Postscript

The sale of his father’s business to Helena Rubinstein enabled Jay and his parents to limp along until he had graduated from an outstanding law school, at which time he went to work for Abe Zwillman, handling some of his more problematical business affairs. When Abe died in 1941—the authorities said he hanged himself, even though his hands were tied behind his back—his estate went principally to his wife, with a few gifts to friends, like a red Cadillac to Jay.

Shortly after Zwillman’s funeral, Jay entered the army and fought with the Allies as they moved from North Africa into Sicily and through the boot of Italy. South of Rome, they camped in a small village. Mail from home, posted months before, finally caught up with them. Among his letters was one from Mr. Magliocco, written in Italian. Jay had a local priest, who spoke good English, translate it.

Dear Mr. Klug,

Forgive me for writing to you in Italian. It’s easier for me. As you know, I’ve always felt protective about Arietta. She can now sleep outside the iron lung and, though she spends a few hours each morning in it, devotes most of each day to reading and to writing in her diary. I know how much she feels your absence and would love to correspond with you but feels that you would misunderstand her intentions. Let me assure you that her breaking off the engagement was not from a want of feeling but from an act of self-sacrifice. That she regrets it now, I have little doubt. However, as we say, the water that is fed to the plant can no longer be returned to the pail. I pen this brief note to beg a small favor: Write to her. Should you decide that my own flagrant sins, which I know from Arietta indirectly caused the death of your friend, prevent you from corresponding, I will surely understand.

Praying for your safe return and success, I am

Yours sincerely,

Piero Magliocco

In May 1945, Jay resumed his job as a journalist, fully intending to complete a book about his farraginous journey through the chronic angers of a hungry world. But he has been delayed by more important matters: a marriage and helping to raise the three children, two sons and a daughter, he has with Arietta. Now completely free of the iron lung, she can walk with the aid of braces, though she prefers that Jay push her in a wheelchair, which she calls her jaybird chariot, a better name, by far, than “jailbird,” a tag that Jay might well have earned had the Kefauver crime committee been able to incriminate him in Longie’s felonies. His appearance before the committee made headlines in Newark, because he told the investigators that the real crimes of the 1930s were committed not by gangsters but by bankers and industrialists who grew fat off the Depression, off the beggaring of millions. It was families robbed of their self-respect who joined “gangs.” Asked whether he would be willing to put his thoughts into writing, he said, “I’m sure that I shall not rise to the level of inspiration, but perhaps in the book that I’m hoping to resume, I can achieve explanation.”

FINI