It was the finale of act one, the theater was dark, and an edgy, serious air pervaded the empty orchestra pit where only the lighted glow of a cigar betrayed Mr. Ziegfeld’s presence. We’d been going for almost fifteen hours, repeating the numbers again and again, and we were finally nearing the end.
The lights went up and the curtains parted to reveal “the Ingénues,” a nineteen-member all-female orchestra. They played center stage while two men and twelve women played pianos perched on the steps of a dramatic double staircase. You’d think I would be used to it by now, after eight weeks of rehearsals every single morning, followed by more dance lessons in the afternoon at Stage Dance Studios—apparently Ziegfeld thought my pirouettes and piqués needed some fine-tuning—but this was the first time we’d done the full dress rehearsal, onstage, all the way through.
The costume and set designers hadn’t let us get a glimpse of the full feathered costumes until that day, saying the plumes could get ruined with too much use. But here we were, the chorus, wearing nothing but cream silk leotards the color of our skin and enormous white ostrich feather fans strapped to our arms.
When the principal dancers came onstage in white costumes, with gold fringe and gold feather hats and headdresses, for the final few moments there were more than eighty people onstage. I couldn’t believe I was one of them.
Ziegfeld came into the light and removed his coat.
“When he takes off his coat, he means serious show business,” one of the girls whispered next to me.
“Blue foots up on a dimmer at the start of the overture,” he called out to the electricians in the wings as he walked up the stairs to the stage. “White and amber foots up on dimmer at the end.” We all froze in our final position, still smiling, hoping we wouldn’t have to run through the whole thing again. “Next scene, all lamps floor until finish, then dim down to blue and white one-quarter up and palm curtains open.”
It was all Greek to me. He walked across the front of the stage and surveyed us. “The final act dragged,” he said to no one in particular. “It has to be perfect. Howie?”
Howie, the choreographer, appeared by his side. “Bring the principals on earlier, I want a full ensemble, everyone onstage for longer than just the last few moments.”
He walked over to my row of girls in feathers and stared at us as if we were dolls he was surveying in a toy store window. My pulse raced. What was he going to say about us, what was he going to do with us?
“I want this row up front,” he said. I nodded to show I was willing. “Now,” he barked.
We shuffled forward as best we could without rubbing our ostrich feathers against one another. Eighty people on a stage felt hot and crowded.
“Final moments before the lights go dark, you open your arms to reveal your figures.” He demonstrated, and we copied him. He didn’t look satisfied. “Wallace?” he called out. “Where’s Wallace?”
Within seconds the costume designer was onstage. “I want these outfits remade into two pieces, top”—he gestured to the bosom of one of the girls—“and bottom. I’d like to see more of their figures.” One of the girls gasped, but Ziegfeld, if he heard, chose to ignore it. I thought the costume change was a wise choice, a more dramatic reveal.
“Yes, Mr. Ziegfeld.” Wallace nodded, his slim fingers scribbling down notes in a well-used, scruffy notepad.
“But not vulgar, you know how our competitors offend my artistic sensibility with their vulgarity and nudity. I want elegance, class and artistic integrity when we undrape our women.”
Draped or undraped, I didn’t care. The splendor of it all—the lavish costumes, the scenery and props, the sheer intensity and passion he had for his show and the determination of every one of the girls around me to make it big—was electrifying. But looking out into the empty house gave me the biggest thrill. I’d been told tickets for opening night were selling for $200 a pop and all seats would be filled. I couldn’t wait for it all to begin.
Opening night was magical, but it was not without its blunders. In the second act, Marylin rode an ostrich with a rhinestone collar across the stage. In every rehearsal it had gone off without a hitch, but on that night the roar of applause that filled the theater must have spooked the poor thing. It looked around frantically, then fixed its eyes and aimed straight for me. I leapt out of the way, breaking formation from the other girls, but it seemed determined and raced toward me. In hindsight it was likely the ostrich feathers I had strapped to my arms, which I’d been pulsating like some kind of mating dance, that sent the bird into a whirl of confusion. Once I stopped moving and stood still for a few moments, it turned and ran in the opposite direction, and then into the wings, looking for its trainer, or an exit, sending Marylin to the floor in its frenzy. She handled it like a champ, of course—stood up, brushed herself off and took an exaggerated bow as if it were all part of the act, and then she went on with her next number. But offstage she was livid and said she refused to share the stage with that animal again.
We all planned to meet at Casa Blanca after the show to celebrate a successful opening night, despite the ostrich incident. Ruthie, who’d been in the Follies for a few years already, had been showing me the ropes. She had shocking red hair, huge blue eyes and a face that was more interesting than traditionally beautiful.
“Now when the two of us walk out the back of the theater, there’ll be a big crowd waiting—men and women, but mostly stage-door johnnies.”
“Stage-door johnnies?”
“You’ll get used to it,” she said. “We just smile, thank them and walk on. You ready, Olive?”
“You bet I’m ready,” I said.
We pushed open the back door and there they were, just as she’d promised.
“Miss, miss, you were stunning tonight, can I take you out to celebrate?” one called.
“I heard you’re new in town,” another said. “My friend told me to look you up, show you around.”
“Ignore them,” Ruthie warned. “They say that to everyone.”
Some johnnies were looking for specific girls, bouquets in one hand, jewelry boxes in another, while other gents were there to take out whoever would say yes. But it didn’t matter, it was all such fun.
“Let me treat you, miss … miss…”
“Hey, Miss Spicy,” said one johnny as he pushed through the others toward Ruthie and me. “Come on,” he said, leaning right into me, smooth as pomade. “Let me take you away from all these boys.” He reached into his inside jacket pocket and pulled out a slim navy box and gave me just a peek. I couldn’t help staring at the string of pearls inside.
“Stick with me, doll,” Ruthie said as she took my arm in hers. “We won’t have any shortage of champagne and lobster once we get there, and there’ll be plenty of fellas showing you lots of ice as the days go by, just wait. Why don’t you take it all in before you say yes, see how it all works?”
The guy wasn’t my type anyway, not that I really knew what my type would be. I hadn’t had an appetite for romance in the last year, but he was a sharp dresser, and my, those pearls, were they for me or anyone who’d take him up on his offer? I wondered. I glanced back at him and smiled. “We’re going to Casa Blanca on Fifty-sixth Street,” I said excitedly. “Maybe I’ll let you buy me a drink.”
“Oh, boy,” Ruthie said, tugging me along to Broadway. “You have a lot to learn. Come on, or we’ll never get out of here.”
Just five months earlier when I first set foot in New York City, I’d looked up at the bright lights on Broadway with the celebrated names of headliners and the towering billboards advertising all the things they assumed I needed to be prettier, thinner, more elegant, more capable. But now, walking up Broadway, made up like a doll, with a buzzing high from the first performance, I felt as though the lights were just for me, that the man smoking his cigarette above the Great White Way was tipping his hat in my direction. Well done, Olive, he was saying, you do know how to shine.
I felt like skipping. I didn’t even feel the blisters on my toes or the tightness in my neck from the twenty-pound, foot-and-a-half-high headdress I’d worn along with the rest of the girls in the last act. All I could feel was the giddy sensation rising up in me, a mix of pride and excitement at what would come next.
When we arrived at the club, there was a line out the door, but Ruthie walked us right up to the front, introduced me to the doorman and led us through the revolving door into a grand and ornate gilt lobby.
Ruthie pointed across the expanse to a commanding staircase. “Loraine, Marylin and the other principals will wait until we’ve all arrived before they make their grand entrance down those stairs,” she said. “But don’t worry, we’ll have our chance one day.”
The dining room must have seated at least five hundred, and the walls were covered in green velvet with gold trim everywhere. Trumpets and saxophones and the roar of chatter and laughter filled my head. I couldn’t hear a thing Ruthie was saying, but she was already laughing, as if some laughing gas were filling the atmosphere and we were all drinking it in. The dance floor up front was small in comparison with the room and crowded to no end, but the people—they were the most beautiful people I’d ever seen, all under one roof. And everyone had a drink in hand, clearly not giving two hoots for the Volstead Act. It was festive and gay and here I was, right in the middle of it.
Ruthie caught sight of some girls from the show and waved them over. They swarmed toward us, enveloping me into their circle. Someone grabbed my hand, another put her arm around my waist. Ruthie handed me a glass of champagne out of nowhere, and I felt that I was being carried en masse by these beautiful girls. We approached the teeming dance floor and it welcomed us into its heaving, spirited arms, opening up for us, then closing in around us. I had arrived exactly where I wanted to be.
I was one of the Ziegfeld girls.