“Not long, Father. The rest was good for you,” Maurice said.
“Are you feeling better?” asked Phillip.
Nathan looked at the sleeve that was missing an arm. He sighed. My dear Phillip, it must have been so painful, and I was not there to comfort you, but here you are at my side, when I need you. … “Yes, feeling much better, thank you. …”
“Father,” Maurice said uneasily, “Phillip and I need to talk to you—”
“Has anything happened to Leon or Rubin?”
“No … that’s not why we’re here.”
Nathan sighed with relief. “Talk then.”
Maurice ran his tongue over his dry lips. “Well … according to our family tradition, the eldest son has always been the … executor. …Of course, we pray it won’t be necessary for a very long time. …”
Nathan smiled to himself. It’s much closer than you know. …“Continue. …” he said.
Maurice cleared his throat. “Well, Father, the will states that all living children must be present before the legacy can be apportioned. …” Maurice hesitated again, which was beginning to annoy Nathan.
“Go on, Maurice, say what has to be said, whatever it is.”
Maurice swallowed. “Obviously, when the will was devised, you had no way of knowing that a situation such as the present one would prevent that from happening. …Leon and Rubin being away …We all pray the need won’t arise, but in the event of …”
“My passing?”
“Yes … well … if they are not present, the will could be held up in probate indefinitely. …”
“You’re quite right, Maurice. I should have taken care of that when the war broke out, but somehow it seemed unimportant compared to all the great issues of the world I imagined I was settling … go on, Maurice.”
“Well … many things have taken place, Father. Now Rubin has a wife and a child, and should, God forbid, anything happen to him, they are not provided for according to this will—unless Rubin is home, or accounted for.”
“Accounted for? You mean, should he die?”
“Well … yes.”
“And that concerns you a great deal, Maurice?”
“Yes—”
“I’m happy to hear that.”
“Well, Father, in spite of what my feelings were, I no longer feel that way. Nor does Phillip. …Rubin after all is our brother—”
“I am aware of that.”
“Yes … well, I’ll come to the point. …This is no time for you to redo a will. You’re in no condition. Perhaps later. But for now, to insure the future of all concerned, we—Phillip and I—after long discussion, feel I should have power of attorney … to dispense the funds as I … as we see fit. The world is changing. Investments can be made in American industry and elsewhere which could bring substantial profits to the family estate—”
“Help me sit up,” Nathan said, “so I can see you better. Ah … that’s good. …Now, Maurice … I have no strength to debate the wisdom of this. …Much of what you say makes sense. However, that leaves you … in complete control. Money can be a dangerous thing. It has its … temptations. I’ve been aware of your … attitudes … toward Rubin and Magda. How can I be sure … that you are being … completely candid with me?”
“I’m sorry you feel called upon to ask that question, Father. No matter what my feelings might have been, this war has changed them. What seemed important yesterday is of no importance today. My main concern is with the family.”
“Which is how it should always have been. …All right, on your honor, do you swear … you would not do anything … to hurt … I must lie back. …Thank you for helping me, Phillip. …Adjust the pillow … under my head.”
Maurice quickly declared, “I give you my word, Father … my sacred word, and I do believe I’m a man of honor.”
Nathan closed his eyes. Maurice and Phillip turned to one another … thinking as one that if Nathan died at this moment there would be no opportunity …Bending over the bed, Maurice whispered, “Are you all right, Father?”
“Yes … I think it’s better with my eyes closed. …I can see more clearly.”
Maurice cleared his throat.
“So this is a risk I shall have to take,” Nathan continued, “because I need to believe in you, you’re my son. …”
“Thank you, Father. And you needn’t worry—”
“I suppose you’ve already prepared a document?”
“Yes, giving me power of attorney only until a new will can be drawn by you.” He took out the document, reading it slowly.
“Is it dated?”
“Yes. Two days ago, January 9.”
“That was very farsighted of you.” And when Maurice didn’t answer, “Now, you have witnesses?”
“Martin and the footman could—”
“Bring them in.”
Phillip went to call them.
Maurice was the last to sign.
“Now, leave the document with me … tonight …In the morning have our solicitor here by eight. I want to make a new will. Then, of course, this document becomes null and void. …”
Maurice tried to hold down his anger. “We’ll be here in the morning, Father.”
Nathan lay back. The color had left his face. His eyes were glassy. Maurice summoned the nurse. When she got there, Nathan gasped, his head rolled to one side. He was gone.
Phillip threw himself across Nathan and cried softly, as though no one else was in the room. “Forgive us, Father. I loved you and I betrayed you. …”
Maurice picked up the document and placed it in his inner coat pocket. Looking down at Nathan he said to himself, Father, you didn’t agree but I honestly believe this is fair. Leon will get his share of everything, and Rubin will get what he deserves—a hundred pounds for life. He brought scandal and shame to our family, a shame we must forever live with—a whore who has the name of Hack. You were weak, Father … but I loved you … I loved you as much as the others, but what you thought was strength I felt was weakness. …Sympathy was hurtful to the loyal members of your family.
Still, no matter how hard he tried to convince himself—and only God knew how he tried to justify himself—when he looked at the death head of Nathan, his heart turned over. This man had been his father. No more. Maurice felt suddenly cold, and old. …Now he was no one’s child. His mother and father were gone. He could cry for them. But what he felt for Rubin was a separate thing.
Nathan’s illness had greatly worried Magda. In spite of the Hacks she wanted to go to see him. Her reasons for not doing so were not because she feared for herself. The hostile Hacks neither intimidated her nor threatened her peace of mind. In fact, she longed for a confrontation. It would clear the air once and for all. But she had felt that an unfortunate scene would only make Nathan worse. And so she stayed away.
It was Martin who gave her the news of Nathan’s death. “Was he alone?” she asked.
“No, madam. The family had been with him constantly.”
Well, I’m the family too, but I wasn’t there. …If only Rubin had been here; he wouldn’t have let them keep us away. “I’m coming over, Martin … I’m leaving right away.”
“Madam”—he couldn’t refer to Nathan as the body or the remains—“Mr. Hack has already been taken to the chapel.”
At 7:00 A.M. Magda and Solange were led into the chapel by a very sober gentleman in a black cutaway jacket, striped trousers, a white shirt and black tie.
Magda placed the small gold baby ring in Nathan’s hand. It was inscribed with the name of Sara … the ring Nathan had given his last grandchild. …Bending over the casket, she kissed the cold lips, then sat in the first pew alongside Solange, praying and reciting the mourning prayer.
“Yis-gad-dal v’yis-kad-dash sh’meh rab-bo, b’ol’mo di’v-ro kir’-u-seh v’yam-lich mal-chu-seh, b’cha-ye-chon u-v’yo-me-chon u-v’cha-yeh d’chol bes yis-ro-el, ba-ago-lo u-viz-man ko-riv, v’rim-ru O-men.”
How long they were there, she
couldn’t say. But she knew she had felt so great a loss only once before … for her brother, Niko. Obliging the usher, she signed the register and left.
At 11:00 Maurice and Phillip arrived with their families, taking the seats reserved beyond the casket, which could not be seen by the mourners since the small enclosure was hidden from view by the heavy, parted red velvet curtains. Other people were now arriving to pay their last respects. To a great man. To Nathan Hack.
Although the interment would be private, the chapel was filled with mourners filing past the bier. It was Maurice’s duty to stand at the entrance and thank those who came to pay respects. When he glanced down at the register, he saw Magda’s name. Straining his eyes, he saw her sitting in a back pew with that damn French countess … courtesan would be more like it. …Well, for the time being he’d control himself, but when everyone left there’d be an opportunity to defend the family’s dignity. …
The halls in the mortuary were now finally empty except for the Hacks. Nathan’s casket had already been placed in the hearse. Slipping on one gray suede glove, Maurice saw Magda and Solange coming out of the chapel. Red-eyed, Magda noted Maurice’s cold glare. Although they had never met, they were hardly strangers to each other.
Sylvia walked out, refusing to be in the same place with such a person. Phillip started to leave but stopped as Maurice stood in front of Magda, blocking her exit She tried to go around him, to avoid a scene. …This wasn’t a time for recriminations. Nathan wasn’t cold in his grave. But Maurice persisted. Magda stood still, looking at him.
“You were not welcome in my father’s house when he was alive,” he said. “What makes you think you are any more welcome here now?”
“Because your father was also my father-in-law, and, more important, a man I loved and who loved me. He also was my husband’s father. I have as much right to be here as any of you.”
“You have no right …Since we don’t approve of whores—”
“How dare you!” Solange broke in. …“I think you must be mad. Since you’ve taken the saddest of all times to offend your brother’s wife I can only say you’re the cruelest, most ruthless human being I’ve ever had the misfortune of knowing.”
Maurice raised his hand to slap her, but Phillip moved in. “Stop, Maurice, for God’s sake.” Then he ran out into the street, wanting to retch. Matilda and the children followed.
But Maurice stepped in front of Magda once again. Putting on his other glove he said, “I’d advise you to stay away from us … far away—”
“You don’t frighten me, and you can’t hurt me—”
“That’s where you’re wrong, Magda Charascu. I can do a great deal. It really wasn’t too difficult to learn about your past … what you were before Rubin picked you out of the gutter. Now, once more, I tell you to stay out of our way.”
Magda looked directly at him. “You need not be concerned. You’ll see me only one more time—at your father’s grave site,” and taking Solange’s arm, she turned and left.
Watching them go, Maurice decided to reconsider his promise to provide for Rubin … and his “countess.” Poor Nathan, how soft, how naïve he’d been. …
CHAPTER SEVEN
THAT EVENING AFTER A very silent dinner, Solange sat with Magda in her room.
“Solange, I swear on my mother’s grave, they are going to regret this.”
“Yes … well, we’ve had enough of graves for one day. …Now try and get some rest.”
The next day Magda reluctantly wrote Rubin about his parents’ death. She withheld the details of his brother’s behavior; Maurice had not even let her into the mortuary. She would not inflict that on Rubin. When the letter was written she showed it to Solange, who read:
…All of us have had the sadness of facing the loss of dear ones, but you have been blessed with more love than most. You, dearest Rubin, can be sustained by the memory of a love and devotion few people have known. I ask you to forgive me for not having written about your mother at the time of her passing, but I wanted to spare you one more day of grief. Now that they are both gone, I can only pray that your memories will comfort you all your life, and that you will take strength from that, a gift to cherish. Come home to us soon.
Love, Magda.
It was a cold crisp day in the trenches, and Rubin tried to will his mind to think of this as a field in summer after the snow had melted. In the midst of horror, it was necessary to develop the relief of fantasy. …
Yesterday the Germans had fought them with gas. The men had gagged, coughed, vomited. Some had doubled over and died. Others had gone insane. Rubin had urinated in his own torn, balled-up shirt and held it up to his nose, filtering the noxious fumes. The wind had finally shifted, and all the men who could had reported to sick bay.
This morning he had received Magda’s letter, with the news of the death of his parents, and he cried, dry-eyed, deep down within himself, as he had never cried before.
In eight months, Jeanette’s hair was just thick enough for Magda to tie a pink ribbon on top. What a beauty she was … a perfect smile, and sweet, innocent eyes. …She cooed and laughed at the things Magda told her. …My petite poupée … my little doll. Tossing her up in the air was a special delight. It made Jeanette shriek with laughter.
“Princess … that’s right … you’re a princess. …When your papa comes home, we’ll have picnics in the park. …We’ll buy all the toys in London. …But we’re going to live in Paris and in the summer we’ll live in a house in the country and you can have your own pony. …Now, young lady, if you behave you may sit on my bed while your mama goes through her wardrobe, which I must say is getting quite shabby. …Am I right? Of course, you say,” and Magda tickled Jeanette’s tummy and the child kicked her feet, giggling, and waved her hands. …
Afterward, Magda felt so good she decided to take herself and Solange to the Dorchester for lunch.
When they arrived, Magda was told that Mrs. Rubin Hack would not be seated. She looked at Solange. …Obviously the work of Maurice. Since Nathan’s death the Hacks had become openly belligerent and clearly had given the word to certain restaurants and shops not to serve Magda or the Countess or the Hack patronage would be withdrawn. “Well,” she said as they left the hotel, “they won’t stop me. I’ve got a few cards up my sleeve. …”
They ate at a tea room and afterward Magda told the driver to go to Worth’s. The doorman helped the two ladies out, then smartly opened the door to the salon.
The director of Worth’s was most cordial to these, obviously, French expatriates … more than apparent from the cut of their clothes. …“Yes, Madam, what may I show you?”
“I’d like to see the full spring collection,” said Magda.
“I’ll have Miss Badden assist you.”
Soon one model after another was showing the spring line. Magda liked everything. Solange was not quite so enthusiastic.
When her choices were made, Magda gave her name … Countess Magda Charascu. Who had referred the Countess? The Leon Hacks.
Colors and fabrics were selected. Appointments for fittings were made. …To what address should the wardrobe be sent? To Mrs. Rubin Hack. …Miss Badden turned putty gray. Excusing herself, she went at once to the director. He came immediately to Magda. “There seems to have been an error. We wish to apologize, but the items you have selected seem already to have been reserved. I’m sorry, Miss Badden erred, you will forgive us. …”
Quietly, Magda said, “Frankly, sir, you may take your spring, your fall and your winter collections and flush them down the W.C. along with your clients, the lovely lady Hacks and their lovely families.” Turning, she pulled her sable grandly about her and departed in the fashion of mock stage royalty. She could still, by God, put on a show.
Magda’s outrage reached its height when she volunteered to work for a charity dinner sponsored by the Belgian Minister, Count de Lalaing, and the Duchess of Vendôme. She received a brief note of rejection, no apologies included. That same
day Magda received another letter—Jeanette was turned down for registration at Ramsgate, the exclusive school for girls where Solange said she should have been accepted at birth.
At dinner Magda fumed, “Those bitches aren’t going to be happy until they see me drown in the Thames. Well, to hell with them. Somehow I’m going to make them wish they had. …And when this damned war is over we’re going back to Paris. I despise London, the weather … the people. Especially the Hacks. But before I go, I’m going to leave them a legacy. …”
CHAPTER EIGHT
IT WAS JULY, A week before Jeanette’s birthday. Magda had photographs taken, alone, then with Magda, then with Solange, then the three of them together. Much to her surprise, she’d been able to hire Peter Scott, the finest photographer in London. Thank God the Hacks’ and Sassoons’ tentacles didn’t reach out everywhere.
As Scott was gathering up his equipment he asked her matter-of-factly, “Have you ever thought of having your portrait painted, Mrs. Hack?”
“No … I haven’t.”
“If you’ll forgive me for saying so, you are exquisite. …Do you mind?”
Before she could answer, he took her face in his hands, turning it from side to side. He felt the planes of her high cheekbones and the symmetry of her facial structure. Then he stood away, narrowed his eyes as though looking through a lens, and said, “Yes, Mrs. Hack, you really should think seriously of having your portrait done.”
“And who should I get to do it?”
“I have a friend, perhaps the best portrait painter in the world.”
Magda smiled.” That is impressive.”
“He’s a no-nonsense man, and he doesn’t paint just pretty pictures. I know Camail will do you.” He gestured toward a painting on the wall “I admire your Picasso. …”
“Yes. It’s exciting, isn’t it? My husband bought that in Paris before the war.”
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