AIMEE SEMPLE McPHERSON, "Milton Berle An Autobiography"

MILTON BERLE AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY - Chapter 11, page 123
      In 1930, I took "Chasin' the Blues," a girl-studded flash act, out on the Orpheum Circuit. I was at the RKO Hill Street in Los Angeles the week there was a big charity show at the Shrine Auditorium. Every name act in town was asked to appear along with every movie star who gave a damn about something beside him or herself. The huge auditorium was filled, and backstage was like a sardine can packed with the world's most expensive sardines. Only one person stood alone, a woman well into her forties who wasn't half as beautiful as most of the movie names backstage. But there was something special about her. I felt it, and I didn't even know who she was, though her face looked familiar. It wasn't her dyed blond hair-there were lots of dyed blonds around-and it wasn't her dress, which didn't compare with some of the gowns the stars were wearing. It was something in the calm, sure way she stood-head up, back straight-waiting to go on.
      I pointed to her, and whispered to somebody standing next to me, "Who is that?"
      The guy looked at me as if I were a hermit who had just come out of the hills. "Aimee Semple McPherson." Aimee Semple McPherson!

MILTON BERLE AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY - Chapter 11, page 124
      Who hadn't read about the evangelist's disappearance in 1926, when she went swimming at Ocean Park, California, and vanished in the waves, only to walk out of the Arizona desert a month later in a clean dress and shiny shoes and tell the world she had been kidnapped and held for ransom? Add a couple of husbands, a wife who threatened to name Aimee as corespondent in a divorce suit, plus a lot of ugly rumors, none of which seemed to hurt the lady's reputation or cut her power as a religious leader, and that was one hell of a woman over there. Like I said, she was a woman, and I was both impressed and very curious.

MILTON BERLE AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY - Chapter 12, page 125
      Aimee Semple McPherson was big news in the '20s and early '30s, an evangelist who drew crowds by the hundreds of thousands wherever she went. I suppose if you were religious, just looking at her would give you a charge, as if you were near the Pope; and if you weren't, well maybe you felt like Vanity Fair, the magazine that listed her as an actress on a par only with Duse and Bernhardt, a woman who "made Billy Sunday look like a piker."
      I went on before her and did a couple of minutes of my material, and then I hung around backstage waiting to get a look at Mrs. McPherson in action. She was all dignity and class when it came her turn. The house went wild when she walked out into the lights. She didn't bow or anything; she just accepted the applause with a slight smile and waited for them to quiet down. When she spoke, she didn't say anything so original or brilliant about the charity we were all there for. It was her husky voice and the sincerity she put into it that made her seem electric. I was fascinated ... and I was more curious than ever about her.
      She spotted me as she came off stage, and she headed straight for me. Another woman might see a man she wanted to talk to, but she'd play it casual-sort of walk by and then be surprised when she bumped into him. But that wasn't Aimee Semple McPherson. She was direct. No nonsense. "How do you do, Mr. Berle," she said, and stuck out her hand.
      I took her hand, but I was startled. I never even knew what to say to rabbis, so what could I say to the great Sister Aimee? But she didn't wait

MILTON BERLE AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY - Chapter 12, page 126
to find out. "I watched you out there. You're a very funny young man. I admired your energy."
      "Why ... uh ... thank you ... uh ... uh Mrs.... uh ..."
      She smiled. "Aimee."
      "Aimee." She put me at ease. "And I liked watching you out there. I've read so much about you in the papers." I could have bitten off my tongue for saying that.
      It didn't bother her. She just laughed. "Don't believe everything you read. Are you appearing here in town?"
      I nodded. "The Hill Street. I'm only there for three more days."
      "Oh, and then where do you go?"
      "We're laying over here for a week before working our way back east."
      "We?"
      "My mother's traveling with me." Aimee took a look around. I said, "Mama's out front watching the show."
      She smiled. "And have you been over to visit us at the Four Square Gospel Temple?" That was the big shrine-it looked something like the Capitol, dome and all-that Aimee's followers had built for her with their contributions.
      I shook my head. "I haven't done much sightseeing. Three shows a day and all."
      "I'd be pleased to show it to you when you are finished at your theater."
      I wasn't sure if she was making a pitch for conversion or what. "Well, I'd like to see it, but I wouldn't want to join."
      She just laughed at that. "Don't worry, Milton. I'm on my own time now. Tell me at what hotel you're staying, and I'll have my secretary call and arrange things."

      I got the call four days later, but it wasn't a secretary. It was Aimee herself. "Has your engagement ended?"
      "Last night."
      "Then I trust you have time for a little sightseeing. I promised to show you the Temple. Are you free today?"
      I was.
      "Good. I'll pick you up in, say, an hour in front of your hotel. I have a dark blue Packard."
      And she clicked off.

MILTON BERLE AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY - Chapter 12, page 127
      I went down to Mama's room. The daily card game had already started, and the air was blue with cigarette smoke. I waved to the players, people who had been on the bill with us at the Hill Street, and I signaled my mother that I wanted to speak to her.
      "I just wanted to tell you that I'm going out."       Mama was curious. "Where?"
      "I'm going to temple."
      The gag worked. Mama looked startled. "Temple? You? Since when? It's not even Friday."
      "Wait, wait. Hold it, Mama. It's Aimee Semple McPherson's temple."
      "Why are you going there?"
      "Because Mrs. McPherson offered to show it to me. She's picking me up at the hotel."
      "Aimee Semple McPherson is coming for you herself?"
      I nodded, and Mama swelled with pride. She nodded her head toward the card players. "Wait till they hear that!"

      The chauffeur was standing by the car waiting to open the door for me. Aimee was seated inside, wearing something light and summery, her face hidden by sunglasses and her braided hair under a wide-brimmed hat. She gave me her hand-and I thought she held it a beat too long-as I sat down beside her. "Now let's show you some of the sights of Los Angeles."
      The car started moving. I didn't know Los Angeles that well, but I was pretty certain as time went by that we were heading away from downtown. I was sure of it when we passed a sign that said "Santa Monica," but I didn't say anything. I wasn't sure, but I wasn't taking any chances. If there were any moves to be made, they were all going to be hers until I was certain.
      She kept chatting with me, asking about my career, my childhood. Things like that. She never gave any instructions to the chauffeur, so wherever the hell we were going had all been planned before I left the hotel.
      The car slid to a stop in front of a sea-shack restaurant. I was comfortable enough with her now to kid around. "This is your temple?"
      She laughed. "Not quite. I thought we might have lunch first, and give you a look at the Pacific Ocean at the same time."

MILTON BERLE AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY - Chapter 12. page 128
      So we had lunch, and more talk that didn't give me any clues as to which way the wind was blowing. As for the Pacific Ocean, it looked pretty much like the Atlantic Ocean.
      Then back into the car again. As we pulled away, she said, "I have a little apartment I keep nearby. If you don't mind, I'd like to stop a moment and change into something cooler. It's turned a little warmer than I expected."
      It was warm, but it wasn't that warm. I was wearing a suit and tie. Aimee's dress, which looked like chiffon to me, seemed okay for a tropical beat wave.
      Something told me I was never going to see the Four Square Gospel Temple. I didn't mind a bit.
      The car stopped in front of one of those semi-Spanish-looking cream-colored stucco apartment buildings that are standard equipment in Los Angeles. Aimee, as I said before, was a direct woman. The minute the chauffeur opened the door, she got out and headed straight for the building, expecting me to follow. I was pretty certain now where the afternoon was heading. Another woman might have made a big routine out of the heat and the need to change to cover the moment of arrival before the big game began. But not Aimee. She had made the excuse once to set things up, and that was enough. Out of the car and into the building. I followed.
      It was a small apartment-living room, kitchen, and bedroom. I figured Aimee Semple McPherson rated something bigger and grander than this, so this place must be a little hideaway. She left me in the living room. "I'll be right back." She went into the bedroom. I saw the light go on in there before she closed the door most of the way.
      "Do sit down," she called out. "I don't keep any liquor, but I think there are some juices in the icebox."
      "No, I'm okay," I said.
      I wasn't. I was nervous. It wasn't Aimee the woman that made me feel shaky, it was Sister Aimee the Evangelist that bothered me. I kept seeing those newspaper pictures of her in the flowing white robes, her arms outstretched and holding a Bible. And once I bad beard a radio broadcast from the Temple. For days after I had laughed, thinking of a whole mob singing "Yes, Sir, He's My Jesus" to the tune of "Yes, Sir, That's My Baby." It didn't seem funny now.
      I looked around the room. It was done very simply. Lots of what I

MILTON BERLE AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY - Chapter 12, page 129
decided were good Early American antiques, and very little else. No pictures on the walls, very little on the tables besides lamps.
      Aimee was still in the bedroom. "You're not a very religious man, are you, Milton?"
      It was the first time she had ever gotten near her field of work while talking to me.
      I didn't know how to answer her. "Well, not the way you are."
      "I know what you mean," she said, "but I don't quite see myself that way. I work in the area of religion, but I think of myself more as a scientist and a crusader."
      "Why did you ask about me?"
      "I was just thinking," she said, and the light went out in the bedroom, "that unless you were really interested, perhaps a visit to my Temple could wait for a cooler day."
      The door opened, and there was Sister Aimee in a very thin, pale blue negligee, her braid undone and her blond hair hanging down around her shoulders. There was a soft flickering light somewhere behind her in the bedroom-candles, I guessed-and it was enough to show, me that she wasn't wearing anything underneath. "Come in" was all she said.
      It was candles all right. Two of them on the night table by the bed, which she had already turned down. They were burning in front of a silver crucifix that stood before a triptych panel of the scene on Calvary. That started my nerves going again, but I solved the problem. I decided not to face that way when we got into bed.
      We never got to the Four Square Gospel Temple.
      And we didn't get there two days later, when she called again. This time, she just sent the chauffeur for me to bring me straight to the apartment. We didn't even bother with lunch.
      When I was dressing to leave, she stuck out her hand. "Good luck with your show, Milton."
      What the hell. I couldn't resist it. "Good luck with yours, Aimee."
      I never saw or heard from Aimee Semple McPherson again. But whenever I hear "Yes, Sir, That's My Baby," I remember her.

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