THREE
SATURDAY'S CHILD HAS FAR TO GO
Idris stood at the doorway of an adventurous life. It was a golden opportunity, and yet, in many ways, typical of the winds blowing through that era. In the fall of 1922, people the world over were reinventing themselves, taking risks, throwing off recent history like an old coat. Indeed, the whole of Western culture was entering an era that few could have predicted. Only a few blocks from the Raspini school, Henri Matisse was working on a series of unconventional canvases he called “Odalisques,” evoking the pastel reds, pinks, blues, and oranges so abundant in Nice to give life to his subjects. In Paris, one thousand copies of a book called Ulysses were being printed. Across the Atlantic, in California, a man named Walter Disney was picking up the pieces of his bankrupt Laugh-O-Gram Studio and trying again. And in New York, poet Robert Frost had published a collection of plain-language poems, including one whose ending Idris might have found especially apt: “But I have promises to keep, And miles to go before I sleep . . . ” The twenties were beginning to roar.
*
On the morning of December 20, 1922, an early winter storm was raging through Nice, whipping palm fronds and frothing the deserted promenade. Idris arrived, soaking wet, at the lobby of the Hotel Normandie ten minutes before the 10:00 a.m. meeting time. She found a leather bench and watched as hotel guests — mostly English vacationers — peered through rain-splattered windows with expressions of undisguised annoyance. By eleven o’clock the captain had still not arrived, nor by lunchtime. It was, according to Idris, after one o’clock when a khaki-clad figure finally sauntered through the entrance door and saw her watching him. With a wince and snap of his fingers, Wanderwell apologized for forgetting their meeting. He placed a hand on her elbow and directed her to the hotel café, where he ordered two glasses of milk and began describing expedition life. Yes, there was plenty of adventure, he said: travel, film, photography, press interviews. But even more important were the letter writing, the postcard sales, and the promotional agreements — these were the tasks that bought their bread.
We also advertise the products we use: petrol, tires, film, hotels, so forth; a barter system. The main cash income is from the sale of illustrated brochures, the history of our Expedition. Each member gets fifty percent commission of her brochure sales, ten percent of the value of ad endorsements. From earnings, the member pays “personal” expenses. I pay all transportation and accommodation expenses. Luxuries are scarce; there are hardships along with the adventure. Our uniform is breeches, boots and tunic — it’s practical for climbing in and out of the car — there are no doors.1
At the end of his summary, he paused and said that there was one other important requirement. “Members agree to remain single for the duration. I guess only a very young person can readily adapt. You need daring and fortitude to stand up to the rigors of our active and very public life.”2
He took a sip from his milk and leaned back in his chair, awaiting her response. She was, she said, not afraid of hard work and certainly had no intention of getting married any time soon. She asked for a chance to prove herself. He looked her over and, smiling, agreed.
*
Idris cobbled together an outfit from one of Herbert’s old sets of tunic and breeches and arrived at the Royal Theatre the following afternoon. She was introduced to the two other crew members. The first was an enthusiastic Italian man she referred to only as “il giornalista.” The other was a gruff Texan named Helen Raeburn who’d left her boring husband to see the world. She had a facility for striking coy, demure poses and acted as an interpreter for the captain, or Cap as the crew called him. Idris dubbed her “la Divorcée.”3
One of the many souvenir postcards produced by the expedition promoting their scheme around the world — this one printed in French — circa 1923.
Idris’s first task was to help sell postcards during the matinee’s inter-mission.4 The job sounded easy enough, but she soon learned otherwise. While the others earned fistfuls of cash, the girl from the cloister found it difficult to approach strangers, let alone ask them for money. In a panic, she watched Wanderwell freely converse with anyone in “truncated versions” of whatever language they preferred, able to engage and move on without ever losing his smile or composure.5
After the show, Idris found she had earned approximately one-tenth what the Italian journalist had managed. Still, the captain complimented her work and assured her that selling would get easier. Besides, he said, hawking postcards and brochures was only one small part of the job.
I was called to work the solid day, winding up commitments on advertising contracts, each sponsor requiring documentation of our campaign: press clippings, photos, showbills — (a) complete rundown of how well their product or agency was brought to local attention . . . It was all very novel, curious to me. The effort to keep up with instructions, memorize files, containers, required considerable concentration. . . . 6
The following day brought more of the same, except that instead of returning to the school, Idris stayed overnight at the Normandie, sharing a room with the “American lady member.”7 La Divorcée had signed on for the London–Paris–Monte Carlo–Nice run and was set to leave the expedition. The two settled into their room, chatting as they unpacked. Idris was shocked, however, when Helen changed from her uniform into a racy nightgown in plain view, all the while disclosing extremely personal details about her life, her family, and the dullard husband. She also volleyed questions that Idris didn’t feel prepared to answer, especially about men. Perhaps realizing how naïve Idris was, she offered a little sisterly advice: “‘All Italians are giornalistas. The press card gives them dazzle. In fact, half the men you meet on the make are journalists.’ She changed her tone, looked at me hard and rattled on, ‘Now the Captain, he’s on the square. You’ll be perfectly safe with him, so don’t worry. He’ll take care of you.’” Idris was plainly startled. The Texan paused, squinting. “Kid, you’re not totally innocent, are you?” Idris laughed. “Of course not!” though she wasn’t quite sure what the crazy divorcée had meant.8 Obviously, there was more to this expedition than driving around, making movies, and getting famous.
But if Idris had misgivings about joining the Wanderwell Expedition, they were soon banished. The next afternoon they drove 18 miles east to the small town of Menton, near the Italian border. She rode in the front seat of the car labelled Unit No II and watched as forested hills, citrus groves, and a shimmering turquoise sea rolled past. She chatted with the captain as he drove, captivated by his easy laughter and his wonderful storytelling. He described some of the towns they’d been to in France and where the best money was to be made. It all sounded so wonderful. She told him that she was ready to do whatever would be of most use to the expedition. Smiling, he suggested that, perhaps rather than sell souvenirs, she could try her hand at interpreting, especially now that the Texan was moving on. It would give her a chance to see how she liked it up on stage. He did not have to ask twice.
The Eden Cinema was small but lavishly decorated. Idris would perform at a matinee and evening performance, both of which had sold out. She chewed her nails but was desperate to make amends for her lacklustre performance in Nice. This was her chance to shine. She thought of Mary Pickford and did her best to imitate the captain’s easy nonchalance. She climbed to the stage, blushing at the audience’s applause, but then, as the film began rolling, her bones went hollow, her mind blank. She forgot the names of places or misremembered film sequences; even her French deserted her. Rather than simply pass over troublesome portions, she attempted to find just the right word, all the while falling further and further behind in the narrative. Her “performance” soon dissolved into a slight, inarticulate gurgling. Afterwards, Wanderwell gave her some advice: “Speak to the last man in the last row — your voice will have the right volume and you won’t be intimidated by the sea of faces at your feet.”9 It was a tip she never forgot and it had immediate effect: the evening show went much better. She spoke confidently and felt in control of her voice. The earnings were high and by the time she collapsed in her hotel room shortly after midnight, Idris had experienced her first taste of success.
As Idris found out, sleep was not one of the tour’s luxuries. Shortly past dawn, Wanderwell banged on her hotel room door. He was dashing across the border to Italy to get a permit for his car before returning to Nice. He wanted her to come along and see how one could get a car across the border without paying duties. The duo drove into Italy near Garavan, where they got a French stamp on the car’s “carnet de passage en douane.” The carnet was a new concept in professional travel. Backed by the Royal Automobile Club, it eliminated the need to pay duty for the car at every border. If the vehicle was sold or wrecked in a foreign country, the RAC would pay the resulting duty. Carnets are still in use today, though seldom for cars.
According to her later journals, Idris was back in Nice by 11:00 a.m., thumping on the door of the Villa Marie-Thérèse. As the door opened, she thrust the newspaper at her mother. She pointed to the ad and confessed her adventures: her absence from school, the expedition, the wonderful films, the cars, this crazy chance of a lifetime to see the world, to be in films, to earn money for the family. Just today she had already been in two countries! It was everything she’d ever dreamed of and an opportunity that would never come again.10
Naturally, Margaret said no. Not under any circumstances. In fact, she was already familiar with the so-called Wanderwell Expedition because she’d read an article about it in the Paris Herald some days earlier.11 Certainly, it sounded exciting. But how could a mother allow such a thing? Idris was barely sixteen and had not yet finished her schooling — and who knew what these world-roving vagabonds were really like. Still, she couldn’t help smiling at her daughter’s raving enthusiasm, especially since she too loved the thrill of packing up for points unknown. Years later, at another crossroads, Margaret wrote, “The Gypsy in me said move on. That itching foot of mine is the surest warning that the stage of being ‘put’ is likely to come to an end . . . the problem was not when to move, but where and how.”12
One of only a handful of professional studio portraits of Aloha. Note the Clara Bow–style “bee stung” lips — a popular fashion statement in the 1920s.
Idris reminded her mother of her youthful travels. At twelve, she had travelled unaccompanied by train across Canada and by steamer across the Atlantic. With the Wanderwell Expedition, she would be in the company of other experienced travellers. After much pleading and negotiation, Idris convinced her mother to meet Captain Wanderwell. If all went well, perhaps Idris could participate in some local shows to see if she had any talent.
Margaret relented. She would meet this Wanderwell fellow but made no further promises.
*
The next morning, Walter Wanderwell arrived at the villa, his brass buttons shining and his car parked out front. Passersby regularly stopped to examine the vehicle’s many badges and slogans. “You’re probably wondering how I got into this enterprise,” he said over tea, and proceeded to outline his version of the events of his life. His real name was Valerian Pieczynski and at fourteen, he’d run away from his native Poland, lured by the “Cabin Boy to Captain” ads he’d seen in German magazines. By sixteen, he was sailing on an English merchant vessel and at seventeen, he had rounded Cape Horn and landed in Chile. In the years that followed, he continued to crisscross the globe, visiting ports in Europe, Africa, South America, and finally North America. When war was declared, he decided to stay in the United States, setting off on foot to explore the country. He made his way doing odd jobs and speaking at clubs, where he sold brochures outlining his adventures. After a few years, he settled in Atlanta to serve with the Volunteers of America — a faith-based non-profit organization. According to him, his wartime marriage had failed but he and his wife, though legally separated, remained friends.13 Both were interested in travel, so they hatched a plan to race each other around the world. His wife, Nell, was currently piloting her car, called Unit No I, across the United States, Canada, and Mexico.
To support his amazing story he produced several scrapbooks bursting with documents, personal recommendations and seemingly endless press clippings. “A splendid performance,” Idris would later write. “As we scanned this impressive array, I could see mum’s scepticism slowly melting. How could anyone doubt the ability of this self-confident, captivating man who had already packed several lifetimes of experience into his twenty-six years?”14
The captain outlined the aims and structure of the expedition, and highlighted the need for someone who could work both behind and in front of the camera. “Our crews may change with the countries,” he said, “or sign on for limited periods, but I do need a permanent member to feature in the picture I’m producing who will appear on stage with the film. I think your daughter has the right spirit and good health to be a success.”15 Margaret thanked the captain for his time and said she would think it over. Idris panicked. She had hoped for an instant answer and this delay wound her into knots of worry. What if Wanderwell decided not to wait, or hired someone else? Or what if Margaret simply said no? The risk of letting this opportunity melt away was too awful to think about — how could she ever return to a joyless and boring convent school after this? And so Idris began to create a Plan B.
She was leaving no matter what.
By the following week, Margaret had still not made a final decision, but she did consent to a trial run. Idris could work with the expedition during its stay in southern France. Wanderwell would provide training and Idris would see how she liked the work. For the purposes of the tour, however, the captain was obliged to become her guardian — he would cover all her expenses and guarantee a minimum commission. If she wanted to resign, he would pay her fare home. For Margaret, this final point was a deal breaker. Idris must have an exit route. To Idris’s surprise, Wanderwell agreed. It was, she wrote, “the dreamed of ‘open sesame.’ All problems could be overcome . . . I knew everything would be okay.”16
*
On the morning of December 29, a calamitous rattle and clang announced the return of Captain Wanderwell and his car to the Villa Marie-Thérèse.
The ever-present American flag affixed to the vehicle’s trunk was another example of Walter’s grasp of public relations. He knew it would attract as much attention in foreign locales as the vehicle itself, but the flag also served another purpose, as Aloha stated in her journals:
The car . . . drew waves and shouts. “OK Americains, bonne chance!”
Suddenly I became American, caused by the prima facie question, “Where are you from?” As the Captain explained, the public’s interest was in the Expedition, not the individual, hence the answer and the unavoidable assumption.17
The vehicle was bizarre: covered with autographs, advertising slogans, and a giant planet-shaped logo that read “Around the World with Walter Wanderwell.” The body was constructed of 22-gauge sheet metal, riveted into an aerodynamic shape, including a tapered “fastback” design that Wanderwell would eventually patent. There were no doors, but it had removable floorboards (for easy access to both the transmission and hidden compartments), pressed steel wheels (wooden spoke tires were still the norm), and telescoping axles that allowed the car to travel on railway lines. All of it fastened to the chassis of a Ford Model T.
Aloha and Walter with two of their “improvised” Ford Model T automobiles, Tokyo, Japan, 1925.
None of this mattered to Idris at the time, of course. Her attention was on her expedition uniform and how she looked. She cut a striking figure — and with the addition of her new riding boots, stood almost six feet tall.
One more adjustment was required. “Idris,” a name she’d never much cared for (it was a boy’s name to begin with), didn’t sound exotic enough for a grand expedition, let alone public stage performances. She had promised Cap that she could dance, and since one of her favourites was her Hawaiian “Aloha dance,” she adopted the name. Idris became Aloha.
She chirped a hurried au revoir to her mother and bewildered sister, then jumped into Unit No II, blowing a last kiss while the captain cranked the engine and put the car into gear. As they pulled away, a sixteen-year-old Idris caught herself smiling in a window’s reflection. Aloha smiled back.
*
Aloha’s first days on the road were a gentle introduction to the vagabond life. She and Cap managed a two-day engagement at the Olympia Cinema, payment for which included two rooms in the best hotel in Cannes, the Carlton. “Round the world on 15 cents is right,” she wrote in her journal. But, as she soon discovered, there was little time to enjoy the luxury. Each new venue brought a multitude of compulsory tasks. Evenings and afternoons they presented travelogues at the cinema. In between, they zipped around town, drumming up interest for the show, selling brochures, talking to journalists, and shouting endorsements for their sponsors. Ad copy was painted on the hood and tires of Unit No II.
The first page of Aloha’s “Private Log Book of Life with Wanderwell II” begun in Nice, France, December 1922.
The original Wanderwell Expedition pamphlet featuring sixteen-year-old Aloha from late 1922. She is listed here as “Aloha Hall,” not Wanderwell, and her job is listed as “Mécanicienne” (mechanic), not interpreter.
Although she was now advertised as one of the expedition’s key attractions, Aloha’s first dance performance was, as she put it, “an absolute failure.” A band had been hired, but there was no time to rehearse. “I had had no practice for two weeks . . . the music was too short and also a piece I had never danced to before.” But the worst came when, “the elastics on my sandal broke. I slid to the floor, made a few forte bras, which included taking off my sandals and got up to finish the dance. I was frightfully sorry for the Capt.”18
Aloha’s self-doubt was intensified by the stir she and the captain caused in the hotel lobby. While other guests sported glamorous 1920s couture — gauzy lamé dresses, beaded cloche hats, sparkling high-heeled shoes — she trudged around in riding breeches, boots, and a tunic. She was an adventurer, yes, but she also loved being admired for her looks; the beauty contest had made that clear. Was there some way to make her Wanderwell uniform more attractive? The question punctured her self-confidence until she felt overwhelmed by teenage insecurities. The captain assured her that things would get easier, that all she needed was a bit of time and practice. But then he did something that made her previous insecurities seem irrelevant.
I was still standing mid-room (undressing) . . . when there was a knock at the door.
The Captain had arrived with more instructions and questions about preparedness.
“I think you’ll get along fine,” he concluded, “in our day-to-day encounters. It’s a matter of sizing up whatever is at hand, learning patience with people you’re dealing with. You’ve got to have the right stuff.”
He was standing at a distance, lecturing. Then he was holding me at arm’s length at the shoulders. Not suddenly, just firmly, smiling, eyes probing, trenchant, he drew himself to me and placed his lips carefully and tenderly to mine.19
The above quotation, from a collection of unpublished reminiscences, goes on to describe how the kiss was a “sacred consecration” that merely confirmed “he could love me.” It’s impossible to know exactly what happened, or if a single kiss was the sum of events, for we have only Aloha’s version as a record. Whatever the case, Wanderwell — the married adventurer with a taste for young girls — had a new one at hand.20
*
The last day of 1922 was the duo’s last day at the Carlton and they were in no hurry to move on. They were enjoying their moments of luxury. “Why not enjoy life while it lasts?” she wrote in her journal. While she worked on her writing, crafting appreciative descriptions of the view from her window, the captain wrote letters to various world politicians regarding his proposal for an international police. His idea was to create an apolitical international body that would control armaments worldwide. It was as much an antidote to the raw memories of the First World War as anything else; certainly, it was wildly unlikely to be taken seriously by sovereign states concerned about borders and national safety in the uneasy years between the two world wars. In his vision, the international police would operate under the auspices of the newly formed League of Nations, an international body tasked with safeguarding the peace of all nations. He’d already sent the League an outline of his plan. According to Aloha, the captain was consumed with his concept and spent endless hours concocting strategies to promote it.
Aloha and Walter in the first days after she joined the expedition, Cannes, France, December 1922.
A voracious reader of news dailies, Cap had followed the rise of Mussolini’s Blackshirts and was impressed by the bloodless coup they had achieved. In tribute, he created an olive-coloured flag for his international police concept, the emblem of which included a fasces, the ancient Roman symbol consisting of a bundle of sticks bound to an axe. Although fascism would later introduce horrors beyond anything Wanderwell could have imagined, in its early days Mussolini’s Italian fascist movement was widely welcomed as a bulwark against the spread of communism. For Walter, and even for much of the Western press at the time, Mussolini was a visionary and a model of decisive, effective leadership. Just as fascism’s efficient, no-nonsense approach would restore a crumbling Italy, so Walter believed a powerful international police would put a damper on militarism and allow Europe’s economies to focus on rebuilding a prosperous civil society.
Aloha could not have been less interested.
*
In Toulon they played to capacity audiences at the Femina Cinema Palace. Aloha still complained of stage fright and felt her performances were hopelessly amateurish. But the compliments and sales rolled in, and the applause, whether for her ability or her looks, echoed long in her mind. Back at the hotel that evening, they piled the “dirty paper-money bills” onto the bed and counted it like thieves.
The next day, the captain suggested she try her hand at piloting Unit No II. Aloha climbed into the driver’s seat and roared confidently forward — or so she’d hoped. In fact, her Italian sports car skills did not translate to a stripped-down, heavily modified Ford Model T. The intricate ballet of gas, clutch, throttle, choke, steering wheel, and brake was arduous, and just getting the vehicle to start was a task bordering on witchcraft. Stopped at a roadside, Cap explained that before turning the hand crank, located at the front bumper, it was vital to ensure the spark was “retarded” so the engine wouldn’t kick back. Also, the crank handle had to be held loosely in case the engine did revolt and send the crank flying in reverse, possibly breaking a thumb or wrist. While cranking with one hand, the other had to simultaneously operate the choke via a wire poking out from beneath the radiator.
At one point, driving up a particularly steep incline, the car began sputtering. Aloha assumed they were low on gas and began pulling over to fill the tank, but Cap just laughed. He told her to turn the car around and put it in reverse. The 1917 Model T had no fuel pump and relied on gravity to feed gas to the engine. If the tank was below half, the engine could easily starve while climbing uphill. The solution was to drive backwards. Soon the pair was soaring through the French countryside, past ancient Roman markers, among vineyards and olive groves, surrounded by craggy peaks that reached 1,600 feet. Backwards.
*
As 1923 began, Aloha settled into expedition life and asked to try as many jobs as possible.
I found myself with multitudinous duties but it was the chance to learn, to make myself indispensible [italics hers], especially to familiarize myself with the gall and gallantry of the wee Iron Maiden. . . . No II was such a little thing to spend one’s life aboard — it amounted to that. Her motto: omea meo me comporto — everything I own I carry with me. Aboard this piece of scrap iron I was to build my golden memories.
Maintenance rituals became pleasure. Swabbing mud away, revealing honourable travel scars, her enamelled brass emblems’ peak sheen . . . when the Captain was well pleased, I was pleased. Tires pumped up, courtesy flags trim, astern the Stars and Stripes unfurled proudly on its staff. Shipshape, we launched each day ready for endless scrutiny of Lizzie of Serendip.21
One morning, just as they finished giving the car its spa, the captain turned over the empty wash bucket and sat down. He had a surprise, he said. To support his international police idea and convey their aim of world peace, they would paint the car olive drab. Aloha laughed but soon realized he wasn’t kidding. Khaki is a colour of war, not peace, she said. It is an ugly colour. They weren’t here for looks, Cap said. People needed reminding that safeguarding world peace could not be left to chance — it was a job that needed doing. Besides, he’d already bought the paint. Aloha hated the idea of driving a car the colour of rancid burlap, but it wasn’t until the first few strokes on No II’s hood that she hit on a more compelling argument: khaki would photograph poorly. Their livelihood depended on catching people’s eyes with film and photographs. Ugliness would alienate their audiences. “After patient coaxing, he saw it my way, so I quickly sent him for a bucket of water before he could change his mind.”22
As Aloha was discovering, the captain was flighty. Shortly after the paint idea, he announced they would not head for Italy or Spain. Her journal entry for January 3, 1923, barely conceals her disappointment.
Cold sunless day, all hopes of spending a few weeks in Marseille to make a fortune were blown away as Captain announced his intention of going immediately to Geneva to see the League of Nations, present our new International flag and hand over the idea of an International Police. I wasn’t quite in favour of the move, but then it wasn’t really my business, so said nothing.23
The captain’s obsession with disarmament and his idea for an international police stemmed, he said, from his wartime experiences. His father and brother had been compelled to fight for the Germans. In America, he had been treated with scorn and suspicion, largely because of his accent and weak attempts at disguising it. Worst of all, during the war the borders were closed and travel was restricted. According to Aloha, he believed that his welfare, his way of life, depended on an enduring world peace. Even after the lessons of the Great War, even with the dazzling technology of the 1920s, peace was a fragile sprout in need of protection.
Postcard of the hotel where Walter allegedly “fell,” Geneva, Switzerland, 1923.
*
The expedition swept into Geneva late on January 5 and began work early the next day. Cap needed to drum up interest in an international police force and the expedition needed a Spanish translator. The captain was aware of Aloha’s reluctance to come to Switzerland and promised her that the next leg of the expedition would take them south again. Wanderwell had already wired ads to La Suisse for the translator position while in Marseille and the duo were soon deluged with multilingual young women eager for a trip to Spain. It was enough to refresh Aloha’s stores of patience. A few extra days in Geneva seemed endurable after all.
But what happened next would cause Aloha to exclaim in her journal: “Most frightful day I have ever experienced. Entire world expedition collapse!”24
That afternoon, Cap had been “scheduled to raise a flagstaff from his window just above the parapet of the steel glass marquee” with reporters on hand. The international police flag would be unfurled with Unit No II parked below. The purpose of the photo-op stunt was to announce the Wanderwell Expedition’s arrival in Geneva. But no reporters had shown up. According to Aloha, the captain went ahead anyway — they would take their own photos — and leaned out his window, stretching to untie the flag, but then he “slipped” on the icy windowsill. As she watched in horror, he fell and crashed through the plate glass roof of the restaurant below, stopping with a sudden yank. He hung in mid-air, saved from hitting the ground by a decorative iron spike that had buried itself his leg. “Police were arriving and there would be a long session of questions. It was really awful! Cap was in such agony, the doctor gave an injection, and took him to hospital.” Following the crash, hotel witnesses claimed Wanderwell had been raving about his girls.
By afternoon, newspapers were jammed with reports of the “suddenly insane” Captain Wanderwell and his delusions of being a pasha with a harem. One particularly unflattering article, which ran in the New York Times, carried the headline “World Auto Tourist Suddenly Loses Mind.”
Seized with suicidal mania, Captain Wanderwell leaped from a window of his hotel. He fell on top of a glass-roofed veranda, smashing through the glass, and remained hanging on the steel framework. His legs were severely cut. He was rescued from his dangerous position and subsequently taken to an asylum.25
Similar stories appeared internationally. Aloha later destroyed her journal entries relating to the captain’s mental state, a telling act. There was something here she did not wish the world to remember.
Walter was taken to the Asile Canton d’Aliens, a care hospital for foreign nationals. It is possible that the reports of insanity originated through a combination of his incoherent ranting following the injury and the fact that in French a long-term care hospital is sometimes referred to as an asile, or asylum. While some newspapers wrote that Wanderwell had slipped from his window, others claimed he’d jumped or was pushed. Some insisted he’d been placed in a straightjacket and locked in a padded cell, a story, which given the nature of his injuries, seems unlikely.26
Newspaper report of Walter Wanderwell’s tumble from a Geneva hotel window in January 1923. (Unknown source. Found inserted in Aloha’s Logbook.)
Not knowing if the captain would recover from his injuries, sixteen-year-old Aloha returned to the hotel room and collected the expedition’s papers and printed materials. She placed the films and cameras in Unit No II’s hidden compartments and arranged with the local Ford dealership to have the car stored in a locked garage. She left a forwarding address at the Asile Canton d’Aliens and, by 8:00 a.m. the following morning, had boarded a train bound for Cannes.
I don’t remember much, save arriving in Cannes at 11:30 . . . and spent the night at the Hôtel des Voyagers. I have never felt so alone before in my life, but after a good old cry, I dropped off to sleep by the tune of a jazz band from a nearby cabaret de nuit.27
If nothing else, the challenges showed that Aloha could, in fact, take care of herself.
Monday Jan. 8, 1923, Cannes-Nice,
Simply glorious morning, but Oh! my head is in such a muddle. Instead of going straight on to Nice, I walked down to the seashore. The sea breeze and sunshine helped things greatly and when I felt sufficiently myself, I trundled back to the hotel, got my baggage and left with the “twelve” for Nice. The first person I met was the American girl who interviewed Captain when we were staying at the Royal Hotel Nice,28 of course she was very sorry to hear the news and voiced her thoughts. Everyone stared. They always do.29
That afternoon Aloha was back at the Villa Marie-Thérèse. When the door swung open, Margaret hardly looked surprised. “Ah, I knew you were coming dear, I had that feeling.”30
*
Aloha was distraught. What would become of the captain? And what would become of her? She confided to her journal that it seemed cruel that just when she thought she could take on the world, the world slipped out of reach. Not one to pine, Aloha went with Miki to a dance at the Victoria Palace on her third night home. It was a gala given by Le Petit Niçois newspaper in aid of the city’s poor. Their dancing received gushing applause, complete with baskets of flowers and a feature in the following day’s paper.
It was one full week before a telegram came from Switzerland.
AM READY FOR WORK, COME AS SOON AS YOU CAN.
— CAPTAIN WANDERWELL.
