by Sid Luft
I was a good ballroom dancer. My mother preferred dancing with me rather than Norbert. I was frequently obliged to escort her onto the dance floor. So in a way, Leonora prepared me for Eleanor, who enjoyed dancing with me almost as much as my mother did. When we were out for an evening, Eleanor was able to avoid men she really didn’t want to spend time with. I was smitten by my new friend, who confessed to me she had been born out of wedlock. She never knew a father.
I got to know the Powell family of women, the mother and grandmother, and I observed that Eleanor was a workaholic. She was already a Broadway name when we met on the boardwalk, but I didn’t know show business.
Our friendship cooled off when she went to Hollywood and I went to Europe with my mother and sister. But she was the first person I looked up when I moved to Los Angeles a few years later. By then she was a big movie star.
My sister, Peri, had returned home from Skidmore a college graduate. She was rebellious and didn’t get along with Mother. It was war between them, and it was out in the open now. She’d gone on a charging spree all over New York.
But now Mother was taking both Peri and me to Europe and Russia. I was eighteen, and I had never been abroad. The idea was for our grandparents in Russia to meet their American grandchildren. Afterward, Mother planned on her usual buying trip in France to update herself on the latest fashions in Europe.
Though the US economy had crashed in 1929, the Depression did not have much effect on Bronxville. By the summer of 1934, Bronxville’s people still saw no need to tighten up. “Madame Leonora” had been so successful that she persuaded Dad to sell his business and run one of her stores in Scarsdale. This would prove a mistake: apparently women were not happy to see a man around a dress shop. Mother lost a lot of money that year.
Neither the Depression nor the Scarsdale loss entered her mind the day we boarded the elegant ship Conte di Savoia, bound for Italy. As we were leaving the Hudson River, Guy Lombardo came out on the deck of his own boat with a sign reading, BON VOYAGE MARY AND JACK. Jack and Mary Benny, along with their best friends, George Burns and Gracie Allen, were actually aboard our ship. First, touching Tom Mix’s Duesenberg, second, my friendship with Eleanor Powell—and now the Bennys. My heart beat faster and faster.
Father was not taking the trip with us, so I’d be escorting mother and Peri, and they’d be dependent on me. Further, I was free from hearing my parents argue; Mother certainly wouldn’t be shouting “SID-NEY!” aboard ship. How Norbert disdained Leonora’s outbursts. Mother was generous, not affectionate. A warm personality, and witty too, but she was not physically loving. Father would kiss, embrace me, but not Mother. However, nothing could dampen my excitement as we pulled away from everything familiar, and from a country financially going down the tubes.
Soon American radios would provide another avenue of escape, something to swell the spirits of people going further and further into debt. It was in 1934 that the twelve-year-old performer billed as “Baby Gumm” changed her name to “Judy Garland.” Within a year she was enthralling radio listeners with her cheery, uplifting, bell-like voice. She was so sunny, and her timing was so perfect for a youngster. She was a jewel of a find, as she demonstrated on the popular Jack Oakie’s College Show:
JUDY GARLAND: My, but you’re looking well.
JACK OAKIE: Looking well? Well, I ain’t, honey, I’m a pretty sick man. . . .
JUDY (giggles): I’ll bet you live to be 150.
JACK: What odds would you give? . . .
JUDY: Cheer up, you look fine—you ought to feel fine.
JACK: Yes?
JUDY: Certainly. Let me see you smile.
She adds her devilishly funny laugh, then breaks into song. Little Judy Garland sings in an amazingly developed voice with such emotion: “There are smiles that make us happy, there are smiles that make us blue . . .”
While Ethel, Judy’s mother, was carefully watching over Judy’s every move, Leonora, my mother, was requesting I lead her in a fox-trot to the mellow strains of the ship’s first-class orchestra. The two mothers were never to know one another.
We docked in Italy and proceeded to Rome, where we stayed at the Excelsior Hotel and enjoyed the usual American tourist activities. Next we visited the Lido in Venice, arriving by speedboat. I felt very glamorous pulling up with two Swiss guards and walking a red carpet into the hotel. Chez Vous, the nightclub, was magically lit from under the glass floor, tables arranged in tiers of three, with candlelight and exotic flowers. The men were dressed in black tie and the women in ball gowns. The room was oval shaped. At the narrow end of the oval sat the orchestra. It was something out of a film, only it was for real. The maître d’ looked like Valentino in a black shirt and tie and suit of white gabardine. After Venice we went to Genoa, where we boarded an Italian ship that sailed through the Dardanelles with a stopover in Turkey. We were on our way to Russia: we sailed the Black Sea to Odessa.
This was the Stalin era. When we docked in Odessa, mother was looking for her parents through a barbed wire fence. But after we went through customs, we were immediately bustled into an open touring car. The three of us were squeezed into the backseat, the luggage in front with the driver. We drove sharply out of the dock area when mother shouted, “Stop the car!” She still wanted to find her parents. The driver replied in Russian, “I can’t.” She actually shook his shoulders. He brushed her aside, “I cannot stop the car.” I remember these two rather elderly people, my grandparents, running after the car with posies in their hands. That image tears at my heart. They showed up at the New London Hotel two or three hours later. They had walked all the way from the Odessa seaport.
Mother’s brother in Russia was head of a bank. He lived quite well, and we visited his house, but we were never to see the way my grandmother and grandfather lived. They were too embarrassed about how poor they were. Grandfather ran a school and he spoke some English, as well as German and French. He was still teaching at the time. My grandmother gave piano lessons in her son’s house with one hand. The other was paralyzed. My uncle had rebuilt the piano to accommodate the disability.
Mother had sent money to her parents every month. Now they explained how the police had arrested both of them for “hoarding.” Saving was against the law.
Mother’s only sister had married a Greek Orthodox nobleman living in Russia. She had converted to Catholicism. The photos of my aunt in a cassock outfit struck me as very appealing. Unfortunately, we were never to meet. I suspected Auntie had disassociated herself from the family.
We were in Odessa for about six days. One incident that took place during our short stay at the New London Hotel was especially memorable: the balcony in my room broke off, right down to the ground. Had I been standing on it at the time, I’d have died. I was happy to leave Russia even though we’d been there barely a week. Of course, thinking back, there was something laughable about it. In any case, we were eager to be on our way, hard as it was for mother to leave her people. I couldn’t say the balcony’s crashing was the reason to go; in some way it was more of a sign: anything could happen under Stalin and none of it good, especially for Jews. Was I ever going to escape my birthright? Here on the other side of the world, as in Bronxville, I was feeling the pinch of racism, and it was soon to eerily intensify in Austria.
But first we went by train on an overnight trip to Poland. We were told to lock the windows, because train robbers would steal luggage when the train was at its stops, using a pole with a hook. I slept fitfully, lying in wait for the thieves. It was a filthy, dirty old train, and very stuffy with the windows locked. Poland had signed a nonaggression pact with the Soviet Union in 1932 and had recently signed one with Nazi Germany as well. By 1939 the Soviet Union and Germany would carve up Poland between them. A dark age was roiling around us, as we naively continued on our holiday, going from one luxury hotel to the next, getting annoyed if we suffered the least inconvenience.
On the Russian side of the border, a big guard stood with a bayonet
. He was a burly guy with a red star vibrating off his helmet. It struck me funny that on the Polish side stood a little guy with a bayonet and no helmet. We ate at the restaurant in the station. I had a huge steak and was allowed to drink a bottle of black beer. It was a welcome feast.
From Poland we went to Bad Gastein, a health resort in the Austrian Alps. Mother thought it would be good for her high blood pressure. The name of the hotel was the Excelsior Palace, and it was extremely picturesque, overlooking a white stone cliff and rich green landscapes. One morning I got up and saw an enormous white swastika being painted on a granite wall.
I’d become friendly with some young people around the hotel pool where I liked to swim and dive, hoping to impress women. They were Austrian Jews. I found out that these kids were originally from Berlin, and not vacationers—they were not going to return. Apparently their families had removed their personal wealth to Austria. It was explained to me that the führer, Germany’s chancellor, had taken away the rights of German citizens who were Jewish. In fact, the government was confiscating all Jewish wealth. These kids felt lucky to be in Austria, and at the same time they were ready to leave Austria should the situation become threatening. All of this had an air of adventure for me, the idea of having to leave a country because of political reasons, and here they were at an expensive spa, beautifully dressed and enjoying life.
A charming young woman told me about Hitler. I listened more because of her beauty. At the same time, I was flirting with the girl who ran the photo shop. She was older, extremely attractive, and I found her sexy. I was looking for some action. I could escort my mother and sister for so long, but now I wanted my time. I was working away at the photo shop girl when I was warned by one of the pool group that, yes, she was pretty, but she was a Nazi. This soaked in somewhat, enough for me to drop the flirtation but not enough for me to fully understand the implications of being a Nazi.
We left Bad Gastein for Vienna, where I ran into Jack and Mary Benny and George Burns and Gracie Allen. They were sitting in a horse-drawn carriage at one of the squares in town, laughing, also seemingly unaware of the political brew. I waved to them and they happily returned the gesture. After all, we’d been shipmates, and they’d seen me high diving into the ship’s pool.
In later years I got to know Jack, a close friend of Judy’s—in fact he frequently wrote her notes. Whenever I ran into Jack I’d say, “Remember me, the kid on the diving board?”
Mother took snapshots of me with the Bennys and the Burnses from that trip. Years later I was at a fundraiser in Los Angeles and George was the keynote speaker. Someone introduced me to George after his speech. “Do you know Sid?”
George replied, “Sid Luft? I’ve known him all my life.” It had a bittersweet ring to it.
The week we ran into our former shipmates in Vienna, mother took Peri and me to a posh restaurant, formerly a wing of a famous palace. While we were dining in the regal Viennese atmosphere, Austria’s chancellor was assassinated. I immediately thought of my friends in Bad Gastein. How would this affect their lives? There was a sense of panic everywhere, and mother arranged for us to leave for France. I would continue to correspond with my new Austrian friends after I returned to America, and then slowly, their answers stopped arriving.
8
ON THE RIVIERA, we based ourselves at the Carlton Hotel in Cannes. From here mother could motor to Grasse to search out new perfumes or visit Juan-les-Pins or Biot for ceramics or Nice for the latest in resort wear. I would go with mother to Grasse, if she asked, for by now she looked to me for many things.
Peri had decided to enter the Cannes Rose Parade, called “Battle of the Roses.” The parade meandered through the main part of town, circling back down and around, continuing in this way throughout the day. The day of the event I’d gone with mother to Grasse. We returned around midafternoon. I stood on the street watching until Peri came by on a float. I waved. The next float in view was bearing the most beautiful girl in the world. She had black hair, violet eyes shaded by thick black lashes, and a gorgeous body. Nature had been kind to Frieda Roberts. And destiny, working in its auspicious mode, presented a fellow standing next to me who exclaimed, “She is beautiful!”
I said, “Do you know her?”
Amazingly, he replied, “Yes, I have a date with her sister.” In this way I met the girl of my wet dreams through another American on holiday. When the float came around again my new pal invited the sisters to join us in an outdoor café. The sun was setting—it was definitely aperitif hour. Frieda and her sister ordered Pernod. I said I’d have the same. I was thirsty. I didn’t know what I was drinking. I threw it down and they said, “You can’t drink Pernod that fast. You’re allowed one.” I said, “Don’t worry.” I managed two before they wouldn’t let me have another. I got so drunk I didn’t know where the hell I was. I suggested we go swimming. So we raced over to the Carlton Hotel. I ran up the stairs, gathered up four thick cotton towels featuring attached hoods, tumbled halfway down the three flights, fell on my ass, jumped over a hedge . . . and in minutes we were in the Mediterranean, swimming in the nude.
I fell in love with Frieda. She was British, sophisticated, and sexy. I wound up living with her at the villa she shared with her sister overlooking Cannes’ harbor. I decided I’d call the hotel and explain to Mother I was staying with friends for a while. I’d been the perfect son all trip long, now it had to be my turn. I would insist at any cost. So I stayed with Frieda, making love in the scarlet bougainvillea-covered stone house, drinking the occasional Pernod, swimming naked. For three days I thought I was the stud-about-the-world at last. Frieda was in her twenties. When she asked my age, I lied and said I was nearing my twentieth birthday.
We mingled with individuals I thought might impress even Eleanor Powell. I met Willie Donahue of the Woolworth family; his cousin Barbara Hutton and brother Jimmy Donahue were more well-known socialites. Jimmy was gay, and he and Wallis Simpson, soon to become the Duchess of Windsor, were confidantes for most of their lives. Willie was straight and going with a friend of Frieda’s, an English actress. They stayed at the Hotel Martinez and sported a pet ocelot.
As fate would have it, the first day Frieda and I descended from our idyll we ran right into my mother. I considered she may have been camping out, waiting. She ignored me and turned directly to Frieda: “Do you know how old he is?” Frieda responded in her cool, soft English voice, “No. I really don’t care, either, Mrs. Luft.” Mother stood there unable to speak. There was nothing to say. I patted mother on the shoulder, explained we were off to the beach, and said that I would call the hotel later to make plans. And we took off, leaving Leonora contemplating, no doubt, what a bad boy I really was. It was a scene right out of an adolescent’s masturbatory fantasy. Only I hated to masturbate. I’ve always thought it more worthwhile to have sex.
We returned to New York also aboard the Conte di Savoia. Father met us and we drove directly home. Mother was eager to play her new tango records. We ate and danced. It was to be the last joyous reunion for the Luft family. We had been away for months, and the shop had lost business. This was a major bone of contention between Norbert and Leonora.
Not too long after our return mother awakened me at six in the morning. “Sid, get up.”
“What’s the matter, Ma?”
She spat out the heartbreaking news: “Your father’s not living with us. He’s left the house.” I got dressed as she nervously explained that he’d been living with another woman while we were away. I challenged her, and she assured me she could prove it. “I found a love letter when I was putting his socks in the drawer.” She was devastated. “The letter explains everything. I’m going to divorce him.”
I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. I mumbled something like Well, before you do, Mom, give yourself some time. As though I were calm and thoughtful. Mother told me that when confronted, my father had told her he came upon the letter while driving back from New York on business. “It was a windy day and
this letter blew into the car window.” It was a miracle of coincidence, he explained, that the message was addressed to someone else named Norbert. He assured mother it wasn’t his. He must have been desperate because he didn’t want to break up the family.
“I can’t swallow that it blew into the window of the car, Sid. It’s too much, I’m going to divorce him.” I thought if only she’d pretend it blew in. I didn’t want them to separate, let alone divorce.
I’d bought two men’s silk scarves in Rome to bring home. Both celebrated an Italian military victory in Ethiopia; one in black silk with white letters, the other black letters on tan. I was intending to give one to my father. Now it would be an act of treason. I was so upset and confused by what was happening I wound up keeping both for myself.
Father moved out, and one day I met the woman in question. He said it wasn’t love, but she was an attractive brunette, years younger, with a pretty smile and big eyes. He kept trying to communicate with Leonora to patch things up. He even threatened suicide, and then he wrote a heartbreaking letter pleading with her: “You can’t divorce me. It’ll wreck you and the kids, the family. What will the kids think of you and I’m going to kill myself if you don’t take me back.” He tried everything. Nothing worked, and the family was broken.
I didn’t blame Father for his romance. Mother was rigid, tough, and unforgiving. When my parents divorced, Leonora had money and Norbert had nothing. But he pulled himself together and found a shop in Scarsdale, a small business that suited him. It was next to a real estate office on Scarsdale Road, and he lived nearby at the Scarsdale Lodge until he remarried a pleasant woman who worked as an executive secretary in the office of United Artists in Manhattan. Though Norbert and I had affection for one another and spoke frequently on the telephone, our lives were essentially separate.
