Rouge

by Richard Kirshenbaum

  “I just made it up. Why?”

  “It’s just something I said to someone a long time ago.” She touched his cheek with her hand. “We say the same things. A lot.”

  “I know.” He gazed at her. “I love you, Josephine.”

  “How can you say that? It’s only been a year.” She scrutinized his face, bracing for a lie.

  “I’ll say it again. I love you, Josephine. I don’t want anything from you. Just you,” he said earnestly.

  “And if I married you, you would sign a paper saying you would get nothing from me, or Miles, not a thing?” she challenged him.

  “Of course. You don’t understand, getting you is everything. Things are meaningless. I left Russia for Paris and now Paris for New York with nothing. Now I have everything. You, a job. Miles. Show me where to sign.”

  “You really are a prince of a man, Alexei Orlove.” She kissed him.

  “And if I get my way, you will be my princess.…”

  “Our love, Orlove,” she whispered as he left the room to work.

  43

  THE NEWS

  Harlem, 1941

  Blaring ambulance sirens. Punctuated shrieks. Tinny laughter, slamming car brakes, and roaring buses, the rumble of the el on Third Avenue and 125th Street. All of the noise, like ingredients in a stew, sounded like so many familiar friends outside her window. CeeCee had gotten so used to the menu and cacophony of city noises in her small walk-up, it actually seemed comforting and lulled her to sleep. Her place wasn’t fancy, but it was hers. She was currently living in a one-bedroom apartment on the third floor but had given her landlady a deposit on a larger two-bedroom that was soon to be available, since her pregnancy had almost passed the three-month marker. She hoped and prayed this time she would carry the baby to full term. She had miscarried early after her first trip to the West Coast. The last time she had seen Mickey in New York she had thrown all caution to the wind and they made love with wild abandon without using anything. It all seemed inevitable, and when she missed her period she knew. This time she felt different, as if she could feel the baby taking hold of her. She seemed to tire a bit more easily and felt foggy and spacey in the evenings. After a full day of work she lay on the bed and drifted into slumber without taking off her hosiery and slip.

  When the phone rang well after midnight, CeeCee knew exactly who it was. It was three hours earlier in L.A., and Mickey hardly had any concept of time. She smiled at his somewhat juvenile behavior. She picked up the receiver and spoke with a groggy haze, without bothering to get confirmation of the person on the other end of the line.

  “Hi, baby,” she breathed into the receiver.

  “Are you sleeping?” Mickey asked.

  She imagined him walking around his house with a bottle of whiskey in hand, naked except for the silk Japanese robe she had given him. She curled up, wishing he were there to caress the small of her back in the moonlight, as he often did. She reached down and felt the tautness of her stomach. She hadn’t told a soul except for Josephine. She had been nervous about breaking the news to her and thankful she hadn’t asked too many questions, although CeeCee intimated that she was engaged to the father, who lived in Los Angeles. Josephine was incredibly businesslike and supportive. She revealed that she and her husband had been separated when she found herself pregnant with Miles. She understood what it was like to be a single mother. Of course, she added, “I worked up until I went into labor, that very day.”

  “I will too,” CeeCee promised, honored that Josephine had been so personal and honest with her. And that was that. Tonight she would break the news to Mickey. She smiled, thinking about how happy he would be.

  “Listen, Cee, I have to talk to you about something—before it hits the papers.”

  “A new launch? I thought of a good name for a fragrance for you, ‘Heroine’ by Heron,” she whispered.

  “Hey, I love that, Cee. That’s really good.”

  “I also have something I’ve been dying to tell you too,” CeeCee said, sounding like a little girl who had just won a stuffed animal at the carnival and couldn’t wait to tell her parents.

  “You first?” Mickey asked.

  “No, you go ahead!” CeeCee stretched in the bed like a silky cat.

  “First, I want to tell you how much I love you. You know that, Cee.… You do know that, right?” The pitch of his voice seemed to waver.

  “Yes, of course. I love you, too, Mick.” She picked up on it. “Wait, is something wrong? It’s not about a launch, is it?” A sinking feeling settled into her chest.

  “I got myself into a bit of trouble out here, Cee.”

  “I’m not surprised,” CeeCee said as a way to protect herself.

  “Gee, thanks.”

  “Go on.” She sat upright, forcing the sleep from her eyes.

  “There’s this powerful guy out here, Moe Stein, and he runs the numbers. I mean, the top guy running the numbers, get it? He’s the guy—” His voice cracked. “Majority of guys are Italian, but a few of us in the ranks—”

  “Okay, Moe. I get it. Go on.…”

  “And Moe has a daughter. You know, one of these zaftig Jewish broads. Pretty face, but nothing compared to you, Cee, and … well, one thing led to another. She threw herself at me. I … shouldn’t have done it … but I did … and now … she’s pregnant. Moe was furious at first…” It all came tumbling out like an unfurling sail.

  “And…” Her heart was beating so fast out of her chest, she was actually afraid for her own baby’s well-being.

  “And I have to marry her … or else,” he whispered.

  “Or else what, Mick?” she cried.

  “Or else I won’t be going to Santa Anita to bet on horses, I’ll be buried under the racetrack.” There. He had said it.

  “What’s her name?”

  “Myra,” he whispered.

  “Figures. Do you love this Myra?” She was enraged.

  “I don’t even like Myra. But she’s Moe Stein’s daughter and she’s knocked up and I have to do the right thing or I am a dead man walking. I’m sick about it, Cee.”

  She was stunned, her world crashing in. The room spun as she gathered her thoughts, which came tumbling out like marbles and jacks in a child’s shoebox.

  “I’m not going to rub it in that you’re a fuckup and a pig and a dope. Or that you ruined my life. I’ll just let you imagine what could have been.” She began to sob.

  “I don’t know what got into my head.”

  “It’s your other head, you asshole.” She gulped for air. “Why did you have to ruin everything?”

  “I’m so sorry, Cee, more than you can ever imagine.”

  She paused. “When?”

  “We’re eloping to Las Vegas this weekend. Then we’ll have a reception in town.”

  “Well, at least she’s Jewish.” CeeCee laughed bitterly.

  “There’s only one girl in the world for me and it’s you, Cee. I’m so sorry. I’m such a fuckup.”

  CeeCee tried to wipe away her tears. “Why did you have to fuck it up, baby? I never said you couldn’t be with other women. Just to be careful.”

  “I was drunk.”

  “That’s been your excuse for everything. Look, you play with that crowd, you live or die by the rules.” She was nothing if not realistic.

  “I didn’t want you to read about it in the papers.”

  “There’s nothing more to say on it, Mick. I wish you and this Myra … what do you folks say … mazel tov?”

  “Don’t say that, baby. It’s breaking my heart.”

  “Mine too.”

  “What did … you want to talk with me about?”

  She felt her stomach. “Nothing important, but … Mickey…”

  “Yes, Cee?”

  “Please don’t call me again. Please. Maybe one day when you are older and wiser and Myra is fat and you’re through with her and the kids are grown—call me then. Don’t ever call me until you can be with me and I mean be with me fully. Do you
understand, you thickheaded, muscle-bound piece of shit? I love you more than myself. I can’t be in the same room with you because your smell makes me weak. Please, Mickey. Do me a favor and never call me again. Please. I couldn’t take it.” The tears were streaming now.

  “Never”—he was crying, too—“say never.”

  44

  PAIN AND PLEASURE

  New York City, 1943

  It may have been another dead, grey, overcast day in New York City, but for Constance it was as sunny as a day in Palm Beach.

  “Forty cents, ma’am,” the gaunt, thirteen-year-old newsstand boy said as he handed Constance the two copies of Glamour of Hollywood magazine she requested.

  “Yes, of course.” She reached into her small leather change purse in her handbag and took out four small silver dimes and laid them on the counter one at a time, appreciating the clicking sound against the white marble counter.

  “Are you…?” He looked at the woman on the magazine cover and back at Constance.

  “Yes.” She nodded; her delicate hat with the tiny lace veil did little to obscure her face, and she looked directly at the newsboy with pride.

  “Well, congratulations, ma’am. I never met a celebrity before.”

  “I’m not a celebrity.” She smiled. “I’m a businesswoman.” She took the magazines and walked efficiently into the lobby of her office building and pressed the button for the fifteenth floor. She was excited to see the cover story on her Lavender Door Salons, which had been an immediate and ongoing success. As the elevator doors closed, she perused her face on the cover. Just the perfect amount of lipstick, she thought. She flipped through the magazine and had a rush of energy. The story and photos were perfect. The headline read, BEAUTY PIONEER’S NEW BEAUTIFUL CONCEPT OPENS: THE LAVENDER DOOR SALONS.

  The subhead read: “Now every woman can be beautiful.” Perfect, it was a direct hit against Josephine’s upscale and expensive salons. She walked into her office with the gait of a conquering hero as she lifted up and waved the magazine at the three secretaries. “We have the cover!” she said to applause.

  A chorus of congratulations was heard as she made her way into her new private office. Marjorie, her assistant, hung up her mink and then hustled to bring out a tray of tea, milk, and honey. She laid the usual morning newspapers on her desk as Constance sat back and read the profile to her delight. Glamour had said the “Lavender Door concept will change the way American women feel about themselves.” That Constance Gardiner had “created a shift in American culture where every woman is celebrated for her beauty and her brains at the right price.” She loved that! The fact that each Lavender Door Salon would have a beauty school training program was noted in the article as well. The school allowed young women to educate themselves and have a career. Constance had single-handedly created a self-selecting and -trained low-cost workforce. It was genius, she had to hand it to herself.

  “May I?” Marjorie picked up the extra issue of Glamour.

  “Of course, Marjorie. What do you think of the photo?” Constance asked, already knowing the answer.

  “You look just wonderful, Mrs. Wyke. Just beautiful.” She beamed at how statuesque and elegant her boss was.

  “Please call me Miss Gardiner now.”

  “Of course. I love that you are wearing a lavender gown in front of the lavender doors. It’s so chic and catchy.”

  “Thank you.” Constance smiled. She could only imagine what Josephine Herz would say when she saw the story and layout. She was in a jubilant mood. This, of course, would only be temporary.

  As she scanned the New York Daily Mirror she came upon Walter Winchell’s gossip and social column. She immediately felt a shock to her system as she digested the headline: TWO FAMOUS BEAUTIES REMARRY. The subhead screamed at her: “Josephine Herz becomes Princess Orlove.” The photo of Josephine, dripping in diamonds, dancing with her handsome young prince at their Russian Tea Room reception, made her visibly weak. To add insult to injury, there was yet another dagger to behold. The next bold-faced paragraph read: “In other beauty news the former Mr. Constance Gardiner, the very swell Mr. Van Wyke, marries oil heiress Lally Stanton, the former Lally Seward. A match made in blue blood.”

  Constance slammed down the paper. Bested again! On the very day her cover story had come out. She could never, ever, it seemed, catch a break. She walked over to the bar with her teacup and poured a heavy dose of gin, her hands shaking.

  Marjorie appeared at her door. “Miss Gardiner, the Daily News is on the phone for you. They would like a comment on Mr. Wyke’s remarriage.”

  “Thank you, Marjorie. Tell them I am indisposed. Rather, tell them I am celebrating my new Glamour cover and I cannot be disturbed.”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Oh, and Marjorie…” She forced a frozen smile as she tried to keep her composure.

  “Yes, Miss Gardiner?”

  “No further calls for the day. I am not available. I have an appointment uptown,” she said as she took a copy of her magazine, fetched her fur, and made the decision to go home. Her bed seemed the only solution.

  * * *

  All the way downtown, on the other side of the tracks, the depressing office in a cold-water flat on the Lower East Side had none of the glamorous trappings of Herz or Gardiner. No limestone façade, no Fifth Avenue address or perfumed air. The air, in fact, was rife with the smell of opened corned-beef sandwiches with mustard on waxed paper. Not to mention the dank body odor of groups of young and old men working shoulder to shoulder in a cramped dark space. Josephine and Alexei were ushered into the poorly paneled makeshift office with an overhead fan whirring.

  “Princess Orlove, Prince Orlove, please have a seat.” Eduarde Finkelstein’s haste, and the overwhelming files on his desk stacked so high as to obscure his stained tie, indicated that despite his humble office location and lyrical Argentine accent he was a top immigration lawyer, with deep connections in Europe and South America. Josephine saw the pained look in his eyes and immediately knew his ongoing search for Josephine’s sister Chana had once again turned up empty. With Sybil in London and Rachel running the Australian operation, other disturbing thoughts were present. The lawyer had said the last known report of the twenty-year-old Chana was that she had received her papers and a passport in Warsaw two years earlier and at last sighting had made her way to Gdansk but had virtually disappeared, as if she did not exist.

  “I am terribly sorry to report that with the war raging we only have secondhand information at best and none of it is good.” Finkelstein looked over at the crestfallen Josephine. Her new husband, the handsome Prince Orlove, reached over and touched her hand tenderly. Josephine took out a small lace handkerchief and started to weep. Here she was, the richest woman in the world, and she had no power to find or help her youngest sister.

  “How could she just disappear? I don’t understand. People don’t just disappear.” Josephine would not listen, her glittering fifteen-carat diamond a bit out of place on the Lower East Side.

  “Josephine, I—I didn’t want to tell you, but I have a responsibility, not only to you but to let people know, and certainly, you and Prince Orlove are people of influence who can get the word out. The reports from those who have been lucky to escape Poland are unimaginable. Much worse than we thought. In fact, we have just had a report that the Nazis have liquidated the entire Krakow ghetto, sending the Jews to concentration camps, and those unable to go were killed in their homes or in the streets. We are talking about seven thousand people. The numbers are sheer madness. The largest mass shooting, we are told, was forty-three thousand people in Lublin.”

  “I—I don’t understand. How can they kill that many people?”

  “One by one, I’m sorry to say. They had to dig their own graves in trenches. It’s unimaginable but true. We have eyewitnesses.”

  Josephine shook her head in horror. It was a nightmare come to life.

  “And Chana?” she whispered.

  “We cann
ot be sure. Maybe she married this young man and has the protection of a gentile. Maybe she has been rounded up. Or maybe she got lucky and got on one of the last ships out. We have no idea. There is really nothing more to say. We will continue our search, but do know I’m not hopeful.”

  “I understand.” She wept.

  “I’m not sure I can continue to bill you with the latest news. It wouldn’t be fair.” He looked grey and pale at having to tell her the truth.

  “No, I insist. View it as a donation to what you are doing. You’re helping people get out.” Josephine sniffled.

  “Thank you. That is very kind of you. I can honestly say we are overworked and understaffed and thoroughly unprepared for the work we are doing.”

  “I will make a larger donation as well.” She hung her head.

  Alexei silently helped Josephine to her feet. After thanking Finkelstein and offering the appropriate handshakes, he led her out of the office to the waiting limousine. He knew what they would do next and where they were going. Often loquacious and happy, Saturdays had turned solemn. The car drove down Essex Street into the heart of the teeming Lower East Side. Each weekend, he would accompany Josephine as she silently searched for Chana in the haunted faces of all the immigrants. She would scan the vast sea of young, middle-aged, and old women as her limousine drove ever so slowly. They all gawked at the gleaming black car, never having seen anything so large or fancy. Then they went about their business: the fruit stands, the kosher meat store, pushcarts carrying pots, pans, and housewares. And she would search. Search for a familiar face in a crowd, someone with absurdly high cheekbones, large soulful eyes, a resemblance, anything. She searched for a twenty-year-old girl who may have come over, maybe in the lucky flood of immigration before the doors slammed shut. Parties, soirees at night, work by day, weekends … and then … Saturdays searching for Chana. She would also go this Sunday as well. She needed to do it before they left on their honeymoon, which had been delayed multiple times due to work. She had finally agreed to take the time and was actually looking forward to it, now that they had changed it from Miami to … Palm Beach.