She posted an advertisement in The New York Times and the Daily News classifieds: “Seeking Hard-working Assistant for Growing Cosmetics Company. Must type and be amenable to late nights.” Forty-nine women answered the ad, each one sending a thoughtful letter and submitting a carefully penned résumé. As she pored over the résumés and thoughtful notes, the nurses and stenographers and assistants and hygienists eager to be considered for the job, Constance could not ignore the louder message embedded in these typewritten notes: I Want to Work. These women were eager, desperate, for employment. It was as though a revolution were at hand: other women like herself who wanted and needed to put in a hard day’s work. Each one of these rosy-cheeked women was wild with the possibility introduced by need and desire, each one of them was determined to do something new.
The first applicant was an older lady with a round figure. She seemed nice enough, but perhaps not the most powerful ambassador for the brand. The second was petite, recently divorced, and supporting a family of four. The third, fourth, and fifth were all women who had worked in family stores or had done nursing during the war and did not want to say goodbye to that taste of freedom—and the pocket money it would afford. Most of the rest were combinations of the above; older widows supporting families, younger women seeking income before finding a mate, and women who had experienced the freedom afforded by their experience during the First World War and the power that extra cash could provide.
But none of the applicants seemed to Constance to encompass all of these virtues as much as one, CeeCee Jones, a twenty-one-year-old single girl who had moved to New York after working as a maid for a wealthy family in Virginia. CeeCee had not been to college but had taken courses and hoped to go one day. She mentioned that she had read cast-off medical texts she found in a thrift store in preparation for her eventual goal, medical school. The moment she walked in the door, Constance simply knew this young lady was a winner and that she could not succeed without her at her side. She was also a dusky, exotic beauty who appeared to share her drive and inner strength. It was as if two like-minded moths were dancing around the same flame.
* * *
CeeCee Jones was, in fact, a light-skinned biracial woman. Her résumé said she had been working as a housekeeper for the Hewitt family. Over the years, first as the granddaughter of an emancipated slave and a white man she never knew, CeeCee had learned many things about business and domestic life. She knew how to run a kitchen and how to turn a staff of ten into an impeccable regime. She knew how to care for and discern good china, place settings, and silver for every type of affair. She knew how to clean and press and iron and fold while strengthening the fabrics in her care. She had taken a stenographers’ course paid for by Mr. Hewitt to help him with his office billing. The Hewitts were a kind and liberal family who believed everyone should and could achieve their destiny through education and hard work, and CeeCee took advantage of the opportunities and their largesse, as she knew higher education was a necessity for every woman to thrive.
Through her own ingenuity and interest, CeeCee had long invested herself in the study of hair, not only because she gravitated to self-improvement, but because she had learned firsthand the perils of poor self-care. African American women, privileged and burdened with the most luscious and distinct black hair, understood the lengths to which a black woman must go to present her hair as she wished. Long captive to notions that a black woman must “tame” and straighten her hair, she had sampled and studied those materials available to her community.
Lye, a toxic substance used in the preparation of soap, was applied to straighten or “relax” hair. The method, though effective, was time-consuming and harsh, causing irritation to a woman’s scalp. Like so many black women, CeeCee had watched her hair begin to weaken and fray, had even watched in horror as large patches of her hair fell out. Lye and the other chemicals caused dandruff, itching, and baldness. Never a woman to complain, CeeCee endeavored to find a better solution herself.
The women of the Hewitt family had long black hair as well, and CeeCee had aided many of them with their washing and daily upkeep. So she began to consider and eventually to concoct her own homemade straightener and pomade, borrowing from the methods she watched the Hewitt girls employ. She knew the value of lanolin and moisturizing the scalp with shea butter. CeeCee began to use her secret formula on herself. Finding it so effective, she cautiously began to share it with other women she knew.
The response was resounding. The black women she knew needed a good product; they were committed to using that product every eight to twelve weeks, and they welcomed one that would be more forgiving than those available to them at the time. With the modest revenue from her first batch of pomade that worked without the harsh effect and with the help of her cousin Rudy, she set out for New York, securing a room in a boardinghouse in Harlem.
She mentioned to Constance that she was working in the chorus line at the Cotton Club on 142nd Street and Lenox Avenue but that life in the theater was not for her. Constance smiled, knowing that most young women would want the opposite: a life on the stage rather than an office job. This greatly appealed to her core values. Constance could immediately see that CeeCee was a different sort.
When CeeCee saw the advertisement for Gardiner Cosmetics, she did not delay. She answered the ad promptly, writing her response with great care, and began planning the appropriate attire even before she received a reply. She arrived for the interview before the appointed time and waited fifteen minutes to be seen. From the warm orange cast of light coming into the office through the window, she could tell it was nearing seven in the evening, but from the activity in the office, it may as well have been nine in the morning.
Constance preferred to begin her interviews with a minimum of small talk. “It says on your résumé that you ran the housekeepers in a large home.”
“Yes,” said CeeCee. “I have managed a staff as large as ten. I started as a maid and worked my way up.”
Constance nodded and noted the young woman’s big, bright eyes. “It also says on your résumé that you worked in the kitchen of this home. Are you aware that, in addition to clerical duties, this job calls for time in the lab? The temperatures in the lab can be quite high.”
“I was not aware of that,” said CeeCee, “but it sounds fascinating. I’m very interested in the art of cosmetic production and have some experience in the field.”
“I see,” said Constance. “How so?” She looked closer now at the young woman’s well-defined lips, her large oval eyes.
“My hair. It requires time and a process to tame and straighten it. The hair of most colored women I know requires a fair amount of care.”
Constance nodded, looked at CeeCee’s hair. It was straight and sleek and pulled into a dramatic and tidy bun. It gave her the appearance of a white or Latin woman.
“Products for us are scarce,” CeeCee went on. “So I’ve had to devise alternatives.”
Constance smiled, refreshed by the woman’s candor and ingenuity. She leaned in, focusing intently. “Oh, I see.…”
* * *
Constance was thoroughly taken aback by CeeCee’s claims. Even more surprising, she had not expected to be immediately charmed by a young African American girl so new to the city. Constance saw two things: CeeCee’s inner fire and, more important, that CeeCee was light-skinned enough to “pass.” She felt something else: the heat of attraction that she had tried to banish many times before. It spread through her chest and down between her knees. Constance was tantalized by the idea of sharing office space in such proximity with this young, caramel-colored beauty. She offered CeeCee the job “in the room,” hiring her right then and there.
“Thank you, Mrs. Gardiner. You won’t regret it.” CeeCee smiled her best high-wattage smile.
“Miss. Miss Gardiner. Although it might be Mrs. one day. It all depends on whether I accept a certain gentleman’s proposal, but that is for another time entirely.” Constance offered up a public w
hite lie. While she had been pursued by a number of young suitable men, she was not attracted to any man who would keep her under his thumb, i.e., making her stay at home without embracing her career. No matter how rich or handsome these men were, she had eschewed all offers, yet did not want to publicly appear as an old maid. Or worse.
“Of course,” CeeCee said.
“You will report to work at eight thirty on Monday, and I give approximately one half hour for lunch. Evening and weekend work is required. I pay higher than most; eight dollars and fifty cents a week.”
“That’s very generous.” CeeCee nodded. She thought of the delicious steak sandwich at the Cotton Club that was $1.25. This was the only thing she would miss. They shook hands to cement the deal, and CeeCee rose and smoothed her belted skirt.
“Oh, and one other thing…” Constance looked her over.
“Yes?” CeeCee looked up.
“Let’s not mention to anyone else you are colored. We’ll just tell people you’re Spanish or something like that. Brazilian or something exotic. Deal?” The idea had come to Constance when CeeCee mentioned she was in the line for the Brazilian show at the club.
“Deal,” CeeCee said. She was accustomed to this. Not fully accepted by either the blacks or the whites.
“We’ll just call you something like CeeCee … Lopez.” Constance smiled at her creativity. “That should do the trick.”
“Yes, it should.” CeeCee looked down but knew better than to say anything further. She was now CeeCee Lopez. And she had a real job.
10
THE YANK
Melbourne, 1924-1929
Running up against the mounting demand for her creams, Josiah racked her brain for a solution. Her time with her aunt and uncle caused more than a bit of unspoken stress at home. Her passionate opinions and strong personality had her at odds with her aunt Masha within weeks of her arrival. When they had an explosive argument about how the table should be set, everyone agreed that a boardinghouse might be the best option. Her new attic bedroom faced the hills and endless pastures, not to mention the ungodly sheep population. Sheep for miles and miles. As she gazed out the window, a new thought occurred to her. This would be her eureka moment. Sheep produce lanolin, a necessary ingredient for her creams since she was running low on her stock from Poland. Necessity and boredom were the mothers of invention. She realized she could mask lanolin’s unbecoming scent with other local staples such as lilies and lavender, which were cheap, available, and abundant.
It was not long before Josiah’s business created another sort of tension with her uncle. When he caught her selling her products out of the store, he fired her from the position on the spot. She was distraught but immediately rebounded by renting counter space at the store across the street. Of course, now she and her uncle were not speaking; he accused her of being ungrateful, failing to appreciate all that he and Aunt Masha had done for her. Josiah was too strong, too opinionated, too uppity. No man would ever want her. She was a bad example for her nieces, who were developing her habits of being argumentative and contrary. Josiah laughed to herself at the hypocrisy. Nevertheless, she had no leverage: she needed money to manufacture the orders she received, but she had none left over after paying for rent and food at the boardinghouse.
Within weeks, Josiah was working overtime as a waitress in a local teahouse. She was a hard worker but terrible at taking orders. She was nearly fired, but the teahouse owner saw an uptick in male clientele with Josiah there, as she was not shy about putting her ample cleavage on display on a sweltering day. So he bit his tongue and started serving beer at her suggestion. Within days, Josiah and her saucy personality had turned a money-losing teahouse into a profitable tea and beer hall. She was well aware of her value. One day, while lamenting her poverty to another waitress, a handsome, sandy-haired young man strolled in and took a seat at one of her tables. He spoke with an unusual accent, and someone called him a Yank.
“Miss, can I have a refill of some coffee and a doughnut?” Jon Blake was mesmerized by the animated waitress and her deliberate movements. She even poured coffee in a seductive, European manner. He marveled at her long elegant arms, lovely hands, and lily-white satin complexion, not to mention her shimmering nails.
“Yes to the coffee. No to the doughnut. I’ll bring you a Danish,” Josiah said without looking up from her pad.
“But I want a doughnut, not a Danish,” he said. He looked somewhat perplexed and found himself staring at her velvet décolletage.
“I was saving the doughnut for myself after my shift. Vhat?” She looked at him in a stern manner. “You don’t believe in vomen first?” She put her hand on her soft, round hip.
“Of course I do. I didn’t know. I would love a Danish,” he acquiesced immediately, which she liked.
“Here, you’ll love vhat I give you.” She nearly slammed down the plate with the Danish, almost daring him to disagree. As he ate, he marveled at the strong-willed young woman and was intrigued by her alluring accent that he couldn’t quite place.
“How vas it?” she teased him.
“I liked it very much.” He grinned at her, his soft blond hair falling over his high forehead.
“You see, I am always right.” She smiled for the first time. “Where are you from? London?”
“No, New York City.”
“America? Really?” She suddenly turned on the charm. A real Yankee in front of her. “Vhat else would you like?” she said sweetly.
“I would like to take you out.” His eyes wandered back down from her eyes to her chest.
“When?” Josiah thrust her wares forward in a suggestive yet feminine manner.
“Tomorrow night for dinner?” He combed his hair with his fingers.
“Tonight, Yankee. I vant to go tonight.”
Within days, Jon Blake and Josiah Herzenstein were inseparable. She avoided the glares of her disapproving uncle and aunt as they strolled down the street.
“A shaygets no less.” Her aunt Masha sniffed loudly. “You’ll have to write your sister and tell her of your niece’s downfall.”
Josiah turned her back and laughed. “Those are my backwater relatives. You’ll see, one day they’ll come running.” She hooked her arm through his.
Jon was a journalist at the Australian outpost of the New Amsterdam Times and he understood the power of the press—as well as the power of the newspapermen. Within minutes of their heated kisses, he offered to deploy the paper to help promote Josiah’s new business. He devised an alluring ad featuring Josiah, looking glamorous, in which she told women why they needed her cosmetics and touted a combination of romantic advice and science. Slowly but surely, the journalist grew from suitor, to collaborator, to kindred spirit, and eventually to husband.
Intrigued by the quarter-page ad, which Jon bought Josiah as a present, a local newspaper editor wrote about Josiah’s product. It was Josiah’s first lesson in advertising and publishing: while publications touted a separation of church and state, if you advertised you were more likely than not to get a story, an editorial, or a mention. Josiah would make use of this her entire career. She received twenty-five orders within a week of the ad’s appearance. The photo they had included of her smoldering eyes and lily-white skin seemed to be the magic ingredient. The orders increased to one hundred and then two hundred. Then, when she placed a half-page ad with a photo featuring her décolletage, the orders rose to five hundred and then seven hundred and fifty. She quit her job as a waitress and worked eighteen hours a day to fill the orders, breaking only to see Jon for dinner, where they talked further about her business. From the rented counter, word spread about Josiah’s first product made from lanolin and local herbs. She was the first to mix in local lavender and scent and proudly called it her “Miracle Moisturizer.” Her sister Shayna, whom she had brought over from Poland, was a talented artist. She created her first label: “Herzenstein’s Miracle Cream and Moisturizer.” It was black and white and featured a garland of flowers and two doves
over the words “European Secret.”
“What’s the secret?” lady clients clustered around Josiah to ask.
“If I told you, it wouldn’t be a secret. Vould it?” Josiah laughed. “All you need to know is it’s a European secret. Look at Theda Bara.” She would show her clients an ancient crumpled pictorial in Photoplay magazine. “Her father and my father were born in the same village in Poland. Theodosia Goodman. Theda Bara. The same. We both have the Polish skin secret. Also Anna Held. Another Jewish girl from Varsaw. She became the most famous Ziegfeld girl. I am telling you we all had the same secret stuff.” The women would marvel at the stories and their pocketbooks would be open before she was finished. The sound of the cash register was music to Josiah’s ears. Jon’s reporter salary, in American dollars, meant meals and luxuries he bestowed upon her generously. Meanwhile, she was able to plow more of her profits into her burgeoning business.
Before a year had passed, Josiah opened her first store on Melbourne’s Collins Street. She was a natural saleswoman, expertly tapping into the current climate, diagnosing women’s skin, and prescribing the creams they “needed” to be beautiful again. Placebo or miracle drug—no matter. Converting one woman at a time, Josiah quickly became Melbourne’s pied piper. And when she found out that Jon was actually Jonathan and that his mother was Jewish, Josiah decided marriage to him was in the cards. He was handsome, generous, and happy to take orders from her complacently. The combination was alluring.
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