The Proud Shall Stumble

by Gerald N. Lund

  “What kind of a problem, Daddy?” Celeste asked.

  “Most stockholders right now have lost all confidence that the market is going to steady. So when they get a margin call, they’re thinking, ‘If I pump more money into shoring up the price of my stock and the price continues to fall, then I’m throwing my money down a rat hole.’ And so what we are nervous about is that when the market opens tomorrow morning, we’re going to see a lot of those who have the margin calls say, ‘I’m not putting anything more into it. Go ahead and sell it.’”

  “Which dumps more stocks into the market,” Babette said quietly.

  “Precisely. The good news is that I learned tonight that the Rockefellers and William C. Durant and—”

  “Who’s Durant, Daddy?” That was from Celeste again.

  “He’s the founder and president of General Motors. So they and some of the other financial giants are committed to buying big blocks of stocks to shore up the market like the banks did last Thursday.”

  “That’s good, right?” Babette asked.

  “Very good.”

  “All right, then,” Babette said softly. “We’ll say good night. Promise me you’ll take a pill and get some sleep.”

  “You have my word on that. I’ll call you tomorrow, though I’m not sure when,” Reginald said.

  “I love you, Reginald. We’re here. We’ll get through this.”

  “I know. I love you both too. I’ll call tomorrow.”

  October 29, 1929, 6:45 p.m.

  By the weekend, the press had dubbed the twenty-fourth of October “Black Thursday.” By noon of this day, they were calling what was happening “Black Tuesday.” To use the same metaphor for both days would soon seem to be incredibly naive. From the opening bell, Reginald knew that they weren’t going to pull out of it. The prices were in free fall from the moment the markets opened. The financial infusion of cash from the Rockefellers and their wealthy cronies created a momentary blip but nothing more. On Black Thursday, the Dow Jones Industrial Average had dropped eleven percent, lost thirty-eight points on the big board, and lost sixteen billion dollars in net worth. Today it had dropped another thirty points, and Reginald’s brother-in-law in New York said the market lost another fourteen billion dollars. In two days of trading! Four hours after the market had closed, the ticker tape machines were still about three hours behind. Many stocks were stuck in “air pockets,” meaning that those stocks had no buyers whatsoever, even though they were at their lowest prices in a decade.

  And the DR&A Land and Title Company was in one of those air pockets. Currently it was listed at ninety-six cents, and even then no one was interested. And why would they be? Those familiar with what they were doing would know that there was not going to be any big land deal on November first.

  When the stock’s price had dropped below the margin call, Reginald had asked Mary to start making calls to ask the shareholders to send in their money. Most wouldn’t answer. Some made promises that everyone knew they couldn’t, or wouldn’t, keep. One just laughed in her face. The biggest problem was that between Reginald, Babette, and Celeste, they owned a controlling interest in their new company, just over fifty percent of the stock. Reginald had already used the remaining four hundred thousand dollars of his cash reserve to try and staunch the bloodbath, to no avail. That meant even he didn’t have the money to meet his own margin call.

  Shortly after ten this morning, people had started queuing up at the bank. Reginald had already instructed the staff not to open today and, except for a few key people, told the employees to stay home. When the crowd saw that the bank was closed, they exploded into a fury. Reginald had stood behind the drawn curtains in his office and watched as they tried to break down the doors. Finally, two men picked up a bench at a nearby bus stop and threw it through the plate glass window. Across the street, two policemen in a squad car stood by and watched impassively.

  Reginald had stood there, hiding behind the drapes, listening to the smashing of furniture and the crash of glass breaking down below him. Fortunately, he had had the foresight to turn off the power to the elevator, but he wasn’t sure whether the steel mesh door that blocked off the stairs would hold. Evidently it did, for after about forty-five minutes of rampaging, things finally quieted. He had heard nothing more and so finally told a terrified Mary and the others to sneak out the back and go home.

  The ticker tape machine started to chatter again. Reginald started to get up, curious if there had been even one offer on their stock, but then he sat back down again. What did it matter? His head felt as though it were going to split wide open. He had slept the night before, but only for an hour. Mary had said that the sleeping pills might help the headache too, so he got up and got a decanter that was half filled with red wine. He poured himself a glass, took out two of the pills, and washed them down.

  As he sat there, Reginald thought of Charles Ashbridge. Claude had called around noon and told Reginald that their courageous little mouse of a man had decided that Georgia wasn’t going to be nearly far enough away to shield him from the bank examiners. So he and his wife had hastily packed a trunk and gone to the steamship company early this morning. They were now on their way to England.

  Reginald and Claude had talked quietly for a few minutes. Claude’s cash reserves had held out until nearly noon. Then the crowd had turned into a mob, and his bank was torched as well as vandalized. It was now a smoking hull that Reginald could see from his window.

  He took another drink of wine and got up and pulled open the drapes, letting the last of the daylight in. When he returned, he took another handful of sleeping pills out, thoughtfully examined them for a moment, and then swallowed them with the wine.

  Reginald had to empty the decanter to get the rest of the pills down. When he had finished the bottle, he pushed his glass away and returned to his desk. He removed a piece of his embossed stationery and took out his fountain pen.

  For a long time, he stared at the paper. Then, feeling the first tinges of drowsiness, he began to write:

  My dearest Babette and Celeste. . . .

  Chapter Notes

  The details of the great stock market crash of October 1929 and the conditions that contributed to it come from numerous sources. The details given here and in other chapters are accurate, with the exception of the figures on the stock values of the DR&A Land and Title Company, which is a fictional company.

  November 9, 1929, 10:51 p.m.—EDW Ranch, Monticello, Utah

  Edie gave a soft moan and rose up on one elbow, not sure what she had heard that had awakened her. Just as she was about to lie back, she heard it again. She jerked up into a sitting position and leaned over and shook Mitch. He mumbled something and tried to turn away from her.

  Edie shook him harder. “Mitch, someone’s knocking at the front door.”

  Mitch pulled himself up. “What? Are you sure?”

  “Yes. Did you lock the back door? Maybe it’s MJ. Maybe one of the kids is sick.”

  Mitch sat up and threw his legs over the edge of the bed. As he stood, the knock sounded again. It was definitely the front door. He grabbed his robe from the chair and slipped it on. “Get mine too,” Edie said. “Who in the world could it be this late at night?”

  Edie quickly put on her robe and followed Mitch out. He turned on the living room light, walked to the front door, and unlocked it. Edie stayed close behind him. Mitch forgot to turn on the porch light, so when he opened the door, the solitary figure there was obscured by the dark. It was a woman, but that was all he could tell. Mitch leaned over and flipped the switch for the porch light and then gasped and fell back a step.

  Celeste Dickerson Westland looked up, half dazed and shivering violently. “Oh, Mitch!” she cried as she stumbled into his arms.

  11:10 p.m.

  “Why didn’t you call us, Celeste?” Edie cried. “We would gladly have come to Thomps
on Springs to get you.”

  Celeste looked up and gave them a sad smile. She was wrapped in one of Edie’s terrycloth robes, had a pair of Edie’s fluffiest bedroom slippers on her feet, and held a cup of steaming hot chocolate in both hands as she sipped at it. “Because. . . .” Tears welled up again and spilled over and down her cheeks. “Because I wasn’t sure you would want me to come.”

  “Oh, Celeste!” Edie exclaimed, throwing her arms around her daughter-in-law, nearly making her spill her hot chocolate. “Oh, Celeste, Celeste. Don’t you know that we love you?”

  Celeste had to choke back a sob. “Even after all that Frank and I. . . .”

  “Yes!” Edie leaned in and kissed her on the cheek. “Yes, yes, yes.”

  “How did you get here?” Mitch asked, still not quite grasping what all this meant. “You did come through Thompson Springs, right?”

  “Yes. Fortunately, there was one last bus to Moab. But at Moab they told me that the bus to Monticello didn’t leave until morning.” There was a ghost of a smile. “So I hitchhiked.”

  “What?” Edie was aghast. “No!”

  The smile broadened a little and was suddenly a touch impish. “Can you believe it? Celeste Dickerson hitchhiking her way across southern Utah in the middle of the night. It was a little nerve-racking, I’ll admit. The first guy that picked me up was a cowboy from La Sal. Isn’t that where Rena and Rowland live?”

  “Yes, but it’s east of the highway several miles.”

  “Yeah. He let me off at the turnoff. Next, I was picked up by two Indian boys. They told me they were Ute Indians from White Mesa, wherever that is. They were very nice, but a little drunk, I think. And the driver kept turning around to talk to me. I thought for sure we were going to crash. But they brought me the rest of the way here and dropped me off at your gate, so I didn’t have that far to walk.

  “Well, you’ll have a warm bed tonight,” Mitch said. “And the family is going to be so happy to see you.”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “Oh, I am,” Edie assured her.

  Celeste hesitated and lowered her eyes. “Aren’t you going to ask about Frank?”

  “Only if you’re ready,” Edie answered.

  Mitch suddenly stood up. “I have to get something. I’ll be right back.”

  As he went down the hall, Celeste watched him carefully. “Did he do that because it’s going to be too painful for him to hear me talk about Frank?”

  “Mitch? Oh, no. I don’t think he’s that subtle about things. I don’t know what he’s after.” Edie reached across the table and touched Celeste’s arm. “So tell me about our son. Will he be coming out soon?”

  “Yes. He’ll be here for Christmas.”

  Edie’s eyes lit up. “Wonderful. And will you still be with us?”

  Instantly the tears were back. “If you’ll let me stay. I have nowhere else to go, Edie. I can’t stay in Boston, not after. . . . I can’t. My mother feels exactly the same, but she chose to return to live with her family.”

  “In Paris?” Edie asked in surprise.

  “Yes. She begged me to come with her. To live with my grandmother. But I’ve been away from Reginald—” There was a fleeting smile. “—Reggie, for so long. I couldn’t bear it without him, and I don’t think Paris is the best place for him. Maybe later, but not now.”

  Edie squeezed Celeste’s arm gently. “We were so sorry to hear about your father, Celeste. How awful that must have been for you.”

  “The most awful part is how people look at us. Like Mother and I were part of it all.” Her shoulders lifted and fell. “Maybe out here I can finally grieve for him.”

  “I hope so. This is a wonderful place to heal.”

  Celeste nodded absently, her mind obviously elsewhere. “And I need a home. The state has seized the mansion and everything in it, except for our personal belongings. They plan to auction everything off to pay back some of the debts. And even though they believed Mother and me when we said that we had no part of what Daddy did, even though he used our money, they still took the little home where Frank and I lived. They’ll sell that too.”

  Celeste fell silent and was very pensive. “Frank came to court and testified in our behalf. That swayed the judge a lot in letting us go.”

  “I’m glad.” Now it was Edie who hesitated. “And where are you and Frank on things now?”

  To Edie’s surprise, Celeste smiled. “I think this is why Mitch left. He wanted you to ask me that.”

  “And?”

  “I don’t know, Edie. To be honest, I don’t have a lot of hope. There’s so much hurt, so many unkind words. And I don’t know if I can ever forgive him for. . . .” She looked away. “For. . . .” And she started to cry again.

  “For the German girl?”

  “Yes. Her name is Margitte. And she’s beautiful and brilliant and evidently quite charming. Frank swears that he never did more than kiss her.”

  “He said the same to us,” Edie said.

  “And do you believe him?”

  “As his mother, I should automatically say yes, I suppose. And I guess I do, but I am still so disappointed in him for what he did.”

  “What if I can’t ever get past that? Then what?” Celeste asked.

  “We’ll worry about that when the time comes. Tonight, you just need to get to bed and sleep. For as long as you want. Even till noon.”

  Celeste looked at Edie and actually smiled broadly. “You don’t need me to milk the cow?”

  Laughing, Edie threw her arms around her daughter-in-law. A moment later, they sat up straight again as they heard Mitch’s footsteps coming down the hallway. When he appeared, he had a little boy in his arms who was rubbing at his eyes sleepily.

  “Look, Reggie,” Mitch said. “You’ve got someone here to see you.”

  Reggie’s eyes widened, a huge smile filling his face as he started wiggling to get down. In an instant, Celeste was out of her chair and to him, her arms extended. Reggie almost dove into her arms.

  Edie and Mitch watched for a moment, and then Edie motioned toward their bedroom. As they passed them, Mitch reached out and embraced both mother and child. “Welcome home, Mama. This boy asks about you every day.”

  “Thank you,” Celeste managed through her tears.

  “Tina’s old bedroom is all made up for you, Celeste,” Mitch went on. “And I think that bed is big enough for the both of you to sleep in.”

  December 31, 1929, 8:54 p.m.—

  Plaza outside of the Bürgerbräukeller, Munich

  “Hans! Hans, mein Freund!”

  Emilee reached out and took Hans by the elbow and turned him. “It’s Adolf, Hans. Over there.” She pointed to the main entrance of the great beer hall where a group of half a dozen men were standing.

  “Gut, gut!” Hans exclaimed. “Come, let us go say hello.”

  Hitler broke loose from the others and came at a swift walk across the plaza. Hans extended a hand as they came up to each other, but Adolf brushed it aside and took him in a huge bear hug, clapping him on the back again and again.

  When Adolf finally let him go and stepped back, Hans said, “How did you find things in the north, Adolf? Was it a productive trip for you?”

  “Ja, ja. Our members in the north are very strong in their commitment to the party, and they are recruiting more and more members all the time. Your directions on how to run an enrollment campaign are helping them greatly.”

  “Ah, gut,” Hans said. “I’ve been worried whether the instructions were clear enough.”

  “They were, but what is most needed is training for our new and inexperienced leaders. Some of the party leaders we met were not nearly as strong as they need to be. We will have a meeting on Monday and give the committee a full report.”

  Adolf turned to Emilee. “Do you plan to stay long enough to welcome
in the new year?”

  “Of course. We left the children with my brother and his wife. This is wonderful. Usually we celebrate New Year’s with our little ones at about eight o’clock and then we all go to bed.”

  Adolf laughed. “And you have five now, ja?”

  “Yes, three girls and two boys,” Emilee answered. “Our little Nikolaus will be a year in February.” She looked at Hans. “Did you tell Adolf what we named him?”

  Hans smiled. “We named him Nikolaus Adolf Eckhardt.”

  “Of a truth?” Adolf exclaimed. When Emilee nodded, he said, “I am touched and honored.” He moved over to stand between them and linked arms with both of them. “Come. We shall drink a New Year’s toast to little Nikolaus Adolf Eckhardt.”

  They started forward, but three steps later Adolf stopped and looked up at the massive wooden building called the Bürgerbräukeller. “Ah, Hans. This brings back memories, eh?”

  “Indeed.” Hans hesitated and then added more quietly, “And not all of them are pleasant ones.”

  “Indeed. But it is the perfect place to start again. Do you not agree?”

  “That I can agree on. Danke Schön, mein Führer. Thank you for inviting us tonight.”

  9:35 p.m.—Main Hall, Bürgerbräukeller, Munich

  As had always been the case, the Bürgerbräukeller staff had made a speaker’s stand by pulling a few square tables together, covering them with a tarp, and bringing in a small podium with a microphone. This “stand” was against the west wall right in the center of the room, and at the moment it was empty. Adolf had promised that this was a night for celebration, not long speeches. Hans would believe that when he saw it.

  Dozens of round tables had been placed so they fanned out from the speaker’s stand in all directions. The hall could seat about four thousand people when it was full, so normally there were hundreds of tables set up. Tonight, because there were only about two hundred present, the extra tables were stacked one upon the other and pushed back into the corners. The party committee had recommended they use one of the smaller halls, but Adolf would have none of it.