By Myself and Then Some Page 5

  The summer was suffocating – in the garment center you’re always modeling heavy winter clothes in 100-degree heat and flimsy summer wear in the dead of winter. At the end of the summer Audrey took her two-week holiday – she went to California, which seemed as far away to me as Outer Mongolia. She returned singing its praises, looking great – told of sleeping well, awakening to a large glass of fresh orange juice every morning, swimming, sunshine, and meeting Errol Flynn! I hung on her every word. Flynn had a reputation as a great ladies’ man and he was beautiful. I never imagined that California life for me – it all sounded a fairyland, which I guess it was in 1941. I still identified only with Broadway – New York. I used to meet Betty Kalb for lunch when I had a full hour to eat. We’d go to Walgreen’s Drug Store at 44th Street and Broadway, a well-known hangout for out-of-work actors, and although we didn’t know anyone there, the atmosphere was so pungent it carried me through those hours just seven blocks south that seemed to be lived in another country. Enemy territory, for it took me away from the theatre; anything that took me away from the theatre was against me. So I stumbled through those months enjoying my paycheck and little else. Soon it was time to prepare for cruise wear – the designs had been made, the clothes were to be ready for showing in October. They started to make a couple of things on me, but there was something in the air.

  As I felt the firm beginning to lose interest in fitting me for cruise wear, the ax was indeed about to fall. Shortly before its descent came the day we all were casually talking about our lives. The other girls seemed fairly uncomplicated to me – they would keep on modeling until Mr Right came along and then they’d get married and be all set. No dreams of names in lights to get in their way. Audrey and I ended up in the ladies’ room talking about our families – she talked more than I did, and that’s when she said from her stall to me in mine, ‘What are you?’ That’s when – not knowing she meant ancestry, not religion – I said, ‘I’m Jewish.’ And that’s when she said, ‘Oh – but you don’t look it at all.’ I’d like to meet the man who decided that people do or don’t look Jewish. What the hell does that mean anyway? Is it the American penchant for pinning things down, categorizing, for pigeonholing people? Whatever it is, it’s wrong. Audrey’s idea, I suppose, was that I didn’t have a large nose and I wasn’t ugly, the standard Gentile concept of Jewish looks at the time. She wasn’t nasty, unpleasant, or even bigoted – just very surprised.

  We returned to our dressing room and the conversation went on, bringing in one of the other girls. ‘Can you believe Betty is Jewish?’ ‘My God, you sure don’t look it.’ I didn’t know what to say. I resented the discussion – and I resented being Jewish, being singled out because I was, and being some sort of freak because I didn’t look it. Who cares? What is the difference between Jewish and Christian? But the difference is there – I’ve never really understood it and I spent the first half of my life worrying about it. More.

  A few days later Phil Crystal called me into his office and said something like, ‘Betty, you’re a good model and I hate to have to do this, but we won’t be needing you anymore. It was only a trial, you’re a bit too thin for our clothes’ – underdeveloped, you mean – flat-chested ‘– we’ve enjoyed having you with us and wish you luck.’ Oh God, I thought, let me not cry now. Of course I knew modeling wasn’t my life’s work and I’d never felt really comfortable there – but being fired is not pleasant. And it did not feed my frail ego. I was very stiff-upper-lip – went back to the dressing room, didn’t talk much, went to the girls’ room, cried it out in the loo, then back to the dressing room. The girls must have known it was coming. I braved it through, making jokes about how now the theatre could have me full time, how had it managed this long without me? … I finished out my week at David Crystal and took my leave, praying I wouldn’t trip as I exited the room for the last time. I didn’t.

  I had heard models were needed at a place called Sam Friedlander at 495 Seventh. Friedlander made evening gowns. I went to see him and, miracle of miracles, was hired. He was a friendly, nice man who enjoyed my dreams of becoming an actress. Of course I thought he was nice – he liked me.

  I was much happier at Friedlander’s than at Crystal’s. He laughed at all my little jokes, the other models were good girls (there were only two of them), the feeling was much cozier. I still spent most of my lunch hours rushing to Walgreen’s to grab Actor’s Cue and look for a job in the theatre. Actor’s Cue was published by a man called Leo Shull. It consisted of about four pages of listings of producers’ offices, plays being cast, road tours, everything pertaining to the theatre. Leo had a table in the basement of Walgreen’s where copies of Actor’s Cue were piled up and sold for ten cents apiece. I prevailed on him to let me sell some. He finally said okay – to get me off his back, I think. I took them half a block away to Sardi’s Restaurant and there I’d stand outside, stopping all and sundry to buy my product. I kept my eyes peeled for sight of a recognizable producer, actor, anyone who might help me get a job. I really was crazy, now that I think of it, and rather fresh, flip, nervy. But it was fun to do – it was heady, being in the vicinity of theatre life, so much so that I threw caution to the winds and blatantly charged up to Max Gordon, one of the most successful and respected producers on Broadway, asking him to please buy an Actor’s Cue and also when was he casting his next production. I guess he thought I was funny, for he chatted with me whenever I saw him on that lucky street. He was a kind man, forever generous to struggling actors, always approachable. My face also became familiar to John Golden, Brock Pemberton, and other important producers, which all helped, since when I went to their offices when plays were being cast, they at least recognized me when they said no.

  In the summer of 1941 there was casting for Best Foot Forward, a musical to be directed by George Abbott. I had worked on my singing and had rehearsed a number called ‘Take and Take and Take’ from an old Rodgers-and-Hart show. I had rehearsed gestures and naturally thought I’d be a wow at the audition. There was an open call, which meant everyone was there. I wore a turquoise-blue sharkskin playsuit – my only and my best – and low-heeled shoes. We were to come prepared to demonstrate dance steps at the snap of Mr Abbott’s fingers. I arrived fully equipped and found myself in the midst of beautiful, mature girls wearing high-heeled shoes, bathing suits, leotards – experienced, grown-up, and stacked. I knew right away I was all wrong – I looked twelve and just would not do. We were lined up on the stage – four or five rows, eight across – told to walk downstage in rotation, told to do the time step. I felt good doing that since I wasn’t out there alone. Finally we were called one by one – Mr Abbott was in the darkened orchestra with some other people – a piano was wheeled downstage left and the auditions began in earnest. One terrible light was focused on the stage. It made my hands and feet feel twice as large as they were. I felt completely naked. Awful! Finally my turn came. I gave my name – no experience except American Academy of Dramatic Arts. I gave my sheet music to the accompanist, a faceless young man – I was so terrified I didn’t see a thing. Mr Abbott called to me to move out to center stage. First he asked me to do the time step again – which I could do, God knows, but my knees were shaking so badly I even had trouble with that. Then the dreaded song. I wanted to hang on to the piano, but that was out. I sang it, or talked and sang it, or did something with it. I got through it terribly without confidence or voice – at the end I was told to leave my name with the stage manager, thanked for my trouble, and the next name was called. I knew I’d never hear from them. What an experience! It was like going to the chair. Auditions are hell. I honestly don’t know how anyone ever gets a job based on them – they show an actor at his worst, in the glare of a naked spotlight, surrounded by strangers, laying his life on the line. My audition was no good – I’d done it all wrong. But at least I’d done it, and I never forgot what it was like. But I never did it again – not for a musical.

  After six months of modeling all day and pounding paveme
nts at lunchtime (and not eating of course) I became fairly rundown, although I survived the winter of ’41 still modeling for Friedlander. Mother was due for her yearly two-week holiday and she was tired too. So my loving grandma, who had a very small insurance policy, decided to cash it in and give it to Mother and me to go to Florida, where we could rest in the warmth of the sunshine and be rejuvenated by the soothing, healing powers of the sea. It came to something like $1,500, which was a fortune to us. It was a gift of love. I left Sam Friedlander, as it seemed foolish for me to stay – I wasn’t getting any closer to the stage in the garment district and knew I’d have to find something else, something that would bring me within smelling distance of a theatre.

  Mother and I went to Florida by train. She had made a reservation in what turned out to be a good hotel on the sea, but expensive for us. We looked for rooms in a smaller establishment and found a charming old house with a sign outside advertising rooms to let. Mother told me to go in to inquire, which I did, whereupon the manager asked, ‘Religion?’ ‘Jewish,’ was my response. ‘Sorry, no rooms,’ was his. Mother was furious, and I was too – but we had each other, so the hell with it. We stayed where we were – it cost too much, but at least no apologies had to be made for being what we were.

  I had never been in a tropical climate before and I loved it. The balmy air, palm trees, beach beautiful and white, a blue warm sea. We met a couple of people at the hotel – I even met a fairly attractive young man who played in the hotel orchestra and actually went out with him one night, walking romantically, always romantically, on the beach, trying to talk myself into another fantasy at least for the time I was there. It was all harmless and pleasant, and the warm climate did what it was supposed to for Mother and me. We returned to New York ready to face whatever the future would bring – and it brought a lot, including of course, America’s presence in the War after Pearl Harbor.

  I had decided that I had to devote my days to finding work in the theatre. A couple of girls I knew were theatre ushers at night. The pay was ridiculous – eight dollars a week – but at least I’d have my days free. The eight dollars would only take care of carfare and lunches with a bit left over. It would mean the end of my helping. Mother for a while – until my ship came in, please God. I had put aside something from my modeling – maybe $100, which was a great deal to me. I had lunch at Chock Full O’Nuts – cream-cheese sandwiches on date-and-nut bread, ten cents; orange drink or coffee, five cents. Not substantial, but filling, and it got me through the day. I had saved up enough money to buy a skunk coat wholesale to keep me warm in New York winters. The only problem with it, I was to discover, was that when rain or any other moisture hit, people in elevators or offices would begin sniffing curiously and looking around to see where the poor dead animal lay. On me, alas. I broached the subject of ushering to Mother – she of course agreed. She would always give me the chance to prove that I was right to want what I wanted. By then we had moved to Greenwich Village – 75 Bank Street. It was a small apartment, but the neighborhood was clean and fun – totally different from the West Eighties. The bus on the corner took me uptown in no time.

  I went to the office of the Shuberts, Lee and JJ., who owned most of the theatres on Broadway, to apply for a job as usher. Why they paid eight dollars weekly while independent theatres paid the lavish sum of eleven dollars I don’t know, except, as I was to discover later, they were not known for their generosity to employees. At that point I only wanted to be hired – to work in a theatre – to feel part of it. The hell with the salary. Since I had left the Academy, nothing even resembling a break in the theatre had turned up. I had to start concentrating only on that. I had decided I would give myself ten years to make the grade. If it didn’t happen by then, it never would. But I had to be around live theatre – if I couldn’t learn by actually practicing the craft, then perhaps I could learn by watching others. Professionals! So I was hired by the Shuberts.

  Before I was assigned to a theatre permanently I was sent to a few theatres for a week or two of apprenticeship – that meant learning exactly what was expected of me. The rules, etc. Wearing a black skirt and sweater, I reported to the head usher at the Morosco Theatre on 45th Street, where Noel Coward’s Blithe Spirit was playing. The stars were Clifton Webb, Leonora Corbett, Peggy Wood, and Mildred Natwick. The curtain was to go up at 8:30. I arrived at 7:45 – earlier than necessary, but I couldn’t wait. The head usher arrived before eight – she gave me a white collar and a pair of white cuffs to adorn my black sweater. That was the usher’s uniform of the day. She showed me how the programs were to be piled neatly at the head of the aisle, and as the theatre doors opened I observed carefully the procedure to be followed. First, ‘Tickets, please’ to the theatregoers – then directing them to the correct aisle, or leading them to their seats down one’s assigned aisle, giving them one program each. Then back up the aisle to stand at your station until the next ticket stubs were presented. I did nothing but watch that first time. Another part for me to play – and in a theatre! The lights went down, the curtain went up, the play began. I was in heaven. I never took my eyes from that stage. It was a marvelous, funny play, beautifully acted, and I made myself believe that because I was an usher, standing in the rear of the theatre, I was a part of it. No longer just a spectator – a participant. But even with my wild fantasizing I could never have dreamed that so many years later I would be acting in that same play – playing Leonora Corbett’s part, with Noel Coward himself in Clifton Webb’s part, and that Clifton would be my friend.

  It was exciting to find myself in the theatre before and after the play. The mystery of it all was magnified even more. I watched the play carefully for half a week, fascinated by the actors’ ability to make the audience laugh at each performance. But, alas, I couldn’t stay on. The head usher told me I was to go for the rest of the week to the Imperial Theatre, to usher at Let’s Face It starring Danny Kaye. A great way to see plays. Cheap, too. Let’s Face It was a wonderful show – Danny Kaye had made an enormous hit and Eve Arden was in it with him. To be ushering at a musical really lifted me off the ground. I’d had no idea how different it would be; how the atmosphere, from the moment the doors opened and the audience started to arrive, was totally altered by whether it was a drama, comedy, or musical comedy. After the people were seated, the overture started. Music! Fidgety feet! It was all I could do to keep myself from dancing down the aisle. The Shuberts would have loved that – I don’t think! Danny Kaye was funny and marvelous. How I’d love to meet him. So what did I do? I went backstage after the show one night, knocked on his dressing-room door, and he opened it. He was washing his make-up off. I nervously told him I was a would-be actress who had been ushering in his theatre – how good I thought he was and would he give me his autograph, please? He asked a few polite questions about my non-existent career and gave me his autograph, for which I thanked him profusely and left. I felt safe going backstage because I knew this was not my permanent ushering assignment.

  I still spent my days pounding the pavements, going from office to office, trying to get a foot in the door – any door. Still selling Actor’s Cue during lunch. I also collected weekly unemployment insurance, being eligible from my time in the garment center. Ushers were non-union then, and no one – not even the government – expected anyone to live on eight bucks a week. Standing in line in those dingy offices to collect money that is yours to begin with is a somewhat humiliating experience. I know that – but then I was damn glad to get it. When the money was taken from my weekly check I hadn’t missed it that much, and getting it back was like a gift.

  I was sent to the Golden Theatre to usher for several performances of Angel Street. I loved it – Vincent Price and Judith Evelyn were so good and so mysterious. I followed my Danny Kaye pattern with Vincent Price, who was also removing his make-up when I went around. He was warm and gentle – ‘God, actors are nice people,’ I thought. I don’t know what they thought; nothing, more than likely. After what amoun
ted to a two-week apprenticeship I was set for the St James Theatre, where the Boston Comic Opera Company, performing Gilbert and Sullivan, was to share a season with the Jooss Ballet. I had my own place in my own theatre, and I felt important and very possessive about it.

  The Boston Comic Opera Company was great fun to watch. Opening night I was very excited and, as there was an opening night for each Gilbert and Sullivan operetta, I was excited a good deal of the time. I learned to recognize the critics. I’d lower my voice, saying, ‘Tickets, please.’ During the interval I’d stand in the lobby saying, ‘No smoking – please extinguish all cigarettes before entering the theatre – curtain going up,’ in my best American Academy voice. Hoping I’d be noticed, of course – discovered. The Jooss dancers were first-class. When I arrived at the theatre they would be doing their warm-ups in the rear aisle. I got to know a few of them well enough to strike up a mild conversation. They were all foreign and didn’t speak English too well. They danced The Green Table and that was my first exposure to the best of ballet. Hans Zullig was a principal dancer in it and very fine. That ballet, I was to learn later, was a classic and he was admired by balletomanes the world over. I had a tiny crush on him, ready to enlarge it at the slightest provocation (was constantly looking for someone – anyone – to have a crush on), so spoke with him whenever I could. He was very small and shy, very sweet. When he asked me if I’d have dinner with him on a Sunday night, of course I was thrilled. My mother told me to relax – again I was trying to make something out of nothing – looking for a romance – but I had to have something. He came down to the Village to pick me up – away from the theatre, in ordinary clothes, he looked smaller than ever. My mother could not believe him – but he was very nice, very soft-spoken. We went to a tiny bistro, talked of our lives – he missed his home, but loved to dance. He came to life then, much as we all do, I guess. The evening ended in friendly fashion, but no romance in my eyes or his. Another fantasy shot to hell.