The Wrong Kind of Money (20 page)

“I have an interesting proposition for you, Hannah,” her mother said to her that morning in their house in Park Slope.

“Oh? What's that?”

“I met an interesting man at the Joint Distribution Committee reception last night. He was the only gentleman not wearing a dinner jacket, but I suppose that's understandable. It takes these Russians a while to get accustomed to our American ways. His name is Jules Liebling.”

“Oh?”

“He knows who you are, and of course he knows who
we
are. He'd like to marry you. Isn't that nice?”

“Mama
! I'm not going to marry anyone!”

“Now, wait a minute, young lady,” her mother said sharply. “This is a very serious matter we're discussing—a matter of life and death, as it were. You don't want to go to your grave a spinster, do you? That would be a shame and disgrace, and it seems to me you've brought enough shame and disgrace on us already.”

“It isn't a shame and a disgrace if no one knows, is it?”

“I'm talking about the shame and disgrace you've brought upon yourself, and upon me, even though your father, God rest his soul, never knew.” Her father had died the year before.

“But I'm not going to marry a man I don't even know!”

“I'll tell you everything you need to know about him. To begin with, he's very rich, and that's important. He's in the liquor business, unfortunately, but he's made a lot of money.”

“You mean he's a bootlegger?”

“No. He made his money in Canada, where liquor is perfectly legal. In fact, he doesn't like to be called a bootlegger. He calls himself a distiller. He told me repeal is right around the corner, and he's come to New York to establish his business here, so he can be ready as soon as repeal goes through. They can be smart, those Russians.”

“Liebling doesn't sound like a Russian name to me.”

“They all do that. They change their names from something like Liebowitz to something that sounds more German. It's easier for them to get credit that way, you see. Oh, they're very clever, there's no gainsaying that. Last night he pledged one hundred thousand dollars for the Joint.”

“But that doesn't mean I'd want to
marry
him, Mama.”

Hannah had already begun to suspect that her mother was not being entirely truthful in her account of this startling proposal. It seemed quite unlikely that two virtual strangers would casually encounter each other at a large, formal Joint Distribution Committee reception, and that the gentleman in question would proceed to ask for the woman's daughter's hand in marriage. There was more to it than that, Hannah was certain. But she knew it would be fruitless to ask. Her mother was much too skillful a liar.

“But you've got to marry
some
body,” her mother said airily. “I admit he's not one of our sort, and not one of our class. But he's a decent Jewish man, and at least he's not a Bolshevik, as so many of them are. And remember, Hannah, beggars can't be choosers.”

“What do you mean by that, Mama?”

“There are certain facts you've got to face, Hannah. If you were to marry one of the nice Jewish boys from the families we know, he would discover right away, on your wedding night, that you had been—well, that you had been tampered with. That would never do, would it? It would be all over town in no time, and he'd throw you out into the street, and that scandal would follow you for the rest of your life. But being a Russian, this Mr. Liebling probably wouldn't even notice anything that was—well, a little off. I mean, they're used to that sort of thing, the Russians.”

“But why does he want to marry
me
?”

“They all want to do that. As soon as they make some money, they want to marry
up,
into one of the fine old Jewish families like ours. It helps them in their businesses. And I'll tell you something else, Hannah. When a man marries up, his wife almost always manages to elevate him to her level. But when a man marries down, his wife drags him down to hers. Don't ask me why this is, but it always works out that way. It's a rule of thumb. It's another reason why you should accept Mr. Liebling's proposal.”

“But I don't want to get married!”

“My dear, you must. Think of your future. Think of little Bathy's future.” Bathy was a toddler then.

“What's Bathy got to do with it, Mama?”

“A great deal, I'm afraid. You see, Dr. Lowenstein has told me I have cancer. I'm afraid I don't have much longer to live, Hannah. You can't take care of Bathy on your own.”

“I can take care of Bathy!”

“My dear, you cannot. Your father did not leave us a great deal of money. Your father was a great man, and a great scholar and educator, but scholars and educators do not make a great deal of money. When I die, there will be very little left for you. You will need a husband, a husband with money, like Mr. Liebling. I explained this situation to Mr. Liebling.”

“Explained what situation, Mama?”

“That there is very little money on your side. That I am ill, and that after I am gone Bathy will be in your charge, and he has promised me that after I die, he will take care of Bathy.”

And so that was it. It was to be one of those Old World arranged marriages, between two people who scarcely knew each other. And in such an arrangement there was always a quid pro quo. Hannah would provide Jules Liebling with the luster and cachet of her Sachs name. In return Jules Liebling would provide her and Bathy with a comfortable life. Weeks, even months, of delicate negotiations had doubtless taken place before a deal had been struck. And it wasn't hard for Hannah to guess who the principal negotiator in this transaction had been. Sadie Sachs had performed the same role as a matchmaker in a European shtetl.

“It was very gentlemanly of him, I must say,” her mother said, “for a Russian.”

Hannah was silent for a moment. Then she said, “Why do you keep saying, ‘for a Russian'?”

“Well, there's a matter of class, for one thing, no matter what you say. Class and background. We Germans came to America of our own volition, and at our own expense. They came because the czar threw them out. He couldn't tolerate their socialist ways. For another thing, in Germany we were a highly cultivated and respected people. Mendelssohn was my distant cousin! In Russia those people were riffraff. Most of them couldn't read or write. They spoke a language—Yiddish—that nobody could understand.”

“Yiddish is Judeo-German, Mama!”

“We
never spoke Yiddish. They did. Still, all things considered, I think Mr. Liebling is the best choice you're going to have, and I told him so.”

“You mean you've already promised me to him?”

“Yes, more or less. I told him I thought he was an excellent choice for you. I didn't tell him that he might be your only choice.”

“But I don't love him, Mama!”

“That doesn't matter. To be honest with you, I didn't love your papa when I married him. In fact, I hardly knew him, Met him once or twice. It was one of those marriages that were worked out between our parents. That sort of thing may sound old-fashioned to you but, believe me, those were the best marriages. They lasted. As for love, that will come later. When you children started to come, then love started to come, too. It will happen to you also. You'll see. And remember, Mr. Liebling is very rich.”

“I know I'll never be in love again, Mama.”

“You'll see,” her mother said again. “He's not bad-looking, Mr. Jules Liebling. “He's a few years older than you, which is fine. Your papa was a few years older than I was when we were married, and ours was considered an ideal marriage in every respect.”

“Was it, Mama?”

“Of course it was!”

“Oh, Mama—why couldn't you and Papa have let me marry the man I
was
in love with?”

“That was out of the question, and you know it. What would the rest of the family have said? We'd have lost all our friends.” Her mother picked up her stitchery canvas—a field of yellow poppies, as Hannah remembers it, against a pale green background. It would become a sofa cushion in the upstairs parlor, the sofa on which Sadie Sachs would die two years later. “I've invited Mr. Liebling to tea on Thursday, so you can meet,” she said, pulling a stitch through the canvas. “I want you to put on your prettiest dress—the blue, I think, with the ruffled sleeves. And when he proposes marriage, I want you to say yes to him. Remember, I was at your side during your time of desperate need. Now you must come to my side at mine, when I need most of all to know that your future, and Bathy's future, are settled and secure before I'm gone. You owe that to me, Hannah. And remember—Mr. Liebling may not be the husband I'd have chosen for you if things had gone otherwise. But he's the bird in the hand, and he's very rich.”

And so he had come to tea that Thursday, and she had worn her best dress, the blue with the low waistline, belted at the hips, and sleeves of pleated chiffon. The dress showed off her shoulders, which she considered her best feature. She was a little disappointed with his looks. He was not, as her mother had said, bad-looking, but his head seemed disproportionately large, and he was shorter than she might have wished, and he had small, almost feminine hands. Her mother left them alone for a few minutes in the parlor.

“Your mother is a remarkable woman,” he said to her, studying her over the rim of his teacup, his eyes grave.

“Yes. I quite agree.”

“Widowhood must be difficult for her.”

“Yes, it has been.”

“A man doesn't really need a wife,” he said. “But every woman needs a husband. Don't you agree?”

“I suppose,” she said carefully. “I hadn't really thought about it.”

“It's true,” he said. He set down his teacup on the table beside his chair. “Now let me meet this little sister of yours,” and he stood up.

Astonished, she realized that what he had just said had been his marriage proposal to her.

They were married in a large ceremony at Temple Emanu-El, with a reception afterward at the Plaza. Her mother wanted a fancy wedding, with all the families of the Uptown Jewish elite invited—the Schiffs, the War-burgs, the Lehmans, Loebs, Seligmans, Strauses, and Sulzbergers. “It will show people that we're not embarrassed, that we're still able to hold our heads up high,” Hannah's mother said. And of course Jules Liebling paid for everything.

And they all came, all the best people. Still, at the time there was some whispering among the wedding guests that they had only come out of curiosity.

Years later, Bathy asked her, “How could you have married, and stayed married to, a man you never loved?”

“Love is hunger. Marriage is three square meals a day,” was Hannah Liebling's reply. It was only partly true.

In 1935, when Hannah's mother was dying of the cancer that had been riddling her body for the past several years, though she refused to let Dr. Lowenstein prescribe medicine for the pain she was now almost constantly in, she summoned Hannah to her bedside, and said, “Just promise me one thing, Hannie. Promise me you'll stay with Jules no matter what happens. Do this for me, and also for your own sake, and also for little Bathy. I did something important for you once. Now you must do this for me. Bathy will go to you and Jules now, where she belongs. So you must make this marriage last and last and last. No matter what happens. Promise me you'll do this.”

“I promise, Mama.”

“And here's something else you must keep,” she said. “It's very important.” She reached into the drawer of her bedside table and withdrew a slim leather case. She handed it to Hannah. On the front of it was stamped, in gold letters, B
ATHSHEBA
M
ARCELLA
S
ACHS
.

“What's in it, Mama?”

“Open it.”

Hannah opened it and pulled out a slender green booklet.

“It's her passport,” her mother said. “If she should ever need to travel outside the United States, she will need a passport. Notice that it lists her place of birth as New York City. Ordinarily to obtain a passport, you need to produce a birth certificate, but a birth certificate lists both parents' names. A passport does not. Bathy's birth certificate has been removed from the records at the American Embassy in Berlin. There is no longer an official record of her birth. But now that you and Bathy have this passport, you will always have proof that she is a United States citizen in good standing, and no one will ever ask any questions. So it's important that you must keep her passport valid. It must be renewed every five years. You must not let her passport expire, Hannie. Do you understand? You must keep this in the safest possible place for her—I suggest in a safe deposit box. It's the only document she will ever need. You see, Bathy must never know the truth. It would hurt her so.”

“I understand, Mama. But how were you able to do this?”

“Mr. Baruch. Mr. Baruch is very close to President Roosevelt. Mr. Baruch was able to do this for me, with the help of the White House. Mr. Baruch was always grateful for the fine education he received at your papa's school.”

“I see,” Hannah said, studying Bathy's picture in the passport. It all seemed so long ago, those months in Europe, when her mother had taken charge of everything, inventing what would become their story as they went along. Hannah herself had been too frightened of the situation in which she found herself to do anything but exactly what her mother told her to. And there had seemed to be no one else, no one in the world to whom she could turn, besides her mother. “You're young,” her mother had said. “When this is all over, you'll simply forget that any of this happened. It will be easy, wait and see.” But it hadn't been easy, and she couldn't forget. How could she? It had stayed with her, every living day of her life since then, it seemed: that memory. And the terror and confusion of those days.