Saturday Night Dance Club

By Karen Truesdell Riehl

Pearl's young world is shattered when Papa orders her to leave home long before she is prepared. She takes with her the secret of catching Papa in the pantry with the maid.

After moving into Mrs. Lacey's Boarding House, Pearl and her chum Ella find suitable employment in the city. On weekends they head downtown to the Canteen to volunteer as "suitable young ladies" to dance with the boys in uniform. Pearl considers this her patriotic duty--and a whole lot of fun--until Will sweeps her into his arms and heart.

The Starlite Ballroom becomes the Saturday destination for good times, where the four couples escape their worries and dance their blues away.

Karen Truesdell Riehl has woven a heart-wrenching story out of bits and pieces of history gleaned from old family letters and photographs. The story is fiction, but her characters will live in your memories forever.

Reviews: "Saturday Night Dance Club by Karen Truesdell Riehl is a true-life story that pulled me right in from page one.It provided me with the joys of love, marriage, and children offsetting the tragedies of death, poverty, and hard times." Trudi LoPreto for Readers' Favorite

"This novel is great for any reader interested in the Great Depression, war, and society of the 1900s." Michelle Robertson for Readers' Favorite.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Karen Truesdell Riehl
• Release date: Nov 1, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301094868

Karen Truesdell Riehl

Karen Truesdell Riehl's writing achievements are remarkable, given the award-winning author's lifelong battle with dyslexia. She was unable to read until the age of ten. Her published works now include a 2015 San Diego Book Awards winner, Helga: Growing Up in Hitler's Germany. Her other books include a memoir, Love and Madness: My Private Years with George C. Scott, telling of her 30-year hidden liaison with the international film star, six novels, eight plays and a radio comedy series, The Quibbles, available from ArtAge Publications at http://www.seniortheatre.com/product/the-quibbles-radio-shows/. Her children's play, Alice in Cyberland, was an award winner in the National Southwest Writers Contest. Helga was an elementary school librarian, a 1948 German immigrant, when the author met her in 1977. Asked about her experience during the war, Helga quietly revealed she had been a "Jugend," a member of Hitler's child army.Ten-year-old Helga was forced to join the Hitler Youth weekly meetings. Lies and treats were used to build her allegiance to the Fuhrer. As the war drew nearer to her home in Berlin, Helga was sent away to a Youth Training Camp. Her slow disillusionment and harrowing escape home, is a coming-of-age story of a young girl's survival of Nazi mind control. Helga: Growing Up in Hitler's Germany was a 2015 San Diego Book Awards winner. In the romance novel, Hello Again, a finalist in the 2015 San Diego Book Awards, Shannon Taggert falls in love with Nate, a graduate student teaching assistant. But there's another woman in Nate's life, Tally, the daughter of Walter, his mentor and benefactor. Before meeting Shannon, as Walter lay dying, Nate promised to marry his daughter. The Ghosts of Fort Ord was inspired by the author's month-long stay near the remains of the abandoned military base. After having lived for several years in Terre Haute, Indiana, the author was inspired to write a story about scandals in a fictional small town, Freedom's Sins. Saturday Night Dance Club, was inspired by a true story of four couples, from the 1900's to 1930's, touched by the Great War, organized crime, the Depression and the threat of another war, finding sanctuary in their weekly dance club. Drawing from her personal experience, Karen wrote Bad Girl: A Play. The Safe Haven Home for Unwed Mothers provides shelter from a judgmental society, but reveals its hypocrisy as well. The young women from all levels of society, rich and poor, share only their shame. Many overnight weekend getaways on the famous Queen Mary produced her latest novel, The Ghosts of the Queen Mary. Karen loves to hear from readers of her books. Twitter: https://twitter.com/karenisriehl Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/karen.riehl.52 Smashwords: https://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/KarenTruesdellRiehl

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

Pearl 1905

On my fifth birthday Papa banished me to the attic. I didn’t want to sleep up there, but I thought it might be better than to stay in momma and papa’s room. Papa went to his club three evenings a week. When he got home, the noise he made preparing for bed always woke me. He’d try to hang his suit on a hook. It usually landed on the floor, and when he bent over to pick it up his behind hit the end of the bed. He’d go down hard on the wood floor, muttering, and cursing. Falling into bed, he’d bellow at Mama, Margarethe, move over, make room!

The first few nights Mama climbed with me to the attic. She tucked me into bed and read poems aloud. I loved the sound of her warm, sunny voice. Sitting on the side of my bed, she held her back straight and her chin high. She smelled of sweet rose oil, and her taffeta dress rustled when she moved. The candlelight on her profile reminded me of the cameo pin she wore to church. Oh, how I loved it when she read me her favorite Emily Dickinson poem!

I’m nobody! Who are you?

(She pointed to me)

Are you nobody, too?

Then there’s a pair of us--don’t tell!

(She put her finger to her lips and whispered.)

They'd banish us, you know.

How dreary to be somebody!

(She furrowed her forehead.)

How public, like a frog

(She jumped her fingers to my tummy.)

To tell your name the livelong day

To an admiring bog!

I lay especially still, hoping not to disturb her so she would read on and on. My admiration and love for Mama during those precious moments filled my entire body.

On the fifth evening Papa said, Margarethe, you are spoiling Pearl. She will go up alone. No one disobeyed Papa. That night after she finished reading, Mama kissed my forehead. She slipped her poetry book into my hands.

You are five years old and a big girl. You will come up alone from now on. My book will keep you company and give you sweet dreams. She blew out the candle and left me in the dark, holding tight to her book.

That attic room had a musty smell, even with the one small window open. No matter how often Mama scrubbed, the stale odor seemed to get worse. The room took over the entire top of the house and was always too hot or too cold. My iron bed, a pine washstand, the chamber pot with hand-painted pink roses, Papa’s old oak roll top desk, some boxes stored in the far corner, and one old brass stand-up lamp were the large room’s only furnishings.

The lamp had a big round shade with red tassels hanging from the bottom edge. In the candlelight it cast a shadow that looked like a lot of hair on a very skinny lady. When the flame moved in a tiny breeze, the shadow of the lamp lady moved too. Forgetting it was just an old lamp, I hid under the covers.

Mama and I brought up my four dolls, a doll cradle, and a yellow doll quilt. She stitched a yellow and white flowered bed quilt and made yellow and white window curtains to match. One day I found a round, braided rug and a new pair of yellow wool slippers by my bed. I decided I liked my new room after all.

I still hated climbing those stairs, but I found a way to overcome my fear of the attic. I put the candle carefully on top of Papa's desk. Then I removed my skirt and shirtwaist and I danced. Dancing made the bad thoughts go away. And dancing fast made all my thoughts go away. I hopped and skipped and bowed and twirled until, exhausted, I fell into bed. Or someone shouted at me from below to stop. After blowing out the candle I jumped into bed, hoping the raindrops falling through the holes in the roof, wouldn’t find me. It always seemed to be raining in Gig Harbor, Washington.

When I told Papa about getting wet, he reasoned, What do you think an attic is for? It’s to catch the raindrops! He took my chin in his hand, tilted my head up, put his face close to mine and roared, Why would a thin little bone like you be afraid of getting wet? Maybe some raindrops will help you grow some fat. There is no money for repairing roofs!

He patted me twice on the head and said a few words in Danish. He knew I did not understand Danish.

Mama and Papa came to America a few years before the turn of the century. They believed my two older sisters, Lola and Flori, and I should speak the language of the new country. They refused to teach us Danish.

Mama put wooden buckets in the attic to catch the rain, so I gave up asking for roof repairs. I lay in bed listening to the rhythm of the raindrops as I pictured myself doing beautiful pirouettes around the buckets.

Although Papa would not repair the leaking roof, he still took great pride in his fine nine-room frame house. He left Denmark at the age of twenty-two with just a few dollars in his pocket. In America he found success in the import business. He loved to sit in his big, black leather chair in the parlor and tell Mama how highly people thought of him. Just think, Margarethe, he’d say proudly, if you hadn’t married me you might still be living in Aalborg carding wool and being yelled at by your Mama.

Papa maintained a peach orchard on the two acres of land behind the house. Each day in the summer he plucked and ate a peach to test the crop. He stored the peach pit in his cheek for hours. One day, when Mama said to him, Kristof, you do this just to annoy me because I won’t let you smoke in the parlor, Papa replied, You are wrong, Margarethe. I do it to sharpen my teeth, so I can chew the tough beef you roast when cook has a day off. He gave me a wink across the room. I began to giggle, so he put his finger to his lips to shush me. He looked at Mama with wide eyes, and they both laughed.

When I was seven, my weekly task was to deliver clean linen to all the beds. One lucky day I discovered a hole in the wall between the linen closet and my older sister’s room. The hole, just above eye level, forced me to stand on tiptoe to see through. I spent many uncomfortable, but informative, hours spying through that hole. I once heard Lola, my oldest sister, telling Flori what she had overheard Mama tell Papa: Vina is so skinny she looks like a plucked chicken, and Winnie is so plump I wonder if she is eating Vina’s share.

Vina did our cooking, Winnie helped with house chores. Papa said he thought Winnie was just perfect, and really quite pretty. Flori told Lola they were lucky to have a farm that included a cow and a horse outside the house and a chicken and a pig inside. When they both started to laugh, I covered my mouth so no one would hear my giggles.

Hearing this juicy dialogue encouraged me to return frequently to my secret hideaway. My reward came when I heard Lola tell Flori she sneaked into Mama’s armoire one day and found some old letters from Papa. The letters said Papa came to America ahead of Mama to find his way in this country. He sent for her five months later. At first her parents wouldn’t let her go. They were certain she would be scalped by wild Indians. But when she told them she was five months 'with child' and not yet married, they bundled her off quickly."

At the time I did not understand what with child meant. By the age of fifteen I understood. I also understood that the child Mama was with was my sister Lola.

The linen closet became one of my favorite places. Just before my tenth birthday I heard the biggest secret of all and had to nearly squeeze my ear through the hole because Lola spoke so quietly.

When Papa immigrated, he went to North Dakota, where he lived in a sod hut with a woman. I’ll just bet we have a half-sister or brother somewhere and Papa knows where, Lola said.

You’re making this up, Flori said.

I removed my ear from the hole and peeked. Flori was walking towards the bedroom door with a disgusted look on her face.

I am not and I can prove it! Lola had hold of Flori’s arm, pulling her back towards the bed.

How?

Lola sat down on the bed. I put my ear back to the hole.

I read it in Papa’s diary. He keeps it in his library on the top shelf behind a book about how to be a good Christian, Lola said proudly.

I simply don’t believe you. Flori’s voice.

Then come down to the library with me now and I’ll show you.

They left the room and walked down the back stairs. I didn’t dare follow for fear of being discovered, so I didn’t get to hear what happened. But at dinner Lola had her usual superior attitude and Flori wore her habitual little pout. So I guessed Lola had proven her story.

When I was nine I was allowed to watch the adults dancing at Mama and Papa's parties in the music room. I sat in a huge, armless straight back chair, brought in from the dining room. Our family called it the Queen’s Chair. Upholstered in purple velvet on the seat and backrest, it had a back as high as a standing man. During meals, Mama always sat in this chair. Papa sat in the King’s Chair. It stood at the other end of the dining room table. It looked just like Mama’s chair, only it had arms carved in the shape of wolves’ heads with their mouths open. It scared me just to look at them.

Papa always wore his finest black dress-up suit at these dance parties. He looked wonderful, even with his mostly bald head and plump body.

The top of Papa’s head reached just to Mama’s cheek. Mama was tall and slender, with a tiny waist. She always had a new dress of velvet or satin. She wore peacock feathers in her auburn hair, and almost always wore the gold locket Papa gave her on their tenth anniversary.

Mama and Papa were wonderful dancers, especially when they waltzed. Often the others would stop and stand at the edge of the room to watch them. They were so light on their feet I thought surely they could float right up and out of the room if they’d had a mind to.

I felt so proud I wanted to stand on Mama’s chair and applaud. Instead I tapped my foot on the chair wrung. I tapped so hard one evening the sole of my shoe left a large scuffmark. It was discovered the next morning when Winnie moved the furniture back into the dining room. Both Winnie and Mama tried to oil it out but it kept emerging. Thirty years later my nephew smoothed it with sandpaper and re-stained it. I hated to see it go.

There were so many people at those parties Winnie and Vina had to get extra help. Mama hired musicians to play the violin and piano and someone else to serve champagne on silver trays. Papa always had money for these things, but no money to fix the roof.

After watching the adults dance, I practiced the steps in my room. Wearing bloomers and a lovely yellow bow in my hair, I sat my dolls up against the bed and walls so they could watch. Then I hummed the waltz, while Teddy Bear and I danced in great circles until I got dizzy.

When I was twelve, I sat Teddy against the wall and took an imaginary partner. I called him Richard, after Richard the Lion-Hearted. Strong and handsome, he had dark brown hair and deep-set, sad, dark brown eyes. He was five years older than I, but he never aged. He just waited patiently for me to grow. He was also taller, which seemed an achievement for anyone.

Richard and I would sit on the side of the bed holding hands. I told him all my secrets and he told me his. Mine included the peephole in the closet, fear of my father, love for my mother, my passion for dancing, and my dreams of going to teachers college.

Richard had beautiful secrets. He'd written some lovely poems, traveled most of the world, and met all the beautiful women in the world. Of course he thought I was the most beautiful of all. He knew all the latest steps and was very light on his feet. He always bowed from the waist when he asked me to dance. Richard worshipped me. We enjoyed a lovely attic romance.

Unfortunately, in a moment of patriotism I sent him off to fight in the Great War. He wrote wonderful love letters to me every day until a mortar shell killed him. I found a book of poetry on Mama's shelf in Papa's library and took it up to my room, where I read aloud, O Captain! My Captain! by Walt Whitman, as reverently as I could. Then I performed especially lovely dance steps in Richard’s memory. Crying myself to sleep that night, I wished I hadn't killed Richard off quite so soon. But dead he was, and you couldn’t bring dead people back to life.

One day I made the horrible mistake of telling Flori about my dancing in the attic. She told Lola, and they both jumped in circles, holding their sides and laughing. Now that they had something on me I became their personal slave. Luckily, I did not make the mistake of telling them about Richard, or my servitude would have been worse.

But my single penalty proved bad enough. Once a month Mama baked big, round, sugar-cinnamon cookies. After they were cool she stored them in a huge crock, nearly as high as my waist. She placed it on the landing at the top of the stairs to the basement. We were allowed to take one cookie each day after school. And we did, even though opening the door to the basement scared us silly. No telling what lurked in those dark corners.

After school one day my sisters stopped me before I could enter the house. They pulled me to the corner of the porch.

We've decided what your task should be this month, Slave. Lola folded her arms and stood her tallest, reminding me of my second grade teacher, whom I hated. You will bring us our daily cookie from the crock, she said with narrowed eyes.

I wanted to yell for Mama, but I knew they would tell her I had been a naughty girl. With two of them against me, Mama would surely believe them.

Flori came towards me with a sinister look, which surprised me, since she always let Lola do the talking. I stepped backwards into the corner.

And you know what lives at the bottom of the crock, don’t you? She gave me a hideous, witchy smile and didn’t wait for an answer. A big, black snake!

"With FANGS! Lola added. And he loves to eat fingers. So you better get the cookies quick. If you don’t bring us cookies, we will tell Mama that you said a bad word, and that you have been taking two extra cookies every day. If Mama catches you with our cookies we will deny everything!" They both sneered at me, did another ugly laugh, turned and linked arms, and left the porch.

Vina and Mama were usually occupied with napping or reading when I arrived home from school in the afternoons. I ducked into the kitchen by the back door and made a beeline for the stairwell door. I opened it gently, carefully removing the crock’s lid. If the crock was full, a quick snatch, and I had my booty. On with the lid, close the door, and escape to the porch. But half full, or lower, it took more time and much more courage. And when it was nearly empty, I had to lean half my body into it to reach the bottom. I just knew I would see the snake, fangs open, ready to bite my fingers off.

Each night I lay awake, trying to think of ways to outwit the snake. I could pulverize him with Vina’s potato masher. Maybe capture him with Papa’s fish net, or spear him with the ice pick. I heard that hair could turn white overnight from fear. Each morning I ran to the mirror to check.

About once a week I pleaded for my punishment to stop. Lola would push me into a chair, stand in front of me and waggle her finger at me. "Now, Slave, we are tired of your begging. If you don’t do as you are told and keep quiet, we will see to it that there are TWO black snakes in the crock!"

The ordeal went on for several weeks, until they got bored. One day I begged especially pitifully.

Lola folded her arms on her chest and said in her meanest teacher voice, We have decided to give you mercy. She looked at Flori’s face, red and bloated from trying not to laugh. We are charitable girls, and feel it is time for a more uplifting task. We have decided, from now on, you may carry our crochet baskets. And… She looked at Flori again.

They stepped so close to me that both their noses were nearly touching mine. They opened their eyes wide and I saw one gigantic eye. Then they shouted at me, laughing so hard they could barely get the words out, A snake never lived down there anyway!

That night I dreamed I tied my sisters into Papa’s black leather chair and pulled out handfuls of their thick, red, curly hair and put snakes in their crochet baskets.

CHAPTER TWO

After Lola graduated from high school and went off to teachers college, I moved to the second floor to share Flori’s room. Flori had always been less bossy than Lola. Even though she whined and enjoyed reporting to Mama anything I did that might be the least bit wrong, she had her soft side. Once I confided how I hated being so tall and awkward. She seemed delighted and pulled five history volumes from our bookcase.

Stand still, Pearl while I pile these books on your head. This exercise is guaranteed to squish you down an inch or two. Now, shoulders back, and chin up. Walk!

She sat at her desk reading while I walked in circles for nearly half an hour. It didn’t work.

Also, Pearl, I’m sorry but there is absolutely nothing that can be done about your large bony feet and hands.

Many nights we lay in the dark, whispering about how we three sisters would be fine teachers.

Just imagine, Pearl, standing at the head of a classroom with row after row of adoring faces. Filling those little minds with facts and figures, where before they were empty.

And, I added, at the end of the year standing on a platform and receiving awards from the community leaders. It will be thrilling.

When Flori joined Lola at New Whatcom Teachers College, I truly missed her. She had become my friend. Now I had a large, sunny room, two beds, and two windows all to myself. But my favorite hours were still spent dancing alone in the attic, remembering my dear Richard.

Mama and Papa continued to have their Saturday evening dance parties. During one party, I went to the pantry for water. Papa and Winnie were there and didn’t see me come in. Papa’s arms were around Winnie. One hand