The Auerbach Will

by Birmingham, Stephen;

  “Sit down,” he said, and when she had, he asked, “How well do you know my wife’s brother?”

  “Very well, Mr. Auerbach.”

  “Are you—romantically involved with him?”

  “Certainly not.”

  “You may get the impression that I am not overly fond of my wife’s brother. This is true, I’m not. He has at times threatened to be a considerable embarrassment to us, to myself and my company. Tell me—can you control him?”

  “Yes, I think I can.”

  “I mean, specifically, can you keep him out of Chicago? Can you keep him out of our hair?”

  “I think I can, Mr. Auerbach.”

  “He’s like the bad penny, you know, who always turns up. I never want to see or hear from him again, do you understand?”

  “You need a buffer zone,” she said.

  “Correct.”

  “And you can’t trust your wife to be that buffer zone.”

  He threw her a sharp look.

  “I could provide that buffer zone, if I worked for you,” she said. “Because I know how Arthur—or Abe—operates.”

  He riffled through some papers on his desk. “You seem to be an intelligent young woman,” he said at last.

  “I can type, and I can take shorthand,” she said.

  “And you’re also a very attractive woman.”

  “I’ve worked as a model. I could model clothes for your catalogue!” She stood up and twirled around. “I have a nice figure, I think.”

  “Yes,” he said quietly. “But it would also be very like that brother-in-law of mine to send an attractive woman to my office as part of a scheme to get something out of me.”

  “Oh, no, Mr. Auerbach!”

  “How can I be sure of that?”

  “I have a very low opinion of Arthur Litton, Mr. Auerbach. Please take my word for that.”

  “Well, if this is part of some scheme, out you go, young lady.”

  “Do you mean you’ll give me a job, Mr. Auerbach?”

  “I think we can find a place for you in this company,” he said. “And I also think that you have some reason for wanting to even a score with this man who calls himself Arthur Litton.”

  Daisy smiled. “That’s true,” she said.

  “So do I,” he said. “In which case, we ought to get on very well.”

  And so Daisy Stevens came into the lives of the little family, in the role of one of Jacob Auerbach’s secretaries.

  Essie had never inquired much about what other women there might have been in Jake’s life before he and she had met, though she was certain there had been several. His expertise on their wedding night had been demonstration enough of that. It was not that she wasn’t curious about who these women might have been, and what they looked like. And she occasionally tried to picture Jake in bed with another woman, or a series of faceless creatures. It was an era, after all, of a double standard, where young women were expected to be chaste and virginal, and where young men were expected to be just the opposite. It was also an era when things that happened at night were never discussed in daylight. Essie’s own grasp of the facts of life, learned from her mother and from other girls her age, had been, until her marriage, very sketchy and vague. All she had really known was that terrible, crippling diseases came from intimate relations with a man who was not your husband. And yet young men, after being given the same lectures about venereal diseases, were routinely taken by their fathers to visit prostitutes, to be taught by experts in the ancient art of sex.

  Jake’s mother had alluded, obliquely, to earlier romantic attachments of Jake’s. They had been, Essie gathered, intense, but rather short-lived. It had all been a part of what Lily Auerbach—and her son’s alienist—had seen as her son’s tendency toward indecisiveness, his inability to stick to any one thing, to follow through. “He had a pattern of starts and stops,” Lily had once said. “He’d be terribly enthusiastic about something, or some person, one minute, and then completely lose interest in the next. He was always coming home saying, ‘I’ve met the girl I’m going to marry!’ Two weeks later, we’d ask about her, and he’d have forgotten her name. I really began to wonder whether he’d ever marry. When he said he wanted to marry you, I confess that I assumed that this was just another of his passing fancies. Well, I was wrong.

  “I must say this for you, Essie,” Lily had said. “You’ve made him reverse that pattern. You made him grow up at last.”

  “Bear in Garia,” Babette kept repeating, sitting on the blue chaise longue in her mother’s bedroom, dressing and undressing one of her dolls. “Bear in Garia. There is a bear in Garia.”

  “The Berengeria” Essie said. “That’s the boat your papa and I are taking to Europe next month.”

  “Why are you going?”

  “Because the war is over, and people are traveling again. And because I was so little when I left Europe that I can’t remember it. And because your papa hasn’t been since he was a little boy, and there are all sorts of places we want to visit.” She sat in front of her mirror, pinning up her hair.

  “Why can’t I go too, Mama?”

  “Because you’re too little, and because you and Joan are going to a wonderful camp in Maine for the summer, where there’ll be canoes and sailboats and horses and hikes, and where you’ll have a wonderful time.”

  “Will Jake get to go on the Bear in Garia?”

  “Hans is taking Jake to a ranch in Wyoming, where he’ll learn all about pioneering days in the West.”

  “I suppose that brat Martin gets to go.”

  “No, silly. He’s much too little. He’ll stay right here with Miss Kroger. Don’t worry, when you’re all older you’ll all have trips to Europe.”

  “Are you going to Russia, where you were born?”

  “No. They’ve had a revolution there. The Reds run Russia now, and they want to take over the whole world, which Americans don’t want them to do.”

  “Where will you go, then?”

  “Let’s see. England, Holland, Belgium, France, Germany, Austria, and Italy—I think that’s the way your papa’s planned it. I’ll send you letters from every place, and tell you all about it.”

  “Bear in Garia,” Babette repeated. “I want to go on the Bear in Garia.”

  From the society columns:

  Mr. and Mrs. Robert Rutherford McCormick entertained at a small dinner dance last night in honor of their friends Mr. and Mrs. John Jacob Auerbach, who will soon depart for New York to sail to Europe for the summer. For the occasion, the dancing tent, set up on the lawn of the McCormicks’ Lake Forest estate, was decked out in a nautical theme, with sailing burgees, papier-mâché life preservers, and a bandstand built to resemble a ship’s prow.… Mrs. John Jacob Auerbach, whose green eyes are almost as famous in Chicago as her big green emeralds, wore a gown of palest blue moire, with a chiffon overskirt. A pair of white orchids in her russet hair completed the ensemble.…

  “Oh, dear, they got your name wrong,” Essie said, putting down the paper. “They call you John Jacob Auerbach all through the story. How silly.”

  “No,” Jake said carefully. “That is the appellation I have chosen for myself. I’ve always missed having a middle name, and so, by taking John as a first name, Jacob will become my middle name.”

  “What? Am I to start calling you John?”

  “If you wish,” he said.

  “John,” she said. “Is that because it’s a Christian name? Is this part of your campaign to make people forget you’re a Jew? Saint John the Divine?” Suddenly she laughed. “Or are you trying to confuse yourself with John Jacob Astor?”

  “I hardly think any of this talk is appropriate,” he said. “When are you going to grow up and stop acting like a stupid schoolgirl?”

  All at once she was very angry. She flung the newspaper to the floor and stood up to face him. “Hypocrite!” she said. “You hypocrite! For the last six years I’ve watched you turning into a hypocrite, and I’m disgusted with the sight I see!
John Jacob Auerbach, you are a hypocrite and a fake!”

  “Essie, please control yourself. The servants—”

  “You—the great philanthropist, the great humanitarian. Don’t you think I see through that? It’s nothing but sham and show and courting the public and the newspapers. You don’t care about the Negroes any more than you care about the Italians or the Jews, except that you’d like them to have enough money to be Eaton customers. Don’t you think I saw through that from the beginning?”

  “Essie, that is an out-and-out lie.”

  “John Jacob Auerbach. All over this city, people must be laughing at you behind your back.”

  “That’s another lie.”

  “Oh, they wouldn’t dare let you know, of course. You’re much too rich—much too powerful. They’ll fuss over you, invite you to their parties, but they’ll sneer at you the moment your back is turned. And what is it you want, I ask myself? Is it to prove to your mother and your uncles, who for years tried to convince you that you were a weakling—the runt of the litter, that’s what they told me you were—that you’re more powerful than any of them, the great John Jacob Auerbach, friend of Presidents? Is that it?”

  “Essie, you’re crazy.”

  “For the last six years I’ve watched your ego grow, being fed in all directions by the toadies and the yes-men telling you how great you are. I’ve watched your ego grow and fatten, and it hasn’t been a pretty sight. And while we’re on the subject, Mr. John Jacob Auerbach, have you stood in front of a mirror lately or stepped on the bathroom scales? You must have put on at least forty pounds since the day I met you, and it’s not a bit becoming. It makes you look even more pompous than you are—if that’s possible.”

  “I will not dignify these remarks with comment.”

  “No, of course not, because nobody will ever tell you anything you don’t want to hear—they wouldn’t dare—except me. And what about me? You seem to have conveniently forgotten that I was the one who came up with the money you needed to buy into this business. Charles remembers it, but you’ve managed to forget. Where would you be if it hadn’t been for me, I wonder? Still on Grand Boulevard. I think I’ll call one of your famous press conferences, and tell them the whole story.”

  “Essie, you wouldn’t dare.”

  “That’s what you’re afraid of, isn’t it? That someone will find out the truth. About you. About Abe. About me.”

  “Essie, I am going to endeavor to forget this hysterical outburst,” he said.

  “Of course. Of course you’ll forget it. Just as you’ve forgotten everything else that was our lives. Hypocrite.”

  He slapped her hard across the face.

  She stood there, staring at him, her eyes clear. “That didn’t hurt,” she said. “Do it again.”

  He turned away from her, muttering, “Crazy Russian … crazy Kike. That’s what they told me I’d be getting. I should have listened to them.”

  “Yes,” she said. “You should have listened to them. And so should I.”

  Yet another gala in the festive round of parties to wish “Bon Voyage” to Mr. and Mrs. John Jacob Auerbach, who sail for Europe on the 14th, took place yesterday evening. This time, the venue of the occasion was the North Shore residence of Mr. and Mrs. Levi Leiter, where some 200 bedizened invitees gaily gathered to bid “Adieu” and “A bientôt” to the happy and popular pair.…

  Accompanying the Auerbachs aboard the S.S. Berengeria will be Mrs. Auerbach’s personal maid, Mr. Auerbach’s valet, and Miss Stevens, a private secretary, who will form their retinue during the European sojourn.

  Nineteen

  “What has happened to you is what happens to all women,” her mother said to her when she went down to Norfolk Street to see her the day before the sailing. “The loves goes. It doesn’t last—the love part. It’s just as well. The love part just gets in the way of seeing things as they really are. It’s not to worry about. A good marriage doesn’t need all that love—you’ll see. I found it out a long time ago, and you’ll find it out too before too long.”

  “You wouldn’t—divorce him, Mama?”

  Minna shrugged. “Divorce? What’s the point of that? What does that get you besides a lot of heartaches? You make a life. He gave you four fine children—two boys, two girls, that’s perfect. He gives you everything you want. He’s a big success, and you can have anything you want—a big house, big cars. How can you complain? He doesn’t hit you. I read all about Jacob Auerbach in the newspapers. Even the Tageblatt writes about him. He’s a big man, a makher. So don’t talk divorce—that’s narishkeit, foolishness. So what you do is, you make a life.”

  “I’m so unhappy, Mama.”

  “So—happy? Who’s happy? Show me a woman in this life who’s happy, and I’ll show you a woman without a brain. You’ve got a brain, Esther, so use it to make a life for yourself. If you complain, all that will happen is he’ll find himself another woman who doesn’t complain. Forget the love part, and you’ll find that once it’s gone it’s like a blessing. And you’ve got your new little son, Martin. You should be giving yourself to him.”

  “Didn’t you love Papa, Mama?”

  “Love him? Ha. I hardly knew him. But oh, yes, I loved him for a while. He was never bad to me.”

  “I mean—passionately?”

  “Passion? Well, I gave him two children, if that’s what you mean by passion.”

  “With me—in the beginning—it felt like a kind of passion,” Essie said.

  “Well, that’s the first thing to go, even before the love part,” her mother said.

  “I feel I’ve lost everything.”

  “So sit around and feel sorry for yourself—what will that get you beside gray hairs? Have you heard anything I’ve just said to you, Esther? I’ve said you’ve got to make a life—for yourself. Get out. Get busy. Do something. Get to work. Then your troubles will blow over like a thunderstorm.”

  “But I can’t run a business, Mama. He’d never let me go to work like that.”

  “Listen,” her mother said, “there are plenty of ways for a woman to get to work without running a candy store. Look—you’re the high society lady now, not me. Don’t turn to me and ask what sort of things a high society lady can do—all I know is what I read about them in the papers. Just look around you, find something for yourself to do, and start doing it. That’s the way to make a life.”

  Essie looked around her at the little shop, which seemed so much tinier and more crowded than she had remembered it, even though, she realized, it was just the same. “Mama, I wish you’d let us move you out to a nice house in the country—in Westchester, maybe, or Long Island.”

  “No, no,” her mother said. “What would I do in the country? Listen to the birds? No, this is my place. I know the neighborhood is changing—the shwartzes have come. But they don’t give me any trouble. They only make trouble with each other.”

  Essie paused. “How is Papa?” she asked.

  “The same. He never changes.”

  “Please give him my love.”

  Her mother nodded. “You see,” she said, “I made a life for myself—here. My life is here.”

  It had to be admitted that Daisy Stevens was good company. It soon became clear that Jake Auerbach’s reasons for the European tour were business ones—to establish markets and distribution points for Eaton & Cromwell products in postwar Europe. This meant that Essie and Daisy had most of their days to themselves, and many of their evenings as well, and they enjoyed each other’s company from the beginning. Essie had never really had a close woman friend before, and she found the experience refreshing and stimulating. It cleared the air of her life in ways that she had never imagined. Daisy, who had had four years of high school French, was determined to practice the language, and was equally determined to pass on her knowledge to Essie, and one of their purchases in Paris had been an English-French dictionary and phrase book.

  Also, though Daisy had never been outside the continental United States be
fore, she knew a good deal about Paris. During her Hollywood days, it seemed, she had picked up stray bits of information about the city, and had made mental notes of all of them. She was also clever at extracting interesting tips from hotel clerks, doormen, and taxi drivers. She had heard, for example, of a young French peasant woman named Gabrielle Chanel who had come to Paris and was revolutionizing fashion. She insisted that she and Essie visit Chanel’s atelier on the rue Cambon, where they both bought a number of outfits designed to be worn with ropes of pears and golden chains. She had heard of a group of young artists who were exhibiting on the Left Bank and who called themselves, variously, Post-Impressionists and Expressionists. Their names were Matisse, Braque, Derain, Léger, and a young Spaniard named Pablo Picasso, and their work, too, was considered daring and controversial.

  “But do you think—for Chicago?” Essie asked her.

  “Definitely,” said Daisy. “Chicago won’t understand any of it, of course. But if you start hanging these painters on your walls, you’ll be the talk of the town. And they’re so cheap. I’d buy as many as you can afford.”

  And so, as they toured the exhibitions, Essie bought—not indiscriminately, as Daisy would have preferred her to do, but selectively. “I want to get my ‘eye in’ first,” Essie kept reminding her. They toured galleries and museums, went to the opera and the ballet, and in between sat in restaurants or in cafés over glasses of wine and sparkling water, practicing their French.

  Not all their pursuits in Paris were strictly cultural.

  One afternoon Daisy tapped on the door of Essie’s suite at the Ritz, where the Auerbach party was staying. “Today,” Daisy said in a whisper when Essie let her in, “we are going to have an adventure.”

  “What is it?”

  “You’ll see. But we must go in heavy disguise. Here,” she said, “I’ve bought us both sunglasses. Tie your hair up in a scarf, and put on your plainest, simplest dress. We mustn’t be recognized. We mustn’t look like rich Americans—just ordinary tourists. And don’t bring much money.”