BEN
In 1928, when Ben’s boss, Abe, had decided to expand and open a repair shop in Brooklyn, he had asked Ben to run it. Ben was excited. As Abe always said, “Success is a lot about timing and good luck, a little mazel.” And it was clear that he felt he had had the luck and the timing on his side.
Abe was flush that year. For him the stock market was a money machine, and his bank account was flourishing. So was his body. He was living high, and he had developed a round belly and a double chin from eating good, rich food. His hair was thinning as he got older, and he dressed, Ben told Golda, like a banker, not a mechanic. He hardly ever got his hands dirty with oil anymore. He left that to his apprentices and assistants.
“I was right about America and making a fortune. That’s what I’ve done. Some people call it gambling, but to me it’s a pretty sure bet,” Abe explained to Ben one day. “If you give the stockbroker ten or twenty percent of the cost of the stock, he lets you borrow the rest from him, and then, when the stock goes up, you sell, pay back the broker what you owe, and pocket the profits.”
Always a little fearful, Ben asked, “What if it doesn’t go up?”
“It always goes up,” Abe said.
“And the broker gives you the money? Just like that?”
“Well, he charges interest, of course. But the way the stock market goes up and up, it’s easy to pay everything back.” Abe insisted it was a surefire way to make money. And flush with money from his investments in the stock market, Abe decided to buy the building for the new business in Brooklyn with a down payment and a loan from the bank. He used his stock as collateral. Because Ben had been with him almost from the start, he offered him a piece of the property. Ben could put in $500 of the $4,000 building cost, and then he would have a percentage of the profits and not just a salary.
“A piece of the profits,” Golda said, her voice wary when Ben consulted her. They were sitting over tea at the dining table, as they always did to talk about important things. “That sounds good, but we don’t have $500 to buy, except what we saved for Morty’s school. So how could we buy into the building? Where would we get the money?”
“Borrow?”
“From who? Who lends us money?”
Ben admitted that it was unlikely any bank would lend him money. But he said, “Golda, it seems everyone is making money now. Buying stock and making money.”
Golda shook her head, disagreeing. “I don’t understand what a stock is. What are you buying, this stock?”
Ben hesitated. He wasn’t sure he understood it either.
Golda went on, pressing her point. “We can’t buy when we don’t understand how it works. We can’t.”
Ben reached out and patted her hands. “I know you are right,” he said. “But I wish you weren’t.” He held her hands for a long time, rubbing the fingertips. They were rough from pushing the needles through fabric when she embroidered. Once or twice he had seen her prick herself and draw blood. She would suck her finger and then wipe it on her skirt. He hoped it didn’t hurt too much. Now, he was relieved to have her make the decision. “If we don’t understand how it works, we shouldn’t do it,” he said.
She smiled at him, kissed his cheek, and said, “Thank God you agree, Ben. You are a good, hard worker. It will be all right.”
Ben told Abe he couldn’t invest.
Ben went on running the Brooklyn store. The economy was booming, and the family was living better. Golda’s needlework had earned her a reputation among the wealthy matrons in Brooklyn and their daughters, and between that and the work from the dressmakers, tailors, and dress shops on the avenue, she had earned enough to buy herself a sewing machine. She and Ben even talked about renting part of a storefront so she could launch a business where she was the sole proprietor. She was thinking about embroidering fancy tablecloths and bedlinen. That would bring a nice amount from wealthy patrons.
And they talked of a new, bigger apartment, but again, Golda was cautious. Ben urged her on. “Come,” he said. “Sylvia is getting older. She shouldn’t be sharing a room with Morty. We should have another bedroom, or at least room for Morty to sleep in the parlor.”
And this time Ben persuaded Golda. They moved into a new apartment just a few blocks from their old one. This one had its own bathroom. It had two bedrooms with windows, a parlor, and a kitchen with a big dining area. It felt like the ultimate in luxury. Even though Morty now slept on a cot in a corner of the parlor, everyone was happy.
Meanwhile, at Abe’s repair shop in Brooklyn, Ben fixed all kinds of mechanical items: radios and toasters, lamps and irons, and the newly popular vacuum cleaners. Soon there was an opportunity to rent the storefront next to the repair shop, and Ben took it, turning it into a hardware store, selling new merchandise. People could buy items like nails and lightbulbs and hammers and other tools. He was able to fill the store with merchandise, buying on credit, and since times were good, Ben’s business flourished. In fact, the whole economy was booming. They had even fit Golda’s embroidering and dressmaking business into a small corner of the new store. She was doing well. She dreamed of hiring a helper so she could take in more work.
They really didn’t understand what happened next. The newspapers talked of a stock market crash. Of the prices of the stocks falling drastically. Of margin calls and bankruptcies and banks failing and closing their doors. Gradually, in the fall of 1929 and the spring of 1930, the newspapers talked of a Great Depression. And then, as businesses failed and people lost their jobs, no one was buying the way they had been before.
Ben and Golda sat on the sofa and held hands like two lost children. They tried to understand why so many people had lost all their money. How did the stock market work? What happened, and what did it mean that a bank would fail?
“Abe lost everything,” Ben said.
“But where did it go?” Golda asked. “How could all that money disappear?”
“I don’t know,” Ben said. “I never understood the stock market.”
“I’m so glad we didn’t buy.”
Ben nodded. “No one is buying anything now. The store isn’t doing so good anymore.”
Golda’s eyes were wide. “What will we do?”
“I don’t know,” Ben admitted. “The building that the repair shop is in Abe doesn’t own anymore. The bank owns it. I will pay rent to the bank from now on. But the hardware store, I don’t know if we can keep it. If business stays bad, I think we won’t be able to afford the rent. You’ll have to move your sewing machine back to the apartment.”
Golda nodded. “I could do that, but I really don’t want to. Try to keep it a little longer. I’ll work harder. We’ll just both work harder.”
Ben nodded. “Thank God we didn’t buy.”