Summer at Tiffany Read online

  Dedication

  For Marty

  Contents

  Dedication

  Author’s Note

  Acknowledgments

  Photographic Insert

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Summer After Tiffany

  About the Author

  Credits

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Do you remember the best summer of your life?

  I have changed the names of some individuals, and modified identifying features, including physical descriptions, of other individuals in order to preserve their anonymity. In some cases, composite characters have been created or timelines have been compressed in order to further preserve the privacy of dear friends and to maintain narrative flow. References to real people, events, establishments, organizations, or locales have been re-created as I remembered them best from memory. My quest was for accuracy, though it might have been hindered at times by the passage of sixty-odd years. Overall, I sought to protect the privacy of the individuals profiled in these pages and to tell my story to the best of my recollection without damaging the integrity of the story or those who lived it with me.

  Author’s Note

  Summer at Tiffany is the story of a summer that I have never forgotten. Whenever I had a down moment in my life, the simple recollection of memories from the summer of 1945 was always sustaining. From the faint smell of the Hudson River from the top of a bus, to climbing the steps from a dark subway into the light, to the Tiffany show windows of diamonds spilling from velvet cases and the welcoming smile of the gentleman who clocked us in each day—these remembrances of my Summer at Tiffany continue always to embrace me, and bring a smile to my face.

  I began writing about that summer in spare moments, on grocery receipts and shopping lists, or on the backs of envelopes in the middle of the night until I began to meet with other writers who encouraged me. In the last few years, through workshops, by mail, or over coffee, I began believing that everyone has a spellbinding story worth telling—something these other writers had known all along.

  Reconnecting with those who experienced that summer became the most heartwarming part of writing these pages. To find that Marty’s memory squared with mine was reassuring, and the discovery of new details, the surprises we uncovered, the laughs we enjoyed, erased the years that had passed. I am grateful for the gracious response of the individuals I found after sixty years, their contributions and permission to add new material, cards, and photographs. I wish to protect the privacy of dear friends, and therefore for those I couldn’t reach or who are no longer living some names and identifying details have been changed. My quest for accuracy may have been hindered by the passage of sixty-odd years; if so, please excuse my error!

  What a golden era writing and publishing Summer at Tiffany has opened up for me and for those who have believed and allowed this story to be told.

  Acknowledgments

  There are many individuals who have it made it possible for me to write this story: those who experienced the summer of 1945 with me, the writing of it, and the people who inspired me.

  My greatest thanks to Jennifer Pooley, my amazing editor at William Morrow, who discovered my manuscript (by its first ten pages alone) at the San Diego State University Writers Conference, and magically created a book. Her constancy of faith, her insight, and her unfailing enthusiasm—from New York City to San Diego—has cheered me. Her clarity of vision and perceptive contributions have made my memoir a reality. There would not be a book without her.

  To also have the extraordinary talents of Kevin Callahan and Sharyn Rosenblum, as well as their visionary commitment, has been a revelation. Special thanks as well to Emily Fink and to Carla Parker for their passion, to Maryann Petyak for her gift of the catalog presentation, and to Michael Morrison and Lisa Gallagher, who believed from the first two chapters. I am grateful to the entire team at William Morrow for their intelligent guidance of this book through the various channels of their expertise.

  My gratitude to Melissa Houtte, who collaborated and brainstormed with me, and made contributions that shaped the manuscript. And to Beverly Trainer, my mentor, who edited and critiqued my drafts and rewrites, for her important contributions, and her insistence that I keep my voice.

  My most heartfelt thanks to those who experienced that summer and have shared their recollections so generously.

  To Marty, I dedicate this memoir; with her undaunted spirit she lead me through the Fifth Avenue entrance to Tiffany & Co. She has since contributed and recalled details (some to the last penny!) of that unforgettable summer. I also appreciate the interest of her three sons, Bill, Bob, and Jim, as well as Jim’s wife, and their sons, Matthew and Scott.

  A special thank-you to Mickey (Margaret Shuttleworth Vernallis), who found our Manhattan apartment and included us as part of her family. The bond I felt with her mother, a fellow cellist, and her warm hospitality will never be forgotten.

  My greatest thanks to Jim, who graciously responded to letters and provided fascinating information. I treasure those fond memories.

  My deep gratitude to: Katherine and Dick (Richard) Munsen for their continual support, for information from their book Bail Out Over the Balkans, and for my sister’s inspiring writing; and to Phil (Philip) and Diane Jacobson for their encouragement and support and never-to-be-forgotten gift in 1945; to Bill Craig (William Craig III), who recalled the details and kept me in tune with New York City with the ongoing gift of The New Yorker; to Albert Donhowe, who not only shared the photograph of his brother, Paul, but his memories of Story City events as well. And Kenneth Jansen, whose father was a chauffeur for the Tiffany family and shared memories of when he lived above the Tiffany garage as a young boy.

  In addition, my thanks to Becky Ryan, at the SDSU Writers Conference, who diligently paired my manuscript with Jennifer Pooley, and also to Leslie Koch and Steve Dolan for their support.

  Thanks to Tiffany & Co., and the unforgettable employees of 1945. Their memory and spirit brighten my day whenever I enter a Tiffany store.

  My thanks for the support of those who waded through the early drafts and offered critiques: Gary and Priscilla Haynes, who made corrections and provided constant encouragement; Bill and Nora Smith for their contributions, expertise of Minton China and New York City life, and gourmet meals; Yvonne Nelson Perry, who led and critiqued at her writer’s workshop in Coronado and her home; Joan Oppenheimer, who advised me to “put myself in the story”; Susan Reed at the Cuyamaca writers’ class; Arnold Flick for his ideas; and Lita Manson, Ed Husjak, and the late Bob Michaelis, whose writing I admire.

  My inspiration to write this memoir belongs to my family: my daughters, Susan Wilson, Elise Cassidy, and Jane Myers, and their husbands; and my son, Bob Hart, for his wise suggestions; my late husband, William Hart; and my parents, who would have been so proud! My grandchildren—Kirsten, Eric, and Katherine Wilson and Jacqueline and Sarah Myers—have helped me to remember what it is like to be young. Also Kevin, Cara, Brian, and Erin Cassidy, who critiqued as well. My stepdaughters also encouraged me: thanks to Cynthia V
itas, Lisa Sagat, and Teri Davies and their husbands and children: Alison and Ricky Sagat and Vince, Adam, and Alyssa Davies. Also to my in-laws, Ann and Charles Johnston.

  I am especially grateful to my chamber music friends, who kept me grounded and nurtured me with Haydn, Mozart, and my favorite composers.

  Finally, my deepest thanks and love to my husband, Peter Cuthbert, my best friend and companion, who read the manuscript, corrected, critiqued (he’s a stellar grammarian!), and kept me alive with takeout dinners!

  Photographic Insert

  The main floor: diamonds, pearls, and gold jewelry; watches and handbags; goldware and stationery.

  Marjorie Jacobson’s senior portrait.

  Marty Garrett’s senior portrait.

  Marjorie’s W2 from the summer of 1945 from Tiffany & Co. Her total earnings were $220, with $24 withheld for federal income tax, and $2.20 deducted for Social Security.

  The Horn & Hardart Automat.

  The sisters of Kappa Kappa Gamma at the University of Iowa.

  Dressed for a Kappa dance.

  At the February 10, 1945, KKT Pledge Dance.

  Marjorie (first from left) and Marty (second from right) with their Kappa sisters.

  The stationery counter on the main floor.

  Home sweet home—the Seth Low building at 106 Morningside Drive.

  A war ration book and stamps.

  The fateful postcard from Mickey Shuttleworth: “I await with apprehension your decision about this room . . .”

  Schrafft’s restaurant.

  Marjorie’s souvenirs from Jack Dempsey’s, La Martinique, Sardi’s, and The Fraternity House.

  Marjorie’s first date with Jim at the Jack Dempsey bar. Marty and John (left) and Marjorie and Jim (right).

  The second floor: silverware, clocks, leather goods, and the repair department.

  Marty and Marjorie at Jones Beach.

  The Empire State Building.

  Marjorie’s cousin, Paul Donhowe, one of Story City’s finest.

  The third floor: china, glassware, and Mr. T.C.

  Special table settings were displayed on the third floor.

  Katherine Jacobson’s and Dick Munsen’s wedding, September 17, 1944.

  Hans Koelbel.

  The Jacobson family in the early 1950s: Alfred Jacobson, Marjorie Hart, Anna Jacobson, Katherine Munsen, and Philip Jacobson.

  The Astor Hotel.

  Marjorie, following her performance with the University of San Diego Symphony in honor of her eightieth birthday. Her family and grandchildren filled the front row.

  Marjorie at eighty-two years old.

  Right: After visiting New York City in the winter of 1945 during the holidays, Marjorie didn’t return to the Fifty-seventh and Fifth Avenue Tiffany store until 2004.

  Chapter One

  FROM THE top deck of the bus, Marty and I were mesmerized by Fifth Avenue as we watched glamorous stores spring up like pages out of Mademoiselle. Bergdorf Goodman. Bonwit Teller. Cartier. De Pinna. Saks Fifth Avenue. Peck & Peck. We knew all of the stores even if we had never been through any of their doors—or even seen a store bigger than Younkers in Des Moines!

  When the Empire State Building loomed ahead, we were speechless. I felt like a princess on a Fourth of July float, looking at my kingdom, which in this case was a landscape of high-fashion show windows, screeching traffic, and the tallest building in the world.

  We couldn’t stop to sightsee. We were looking for a job.

  Marty was holding a Manhattan map in her lap, while I held on to my hat.

  “Get ready.” She pointed. “Thirty-eighth Street is coming up!”

  We barely made it down the narrow circular stairs before the bus took off again. In my eagerness to cross the street, I stepped into the path of a Checker Cab. A man pulled me back and Marty screamed. My heart lurched as I tried to catch my breath. The light changed from red to green, red to green, before I found the courage to step off the curb and cross the street.

  I felt calmer as we entered Lord & Taylor. It was a historic moment. We could be working behind one of their glistening counters as early as tomorrow. In a trance, I followed the scent of Chanel No. 5 past the cosmetics counters and the racks of two-piece bathing suits, Hawaiian dresses, and turbans with sparkling rhinestone clips. By the time we reached the elevator, I had mentally spent my first paycheck.

  Opening the door to the employment office, I stared in disbelief. Marty was wide-eyed. There, cramped into a vestibule with overflowing ashtrays, were over thirty girls waiting for applications, some crouched on the floor. Included in that group were a Powers model type in a sleeveless pink linen dress; a pert brunette teetering on four-inch white ankle-strap heels; and two elegant girls with white shantung jackets. Looking at us, they smiled, giggled, and laughed. My face flamed as we squeezed into the line.

  We were garbed in black. Totally. Black dresses, shoes, and cartwheel hats. Our inspired outfit had been copied from a glossy ad in Vogue, but that sweltering day, we looked like characters out of a Tolstoy tragedy.

  Marty and I gave each other The Look. With heads up, we peeled off our white gloves to fill out our applications, and smiled back at the girls. Little did they know the kind of pull we had.

  The harried manager didn’t bother to look up when we handed our applications in.

  “Come back next fall,” she said crisply.

  Next fall? She’s dismissing us without reading our applications? She doesn’t know our connections? I was furious! We’d counted on this job. We needed it for the summer. Now.

  “Excuse me,” I said. “We have friends working here”—my voice was so tight, I scarcely recognized the anger in it—“and an important reference—”

  She shook her head, filing our applications without glancing at them. Or us.

  “Don’t worry, Marjorie, this isn’t the only big deal in town,” Marty said on the way out.

  Beads of sweat trickled down my face. We trudged in and out of a dozen stores, waiting in lines and filling out applications. When we reached Saks Fifth Avenue the management only shooed us away. I couldn’t believe it! What was this wild rumor that finding a job in Manhattan was easy?

  IT HAD ALL started a month ago, when three of our sorority sisters had landed fabulous jobs at Lord & Taylor. Lord & Taylor! The day they received the letters, they shrieked and celebrated the news all over the Kappa house until our housemother put the kibosh on the wild conga line they had started.

  “Come along,” Anita had urged every Kappa. “Getting a summer job in Manhattan is a cinch!”

  The next thing we knew, every girl at the University of Iowa wanted a train ticket for the East Coast to find a high-fashion job.

  “We can get on a train for New York, too,” Marty said in our dorm room.

  “New York City?” She couldn’t be serious. Summer school was beginning in a few weeks and I was sure that her savings were as meager as my own.

  “You bet,” she said, pitching our summer schedule in the wastebasket. “All we have to do is collect Coke bottles—there’s tons around the campus. Enough for a couple train tickets.” Gesturing with her cigarette, she added, “Think of the fun we’ll have—Broadway shows . . . nightclubs . . . and those beaches!”

  That struck a chord. I’d never been east of the Mississippi River and had always wanted to see the ocean. Remembering the last stifling Iowa City summer that only a row of corn could love and the dim social life at Whetstone’s Drug Store—now that nearly every eligible man was either fighting in the Pacific or waiting to be shipped out—it wasn’t difficult to start collecting those empty Coke bottles. Leave it to Marty. Scooping up those bottles was fun, frenzied, and frantic. All we needed was that job.

  NOW, STANDING OUTSIDE of Saks Fifth Avenue, Marty shrugged. I was scared. We climbed back on the next bus. The upper deck was crammed with servicemen, shoppers, and kids with ice cream cones dripping from the blazing June sun.

  Two navy lieutenants tried to stir up a bree
ze with a newspaper while they debated the merits of President Truman. I fanned myself with my hat. A red-hot blister forced me to take off my shoe.

  Marty was undaunted. Sitting close to the rail, she studied each block looking for the next strategy like some four-star general. The stores were becoming smaller, more exclusive, and more unlikely. Hattie Carnegie? Good heavens.

  Suddenly, Marty jumped up. “There’s Tiffany!”

  “Tiffany? The jewelry store?” I exclaimed.

  Marty was halfway down the stairs of the bus before I could find my shoe. On the corner of Fifth Avenue and Fifty-seventh Street, the sun illuminated a sleek new building, seven stories high with the elegant sign TIFFANY & CO. In the showcase window was a brilliant diamond necklace with matching ear clips mounted on black velvet.

  “Marty!” What was she thinking?

  She only smiled and checked the angle of her hat in the reflection of the window.

  “So?” Marty laughed, and swept through Tiffany’s wide revolving door.

  I followed.

  Inside, it was cathedral-like: spacious, serene, and cool. It made me gasp. On the paneled main floor, marble-framed mirrors reflected the light from the windows on the opposite wall. Diamonds shimmered from glass counters as if they were alive, while solemn, dignified men watched over them like sentinels.

  There we were, two long-limbed, blue-eyed blondes marching down Tiffany’s center aisle in our shiny black pumps. Only the click-clack of our shoes broke the silence. I treaded cautiously—feeling the scrutiny of the salesmen—while Marty clipped along like a golfer on a fairway. As we reached the end of the aisle, our steps slowed. Where was the employment office? The personnel office? To the right, a jowly man with bushy eyebrows in a cashier’s cage glanced at us with an amused smile.