Me and My Shadows

by Lorna Luft

  “The chimpanzees?” I responded blankly.

  “Yeah,” he replied. “They’re opening for you.”

  Right then, as if on cue, the door across the hall opened, and five chimps wearing gold lamé tuxedos and blond wigs waddled out, followed by their trainer in a matching gold suit. I smiled weakly at him from the doorway. “Gee, they’re really cute,” I said, trying to be friendly.

  He just looked at me with no expression. “They’ll tear your fucking arms off, lady.”

  I backed away a couple of steps. “Okeydokey,” I replied, and looked at my dad. He was staring at the chimps incredulously. I waited for the chimpanzees to clear the hallway and then stepped out. A little way down the corridor I ran into the adagio act, a nice older couple who introduced themselves as Joy and Ron Holiday. As I shook hands, I couldn’t help but notice that Joy’s hair was actually a wig held on by a chin strap that didn’t match her makeup. The chin strap was supposed to hold her wig in place while she was upside down in their balancing act. Well, at least Joy and Ron didn’t bite. By the time I got backstage, the chimpanzees were already on, and I could get a good look at the audience. As the saying goes, just when you think it can’t get worse, it does.

  I was expecting to see a crowd of vacationers ready for some casino-style entertainment, but instead what I saw was a crowd of elementary-school children eating hot dogs and running up and down the aisles. I looked at Steve in astonishment and said, “What the . . . ?”

  Steve cringed. “That’s the part I didn’t want to tell you. It’s the Philadelphia Safety Patrol. They bussed in four hundred grade-school kids for the shows today.”

  There I stood in my Halston gown, ready to do a little Cole Porter, with several hundred hyperactive fourth-graders playing keep-away with their hot dog buns. I couldn’t believe it. But it was too late to back out. The adagio act was just finishing up, and it was almost my turn to launch into the fray. But not quite. First, Wanda the Wonder Horse had to dive into the water from a platform at the end of the pier. The chimpanzees, the geriatric Joy and Ron, and finally Wanda the Wonder Horse—ain’t show business great!

  Finally, the emcee went to the microphone to introduce me. The emcee was a former boxer who looked like he was so punch-drunk he could hardly walk. Staggering up to the microphone, he waved for the kids’ attention and then announced dramatically, “And now here she is! Judy’s daughter! Liza’s little sister! The scintillating Miss Erna Lust!” Erna Lust? He made me sound like a porn star! Those children could have not cared less whose daughter I was. But there was nothing to do but sweep onstage with my two male dancers in tow and launch into my act. For fifty endless minutes I belted out Gershwin and Porter, and finally, seated on a stool downstage, I crooned a tender rendition of “Mama, a Rainbow” as a group of little boys kicked opened the side doors. When it was all over, I just wanted to go back to the hotel with my friends and take a long, long nap, but I couldn’t. I still had four more shows to do that day.

  That Memorial Day holiday was one of the longest weekends of my life. For three days in a row, five times a day, from ten in the morning until midnight, I trooped out on that stage after the chimps, the adagio act, and Wanda, and sang through all my numbers. It was endless. The emcee never did get my name right. It was the Gumm (Rum, Bum) Sisters all over again—Erna Lust, Lorena Tuft, Lana Ruft—until I threatened to strangle him if he didn’t get it right just once. One night, while my friends laughed helplessly backstage as he mangled my name yet again, I turned to Steve and shouted, “Get him!” the way you’d sic a dog. The whole thing was sheer lunacy. My only comfort was that I wasn’t alone.

  The Steel Pier might not have been the most elegant kickoff for my illustrious singing career, but it was pretty good preparation for what was to come. God knows things did get better after that, and the Morris Agency booked me into some of the best clubs around. Still, I never knew what I was getting into. When I opened at the Sands for my Las Vegas debut a few months later, I was in for an education of another kind.

  I was to be the opening act for Danny Thomas. Danny was a successful singer and comedian who had one of the most popular television shows in America in the early sixties. He was also actress Mario Thomas’s father—and eventually Phil Donahue’s father-in-law. Danny was famous for his work raising money for St. Jude’s Children’s Hospital, and for his wholesome family image. He regularly referred to his “dear wife” onstage. Opening for him seemed like a great opportunity; Danny was still very popular at the time. When Danny offered to introduce my act, I was flattered.

  That first night at the Sands, I waited nervously in the wings as Danny stepped up to the microphone. I was wearing a Bob Mackie gown, dripping with sequins and bugle beads, and feeling quite sophisticated. Danny began by saying, “Ladies and gentlemen, I’m going to tell you about a baby.”

  “What baby? What’s he talking about?” I wondered.

  Danny continued by talking about his “old friend, Sid Luft,” and it gradually dawned on me that I was the baby in question. Then he began to talk about the “legendary Judy Garland,” and I continued standing in the wings as he went on and on about my mother. By this time nearly fifteen minutes had passed, and I was climbing the walls. Finally he said, “Now, ladies and gentlemen, don’t expect a young Judy Garland to walk out here, because you’ll be disappointed. Nobody could fill her shoes. But here she is, anyway. Miss Lorna Luft.” And he walked offstage with the spotlight trained on him as he’d instructed the technician to do. Thoroughly demoralized, I walked onstage and found my place in total darkness.

  Night after night this miserable process continued. I couldn’t understand why Danny was doing it. I tried to talk to his personal assistant, an odd man who seemed to be a combination butler and valet—a bad imitation of Alistair Cooke, complete with a fake English accent. The valet stuffily replied that “Mr. Thomas is doing you a favor.” Some favor! I called everyone for help—Sid, the Morris Agency—but no one seemed able or willing to do anything about it. Finally I called my old friend Maxine Messenger (now my son’s godmother) and asked her what to do. Maxine’s a columnist with the Houston Chronicle and had been a big supporter of mine from the beginning. Bless her; she hopped the next plane to Las Vegas, caught my act, and walked straight into Danny’s dressing room after the show and said, “What the hell do you think you’re doing to Lorna? Cut it out!”

  He replied, “I don’t know what you mean.”

  She said, “You know exactly what I mean. The truth is that she’s wiping up the floor with you, and you don’t like it.”

  Danny didn’t like it, but he didn’t dare ignore her, either; she was too powerful a columnist. So he quit introducing me. Instead, when I finished my act the next night, he walked onstage right behind me and said, “You know, ladies and gentlemen, Vegas is such a hot, dry town, and the winds have been so bad lately. Miss Luft just hasn’t been feeling her best. Even Robert Goulet, who’s playing just down the street, is having trouble with his voice, and just think, he’s a trained singer.”

  I couldn’t believe it. I just kept right on walking, through the wings and out the back. I don’t know whether he made that speech every night after that. I didn’t hang around to listen.

  What a guy. Make Room for Daddy. The only problem with “Daddy” was that he had a lapful of sexy young things in his dressing room every night. When I asked someone if they worked for Mr. Thomas, she laughed at me. I decided they must be his girlfriends, but then I heard him onstage one night talking about his “lovely wife.” Wife? I wondered if he made the girls get off his knee before he called home at night. I doubt it.

  One thing about the life of a nightclub entertainer: you get to know a very—uh—diverse group of people. Las Vegas may be known for some less than upstanding citizens, but it doesn’t hold a candle to Chicago. Two months after my Sands appearance, my sister introduced me to one of the oldest “families” in that toddlin’ town.

  I’d just opened at the Palmer Hous
e in Chicago, and I hadn’t seen Liza in a few months. She’d been in Paris since the fall with Marisa Berenson and the cream of European society—including all of the Rothschilds. Liza’s introduction to European royalty had followed closely on the heels of her success in Cabaret, and for the past several months I’d seen pictures of my sister in newspapers and magazines as she hobnobbed with the classiest of the high class. That November, however, she apparently got tired of the high life, for she flew in from Paris to Chicago to catch my show and try a change of pace. A big change of pace.

  When I looked down into the audience at the Palmer House one night, there was my sister, surrounded by the most amazing group of human beings I’d ever seen. Liza was seated at a table near the stage; next to her sat a little guy with a strikingly Italian face; and seated around them was a group of gorillas—no, not primates, just tough-looking. All four of them were huge, hulking men in shiny suits and white ties who looked like they should have been wearing name tags that said, “Hi, I’m a gangster.” Grinning up at me from the midst of them sat my sister, with “Isn’t this a trip?” written all over her face. I couldn’t believe it. I almost choked with astonishment.

  After the show Liza brought the whole gang backstage to introduce to me. “This is my friend Nick,” she said with no further explanation, and then invited me to go out to dinner with the five of them. I said, “Sure,” and off we went. I remember thinking, “My sister thinks she’s in a movie.”

  We all piled into a car together—me, Liza, the “little guy,” and the four gorillas—and went speeding off to a nearby restaurant. Once inside, Nick led us upstairs to a private room with a long table that was lined on both sides by Italian men who looked vaguely alike, all wearing suits straight out of Guys and Dolls. Nick told me they were his “family” and then seated me and Liza at the head of the table. Various people introduced themselves, and finally someone leaned over to me and, nodding at Nick, said, “That’s Nick Nitti, you know.”

  I just looked back at him and said, “Nick Nitti. ‘Nitti’ as in ‘Frank Nitti,’ as in The Untouchables? You’re kidding.” And then, just because I couldn’t resist, I turned to Nick and said, “So, Nick, there’s something I’ve always wanted to know. Is there really such a thing as the Mafia?”

  Suddenly, there was total silence. You could have heard a pin drop. Everybody looked at me. And then Nick looked into my face and said, very seriously, “Absolutely not. There is absolutely no such thing.”

  “That’s exactly what I thought,” I replied, and turned to order a drink. Everyone relaxed, and conversation resumed.

  Then, a moment later, the waitress entered, carrying a big tray of shrimp cocktails, and tripped over the edge of the rug as she neared the long table. The reaction was instantaneous; nearly all the men in the room leaped to their feet and reached under their coats, as they whirled to face the noise. The poor waitress froze in her tracks and looked as though she was going to pass out. There was total silence, and I thought, “Now, this isn’t funny.” Finally I said, “Jumpy, boys?” They looked around the room, realized it was just the waitress, and sat back down again. I heaved a huge sigh of relief. Everyone was very nice and extremely polite for the rest of the evening, and afterward Liza and I went to the ladies’ room and howled with laughter. I told her that I couldn’t believe that she’d gone from the Rothschilds to the Untouchables in twenty minutes! I’ve seen Nick Nitti many times since our encounter and he’s always seemed a perfect gentleman and a legitimate businessman, but I always smile when I remember that night.

  But my dinner with Nick wasn’t the only invitation I would receive from someone with ties to the “family.” One night in 1972 I went to see Don Rickles at the Copacabana in New York. I had just finished working with him a few weeks earlier at the Latin Casino in Cherry Hill, New Jersey, and in the process become a big fan. Don was always very funny and sweet to me, and I wanted to see his new show when he came to New York. After the performance I went backstage to his dressing room. Joe Scandori, his manager, was there along with a friend of Don’s, Joey Villa. While we were talking together, a man walked in with his wife and a small party of friends to congratulate Don. I didn’t know who he was, but he seemed friendly. As I stood there, the man said it was his birthday and that he was going to Little Italy in New York to celebrate at Umberto’s Clam House. He invited everyone to go. Don, Joe, and Joey quickly, but very politely, said “No thank you.” I started to open my mouth and say, “That would be nice . . .” but Don gently elbowed me in the ribs and gave me a look that said, “Don’t go!” I quickly said, “I guess I’m tired, maybe next time.” When the man and his entourage had left Don told me that the man was “Crazy” Joe Gallo, the reputed mobster. The next morning when my newspaper arrived, I read the headline, “Joe Gallo Murdered at Restaurant.” I still work with Don Rickles, and to this day I tell him, “Don, I owe you big time!”

  The most memorable moment of those early years on the nightclub circuit, though, is one I still treasure. I was playing the Fairmont Hotel in Dallas. I knew my mother’s sister Jimmy had been living somewhere in Dallas the last time I’d heard, and I wanted to see her again. I hadn’t seen her since I was ten or eleven, when Mama and Aunt Jimmy had had a falling out. I didn’t know exactly what had happened; I only knew that my mom wouldn’t talk about it, and that my aunt hadn’t felt comfortable enough to attend my mother’s funeral. I did know the name of Jimmy’s husband, so when I arrived in Dallas for the show, I looked him up in a phone book and gave them a call, not knowing quite what to expect. I needn’t have worried; both my aunt and uncle were thrilled to hear from me. I invited Aunt Jimmy to see my show, and she asked if she could please come early so we’d have time to talk for a while. I told her, “Of course,” and we made plans to meet late that afternoon.

  About five P.M. someone knocked on my dressing room door, and I felt my stomach clutch nervously. Opening the door, I saw a woman standing on the other side, and the moment I glimpsed her I felt as if someone had knocked the wind out of me. It was four years since Mama had died, and here in front of me stood a tiny woman with dark hair, those familiar hands, and my mother’s face. I started to shake, and Aunt Jimmy teared up.

  I invited her in and, still unable to take my eyes off of her, asked if she’d like something to eat. She thanked me, and when I asked what she wanted to order, she said, “A chicken sandwich with extra mayo, please.” It was the same thing my mother always used to order. I watched with fascination as she ate her sandwich. She sat like my mother; she chatted with me in my mother’s voice. She even chewed the way my mother had. Looking at her was the eeriest—and the most wonderful—sensation I’d ever felt. It was almost like being with my mother again, in her healthy days, if only for a moment.

  That evening, at the end of my act, I told the audience a story. “Once upon a time,” I said, “there were three little girls named Suzy, Virginia, and Frances. When Suzy grew up, she was still Suzy, but Virginia grew up to be Jimmy, and Baby Frances grew up to be Judy Garland—my mother.” The audience laughed and applauded appreciatively. And then I added, “And one of those little girls is here with me tonight. Ladies and gentlemen, I’d like you to meet the last of the Gumm Sisters, my aunt Jimmy.” They brought up the lights; Aunt Jimmy stood up and took a bow, looking shy but delighted, and the audience went completely wild. They crowded around her after the show, asking for her autograph, and like an excited child, she signed everything they gave her.

  Afterward, unwilling to let her go, I invited her and her husband, John Thompson, to stay awhile. We went into the bar area after nearly everyone was gone, and sat and talked for hours. After a while someone said, “Please, won’t you sing something for us?”

  I don’t know if she’d done much singing since her vaudeville days, and she said, “Gee, I don’t know. I don’t know if I still know anything.” My conductor, Gene Palumbo (who’d conducted my mother years before) immediately volunteered to accompany her, and she said she’d try
. She sat down next to him on the piano bench, they conferred a moment, she hummed a little and then said, “Okay, let’s try.” And Gene began to play.

  I don’t remember what she sang. It didn’t matter. What did matter was the voice—my mother’s voice, rich and full the way it had been so many years before. I looked at Gene. His face was filled with emotion, and his hands began to shake so much he could hardly play. I stood next to her, transfixed, listening to that familiar voice, and as I did so I began shaking like a leaf. I never wanted it to end. It was terrifying, and at the same time, it was the sweetest thing I’d ever heard.

  Afterward she and my uncle went home, but not before we made plans to see each other again. I was traveling constantly in those days, but we kept in touch by phone, and I went to visit her at her home in Dallas. The first time, I stayed several days and got to meet my cousin Judalein again, as well as all of Aunt Jimmy’s friends and neighbors. It was on those trips that I got to hear firsthand about the early years of my mother’s life, before fame and ill health had begun to eat away her existence. Even after my aunt died, I kept in touch with her husband, a dear man.

  Aunt Jimmy died almost fifteen years ago, shortly before my son, Jesse, was born. I wish she could have seen him. Jimmy was the last of the Gumm Sisters, and the healthiest in every sense of the word. She developed heart problems late in life, much like my grandmother Ethel, and died in recovery after heart bypass surgery. Her death marked the end of an era. She was a wonderful woman; sweet and warm and funny, with her feet planted firmly on the ground. She’d had the good luck and the good sense to get out of Hollywood as a young woman, before the problems that haunted her sisters had a chance to consume her life, too. When I looked at my aunt, I saw the woman my mother might have become if destiny hadn’t sent her down a different road, and I wondered what would have happened to my life if my mother had been able to walk away from it all. It’s a question I’ll never be able to answer.