The Auerbach Will

by Birmingham, Stephen;

  “Mr. Duveen,” Essie said, “there are a few things about me that you ought to know, if we are going to be working, as you say, together. For one thing, I was born in Russia, in a little shtetl which probably doesn’t exist anymore, and I grew up in New York on the Lower East Side, where I learned the value of a dollar. I also learned everything there is to know about dealing with a Jewish peddler.”

  The future baron threw his head back, laughed and clapped his hands. “Ah, dear lady!” he cried. “I can see we are going to get along very, very well!”

  The young newspaper reporter whom Bertie McCormick had assigned to investigate Abe Litsky for his friend Marshall Field was named William O’Malley, and at the end of a month, moving back and forth between New York and Chicago, O’Malley had learned a good deal. He had typed up his story, and was about to present it to his publisher, when he—clever and hardworking and ill-paid fellow that he was—had a better idea. Now he was sitting in Jacob Auerbach’s office, and Jacob Auerbach was reading what William O’Malley had written:

  EATON & CROMWELL PARTNER IS EX-NEW YORK CRIME FIGURE

  Abraham Litsky, a partner and substantial shareholder in the burgeoning Eaton & Cromwell mail-order empire, has been a fugitive from the New York Police Department since June, 1912, Tribune sources learned today.

  Mr. Litsky and an associate, Frankie (“The Thumb”) Corelli, were arrested on May 31 of that year, NYPD records show, and charged with operating a large-scale rackets enterprise, which included illegal gambling, extortion, and prostitution. Released on $5,000 bond, Litsky skipped bail, and up to now his whereabouts have been unknown. Corelli was tried and sentenced to ten years imprisonment, and is currently serving this sentence at Sing Sing, the state penal institution in Ossining, N.Y. Litsky’s presence in Chicago came to light last month as a result of accounts in the financial press, announcing the first public offering of Eaton & Cromwell stock, and listing Litsky as a major shareholder in the corporation.

  Litsky’s position with Eaton & Cromwell appears to be no coincidence. Litsky’s sister, the former Esther Litsky, is married to Jacob Auerbach, the company president and, for the past four years, its guiding light. Auerbach, a member of a prominent New York family, met his wife when he was doing volunteer social work among the poor of the Lower East Side. Mrs. Auerbach’s mother, Mrs. Minna Litsky, still operates a small shop in the well-known slum neighborhood. When questioned, Mrs. Litsky claimed to have no knowledge of her son’s whereabouts.

  Prior to his association with Eaton & Cromwell, Mr. Litsky’s only known employment in Chicago was a brief stint as bartender at the Chicago Opera House.

  The revelation of Litsky’s “wanted” status in New York would appear to come at a particularly awkward moment for the mail-order firm. The company has recently sought, and been granted, substantial military contracts from the United States Government, for the production of uniforms, mess kits, and blankets.

  Asked to comment on his brother-in-law’s status with the company, Mr. Jacob Auerbach replied:

  “That’s what I’m here for. Your comment,” William O’Malley said with a wink.

  “This is simple blackmail, isn’t it?” Jake said.

  “Let’s call it a case of wartime shortages,” said O’Malley. “I’m on the short side of cash.”

  “And you’d even drag my wife into it. You scum. I should call the police.”

  “But I don’t think you will, will you? The publicity?”

  “How much do you want?”

  O’Malley twirled his fingers in the air. “Oh—ten thousand dollars,” he said. The minute he had said it, he knew the figure was too small. The story was worth more than that. But it was too late now.

  “Wait right here,” Jake said. “I have to confer with an associate.”

  “Pay it,” Charles snapped. “If this story got out, it could ruin us.”

  “But what’s to prevent him from coming back for more?”

  “Stale news is never as good as fresh news. By the time he comes back for more, your brother-in-law will be stale news.”

  “You mean—”

  “There’s no alternative, Jake. Abe has got to go. Now. Today.”

  “Of course.”

  “And I think you can handle that better than I can,” Charles said.

  Back in his office, Jake wrote out the check. “Here,” he said. “Here’s your blackmail money.” Then he took O’Malley’s story and tore it into tiny pieces. It was an angry, futile gesture. The reporter undoubtedly had other copies and, besides, all the facts were in his head. “Now get out of here. You scum,” he said. Then he sent for his brother-in-law.

  “One million, two hundred and fifty thousand dollars,” Jake said. “That’s what I’m offering you.”

  “But Eaton got ten million, and his share was the same as mine,” Abe said.

  “Very well, a million and a half. My God, Abe, you came into this with only fifty thousand. You’ll be going out with thirty times that figure—not a bad return on your investment. You’ll be a rich man. You can start another business of your own.”

  “It’s not enough.”

  “A million and a half. That’s my final offer.”

  “And what if I don’t accept?”

  “Then I notify the New York police of your whereabouts.”

  “You drive a hard bargain, don’t you, Jake?”

  “Yes,” said Jake. “I think I do.”

  From the Wall Street Journal:

  CORRECTION

  A spokesman from the Eaton & Cromwell Company in Chicago has advised the Journal that Mr. Abraham Litsky is not associated in any way with that concern, as reported earlier in these pages.

  Reading this, Mr. Marshall Field III put down the paper in disgust.

  The ladies of the Chicago Opera Guild were meeting, and Mrs. Harold McCormick had the floor. “It’s come to my attention,” she said, “that Mrs. Jacob Auerbach would be interested in working for the Guild. Her husband, as you probably know, is the head of Eaton and Cromwell.”

  “New money,” someone sniffed.

  “Yes, but there is quite a bit of it, and we can’t afford to pass by potential contributors. Also, I’m told that she’s quite attractive.”

  “Well, Edith, I’m just not sure,” said Mrs. Bertie McCormick, who was married to a cousin of Harold McCormick’s. “There was something Bertie said about her the other day, something about her brother. No one knows what it is, exactly, but there’s something a little off there. And of course you know they’re Jewish.”

  “Yes,” said Edith McCormick. “Well, for the time being, why don’t we just put a little question mark beside her name.…”

  At first, Essie was given no explanation for what was privately referred to as her brother’s “decision” to leave the company. It was Charles who, almost apologetically, told her the reasons, and of course Essie could see the logic of it, the necessity of it. She had never really understood Abe. Sometimes she wondered if she really understood the male sex itself … her father, her husband, her oldest son. At times Prince seemed to her so quiet and withdrawn. Though he said that he enjoyed his school, and earned good marks in everything, there were times when a look of sadness seemed to settle on his face, a look she couldn’t penetrate. Alone, in his room, he worked on model airplanes, where his tools were single-edged razor blades, scissors, pots of watercolor paint, and tubes of glue. He worked on these with great concentration.

  “Is there any way you could manage to spend a little more time with Prince?” she had asked Jake in the autumn of 1917.

  “Hardly. Not at this point.” He was packing for a trip.

  “He’s ten now. All those changes are beginning to take place. I’m fine with the girls, because I know what it’s like. But what boys go through? I don’t know anything at all.”

  “Nonsense. Nature simply takes its course.”

  “Sometimes I think that was what was the matter with Abe. My father paid no attention to him. He wa
s raised by Mama and me.”

  He stared at her. “Are you saying that my son is in danger of turning into someone like your brother? A common crook?”

  She took a deep breath. “No,” she said. “Of course not. I’m just saying that if you could spend a little time with him. Talk to him. Be a father to him.”

  “He has Hans to teach him sports.”

  “But that’s not the same thing. Don’t you see? Hans can’t be a father …”

  “Well, I certainly don’t have the time to spend with him now. Nor will I in the next few weeks. We’re in the process of going public, or haven’t you been reading the papers, Essie?”

  “I know all that,” she said. “But I simply thought—”

  “I have a six o’clock train to catch for Pittsburgh,” he said. “I don’t have time for this argument.”

  “I’m not arguing! I’m asking you to spend a few minutes being a father. Even Charles manages to spend more time with him than you do—riding with him on Sunday afternoons—”

  His eyes flashed angrily. “Charles does not carry the responsibilities in this company that I do,” he said. And then, “That brother of yours is never to set foot in this house again, do you understand? Talk about harmful influences. I intend to maintain my reputation as a respectable member of this community.”

  She looked at him evenly. “But the subject,” she said, “was our son.”

  “I’m off,” he said, snapping his suitcase shut. “I’ll be home a week from Thursday.” He did not even offer to kiss her goodbye. When he had gone, she lifted a small Dresden figurine, a girl with a parasol, an object Mr. Duveen had assured her had great value, and considered hurling it against the wall, saw herself hurling it, heard it shatter, saw it smashed into thousands of worthless little chips and flakes of china dust. But she did not hurl the Dresden lady, whose smile was too innocent for such a fate, and, instead, simply replaced it carefully on the table where it belonged.

  In the parlor car on the train to Pittsburgh, Charles said to him, “You know, Jake, with all that’s happened in the past few days, I’ve gotten to thinking. The thing I realize is that Chicago is really still a pretty small town, where everybody knows pretty much what everyone else is up to, and where everybody gossips. It’s hard to be inconspicuous in Chicago, and for you it’s becoming impossible. You’ve become a very conspicuous figure in that town, and when you move into your new house, and start entertaining, you’ll be even more conspicuous. There’ll be jealousies, there’ll be resentments. You’ll be criticized for every false step, and everyone will be looking for false steps—for chinks in the armor, for places where gossips can stick thin little knives through. For the rest of your life you’ll be walking on eggs in Chicago. Unless—”

  “Unless what, Charles?”

  “I think the solution may be so obvious that we’ve overlooked it, Jake.”

  “What is it?”

  “It’s called philanthropy.”

  Seventeen

  EATON & CROMWELL & CO. INC.

  Interoffice Memorandum

  From:C.W.

  June 2, 1917

  To: J.A.

  PERSONAL AND CONFIDENTIAL

  I hope you’ll forgive my Christian temerity, Jake, in attempting to explain matters pertaining to your religion, but the twelfth-century Jewish philosopher, Moses Ben Maimon (Maimonides) had a good deal to say on the subject of Charity, and as he outlined it there are eight degrees, each successive degree more worthy than the last. These are:

  To give (1) but sadly; (2) too little, but with good humor; (3) only after being asked; (4) before being asked; (5) so that the donor does not know who the recipient is; (6) so that the recipient does not know who the donor is; (7) so that neither donor nor recipient knows the other’s identity; (8) help to the unfortunate not in the form of a gift but rather a loan or a job or whatever means are necessary for him to help himself and so maintain his self-respect.

  In your new career as a philanthropist, Jake, I’m suggesting that you keep your eye on number 8.

  It also seems to me that whatever focus you should choose for your philanthropy should be something utterly original, something about which no one else in the city is doing anything. I am not saying that you should ignore Chicago’s pet causes—the opera, the art museum, the hospitals. All these should certainly get your generous support. But I also think that the main thrust of your giving should be toward a social cause which is both deserving, and has been heretofore overlooked. When that cause becomes identified with Jacob Auerbach, there will be no one in the city who will dare to challenge your integrity.

  What might that cause be?

  Well, I have a suggestion for you. You may have noticed recent items in the press concerning the great influx of Negroes that the War and War-related industry has been attracting to Chicago. These people are coming for the most part from the rural South. They are unused to our colder climate. They are unused to city life. They are poor, ignorant, and uneducated. They are clustering together in a ghetto of poverty on the South Side. The conditions in which these Negroes live are deplorable. They lack sanitation, electricity, in some cases even heat. They are being exploited as cheap labor by the railroads, etc. And, beyond blaming them for the increasing rate of crime, these people are being totally ignored.

  I think your thrust might be in the area of helping these people with loans, jobs, training, education, etc. We might even consider a job-training program at E & C, for Negroes.

  Of course this is only a suggestion, Jake, but I think it is worth your giving it some thought.

  On another matter: Did I tell you how pleased I was with our Pittsburgh performance. I believe they are close to meeting our price, and we may soon have a manufacturer of washing machines in our pocket.

  Incidentally, on the trip home you mentioned your worry that Essie may have trouble coping with her new life. I would have no worries about Essie, Jake. Once she is given the room to grow, i.e., the new house, I think you will be surprised to see the bright blooms and foliage that will appear.…

  The little town of Elberon, on the New Jersey shore, had become the favored summer watering-place of New York’s Uptown German Jewish bourgeoisie. Nearby, the town of Deal was a resort for wealthy Protestants and, farther up the coast, Sea Bright had a more Roman Catholic tone. No one seemed to know, exactly, how these ethnic frontiers had been originally defined, but they were very rigid and, one summer, when a hotel in Allenhurst which did not admit Jews caught fire, a group of children from the wealthy Jewish families stood by and cheered as it burned to the ground. Elberon was also the demesne of those who supported the acknowledged, but unofficial, sovereignty of Mr. Jacob H. Schiff as Leader of the American Jewish Community, for Mr. Schiff was a great believer in the health-giving properties of sea air which Elberon, facing the open Atlantic—with nothing between it and the coast of Portugal—possessed in full measure. It was not that everyone liked or admired Mr. Schiff, exactly. But supporting Mr. Schiff’s leadership was often useful. He had made himself something of an American equivalent to the Court Jew of Europe. He had the ear of municipal and federal officialdom. His services were invaluable when something was wanted from City Hall. Also, at Elberon, many of the summer residents—Loebs, Warburgs, Seligmans, Guggenheims—were not only supporters, but also in various ways relatives of Mr. Schiff.

  Besides the ocean, Elberon did not offer much in the way of scenic beauty. The countryside was flat, and the saline soil did not support foliage-bearing trees, and the only plants that flourished with any reliability were nasturtiums and blue hydrangeas. Still, summer mansions of considerable magnificence had been built across this inhospitable terrain, on Rum-son Road and its side streets, earning Elberon its name as “The Jewish Newport.” One Guggenheim house was an exact copy of the Petit Trianon at Versailles. The Samuel Sachs house was a white stucco adaptation of an Italian palazzo with red-tiled roofs and foundations and formal gardens adapted from the Tuilleries. One Elberon ho
use was a replica of the Alhambra in Granada, and still another was an Italian country villa with Pompeian inner courtyards paved with marble, grottoes and sunken gardens. The majority of the houses in Elberon, however, were like the one on Rumson Road owned by Lily and Louis Auerbach, and her Rosenthal brothers—of the late-nineteenth-century era when they had been built: huge, Victorian shingled affairs, hectic with gingerbread, millwork, and decorative cupolas, surrounded on all sides by open porches covered with high-backed rocking chairs that rocked back and forth all day by themselves in the offshore breezes. To restless youngsters who complained that there was nothing to do at Elberon, their parents explained that there was surf-bathing in the ocean, tennis at the Club, and horseback riding. During the weekdays, the ladies of Elberon amused themselves with lunches and teas, followed by postprandial strolls designed to work up an appetite for the next meal. Dinner parties were reserved for weekends, when the menfolk came down from the city aboard the ferryboat Asbury Park, on which private staterooms could be rented by the season for the journey.

  It was to Elberon that Essie had been invited by her in-laws to spend the month of July that first wartime summer while, under the hovering attentions of Joseph Duveen, her house in Lake Forest was being fitted for occupancy. Jake would join her there later. The invitation to Elberon, Jake had explained, amounted to a command performance. It was a signal from Lily Auerbach, it seemed, that Essie had been sufficiently groomed and prepared to be taken officially into the family, and to meet the members of the Jewish upper crust whom her in-laws counted as their friends.

  Many of the Elberon houses, she had soon noticed, were marked by the same decorative details. There were many walnut-paneled dining rooms, many parlors with plush-covered ottomans. There was inevitably a vitrine in a corner displaying a collection of Dresden figurines; a gold-fringed lamp supported by a ring-a-rosy of bronze cherubs; there was a marble-topped table crowded with silver-framed photographs of family activities—sailing, canoeing, riding, picnicking, sitting in gardens under parasols; there was a palm tree in a Sévres pot. And at the cornerstone of every Elberon house was the collection of family portraits, relatives gazing down solemnly from heavy gilt frames suspended by golden ropes, relatives painted both as adults and as children: the little girls in dresses of black or purple velvet with white lace collars, posed with birds, Bibles, or hoops in their hands; the little boys in short trousers, Eton jackets, and patent-leather buckle shoes. As Essie was invited to luncheon after luncheon in Elberon—to undergo inspection by her mother-in-law’s friends—she was struck by these recurring details.