New York, New York

Jews will tell you that grief brings on a ferocious appetite. When Poppa died, we buried him the next afternoon, Shiva, our week of mourning, began that evening and food came in by the minute. By the second day, every table in our apartment groaned from the weight of fruit baskets and bowls of chopped liver. Plates of prune Danish blanketed our piano, and the mourners picked through the offerings like jackals feasting on carrion.

Our apartment reeked of stale food and humanity. Some of the ancient grandmothers and grandfathers, suffered from flatulence which added to the stench. Between waves of visitors, I�d open the windows to air out the rooms and spritz the flat with perfume. It didn�t help.

Condolences were comforting but veiled prophecies about our inevitable downfall sometimes lurked behind the kind words. �Such a wonderful man to die so young. We heard that you lost all your money in that horrible mess in �29.� One kvetch declared, �Poor Mrs. Schector, you have no sons. With a daughter to feed and so much debt, how can you survive? What will you do without a husband?�

I wanted to tell the old biddy off, but kept my lips buttoned. Even though these were desperate times, I knew I�d find a job and we�d be fine. Maybe it was 1930 and work was scare, but nothing, except mourning my father, could stop me from looking.

Mama and I ignored the doomsayers and took comfort from Poppa�s Harlem musician friends. Between sips of coffee and nibbles of pastry, a trombone player named Sneaky Pete regaled us with stories my father. �No one played jazz fiddle like your pops, Isaac. One night he gigged with Louis Armstrong and Bix Beiderbecke, and the three of them blew the roof off the joint. I tell you, Isaac Schector and George Gershwin were the hippest white cats in New York!�

By the third day of Shiva our apartment reeked of stale grub and humanity. Some of the ancient grandmothers and grandfathers, suffered from flatulence which I�m afraid added to the stench. After each wave of visitors, I�d open the windows to air out the rooms and spritz the flat with perfume. It didn�t help.

On the seventh day, Shiva ended and my job search began. I was about to leave on my hunt when our next-door-neighbor caught me at the stairwell. The old fellow made a ritual of reading the New York Times from cover to cover each morning. �Look, Mitzi, here. A big motion picture theater needs usherettes. It says �Only attractive young ladies need apply.� This would perfect for a pretty girl like you, perfect!� He�d circled an item on the Times� Help Wanted women�s page amidst the few advertisements for experienced stenographers, waitresses and telephone operators.

The famed Broadway Ritz Theater seeks usherettes. No experience required. Applicants must be willing to work multiple shifts. Only attractive young ladies need apply. Ask for Mr. Stein.

Only attractive young ladies need apply . I checked myself in my compact mirror. My looks weren�t so bad, round face, dark eyes, and dimpled cheeks. People swore I resembled the movie star, Clara Bow, minus the red-hair and penciled-in eyebrows. Folks, especially Gentiles, said I had very �American� features, which I guess meant I didn�t look Jewish.

My Aunt Zisel�s new beau worked in the garment industry and had given me a tres chic black and scarlet woolen frock that I thought looked would do the trick. The skirt was of the new, longer length, the sweater, a bit low in front, showed off my bosoms to full advantage. The weather was nippy so I wore a lovely black coat, one of my aunt�s casts-offs. Mama claimed face powder clogged the pores, but since she wasn�t around, I powered my nose and put on lipstick and rouge. I set my red beret at a jaunty angle, made my way to the subway station, the token my ticket to the great White Way.

The calendar read October, my favorite month. Once, I�d wait all year for Central Park to blaze with autumnal colors, for Halloween pumpkins, football games, and Park Avenue beauties to promenade in their swankiest frocks. I�d wait for the streets awash in hunter green, burnt sienna and fox fur. Since the Crash, those happy autumn days were over. Poppa was dead and Manhattan was a dour place filled with grey, unhappy faces.

I hurried down Broadway, past the beautiful movie palaces and theaters that dotted the street, feeling in my bones that this would be my day. The air was crisper than the first bite into a McIntosh apple. An old lady smiled, a couple of gents tipped their hats and it was like the Octobers of old. Everything was peachy until I reached the Broadway Ritz. The line of girls wanting the usherette job reached the end of the block. Some red-letter day this turned out to be!

As I walked toward the back, I passed each candidate, a few of whom glared at the additional competition. A number of the girls were not what I would call attractive, but what did I know? Several went heavy on the make-up, lots of mascara and penciled- brows, couple even wore eye-shadow, something Mama swore only brazen hussies used. There was a profusion of bottle blondes and henna-heads and I felt a slight pang of jealousy because some had sprung for finger waves. My hair was dark, curly and hung a little past my shoulders, longer than most, but shoulder-length hair was back in fashion, or so I had read.

A young man in a dark brown over-coat and Homburg hat walked down the line sizing-up the girls. The fellow looked to be in his early twenties, probably a lackey for this Mr. Stein who was doing the hiring. He was tall, muscular, the chiseled featured, Arrow-shirt type, as handsome as a movie actor. The young man passed each girl, stopping before a couple, dismissing the flashier blondes with a scowl as if they were left-over cod. By the time he reached me his mood hadn�t improved, in fact, he looked as if he�d swallowed a green persimmon.

He gave me a quick once-over and I figured my career as an usherette had ended before it began. His eyes were the most beautiful I�d ever seen, as emerald as a verdant forest. They narrowed when he looked at me and he smirked like some wisenheimer fraternity boy then cocked a finger, and said, �Hey, girlie, follow me.�

I walked behind him past some of the sourest faces I�d ever seen. It wasn�t my fault that this guy picked me. Walking into the Broadway Ritz�s lobby was like stepping into Versailles before the French Revolution. We walked through gargantuan marble columns flanked by giant mirrors shot through with gold. The reflection of the crystal chandeliers on the glass nearly blinded me and I almost collided with an usher dressed in scarlet who stood at attention. The young fellow handed his hat and overcoat to the usher and I noticed his black suit fit his tall frame to a T. He ran a hand over his dark hair then glanced back at me. �This way, sister.�

We passed a Florentine marble fountain with perfumed water and dancing cherubs and massive bronze staircase, the steps covered with the finest crimson carpet. The young fellow opened a door with a sign affixed to it that read �David Stein,� bowed then motioned me to follow him into what I guess was Mr. Stein�s office. Except for his smirk, he seemed harmless. He pulled up a chair and beckoned to me.

�Take a load off those tootsies, little lady. What�ve you got for me?�

I didn�t know what game he was playing, but I sat, dropped my coat over the chair. He smirked again and I wanted to throttle him. Instead, I handed him my high school diploma along with a letter of recommendation from our rabbi and three from my Barnard professors. �Will you please give these to Mr. Stein?�

He took a seat behind the desk, leaned back like the cock of the walk

�Mr. Stein? I�m David Stein.�

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