Photoplay (Jan-Jun 1938)

S K AT I N G , H R 0 U G H PART THREE THE beautiful blonde girl came out onto the deck and stood, wrapped in furs, watching the bright-studded fingers of New York's towers move slowly closer through the evening. The ship was late. Tomorrow there would be pictures in the papers, and captions, and more copy on the sports pages: "Sonja Henie Turns Pro, Visits America." Applause in ink. She could see the indisputable words at breakfast in the morning, and then this would be a reality; she would feel secure again. But tonight the tense excitement of the other passengers, glad with home-coming, depressed and frightened her a little. That glowing pile there across the harbor, that immensity, was stranger this time than it had ever been — she approached it as a supplicant, saying, "Will you buy my wares? I am a good skater; will you pay money to watch me: Four years ago, at the Olympics in America, she had been a guest, an amateur sportswoman, seeking nothing but fame and a medal or two. There was an abundant difference now. She thought, I could have stopped. I gave up love — I refused the way of living a woman should know — for this. America holds no brief for skating; I may work to empty galleries — For a moment she held to the rail, weak with panic. I HEN a familiar, brilliant flare blinded her, and she turned smiling to face the cameras. A tender had brought them: photographers, reporters to crowd about her and grin and ask flattering questions and to remind her once again that she was Sonja Henie, unbeaten, beautiful, the friend of kings. "Good evening, gentlemen," she said to the reporters as though she were really composed. What happened to Sonja in Hollywood made her decide, once and for all, what she wanted from life Youth and laughter and love — those were the things Tyrone Power gave to Sonja Henie. But there was one reason why a romance such as theirs could never last BY HOWARD SHARPE In the morning she woke quickly, rang for orange juice and the early papers. Sipping intermittently from her glass, she flung back the pages impatiently, until she found what she wanted; then she read with absorption the interviews she had given the night before. While she was still engrossed there was a knock at the door and her mother came in. Without looking up Sonja said, "You see? It's a friendly country. They're glad I'm here — they'll come to my exhibitions." She tossed the papers over. "I must get busy." Selma Henie made no move to take them, but sat quietly on the bed and looked with a kind of detached curiosity at her daughter. "This is your first day in New York," she said finally. "Don't you want to do any of the things a normal young girl would do? Don't you want to go shopping, and take a cab around the city, or just — rest?" "I'm not tired," Sonja said absently, rustling through the Times. "I've plenty of clothes — look at the tiny little paragraphs I got in this one!" She frowned, reading. Selma touched her hand. "You will do as you like, anyway. But sometimes you worry me. Whom will you see first?" "The manager of Madison Square Garden." Sonja finished the orange juice. "It's the largest arena in New York and I expect a big audience." Mrs. Henie stood up with an air of decision. "Well, your father is going with you! You're altogether too self-sufficient for such a child." "I don't need anyone to help me!" "It will look better," said Selma; and there was finality in her voice. An hour later Sonja stood, outraged and angry, in a luxurious office listening to the ****'"'