Second Generation

by Howard Fast

  “I know that,” Joe said. “I’m not mad at you, Bobby. I’m not jealous. It’s just so damn crazy.”

  “Yes, it is, isn’t it?”

  But when the time came and she finally set out for San Francisco, Barbara knew what she intended. The knowledge was fuzzy, and she had decided that she would make no final decision until she had talked to Goldberg, but she was no longer uncertain as to what her decision would be, and that very fact took away a weight that had been pressing on her for weeks. She felt lighthearted and alive, excited to be driving north back to the place that was as wonderful as any city could be.

  It was evening when Barbara drove into San Francisco and checked into the St. Francis Hotel. It was a strange sensation to be back here, back where she had stayed before the incredible eruption of “Bloody Thursday.” It gave her an almost bewildering feeling of déjà vu, as if she were remembering not only what had happened, but cloudy half-memories of things that had never happened at all. She knew that her mother had moved out of Whittier’s mansion on Pacific Heights and was living once again in the house on Russian Hill. Barbara had spoken to her from Los Angeles, and now she telephoned again, found Jean at home, and told her that she was in San Francisco and at the St. Francis.

  “Darling, of all places, the St. Francis! Come here and stay with me. There’s plenty of room. Just the two of us.”

  “Tomorrow, Mother. I promise. But I want to be alone tonight. I have to think my way out of a few things.”

  “You think your way into far too much, Bobby. Then lunch tomorrow.”

  “I already have a lunch date with Sam Goldberg. How about dinner?”

  “Of course. And you will stay with me?”

  “I’ll check out in the morning. You can have me for as long as I’m here,” she said, thinking as she put down the phone, Poor Jean—I do feel for her.

  Sam Goldberg had not changed a great deal. He was no thinner, no fatter. Now, at the age of seventy-one, he walked more slowly. His thin fringe of hair had turned entirely white, but his blue eyes were alert and bright as ever. He welcomed Barbara with youthful enthusiasm. “My word, but you have become a splendid woman. You know, I read all about you. Front page in the Chronicle. San Francisco woman arrested by the Gestapo. That’s an honor, my dear. To me, anyway. That is, if you survive it, and I must say that you appear to have survived it very well indeed.”

  “All of it vastly exaggerated, Sam.”

  “Well, someday you must tell me all about it, blow by blow, detail by detail. I have bad dreams about that horror over there. What a way for a man to end his life—with a vision of humanity gone insane. But not now. Now we have more pressing things to discuss. Suppose we go to Gino’s. Pasta and veal piccata help me to think. I’ve stopped dieting. It makes no sense at my age.”

  But at the table, Barbara noticed that he ate very little. He was more intent on her than on the food, observing her, studying her, and at last he said, rather cautiously, “You have a bombshell for me, haven’t you, my dear?”

  “How do you know?” Barbara asked, smiling.

  “Ah, well. Let’s say that love is frequently discerning as well as blind, and I love you very much, my dear, not only because you are Danny’s daughter, but because you are what you are, which is something very rare and unique.”

  “Sam, I think that’s just about the nicest thing anyone ever said to me.”

  “I don’t believe that, and don’t stop eating because I’ve indulged in a little flattery. Notice I didn’t say you’re very high on common sense.”

  “I know. Sam, I don’t want the stock or the money, and I don’t want you to argue with me or try to persuade me otherwise. I’ve spent days and days thinking about this and working it out with myself. So that’s where I am.”

  Goldberg didn’t comment immediately. He sat back and studied her. Gino came over to the table to ask if everything was all right. “That’s a profound philosophical question,” Goldberg said. “Mostly things are the way they should be—confused.”

  “The food is not good?”

  “The food is delicious.”

  Gino left them.

  “Did you tell Dan?” Goldberg asked her.

  “No. He didn’t ask me, and I didn’t tell him. May Ling knows how I feel, and I’m sure she talked to Dan about it.”

  Goldberg took a deep breath and pushed his plate away. “I can’t eat and think about this at the same time. I am righting every instinct developed during half a century in the practice of law. I should move heaven and earth to change your mind, and I think that if it were anyone else here facing me, I would. With you, well, I don’t know.” He paused and waited. Barbara said nothing. “You know,” he went on, “like suicide, giving away money is permanent. It can always be delayed.”

  “I know that,” Barbara agreed. “But that would delay other things that are more important to me. I’m writing a book, Sam, and that’s very important to me, and I must know who I am, and I cannot know that until I am rid of that wretched money.”

  “I find that very hard to understand.”

  “Then you’ll simply have to take my word for it.”

  “All right. Let me tell you that this was not entirely unexpected. I’ve been thinking about it. You come to me and tell me you want to give away fourteen million dollars, and it may be more. That’s not like giving a dime to a panhandler. I don’t equate the problems of the rich with the problems of the poor, but money is a problem, and getting rid of it is also a problem. You can’t stop someone on the street and say, ‘Here’s a million.’ You understand that?”

  “Sam,” Barbara said, laughing, “I’m not a total fool. I admit I don’t have too much common sense, but I do know that we must work something out.”

  “Thank God for that. All right. We accept the presumption that you wish to give this money away. Dan wouldn’t touch it, I know that. Joe?”

  She shook her head. “No, he doesn’t want it.”

  “Then he has more sense than a boy of his age should have. Your mother and Tom don’t need it, and anyway, I don’t think you had that in mind. The money is your responsibility. You can do bad with it, and you can do good with it. You can’t just pick something you consider a deserving charity and give it fourteen million. There’s a whole art to the giving of money, and damn it, Barbara, there must be, because there are more cheap crooks and swindlers in the field of charity than you could imagine. Now, do you know what a charitable foundation is?”

  She shook her head. “I have a vague idea, but no more than that.”

  “Let me give you a short definition. A foundation is basically a nonprofit, nongovernmental structure. It has its own financial base, and it functions for the general welfare, educationally, socially, charitably. It’s a form that has been developed during the past forty years, in some cases to evade the payment of taxes, in some cases as a sop to the conscience of the rich, and in some cases to fill a specific need that a person of conscience recognizes. I did some research on the subject. The classic legal definition was promulgated by Judge Horace Gray, in 1867 in Massachusetts. Quoting him freely, he said that this form must be considered as a gift to the public weal, consistent with existing laws, for the benefit of an indefinite number of persons, either by education or religion, or by relieving their bodies from disease—he adds to the list then and specifies the lessening of the burdens of government. That was quite a novel idea in his time, a time when government was content to let people suffer, die of disease, and starve to death. Well, since then, many foundations have come into being, corporate foundations, community trusts, family foundations, special-purpose foundations—all sorts. But they all fall into three well-defined groups. The first type confines itself to the giving of grants, grants of money for every purpose imaginable, some good, some foolish. This is the most fluid, the most flexible category, and this is the category I would like you to consid
er. There is also a type of foundation that organizes its own research and work, but I don’t see that for you. It would involve you totally, and that’s not what you want. And then there’s the type of foundation that runs as a service structure, with its own people and staff. That too would involve you deeply.

  “So we think about the first kind, a broad, flexibly conceived foundation for the giving of grants that will benefit people, to put it most broadly. Now, you must understand that once you establish the trust, the wealth is no longer yours. It is irrevocable. However, it is just possible that we might find a legal loophole that would give you substantial income from the trust.” He looked at her and waited.

  “No. I don’t want any income from it.”

  “You may regret that one day, Barbara. Marriage, a family, the needs of a family—all that lies ahead of you.”

  “Sam,” Barbara said very seriously, “this money comes from my grandfather. I did nothing to earn it or deserve it. I don’t need it, and I don’t want it. If you think this foundation method is the best way to deal with it, then I agree. But who runs the foundation? Who directs it? Who decides how big the grants should be and where they should go?”

  “It’s not simple, Barbara. I think you must play a role in it. That’s a responsibility you just can’t evade. An organization must be created. Offices must be found. People must be hired to advertise the purposes of the foundation and to pass on the grants. There must be financial management, and there must be a board of directors to make final decisions.” He saw Barbara’s face fall, and he smiled encouragingly. “This is not your worry. My office can take care of most of it, and I can take a hand in it myself. But I’m an old man, Barbara. I could drop dead tomorrow. Still, we can do all of the mechanics connected with it, and there’s no hurry. We can begin functioning next week or next year, whichever is most convenient for you.”

  “How much would I have to be involved?”

  “As a minimum, at least three or four meetings a year. As a maximum, it could involve you completely. You place your own function where you see fit.”

  She nodded. “You see this as the best way, Sam?”

  “Unless you change your mind?”

  “No. We’ll set up the foundation.”

  “All right. That’s the first problem. Now, I had a talk with your mother. Understand me, Barbara, Danny is like a son to me, but what goes on between a man and his wife is not for anyone else to understand. Your mother is quite a woman, and I don’t think she’ll give you any grief about what you want to do. But during the twelve years that she has been trustee for yours and Tom’s stock, there has been very considerable income. Some of it you used, most of it is untouched, and there’s a trustee account in your name at the Seldon Bank that amounts to something over a quarter of a million dollars.”

  Barbara began to laugh. She became half-hysterical, almost unable to stop.

  “Are you all right?” Goldberg asked anxiously.

  “Yes, Sam, yes.” She tried desperately to control her laughter. “It’s just a joke. It doesn’t stop. I live here in these United States, with millions of unemployed”—her laughter stopped now—“with shanty towns, Bonus Marchers, hunger and misery everywhere, and I get richer and richer, and there’s no way to stop it, and it’s just crazy. It’s the craziest thing I ever heard of. I have eight hundred dollars left out of my own savings, and I plan and plot to stretch it out until I finish my book, and living with Daddy rent-free and eating his and May Ling’s food, and I don’t dare buy a new dress, and now you tell me that after all this talk and decision, I still have a quarter of a million dollars that I never knew I had. Well, I don’t know whether to laugh or weep.”

  “Neither. Just face it, and Barbara, don’t give that money away. Please. This is a wise old Jew who has seen a great deal of what can happen. Don’t give it away. Leave it alone, if you wish. The Seldon Bank is very solid. Just pretend it isn’t there. You’ve just divested yourself of fourteen million dollars. That’s enough!”

  “Sam, you’re upset,” she said in amazement.

  “Is it any wonder? Now, will you leave that money alone?”

  “You’ll be terribly disturbed if I don’t.”

  “To put it mildly.”

  “All right then. For the time being. It’s after two,” Barbara said. “Is there anything else?”

  “One more decision, my dear. It concerns your brother. As I understand it, you have not seen him since you returned from Europe?”

  “No, and I feel terrible about that.”

  “Do you dislike him?”

  “No. No, not at all. It’s just that, well, we’re so different. We went our different ways. Not that we ever had a fight or a falling-out, except the kind of fights that kids have. I guess every brother and sister have that kind of thing. No, I like Tom. I don’t know whether I love him. It’s been so very long. Five years. That’s a long time.”

  “So much for that. Now, I’ve had some discussions with John Whittier, whom I gather you don’t like.”

  “It doesn’t matter, now that Mother has divorced him.”

  “Well, from what I surmise—and it’s no more than a surmise—he and Tom are going to enter into some kind of combination, the Seldon Bank and California Shipping. For a bank to enter into such an arrangement is still not legal in California, but there are ways to get around that, and may I say that such a financial combination will be of enormous strength and importance. The point is that, to control the bank, Tom needs the voting power of your stock—or the foundation’s stock, since we’ll think of it that way. Both Whittier and Tom have addressed me on this point.”

  “But when we establish the foundation, could Tom vote the stock?”

  “If we write it into the charter, he can indeed. But what I think is more likely is that Whittier will offer to buy enough of your stock to give him and Tom fifty-one percent, which will mean control of the bank. How do you feel about that?”

  “I don’t care. Should I, Sam? Should I care?”

  “That’s up to you.”

  Barbara thought about it for a while and then shook her head. The truth was that she did not care. The load was off her mind and soul. Who controlled the Seldon Bank or any other bank was a matter of indifference to her.

  “If we sell them the stock, what then?”

  “The foundation will put the money into very solid securities—American Telephone, government bonds, that sort of thing. From the point of view of the foundation, it might be an advantage to have a diversified portfolio of securities rather than all the eggs in one basket, and if I were to advise on that score, I would suggest selling a substantial part of the Seldon stock. And since Whittier will be the buyer, and since he wants it so desperately, we should get a good deal more than the book value, perhaps a million dollars more.”

  “Is that fair?” Barbara asked.

  “Quite fair. We won’t go into any details this afternoon. The only question is whether you’re willing to sell to Whittier. If you are, I’ll tell them that and make the arrangements. There’s no need to raise the question of the foundation at this meeting. It would be better, I think, if you yourself told your mother what you plan to do.”

  Barbara agreed. As they left the restaurant, she said to the old man, “Sam, I’m so very grateful. You’ve been kind and understanding. You’re dear, and I love you very much.”

  ***

  The day before, Jean had dropped into Halleck’s on Sansome Street, the small but very expensive couturier where she had been buying things lately. Halleck himself informed her that while war had broken out in Europe, fashion would not bow its head to such mundane forces. The great Paris houses of Worth, Molyneux, and Paquin had already pulled up stakes and moved to London. And Digby Morton, a step ahead of them, had taken his collection to the States. It might be some months before the Paquin designs arrived, but the Morton cl
othes were expected momentarily. “Ah, dear Mrs. Whittier,” Halleck said—he was a Viennese who carefully cultivated a French accent—“what a pity that in this superb city of ours, which is so much the queen of the world, we have not yet developed a couturier worthy of the name. Ah, that will come.” Or, as he said it, “Zat vill come.”

  “But I have information,” he added, as if he were imparting state secrets. “The skirts will be straight, always straight. Very high buttons on the jackets. I have some designs; already we are working on them. A pouched and one-sided peplum for day wear. Revolutionary. You are bringing your daughter here, as you said, tomorrow, perhaps?”

  “I think not,” Jean said slowly. She walked out of the store, indifferent to whether or not she had offended Halleck. She took a cab up the hill to the Fairmont, went into the bar, ordered a Scotch and soda, and then sat at the little table without tasting or touching her drink. Why had she ordered it? She disliked liquor, barely tolerated wine, and the sight of both provoked her. So many things provoked her these days. Her conversation—or rather, Halleck’s conversation with her—disgusted her, and for the life of her she could not understand why. Halleck disgusted her. Why had she gone in there at all? But she knew why. She was desperate in her desire to please Barbara, to think of some wonderful thing she could do for her. Then why sit here and perform a charade of drinking? She tasted the drink and made a face.

  And then a voice said, “Why, Jean! How delightful! How absolutely delightful!” She looked up, and there was the past, a man called Alan Brocker, fifty-five years old, with the strange, old-man-little-boy face of the very wealthy, workless, pointless Anglo-Saxon. Of all the people in the world, Brocker was the last she desired to meet at that moment, the man whom she had selected—or had he selected her?—for her first extramarital affair. Silly, senseless, mindless Alan Brocker, who had married Manya Vladavich, the model of a third-rate painter called Calvin Braderman; Alan Brocker, who had, as Dan put it, pissed away his life without ever doing a decent day’s work or an unselfish act in his life, who had once hired a Pinkerton detective, at Jean’s request, to spy and report on Dan’s liaison with May Ling. “My dear Jean,” he said. “Drinking alone. No woman should be reduced to that, not even after a second divorce, which these days is absolutely nothing. As a matter of fact, I salute you. Manya is in Reno, getting a divorce, so we can drown our sorrows or joys together. Will you ask me to sit down?”