by Bennett Cerf
Copyright © 2002 by Phyllis Cerf-Wagner and Lois Klopfer Levy
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. Published in the United States by Random House, Inc., New York, and simultaneously in Canada by Random House of Canada Limited, Toronto.
RANDOM HOUSE and colophon are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Cerf, Bennett, 1898–1971.
Dear Donald, Dear Bennett: the wartime correspondence of Bennett Cerf and
Donald Klopfer/Bennett Cerf and Donald Klopfer; introduction by Bob Loomis.—1st ed.
p. cm.
eISBN: 978-1-58836-135-6
1. Cerf, Bennett, 1898–1971—Correspondence. 2. Klopfer, Donald, 1902–1986—Correspondence. 3. Publishers and publishing—United States—Correspondence. 4. Random House (Firm)—History. 5. World War, 1939–1945—Personal narratives, American. I. Klopfer, Donald, 1902–1986.
II. Title.
Z473.C45 C47 2002
070.5’092—dc21 2001048382
Random House website address: www.atrandom.com
v3.1
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Epigraph
Introduction
Note to the Reader
1942
1943
1944
1945
My lucky star is a house—and an imaginary one at that. Rockwell Kent drew it, one day, sitting in my office, and it was adopted forthwith as a trade mark for our publishing firm. We called it Random House because we said we were going to publish anything under the sun that came along—if we liked it well enough. We’re trying to make the star burn a little brighter each year.
BENNETT CERF
Introduction
In 1942, Bennett Cerf and Donald Klopfer had been inseparable partners for fifteen years, ever since they founded Random House in 1927. Neither Bennett, who was forty-three, nor Donald, who was forty, was eligible for the draft. At first glance, if asked which of the two was more likely to take a leave from Random House and volunteer to fight in World War II, anyone would of course have said Bennett.
But it was Donald who enlisted in the United States Army Air Forces. Bennett must have been taken aback, even envious I think, when Donald announced he was joining up. It was more than a desire, as far as Donald was concerned, it was a duty—and you had to know him to understand just how morally strong that feeling was.
Donald was the rock of Random House. He had a deep affection and respect for books and the people who made them. He was the sort of person whose simple presence could help you solve your problems. He believed publishers had a special obligation; he once told a writer whose politics he disagreed with that he would publish his book if no one else would. When we gave a dinner for Ayn Rand at the publication of Atlas Shrugged one of her minions announced ahead of time that everyone from Random House was to toast her and that she would then judge each person’s loyalty to her. “Of course,” this minion said, “Mr. Klopfer doesn’t have to give a toast if he doesn’t want to. He’s a gentleman.”
Bennett was a perfect complement to Donald, but there were never two people who were so close yet so different. Bennett loved life—Bill Styron called him “a life-enhancer” at his funeral. He loved publishing, authors, and publicity. Everything about books excited him—as these letters so delightfully demonstrate. His eagerness and openness made him a perfect target for practical jokes—and this was strangely endearing. Tony Wimpfheimer, who was the managing editor, had once had the first few copies of Bennett’s newest joke book bound upside down, and then we waited for Bennett to come screaming down the hall to his office. Another time Lew Miller, our sales manager, dressed up in a fake mustache, goatee, and a suit from central casting and was ushered into Bennett’s office by Bob Haas, who introduced him as the French author of a novel we had just published. Bob tried to keep a straight face as he translated “gentleman Lew’s” Fractured French. Bennett was bug-eyed when Lew pulled off his mustache—but he laughed as hard as they did. Once one of these jokes backfired. Chris, Bennett’s son, sheepishly entered Bennett’s office one Monday morning and confessed that he had gotten married over the weekend. He showed his father Polaroid wedding pictures. Bennett was dumbfounded, and then he burst into tears.
The only thing I can think of that Bennett disliked was meetings. If he walked into a room with more than two people he would turn around and leave.
Bennett and Donald saw Random House pretty much as a big family, and they acted accordingly. If someone needed help they were there. They once tried to tell a senior editor that while he could remain as long as he wanted to he might be happier if he found a job elsewhere. The editor said he was under a lot of strain because he wasn’t able to buy a house in New Jersey that his wife wanted. Bennett and Donald immediately loaned him the money. The same thing happened to me, though I said nothing at all to them about wanting to buy a co-op that I couldn’t afford. Out of the blue they called me into Bennett’s office and Donald wrote out a personal check and handed it to me. I’d been at Random House only six months. One morning Bennett came to work and found our sterling receptionist—Debbie DeBanzie—crying. Bennett stopped and asked her what was the matter. She showed him a letter from RCA that congratulated her on her retirement. Sobbing, she said she wasn’t able to go back to Scotland yet. Bennett immediately told her that she could sit there as long as she wanted and from then on he would personally pay her salary, and he did.
Donald went to England as an intelligence officer in the 445th Bomb Group, and in his V-mail he modestly related his adventures to Bennett as well as his concern for Random House and even his future there. Bennett in turn wrote fully and faithfully—and with an exuberance unique to him—everything that was happening in the world of books.
As a result we are now the beneficiaries of these wonderful letters. I believe there is nothing quite like them. Not only are they a unique window into publishing, but they portray a perfect partnership. It was almost as though they were born to be together, so perfectly did they fit. The two men had a remarkable affection for one another. I’ve never known two men who were so genuinely close and respected each other with such intensity.
Their correspondence flourished, at times almost daily, for two and one half years, a test for any relationship. Many more letters passed between them than are printed here. A few of the letters have been edited where they were repetitious or dealt with personal matters, real estate, insurance, or taxes. Most people who worked at Random House have been identified, but not all of the hundreds of people Bennett and Donald otherwise encountered.
—Bob Loomis
Note to the Reader
We have duplicated Bennett’s block paragraph style and use of uppercasing book titles in his typewritten correspondence to Donald exactly per original letters. The letters of Donald to Bennett, on the other hand, were mostly handwritten, and we have retained his indented paragraphs and informal, upper/lowercase style of treating book titles.
WESTERN UNION
BENNETT CERF=
1942 JUN 2 PM 7 41
20 EAST 57 ST NYK=
MY ADDRESS FOR THIRTY DAYS WILL BE AVIATION CADET SECTION SAAAB SANTAANA CALIF GOOD LUCK LOVE=
DONALD.
MACKAY RADIO POSTAL TELEGRAPH
June 3, 1942
CAPTAIN DONALD S. KLOPFER
AVIATION CADET SECTION
S.A.A.A.B.
SANTA ANA, CALIF.
DELIGHTED TO HEAR FROM YOU. PAT* RELAYED YOUR PHONE CONVERSATION. OFFICE SEEMS EMPTY WITHOUT YOU BUT WILL HOLD OUT IF JEZEBELS* OLD NUMBER EIGHTY EIGHT DOE
S. BUSINESS BECAME TERRIFIC MOMENT YOU LEFT. THIRTEEN HUNDRED PARIS [The Last Time I Saw Paris by Elliot Paul] SO FAR THIS WEEK NOT TO MENTION THREE HUNDRED GREEK DRAMA AND FIVE HUNDRED TACITUS. FROM COLUMBIA. LOVE AND KISSES
June 9, 1942
Dear Klopf:
Harry Maule has just started to give the plot of the new Mignon Eberhart book to the electrified sales conference, so I ought to have about an hour and a half of free time to clean up the mess on the desk and finally get off a letter to you. As you can imagine, I have been literally up to my neck ever since you left getting jacket dummies, and what not ready for the conference. It has gone wonderfully and I see a little daylight ahead.
Under separate cover, I am sending you copies of the summer list, the juvenile list, and the multigraphed fall list. It was the last job that was the tough one, of course, but I don’t think that the result is bad.
Bob Linscott came down yesterday [from Houghton Mifflin, where he was still employed, though he was about to agree to come to RH] to sit in on the conference and was literally overwhelmed by the wealth of stuff we’ve got on this fall program.
Barring unforeseen transportation difficulties and the like, we really ought to clean up in the coming six months and that should be a happy thought for you while you are learning to do right shoulder arms. Incidentally, I am the only man in the history of the U.S. Army who ever cut his nose while performing this simple manual. I did it with the sight on my gun and won the official title for my squad of “The Bloody Fifth.”
Everybody in the office was delighted with your two letters. We all envy you the experience that you are having and I am particularly sad that I can’t be with you every morning to get up at 6 o’clock. You know how I always love to breathe in the early morning air.
Bob* and Saxe† I know, have written you all the detailed news of the office. The total on PARIS last week was over 2500 copies. The coming Sunday Tribune tabulations are a clear first with 60 points; Cross Creek [Marjory Kinnon Rawlings] is back in second place with 52. The Benson book [Sally Benson, Junior Miss] isn’t going to set any worlds on fire, but on the other hand, it will be a comfortable success. Yesterday’s total was 166 copies for it. I think we’ll surely hit 8000 and very possibly ten. The big surprise for us this summer may well be Quentin Reynolds’ ONLY THE STARS ARE NEUTRAL. We are beginning to get enthusiastic telegrams from several accounts and Kroch [owner of a Chicago bookstore], my new-found buddy, wired to increase his order from 25 copies to 100. The first review I have seen is a proof of Linton Wells’ review for the Saturday Review of Literature. It is an unqualified rave. This book really may go places.
We haven’t lifted a finger to get any of the boys who came home on the Drottningholm. Denney and Loechner are the only two who seem to have any story to tell, and they seem to be spilling the works in their syndicated newspaper articles. I guess we are the only publishers in America who haven’t gone after them. Herb Matthews was in to see us. He isn’t a bit sore about the Spanish book. He thinks he has a good book in him on the Italian business, but is honest enough to say he doesn’t think he will have time to write it before he is off again, this time for India. The Times saved this post for him for months. Most of the other boys who came home on the Drottningholm haven’t the faintest idea of the kind of work they are going to find from now on.
I sat up until almost 3 o’clock this morning galloping through Sam Adams’ THE HARVEY GIRLS. It is really a pretty good yarn, but shows the effect of a rush job. I think we can safely count on selling about 6000 of it. Bernice* is going to try to sell it as a one-shot to Cosmopolitan, in which event we’ll get 10% of those proceeds. We are also in for 10% of the movie price (excepting the $5000.00 down payment) and, since I understand that MGM like the job that Adams has done, we may get quite a substantial sum out of this end of the project, too.
Mannie†, Abe‡ and I had a fine old time with your inventory job the other afternoon. The final figure will be about 3800. The Duplaix stuff is figured at 13¢. The Modern Library figure isn’t what it used to be. I’d like to give you more complete details.
Before I do so, I wish you’d tell me how many other people are likely to see our letters to you—if any!
Everybody in the office misses you like hell. Your manicure girl informed me this morning that she managed to get a kiss in before she left. You’ve been holding out on me, Klopfer.
The only item of social interest concerns the party at Bob’s tomorrow afternoon. I understand that a big exhibition doubles match has been arranged involving Haas and Kreiswirth on one side and Mrs. Haas and Cerf on the other. Bets are flowing freely. I think we ought to win because I am thoroughly hep to Jezebel’s weaknesses. Incidentally, I hope my wire to you came through in ungarbled form and that you remembered the title of our old No. 88! [Flowering Judas, Katherine Anne Porter]
I realize that you are working your whoosises off, but please remember that we are all terribly anxious to hear as full reports of your activities as you can possibly give us. Your letters are passed from hand to hand and literally devoured by everybody in the place.
Let me know if there is anything at all I can do for you here. And please tell your Commanding Officer that we would like to have you stationed permanently at Governor’s Island as soon as your training course is over. If Cerf’s recommendation won’t do this, maybe I can get a letter from Major Silberberg (boy, could I have spit when I heard this bit of news!). Incidentally, I will probably have the pleasure of seeing that old shit (I had to spell this word out to Jezebel, she had never heard it) on Thursday afternoon.
Do you want PW [Publishers Weekly] or any other things of that sort sent to you? Or would you rather not be bothered with trade details so that you can keep your mind clear for military matters?
As ever,
Bennett
June 9/42
Dear Bennett—
Had a week-end of dissipation, my last day off this month, I’ve been told. Saturday night I took the bus up to Beverly Hills to Edgar.* Spent the night there and found the Selwyn family en masse. Billy looks like an ugly Quent Reynolds! Sunday Georgie came over, we went to Lee and Ira’s [Gershwin’s brother] for a drink. Saw Alex Aarons, Irwin Shaw and some others and then to supper at Artie Schwartz’s, Knopfs,† Leonard Lees and others there. It seemed a little like wandering into “21,” everyone was there and everyone sends love to you. Little Annie has evidently given Georgie the brush off and he can’t understand it. I just cannot disillusion him if he hasn’t enough sense yet!
This army business is still lots of fun. In four weeks they effect to make experts out of us in Chemical Warfare, High Altitude Flying, Mess Management, Close order Drill and everything else having to do with the Army Air Forces. It will give us a good birds-eye picture of the whole thing. That will be wonderful to have no matter what work I finally do.
The routine is pretty much the same—up at 6-15 in the morning, working all day at drill and lectures, a little studying at night and turning in pretty early as I’m usually dead by dinner time. It wouldn’t be so hard if I were living at the Base but there are no married men there—and they just haven’t the accommodations. It’s fascinating to watch this camp grow. It opened Feb. 15th. They now have about twelve thousand men here and before they’re thru’ it will be five times the size it is now. I’ve seen the final plans for it, and they’re something. The officers are a good group of guys but I haven’t made any real friends yet. I guess I’m too choosy, and we’re all too busy!
I haven’t read a line other than military stuff since I’ve gotten here—don’t ever see the Times or Trib—Has Paris gotten to 1st place yet! And what’s happening in N.Y. I haven’t heard a word from you—you bastard.
Give my love to Thrup* and Jezebel—and a good pinch for Christopher† from his Uncle Donald.
Take care of yourself and don’t work too hard. I’m mighty lonesome for 20 East.—
My love, as always—
Donald
June, 1
942
Dear Bennett:
I haven’t written for the past week because unfortunately I broke the middle finger of my right hand, thereby causing me considerable inconvenience, and I am sure causing you considerable laughter. I have been working hard all week long and have gotten letters from Saxe and Mannie, but nothing from you. How about keeping me posted as to what’s happening in our dear office. I realize you are as busy as the very devil but work Pauline overtime just about once a week, so I know what the devil is happening. If I am permanently stationed here I will want PW sent to me as I certainly want to keep in touch to see what’s happening in the world of books. Frankly, I haven’t much time to read but I don’t want to get out of touch. Will you please send me, charging my account, six copies of “Attack” as soon as they’re off the press? I think I can use them to good advantage out here.
Thank Phyllis for the pictures that she sent me. I think they’re wonderful and I’ll write to her as soon as I am able to. This letter is short and with no information, but I’ll be back on the ball by the end of the week.
Give my love to everyone in the office.
As always,
Donald
June 16, 1942
Dear Don:
We are all terribly sorry to hear about your busted digit, but I suppose that sort of thing is inevitable when they blast ausgespielte old poops out of their easy chairs and put them into competition once more with active young bucks like myself. I hope you haven’t been too inconvenienced by the mishap. It is hard to realize that you are over 60% finished with your training course already; as you know, you are squeezing more into each week than happens here at the old bailiwick in six months—and I envy you a little bit more every day.
News from Random House is all good. PARIS keeps romping along. The total for last week was about 2000. Yesterday 600 more and, in the first mail this morning, there was an order of 500 from the News Company and 250 from the Book-of-the-Month Club. I guess we are up to about 33,000 now and, from present indications, we ought to hit 50,000 before we are finished.