopped jumping out of windows, but businesses are still failing right and left. Folks don’t have much joy in their lives except for the movies. I can show a little kindness, make them comfortable, help them forget the wolf at the door.”

  He seemed interested, so I kept talking. “I know things are tough, Mr. Stein, and I’ll do anything you need—sell popcorn, mop floors, anything you throw my way. By the way, I can sing and play the piano, too.”

  His mouth tightened once again, and his eyes turned to green ice. I could tell the job had gone down the drain and rose from the chair. “Well, thank you for your time, sir.”

  Mr. Stein suddenly jumped up from his desk and stepped in front of me. He stood so close I could see the gold flecks in his eyes. “What’s your hurry, baby? I wouldn’t have brought you in if you didn’t have the job. Go get your uniform and show up tomorrow at ten. You can work the matinee.”

  He took my hand in his. “How about we shake on it?”

  After we shook, Mr. Stein stared into my face for a long moment without releasing my hand. I don’t know what he was looking for, but the guy unnerved me. It seemed forever before he released me. I rushed out of his office as quickly as my legs would carry me.

  Mr. Stein followed me, flagged over the head usher, and whispered something into the fellow’s ear. Whatever he said brought a leer to the chump’s pimply face. The usher signaled to me with his forefinger, and I followed him down a dimly lit corridor to the staff dressing rooms. He handed me my uniform and a key. “Your locker is number 301, toots.”

  The fellow smirked and licked his lips. “Mr. Stein figured you’d wear a small. Since you’re starting tomorrow, he thought it would be a good idea if you caught a movie to see how we run the place.”

  I followed him into the auditorium. The fragrance of fresh popcorn perfumed the enormous room. Exquisite murals covered the walls and crimson-colored velvet covered the chairs, but the orchestra pit sat deserted. In the days of silent dramas, the Broadway Ritz had had a full orchestra and presented saucy musical prologues before screening the movie. Unfortunately, after they wired the place for talkies, the Ritz had switched to canned music. The days of live music floating through the auditorium into the sumptuous lobby had ended.