Suzanne R. Krauss, 44, a Connecticut mom-of-two, was raised near the Las Vegas Strip by a Tropicana showgirl. Their life was fun and glitzy — until it turned bleak. Krauss’ memoir “To Vegas and Back” is out Friday. Here, she tells The Post’s Kate Storey about the bright lights and dark underbelly of Sin City.
I’m crouching down in a dark, musty corner of a theater with a man I don’t know. He’s maneuvering a light, and a giant beam illuminates the stage.
I see my mom up there, and I gasp. She looks like Mom — only more spectacular. She’s wearing a white feather headdress that looks 10 feet tall. Over her boobies, she only has tiny, sparkly buttons. And, for a skirt, which starts three inches below her belly button, she is dripping with sequins. I’m only four, but, to me, she looks like a superstar.
The auditorium is jam-packed. It feels like thousands of people are gawking at the stunning line of women, who glide around the set in slow motion.
“That’s your mom, kid,” says the big, gruff lighting guy. “Right there in the middle.” I feel proud, ecstatic.
I grew up 30 minutes outside of the Las Vegas Strip with my two siblings and Mom, a Tropicana showgirl. And while some of my first memories are glorious, there was a darker side to our life there.
Mom moved us out to Vegas in 1972, when I was 3. Before that, we were based in Philadelphia. She stayed at home with us while Dad worked at his father’s casino in New Jersey. Dad wasn’t around much, and when he was, he never paid much attention to Mom.
But then they went on vacation to Acapulco without us kids where Mom met George, a guy who promised her a life of glitz in Las Vegas. He told her she was beautiful enough to be a showgirl — that he had the connections to make it happen as an investor in a slot-machine company.
To Mom, the vision of a life with a man who would 100 percent focus on her sounded like an escape. They went out to Vegas together first, then the plan was for my siblings and me to join them a few months later, accompanied by our nanny, Delma*.
The plan quickly crumbled. Just weeks after Mom got to Vegas, George suddenly died — leaving her alone. But Mom was resilient, and decided to pursue her goal of being a showgirl anyway. She auditioned for the Tropicana and, at age 32, became the oldest performer in its famous show Les Folies Bergère. She was one of the only girls with children, and one of very few Jews to ever perform there.
So Delma, my sister, Rani, 7, my brother, Todd, 8, and I moved out to Vegas and fell into our own routine. Sometimes, we’d go to the Circus Circus casino. There were games and people dressed up — it felt like Disney World. Twice a month, we’d get dressed up and opt for a special dinner at the local dive, Dust & Rusty Bar. Mom would pile us into a booth and fill up three plates’ worth of free bar food.
While “Copacabana” played in the background, Mom worked the bar, trying to meet a new dad for us — one who could buy us a house with a pool.
Mom kept her costume and makeup at the Tropicana so we wouldn’t see her all dolled up, with her three layers of foundation and five pairs of fake lashes.
Once, however, Delma took us to the venue and we sat front-row. She clutched a cross, muttering prayers under her breath. “Holy Mary, mother of God,” she was saying. I didn’t know why she was praying. I just thought she was silly to miss Mom’s amazing performance!
The stage version of my mom was like catnip for men. Roses were sent to her dressing room every night. When celebs came into town — like “Godfather” author Mario Puzo and Sammy Davis Jr. — they’d pose for photos with her. But she’d never tell those guys about me and my siblings — it would ruin the fantasy.
Then she met Paul, a Realtor. He came on strong. And she made a strategic move she’d come to regret.
After only knowing her for a couple of days, Paul said he wanted Mom and us kids to move in with him — into his house with a pool.
“I won’t move in with a man until I’m married again,” Mom said.
“Then marry me,” he replied. They got hitched that week.
Afterwards, he started making demands. Paul hated that Mom performed nearly naked for men, so he demanded she quit. But she loved her job with all the camaraderie and attention. Then the Tropicana got bought by mobsters. They were going to make it all-nude. Mom had a limit — and performing sans pasties was it.
Even though she was no longer in the show, things with Paul got worse. He abused Mom, my sister and me. But Rani and I never said a word about it. To cope with her own abuse, Mom drank. And Paul was constantly drunk. They’d have bruising, loud fights and make up with even louder sex, sometimes in front of us kids.
Without the show for Mom to escape to, our own sweltering hell in Vegas continued for five more years — until Rani was brave enough to tell Mom what Paul was doing to her when the lights went out. Mom realized she had to get away. She filed for divorce, and we moved back to Philly in 1979.
Mom eventually got married for the third time to an insurance agent. We had a normal suburban life. Mom began selling real estate, and I made friends running track in middle school. If anyone ever asked about our past, I’d shrug and say we lived in Vegas for a while. I was a scaredy-cat of a kid even after we were away from Paul, who I later found out, died. I hated being alone, and would have to check under my bed and in the closet before I could sleep. But I buried those feelings for years, never telling anyone what we went through. Vegas was like a distant, painful memory that we didn’t talk about as a family.
But it came back to haunt me on Mom’s 45th birthday. I was 18, and we had a big group of family and friends over for a party. I walked into the house and saw that someone had taped up photos of Mom in her old showgirl gear all over the walls. My secret was out — I felt exposed and suffocated.
“Take these down, Mom,” I gasped. “Oh, come on. It’s fun!” she responded. Even though some of the worst years of her life were in Vegas, she had fond memories of the Tropicana — not to mention she was proud of that killer body.
My friend said, “Why didn’t you tell me your mom was a showgirl! That is awesome!”
I wasn’t ready to talk about it. Those half-naked pictures were humiliating and represented the terror of my childhood.
When I moved to New York City after college to begin a career in publishing, I started therapy to deal with my anxiety. I’d made a name for myself in marketing. I was engaged to an amazing man. My life was great — but my past was taking its toll and I had anxiety attacks.
It took just one session with a therapist to connect my secret past and my stress. The more I began to open up, the more questions I had.
Mom told me everything, and some amusing anecdotes I couldn’t even have imagined — including the time Engelbert Humperdinck propositioned her and the fact she slept with Mr. Universe just to get a peek at his package. (Turns out he wasn’t as enormous as she feared and, yes, he flexed on command for her.) Seeing this side of her — and realizing how spirited and resilient she is — really helped.
Today, I’m proud of my mom and what we went through. More than two decades after that birthday party, I’m finally ready to talk about those years in Vegas.
I’m very close with my mom today, and she is a marvelous grandmother. At 72, she’ll spend hours chasing my kids around in the yard, and they adore her.
One of Mom’s old performing photos is on my book’s cover. And, just the other day, my daughter had a friend over. I heard them talking about the photo. “Who’s this?” her friend asked.
My daughter paused before mumbling, “I don’t know.”
Of course, she did know who it was, but, like me at her age, she must have been embarrassed to see her grandmother in scanty performing duds.
“That’s your grandmother!” I yelled, from the other room.
It’s time to be brave about what we survived, not ashamed of it.
*All names besides Krauss have been changed.