“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 glorify 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 performingThe Mikadoat 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 tremendousrumble, 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.”
