“Let’s leave it, Father. Now’s not the time to—”
“And when will be the time? When you decide? Oh, of course. I forgot . . . It’s high-and-mighty Jack who decides when we speak and when we don’t. High-and-mighty Jack doesn’t have to be a miserable shoemaker like his father. In fact”—he stood, puffing and panting—“high-and-mighty Jack is so important that he had to leave his family and go off to live on the other side of the country while his mother was dying and his father worked himself to death mending shoes.”
Jack felt a dagger pierce his heart. He hadn’t abandoned anyone. In fact, he had never forgiven Solomon for not telling him when his mother fell sick. And while he was in Dearborn, he had sent half his salary to his parents each month. He was consumed with rage.
“Everyone has the right to choose what they do with their lives! At least I lived well, and not like some poor wretch as you would’ve had me living!”
“How dare you? Get out!” yelled Solomon, turning away. He tried to get a last swig from the empty bourbon bottle, and seeing that not a drop remained, he smashed it on the floor. “I took care of you and your mother. If we don’t have anything now, it’s because—”
“Because you blow the money on booze!” Jack blurted out.
“Go! Get out of this house. Nobody wants you here anymore.”
Jack clenched his fists. Then he headed to his bedroom, threw his remaining clothes into his suitcase, and closed it, leaving a shirt cuff hanging out. He picked up the photograph of his mother and looked at it. He considered what to do. Finally, he put the case down on the bed, went out, and crossed the living room.
“Where’re you going?”
Jack didn’t answer. He left the apartment and slammed the door, making the entire stairway shake.
As he prepared himself for a terrible night’s sleep curled up in the hallway, he made out his father’s muffled voice behind the door, sobbing. “Please, son . . . Don’t leave me now.”
As Jack progressed north through Manhattan, the old brick buildings gradually gave way to taller, more modern structures, before finally being replaced by brand-new stone colossi, the streets between them seething with pedestrians and vehicles, which, despite the blight of the Depression, seemed to broadcast that New York remained the center of the universe.
The hands on his watch were not yet pointing to noon when he stopped to examine the towering complex of buildings that made up Rockefeller Center. Some of the real estate was still under construction, but the main tower was already a vast edifice of concrete and steel that rose defiantly as far as the eye could see. Jack stood admiring it. It may not have been as high as the Empire State or as elegant as the Chrysler Building, but even before its official opening, the Rockefeller could boast something that no other structure could: inside, America’s richest men decided the world’s fate. He imagined his uncle, Gabriel Beilis, was one of them.
He took his time to find a way into the building. After skulking around the area, he discovered one of the entrances where a continuous stream of office workers went in and out. For a moment, he envied them. Their immaculate suits and narrow ties reminded him of his days in Dearborn. But he pushed those thoughts away. He knew that if he tried to intermingle with them, he’d be discovered and, most likely, arrested. Fortunately, he saw a group of workmen heading toward the entrance. Without a second thought, he took off his hat and helped the last worker with the joist that he was carrying.
Once inside, he moved away from the workmen and hid behind a pillar, from where he could marvel at the sumptuous entrance hall. He’d never seen anything like it. The lobby glistened with dozens of golden murals that contrasted magnificently with the black marble of the floor. He looked for the elevators, which he found strung along an endless corridor. He counted fifteen. In reality, he didn’t know exactly where he had to go, but when two office workers headed toward one of the doors, he took the opportunity to follow them. When he was about to walk into the elevator, a uniformed security guard grabbed him by the shoulder.
“Pardon me, son, but I don’t believe I’ve seen you around here before. Do you have an appointment?”
“I sure do,” Jack lied.
“Right. Well, in that case, do me a favor and check in at the desk,” he said doubtfully.
Jack shrugged off the security guard, brushed his jacket down in an attempt to recover some of the dignity that he felt he’d been robbed of, then headed to the huge timber desk crowned with an impressive polished marble countertop. Behind it, a middle-aged receptionist wearing flawless makeup turned to greet him.
“How can I help you, sir?” The woman smiled, barely looking up.
“I wish to see Mr. Gabriel Beilis. Spelled B-e-i-l-i-s. Of Schwalbert and Associates.”
“Which building?” The receptionist slid her thick-rimmed glasses to the tip of her nose so that she could observe the newcomer over them, but when she saw Jack’s disheveled appearance, her friendly smile changed to a grimace of disapproval.
“I couldn’t say. All I know is that he works here.”
“Sir, this is a large complex of buildings . . . Forget it, I’ll take a look for you.” She opened a folder and searched for the surname. “Beilis . . . Beilis . . . Oh yes, here it is. Beilis, Gabriel, of Schwalbert and Associates. You’re in the right lobby, forty-fourth floor. Do you have an appointment?”
“No, it’s a courtesy visit,” he lied again.
The woman arched an eyebrow, but replaced the receiver.
“What company do you work for?”
“Excuse me?”
“What company do you represent, sir? I need to know so that I can announce you.”
“Solomon’s Shoe Works. The name’s Jack,” was the first thing that occurred to him.
The receptionist dialed the extension. After a few seconds, she hung up.
“I’m sorry, but there appears to be a problem with the line. Would you be kind enough to step to the side so that I can attend to the next visitor?”
“It’s urgent; please try again,” he pleaded.
“Sir, I’m afraid that I can’t help you until the line’s working again.”
“Sure. Do you know when that will be?”
“I don’t know. Step aside, please. I’ll let you know as soon as the line’s free.”
Jack was about to insist, when the guard who had stopped him approached the desk.
“Is there a problem, Beth?”
“Oh, I don’t think so, Tom. The young man was about to leave.” The woman gave Jack a challenging look.
“Look, miss. I’ve walked here from Williamsburg, and I’m not moving until—”
“Right, that’s enough, kid!” The guard grabbed Jack by the shoulder.
“Let go of me!”
The security guard held Jack with a clamp-like grip and moved him away from the line that had formed behind him, forcibly leading him toward the exit. He was about to throw him out, when a man stepped between them.