The Auerbach Will Page 15

  May 25, 1908

  Dear Uncle Sol:

  Well, our suspicions of the last two months have been confirmed. I am to become a father in early September! What do you think of that? Please tell Mother and Pop that I hope they’ll forgive me for turning them into grandparents at such an early age.

  If the baby is a boy, which we both hope it will be, his name has been chosen—Jacob Auerbach, Jr. If a girl, we are still undecided.…

  Essie is in fine health, and the doctor foresees no complications. And since most of the work she does for the store is now done at home, she is expected not to be much inconvenienced by the pregnancy.

  We both send love to you and to the Family.

  Yours sincerely,

  Jake

  “Mama’s not going to be happy with the name Jacob Junior,” Essie said.

  “Why not?”

  “Tradition. Tradition says that you name a baby after the relative who’s died most recently. I guess that would be my Uncle Ike.”

  “Doesn’t that strike you as kind of morbid?”

  “Or at least with the same first initial.”

  “Do you want our son named Ike or Isidor? At Columbia, there was a fellow everybody called Ikey the Kikey.”

  “No, you’re right. This is the New World. But Mama won’t be happy, just the same.”

  “‘I’ and ‘J’ are close enough.”

  “Of course we could name him Riesling,” she said, smiling.

  “Riesling?”

  “For the wine.”

  (undated)

  Dearest Mama:

  On Tuesday, September 10, I gave birth to the most beautiful baby boy you have ever seen, wonderfully healthy and fat at eight pounds, six ounces, and I cannot describe our happiness to you.

  Jacob, Jr., as we have decided to name him—now don’t be upset, this is a very American custom, and since I and J are next to each other in the alphabet he also memorializes Uncle Ike—has Jake’s blue eyes and, though it is hard to tell since he has so little of it, I think my hair coloring. He has long fingers, which he uses to cling to me when he is feeding. He eats well, and there is very little crying. Dear Mama, how I wish you could come to see him, since it is now going to be so difficult for me to come to New York.…

  Jake has worked very hard in the last few weeks to turn our smaller bedroom into a nursery, and he has even made a little crib, which I have lined with blue satin cloth because, you see, I was sure that it was a boy.… We call him “Prince.”

  There was some pain for me in giving birth, but it passes so quickly that it is forgotten.

  Dear Mama, I wish so much that you would accept Jake’s mother’s invitations when she asks you up to tea. She only wants to be friendly, and at my wedding you discovered how very easy it really is to get from one part of town to another. I think it hurts her that you keep saying no.

  I know she frightens one a little bit at first with her “ways,” but when you get to know her you will find that she is a nice woman on the inside.

  There is a family secret about her that no one talks about. I’ll tell it to you. She got pregnant (with my Jake) before she and Jake’s father were married. Whenever I think about that I giggle. It proves that she’s a human being after all!

  Oh, how I wish you could be here to share our joy with our little boy!

  Tell Papa for me that, though he may never forgive me for my disobedience, and may still curse me in his prayers, I pray that he will say a special blessing in the shul for this little child, who bears him no ill will—in fact, who bears no ill will for anyone in this world.

  My love to everyone.

  Esther

  “It just isn’t good enough,” Jake had said, when that first year with the Chicago store came to an end, and the balance sheets were totted up. “It isn’t good enough, is it, Essie?” She had never seen him look more discouraged.

  “But the point is, it is a profit,” Essie said.

  “Seven hundred and fifty-three dollars and eighty cents,” he said. “That’s all we’ve ended up with, after a full year.”

  “But it’s in black ink—not red.”

  “They expected to do much better than this, you know that. They expected profits at least in the thousands. Not just a few hundred.”

  “But a profit was what he wanted to see. That’s what he said—a profit. He didn’t say how much. I know what he said. I was in the room when he said it. He said a profit, and a profit is what you’ve got.”

  “He isn’t going to be happy.”

  “But he’s got to keep his word. We’ve got to hold him to his word.”

  He put his head in his hands in what was becoming a familiar gesture. “I’m in a rut,” he said. “I’m getting nowhere.” Then he looked up at her blankly. “You’ve married a failure,” he said.

  “Don’t say that, Jake! I won’t listen to that kind of talk!”

  New York City

  October 31, 1908

  Dear Nephew:

  As you might well imagine, we are more than a little disappointed with the profit picture at the close of your first full year as manager of Rosenthal’s of Chicago. I would like to repeat to you my contention that one of the causes for this poor performance is what I see as excessive expenditures on advertising.…

  However, since, as you point out, you have at least minimally fulfilled your end of our agreement, I will renew same for another twelve months on the same terms as before.

  Incidentally, your mother requests that you have a photograph taken of Jacob, Jr., the cost of which she agrees to pay.

  Yrs., etc.

  Solomon J. Rosenthal

  And so it continued, from one year to the next.

  The telephone which they had installed in the house at 5269 Grand Boulevard did not ring that often, particularly during the day, and so when it rang that summer morning in 1912 while Essie was fixing lunch for herself and the three children—for by now there were the girls, Joan and little Babette—she rushed into the front hallway to answer it.

  “Essie?” his voice said. “It’s Abe—your brother Abe.”

  “Where are you?”

  “In New York.”

  Suddenly she was sure he was calling her with some terrible piece of news. “What is it?” she cried. “What’s happened? Is Mama—?”

  “Everybody’s fine,” he said. “Mama’s fine, Papa’s fine. But look—I’m in a kind of a jam, and I’m hoping you can help me out, Essie.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “It’s nothing. Just a little gambling thing. But the police came, and I was arrested—I’ll explain the whole thing to you when I see you.”

  “You’re coming here?”

  “Could I, Essie? I’m out on bond, but I’m going to skip it, because if there’s a trial—the thing is, I’ve got to get out of New York State until this whole thing blows over. Could I come and stay with you and Jake for a while?”

  Wildly, she tried to think where he would sleep. The children’s room was already crowded. The living room? Then she remembered the little unfinished attic room.

  “Essie, I’m your flesh and blood. Could you help me out? Just for a few days, till I can find a job in Chicago, and get back on my feet again.”

  She had no idea how Jake would feel about this—a sixth mouth to feed.

  “Can you help me, Essie? You know I wouldn’t ask you if I wasn’t desperate.”

  “Of course,” she said. “Come as soon as you can, Abe.” She gave him directions for how to take the streetcar from Union Station to Grand Boulevard.

  “Thanks, Essie.” Then she heard him chuckle. “Two black sheep,” he said.

  “What?”

  “Papa’s got two black sheep now. First you, now me.”

  Ten

  “Is he really looking for work, do you think?” Jake asked her. It had been two months, now, since her brother had moved in with them.

  “He goes through the Help Wanted ads every morning in the paper,” Es
sie said. “And he’s gone all day long.”

  “I should think he could find something if he was willing to get his hands dirty. There are plenty of jobs in this city. I suspect that what your brother Abe is looking for is not so much a job, as a deal.”

  Essie had almost not recognized Abe when he first appeared at her door—he had changed so much in the six years since she had seen him. When she had left New York, he was still a boy. Now, at eighteen, he had shot up tall—taller than either of their parents—with a thin, angular face and body, curly red hair and mustache and a quick, engaging smile. Although he had promised to explain everything about the trouble he had got into in New York, he had offered only a few, very vague details. It had something to do with gambling in Delancey Street, and the police had broken it up and arrests had been made. But, beyond that, Essie knew nothing. Abe had asked her not to tell their mother that he was here—in case the police should go to Minna and Sam and try to trace his whereabouts. Whatever the offense was, he had assured her it was very minor. The only reason why he hadn’t wanted to stand trial for it was that he didn’t want to involve certain of his friends.

  “This blood-is-thicker-than-water business can be carried on too long,” Jake said.

  “Can we give him just a little more time?”

  One morning not long afterward they were all sitting at the breakfast table, and Abe Litsky was studying the newspaper. Suddenly he whistled. “Listen to this,” he said, and read them the headline. ‘“Large Rail Shipment of Marshall Field Merchandise Goes Astray.’” Then he read them the story that followed. “‘Three railroad boxcars, filled with merchandise bound for the Marshall Field department store in Chicago, have vanished into thin air, an embarrassed spokesman for the giant retailer revealed today. The cars, part of a larger shipment from the East Coast on the Burlington Line, were to have been unloaded yesterday on the spur of the railroad which terminates at the Fields’ Warehouse in Diversey Street. But when the train pulled up at the loading platform, three of its freight cars were mysteriously missing. The possibility of theft has not been ruled out but, said the store’s spokesman, Mr. R. J. Kelley of the Shipping Department, “It’s hard to see how a thief could have made off with three loaded boxcars, without attaching an engine.” More likely, said Mr. Kelley, since the three missing cars were at the end of the train, they somehow became uncoupled and, through error, became rerouted to some other destination. The cars were loaded with merchandise in a variety of categories, much of it home electrical appliances. The value of the missing part of the shipment has been placed at four million dollars.’”

  “Think of that!” Abe said. “The great Mr. Marshall Field losing three whole box cars! Just losing them! Three!”

  “If any of them contained menswear, that won’t hurt us,” Jake said.

  Abe jumped to his feet. “Three boxcars shouldn’t be hard to find,” he said, and he was out the door.

  “I’d like to see Mr. Marshall Field, please.”

  “Your name, please?”

  “Abraham Litsky.”

  The receptionist looked at a tablet in front of her. “Did you have an appointment, Mr. Litsky?”

  “No, but I want to see him.”

  “I’m afraid Mr. Field cannot see anyone who is not on his regular appointment schedule.”

  “I think he’ll see me,” Abe said.

  “I suggest you write a letter.”

  “I think he’ll see me,” Abe repeated, “when you tell him that I have located his three missing boxcars.”

  The receptionist looked up at him a moment. Then she said, “Excuse me,” and rose and stepped into the inner office.

  When she returned, she held the office door open. “Mr. Held will see you now,” she said.

  When Abe Litsky entered the big office, Mr. Marshall Field ID, none other, large, ruddy-faced and handsome, stood up behind his desk and, with his hands thrust into his trouser pockets and swaying slightly on the balls of his feet, smiled faintly and said, “What is this you’re saying, young man?”

  “I’ve found your boxcars, Mr. Field.”

  “Indeed,” said the great man. “And where, pray tell, are they located?”

  “On a siding north of the railroad station in Gary, Indiana.”

  “And the merchandise?”

  “Intact, as far as I could tell, sir. All three cars are locked and bolted, and their seals have not been broken.”

  “And what makes you think that these are the ones we’re looking for?”

  “The shipping labels are on them, sir.”

  “I see,” Field said. He reached for the telephone. “If you’ll wait outside a moment, I’d like to do some checking.”

  “Certainly, sir,” said Abe. “Incidentally, the siding is called Track C-Nineteen.”

  About ten minutes later, the great man appeared at his office door himself. “Do come in,” he said. He ushered Abe to a long leather sofa, and said, “Do sit down.” They sat down at opposite ends of the sofa, and Field said, “Remarkable.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “How long did it take you to accomplish this feat?”

  Abe consulted his watch. “Well, it’s two o’clock in the afternoon, sir, and I started a little before nine this morning. But of course I had to go to Gary and back—that took most of the time.”

  Field studied his fingernails, and Abe noticed a heavy gold ring. “Of course,” said Field, “the shipment would probably have been traced and located in due time.”

  “But in your business, sir,” said Abe quickly, “I know that time is money.”

  “This is true,” said Field. “Would you mind telling me how you did it?”

  “Certainly,” said Abe. “First, I went to the library and looked at a map of the Burlington’s route. Then, I telephoned the line’s traffic master, and asked if any of his trains had had trouble in the last two or three days. None, said he, except one train bound for Chicago two days ago which had minor brake problems outside Gary. The train was shifted to a siding, where they worked on the trouble, and in the course of this all the cars were routinely uncoupled, and then recoupled, I figured that one pair of cars might not have been recoupled properly, and so the last three cars got left behind. Then it was off to Gary and the freight yards, which was where I found them.”

  “Very—resourceful,” said Field. “I admit that it does seem strange to me that none of our employees had the resourcefulness to come up with such a simple stratagem.”

  “That thought did pass through my mind, too, sir,” Abe said. “Not to say that you don’t have many fine employees, sir,” he added.

  “Yes,” said Field. “How old are you, young man?”

  “Twenty-one,” Abe lied.

  “Very resourceful, for one so young.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “Of course,” said Field carefully, “you realize that no monetary reward has been offered for locating these cars.”

  “That was farthest from my mind, sir. I’m just happy I could be of some small service to you.”

  “Still,” said Field, “one good turn deserves another, as the fellow says. What can I do for you, young man?”

  Abe hesitated. “Well, sir, to be truthful, I’ve been looking for employment here in Chicago—interesting employment, where I can meet interesting people. All I’ve been offered is manual labor, sir, and I feel I’m cut out for something better than that.”

  “Yes,” said Field. And then, “Tell me, are you interested in opera?”

  “Oh, yes,” said Abe glibly. “Very interested.”

  “And have you any experience in the art of mixology?”

  “Mixology?”

  “The art of mixing drinks—tending a bar.”

  Though Abe could see no possible connection between the two unrelated questions, he said, “Oh, yes, sir, I’m very good at that.”

  “I’ll tell you why I ask,” said Field. “Mrs. Field and I are very interested in the Chicago Opera, and I am
on its board. We hope one day to have an opera company here that will rival the Metropolitan Opera in New York. But our Opera House, it seems, has suffered from one shortcoming. This is the Middle West, after all, and it seems that certain opera patrons—particularly the gentlemen—would enjoy having a bar on the premises, where opera patrons could repair to during the intervals. Up to this point, we have had no bar, and the board has decided that opera patronage would be substantially increased if there were one. So Mrs. Field and I have made a small contribution to the Opera House, with which to build one. Now we are looking for some bright person to run this as a concession.”

  “I see,” said Abe.

  “Would this sort of situation interest you?”

  Abe Litsky flashed what he knew was his most winning smile. “Mr. Field,” he said, “you have found your railway cars, and I think you have also found your man.”

  “You will be serving libations to the elite of Chicago,” said Marshall Field III, with a little wink.

  That evening, at the dinner table, when Abe rattled off the events of his busy day, Jake Auerbach shook his head in disbelief. “And you’ll be working for my competition, on top of it all,” he said.

  “Only for his opera,” said Abe.

  And within the week, Abe had found a room for himself in walking distance of the Opera House, and had moved with his belongings out of the house at 5269 Grand Boulevard.

  And now picture, if you will, Abe Litsky behind the paneled and popular new bar of the Chicago Opera House, during that particularly popular winter opera season of 1912–1913—Parsifal, La Bohème, Carmen—serving libations to the elite of Chicago, men in white tie and tails and tall silk hats and decorations pinned across their chests on crimson sashes, women in dresses from Worth of Paris wearing coronets of jewels in their hair, long ropes of pearls, and carrying lorgnettes carved from the tusks of elephants—tycoons who snoozed through the music, and their wives who came to the opera simply to be seen—serving this elite, and charging them more than twice as much for a drink as any other bar in town because, after all, they are the elite, and can afford it, and are literally a captive audience and patronage. And watch Abe as he inevitably shorts them a bit on the measure and, if they are obviously well into the arms of John Barleycorn, short-changing them as well and pocketing their tips. See this attractive, clever fellow water his stock before each performance, and watch as he resorts to other profitable tactics. Medicinal alcohol can be bought cheaply at any drugstore. Add to this a little real Scotch for flavor, a drop or two of caramel for color, add some Lake Michigan water, and funnel the resulting concoction into empty bottles labeled Johnnie Walker and Haig & Haig.…