The Auerbach Will

by Birmingham, Stephen;

  “If it was in the Chicago papers, I didn’t read about it,” Essie said.

  “The young man’s name I believe was Abraham Litsky. Don’t you have a brother by that name?”

  “It’s a very common name,” Essie said. Then she added, “But my brother lives in Chicago.”

  “I see,” Lily said. “It was all quite—sordid.” She hesitated. Then she said, “Esther, I want you to understand that it’s not the money. Whatever the sum was that you mentioned.”

  “Fifty thousand dollars.”

  “Whatever. It’s not the money. Esther, you see, there are some things that you may not realize about our family, and there is no reason why you should. There are things which not even Jake has fully realized—yet. You mentioned the name of Richard”—she pronounced it Reek-hard—“Rosenthal, who was my grandfather. You could not possibly have known Richard Rosenthal, who died in eighteen seventy-five, but I remember him very well. He was a wonderful man, with the most wonderful, sparkly blue eyes, a wonderful human being. He was loved and respected by everyone, both socially and in the business community of New York. I remember Grandpa, and how proud he was of the business he founded. He had worked so hard, against so many pressures—not knowing the language when he came from Germany, and social pressures that existed at the time because there was, well, some anti-Semitism in New York in those days. And yet he overcame all that, and even Mr. J. P. Morgan was his customer and friend. I have the little thank-you notes Mr. Morgan used to write to Grandpa every time he ordered a new suit. Mr. Morgan always asked for Grandpa when he came into the store. He’d let no one else wait on him.” Lily continued pacing.

  “Grandpa built Rosenthal’s into one of the most respected names in retailing. This was his legacy, to New York and to us. And Grandpa was so proud to have a son, my father, to carry on. Richard Rosenthal’s shoes were not easy for Daddy to fill, but Daddy did it, and did it superbly, adding even greater luster to the Rosenthal name. I wish you had known my father, too, who died—too young—in 1900. But Daddy died proud that he had two strong sons, Sol and Mort, who wanted to carry it on—Richard Rosenthal’s dream. You see, it was an American dream, Esther, an American dream come true—that a poor immigrant German could create something for his family which would allow his family to walk tall, and proud, and hold its head high as an equal among the Christians. It was a great achievement, given the times.

  “My two brothers, unfortunately, though both brilliant men, were neither one cut out for marriage. Don’t ask me why, but neither Sol nor Mort has shown, ever, the slightest interest in a woman. But both have devoted their lives to the continuation of Grandpa’s dream, to reinforcing that reputation the family has gained of honesty, integrity, public service, responsibility. That mantle—that shining mantle—has been passed on from generation to generation.

  “Which brings us to myself. I would have loved to have had more children. But Jake’s was a difficult birth for me, and after it was over I was told that I could have no more.…”

  The child of a shameful union, Essie thought.

  “And so now there is only Jake. Jake must carry the torch for the family now. As I see it, he has no choice. For Jake to cast it aside would make meaningless—a mockery—of everything that has gone before. This is something rare and precious that has been passed on to him, and he must learn to recognize it as the treasure it is. Now you have a little son. Every day, I look at his photograph in its silver frame, and think that, yes, it must be he who, once the importance of this has been instilled in him by Jake, must carry on from him, continuing the dy——” She broke off.

  “The dynasty,” Essie said.

  Lily laughed. “Dynasty—that’s not a very pretty word to use, is it? It sounds as though we thought of ourselves as the Russian czars or something. No, it’s not that, it’s the family. It’s an American family, created and established by one strong and idealistic man, Richard Rosenthal. This heritage cannot be flung aside. It’s like a religion. You may not think us very pious Jews, Esther, but in our own way we are. The family is our religion.”

  She came and sat by Essie on the loveseat again, and covered Essie’s hand with hers. “I’m fond of you,” she said. “And I always believed that you would help Jake find himself, and see his way to doing what he has to do. I think I told you once about Doctor Bergler, the famous alienist whom we had consult with Jake—one of the finest, if not the finest doctor in the country. Doctor Bergler addressed himself to this problem of Jake’s, and he told us that it would probably take time for Jake to realize his destiny, the importance of what earlier generations have left him with, the duty and responsibility he has inherited. He will realize it, Doctor Bergler told us. He has to. I remember Doctor Bergler’s words exactly. He said, ‘It’s in his blood and in his bones and in his genes. It is only a matter of time before it is in his mind as well.’ I thought that was a very wise thing he said. And so you see, dear child, that Jake is a link in a chain—a chain that cannot be broken. If Jake should break it, what will have been the point of any of it? My brothers, my father, and my grandfather might just as well have never set their footsteps on this planet.”

  “You’re condemning him to a life he hates,” Essie said.

  Lily raised her eyebrows slightly. “You may think of it as a condemnation,” she said. “But we see it as a gift, a heritage that he has been given to fulfill, and make even more illustrious.”

  “He won’t—not this way.”

  “But Doctor Bergler has already been proven right,” Lily said. “True, Jake’s profits in the first year of the Chicago store were not spectacular. But each year, I’ve noticed, they get a little better, as he gets better at doing what’s in his blood and bones and genes. Until someday—you’ll see—”

  “So you’re saying no to the money,” Essie said.

  “My dear, what else can I say? I have no choice. Would you ask me to help break the link in the chain? To bring down everything that has been built up so carefully, painstakingly, over all these years? You can’t ask me to do that.” She fixed her clear blue eyes on Essie. “No. Absolutely. You cannot ask me to do that. Someday, perhaps when you’re older, when your own son is older, you’ll understand.”

  “I wonder if I will.”

  “My dear, darling child—I know I have omitted asking much about my grandchildren. You cannot think I am so remiss as not to think about them at all. You may think I’ve barely acknowledged them—with a few checks, on birthdays and such. Forgive me for this. But there’s more to it than that—my deepest feelings. I remember so well what Dr. Bergler said when he was treating Jake. His words compel me—he said, ‘Let go of your child and let it grow.’ And if he’s to grow, so will his children—for that I hope and pray.”

  Lily Auerbach stood up again. “There’s only one other thing,” she said. “If it’s making a lot of money that you—and Jake—are thinking of, remember that if Jake continues to apply himself, then, when I am gone, and when my brothers are both gone, Jake will be a reasonably rich man. I mean, if he continues to apply himself, where else would there be for it to go except to Jake, and you, and your children? But there’s more than money that he must inherit first, and that’s the stewardship that was Richard Rosenthal’s greatest legacy to all of us.”

  Lily Auerbach spread her hands. “If, at that point, after we’re all gone, he chooses to break the chain and abdicate the stewardship,” she said, “at least none of us will be around to see it happen, to witness the tragedy.”

  From the loveseat Essie looked up at her mother-in-law. She had never been sure of her feelings toward Lily—whether she hated, admired, pitied or envied her. It was probably a mixture of all these feelings, and she could still draw amusement from envisioning Lily supine across the dented lids of garbage cans, and she smiled at the picture now. “Yes,” she said, “I suppose I see the logic of what you’re saying. How you can speak of chains and freedom in the same breath. How you can quote Doctor Bergler about letting him
go, and keep him tied down at the same time. I can see the logic of it because you don’t really want him to succeed, do you? Because you’ve always thought of him as a mistake—your only mistake, your only embarrassment. His even being born was a mistake, wasn’t it? He’s a mistake that can never be corrected, in your mind. What a terrible thing he must have done to you, Mother Auerbach, just by being born. Of course you can’t forgive him—or yourself—for that.”

  The muscles of Lily Auerbach’s face stiffened and her eyes narrowed. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said, “but we don’t want to turn this meeting into a quarrel, do we?”

  “Certainly not,” said Essie, reaching for her purse and gloves to go.

  “Dear Mama,” Essie said, when her mother had composed herself from the shock of seeing her and they sat in the little store on Norfolk Street while Minna dabbed at her eyes with the corner of her apron. “You have three beautiful grandchildren. Little Jake is in the first grade already, and his teacher writes that he is very well-behaved and quick to learn. The little girls are still at home with me. Joan is dark, like me, and Babette is fair, like Jake’s mother. They never quarrel. Oh, Mama, how I wish you could come to Chicago to see them.”

  “Oh, no. Too far. Chicago is too far away. Maybe when they are older, they can come to see me.”

  “Of course.”

  “And how is Abe? Have you seen him?”

  “We see him often, Mama. He is doing very well.”

  “Good. I had a feeling that was where he’d go.”

  “What did Abe do, Mama? I know it was something about gambling.”

  “Ha!” said Minna. “God knows what he did. If you believe what the cops said, there was more to it than that. But who believes what the cops said? The cops said girls—bad girls. Abe had bad friends, bad boys, that was the trouble—Italians. They got him into it. There was one boy named Corelli. He went to prison. It is better for Abe in Chicago, I think—away from those Italians.”

  “Yes.”

  “And how is Jake?”

  “Working very hard, Mama. There was a chance that he might have been able to go into business on his own. It was one of the reasons I came to New York—to ask his family if they would loan us money to buy into this new business, along with Abe.”

  “What kind of business?”

  “Medicines, drugs.”

  Minna nodded. “Ah, that’s a good business,” she said. “Doctors—God knows they charge enough.”

  “But his family said no.”

  “Ah, they’re tightfisted, those Deitch—tightfisted, except when it’s one of their charities they give to so they can get their pictures in the Tageblatt.”

  They sat in silence for a while, and then Essie said, “How’s Papa?”

  “Growing older, God bless him.”

  “Is he upstairs now?”

  Minna nodded.

  “Do you think I could go up and see him, Mama?”

  Minna shook her head. “No, no. Save yourself the trouble.”

  “I thought it might make him happy to hear about his grandchildren,” Essie said.

  “No, no. Don’t you understand? He doesn’t want to be made happy because he is happy. This is happiness for him absolutely, this misery. Leave him to his misery, his happiness, the suffering Jew.”

  “I see.”

  There was another silence, and then Minna said, “This medicine business—it would be with Abe, too?”

  “Yes, but it will take a lot of money to buy into it, and we don’t have it.”

  “Essie,” Minna said, “you’re taller.” She pointed. “Reach up behind the cookie jar on the top shelf and get me the little book that’s there.”

  Essie did as she was told and, from the back of the shelf, extracted a small black book, its pages secured with an elastic band. It was a passbook from the Union Savings Bank.

  “Tell me how much is there,” her mother said.

  Essie sat down again and removed the rubber band. She opened the book and began turning the pages. They were filled with entries. Some were small—a dollar or two. Others were larger, for as much as a hundred dollars. Furthermore, there seemed to be an entry for nearly every day of the week, and the dates went back for more than twenty years. The only entries that were not deposits were interest payments which grew steadily larger as she turned the pages, year after year. There were no withdrawals.

  “Mama, this bank’s on Union Square,” she said. “How can you have gone up there every day?”

  “Mrs. Potamkin does it for me,” her mother said. “Now tell me how much is there. What’s on the last line?”

  Essie stared, bewildered, at what she saw on the last page. “Mama,” she whispered. “How did you do this?”

  “Just tell me what the last line says,” her mother said.

  “Sixty-three thousand, one hundred and twenty-seven dollars and nineteen cents.”

  “Take it,” her mother said. “It was to send Abe to college and medical school, to be a doctor. So what is the use of that now? What use do I have for it now? Take it. But don’t give it to Abe. I don’t trust him with money yet, just so long as he has a job. You take it. Take it all.”

  “Mama …”

  “Take it, I tell you. Take it all.” Minna held her hand up straight. “No more talking. Just take it.”

  On the train ride back to Chicago, Essie sat with her purseful of money clutched tightly in her lap. Every stranger in the car was a potential thief and, though she was very tired, she fought sleep, knowing that if she dozed off for a single moment her purse, and the miracle of the cash that it contained, would be snatched from her. At a station called Harmon-on-Hudson, a young man boarded the train, came down the aisle, and took the empty seat next to her. She clutched the purse even tighter against her stomach with both hands, looking at him warily out of the corner of her eye. He was a fine-looking young man with a square, clean-shaven jaw, a long, straight nose, and a shock of blond hair that fell gracefully across his forehead. He was well dressed in a tan-colored tweed suit. He didn’t look like a thief, but wolves sometimes dressed in sheep’s clothing, and Essie did not relax her grip on her purse. From the corner of her eye, she watched him warily as he crossed his tweed-trousered legs, lifted a pair of tortoiseshell spectacles from his jacket pocket, placed them across his nose, unfolded a copy of the New York Times, and began to read.

  After a time, he put down his paper and said to her, “How far are you going?”

  “Chicago.”

  “Ah, so am I,” he said. And then, after a little while, “Is Chicago your home?”

  “Yes.”

  “It’ll all be new to me,” he said. “I’m from Boston. I’m going to Chicago to seek my fortune in a strange land.” He chuckled.

  She said nothing. The fortune he sought, of course, was right in her lap.

  Down the swaying aisle a Negro porter in a white coat was moving with a rolling cart full of orange and lemon drinks and sandwiches. The young man reached in his pocket and jangled some change. “Care to have something to drink?” he asked.

  “No thank you.”

  “Sandwich?”

  “No thank you.”

  The porter arrived at their row of seats, and the young man purchased a roast beef sandwich and a bottle of lemon pop. For the next few minutes he concentrated on his sandwich and his soda. He seemed to have very good table manners, wiping his fingers on a paper napkin after each bite. Then, finished, he turned to her and said, “If we’re going to be traveling companions for the next few hours, let me introduce myself. My name’s Charles Wilmont.”

  He extended his hand, but Essie would not release her hand from her purse. “How do you do,” she said. And then, “I’m Esther Auerbach. Mrs. Jacob Auerbach.”

  “I see,” he said. He looked at his outstretched hand, smiled, and withdrew it. “I think you’re nervous,” he said. “If you’re nervous about rail travel, don’t be. This train’s as safe as—as rocking in the arms o
f Morpheus. Is it your first time on a train?”

  “No.”

  “Or are you nervous about talking to strange men? If so, I’m sorry.”

  He did seem very pleasant and polite, and Essie decided that perhaps he was not a thief and relaxed her grip on her purse somewhat. “No, I’m not nervous,” she said.

  “And you’ve already told me you’re married, so that’s not what I’m interested in,” he said. “I just thought it would be nice to have someone to talk to on the trip. I guess I’m a gregarious sort of fellow.” He had already used two words that were unfamiliar to her. Morpheus. Gregarious. “But look, if you don’t want to talk, just say so,” he said. “And if you want me to move, I’ll take another seat.”

  Perhaps, she thought, she was lucky to have had this nice young man sit next to her. If he changed his seat, who knew what might come along next and sit down? “No, don’t move,” she said quickly.

  “Well, then let me tell you a little about myself,” he said, “so I won’t seem like so much of a stranger. As I said, my name is Charles Wilmont, and I’ve just graduated from the Wharton School of Finance and Economics. In case you don’t know, the Wharton School is where they teach you everything there is to know about business except how to get into a business yourself. I mean, I am now fully prepared to go into—even run—any kind of business in the world, but how do I find that business? That’s what I’m going to Chicago to find out.”

  “I see.”

  “Now tell me a little about Chicago.”

  “It’s a big city,” she said.

  “Oh, I’m prepared for that,” he said. “I’m prepared for bigness. But what place will there be in all that bigness for young Charlie Wilmont? That’s what I’d like to know.…”

  And so he chatted on like that, and the more he talked the more at ease Essie felt with him. He told her about all the courses he had taken at the Wharton School, and about the courses he had taken as a Harvard undergraduate before that. He told her about his parents, whom he described as “typical, dull, suburban North Shore Boston,” and about a young woman whom he hoped—though he was not yet engaged—to marry, once he had established himself in some sort of business. He had a gentle, self-mocking way about himself. “What will become of me, do you suppose, Mrs. Auerbach?” he would cry in mock despair from time to time. Listening to him talk made the long trip seem to pass more quickly, and presently she was laughing at his wry little jokes. By the time they passed the Pennsylvania-Ohio border, it was quite late, and he asked her if she minded if he slept for a while. She said no, not at all, and presently he was asleep in the chair beside her, snoring softly. Essie of course kept rigidly awake as the train sped on through the night, looking out at the lighted and mostly deserted station platforms where they stopped—Cleveland, Sandusky, Toledo, South Bend. From time to time his drowsing head nodded against her shoulder, but he always pulled himself quickly up straight again, and by the time he awoke the first light of morning was showing. He smiled, rubbed his eyes, and told her that he had dreamed he would find success in Chicago. And by the time they had reached Union Station she had decided that she had made a new friend, and he had used so many big words—Management Design, Corporate Structure, Production Potential—that she decided he might be some sort of genius.