While the journalism school had officially opened its doors the year before, classes had been scattered around the campus until a new building was constructed, just in time for the class of 1914, Laura’s year. The five-story Beaux Arts–style journalism building was located just south of the main campus library, and after registration, Laura and a dozen other students were given a quick tour. The spacious entryway reminded her of the prelude to her own home on Fifth Avenue, with a soaring ceiling and marble floors. In one corner, Rodin’s bust of Joseph Pulitzer, the founder of both the New York World newspaper and the journalism school, glared at all who passed by. While the building had regular classrooms like those at Vassar, it also boasted a “morgue,” which held a collection of newspaper clippings dating back to the 1870s, as well as a full-blown replica of a newspaper city room, replete with typewriters, a telephone, and a copy desk.
Laura made her way to a seat in the lecture hall. The opening address by the head of the school, Mr. Talcott Williams, flew by in a blur of pronouncements and a recap of the school’s brief history. After, Laura gathered her things and sped to the city room, where her year was meeting under the tutelage of a well-known newspaperman named Professor Wakeman.
“Everyone, please, your attention.” Professor Wakeman sported an unruly white mustache and barked out his words like a terrier. “Introduce yourselves, class of 1914.”
One by one, they made their way around the room. Several of the men had already worked in journalism for a few years, and exchanged witty repartee with the professor about various editors they’d worked under, sharing chuckles and knowing smiles. The woman sitting beside Laura introduced herself as Gretchen Reynolds, a recent graduate of Barnard, who said her dream was to write for Ladies’ Home Journal on the subject of fashion. Laura spoke of her desire to study journalism and left it at that, as she was too tongue-tied to go any further. Of the twenty-eight students who comprised the class of 1914, four were women. After the last student spoke, Laura pulled out a notebook and a fountain pen, eager to begin.
But Professor Wakeman had other ideas. “Gather your things, I’m sending you out on your first assignment. Go down to City Hall and listen to Mayor Kline’s eleven-o’clock speech. After, get a statement from someone—you decide which official—about how the new mayor is settling into the role.”
City Hall. She’d imagined the first week or so would be about the basics of newswriting, not to have to go right out and report so quickly. The thought unnerved her. But she knew where to go, and certainly listening to a speech, getting a quote, and doing a write-up wouldn’t be that difficult. She was gathering her things in her satchel when the professor held up one hand.
“Wait a minute, that’s only for the men.” He glanced over in Gretchen and Laura’s direction. “For the women, your assignment is to investigate what’s going on at the Women’s Hotel in the East Twenties, off of Park.”
Laura’s mind raced. A scandal at the first women’s hotel in New York? One that called for an investigation? Whatever it was, this sounded much juicier than covering city politics.
Professor Wakeman gathered steam. “They’ve announced that they are no longer serving butter to the hotel guests, as part of a health initiative or something. Write up five hundred words on that. For everyone, the deadline is four o’clock this afternoon. Put your copy inside the vault.” He pointed to what looked like a safe on one of the corner tables. “It locks automatically at four. Anything that’s not inside will not be accepted.”
A couple of students groaned.
“You don’t like it? Then you don’t deserve to be a journalist. We live on deadlines and cigarettes, remember. This is your first assignment, so make it count.”
A steamy rain poured down as Laura, Gretchen, and the other two female students made their way downtown. Outside the hotel, they paused, unsure of what to do next.
Gretchen tried to smooth over the mangled curls of her bangs with one hand, irritability dripping from her like the rain. “This weather is wreaking havoc on my coiffure. Shall we go inside?”
“I suppose we should ask for the manager,” Laura suggested, eager to get on with it.
Right then, a couple of young women draped in percale and long strings of pearls exited the hotel. As they waited under the awning for a cab, the other two students broke off and approached them, notebooks open, while Gretchen and Laura headed inside.
With surprising alacrity, they were shown up to the manager’s office, where a woman with a long neck sat upright in her chair. “You’re reporters?”
“Yes,” said Laura. She didn’t want to specify where from, not just yet. “We heard about the butter ban and were curious what prompted it.”
“We care deeply for the health of our guests, who tend to be on the younger side.” She looked over at Gretchen. Laura supposed she was too old to make the cut. “After a year of study, I have concluded that it is not conducive to good health. Same with cotton mattresses.”
“I’m sorry?” said Gretchen. “What’s wrong with cotton mattresses?”
“They will be switched out for hair mattresses instead. The cotton ones will be burned.”
“But why?” asked Laura.
“Hair is healthier.”
“Do you mind if I ask where exactly you found this information?”
The manager threw her an irritable glance. “I don’t remember, exactly. A magazine article, I think.”
“Have you consulted a physician about these two issues, about not eating butter and sleeping on hair mattresses? I mean, to get a professional opinion.”
“I don’t need to. I can see it with my own eyes, what’s good for the girls and what’s not.”
Laura was about to ask her to be more specific, when Gretchen jumped in. “Do you worry that guests will go elsewhere if they can’t get butter on their bread?”
“The parents of the girls are the ones who decide where they will stay, and they understand our concerns. We are the first and oldest women’s hotel in New York City, and my guess is the other hotels will soon follow our lead.”
What an utter waste of time. Who on earth cared about this subject? The men were downtown talking about the future of the city with the people who decided the future of the city, while Laura was stuck discussing hair mattresses. “Do you eat butter?” she asked.
The manager sniffed. “I do not. I have a very strict diet and follow it religiously, and believe all should do the same.”
Laura couldn’t help herself. “Can I ask what type of mattress you sleep on at home?”
The woman’s eyes gleamed with the pride of the martyr. “I sleep on a mat on the floor, in fact. Much better for one’s spine and circulation.”