“They never got a trial, but I’m no closer to the truth about them.”
“Other people were sent to camps, including you,” she pointed out, trying to comfort me, “and it was terrible. Maybe they’re going home because they’re fed up. Maybe they’re going home because they always wanted to go home. You told me that the first day we met.”
“True, but I can’t honestly say if my parents are innocent, can I? I want to believe they are.” I dabbed my eyes with a handkerchief. “You and Helen are all the family I have left.”
I went to bed and wept for hours. But the next morning… New York!
What else could I do? I needed to survive.
GRACE: Woo Woo of the Week
Two weeks before the China Doll opened, all the headliners met for blocking and dress rehearsals. The club was just a half block from our hotel. Where the Forbidden City played up an imperial China décor with plenty of red, gold, and clutter, the China Doll, a few steps below street level, was sleek, modern, and first-class all the way. The walls were pale blue with simple Chinese scenes painted in white. Dark blue lanterns hung from the ceilings.
The ponies and showgirls shared one dressing room; as headliners, Ruby, Helen, and I each had our own dressing room. Settling in, I heard a familiar voice at my door: “Hi, Grace. What’s cooking?” It was Bessie, the eldest of the Lim Sisters. Ella and Dolores stood on either side of her, and one foot back, just as they did when they performed. Soon, others arrived: the Merry Mahjongs with their whirling acrobatics, Bernice Chow with her big voice, Ming and Ling with their hillbilly act. It was great to see them all.
We met the director, Donn Arden-gayer than a sweet potato and famous for mounting extravaganzas with snazzy costumes. Ruby was given a new bubble and fans made from ostrich feathers. The fabric for Helen’s gown was dyed in tea until the color matched her skin, then seamstresses covered the dress in rhinestones. My costumes were the most glamorous and expensive of my career, including one made from fifteen yards of monkey fur imported from Hong Kong. Real diamonds were sewn onto the tips of my shoes, so my feet would sparkle when I danced.
The China Doll was to be a regular United Nations. Mr. Ball, an Irishman through and through, hired Jewish choreographers, composers, and writers to come up with good-fresh-material. We had two bands: one to play the show and a Latin band to pack the joint for dancing on weekends. A young guy named Lenny Bruce would do a comedy routine after the last show. Mr. Ball found Chinese cooks, a Jewish maître d’, and Puerto Rican waiters, dishwashers, cigarette girls, and hatcheck girls, who would all pretend to be Chinese. The ponies? It was just as hard as, if not harder than, it had been in San Francisco to find local Chinese girls willing to work in a club. More Chinese lived in the area, but that also meant the community was more conservative, so Mr. Arden and Mr. Ball poached a bunch of gals from Charlie and other club owners out west. Although Charlie had once labeled his glamour girls “Chinese” to protect them, all the entertainers at the China Doll were labeled “Chinese” so no one would be reminded about the dropping of the atomic bombs.
On opening night, the place was packed with Broadway and Hollywood celebrities, critics and press agents, and Manhattanites and suburbanites. Our first show was clicking. Ming and Ling clowned and crooned. “Lee Mortimer’s China Dolls”-as the ponies came to be called-were sharp. Backstage, Eddie-slick as a cat’s whiskers in his evening dress-listened warily as Helen reassured him. He truly was one of the most handsome men ever to walk the earth, but I could see he was nervous.
I recited the usual good wishes. “Break a leg!”
As their music started, my heart was full. Kiss me once, and kiss me twice, and kiss me once again… Was there anyone in the audience who didn’t respond to that postwar ballad-so romantic it made you want to cry every time you heard it? Helen floated onstage, her gown flowing, her arms extended. Eddie was supposed to be right behind her. Instead, he stared out at her, slack-jawed, his body shaking. Helen completed the circle that would bring her and Eddie face-to-face with the audience. When she realized she was alone, her smile wavered.
“Eddie,” I urged in a whisper, “you’ve got to get out there.”
He shook his head.
“Come on, Eddie,” I prodded. “Helen’s alone.”
But he was paralyzed. He’d survived the war, but he wasn’t the same. Shell-shocked. He’d done well during rehearsals, but now he was crippled by stage fright. Onstage, Helen kept dancing-Ginger minus her Fred. I remembered back to my final audition at the Forbidden City, when I froze and Eddie helped me.
“We’ll do our old routine,” I whispered. “Two girls and one man. Hear it? The tempo is a little slower, but we can do it.”
“No.”
“It’s easy, Eddie. We practiced this ten thousand times, and we’ve got that neat trick at the end. All you have to do is count in your head. Say it with me. One, two, three, four.”
“Five, six, seven, eight,” he mumbled.
I took his hand. “One, two, three, four. Ready? Here we go.”
Together we glided out. The audience applauded. The Oriental Danseuse was making an early appearance! I heard Eddie counting under his breath. I whispered through my stage smile, “You’re doing great.” I prayed that Helen would decipher what we were doing. Eddie and I did a couple of turns from the old routine, slowly moving closer to Helen. When she changed her steps-awkwardly to be sure-to fall in with us, I relaxed a little. Eddie released me and took Helen in his arms. Back and forth we went, weaving together and apart, but Eddie was terribly stiff, his face expressionless. Our grand finale, when Eddie lifted us off the ground and spun Helen and me, was a huge success. We took our bows, with Helen and me each putting a hand on Eddie’s back to push him down.
When we came offstage, almost the entire cast was there. They parted to let us through. Everyone loved Eddie, and they offered congratulations. “That was great!” “You still have your magic!” “You slayed it, buddy!” Eddie kept his head down, refusing to acknowledge the sympathetic lies. Helen tried not to cry.
Then: “A Chinese Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers act won’t work if Fred is a clod.” It was Mr. Ball, and he proceeded to berate Eddie in front of us. But there was no time to defend Eddie, because it was opening night. The show must go on! The Lim Sisters were a smash with their new fruity Carmen Miranda headdresses and full ruffled skirts and sleeves, and the audience went ape for Bernice’s rendition of “Let’s Do It.” Our reviews were over the top. The Merry Mahjongs earned “Wow of the Week,” Ruby grabbed “Best Undressed Doll of the Week” (with a special note about her “gorgeous chassis”), and I snagged “Woo Woo of the Week.” That skunk columnist Ed Sullivan, who, it turned out, worked at the same paper as Lee Mortimer, wrote in his “Little Old New York” column: “It’s a slant-sational show. The wolves brayed wolf whistles at all the China dolls.” Mercifully, no mention was made of the Chinese Dancing Sweethearts.
THE MORE WE tried to help Eddie, the worse he got. He forgot how to lead. He forgot his lines. He forgot how to count in his head. It was heartbreaking to see, and, after six weeks, Mr. Ball notified Eddie and Helen that he wouldn’t be renewing their contract. “It’s just as well,” she said in resignation. “These new people can’t get Ruby’s makeup right.” Then one of those darned Merry Mahjongs volunteered to help, saying, “I’ll dance with you.” Chan-chan and Helen, with assistance from Mr. Arden, put together an endearing routine, in which Chan-chan’s only role was to partner Helen, lifting and whirling her so she looked like an angel. Helen, never one to trust good fortune, decided to work as Ruby’s dresser as well. Eddie reacted to all this by going back to dipping his bill, staying out all night, and coming home in the morning still boiled to the eyes. Helen was worried sick, and Ruby and I worried about both of them.