Painted—played piano—read Baudelaire—and saw Manny. But I couldn’t resist thinking about that girl—! Invited that girl—Pearl is her name—to tea next Thursday afternoon—I hope I’m not disappointed—with her voice, I shouldn’t be.

According to plan, Florence and Pearl Siegelstein met, one late afternoon in March 1932, at an English tearoom on Lexington Avenue, advertised as “a rendezvous for Hunterites.” Italian mosaic tiles fanned out over the floor. Red leather banquettes promised privacy, cordoned off by frosted glass beneath art nouveau chandeliers. It was Prohibition. Even the most innocent teashop had an air of mystery. A violinist played Haydn. Florence had first been invited to the genteel tearoom by her mathematics professor from last year, also a lover of classical music. Attractive, lonely Dr. Marguerite D. Darkow, much admired by her students, had noticed her young pupil, so worldly and wise for her sixteen years. Visited a former teacher of mine, Dr. Darkow, and was amazed by her pessimism and dependence. She is brilliant.

Florence began visiting Dr. Darkow at her teacher’s small Yorkville apartment, where they drank more tea, smoked cigarettes, and listened to the phonograph play sonatas, partitas, and fugues. Dr. Darkow told about her years at Bryn Mawr and graduate studies at the University of Chicago. Florence revealed how she longed to travel abroad. Dr. Darkow pointed out that Europe was ripping apart at the seams. To Dr. Darkow tonight and talked hours on the economic condition of the world—she expects general massacre within 5 years—it is possible. Florence also became friends with her young German instructor, Fraulein Hildegarde Kolbe.
Tea with a beautiful and gracious lady and decided to become sweet and charming—It’s an easy way to embarrass people. Miss Kolbe had come to the States after the war to go to Smith, where Florence had wanted to transfer, but the Wolfsons vetoed her plans to attend the social work program because it began in the summer. “The summer is when you go to the mountains to meet men,” said Mother.

A more gratifying time than I have experienced in a long while—Pearl fascinates me! We sipped delicious coffee and exquisite apricot brandy.

Now, Florence shared a booth with Pearl, whose auburn hair was pinned back from her rather pretty face. Pearl looked intently at Florence over her china cup, stirring in a few sugar cubes. She managed to combine feminine charm with strength of character and good nature. Florence was sixteen. Pearl was nineteen, a senior. Both young women wrote for Echo, Hunter’s literary magazine. Pearl was a playwright with three original plays under her belt and had been one of ten elected to the honorary English society. Her last name, Siegelstein, meant “one who pushes rocks.” Florence thought it an apt description for this intelligent brunette with heart-of-stone determination. Her first name was also fitting. Pearl usually had le mot juste.

Pearl’s parents, immigrants from Eastern Europe, were descended
from stonemasons in the Carpathian Mountains. Pearl had grown up in Harlem, and Florence’s brownstone memories resonated with her. She had also attended Wadleigh, although the two hadn’t known each other there. Her family’s relocation to the Bronx was a source of great distress. Pearl felt as if she had been banished to Siberia. Her family thought that her father, a truck mechanic, was crazy to let her go to college. She could have been working, contributing something to the family pot. After all, it was the Depression. But her father said that if Pearl wanted to go to college, she should go. Pearl was tremendously likable, and Florence was strongly attracted to her.

Was rather cold to Pearl in class today and feel like a little beast—I’ll ask her to lunch on Thursday—I could almost love her!

Arm-in-arm, the young women walked New York, experiencing the city through each other’s eyes, talking over ideas for plays. Florence had just finished reading The Monk and the Dancer by Arthur C. Smith, and was looking forward to his second short story collection, The Turquoise Cup. They passed the usual corner scene of down-and-out former Wall Street brokers selling apples and pencils from cardboard boxes. Florence was used to looking away as she tossed in a coin, but Pearl opened her eyes. They were just trying to feed their families. She insisted Florence look at them.

Out with Pearl tonight and accidentally came upon a life that was real and beautiful and made me feel loathsome—a blind pianist who is happy—in a small cheap restaurant.

They spent hours in Central Park. They admired Cleopatra’s Needle with its twin in London and a similar obelisk at the Place de la Concorde in Paris, uniting them in their love of antiquity and European culture. They lingered at the Shakespeare Garden, planted only with flowers that appeared in the Bard’s sonnets and plays. They passed the Hooverville of shacks in the old emptied reservoir north of Belvedere Castle. Slim lines of smoke rose from the fragile makeshift structures and tents.

Pearl now completely dominates my mind—Once I hop over my stone wall, I’m lost—but something about her gets me!

On a park bench, Florence and Pearl discovered they shared a love of Alice in Wonderland, reciting in unison, “Jam to-morrow and jam yesterday—but never jam to-day,” and John Webster’s poem “Nets to Catch the Wind”: “Vain the ambition of kings who seek by trophies and dead things to leave a living name behind, and weave but nets to catch the wind.” They didn’t leave the park until the lamps glowed in orange-pink orbs at twilight. Not long ago these were gas lamps lit by hand. Much had changed since their parents arrived in America. The flappers had shed corsets and the stiff old Victorian designs for free-flowing materials, altering the
way they moved through the world. Zippers had replaced troublesome buttons and hooks and eyes. Everything was speeding up. Old rules were there to be broken. The Depression wasn’t going to stop them. They were going forward. The hell with men.

Buy the book here. Read an interview with Lily Koppel here.

Tags: Diary, Florence Wolfson, Journal, Lily Koppel, Whitney Joiner