A Ritchie Boy Read online

  “We need to find someone financially independent. Established. Someone born here,” Zelda replied. Her eyes filled with tears. “Someone who will vouch for a family unknown to them.”

  “There’s got to be someone.” Giorgio blotted Zelda’s cheeks with the dish towel. “Now, now. Where’s the Zelda I met in Zug, the girl who could corner any mogul in her path?”

  SHE WAS CAREFUL NOT to wake Giorgio the next morning, remembering he had late hours at the restaurant for the next four nights. Saturday was her day for errands. She gathered her clothing—a crimson blouse and navy skirt—and tiptoed to the bathroom, where she dressed and then contemplated her image in the mirror. How this outfit contrasted with her maid’s uniform! The white-collared black smock with its double-breasted rows of silver buttons had begun to define her, smother her. Coupled with her accented English, it guaranteed the hotel guests—even her coworkers—could only see her as an immigrant servant.

  Now, as she examined her reflection, she felt a flicker of purpose and wondered what happened to the person Lila no doubt still believed she was writing to. Her mind drifted to twelve years earlier, after she and Giorgio first got to New York and settled on the Lower East Side, in their Mott Street apartment: her first big job interview.

  “Do you like the tan suit, or would the navy dress be more … proper?” Zelda had flitted back and forth from her closet, holding up one outfit after another for Giorgio’s reaction.

  “You look beautiful—and professional—in both.” Giorgio propped up his bed pillows and leaned toward her. “Come closer. Let me have a better look.”

  Zelda frowned. “Please take me seriously, Giorgio. No one else seems to.”

  It had been a bright spring morning, just like this one, and Zelda recalled her optimism as she introduced herself to the Met’s director of impressionist collections. Her work as curator at the Vienna Künstlerhaus made her eminently qualified, but the director had given her only a tight smile as Zelda struggled to find the correct English words to describe her breadth of experience.

  Even now Zelda’s face colored with anger as she remembered her loss of dignity. The heels of her boots echoed down the steps of her building. She was heading for Stern Brothers, where she’d seen an advertisement of a closeout sale on recliners. It was time to replace their tired armchair before it collapsed under one of their weights. Maybe the excursion would help her think through a way to help Lila.

  She pressed her body against the wooden door until it finally gave way, a burst of brisk air slapping her face. She set out at a fast clip past workmen and mothers with strollers, nearly bumping into a man with a tin cup as she approached the entrance of the Ninth Avenue el. She got out five cents for the fare and took the train uptown to Forty-Second Street, exiting on Fifth Avenue across from Bryant Park, the sun temporarily blinding her. Straight ahead was the New York Public Library, its stately entry columns reminding her of Vienna’s Burgtheater, where Beethoven premiered his first symphony. Where she and Lila had spent most Sunday afternoons.

  She crossed the street and walked a block north. At Stern Brothers, an impeccably appointed doorman in white gloves and a top hat greeted her. She slipped through the revolving glass doors, almost carried into the store’s marble lobby. The whirl of activity—shoppers darting in every direction—disoriented her for an instant.

  Moments after she stepped off the motor stair on the seventh floor, she spotted a brown leather recliner among the many armchairs filling the showroom. She plunked herself into its thick cushioned seat and found it had a footrest that rose up with a lever. She turned over the tag, surprised to find such an affordable price. After the salesman took her order and she made delivery arrangements, she wandered the aisles, admiring rows of kitchenware and bedding that came to a dead end at the elevator.

  She stared up at the black arrow that inched clockwise as the elevator ascended, stopping at the Roman numeral two before it stuck at three for several minutes. Contemplating whether to wait or head back for the motor stair, she glanced at the framed descriptions of merchandise offered on each of Stern Brothers’ nine floors. Her eyes strayed to a plaque describing the store’s mission, history, and ownership. It said the store was founded in the nineteenth century by the sons of Jewish immigrants, that the family had run it for decades. It described their commitment to community stewardship, their philanthropy. The current executive in charge of all operations was a man named John Brandeis.

  A vague thought, like an unformed cloud, floated by. Zelda didn’t attempt to shape its meaning, but when the elevator’s tall brass doors opened, she stepped inside and impulsively pushed the button marked “B” for the executive offices.

  As the elevator finally jerked to her stop, the doors opened into a plush reception foyer. A young receptionist sat upright behind a dark oak desk. She wore a high-necked cream blouse, her strawberry blond hair pulled back into a tight bun. The door to an office on the right was closed. The gold plate on it was engraved: John E. Brandeis.

  “Excuse me. I’d like to know if Mr. Brandeis might be available?”

  “Mr. Brandeis doesn’t work on Saturdays.”

  Of course. This was the Sabbath. It had been so long since she and Lila spent every waking moment together, she’d almost forgotten the basic customs of her friend’s religion. Although Lila herself didn’t always follow them, she would’ve rolled her eyes at Zelda’s lapse.

  “I understand. But is there a time I could see him this coming week?”

  “And who are you?”

  Without thinking, Zelda blurted, “A friend of the family.”

  The receptionist glanced up at Zelda quizzically. She lowered her eyes to the open calendar book on her desk as she pronounced, “He’s an extremely busy man.” Licking her index finger, she began to comb through several pages filled with crisp handwriting. She closed the book with a smack. “I can’t get you in to see him for at least a month, and then—”

  “Oh, no.” Zelda’s voice quavered. “That’s too late!”

  “Madam. I don’t know who you are, and I suspect neither does Mr. Brandeis.” The woman pursed her lips and glared at Zelda. “Can’t you direct your issue to one of our store managers?”

  Zelda felt her face getting hot.

  I am no longer sought even as a private English tutor. They are taking away our freedoms—our humanity—bit by bit. We desperately need a safe haven!

  “No, I can’t.” Zelda placed her hands on the desk and leaned closer to the receptionist, her gaze steady as she spoke. “Only Mr. Brandeis can help. The purpose of my business is urgent—it’s a life-and-death matter.”

  The young woman’s stoic face rearranged itself as she appraised Zelda once again. “Please, madam. Aren’t you being a little dramatic?”

  “There are people …” Zelda could hear her heart pounding in her ears. She glanced about the office, letting the seconds pass while her mind slowed down. She took a deep breath and slowly exhaled before she returned her fixed attention to the receptionist. “There are people Mr. Brandeis knows who are under immediate threat. He will want to be apprised of this. I have that information.”

  “What is your name?”

  “Zelda. Z-e-l-d-a. Muni. M-u-n-i.”

  “All right, Zelda Muni. You’re putting me in a difficult position …” The woman gave Zelda a studied look. “I may regret doing this … but I’ll get you in during Mr. Brandeis’s lunch hour next Wednesday. At noon. And don’t be a minute late.”

  “Thank you! Thank you so much. I’m most appreciative.” Zelda backed away from the desk and hurried to the elevator.

  In the lobby, she almost bumped into the man who’d greeted her earlier.

  “Did you get what you needed, ma’am?”

  Zelda flashed him a smile, but she was already past him, propelled toward the revolving glass doors.

  She instinctively walked toward the library. When she first moved to New York, she’d spent hours in its Main Reading Room, discovering rare
German works on art theory among its thousands of volumes. Heading straight for the reference section, she passed floor-to-ceiling shelves of current magazines. A photograph caught her eye from the cover of Life—a German soldier blowing a bugle. She riffled through the pages until she got to the story about Hitler taking over Austria. Pictured were a group of Nazis, their right arms raised in a salute while singing; the caption noted it was the Party anthem, “Die Fahne Hoch.” On the next page was a photo of blond, full-faced boys in Nazi uniforms with Hitler shaking their hands, their eyes shining. This was her homeland, where Lila was right now.

  Nazi authorities stormed into Bart’s uniform store. They grabbed his two associates by the necks and literally threw them outside into the street. They shouted obscenities at Bart, told him they were taking over. Who treats people this way, Zelda?

  She flung the magazine back where she found it and marched to the stack of wooden drawers against the far wall. She flipped the white index cards, scanning for “Brandeis,” then moved to the next drawer until the titles began to blur. She finally located several articles and a quiet corner to read them. She learned that John Brandeis had arrived in New York to join Stern Brothers nearly twenty-five years earlier, when his family-owned enterprise in the Midwest merged with the Manhattan retailer.

  Omaha. Nebraska. She mouthed the words—so unfamiliar she wasn’t even sure how to say them out loud. A place unknown to her, as foreign as the privileged lifestyle of this respected Jewish family. They were described as “community stewards” who established the first hospital open and free to all, helped to extend Omaha’s park system, and developed programs for Russian immigrants. Their retailing giant in the Midwest was equal to Stern Brothers and was called “the biggest department store west of Chicago.” At the 1907 opening of the Brandeis eight-story landmark skyscraper in downtown Omaha, “then eleven-year-old John Brandeis was accorded the honor of laying the cornerstone.”

  Zelda read how the Stern and Brandeis families became deeply connected—first through investments, then through marriage. In 1914, the businesses merged. The brothers-in-law, John Brandeis and Irving Stern, had worked side by side since John’s father died.

  She bent over the print to reread the next sentence, then sat back and released a sigh of relief. John’s grandparents were Austrian Jewish immigrants.

  ON WEDNESDAY, ZELDA WOKE at dawn. Over the last several days, she and Giorgio had repeatedly practiced what she would say. Still, her stomach was in knots. In a matter of hours, she’d be face-to-face with John Brandeis. She had lied—at the very least misled—to get her way, surprising herself by her own daring. What was she becoming, resorting to deception like that? What if this all backfired? Taking in a deep breath and slowly releasing it, she summoned her purpose. This was about Lila and her family, she reminded herself. She would not be able to save the world, but she was determined to save these three souls.

  Down the street from her building, she stopped at the small cafeteria where she always got a cup of coffee and the morning paper. She sat alone in a vinyl-covered booth, skimming bits of headlines, considering again her choice of words to a retail magnate of national prominence. In the dozen years since she left Vienna as an art curator, she’d never talked with a person of such high standing. She tried to remember that confident young woman, to call her back from what felt like a lifetime ago.

  At the Waldorf that morning, Zelda worked with fierce focus. Each maid had to clean ten rooms and get approval from the manager on duty before taking her lunch break. Today of all days she was stuck with Stanislaw Polonsky, a taskmaster and stickler for details. She wore her treasured wristwatch that Giorgio had given her for her last birthday. She’d been surprised at the extravagance of the gift—she knew a Curvex cost thirty-five dollars, a luxury they couldn’t afford. She normally didn’t clean in it but did this morning because it kept her on task and, she thought, it was a nice touch, considering her meeting with Brandeis.

  She glanced at the watch before removing it, then pulled on plastic gloves, which she did with each toilet cleaning. It was fifteen minutes after eleven. On her knees, she stooped over her tenth commode, scouring the insides with the latest product, Clorox bleach, until the white enamel shined. Pushing off from the floor, she stood up and turned to the sink, where she applied the same rigor.

  By eleven thirty, with her quota of rooms done to Stanislaw’s exacting standards, Zelda rode the elevator to the Waldorf basement office to clock out.

  “Not so fast, Zelda.” She jerked her head, startled by Stanislaw, who entered the room behind her. “Anna called in sick. We have to get her rooms cleaned before hotel check-in. I’m dividing them among the five of you. Take Rooms 711 and 712.”

  Zelda stood in disbelief. When she didn’t move, he roared, “Get going! Now!”

  She came close to walking out at that moment, losing her job and half their income. Instead she raced upstairs, cleaning furiously. It was past noon by the time she punched out. She scurried across the ornate Waldorf lobby past diners nestled in velvety banquettes in the Peacock Alley restaurant just as the two-ton bronze clock chimed, as it always did on the quarter hour. Pushing through the glass revolving doors, she dashed across Park Avenue heading west. Just eight short blocks, she told herself, turning south on Fifth.

  Zelda battled her way around the crowds when she got to Stern Brothers. She hadn’t counted on the mass of people lining up and pushing through the revolving doors. As she pressed forward to reach the elevator, the receptionist’s warning, “not a minute late,” rang its alarm. She tried to think of an explanation for her tardiness. Surely this had to be the store’s busiest time, when local workers came to browse on their lunch hour. But that wouldn’t explain her half an hour lapse.

  As she entered the foyer outside Brandeis’s office, she took a deep breath and smoothed her coat. The mahogany grandfather clock showed twenty-five minutes to one. She approached the receptionist’s desk. “Hello. Remember me? Zelda Muni?” She tried to keep her voice steady. “I have an appointment with Mr. Brandeis.”

  The secretary looked up and frowned. “That appointment was for noon, Miss Muni. I’m afraid you’ve lost your chance.”

  Zelda’s face tightened. “I … I had an emergency!”

  “That’s not Mr. Brandeis’s problem. He’s a busy man, and I instructed you to be punctual.”

  “I told you this was a matter of grave importance.” Zelda’s words were loud and demanding. “I am not leaving until I can see Mr. Brandeis.”

  She flopped onto the couch in the waiting room. That weasel Stanislaw. This heartless wench. Zelda tried to calm herself. She noticed a Stern Brothers brochure on the oval coffee table, its cover a picture of a smiling John Brandeis standing with Irving Stern. Next to it was the morning’s New York Times. She picked up the paper, glared at its headline: “‘Austria Is Now a State of the German Reich,’ Hails Hitler.”

  This is not the Vienna we knew, Zelda. And time is running out.

  The ringing of the full Westminster chime sequence startled her. When the reverberation ceased, the door to Brandeis’s office opened, and a man of medium build in his early forties stepped out, a man she recognized. He wore a black suit, impeccably tailored. Zelda didn’t see anyone else in the waiting room, so she rose quickly from the couch and stepped forward. “Mr. Brandeis, my name is Zelda Muni, and I must talk with you. It’s extremely urgent.” She tried to minimize her accent, precisely pronouncing each word.

  He stared at her with a puzzled expression. The receptionist blurted, “She arrived late for your appointment, Mr. Brandeis. I told her to leave.”

  “Now, Mary, surely I have fifteen minutes to address—” He turned back to Zelda. “Is it Miss or Mrs. Muni?”

  Zelda firmly shook the hand he extended to her, meeting his eyes as she answered. “It’s Mrs., sir.”

  “As I said, Mary, I must have fifteen minutes available to address Mrs. Muni’s concerns. Can you take her coat?”

  �
��Actually, I’d prefer to keep it on, thank you.” Zelda ran her hand across her hair before stepping into the wood-paneled office.

  Mary nodded coldly to Zelda and closed the door behind them.

  Brandeis walked to his stately Victorian desk and sat down. He motioned to the leather armchair facing him. “Give me just a moment.”

  She lowered herself into the chair, aware of the firmness of its tufted back. She watched him silently as he signed several documents, noticing the pearl pin in his royal blue tie, surely silk. She studied the spacious office. It was appointed in dark woods and softly illuminated by several Tiffany table lamps. Her eyes froze on an oil painting that felt familiar—its golden background and ornamental layout reminded her of Gustav Klimt, one of her favorite Viennese painters. When she turned back toward Brandeis, she saw he had been observing her and, blushing, she quickly looked down at her hands, rough and unseemly, holding them together on her lap, not knowing what else to do with them.

  Brandeis moved his papers aside and leaned forward over his desk; his eyes seemed to take her in quickly and make an assessment. “So, what urgent matter has brought you here?”

  She glanced at the mirror hanging on the wall behind him and caught her reflection, chestnut hair framing an oval face. Her uniform remained hidden; her immigrant status not yet firmly established. She caught the slight smell of cigar tobacco and cleared her throat before answering. “Mr. Brandeis, I have learned of your background and your success. I am also aware of your … your philosophy of responsibility to others.”

  It occurred to her he might think she was asking for something for herself, and she hastened to clarify. “I am not here on my own behalf. I left my native Austria in ’26 with my Italian-born husband, hoping to do great things in this country. While our lives haven’t turned out as we had planned, we are free and safe. That is not the case for my dearest childhood friend, her husband, and their teenage son. As Jews, they have run out of options.”