Radio and television mirror (Jan-June 1942)

C xciTiNc as a date with your V__y "one and only". . . thrilling as his good-night kiss— this wonderful discovery of hidden beauty you may never have realized your hair possessed. And it's magic-like Colorinse that imparts this glamorous loveliness. Colorinse that brings out the warmth of color in your hair— gives it a brighter, richer tone— a softer, silkier sheen that rivals the lustre ofthe stars themselves. You'll wonder how you ever were content with dull drab-looking hair when you discover how quickly Colorinse makes it look and feel entrancingly different. Colorinse— in 14 flattering shades— at beauty counters everywhere. 7ora lovelierhair-Jo-ustT^estleShampooBiFORt. and ?<ltsde Superset after Colorinsitig. In tO(!<nd Ai St tnd tO<, drug and dcpirtment iioret / hoped to succeed in radio. They sat at their little table in the club for a long time, until the place was about to close. Then Andre took her home, and as they parted they both knew that they would be together a great deal in the future. Two weeks later, it seemed to Bea that the days when she was muttering to herself about Andre's alleged kidding attitude towards her were years ago. They had been meeting two or three times a week, and finding increasing delight in each other's company. Then Larry Clinton, a comparatively unknown musician about to organize a band, heard her sing and decided that she was the girl he wanted for his soloist. He offered her the job. Bea had never sung solo on the radio before. It was a marvelous opportunity. If the band clicked, she would in all likelihood, share in its success. But there was a frightening obstacle — if she left the Kate Smith program she would not be in the same show with Andre; their work would not bring them together arbitrarily once a week for several hours. Would he then begin to forget her? She wrestled with the problem. She asked friends whether it would be wise to leave a good job and take a chance on a new band that might fail a month after it started. But in reality she was stalling. She knew it. She wanted to take this opportunity but she was afraid — afraid of losing Andre's love. But Larry Clinton wanted an anv swer. She had to make up her mind. So in desperation she asked Andre. She might get a clue to his innermost feelings from the way he answered her. Andre's eyes brightened. "Of course you've got to go with Clinton," he told her. "You can't afford to pass up such a chance! Go on, make good and see how proud I'll be!" There was such a sincere concern for her future in his voice, so much eagerness to see her win out, that she realized that this deep interest could not be mere friendship. She felt love in his voice, and she lost her fear. "Okay, Andre," she said. "I'll take the job." She left the Kate Smith hour and joined Larry Clinton. Larry did achieve success, and in short order Bea Wain became a success too. Of all her friends, the proudest was Andre Baruch. And instead of drawing them further apart their professional separation had the effect of bringing them closer together. "Now that we aren't on the same program," said Andre, "don't you think we ought to see each other oftener?" Bea was glad to agree with him. 'T'HAT Thanksgiving Andre, as com-L mentator for the Pathe News films — his side job — was called to work on a short being made at a now defunct place of amusement in New York, the American Music Hall. Here was presented a burlesque revival of an ancient melodrama called "The Fireman's Flame," to the accompaniment of the quaffing of beer and the crunching of pretzels by the audience. The short consisted of samplings of this show. Bea went with Andre. She seated herself in the back of the auditorium and waited for Andre to get through. It was dim there, at the table under the balcony where she sat. Her mind wandered from the antics on the stage. It was less than two months since that night when she had first gone out with Andre. Only such a short time, and what had happened since then! She and Andre were — she smiled. There had never been any understanding between them, never a word of love. But somehow each had understood, each had sensed that what they felt for one another did not nee i labeling. And yet— and yet— if he did say the word — Suddenly she felt a hand cover her hand on the table, press it gently. She turned around startled. It was Andre. He had sat down near her so quietly she had not heard him. "What are you thinking of?" he asked. "Oh — nothing much — " She was confused. "I'll tell you what I was thinking of. I was thinking how happy I would be if you'd say you'd marry me." She stared at him. "What was that you said?" "I said — Bea, will you marry me?" Silently she nodded her head, and a little radiant smile was on her lips. Andre leaned over. He pressed his lips to hers. "DEA and Andre were married the •*-' following Spring. They chose May first for the date of their wedding. May first, the beginning of Summer, the beginning of the glad season. Circling Bea's betrothal finger was a ring for which Andre's father, a Dutch diamond cutter, himself had cut the diamond. In all radio there appear to be few happier couples than this little girl of twenty-four who has already reached radio stardom, and her attractive announcer-husband. On the first of every month, Andre presents her with a corsage — to mark the monthly anniversary of their marriage. For a husband to make such a ceremonial of a monthly anniversary — monthly, mind you — is about the most graphic indication of the nature of the Baruchs' married life. Bea and Andre have just fixed up a new apartment overlooking Central Park which contains all the decorations and gadgets they have planned since their marriage. There is an imposing living room done in modern style, with subdued lighting, and with drapes that can be drawn across the entire window wall. Prominent in the room is Andre's concert grand. There is a magnificent bedroom, with the satin-covered bed standing in throne-like isolation; there is a cute kitchen, with Andre's prize citation from an amateur cooking society framed on the wall. (Andre is an adept chef, too, and the citation is for a lobster concoction.) But most attractive of all the rooms, and most popular with the Baruchs, is the den. Here is where they loaf, and here is where Andre has a concealed, but spacious dark-room that will be the envy of every amateur photographer who sees it. And worked into the floor of the den is a striking design: five musical notes separated by a clef sign. To the left of the clef are the notes A, B— Andre Baruch; to the right, B, E, A — Bea. This is the love motif of the Baruch establishment. RADIO AND TELEVISION IMIRROR