When I fell in love, my heart never questioned my lover’s age. Age is simply a chronological statistic. When love walks in, logic walks out. I refused to follow logic.This man, seventeen years my senior, is the best thing that ever happened.
In1956 I was an eighteen year old Detroit commercial actress, Broadway bound following high school graduation. A few weeks before leaving, I made a commercial for a local jeweler, singing, “Meet Friedberg and wear diamonds…” to the familiar Wedding March. It proved to be prophetic. The jeweler asked if I might like to date a few of his friends. Friedberg was a very conservative, refined gentleman and "A man is known by the company he keeps”. I thought. Friedberg proved to be the exception.
Pierre, Friend Number One, worked for a French newspaper. After dinner we strolled to Central Park. On a park bench, Pierre decided to live up to his French romantic reputation. I began preparing for the New York Marathon with a determined Pierre in hot pursuit. Around the park, across the avenues, down E. 63rd Street, I crossed the finish line in the lobby of the Barbizon Hotel for Women.
In 1956, the Barbizon was a concrete chastity belt. Men never dared venture beyond the main lobby. The guard slammed the brakes on Pierre."No men on the elevator!"
Friedberg's friends were now on my unwelcome list until - a persistant Friedberg thought of the perfect boost for my fledgling acting career. I was appearing at the Blackfriar’s Theater on W. 57th Street and Friedberg Friend Number Two owned the Schubert theater chain. He was in his nineties! This one I could outrun with ease!
We met at his Central Park South penthouse. Everything was splendid. Then he called for a taxi. One block later, he tried introducing me to geriatric sex. I swiftly removed his right hand from beneath my skirt. He was ambidextrous! I leaped from the taxi into Fifth Avenue rush hour traffic.
Disillusioned with the world, I decided to abscond. An ad in a religious magazine provided my solution. I dashed off a letter requesting entrance to the Carmelite Order of St. Theresa. The Carmelites take a vow of Poverty, Chastity, Obedience, and Silence! They rise for prayer in the middle of the night. Visitors are permitted once a year and must converse from behind a wood grille. Silence is maintained at all times, excepting for prayer.
My personal stats didn't match the Carmelites. Three alarm clocks are necessary to waken me at 8 A.M.. A vow of silence? Put me in a crowded waiting room and five minutes later, I know everybody's life history. Poverty? Being an actress, we were well acquainted. Chastity? I was anticipating being the “Forty Year Old Virgin“.
The phone rang after I mailed my convent application. Another of Friedberg’s friends. This time, my athletic prowess was at stake. Friend Number Three was a Detroit fencer training in New York for the 1956 Olympics. Should a future nun go on a date? The thought amused me. He would never know he was dating a soon-to-be nun!
Monday we met outside the 57th Street theater and lunched at the Penthouse Club overlooking Central Park. Our conversation flowed with the ease of long time friends. Suddenly I realized curtain time was within hours. Our conversation must continue over lunch Tuesday.
Tuesday he invited me to do a very domestic thing and shop for his friend’s wedding gift after lunch. In Bloomingdales, somewhere between Linens and Cooking Utensils, his hand found mine. An electrifying shock ran through me, a feeling I experienced before when I installed an electric plug and grabbed the wrong wire. Certainly this is a questionable feeling for a future nun. Maybe.. one more date?
Wednesday my suave fencer wooed me with box seats for “Damn Yankees”. starring Gwen Verdon. It was the first show since coming to New York. Before the third act, his arm slipped around my shoulders. I didn't move. This is where I belonged.
Thursday, I watched him stride on to the New York Fencers Club mat for a workout. The Olympics were only days away. Facing his opponent, he called out “On guard!” He was so handsome in his dazzling white uniform! He wielded his foil with such finesse, thundering towards his opponent with such power! I was caught off guard. How could I not accept his luncheon invitation for Friday ?
Saturday night following, my show's curtain calls we were off to Two Guitars, a Russian Gypsy nightclub in the village. We danced an x-rated tango. Looking into his eyes across the candle lit table, I forced myself to ask the questions I put-off for good reason. I didn't want to know the answers.
“I’m nineteen.How old are you?”
"Thirty-six !"
"What religion are you?"
"I'm a Reformed Jew!"
"Have you ever been married?"
"Only for a short time. I’m divorced!"
All the wrong answers. Clearly, I must never see this man again!
His evening plans concluded with a romantic hansom cab ride around Central Park. For the first time since we met, silence fell between us. Hypnotized by the clippity-clop of horse’s hooves, I failed to notice he moved closer. His kiss sealed my fate.
Days later, a letter arrived from the Olympic Village. I pushed it aside to open another envelope marked: Carmelite Order of St. Theresa. On January 2, 1957, I would become a Carmelite nun!
The Carmelites requested two things: my measurements for my postulant dresses, and my spiritual advisor's letter of recommendation.
Without opening the “Olympic Village” letter, I ran to St. Vincent Ferrer’s church. I needed a letter of recommendation from Father Morris, my spiritual advisor and confessor.
Father Morris' phone number served as 911 for me since my Manhattan arrival. His rescues included:a village pot party at 2 A.M.; a clandestine meeting with an Egyptian U.N delegate who wanted me to join his Cairo harem; a pimp posing as a theatrical agent; a threated suicide after being raped by a photographer. Following the last incident, Father issued an ultimatum. "From now on, I must meet anyone before you go on an evening date!"
I paraded a collection of possibilities before him. Only one met with his approval. The Carmelites didn't meet with his approval either. He refused to write a recommendation.
"Why would you pick an old established order like the Carmelites to destroy?" he sighed with exhaustion.
"That's a terrible thing for you to say!" I insolently protested. "The show is closing. Now what am I supposed to do?"
"Get to know Byron Krieger better."
. "He's seventeen years old than me!" I gasped.
"We can get him a wheelchair."
"He's Jewish!"
"So was Jesus Christ."
I played the trump card. "He's divorced! Catholics can't marry divorced people."
"They can obtain a Decree of Nullity if the first marriage proves invalid."
On the day scheduled for my entrance into the Carmelite Order, I was in Byron Krieger's arms, dancing a tango.
