chapter 1
Stagestruck
“THANK GOODNESS YOUR brother saved us!” Rebecca said. Arm in arm with her cousin, Ana, the two girls climbed the stairs from the subway station. “I’d much rather visit a theater on Broadway than stay home embroidering doilies with our grandmother on such a warm day.”
Ana giggled, and then turned serious, adjusting her grip on the lunch basket she carried. “Yes, but is not good Michael forgot his lunch,” she said in her thick Russian accent. “With both Papa and my brother Josef out of work, my family needs money Michael will earn. How can he be hard worker if he has no food?”
“True,” Rebecca agreed. “He’s lucky he has us—and we’re lucky he forgot his lunch or else we’d still be at home pricking our fingers with our embroidery needles!”
“But Bubbie would be happy if we do needlework!” Ana teased.
“And we would be miserable!” Rebecca replied, throwing her arm over her forehead dramatically and making her cousin laugh.
The midday sun pierced Rebecca’s eyes. She stepped out of the flow of people to get her bearings and check the street signs. They’d made their route from the Lower East Side to 42nd Street, close to Times Square and Broadway. “We’re right where we should be. The Victory Theater is only a half block away!”
The sidewalk and street bustled with pushcarts and vendors selling fresh flowers, fruit, and tickets to Broadway shows. She and Ana wove past a group of ladies whose hair was tucked under fashionable hats and whose tight-waisted dresses skimmed their ankles. A boy wearing suspenders and a jaunty cap hawked newspapers at the corner. Businessmen whisked by in well-pressed suits and polished shoes.
“Ana, look!” Rebecca said, pointing. Towering four stories above them, the Victory Theater proclaimed its presence with huge letters along its rooftop. “That’s it!”
“Michael works there?” Ana said with awe.
Rebecca grinned and started toward the theater.
“Wait!” Ana stopped under the marquee of a neighboring theater. She pointed at a poster featuring the image of a young starlet with captivating eyes set in a heart-shaped face. Auburn curls framed her flawless skin and demure smile.
“I know her!” Ana exclaimed.
“All of New York knows her!” Rebecca said. She read the poster aloud:
THE PRETTIEST SHOPGIRL IN NEW YORK
OLIVIA BERRY
TO TAKE THE STAGE WITH
THE FAMOUS ZIEGFELD FOLLIES
AT THE NEW AMSTERDAM THEATER!
Oh! Rebecca dreamed of being a famous actress. And here was Olivia Berry—who just last spring was an ordinary girl working in a shop—with a show of her own. Such luck!
Rebecca lingered a second longer, trying not to feel envious. She reminded herself that she’d been lucky, too, when she’d recently gone to watch her mother’s cousin Max and his fiancée, Lily, act on a movie set—and stumbled into her own small role in the film! Those brief moments as a real actress had given Rebecca a taste for the stage, and now she wanted more.
Acting here on Broadway would be thrilling, Rebecca thought. On Broadway, unlike in movies, every song, dance, comedy skit, and magic show was performed live, right in front of the audience. Actors didn’t get the chance to do a second or third “take” on a scene. They had to get it right the first time, each and every performance. In Rebecca’s eyes, being live onstage was as exciting as being in a movie.
It could happen, she told herself. You never know when another unexpected opportunity might turn up! With a sigh, she turned away and gazed across the street at the Victory Theater, excitement zipping up her spine. “Let’s go!” she said, grabbing Ana’s hand.
Eyes open for fresh horse manure, speeding carriages, and honking automobiles, the girls hurried across the street. A white-haired doorman greeted them with a tip of his hat as they stepped up to the ornately carved double doors. “Are you lost, young ladies?”
“We need to deliver lunch to my cousin, Michael Rubin,” Rebecca said. “He’s a painter here.”
“I’ll see to it that it gets to him,” the doorman replied, reaching for the basket on Ana’s arm.
Rebecca thought fast, quickly stepping between the doorman and Ana. She was too close to a real Broadway theater to simply walk away! She longed for a peek at the stage, or a glimpse of a performer or two. “Thank you, sir, but he insisted that we deliver it in person,” she explained.
“And why is that?” the man asked, tilting his head.
Rebecca frowned and did her best to look serious. “Well,” she replied, “he said he has reason to worry that it may not reach him, and under no circumstances were we to leave this in anyone else’s hands but his. We promised!” She dropped her voice. “After all, sir, a promise is a promise.”
The doorman let out a long, slow breath, as if he’d heard this excuse before. “The painters are working on the rooftop,” he said, holding the door wide. “Take the stairs. The elevator is for patrons.”
“Thank you, kind sir!” Rebecca said. She hoped she hadn’t been too dramatic.
Ana elbowed her as they stepped inside. “Rebecca!” she whispered. “That wasn’t all true.”
“Just a little acting, Ana,” Rebecca reassured her. “It worked, didn’t it?”
The girls headed up the staircase, quickly at first and then slowly after the long climb began to steal their breath. Just as they rounded the last turn, a large rat skittered across the landing in front of Ana, making her jump and nearly drop the lunch basket. “Oh!” she cried. “I do not like rats!”
“Neither do I!” Rebecca answered, shrinking back. Ignoring the ache in her lungs, Rebecca raced up the remaining stairs with Ana. They burst through the door at the top.
Emerging into the bright sunlight, Rebecca caught her breath and stared, open-mouthed. This was no ordinary rooftop—it was a whole new world above the city! To her left, hundreds of seats fanned out in front of a stage, where acrobats practiced spins and flips. To the right, Rebecca spotted a flowing creek, a pond with boats, and what looked like a ruined castle. Beyond the open-air café at the center of the huge space, steps rose to an arching wooden bridge leading to a little farm that looked just like the ones Rebecca had read about in fairy tales. The barn looked almost like a house, with dormers and paned windows. Towering over the farm’s green gardens was a Dutch windmill, its sails spinning with a soft whup, whup, whup.
“Is this heaven?” Ana said, covering her mouth and holding back a giggle. “Oh my!”
“It’s beautiful,” Rebecca agreed. She turned toward the stage and was imagining herself there, doing a comedy routine, making an audience laugh, when Michael stepped out from around the stage’s backdrop. He took off his painter’s hat, exposing his straight brown hair, and waved the cap high above his head.
The girls followed him behind the stage, where a man was painting a scene of white swans amid blooming lily pads on a wooden backdrop. The scene looked so real that Rebecca almost thought she could dive into it. Michael spoke to the painter—a short man with weathered skin and a mop of red curls—before rejoining the girls.
“I ask to take break early. My boss, Mr. O’Hara, I want to keep on good side.” Michael laughed. “He is amazing scene painter. He has come far; he is immigrant, like us,” he said, nudging Ana. Then he reached