Israel (83 page)

It was warm in the apartment. He threw open the casement windows, and along with a refreshing breeze came the faint honk and huff of the traffic, eternally crawling along Central Park West.

However, he could not still the echo of his sister's voice. “Daddy never meant . . . Amy agrees with me. Rebecca's very sweet, but she's hardly—”

How dare his sisters question his judgment?

“You're not in your office very much anymore.”

Well, that much was true. Since their return from their honeymoon he'd been going to the store less and less frequently. Now he just stopped in for a few hours in the afternoon once or twice a week, and that was mostly to keep up his correspondence and to pretend to ponder the decisions already made by Becky and Philip. Really, he was only justifying his name on his office door.

He was very much like his uncle Bernard, a dabbler in the arts. He was painting these days; Becky had turned one room into a studio for him.

He had also taken up philanthropy. He was, however, not personally involved in any of that Palestine matter. The whole thing was just too unpleasant. Becky pestered him and pestered him about it until finally he told her to pick up the telephone and tell Sonneborn that she was interested in lending her support to his cause. He asked
only two favors, that she keep him out of it and that she always bear in mind that she had the Pickman reputation to consider.

His own pet project was his campaign to turn Pickman House into a museum celebrating the cultural contributions of Jews in America. It was an outlook out of fashion just now, as American Jewry was preoccupied with the nightmare of the extermination camps, but he was convinced that the day would come when American Jews would be ready to turn away from their dark brooding and appreciate what they'd achieved.

It'd been a bit dicey at first, getting Pickman House out of his ex-wife's clutches. She received the property in their divorce settlement, but she'd never really wanted it, only demanded it out of spite. When he informed her that Becky had no intention of living there, Gertrude began to soften, and when he explained that he wanted to donate the property to the city of New York and name it the Gertrude Hoffer Pickman Museum, she quickly relented.

His painting, his reading and his charity work were more than enough to occupy him, especially in the summer. Odd—he used to enjoy outdoor sports in the summer, but lately he had developed an antipathy to warm weather. It first showed up during their honeymoon. He was swimming laps at their hotel; the water was quite warm, he remembered. The glass roof acted like a greenhouse, concentrating the winter-weakened sun and heating the pool area.

He'd only done a few laps when he felt a throbbing in his temples and his vision darkened. He had a panicky moment as he floundered in the deep end, swallowing some water, but he got his wits back and managed to get to the side and clutch on until the bad spell passed. Then he staggered out of the pool. After that he began to experiment and found that he could easily bring on the worrisome symptoms by overexerting himself, by standing
up suddenly and by abruptly changing his mood, particularly losing his temper.

Upon their return to New York he saw his physician, who found nothing wrong on initial examination, but who strongly advised Carl to check into the hospital for a battery of tests. Ridiculous, Carl replied. He was a bridegroom. He wanted to be with his wife in their new apartment, not languishing in a hospital. Couldn't his symptoms be attributed to simple overheating?

The doctor allowed that they could.

Well then, Carl scoffed, the answer was to take it easy in the summertime.

It was the right decision, Carl reflected as he gazed out the window at Central Park. It would not do to let on that he was feeling ill; today's telephone exchange with his sister had convinced him of that. His sisters would seize on any excuse to rob Becky of her authority. He could hardly hold to his claim that she was working under his supervision if he was in a hospital.

Besides, it would be humiliating when it got around that he'd checked himself in for tests. He could hear the laughter now. What did the old goat expect, taking a bride half his age?

I got what I wanted and Becky got what she wanted. Now we can get on with being happy if only the world will see fit to leave us alone.

He sighed in resignation and left the living room for his studio. It was a glorious afternoon and the apartment was positively ticking with blessed quiet. Their housekeeper—Becky would not stand for more than one servant—was out shopping. He looked forward to getting at that watercolor still life before the light changed.

“I just think you should have consulted me, that's all.” Cooper glowered, palms flat on Becky's desk, leaning over her. She rolled back her swivel chair as he
loomed. “You've made your point, Phil. I understand that you don't agree. However, my decision stands. I appointed Grace Turner chief fashion buyer because I want somebody I can trust in Europe. I need to know exactly what Dior is doing in Paris, for example.”

“My people have been buying for years, damnit. Are you saying you can't trust them?”

“Phil, you know me. I can sell anything, but I haven't got the clothes sense Grace was born with. I've known her a long time. We understand each other. I know what she means when she says something—”

“Authority over the buyers falls within the province of the vice president, not the general manager,” Phil blurted, then blushed scarlet.

She lit a cigarette to blanket their embarrassment. “I've got an appointment in a few minutes,” she said quietly, finding it hard to look him in the eye.

He nodded and turned to go, but at the door he stopped and stared at her. “You remember how you got here?” His voice was thick with bitterness.

“Yes, Phil, I remember. I'll never forget what you've done for me.”

With a feral grin he shook his head. “I didn't bring up the past to draw lip service, but to make a point. You've changed a great deal, Rebecca, my dear. I doubt very much if you take the time these days to cozy up to your employees. When was the last time you strolled down to the shipping department to pick up some hot tips about what was in inventory? Go ahead and make Grace Turner your head fashion buyer. She knows you so well, after all. She knows just what you want to hear. If you weren't so unsure of yourself you wouldn't need that sort of obsequious—”

You're fired
. It was on the tip of her tongue, but Becky knew better than to test her authority that far. She stabbed her cigarette into the ashtray and took a deep
breath. “Phil,” she began, her voice even despite her rage and hurt, “don't fight me. Cooperate with me. We're a team. Phil, I owe you—”

“You don't owe me a thing, Rebecca,” he said coldly. “I was just a convenient rung in the ladder. You would have gotten exactly where you are now, one way or the other.”

Becky's intercom buzzed. Her secretary said, “Mr. Kol to see you.”

Before she could reply Cooper said, “I'll have her send him in on my way out. Becky, I apologize for my tone just now. I lost my temper.”

“It's all right.” She fought savagely against crying.

“For what it's worth to you, Becky, I meant what I said about your lack of self-confidence. It made you work harder when you were at the bottom, but now you're isolating yourself. I still make my daily rounds. When was the last time you were on the sales floor?” He turned and left.

She would never have fired Phil, even if she had that authority. She adored him for the kindnesses he'd shown, although she also resented the way he seemed to blame her for being successful. She'd worked hard, her marriage to Carl notwithstanding. How dare Philip reprimand her?

There was a knock at her door. “Come in.”

“Mrs. Pickman.” Herschel Kol nodded politely on his way into her office, briefcase in hand.

“Mr. Kol,” she said cordially, “it's always a pleasure.”

He sat down in one of the brass-studded green leather wing chairs in front of her desk and began to extract files from his briefcase.

She'd met Herschel Kol several months before at one of the Institute's hotel luncheons, and she remembered how charmed she'd been by his manner and his British accent, so improbable for a Palestinian. He was the grandson
of a renowned artist named Glaser. Carl had an art collection that included Cezanne, Renoir and Degas, bought for him by Bernard when he was just a boy. She asked her husband about Glaser's work. Carl was not very enthusiastic, and Becky nodded sagely in response, although the truth was that she knew very little about such matters.

Her Institute work involved what she did know—merchandise. Becky was heading a new committee, the Palestine Supplies Association. It would raise not cash but materials, everything from construction supplies to canned food, shoes, pots and pans. Becky's connections with goods manufacturers and wholesalers made her the perfect one to supervise the work.

Herschel had begun to visit her at the store to query her on Pickman's contacts in Canada, of which there were quite a few. During each interview Herschel sat with his notes scattered on her desk and his pad on his knee, conscientiously jotting down her advice about wage levels and influential Jews in Canada. Becky told him what she could without prying into his reasons for asking. The little she knew about him—that a substantial portion of the Institute's cash was going into a special fund to pay for Herschel's machinery—had convinced her that this rakish, intense man had better be discreet.

Becky enjoyed Herschel's visits. She liked his aura of danger and adventure, of course, but there was something more. Herschel Kol seemed to have a special way of paying attention to a woman. When she spoke he listened closely, his eyes locked on her face; when he replied to her there was no hint of condescension. He was always polite as well as straightforward, and in fact devastatingly charming.

“What can I do for you, today. Herschel?” she asked, smiling.

Herschel shook his head. “I have no more questions. The time has come for me to ask your help in another
important matter.” He told her about the submachine gun being designed. He expected the blueprints for both the weapon and the manufacturing equipment any day.

“Prototypes must be delivered intact to Palestine. Machine shops are needed. Just now I think New York is a bad location for this phase. There are too many men like me working your country; the Zionist leadership has put all its eggs in one basket. I'd like to set up in Canada, both to protect the operation from the FBI and because I believe the work can be done more cheaply there. You see, although I consider this project important, the leadership is more concerned with collecting arms than with inventing new ones. My own opinion is that a new kind of army—a civilian militia—will require a new kind of weapon.”

“I don't know a thing about guns, so how can I help?”

“You have connections in Canada. Perhaps you can open the right doors for me or introduce me to someone who will.”

“I'll do my best.” Becky smiled. “I must confess, I find all this cloak-and-dagger stuff very exciting.”

“Mrs. Pickman—” Herschel's clear, penetrating gaze thrilled and troubled her. “Rebecca, if I may—I must ask you to think twice before you join us.”

“I already am involved.”

“Excuse me, but raising legitimate donations is one thing and conspiring to smuggle weapons is another. We would have to meet outside your office, for instance. You must understand the dangers.”

Becky nodded. What had she been thinking? She couldn't slink off to shadowy rendezvous with this attractive foreign agent. Perhaps her marriage wasn't all she'd hoped since Carl lost his robust vitality. Their relationship had regressed to a platonic level and they seemed more father and daughter than husband and wife.

“I'm not sure I can help you after all. I do have my reputation to protect.” Hearing herself made Becky cringe.

“You are an important woman, already doing a great deal for the cause,” Herschel said as he repacked his briefcase. He stood up. “Good-bye and thank you for your help.”

She watched him turn to go. Philip Cooper's words came back to her. She felt uncertain, old and tired. “Mr. Kol, can I really help you? You need me?”

He nodded, his expression composed. “Time and money are running out. I don't know where else to turn.”

“I see. If we meet, will we be alone?” She found it difficult to meet his quizzical stare. “I mean, could I take a chaperone? Well, never mind. I've changed my mind. I'll help. My father has always shown the greatest interest in Palestine. I suppose that interest has rubbed off on me.” Did she see or imagine the flicker of uncertainty in his eyes? “I'm not usually so indecisive,” she said ruefully.

Herschel grinned and Becky decided he had quite a wonderful grin.

After leaving Pickman's Herschel Kol took the subway downtown to Canal Street. From there he walked west to Benny Talkin's warehouse office. Danny had reported a slight mishap on the loading docks. A hollow boiler filled with pistols, rifles and ammunition had slipped and crashed to the dock while being craned aboard a freighter. A welded seam split and some of the longshoremen must have seen what was inside. Danny said not to worry; none of the witnesses would talk. Herschel was not so sure. He trusted Danny but kept in mind his assistant's extreme youth. Herschel had once been as cocksure, but a spell in prison had cured him. It was an experience he wished to avoid repeating and one he wanted to spare Danny if possible.

The first time he met Benny Talkin he'd disliked him,
but gradually Benny came to remind Herschel of Yol Popovich. Like Yol, beneath Benny's veneer of brash cynicism was a good streak. Danny said Benny was “connected,” a bit of American jargon that meant he had ties to organized crime. This concept of crime as big business, a fact of life, at first confounded Herschel, but really, it was just like the Turks and their baksheesh.