by Peter Rimmer
* * *
Ralph Madgwick had met Rebecca Rosenzweig two days after Keppel Howland went up to Oxford on a Madgwick and Madgwick scholarship. It had been part of Ralph’s extortionate deal with Uncle Wallace. By then Ralph had escorted a string of showgirls around the nightspots of London. He had an expensive flat in South Kensington on a ten-year lease, paid for by Uncle Wallace along with the furniture. The Kensington Road flat had four nice rooms, quiet enough after the African bush for Ralph to get a good night’s sleep. Mostly Ralph went to work when he felt like it. His elder brother had been quite right. The shipping business was boring. From finding the right ship, to shipping and financing the cargo. For some reason, quite beyond Ralph’s comprehension, the last part of the transaction was called confirming and required a great deal of money. Which was where the old and trusted Rosenzweig Merchant Bank came into the picture according to Mr Postlethwaite.
Whenever Mr Postlethwaite mentioned the name Rosenzweig, it was as if he had said the name of the King. Very soon after taking up his new duty of learning the trade as soon as possible, Ralph surmised rightly that without the backing of Rosenzweig’s money, the firm of Madgwick and Madgwick would have either to find another trust bank or go out of business. The money was lent to Madgwick’s to lend to their clients. When all went well everyone made money. If a client did not pay on time, the risk belonged to Madgwick’s. If Madgwick’s went insolvent, the risk belonged to Rosenzweig’s. Ralph thought that like so many other things, the initiated made it look complicated, it was all a lot simpler than it looked.
“It’s simple,” Ralph had said to Mr Postlethwaite sometime during the summer. “We are lending and then retrieving the bank’s money.”
“Which is why we require a letter of credit before shipping the goods.”
“What’s a letter of credit?”
“There are two types…” Ralph by then had turned off his mind to the boring detail. He waited impatiently for Mr Postlethwaite to finish.
“Then my job is to make sure we pick the right clients,” he said getting a word in edgeways. “Clients who will pay their bills and stay in business.”
“Something like that.”
“Like a classical symphony. Mozart for example.” Ralph was grinning.
“What has Mozart got to do was shipping?”
“Nothing. Everything. I can listen to his music with great pleasure without having to know how to compose and write down the music.” The line about Mozart had come earlier in the week from Christopher, a line Ralph had liked.
“What are you talking about?” asked Mr Postlethwaite.
“I can do all the shipping business I like without touching one of your letters of credit. Or, a bill of lading. Or, a list to pack.”
“Packing list, Mr Ralph. The success of our business is in the detail. Any one piece of detail missing and everything breaks down. Like a long chain attached to that small chair over there. If all the links are properly in place, when I pull the chain the chair comes towards me. A missing or broken link in the chain and the chair stays right where it is.” Mr Postlethwaite, Ralph knew from experience, liked a little homily.
“What on earth has that chair got to do with shipping?”
“Like Mozart, you can’t listen to the music without all the notes. Without the right shipping documents, the goods stay right here and the money right there and nobody makes any money.”
“I only want to listen to the music.”
“Thank heaven Mozart did not think that way and despite your advice composed his music.”
“I’ll have to have another word with my brother on that one.”
“I would if I were you. And please listen to me, Mr Ralph. I do not like wasting my breath.”
“I’m sorry, sir.”
“That’s better. Now, an irrevocable letter of credit means that once it has been raised it will not be revoked by the paying bank provided we present to the bank the right shipping documents proving we have sent the goods, that they have been cleared by customs, the railways picked them up from the ship and delivered them to our customer. If all the links in the chain are right we always get paid.” Ralph’s eyes were wide as saucers.
To Ralph, it was all just like eating soup with a fork. Just when he thought he had picked up something he could eat, it slipped right off again. He had taken out a girl from the cast of Happy Times the previous night. He had taken her home at four o’clock in the morning. His head was throbbing, his brain working badly. He rather thought his breath still smelled of booze, despite the peppermints he had been sucking.
“Is there a book on all this?”
“No there is not… Try getting some sleep before coming to the office… What was her name?”
“Blanche Saunders.”
“Nice name.” Mr Postlethwaite was smiling.
“I’ll try.”
“I’m sure you will. It’s the trying harder we want, Mr Ralph. You can’t give orders or supervise orders unless you know what you are talking about. So you can pick out their mistakes. You must have learnt that in the war or you would have lost more than a little finger… And don’t be fooled by your Uncle Wallace. He knows a lot more about this business than he lets on. Despite the other day denying knowledge of a bill of lading.”
Back then in the summer, Ralph had gone off muttering to himself with the best of intentions. He knew his trouble was just turning twenty-five. Just finding out girls liked him. That in London there were more pretty girls than young men with money to spend on them. Work, right up to the time he met Rebecca Rosenzweig, came second best.
She was small. Brown, smouldering eyes. Tight curled black hair. Lips that made the perfect shape of a perfect bow. Voice with a catch in the lower cadence. A smile that looked right inside him that night they first met. At the grand party at the Dorchester to celebrate Rosenzweig’s one hundred and fiftieth birthday. The night four weeks ago he had had no idea who she was. She who he was. They simply fell in love.
They had slipped out of the hotel. The beginning of November. Snow falling in Park Lane. By the time they had run up to Oxford Street, they were hand in hand. It was the consummate moment for them both. They both knew it had changed them forever. The perfect, uncomplicated love. The only reason for being alive.
* * *
Uncle Wallace had listened to the story right from the beginning. He had sat down on the couch. Sir Jacob Rosenzweig had walked up and down the senior partner’s office. The pit of Uncle Wallace’s stomach was hollow.
“She’s nineteen years old, Mr Madgwick. My youngest. Maybe that makes it worse. You may do business with us. You may not live with us. We are Jews. Do I make myself quite clear? Your nephew will never see her again.”
“Isn’t that up to them?”
“Marriage. The continuance of a tribe. These things are sacred. We do not make the choice. The choice is made for us. A marriage must be among similar people. Same background. Same education. Same wealth. Same religion. Marriage is difficult enough without an inherent impediment. I don’t wish to speak with you again on this matter, sir. As a gentleman, I require your assurance. His father is dead or I would have gone to his father. We stop it now. Before we have a disaster. Now!”
“I have little influence over the boy.”
“You employ him.”
“Somewhat unwillingly. For him, I mean. His brother has just resigned. There is no one else to take over the firm. He will be rich. That is one common factor. He is educated. Another, maybe… Can I interest you in a brandy?”
“At this hour of the day?”
“Myself, maybe…? Since the war. The only thing that relieves the pain in what was once my left eye… Surely, telling Rebecca will be enough. If Ralph calls, you tell him she is out. At nineteen, I mean… You sure you won’t have a brandy? Well, I’ll just have one myself you see… Nineteen. My word, that is young.”
“She has threatened to run away with him.”
“Has she… Where to, might I ask?”
“Nephew Ralph is going back to Africa? That is a blow. Not a word to me mark you. He never said a word to me… Africa. That is a blow. If he can’t have your daughter here he’ll take her to Africa, is that it…? You sure about the brandy…? Very well. Yes, I’ll have a word with him. A very strong word. I’ll do my best, that I will.”
“Our business dealings depend on it.”
“They do? Yes, I suppose they do…”
“Good day, Mr Madgwick!”
“Good day, Sir Jacob.”
The tall, thin man stalked out of the office leaving the door open. Uncle Wallace watched the lift come up from the couch where he was still sitting. His knees were too weak to get up for the brandy. He had tried to twice. He watched Maxwell open the lift door. The banker stepped inside and turned. They stared at each other for many seconds before the lift went down. Even with the concertina doors closed across the cage, he could still see Sir Jacob’s hawk nose pointing straight at him. If the bankers withdrew their line of credit, things would be difficult. Commercial banks were far stricter than merchant banks. Merchant banks did business more with individuals on the shake of a hand. From generations of doing business together. From mutual trust… As Uncle Wallace watched the lift sink, his stomach sank with it, the hollow feeling was tinged with fear.
When Uncle Wallace finally reached the brandy bottle, the Cumbrian estate was the last thing on his mind.
Rosie Prescott quietly closed the door. She had heard the raised voices. Rebecca. Ralph. Jews… She had seen the dreadful stare from the lift directed through to the partner’s office. It took no more to understand what had happened. Why Ralph had been behaving himself for the last month. Coming clear-eyed to the office on time. She understood. The poor boy was in love. With the banker’s daughter. And the banker was a Jew so nothing ever could come out of it. For either of them.
Rosie Prescott left the executive suite for the first time ever in office hours. The telephone could ring. In half an hour, the senior partner would be in no condition to take calls anyway. No one before had ever tried going into his office without going through her first.
Rosie took the stairs down to the floor below.
“Put your coat on Ralph. We are going for a walk.” They had a good rapport, she and Ralph. Ever since the fifty pounds and her visit to brother Christopher’s attic when Ralph first arrived back from Africa, dirty, dishevelled and broke.
“What’s going on, Rosie?”
“Sir Jacob Rosenzweig. He has just left your uncle’s office in a bad temper. It’s over Ralph. I’m sorry. We can go to a coffee shop where I can explain. What on earth were you thinking?”
“You don’t think of anything else when it happens.”
“I know. Yes, I do know. I was quite pretty myself at nineteen.” When needed Rosie could hear right through the panelled door to Uncle Wallace’s office.
“Did you overhear their conversation?”
“They were nearly shouting at each other. Come on. I want you out of the office. After the coffee, you go home. Don’t come back here until Monday. Under no circumstances do you go anywhere near Rebecca Rosenzweig.”
“I love her.”
“Sir Jacob has threatened to pull Madgwick’s credit line. In the millions, Ralph. Trade is good. Everyone is shipping goods. You will sink the whole firm. Your mother, your brother, Mr Postlethwaite, me, all of us… Don’t you see what you’ve done?”
“Talk to me some more over coffee, Rosie. I feel sick… You think he would do it?”
“Oh, yes.”
“Just because she’s his daughter?”
“No, Ralph. Just because she’s a Jewess and you are a Gentile… Come on. Now. Before your uncle comes down. He’s drinking, Ralph. It’ll be all over the City before you know what if you two have a shouting match… I want you out. Hurry!”
“You are a good woman, Rosie Prescott.”
She looked at him again. Properly. She should have known herself better. She was infatuated with Ralph Madgwick. From the first moment she visited the attic. And she was thirty-one years old. Ralph twenty-five.
“There’s no fool like an old fool.”
“What does that mean, Rosie?”
“Just get a move on, Ralph Madgwick… I like my job and I want to keep it.”
* * *
Christopher Madgwick had sent his letter of resignation through Rosie Prescott to Uncle Wallace the moment he saw his brother Ralph was taking the family responsibility to the firm seriously. Christopher thought the trappings of wealth had finally shown his brother the light. He was sad. Glad for himself and conscious of, as he put it to himself, one man’s meat is another man’s poison.
The firm of Madgwick and Madgwick only needed one senior partner and that now was going to be younger brother Ralph. Christopher told himself he could stop feeling guilty.
That morning when he wrote the letter in the attic before going to work, the first of Keppel Howland’s stories had appeared in The Daily Mail. Christopher had used his new influence as author and composer of Happy Times to pass the story to a friendly reporter at the newspaper. The story was somewhere between journalism and a short story: Leopard Cave brought the romantic out in Christopher over breakfast and prompted his letter of resignation. Christopher thought it better not to ask his brother why Ralph had turned over a new leaf. Now that Happy Times was playing to full houses and Brett Kentrich sometimes deigned to go out with him, he was not going to look another gift horse in the mouth. He had not inspected Harry Brigandshaw’s teeth and he was not going to look at his brother’s. He was writing a new musical, though what about he had no idea. There were only bits and pieces. To stop the thought that sent him into a cold sweat that he was a one-show man, he had dashed off the letter of resignation. Now he was committed. To the theatre and Clara’s. Forever. Clara’s that was the place to be seen in the West End right now and not a little to do with the success of Happy Times. He owed that to Clara. He may be able to write songs, he said again to himself, but he was still a lousy piano player.
By lunchtime when he had still not been summoned to the senior partner’s office to explain himself and his letter of resignation, he knew something was wrong. When he went up to the executive suite and found Rosie Prescott missing, he was certain. The door to Uncle Wallace’s office was firmly shut. Leaving well alone he tiptoed out of the office down the back stairs and went home, where he found Gert van Heerden, Rosie Prescott and his brother Ralph and the story of Rebecca Rosenzweig came tumbling out.
* * *
Sir Jacob Rosenzweig had also gone home to face his daughter who when he arrived was not there. In the winter months, the family mostly stayed in town at their house in Golders Green. The big house in Surrey was left to the servants to look after. His wife liked the theatre and the concerts. It was mostly all she liked but Sir Jacob tried not to think about that. Their own marriage had been arranged for them under the domineering wishes of their fathers. All family business and no love. Jacob and Hannah Rosenzweig hated each other. They always had. From the time they first saw each other after the betrothal. How they had managed to have five children was one of God’s miracles. So far as Sir Jacob was concerned he could remember fewer than a dozen times his wife had let him into her bed. Always at her bidding. Never at his. The cynic in him wondered if it was the reason why all his children looked different and none of them like his own family except Rebecca. Which if he was honest with himself, was what the fuss was all about. What Hannah did in her spare time was of no interest to Sir Jacob. He mildly hoped she had enjoyed herself. He certainly had done so with his own mistresses. They had all been paid off and gone their own ways with some of his money. It was what money was for. And power, he added sometimes when he was being more honest with himself.
If only I could tell Rebecca, he said to himself as he searched the empty house. Then he sat down in his study and poured himself a stiff w
hisky, splashing in some soda from the syphon on the silver tray. Wallace Madgwick’s ten o’clock brandy had been too early for him. But not by much. Trying to keep a business and a family together was enough to send any man to drink.
When Sir Jacob poured himself the second whisky, there was one thing certain in his mind. If Rebecca broke tradition by marrying a Gentile it could ruin the bank. Depositors would take their money somewhere else. All of them. They were all Jews. The only thing that kept Jews from obliteration was tradition, keeping together, keeping their faith in their religion, their almighty God. Then he began to think about his visit last week to Berlin and the worries started all over again. From another direction. The new upsurge of violent German National Socialism in Bavaria did not include the German Jews. They were going to be the scapegoats as usual. Everywhere in the world when a country went wrong financially, they turned on the Jews.
The second drink was not as good as the first. His mind began thinking about what he must do to protect the family bank. Even the Paris branch would become vulnerable if Germany rearmed, as Sir Jacob feared they were going to do. The Treaty of Versailles or not. The leader of the National Socialists was already pointing at the Jews. As if inflation was their fault. Inflation that had sent the cost of a loaf of bread from two hundred and fifty marks to two hundred million. In less than a year! Europe was in a bigger mess after the war than before. The French had not listened. They wanted their pound of flesh. First the coal and timber from the Ruhr. What were they going to demand next? Unless the Europeans learnt to live with each other as one family, it was always going to be a mess. Napoleon. Bismarck. The litany went back two thousand years. Right there. Right then. In his armchair in front of the fire in the study, he had a vision. A clear, calm vision he knew to be right. He was going to move the bank to America. To New York. Getting the family into America with so much money would not be a problem. His depositors would agree. He could service his clients in Europe from America where the money was safe.