The Auerbach Will (29 page)

“But you wouldn't do that!”

“The Ickelheimers have changed to Isles.”

“But Ickelheimer was such a funny-sounding name to begin with,” she laughed.

“I was thinking of perhaps Ayer, or Ayers.”

“Oh, no,” she said. “No, Jake. I'm proud of being Mrs. Jacob Auerbach!”

And on a balmy autumn Saturday, he had ordered McKay, his driver, to take them all out to see the piece of property he had bought on the North Shore, outside Lake Forest. It consisted of a hundred and ninety acres of rolling, timbered land. The land rose—unusual for the area—from the lakefront and beach to a high bluff overlooking the lake, where the house would stand, and fell behind into a wide, wooded ravine. He and Essie climbed the bluff, with the three children clambering excitedly behind them, to the top where the view spilled out before them in all directions—endless pearly water to the east, where the sun would rise across the lake, and forest to the west as far as the eye could see, a magnificent panorama. Essie would always hold the picture of the five of them in her mind, standing there in the wind on that high, exposed plateau, overcoats flapping, because it would be one of the last outings they would ever take together as a family. “There's where we'll put the tennis courts,” Jake said, pointing, “and over there, the swimming pool—”

“Can I have a playhouse, Papa?” Joan asked.

“Of course,” he said, tousling her hair.

Climbing down the bluff to where the car waited, Essie said quietly to him, “Now that we're so rich, could I have some money to send to Mama—now that she's getting old?”

He gave her a quick look. “You'd like your original investment back? Is that it? Yes, I think that would be a good idea. See Charles about it. He'll write out the check.”

And she had been a little startled, even hurt, at how quickly he had acquiesced to that. It was almost as though he wanted to forget, now, that she had ever been a help to him. But that was how it happened. Just like that.

(undated)

Dearest Mama:

Enclosed is a check for the amount you let me borrow, plus interest in the amount you would have been paid if you had kept it in the bank, plus a little more to make it come out to an even figure. You see, I don't want Jake ever to know that the money came from you
—
he's so proud!

Dear Mama, I wish you would take this money and buy a nice house for yourself in the Bronx, where so many of your friends are moving. Will you think of it, please? But something tells me that you won't do this, though I wish you would
.

I hope now to be able to send you more money from time to time, and really, Mama, you could retire and not have to work so hard. But something tells me you will not do that, either.…

Realty, Jake is becoming so successful! It is wonderful, of course, but still a little bit bewildering to me.… Jake is going to build us a big house. What will that be like for me?

The Uptown Jewish ladies of New York each had their own particular visiting days, when they placed lacquered and engraved calling cards, corners turned down, on silver trays, and amused themselves over cups of tea. Thursday was Therése Schiff's day, and six ladies, most of whom were related to each other in various ways, had gathered in her parlor at 932 Fifth Avenue.

“Can you believe your ears?” Mrs. Schiff was saying. “Little Jakie Auerbach, of all people? None of us thought he had a business brain in his head, and now it sounds as though he's going to be richer than all of us put together—and in the mail-order business, of all things. Will wonders never cease?”

“I heard something even more delicious,” said her sister-in-law Mrs. Loeb.

“What's that?” The ladies leaned forward intently.

“Lily Auerbach had a chance to invest in his business. But she turned him down, so now she's out on a limb.”

The ladies laughed pleasantly at this prospect. “Whoever told you that?” asked one.

“A little bird. Actually, her butler is sweet on my cook.”

“Lily Auerbach, with all her airs,” said another. “All her grand Rosenthal airs. Who are the Rosenthals, but little shopkeepers?”

“Old R. B. Rosenthal was a crook. Kept his mistress under the same roof with his wife for years.”

“Mr. Schiff bought a suit at Rosenthal's,” said Mrs. Schiff. “The first time he bent over in it, the seat seam popped open.”

The ladies laughed even more at this slightly naughty picture of Mr. Jacob H. Schiff's undertrousers exploding into view.

“Thank goodness he was at home, and not at the office.”

“I wonder how Jakie's little wife is taking it all?” someone asked. “He married a little Kikey girl, you know, from Grand Street, or something like that. Lily tried to keep it very quiet, but everyone knew. He'd got her pregnant.”

“Oh, I
know
. Well, from all reports, she's a fish out of water, poor thing. A babe in the woods with it all. But then, what could one expect?”

They were posing for what would become their annual Christmas card picture, which would be sent out to each of the company's employees. Its purpose, Jake explained, was to reinforce the Christian, the Good Samaritan, aspect of Eaton & Cromwell that he wanted to project.

“Now, Mr. Auerbach, if you'll just stand there, in the center, behind the chair,” the photographer said. “Mrs. Auerbach, I'd like you seated in the chair. Young Jake, if you'll stand there, at your father's right, and Mr. Auerbach, if you'll rest your right hand on your son's shoulder … yes, like that. And if the little girls will sit here, on the floor in front of the chair, by their mother's feet. Yes, I like that … that's very nice.” He crouched under a black cloth, behind his camera, and held up his flash lamp. “Now, smiles, everyone.…”

And in December, Jacob Auerbach was invited to be Honored Speaker at the annual Christmas meeting of the Chicago Chamber of Commerce. He spent hours composing and rehearsing his speech, and then fussed endlessly over what his wife would wear. Finally, he took her with him to Field's French Room, where the advice of Miss Marguerite was sought. In the end, after hundreds of dresses had been shown and modeled, he chose a gown of pale green silk, which Miss Marguerite said complemented Essie's auburn hair. It was a design by Worth of Paris, and was trimmed with frills and sash and a girdle of the same material, and its bosom was appliquéd with hundreds of tiny, hand-made white silk roses. A green-and-white silk headband, and a white silk fan completed the ensemble. It cost seven hundred and fifty dollars.

At the dinner, after the last dessert plates had been cleared away and the waiters had retired behind the swinging doors of the Hotel Blackstone ballroom, the guest of honor was introduced and rose to the podium. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he began, “I have often been asked to account for the success of our business here in Chicago, where I am not a native, though where I have been made to feel like one. I could offer standard answers, such as hard work, good merchandise, a belief in honest pricing, and a belief that the customer is always right. But to all these I would like to add another ingredient—good luck.

“As I have watched our catalogue grow thicker, our range of merchandise grow greater, our profits larger and our profit-sharing plan accordingly grow more generous, I have always paused to remind myself how much of this is due to intuition—intuition in little things. Let me give you just one or two examples. As you know, our customers for the most part are in the modest to average income range—those hardworking people who make America great. And so the idea of a waterproof apron came to me, made of coated cloth, which would not have to be placed in the laundry, but could be just wiped clean. We offered these little items in a variety of prints and colors. The idea was an immediate success, gratifying to me because I believed I was helping to ease the American housewife's busy day. We sold tens of thousands of these items, and still receive as many as a thousand orders for them a day.

“Another example. Around the time I joined Eaton and Cromwell, I happened to make a journey on a train, and as I passed through the isolated little farm communities of Indiana, Ohio, and Pennsylvania, I was struck by how lonely these little farms seemed, so far apart from each other. What would bring the light of happiness into the lives of these hardworking country people, I asked myself? And the answer came to me—Art. The universal language of great Art. That fall, in our catalogue, against the advice of colleagues more experienced than I, I offered what was to be the first in a series of Eaton and Cromwell's Great Masterpieces—a reproduction of Da Vinci's ‘The Last Supper.' To everyone's surprise, that item—at the other end of the spectrum from an apron—was also an immediate success. Since then, from this lucky start, each of our catalogues has offered a new Great Art Masterpiece—by Titian, Rembrandt, Rubens, Tintoretto—and I have had the satisfaction of knowing that I have been able to bring the joy of owning great art into hundreds of thousands of humble homes across the length and breadth of America.…”

Charles Wilmont, seated beside Essie at the speaker's table, reached out and touched her hand.

Now it is February, and Essie is surprised to hear from Mary Farrell that Babette is calling Long Distance from Palm Beach. It is now the height of the winter social season, and Babette is customarily much too preoccupied with her activities in that southern resort to give any time to family matters. Sensing a possible emergency, Essie picks up the phone promptly, and says, “Yes, Babette, dear. How is everything?”

“Oh, everything is fine, Mother,” Babette says, “but something very peculiar is happening.”

“What's that?”

“Well, I don't want you to think I'm extravagant, but I was in Cartier's the other day—”

An emergency, Essie thinks. Some emergency. An emergency involving Cartier's, of all places.

“—and I saw the loveliest pair of emerald earrings, which would be perfect with this new Dior I've ordered.”

“Yes, dear.”

“And, well, to buy them, I thought I'd sell a little of my Eaton stock.”

“Yes, dear.…”

“But when I called my man at Hutton's, it suddenly seems that I don't have any.”

“Don't have any what?”

“Eaton stock. It's all being held in some kind of escrow. I'm something called a ‘subordinated debt holder,' whatever that means, and I can't get at my stock.”

There is a long pause, and then Essie says, “Well, how did you get yourself in that kind of pickle? Where'd your stock go?”

“Well, Mother, I think Joan has it.”

“Joan? How could that be?”

“Because—oh, about six months ago, Joan gave me some papers to sign. I didn't pay too much attention. She told me that it was a very complicated deal, involving several different banks, and that it would all work out—you know, to my benefit—my monetary benefit—in the end. You know, with interest and all.”

“And so you signed these papers.”

There is a nervous giggle from the other end of the line. “Well, yes—I did.”

“I see.”

“What should I do, Mother?”

“Have you spoken to Joan about this?”

“I've tried to reach her, but she won't return my calls.”

“Have you talked to Josh?”

“No. Should I, Mother?”

“No,” Essie says quickly. “I'll speak to him, and find out what I can.”

“Thank you, Mother.”

“And I'll get back to you. How've you been? How's Joe?”

“Oh, we're both fine—”

“And how's the weather down there?”

“Oh, the weather's fine—except. Except I'm a little upset, Mother. I really want those emeralds—” Her daughter's voice is now almost a whine. “I really do, Mother.”

“Well, I'll find out what I can,” Essie says briskly. “Goodbye, dear.” She replaces the telephone quickly in its cradle, and buzzes for Mary Farrell.

And in another part of the city, in their apartment at 161 East Sixty-eighth Street, Joan and Richard McAllister are having a rather heated argument.

“It could be the news story of the year,” Joan is saying.

“But you don't have a shred of evidence. It's nothing but speculation. If we printed that, Josh and all the rest of your family could sue the
Express
for libel, and we'd really be out of business.”

“That's why I've got to get to Arthur Litton, to get the proof we need.”

“But you haven't been able to get to him.”

“But I'm making headway, darling! I've got his unpublished number, and I've been calling every day—”

“And getting nowhere.”

“No, not getting nowhere! I get a woman's voice—it must be the wife. I've left a number of messages, trying to make it clear that it may be to his advantage—his financial advantage—to see me. I think I'm little by little getting that point across.”

Richard McAllister spreads his hands. “And so,” he says, “what if you find out—unlikely though it seems to me—that this theory of yours and Mogie's is true? What will you do with that information? Zap the company? Zap the hands that feed you? Zap your entire family? You amaze me, Joan, you really do.”

“Not
necessarily,
” Joan says. “Don't you see? Once we have the proof we need, we can perhaps—sort of present that information to Mother—”

“
Threaten
her with publishing, you mean. My God, Joan. Shades of Colonel Mann.”

“Who's he?”

“Colonel Mann.
Town Topics
. It was a scandal sheet years ago. He'd dig up dirty secrets about people, and threaten to publish them if the parties involved didn't pay up. I never thought I'd get involved in that kind of journalism.”

Joan slams her fist down hard on the marble surface of the coffee table. “But what other options do we have?” she cries. “Don't we want to save the paper? You said yourself—”