A Ritchie Boy Page 13

  “Your first appointment is at ten with David Schuster.” Brandeis, listening with one ear, wished he had a window to gaze through while he sorted out life’s mysteries. The streaming light might trigger ideas as he watched the bustle of this glorious city. Evelyn’s voice kept bringing him back. He heard snippets: about reviewing payroll expenses and needing extra staffing for the holidays, that his buyer for fine jewelry wanted to discuss new promotions. “Your tailor will be in after your lunch with an Eli Stoff—that’s the man you asked me to put on today’s calendar.”

  Brandeis perked up, absentmindedly fingering his handkerchief. He looked at his watch. He had thirty minutes before his first appointment. “Thank you, Evelyn. We can review the afternoon schedule while Boris is fitting me for some new suits. Tell him not to come before two o’clock.”

  After she closed the door behind her, he opened his desk drawer, where he’d kept Stoff’s letter. He was dumbfounded when he’d received it and reread it several times to absorb everything the young man had shared. A range of emotions stirred inside him once again, taking him back to that memorable spring day when he met Zelda Muni.

  He remembered Mrs. Muni’s determination in seeking him out and her assertiveness with his former secretary, who tried to block her entry. Muni carefully introduced herself and her reason for calling on him. An issue of urgency, she had said. A life-and-death matter. Only now did he realize how accurate that plea had been. Muni’s impassioned story about her Jewish childhood friend deeply touched him. But the story—about a woman who sought to escape from Vienna at the time of the Anschluss with her husband and son—was one he’d heard from so many others: Jews needing a sponsor to get out of Eastern Europe, where anti-Semitism seemed to be backed by a growing political movement. These were the Jews who could see what was coming, although he had not been so prescient. Zelda Muni turned three faceless strangers into people much like his Austrian ancestors. Here was a Catholic woman—an overqualified art historian working as a Waldorf chambermaid to get by in America—trying to save a Jewish family. And identifying him as the one to help make that happen.

  For him, it meant financially vouching for Lila and Bart Stoff and their son, Eli, if they became a burden, if they hit hard times. He was in a fortunate position to do so—the son of Jewish immigrants who decades ago built a family-owned department store in Omaha that became the biggest in the Midwest. He knew his was the luck born of circumstance: an upbringing that afforded him a fine business education at the University of Chicago, where he met Irving Stern; then a fix-up with Irv’s sister, Eleanor; then the merging of both the families and the businesses. How blessed he was with his two sons and a Manhattan retail empire that stood steady through the Depression.

  When Zelda Muni hustled her way into his office, he’d no idea of her purpose. Now, with this imminent visit, Brandeis wondered what had happened to her in the years since their fateful meeting. More fervently, he sought all that lay between the lines of Eli’s letter.

  October 14, 1946

  Dear Mr. Brandeis,

  I first heard your name when my family arrived at Ellis Island at the end of August 1938. I thought my mother’s childhood friend, Zelda Muni, who greeted us that eventful day, had been responsible for our journey to freedom. My mother explained Zelda’s role in our escape, but that you—someone who never knew us and who expected nothing in return—signed our affidavits. Your gift was an act of pure altruism and generosity that I will never forget for the rest of my life.

  During our early months, we lived in a cramped apartment in the Lower East Side. I had asked my mother if we could meet you back then so I could thank you. She discouraged me from that, and I can understand how she felt it might be inappropriate for a family of immigrants to suddenly appear at your midtown office. As a fifteen-year-old, I certainly hadn’t thought that through.

  In the years since—having moved to Columbus, Ohio, finishing high school there, attending Ohio State until I was drafted like everyone else my age, then spending the latter years of the war overseas in military intelligence—I’ve gained a deep appreciation for what you have done for me and for my family. Beyond giving us an opportunity, you have given us life itself. I have thought about you often.

  I will be in New York staying with the Munis over Thanksgiving and would like nothing more than to thank you in person. I will understand if you feel this is unseemly or if the timing is inconvenient. At least I have expressed my gratitude in this letter. I wanted you to know how significant your assistance was for me.

  If a meeting is possible, please address a return letter to 1652 Bryden Road, Columbus, Ohio.

  In appreciation,

  Eli Stoff

  Brandeis folded the letter, inserted it back into its envelope, and returned it to his top drawer. Leaning back in his chair, he shut his eyes for a moment, thinking how often one has no idea of the impact one’s actions have on another. A request is made. The patron listens and considers and chooses to act, or not. And that decision begets other actions and consequences that ripple like waves in a vast, unseen ocean.

  After he heard Madeleine Sheine’s proposed one-time holiday discount promotion for Stern’s fine jewelry and reviewed her budget for ads—only running the week before Christmas—Brandeis couldn’t help checking his pocket watch. Seeing it was ten minutes until noon, he let Madeleine know he’d get back to her on the plan by day’s end. As he walked her to the door and wished her a Happy Thanksgiving, he spotted a dark-haired young man sitting in the reception area, turning the pages of a magazine.

  Evelyn scurried over, nodding toward the visitor and whispering, “That’s Eli Stoff. He arrived early.”

  ELI’S BRISK WALK TO Stern’s from the Forty-Second Street and Bryant Park exit settled him down temporarily. He’d left Zelda’s Lower East Side apartment a full hour before his noon appointment, glad he had the place to himself that morning, unduly suffused with nervous excitement. When he received Brandeis’s reply to his letter three weeks ago, setting an actual date and time for their meeting, he broke into a cold sweat. He’d held inside all that built-up anticipation of someone who was not yet an actual person, but a symbol, a hero. The letter began to make Brandeis real.

  As he walked through the revolving doors of Stern Brothers with half an hour to spare, Eli felt his jitters return. He took several deep breaths, slowed his pace, and began to observe his surroundings. The store was elegant, all the marble and brass a step above the one department store in downtown Columbus, Lazarus, that he’d visited only occasionally with his mother. He stopped at the perfume counter and picked a bottle of Skylark eau de cologne he knew his mother would like, then proceeded to the back elevators, where a white-gloved doorman had directed him and pushed “B” for the executive offices. He introduced himself to a redheaded middle-aged woman sitting behind a mahogany desk who kindly greeted him, took his coat, and invited him to wait in the reception area. He tried to look normal and casual as he sat on a cushioned brown couch, picking up a magazine and leafing through it but not really seeing the words or even the photos.

  His trance was broken by the sounds of a door opening and the secretary’s hushed voice. He could also hear his own heart pumping rapidly as he realized he was about to meet the man who’d consumed his imagination for eight years. And when he looked up, there stood John Brandeis.

  Eli caught the genuine affection in Brandeis’s eyes even as he took in the man in his entirety: tall and dignified, but also approachable, familiar. Of course, Zelda had described Brandeis in detail all the times Eli badgered her with his questions. And yet it was more than that—not just a familiarity but a resemblance between them. Brandeis could pass as Eli’s father more than Eli’s own dad; Bart Stoff was completely bald, while John Brandeis’s full head of hair was dark, like Eli’s, except for the tinges of gray at his temples.

  Eli watched Brandeis walk toward him as if in slow motion. He fixed on the man’s face, beaming as he offered his hand. Eli almost jumped from
the couch like he had awakened from a dream. “Mr. Brandeis! I’ve looked so forward to this day!”

  Brandeis clasped Eli’s hand with both of his, then pulled him into a bear hug. “I’m glad you reached out and found me.”

  Now, the man seemed to be a kindred figure, like a long-lost friend. Caught in a fatherly embrace, Eli was too choked up to respond.

  “Eli, have you met Evelyn?” Brandeis turned toward his assistant. Eli nodded meekly. “Evelyn, please get our coats so I can take this young man to a proper lunch.”

  It was then that Eli noticed the burgundy silk against Brandeis’s gray suit. The color combination had to be a coincidence. How would a New York businessman know Ohio State’s school colors were scarlet and gray?

  Brandeis’s black sedan was waiting in front. Eli tried to hide his wonder as Brandeis motioned him toward the back seat. “This is my driver, Victor. Vic, meet Mr. Stoff, and then head west to Sardi’s.”

  After Eli eased himself onto the smooth leather cushion, he felt himself moving forward as if his very life were undergoing a change in this moment. He couldn’t take his eyes off the people on the sidewalks. The midtown streets teemed with sophisticated, well-dressed men and women that he hadn’t noticed during his earlier walk from the subway: the men in gray-felted fedoras, newspapers bulging from their attachés; women in tailored topcoats, their chiffon scarves fluttering in the autumn breeze. Their quickened steps and intent expressions exposed a dogged pursuit. But of what? Were any of them immigrants like him, working toward an education and a career, perhaps in advertising or law? As the limo sped up, the outside scene flashed past, the people becoming a blur, faceless. He thought about the time he took his mother on a walking tour around Times Square just weeks after they arrived at Ellis Island—all the new sights and the hustle on the streets that excited him as a teenager. But now, he identified with this civilized crowd, just blocks away, not the tourists and workers filling those other sidewalks.

  He pulled his gaze back to Brandeis. “I’m sorry I’m so distracted, but—”

  “No apologies necessary, Eli. I would assume you haven’t been back to New York since ’38?”

  “We left in early November of that year.”

  “Well, I’m looking forward to hearing all about the years since then.”

  AT SARDI’S, THE MAÎTRE D’ showed them to a banquette. The tables were mostly packed with the typical business crowd and a few diners with the dumbstruck look of tourists.

  “We can both sit facing out to see all the goings-on,” Brandeis told Eli. “And there will be plenty.” The host pulled out the white-clothed table, and they lowered themselves onto the burgundy leather. Brandeis placed the napkin on his lap, watching Eli twist his head toward the rows of images on the upper walls. “The story goes that Vincent, the owner, hired a Russian refugee to draw caricatures of Broadway celebrities in exchange for a meal.”

  “Little Lady of Broadway was playing when I lived here.” Eli continued to scan the montage. “Yes! There’s the picture of Shirley Temple!”

  Brandeis pointed to two pictures in the lower row. “See Alfred Drake and Celeste Holm? Oklahoma! has been wildly successful.” He searched the wall looking for others. “And the first lady of musical comedy, Ethel Merman. In Annie Get Your Gun.”

  A tuxedoed waiter came over to take their drink orders and recite the specials. Brandeis studied the champagne list, lingered over the menu. He wanted the lunch to be special for Eli and ordered for both of them: a Dom Pérignon Brut Rosé, a smoked salmon appetizer, and the grilled sirloin. “Enough of these celebrities. Tell me about Zelda Muni.”

  The waiter placed a basket of bread on the table. Brandeis reached for it, feeling the steam rising as he pulled apart the loaf.

  Eli shared the good news that Zelda was working in a small downtown gallery. That Giorgio was finally using his structural engineering skills, thanks to a customer he befriended at his old restaurant. Observing Eli as he spoke, Brandeis was surprised by the young man’s comportment. He figured Eli for about twenty-three, but he seemed completely comfortable in his own skin, a trait that many much older lacked. And Brandeis realized Eli spoke with only a slight accent, different from the other immigrants he’d met.

  “They have a son who’s seven. Umberto. A cute boy.”

  Brandeis smiled. He remembered Zelda’s plea to him years back, how she challenged him to sponsor the Stoffs. He never forgot her exact words: You have that power. I am just an immigrant chambermaid. Yet she had found him; she persisted. She was the one who saved this family. When he told her she had more power than she gave herself credit for, he meant it. So he was glad she’d pulled free from her own mental captivity. As Brandeis relived this memory, it seemed to him all the more inconceivable that he sat here with Eli, now a young man, the two brought back to that pivotal moment.

  “Aunt Zelda had told me every detail about her quest to find you, about the meeting you had with her.” The waiter placed a plate of smoked salmon in front of him. Eli looked up and thanked the waiter, pausing until Brandeis was also served. “She even described your office. I expected to see an unfriendly receptionist—Zelda didn’t like your secretary.”

  Brandeis chuckled. “I’ve made some staff changes since then.”

  The waiter set down a silver bucket, the throat of the champagne bottle tilted against one side. Brandeis took pleasure in watching the man ease out the cork with a soft pop, then tip the fizzling pink liquid into their two glasses. His attention shifted to Eli who, open-mouthed, was watching the bubbles rise to the rim, almost overflowing, then settling; he felt Eli’s sense of pure wonder.

  “Zelda reminded me last night that you were originally from Omaha. It made me think about a man from Omaha I learned about, a Father Edward Flanagan, who built a home for underprivileged boys. He reminded me of you.”

  Brandeis flushed with pride at the comment, well aware of Father Flanagan’s reputation. “That’s a generous comparison. How do you know of the priest’s good work?”

  “When I moved to Columbus, I spent my free time going to American movies so I could speak better English.” Eli took a large gulp of champagne. Brandeis smiled at Eli’s reaction after he swallowed—raised eyebrows, widened eyes—remembering his first taste of the effervescent drink, how his mouth exploded with flavor.

  Eli wiped his mouth with the napkin before continuing. “One of my favorites was Boys Town, with Spencer Tracy playing the priest.” Eli turned again toward the wall of framed pictures, sweeping his eyes across the rows, then pointing. “See, there’s Tracy up at the top. He must have been on Broadway before he went out to Hollywood.”

  Brandeis liked Eli’s passion for movies and his zeal for American cultural icons. That was what he noticed most, beyond Eli’s lack of a heavy accent. The boy had assimilated into American culture. He wondered if it was due to living in the Midwest, having served in the Army, or both.

  When the steaks arrived, the young man was clearly mesmerized by the table presentation; Brandeis saw how Eli took everything in. Dark brown eyes, like his own, that were discerning, intelligent. A cleft in his chin that gave his face strength. He determined that Eli had never eaten at a place quite this fancy and was happy they came. Eli swallowed his first bite of sirloin. “This is absolutely delicious.” He cut another piece. “Do you lunch at places like this every day?”

  “Actually, Lenny—my wife—often packs me a lunch and I eat in the office. This—” he gestured with his hand, “is for special occasions.” He lifted the bottle from the bucket and poured more champagne in both their glasses.

  “I’ve never met anyone as … as important as you are.” It was the first time Eli showed any self-consciousness. “But you have been very kind to me and easy to talk with.”

  “I appreciate that.” Brandeis realized how unusual this encounter had to be for Eli, but it was an unprecedented event for him also. “You know, I’ve never met any people I helped with their immigration. Never got to ask them
about their experiences. I’ve been curious about your transition here. Was it difficult to leave Vienna?”

  “I’ll give you the short answer. Things in Vienna were demeaning for me—dangerous for all of us—so we were happy to escape. But it was tough to say goodbye to my grandmother.”

  This was the first Brandeis had heard of another relative. “Mrs. Muni only asked for three affidavits. Did your grandmother get out of the country later?”

  “Aunt Zelda didn’t know about Gramma Jenny. She was too disabled to travel at that time anyway. My mother kept thinking we’d find a way to get her out once we were settled. By the next year, we lost contact with her.” At that, Eli looked away, collecting himself. “We assumed she and my aunt Miriam were sent to the camps like so many—”

  Brandeis didn’t respond at first. Inside he seethed at the injustice of it, angry at himself for not asking Zelda if there were others. Of course there were others. There always were. He had just accepted her request at face value.

  It reminded him of his own more distant past. His Zayde and Bubbe were Russian Jews who fled pogroms and settled in Vienna. Anti-Semitic policies there drove his parents out. The sacrifice of others allowed him to grow up in Nebraska, to be where he sat today. His thoughts drifted back to the boy and his family, who endured much of the same.

  “Your Bubbe, after the war. Did your family try to find her?”

  WHENEVER ELI THOUGHT OF his grandmother, he remembered the photograph. In their tiny quarters on the ship they boarded from Trieste, the framed picture fell to the floor, jostled by the boat’s movement, and he’d accidently stepped on it, cracking the glass. His mother assured him that the photo was all that mattered, and she’d displayed his grandmother’s image prominently wherever they lived, the crack reaching diagonally from top to bottom. He never understood why his mother didn’t replace the glass.