The Auerbach Will (51 page)

As had been expected, too, with America in the war, and with government contracts for uniforms and other war materiel, the profits of Eaton & Cromwell began to climb slowly and steadily to heights even beyond those of the 1920s. It was in 1942 that Jake Auerbach announced that, for business reasons, the family's principal residence would become New York, and that he had purchased the large floor-through apartment at 720 Park Avenue. “We'll keep The Bluff as an extra summer place,” he said. “I don't suppose we really need it, but this is a poor time to sell.”

She and Jake had toured the huge empty rooms together.

“You'll need a good decorator,” he said. Mr. Duveen was gone.

“I don't think so,” Essie said. “I've learned a thing or two over the years, and I think I'd like to do this one myself.”

“Whatever you say.”

There were times when Essie wondered how Daisy was managing to raise her daughter. The girl would be about a year older than Josh, growing up, and it could not be easy for a young girl growing up in a small Ohio suburb, knowing that she was illegitimate. Or perhaps not knowing that, but certainly not knowing anything about her father. Did her schoolmates tease her—make her life miserable? How did Daisy handle it all? Daisy, on the other hand, though not an intellectual, was a resourceful woman, and Essie assumed that Daisy arranged for her daughter's life somehow. Daisy made periodic visits back to Ohio, and during these visits Essie supposed that Daisy somehow handled things. All this, of course, was something she and Daisy did not talk about. It would be years before Essie had the answers to any of her questions.

In the summer of 1942, while the world anxiously read reports of the Battle of Stalingrad, while Essie Auerbach toiled in Chicago for the Red Cross, and while whatever workmen and artisans who could be rounded up in wartime toiled with at least the basic refurbishment of the New York apartment, the four played bridge one evening at The Bluff—Jake and Essie, Charles and Daisy. Cecilia Wilmont was always in and out of sanatoriums now, and in four more years she would become a permanent resident of the Riggs Institute in Connecticut, where she would die in 1962. And so they had become a regular bridge foursome, and played about once a month.

They had, as usual, cut for partners, and Jake had drawn Daisy that evening which, Essie knew, displeased him, since Daisy was the least accomplished player of the four, and Jake only enjoyed the game when it was played for extremely high stakes—ten cents a point.

The contract was for four spades, and the hand was Daisy's to play, and Charles had doubled. Jake, frowning, lay down his cards.

“Very pretty, partner,” Daisy said, and passed her hand across the table for him to inspect.

He fanned out Daisy's cards, and his frown grew deeper. He returned her hand to her without a word.

The play began, and Essie was immediately apprehensive. She herself had considered doubling. Under the table, she reached out to touch her husband's knee, which he withdrew.

The play continued, and Daisy said, “Oh, dear—where did
that
come from?” when Essie played her jack of trump.

“From Essie's
hand,
” said Jake.

“Oh, dear.…”

And when it was over, Jake said, “Down two. Doubled,” and wrote the score on the “They” side of the scoresheet.

“I'm sorry, partner—I miscounted trump.”

“Let's see—my deal, your make,” Essie said brightly, picking up the cards and dealing them as rapidly as possible. Collecting her cards, she said quickly, “Pass.”

“One no-trump,” said Jake on her left.

“Pass,” said Charles.

“Two no-trump,” said Daisy.

“Pass …”

“Three no-trump,” said Jake, and placed his hand face-down on the table.

“Pass …”

“Pass …”

“Pass …”

“Well, thank goodness you can play this hand, Jake,” Daisy said, “and I can be dummy,” and she began to lay out her hand, face up, on the table.

“Dummy,” Jake said, “is a good word for you.”

There was a little silence at the table, as Daisy continued to lay down her cards, in their suit order and value sequence, her fingernails clicking against the polished surface of the cards. Then she said quietly, “Excuse me, I'm going to powder my nose,” and rose and left the table.

For a moment, the others studied their cards intently. Then Essie said, “Jake, that wasn't very nice. I wish you wouldn't speak to her that way.”

Jake said nothing, merely stared at his cards.

“It's only a game. Isn't it supposed to be fun?”

Then, in a low even voice, Jake said, “She isn't moving with us to New York.”

“What do you mean?”

“Exactly what I said. She isn't moving with us to New York.”

“But what are you going to
do
with her?”

“Do? Nothing. Dismiss her. She hasn't earned her salary in years.”

“But Jake, you can't
do
that! You just can't!”

“Why can't I? Why should I support dead wood?”

“Oh, Jake, you can't—after all these years! It's been almost twenty-five years, Jake!”

“I'm aware of that.”

“After twenty-five years, you can't just—just
dump
a person like that. It's too cruel—it's—”

“I'll give her enough to tide her over until she finds something else.”

“You can't, Jake. Jake, I won't let you. Jake, she's my friend,
too!
”

“What difference does that make?”

“You're moving me to a new city, where I'm going to have to make all new friends. I want Daisy with me in New York—as my friend. You'll have Charles with you, you'll have all your other executives, but what about me?”

“You'll make new friends.”

“No! I want to keep Daisy!”

Charles spoke up for the first time. In a quiet voice, he said, “None of this is any of my business, Jake, but I'll tell you this—you're spoiling our bridge game. May I make a suggestion?”

“What's that?”

“Go find her, and tell her you're sorry. Apologize. And let's try to get through the rest of the evening on a pleasant key.”

“But—”

“Please, Jake—do as Charles says. We can discuss all this later.”

“Well …”

“Do it. Go find her. Tell her you're sorry.”

“Well, all right,” Jake muttered, and got up from the table and walked out of the room.

When he was gone, Essie and Charles put down their unplayed hands and stared at each other in dismay.

“Did you—” Essie began.

“No, I had no idea he was thinking of this,” he said.

“He can't—”

“You've got to stop him, Essie.”

“Help me.”

“We need Daisy, to protect what we've got.”

“Protect?”

“To protect what you and I have, Essie.”

She would have asked him to explain what he meant, but with the sound of her husband's footsteps approaching across the hall outside the card room she said nothing.

“She'll be down in a minute,” Jake said, sitting down at the table again.

“Jake, you owe her too much to treat her this way,” Essie said. “You owe her too much.”

He gave her a veiled look, and then gazed down at the red baize surface of the card table. There was no reply.

“I agree with Essie,” Charles said quickly. “You owe her too much,” and now Jake gave Charles the same look.

“I have an excellent idea,” Essie said. “Why not let Daisy have the little apartment at the Pierre? We're certainly not going to need that any longer. Let that be Daisy's!”

“Well, we'll see—”

“You owe her that much, at least—”

But at that moment Daisy had reappeared at the doorway, smiling cheerfully, though her face had a pink, scrubbed look that suggested she had been crying. “My goodness, partner,” she said, looking down at the unplayed hands on the table, “haven't you even started to
play
yet? Where's our three no-trump?”

And Essie's suggestion was the one that was taken, and the apartment at the Pierre became Daisy's when they all made the move to New York at the end of that year.

Mrs. Schiff was a very old lady now, but she had been the first of the Old Guard New York group to pay Essie a call—or “pass a call,” as Mrs. S. put it—at the new apartment on Park Avenue. She had brought a pair of heavy silver serving spoons, wrapped in tissue paper, as a housewarming gift. “Family pieces,” she explained. “The children have been through all my silver, and put their names on everything. But I managed to tuck these two pieces away and saved them for you. They're good, German silver.” Then, braced on a pair of walking sticks, she surveyed the apartment. “Very nice,” she pronounced.

“It's far from done,” Essie said. “There's a lot more that I want to do. I feel a little guilty, of course, decorating a big apartment like this what with the wartime shortages.” She led the older woman into the library, and seated her in front of the fire.

Mrs. Schiff gazed up at the Chandor portrait over the mantel, which Jake had sat for three years earlier. “Jacob,” she said. “He's gained weight.”

“Yes, I'm afraid so. Tea? Or sherry?”

“Sherry, please.”

Essie rang for the butler.

“Well, welcome back to New York,” Mrs. Schiff said when she had her glass.

“Thank you, Mrs. Schiff. Of course I'm a little nervous.”

“Nervous? Why?”

“Well, it was easy enough to get established in Chicago, where everybody is new-rich anyway. Nobody there gives a fig what your maiden name was. But in New York—isn't it old family names that count? And an old family name is something I don't have.”

“Your reputation precedes you,” Mrs. Schiff said. “The Opera Guild. The Red Cross. There's just one woman you need to know. Eleanor Belmont. She's interested in all the things you are. I'll bring her around and introduce you. She'll have you on one of her committees before you can say Jack-be-nimble.”

“That's very kind of you.”

“And the holiday season's coming up. Give a party. A big party. I'll give you all the names of who to ask. They'll all come. Out of curiosity. You'll be the hit of New York before you can say Jack-be-nimble.”

And so that was how the tradition of the Auerbachs' annual Christmas party was carried from Chicago to New York, with the big Norway spruce tree, the stepladder and the toasts, with Mr. Lewisohn who always wanted to sing the
Lieder
, with Mrs. Warburg who was hard of hearing—always had been—and Mrs. Loeb, who invariably got lost in the kitchen on her way to the ladies' room. It was a tradition that would last for more than twenty years.

“What did you mean when you said that Daisy was our protection?” she asked him. They met, now, in his maisonette apartment on East Ninetieth Street, which had its own entrance from the street, and where Charles's one manservant was discreet.

“Don't you know? Can't you guess?”

“No. I don't know what you mean at all.”

“Well, if you don't know, and can't guess, then I don't want to tell you. Someday, perhaps.”

“Please tell me.”

“Someday.”

Now, increasingly, their fourth for bridge was Joshua, whom Jake much preferred as a partner, since Josh had become a clever and aggressive player. When Josh was home on his holidays from school, Jake usually saw to it that there was time for a few good evenings at the bridge table. Essie remembers, in particular, one April evening in 1944 when Josh was in New York for his spring break.

“Dad and Uncle Charles,” Josh said while the cards were being dealt, “there's something I've been thinking about.”

“What's that, Josh?” Jake asked.

“Have you been reading about this new bill in Congress—this bill for the G.I.s when they come home from the war?”

“I'm vaguely aware of it, yes.”

“It's going to offer G.I.s mortgages to build new homes, with only four percent interest and no down payments.”

“So?”

“So what do you suppose those G.I.s are going to do with that money? It seems to me that if
I
were a G.I. coming home from a war—well, the first thing I'd want to do, I guess, is marry the girl I left behind, and start having children. The next thing I'd want is a nice house in the country, where I can raise my kids.”

“That makes sense.”

“I think this means there's going to be a lot of building—not in the cities, but out in the suburbs. And I think that means the suburbs are going to kind of—explode. And I think all those people aren't going to want to go into the city to shop. There're going to have to be a lot more suburban stores.”

“Yes, that sounds logical.”

Essie noticed that Charles was staring intently at her son, the traces of a smile about his lips.

“I guess what I'm saying is that Eaton and Cromwell ought to get in on the ground floor of this. And start building stores—real stores, where people can buy off the counter, not just mail-order—but not in the cities. In the suburbs.”

“Well, of course we had plans to expand into direct retail selling back in the nineteen twenties,” Jake said. “But then the Depression came along, and everything had to be tabled, and then the war—”

“But the key is the suburbs,” Josh repeated.

“I think,” Charles said, “that the kid has just come up with a brilliant idea.”

“Well, it's certainly something to think about,” Jake said.

And it was not six months later that Essie turned to the business section of the New York
Times
and read:

EATON & CROMWELL ANNOUNCES BOLD NEW POSTWAR EXPANSION PLANS

Eaton & Cromwell, the mail-order giant, has today announced plans for expansion which will mark the company's first venture into direct consumer retailing. The announcement was made by Jacob Auerbach, president and chief executive officer of the company.…