In Lily Auerbach’s drawing room in Elberon there was a portrait of Jake, painted when he was six or seven, still in long dark curls, looking pensive, with a collie dog lying at his feet. “What was the dog’s name?” she asked her mother-in-law.
“He didn’t have a dog,” Lily Auerbach said. “The artist just added it.”
It was hard to imagine Jake growing up in this stylized, mannered world of luncheons and tea parties, of tomatoes stuffed with caviar and anchovies, of Irish linen sheets, of rooms that smelled of lavender sachet, rose-petal pot-pourris, and sea air.
“He was a frail child, you know,” Lily said, as though reading her thoughts. “Frail, and rather sickly. That’s why he couldn’t have a dog. The doctor was worried that a dog might bring in germs. Every childhood illness there was Jake seemed to get twice. Terrible bouts of whooping cough. And he was also a very shy child—with that terrible, traumatic experience when he was in the second grade. But of course he’s told you all about that.”
“No,” Essie said. “What was that?”
“Doctor Bergler felt it helped account for a number of things. It was at the Browning School, where we first sent him. Each of the children was given a locker—you know, for their books and coats and galoshes. One day a schoolmate, we never knew who, wrote a vile thing in chalk on Jakey’s locker door.”
“What was it?”
“I believe it was ‘Dirty Jew,’ or something like that. That night—I’ll never forget—he came home and asked me, ‘Mother, what is a Jew?’”
Essie hesitated. “And what did you tell him?” she said at last.
“I sat him down and tried to tell him very carefully. I explained to him that Judaism was a very proud and ancient religion, and that he should be very proud to be a Jew. I explained to him that Judaism was really no different from Christianity, except that Judaism did not accept the divinity of Christ. I also told him that, at the same time, there were some Christians who did not care for Jews, and who blamed the Jews for the killing of their Christ, even though it was not the Jews who killed Christ, but the Roman soldiers, and even though Christ himself was a Jew. I explained to him that it was very important for a Jew living in a Christian world not to push himself forward, not to be conspicuous about being Jewish, not to get into arguments with Christians about religion, not to be noisy or a show-off. I told him that it was perfectly all right, even desirable, to have Christian friends. But that if any Christian appeared not to want to be friendly, he should ignore it.”
Essie wondered what her father would say to Lily Auerbach’s definition of Judaism.
“You know,” Essie said, “I never thought you’d forgive Jake for leaving Rosenthal’s, Mother Auerbach.”
“It was hard, at first, to accept it,” Lily said. “It was hardest, perhaps, for me, as his mother. Breaking the chain. But now that’s he’s become so successful, I see that Doctor Bergler’s prophecy has come true. The retailing genius that was always in his genes has finally come through, but in a different way—alas, not for us. In fact, entre nous, my brothers and I are thinking of putting Rosenthal’s up for sale, if we can find the right sort of buyer.”
In a sudden insight, Essie thought: She wants Jake to buy it. At the same time, she knew that Jake would never buy it, no matter how low the price.
“Of course, one could wish—”
“Wish what?” Essie said.
“For Jake’s sake, one might wish that Eaton and Cromwell—well, it is mass market, you see, and for Jake’s sake one might wish that his company had more prestige. I mean, it isn’t Saks or Altman’s or Rosenthal’s—or even Macy’s, is it?”
“It’s getting more prestige every day,” Essie said.
“Yes, but you know how people talk,” Lily said vaguely. “You know how people are. Now tell me about this young man who works with Jake.”
“Charles Wilmont. He’s a wonderful man, Mother Auerbach. Jake’s very lucky to have him.”
“Jewish?”
“No. Just a marvelous human being, and very smart.”
“And tell me another thing, now that we’re getting to be friends. Were you in love with Jake when you married him?”
“Why, Mother Auerbach, what a question!”
“I’m not trying to pry. After all, women have been doing that for years—for centuries—using marriage to get out of one situation and into another. There’s absolutely nothing wrong with it. I wouldn’t hold it against you if that were the case.”
“Of course I was in love with him,” Essie said, wondering whether she would ever be comfortable enough with her mother-in-law to ask Lily the same question, about the shameful union.
“Good. I’m glad,” Lily said. “Because I’m not unaware of the help you’ve been to him, helping him to find himself at last. Of course, love is endurance, isn’t it? It is a race against time. Sometimes I think it is fortunate that it only happens to the young.” On that inexplicable note, she changed the subject. “Now tell me what you’re planning to wear for Mrs. Schiff’s luncheon tomorrow,” she said.
Mrs. Schiff’s luncheon, Essie had been given to understand, was a key event of the Elberon social season. In terms of Essie’s acceptance by the little community, it was to be a crucial test, where her appearance and demeanor, and how she comported herself, would be subjected to the most exacting scrutiny. Mrs. Schiff’s standards were high, and her judgments were invariably final. In fact, Lily Auerbach was so nervous about Mrs. Schiff’s luncheon that Essie had decided not to contribute to this with any additional nervousness of her own. Lily, for example, had no objection to Essie’s manner of addressing her as “Mother Auerbach,” but she was not sure how Mrs. Schiff would feel about it. It was not, it seemed, in the customary mode of the little group. The term “Belle mére” was proposed, then rejected as too pretentious. Finally it was decided that, for the purpose of the Schiff luncheon at least, Essie would simply call her mother-in-law “Lily.”
The luncheon, as expected, was a very grand and formal affair for thirty-six ladies, and was held in Mrs. Schiff’s walnut-paneled dining room hung with family portraits. Over a baronial fireplace at one end of the room hung the Schiff family crest, which featured, not surprisingly, a ship in full sail. Mrs. Schiff had not one, but two butlers, the function of one of which was simply to stand at the head of the room throughout the meal and direct the service of the other who, in turn, directed the waitresses, and who announced the courses to the hostess as they appeared, in French. Mrs. Schiff herself was a tiny and, to Essie, not particularly intimidating woman, though she did have a habit of asking direct questions.
“You were born in Russia, is that correct?” she asked.
“Yes,” Essie said.
“You know, my husband, Mr. Schiff, has had the greatest interest and concern for his Russian—co-religionists.”
“Oh, yes. Mr. Schiff’s work with the settlement houses is well known.” And she added, “And much admired.”
“Admired? Sometimes I wonder,” Mrs. Schiff said. “He’s given so much time and money on behalf of those people. Sometimes I wonder if they really appreciate it. Do you think they really do?”
“Yes,” said Essie carefully, feeling her mother-in-law’s anxious eyes on her from across the table, “I think that in their hearts of hearts they do. It was help, after all, that was desperately needed, and that was coming from no other source, and the people on the Lower East Side realized this, and appreciated this.”
“Then couldn’t even one of them have come forth—one of those hundreds of thousands who came here with no more than the clothes on their backs—come forth with a simple ‘Thank you’? Even the Yiddish language press has criticized my husband. Someday, Mrs. Auerbach, you must explain the Russian mind to me.”
“I don’t think it’s the Russian mind,” Essie said. “I think it’s human nature, Mrs. Schiff. Gratitude is a very difficult emotion for people to express, and it’s never pleasant being on the receiving end of charity. People wh
o need charity accept it and resent it at the same time because they hate being needy. For people who’ve never been needy, this is sometimes hard to understand, but I think that’s where the trouble and the misunderstanding lie. The Jews on the Lower East Side are too proud to say, ‘Thank you, Mr. Schiff.’ But they thank Jacob Schiff in their hearts.”
“Interesting,” said Mrs. Schiff. “But sometimes I think I shall never understand those people.”
After luncheon, the ladies removed themselves to Mrs. Schiff’s drawing room for coffee and, variously, repaired to the powder room. Returning from this natural mission, Essie paused for a moment, on impulse, just outside the drawing room door.
“Well, she certainly doesn’t look like a Russian peasant,” she heard one voice say.
“She doesn’t talk like one, either.”
“But still. Those earrings. Emeralds for lunch? I would have thought pearls would be more appropriate.…”
“Did Jake Auerbach—well, have to marry her?”
Essie stepped into the room. “Excuse me,” she said. “And forgive my emeralds. I have some lovely pearls, but I forgot to pack them. And my oldest child was born eleven months after I married my husband.”
Mrs. Schiff’s eyes sparkled, and she threw Essie a little wink.
But this was all too much for Lily Auerbach, who cried out much too loudly, “Yes, the children! You must bring the children with you the next time you come, Esther!”
Later, in the car, being driven home by Marks, Lily Auerbach said, “It was my fault. I should have noticed the emeralds. You could have borrowed a strand of my pearls.”
By October, the Palladian house on the bluff above the lake was ready to be opened. Mr. Duveen had supervised every last detail, and was already hinting that the Auerbachs should consider a second home, a summer place, on the coast of Maine, perhaps, or in the Adirondacks, for which he would have all the right furnishings. The party to open the house, because of wartime austerity, was not to be like the lavish affairs that would follow in the years to come—strolling musicians, fortune-tellers set up in little tents, thousands of Chinese lanterns lighted in the trees, circus animals for children’s parties, a concert by the Chicago Symphony, and Joan’s coming-out party which, because of circumstances beyond anyone’s control, had to be canceled at the last minute. All those parties would come later, in the 1920s. This first house-warming was billed as a simple reception, with a hundred of Chicago’s business leaders and their wives invited. Spencer, the new majordomo, had filled all the rooms with arrangements of fall foliage and flowers.
“It’s perfectly beautiful,” Mrs. Bertie McCormick said to Essie. “Every room a gem.” McCormicks, Fields, Palmers and more McCormicks pressed her hand and congratulated her on the new house.
“Tell me,” said Mrs. Harold McCormick, “would you be interested in serving on the board of our Opera Guild?”
“I would love to do something for the opera,” Essie said.
“Good. Come to my house for lunch on Thursday, and we’ll talk about it.”
“Isn’t she beautiful? … Extraordinary eyes,” she heard people all around her saying.
“I seem to be doing better with the Christians of Chicago than I did with the Jews of Elberon,” Essie whispered to Charles when he arrived.
The only difficult guest was Cecilia Wilmont, who, at one point, when the other guests were beginning to leave, accosted Essie in the entrance foyer and said, “You think you own my husband, don’t you?”
Shocked, Essie said, “I don’t think anything of the sort, Cecilia.”
“You think you own him, both of you—you and Jake. I know all about how you found him. I know all about that little train ride.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Cecilia.”
“Well, you don’t own him. I own him,” Cecilia said.
It was then she realized that Cecilia had had too much to drink. She had never seen a woman intoxicated before, and had no idea of how to deal with one.
“You don’t own him,” Cecilia repeated. “And don’t go trying to steal him away from me, because he’s miner
“Certainly—”
“Trash!” Cecilia said.
“Excuse me,” Essie said helplessly. “My other guests—” And she moved away.
“Mrs. Rich Jew Trash!”
Eighteen
“Joan, why won’t you be nicer to your baby brother?” Essie asked her.
“Because everybody spoils him. Miss Kroger spoils him. You and Papa spoil him. Even Jake spoils him. Babette and I have made a pact in blood that we’re not going to spoil him.”
“What do you mean—a pact in blood?”
“We pricked each other’s arms with a needle, and wrote it in blood: ‘We will not spoil Martin Auerbach.’”
“I don’t want you pricking your arms with needles, Joan. You could get blood poisoning.”
“Well, we did.”
“And aren’t you getting a little old for this sort of thing—nine years old? Martin’s just a little baby. When I was your age, I helped my mother take care of my little brother.”
“I never wanted any baby brother anyway. Neither did Babette.”
“It’s the parents who decide whether there’ll be another baby, Joan—not the other children. Just the way we decided to have you.”
“We’re too old to have a baby brother! Besides, you don’t even take care of us, do you? Miss Kroger does that. She’s more like a real mother than you are. You’re never here. You’re going somewhere now, aren’t you? Where are you going now?”
Essie fastened a strand of pearls at her throat. “There’s a dinner for your father at the Drake. It’s very important. Mr. Lloyd George, of England, will be there.”
“You see? You’re always going somewhere. You’re never home with us anymore.”
Essie sat down on the bed and patted the coverlet. “Come here,” she said. “Sit down beside me, Joan.” She put her arm around her daughter’s narrow shoulders. “I try to spend as much time with all of you children as I can,” she said. “But you’ve got to understand, your father’s a very busy man. He works very hard to give us all the nice things that we have. And I have to do what I can to help him. Like tonight. Tonight is a dinner in his honor, and he must go, and I must go with him. We have to do these things to help you children have all the nice things you have. Can you remember when you didn’t have such nice things?”
“I guess so,” Joan said glumly.
“Well there—you see? All these are because your papa’s worked so hard. All these things—your pony. Is there anything in the world that you want that you can’t have?”
“Yes,” said Joan.
“What would that be, Joan?”
“Tennis balls.”
“What do you mean—tennis balls?”
“Papa told Hans we couldn’t have any more tennis balls.”
“Joan, I’m sure he didn’t.”
“He did! He did!”
“Well,” Essie said. “I’ll speak to your papa about it—I’m sure there’s a misunderstanding. Now give me a kiss, and run along. I’ve got to go. I’ll stop by your room and tuck you in when I get home.”
On their way to the Drake, Essie rolled up the glass between McKay, in the front seat, and herself and Jake, in the back. “Joan told me that you had told Hans that the children couldn’t have any more tennis balls,” she said.
“That is correct,” he said.
“But why?” she asked. “What’s the point of the tennis court if the children have no balls to play with?”
“Why? I’ll tell you why. Because they are constantly losing them, that’s why. They let them roll off the court into the grass, and don’t bother to chase them. The gardeners pick them up in the woods weeks later, all covered with rot and mildew. The children have got to be taught the material value of things. They’ve got to be taught that tennis balls cost money. They’ve got to be taught that money doesn’t grow on trees. They
think I’m made of money, but, by God, I’m not! Until they learn that, no more tennis balls.”
“I see,” she said.
“You may not know it,” he said in that irritable tone that he now used so frequently, “we’re going through a reorganization process right now—refinancing, getting ready to go back into peacetime production. The war will be over in a matter of weeks. This isn’t the easiest time for the business. The children can make some sacrifices, too, damnit.”
“I didn’t know,” she said. She reached out and touched his knee. “You used to talk to me about how things were going with the company, once upon a time—remember? You don’t anymore.”
“What do you mean? I just have.”
She scratched the tip of his knee with her gloved fingertip. “You used to tell me things like—like how I look tonight,” she said.
“You look fine,” he said.
From the New York Times:
BOLD NEW PHILANTHROPIC PROGRAM ANNOUNCED BY CHICAGO MILLIONAIRE
At a dinner at the Drake Hotel last evening, the chief speaker, Mr. Jacob Auerbach, brought his audience to its feet with a standing ovation when he announced a new program of philanthropy, of which the mail-order magnate will be both the chief underwriter and the engineer.
That something other than the ordinary afterdinner speech was under way was apparent from Auerbach’s opening question: “Why is nothing being done for the Negroes of America?”
The Auerbach Will Page 26
