“Anita—who do you think cleans up around here?” Marty was furious.
“I’m sorry—I’m really sorry—honest to God. But I gotta run—the girls just left. Tout de suite,” Anita pleaded, her hand on the doorknob.
“For crying out loud,” I said, raising my voice, “don’t tell me you’re running off? Our dates will be here any minute.”
“I said I’m sorry. I’ll make it up to you—no kidding. So . . . Au revoir!”
Chapter Nine
IWAS DAYDREAMING at work about my Saturday afternoon date with Jim when Mr. Wilson suddenly appeared.
“Please come this way,” he said urgently. We followed him across the main floor, passing two plainclothes security men and Mr. Hutchison’s counter, where there was the new string of pearls priced at a quarter of a million dollars that was the talk of the store. A quarter of a million!
Mr. Wilson hurried us to a nondescript door set in the paneled wall, a door I’d never noticed before. It opened into a small, narrow vestibule with an elevator. The dead silence was broken when Mr. Wilson cleared his throat. “I need to show you how to operate this elevator—it’s a private one only for the Pearl and Diamond room.” Marty and I gave each other The Look. I felt prickles crawl up my neck. The secret? The superintendent pressed a button, the elevator door opened, and he ushered us inside. I stepped carefully over the narrow crevice so it wouldn’t catch my high heels.
When he pressed the top button on the panel, the door closed and we began to ride up, gliding smoothly, so unlike the shaky caged elevator at our apartment. When we stopped, we were on an upper floor and the door opened automatically. I was totally amazed. An elevator that seemed to run itself!
Mr. Wilson cleared his throat, adjusted his tie, and led us along a corridor to a large, brightly lit room. Two well-dressed men peered at us over a high counter.
“These are the young ladies I told you about,” he said by way of introduction. The taller gentleman looked like my uncle Peter with crinkly crow’s feet at the corners of his friendly gray-blue eyes. With no exchange of names—Mr. Wilson was a man of few words—we left as abruptly as we’d arrived, back to the elevator. He pointed out the button on the wall, the elevator door opened, and we stepped inside.
“Press this lower button to go down, but don’t touch this red button,” he cautioned. “It’s only for emergencies.”
Press the red button? Me? Not in a million years!
“This elevator is on a timed device that automatically goes back to the main floor.”
When we reached the main floor, he swept his arm up with a flourish, and we waltzed out like a pair of Rockettes, our elevator lesson successfully completed. Running that elevator was simple and easy! I was thrilled that Mr. Wilson had finally revealed the Big Secret. What an honor and a privilege. I remembered reading about the secret room in Florence where the Medicis counted their money and what had happened to the workers who built it. Here we were, the new girls trusted with this extraordinary knowledge. A hidden elevator and a Pearl and Diamond room! I shivered!
Marty was the lucky girl to have the first honor.
“It’s easy as pie,” she told me afterward. “And once you’re alone in the elevator you can sneak a look at what’s in the case. I’m telling you, it knocked my eyes out!”
“You mean you opened the case?”
“You bet. You should have seen that necklace—all diamonds.”
I could scarcely wait for my turn.
THAT BIG CHANCE came the next afternoon when Mr. Hutchison carefully handed me a long, black velvet case. “They’re waiting for this in the Pearl and Diamond room,” he said, quietly.
Thrilled, I proudly made my way to the paneled door and entered the private vestibule. When I pressed the button on the elevator panel, it opened and I stepped inside. Not since I’d learned to drive had I felt that kind of power. After I pressed the “up” button, the door closed, and the elevator began to ascend. I reached in my bag for the case. I snapped it open.
Oh, no! Pearls—loose pearls—so many—spilled to the floor. All over the floor!
Real pearls bounce—bounce like popcorn! They leaped and danced.
I froze. How could I put them back before the door would open?
Ohmygod! That crevice—that long, open gutter!
When the door opened automatically—the unthinkable would happen. The pearls would roll down and disappear forever.
Horrified, I fell to the floor and stretched my legs along the door as a barricade. I could scarcely breathe thinking of those pearls—priceless pearls—plummeting down that shaft. There they’d go—falling into greasy wheels, grinding gears, spinning belts, and God knows what! My heart was pumping a mile a minute.
When the door slowly opened on the upper floor, there it was—that ugly narrow gap. For the moment my little treasures were safe. But what could I say to someone waiting for the elevator, catching me crouched in a sea of pearls? Not a soul was around. By some miracle. For the moment.
Quick. Press the button. Close the door.
I inched myself closer to the panel and pressed the “down” button. Thank God, the doors started to close and I began to descend.
I tried to scoop the pearls up, but they slipped through my fingers as rivulets of sweat drenched my hands. The harder I tried to grasp them, the faster they rolled away. Dear heaven! This was an emergency! The red button.
No . . . no, no—Holy Toledo, no! Alarms would ring. Security would be on the run. Mr. Wilson, Mr. Hutchison . . . President Moore, for heaven’s sake!
My heart beat so fast I couldn’t think.
Don’t panic! You’re not supposed to panic.
Think. Think that it’s twenty years from now, I told myself. It wouldn’t matter—this whole thing would be a dim memory. Do not panic. Or—twenty years from now I could still be doing hard time.
The door was opening—again!
I prayed feverishly, Don’t let anyone be there.
No one. Thank heavens. Still, I was living on borrowed time.
I pressed the button to close the door. Why wasn’t it responding? I tried again. Nothing. Was it stuck? Mercy—the wrong button—the top button, stupid, when you need to go up! But I couldn’t reach it. I didn’t dare move an inch. There was that horrible gap!
Desperately, I grabbed the jewelry case—reached—stretched—and hit it! Whew—it closed. Finally.
I couldn’t breathe—I couldn’t swallow—there was no air. Perspiration was running down my face. I felt my heart beating in my throat—and in my ears! If I could just breathe! I was getting . . . dizzy . . . light-headed . . . woozy. So—so—woozy.
I must be dying!
Good heavens—if I died, they’d find me in a heap of pearls! Red-handed. What would everybody think?
Ah, but maybe they’d think I’d collapsed and the pearls had spilled out. And Mr. Wilson might say, “Not her fault, poor girl.” They might even feel sorry for me. Better than the alternative.
Except I didn’t want to die. I’d been so happy. Only last week Jim and I were dancing cheek to cheek. Would I ever hear our favorite song again?
That old black magic has me in its spell,
That old black magic that you weave so well.
I mopped my face with the edge of my skirt.
Icy fingers up,
And down my spine,
I’m going to cry.
When the elevator starts its ride,
Down and down I go—
Down and down the pearls go!—
In a spin—
Not this girl.
I started to breathe in gulps. Just shove them in the case any old way, I told myself. But the white satin case was slick; they pearls slid off the other side as soon as I set them right in the middle. Away they went. Like they wanted a life of their own.
Don’t panic. Quick, before the door opens, pick each one up—one at a time. My hand was shaking so much that the tiny ones slithered off and the larger ones sh
ot over to the corners like billiard balls.
Then suddenly the darn door was opening!
I pushed the button immediately. It closed. I was going down again. Then it dawned on me. This could be a game of jacks! Just pick up a pearl, put it in the case, cover with my left hand—pick up a pearl, put it in the case, cover with my left hand—
I was playing jacks with priceless oriental pearls. I began to feel giddy.
I don’t recall how long it took my clammy fingers to secure each precious pearl or how many elevator rides, but I do know my heart thumped so hard I thought the buttons on my dress would pop off.
When I’d retrieved all the pearls, even the tiny ones and those huddling in the corner, I snapped the velvet case shut. I swept the floor on my hands and knees to make sure I had every last one. Then I stood up. My wobbly legs barely supported me as I smoothed my skirt, wiped my face and hands, took a deep breath, and waited for the door to open on the upper floor.
I stepped out in a daze. The light blinded me as I made my way to the Pearl and Diamond room, expecting a blistering reception. I tried to keep my hand from shaking and to find my voice as I reached into my bag for the case and handed it to the man with the gray-blue eyes.
“Here,” I said, my voice shaking. “Here’s the package from Mr. Hutchison.”
“Thank you, Miss,” he said, calmly. Opening the case, he examined the pearls and began counting. I held my breath until he said nineteen—twenty—twenty-one. To his assistant he said, “These are the pearls that need stringing.”
You better believe they need stringing! My legs felt like Jell-O as I hobbled back to the elevator. As soon as the door closed, I burst into tears.
Later, when I told Marty, she howled. “Good night—what a story! What a riot!”
Easy for her to say. Not for me. I still shiver whenever I enter an elevator and stare down at that gaping black chasm below—a netherworld that was nearly my undoing.
106 Morningside Dr.
Dear Family,
You’ll never believe this! I’ve learned how to operate an elevator. It’s automatic—you just push a few buttons and it goes by itself! But the exciting thing is this—it’s a special elevator that goes to a secret room for pearls and diamonds! Doesn’t that sound like something out of a movie? Have only had one little problem with it so far.
Jim, the midshipman I met, thinks he’ll be sent to the Pacific when he receives his commission. We’re going out again this weekend—he’s from Virginia. I told him, Dad, about the time you introduced Babe Ruth at the celebration in the park—he was impressed!
Love, Marjorie
P.S. Remind me to tell you a scary story when I get home!
Scary? Downright chilling. I should be thanking God the pearls and I survived! Just thinking about it turns my stomach to mush.
I can see Jim’s face when I tell him—he’s such a tease! Whenever a band played “Margie—I’m always thinking of you, Margie” he’d kid me because he knows how I hate to be called Margie. Now he’ll really have something to tease me about. I can’t wait to see him Saturday.
Chapter Ten
MARTY WOKE me in the morning, “Good heavens—do you hear rain?” I ran to the living room window to look at the brewing storm.
“It’s already pouring!” I could barely see the brick wall. Now what? Umbrellas had not been packed on our trip from Iowa.
We threw on our scarves and our raincoats and were in the lobby within minutes; the floor was sopping wet with people stamping in and out. Marty begged the desk clerk for newspapers to cover our heads and we bolted for the subway. Settled in our seats, we noticed people staring. With sheets of dripping wet newsprint draped over our heads, we must have looked like escapees from a Peter Lorre horror movie. I started to pick off the soggy shreds of paper stuck to my scarf, while Marty whacked away at her hair with a comb.
“We’ll look like drowned rats!” I said, pushing my dripping hair off my face. “How did we forget to pack umbrellas?”
“Beats me,” Marty said, “but I know a place where you can buy one with a sterling silver handle—”
I gave her a sharp look—this was not funny.
When we reached our lockers, the nurse ran for towels to dry our hair and sent a message to the secretary, “The girls are running a little late this morning.” Our soft, dry “uniforms” had never felt better, though my pumps were soaked. Marty had tried to dry hers but they were drenched, too. “Oh, well,” she sang.
When Marty and I reached our designated spot between the marble–framed mirrors, the two salesmen across from us smiled, looking fastidious in spite of the weather. The taller one, Mr. Myers, and Mr. Scott, were ardent Long Island clam diggers who had promised to bring us a bag of clams. Good night—what would we do with clams? Do they smell? Do you cook them? Are they alive? But we were flattered that they counseled us like we were little girls.
“At night,” Mr. Myers had said, “don’t you girls ever ride on the subway, and don’t talk to those Bolsheviks around Columbia.” We didn’t have the heart to tell them we had done both. But their warnings about how salesmen would tease pages with the rap made me laugh. And then I heard a rap from the watch counter.
My wet patent-leather pumps squeaked with each step on the way, sounding like yelps from a pathetic kitten. It startled the salesman, who saw me approach. When he finished with his customer, he handed me a check to take to the cashier. Trying to be quiet, I tiptoed, wavering like a tightrope walker to the cashier’s cage.
Marty was waiting for me after I finished my errand. She tilted her head knowingly, in the direction of the Fifth Avenue entrance.
I followed her gaze.
Marlene Dietrich! Sun rays peeked through the Tiffany windows from the windswept clouds, catching her light blond hair. She didn’t walk. She glided into the store with a regal air. Her bearing alone would have commanded anyone’s attention.
Miss Dietrich proudly wore the mandatory olive-green khaki USO uniform, which carried the army insignia of a major. A perky army cap was nestled in her blond curls. Her feet were shod in regulation laced-up oxfords with old-lady inch-and-a-half square heels. (What an affront to those famous gams, which had inspired the password “Legs” from General Patton!). The main floor was stunned into silence.
Marlene Dietrich had taken the city by storm. You could “Read all about it!” at the newsstand on the corner; the papers were filled with publicity from the moment she stepped on American soil from Europe. From her ship, she was carried to shore by soldiers, who hoisted her high over their heads, amid a wild, cheering crowd. Her USO work for the Allied forces had encompassed two years, longer than any other celebrity, a sacrifice in terms of her career. Reporters and photographers pursued her relentlessly.
In an interview describing her USO experiences, Miss Dietrich explained that she often rode in open Jeeps, endured shortages of soap and water, and ate regulation GI canned food. “Sauerkraut and frankfurters,” she had said, “and always outdoors, often in cold rain, with water in the food and cold grease running all over.” Whoa!
In one combat zone, she had wheeled dozens of injured soldiers to safety and declined special treatment for herself. “Sometimes I’d wrap up my sequined gowns for a pillow.” The army adored her.
As we watched, she approached the middle counter with a ravishing smile. The salesman lifted his eyebrows in surprise—and awe. Usually celebrities would head directly for the intimate and private VIP room behind the diamond counter. Instead, Miss Dietrich waited quietly like a regular customer, as unassuming as a cloistered nun.
Marlene Dietrich was extremely beautiful, with delicate features and translucent skin. As the salesman helped her, she looked at him with an endearing gaze. The back of his neck reddened as he helped her clasp a jeweled bracelet on her slender wrist. They chatted as she tried on several others. In a short period of time she had made her choice. As he began to wrap the bracelet, I glanced at Marty. Was there anything we could do to help
? Weren’t we needed here?
It was then I noticed the tall, slender man with a black raincoat standing quietly near the star. Rudolph Sieber, her husband? As they turned to leave, she nodded her head to thank the dazed salesman with one more charming smile. As inauspiciously as she had entered, the two of them left.
Caught off guard, I had stared, forgetting my Tiffany manners. I knew better. I had learned from the six-foot Fifty-seventh Street doorman how to be discreet. The doormen were security officers and scrupulously watched every customer, without staring. Focusing on the corner of the ceiling, you could “watch” every nuance and subtle move by using your peripheral vision. The doorman would murmur, “Henry Luce is at watches” or “Mr. Gould to your right, Miss” (I saw his difficulty in reaching the counter due to his formidable girth!). “You just be patient,” the doorman promised. “This is the door where the duke and duchess enter—after her fittings at Mainbocher.” Having been told that the duke had made frequent visits to Tiffany to see the latest gems, I found every excuse to be near that doorman.
Marty and I, on the other side of the cashier’s cage, had followed every move of Miss Dietrich, a distance away. John Wayne had said, “Marlene Dietrich is the most intriguing woman I ever met,” and we didn’t want to miss a thing. There were lessons to be learned, I figured, from someone that charismatic.
At lunchtime, due to the rain, Marty and I stayed cooped up in our locker room, sitting on the bench as we stuffed our shoes with newspapers, and searched our purses for leftover crackers.
“That was Rudolph Sieber all right—his picture was in Time,” Marty reported as she finished a stale cracker. “What gets me—she has this nice guy for a husband, who patiently waits for her, while she’s running around with Douglas Fairbanks, John Wayne, Gary Cooper, Edward R. Murrow . . . and General Patton!” She scoffed. “Did I forget anyone?”
“Ernest Hemingway, Marty.”
Marty rolled her eyes.
Summer at Tiffany Page 8
