Israel (87 page)

“Then Phil Cooper's ten percent will be the deciding factor. If he votes with me I stay. If he votes against me or abstains . . .” she trailed off. “It just doesn't make sense. I love the store and I'm the best person to run it.”

“That is so,” Collins said. “However, to my constant sorrow we do not live in a logical world. Nevertheless, Becky, regardless of how this turns out, you remain a very rich woman—”

“Excuse me,” she snapped, her voice dripping disdain. “I was already a rich woman. Now I'm a rich widow.”

Collins winced and looked away.

“I'm sorry, Norman. I have no call to be angry with you.”

“You loved Carl very much, didn't you?”

Becky nodded. “I know he meant for me to continue running the store. Without Pickman's I'm worthless.”

“Now that's certainly not true.”

“It is,” Becky insisted. “The only time I'm really alive is when I'm working. Without the authority and power of the store behind me I'm useless, worthless, just as I said. It doesn't matter how much money I have.”

“I understand how you feel,” Collins replied. “If Carl had seen fit to trust me I could have protected you against this sad circumstance. Now it's too late. I can't help you maintain control, I'm sorry to say.”

“Nobody can.”

“Except Philip Cooper.”

Herschel Kol spent two weeks in Toronto establishing his operation. Max Ross was to be technical supervisor, and Horace Crown, true to his word, supplied financial backing. A loft in an industrial building on a Toronto back street was rented; Ross told the landlord that his business, Allied Machine Concepts, was developing a new machine for the textile industry.

Ross recruited machinists to work in house on the more sensitive projects. To save time it was agreed that the more innocent-looking components could be farmed out to other shops. Even so, Ross cautioned, the need for secrecy was going to slow them down. It would be at least six months before samples would be ready.

Herschel demanded that everything be finished in three months and returned to New York frantic over what he perceived as insurmountable deadlines. In a few weeks it would be 1947, and who could say what the new year would hold for Palestine? Every day the situation there was worsening, and the British stranglehold on immigration and imports kept tightening. The cleverest, simplest munitions factory in the world would do no good if the Jews of Palestine couldn't get their hands on it.

Herschel resolved to spend as much time as he could in Toronto, urging on his workers. Ross was a good man, but it wasn't his country that was in danger. The more time Herschel spent cracking the whip, the faster the guns and machines would be made.

He met with Danny to review the export side of their operation while he was away. Danny reported nothing out of the ordinary and then asked about Canada.

“Danny, you know it is better for everyone if we stick to what we need to know.”

“Yeah, sure,” Danny sneered, looking disgusted, “but everything went okay, right?”

“Right.”

“Good. Then I quit.”

“What? You can't quit now!”

“Sure I can,” Danny shouted back. “I just did. Watch me do it again. I quit!”

“At least I should get an explanation.”

“I don't owe you anything. Why didn't you tell me Becky was working with you, godamnit? I had a goddamned right to know.”

“How did you find out?” Herschel asked calmly. “Was it Benny who told you?”

“It wasn't his fault. It slipped out while we were talking about Carl Pickman. You know Becky's husband died?”

Suddenly uneasy, Herschel nodded. His behavior on the night of his death still rankled. He had sent a note expressing his sympathies and begging forgiveness for what he had termed his rudeness. Even so, he dreaded the day he would face her.

“All my good work with you has been ruined,” Danny complained. “I wanted to accomplish something important that nobody else could do, and what happens? My sister gets involved, and just like that she's the big shot and I'm small potatoes.”

“She has the money to help us, Danny; I can't deny that. But it's your cleverness that allowed us to succeed. Money alone can't do it.”

Danny looked unconvinced. “I appreciate what you said, but I'm still through. I got into this in the first place because I didn't want to work for my sister. I don't intend to work for her through you.”

“Does Becky know how you feel?”

“Oh, so it's ‘Becky,' is it?” Danny scowled. “You two must be closer than I thought. No, she doesn't know.” He shrugged, his voice softening. “I'm not afraid of her or anything, but she is my sister, and with her husband just dying . . . well, I didn't have the heart to confront her.”

Good, Herschel thought. That was one potential disaster out of the way. Becky was fully capable of disassociating herself from the cause so as not to antagonize her brother. If she backed out, who knew how long Horace Crown would continue to contribute?

“Danny, I need your help now more than ever. I must spend a lot of time in Canada, which means I need you here to watch over things in the States. I'm willing to make a deal with you.” Herschel waited, watching, trying to fathom the depth of Danny's resolve to quit. If he wasn't interested in making deals, Herschel would have no choice but to let him go.

“What kind of deal?”

“You still want to fly?”

“Here we go again.” Danny looked sour. “You must really think I'm stupid to fall for your tricks a second time.”

“No tricks, Danny, I swear it.”

“Herschel, there's nothing you wouldn't do or say to help Palestine.”

“Absolutely true. However, in this case I am not lying. I can get you onto a list of pilots.”

“Yeah? What's the catch?”

Herschel smiled grandly. “No catch.” He put his arm around Danny's shoulders. “We are friends, yes? I help you; you help me.”

“
I swear to God, Herschel, if this is a trick—”

“Look, I'll telephone my contact that you are coming to see him. You'll go by yourself. He's an aviation expert and you are a pilot. You'll know soon enough if he is truthful.”

Danny grudgingly nodded. “You knew about this guy all the time?”

“Yes.”

“And you didn't tell me?”

“I wanted you to help me here first. I would have told you later, before I went home.”

Lion Airlines turned out to be a hole in the wall in a building on far West Forty-second Street. It was mostly occupied by accountants, typewriter repair specialists and even a private detective. Danny identified himself to a fast-talking, chain-smoking man named Milty, stayed two hours and then went straight to headquarters.

“Well?” Herschel asked.

“He knows airplanes,” Danny acknowledged. “I had to give him my real last name. I told him not even you know it, but—”

“He has to check on your flight training.”

“That's what he said,” Danny replied. “At first he wasn't too keen on the fact that I don't have a CAA license, but he perked up when I said I was a rated fighter jock. He said what he needed right away was guys able to fly cargo planes. I said that if he was in a real pinch I could always copilot. He wasn't too hot over that idea, but he said he'd check out my service record and keep me in mind. He said he could use me for sure later on, as a fighter pilot on one condition.”

“And what was that?”

“Don't act so innocent. You know damn well what it was. I have to work with you until Milty sends for me.”

“Danny, that only makes sense. This way he can keep tabs on you.”

“I call it blackmail.”

“Oh, is that what you call it? I'll tell you something. There are many men who would like to resume their aviation careers—many more than we'll need. These men have to pass through a number of preliminary interviews before they get to Lion Airlines. You may think what you like, but the fact is that without my help you wouldn't have made it. If Milty lets you fly, it will be as a favor to me. Understand?”

Danny nodded. He'd come to exactly that conclusion during his subway ride uptown. As much as he hated to admit it, at this point neither man could realize his goal without the help of the other.

Danny still desperately wanted to fly. It had been so long since he'd been able to talk knowledgeably with another aviator. His two-hour conversation with Milty had relit the fire. Toward the end of his interview he would have volunteered for any position on any flight crew. He would have kissed Milty's feet if the guy had offered him the chance to go along on a ride.

“I guess I got a little hot under the collar,” Danny confessed. “I'm sorry. Calling you a blackmailer was unfair.”

Herschel grinned. “Forget it. To show you that my heart's in the right place, when the time comes I swear I will allow you to risk your neck flying rickety airplanes on behalf of my country.”

“Now that's fair and square,” Danny laughed.

“But until then,” Herschel admonished him, “you will continue to work with Benny Talkin.”

During the weeks following Carl's death Becky anxiously waited for his family to make a move to oust her from the presidency of Pickman's, but nothing happened. Philip Cooper was on vacation for all of December and the first week in January. Becky assumed that the coup would take place when he returned, but it didn't. Cooper was if anything friendlier and more cooperative than when Carl was alive.

The two of them went out to dinner to celebrate Pickman's banner holiday-season sales totals. Throughout the evening Becky itched to ask if he'd been approached by Carl's ex-wife and his sisters, but she didn't; it would not help matters to reveal her nervousness. After all, he was the fellow who had so accurately pointed out her insecurity in the first place.

Becky, deciding that it was up to the other side to attack, did her best to ignore the threat and turned her attention to her work. There was certainly a tremendous amount to do, both in the store and for Palestine.

In February the newspapers were full of the violence in Palestine and the British government's inability to control it. The English were still advancing their plan for a
“federated” Palestine. The country would be divided into three parts. The major portion would be Arab, the next in size would remain under the direct rule of England, and the smallest, approximately fifteen hundred square miles, was to be turned over to the Jews. The Jews were not to have control of immigration into their territory. A “super-government” made up of Arabs and British would retain authority over immigration policy.

The Zionist response to the English plan and to the current heightened restrictions on Jewish emigration to Palestine was to increase their attacks. In Parliament were cries to end this “squalid war” and for England either to govern Palestine or get out. At the end of the month the British announced the mandate was unworkable and turned the matter over to the United Nations.

Meanwhile, Institute branches all across the United States were increasing the frequency of their meetings. Large parts of Becky's days were taken up using Pickman's clout to coax other department stores, manufacturers and wholesalers to add to the inventories of her Palestine Supplies Association. Whenever she got word that some less innocent materials were available—ammunition from a sporting goods chain, perhaps, or several gross of hunting knives—she'd put the would-be contributor in touch with Benny Talkin. Talkin, along with an associate whom Becky had never met, had taken over most of the munitions operation in this country. Herschel was dividing his time between his Canadian operation and traveling to speak at fund-raisers.

Becky, all but overwhelmed with work, tried to get her brother Danny involved in PSA but he begged off, claiming that his job at a Brooklyn machine shop was keeping him too busy to get involved in charity work. Becky, trying to control her temper, offered to pay him a salary, but he still refused. Later she talked the matter over
with her father, who said, “Leave the boy alone. He don't want to work for his sister. Who can blame him? He's a big boy now.”

That spring the United Nations Special Commission on Palestine announced that it would issue a preliminary report in the fall. About that time Becky joined yet another project on Palestine's behalf.

The British, determined to staunch the flow of Jews into Palestine, were intercepting freighters packed with immigrants from Europe and escorting them to Cyprus and the displaced persons camps. Despite the British blockade there were many in Europe clamoring to make the journey, and more ships were needed.

An associate approached Becky with the information that a suitable ship—an old excursion steamer—was up for sale in Baltimore. Becky held a meeting to discuss the matter, excusing her housekeeper for the evening so that her guests could speak frankly. It was agreed that the group would raise the money to purchase and suitably refit the steamer to transport Jews to Palestine. They would meet weekly to plan and make reports.

Becky was glad to have an evening activity to pencil on her calendar. Loneliness had returned to her in the six months since Carl's death. Her days were busy, but her nights were agony, shuffling about the big apartment by herself once the housekeeper had retired to her own room for the night. When Carl was alive they had a busy social life, but nobody needed an extra woman.

With her brother Danny too busy for her, Becky had only her father. She asked him to move in with her, but Abe, stubborn as ever, refused to leave Cherry Street. His friends were there, he explained, and Becky, seeing how content he was surrounded by his old cronies, found herself envying him. Gradually she cut back her visits and replaced them with telephone calls. She felt awkward pulling
up in front of the store. She felt she was intruding on an old men's club. She couldn't help remembering how Stefano de Fazio used to visit her father in much the same way; how pleased her father always was that Stefano should come and how relieved he was when Stefano left.