Yehuda ben Tema
in the Ethics of the Fathers
says:
fifty years to be prudent
sixty to be wise.
Philip Lehman
is not sure whether wisdom has anything to do with dreams
but the fact is
that at night he dreams.
And he always dreams the same thing.
It starts like a game.
In the garden of an old house
there is Philip and his father, Emanuel.
The sun is dazzling.
It’s the festival of Sukkot:
the hut
will have to be finished by this evening
with its roof of willow branches
and leaves and festoons.
This is what they did each year
at one time,
just as it was done over there in Germany
in Rimpar, Bavaria.
The sun is dazzling.
Emanuel has already built
the whole hut:
now the roof has to be decorated.
“It’s your turn, my son:
make this sukka
into the finest sukka you can
and I’ll watch you.”
Philip steps forward.
The sun is dazzling.
He climbs a ladder:
puts sprays of ivy
on the roof
—“Well done Philip!”
and palm leaves
—“Well done Philip!”
and branches
—“Well done Philip!”
and fruit
—“Well done Philip!”
and garlands
—“Well done Philip!”
but then his brothers and sisters
arrive in the garden
“We’ll make the roof even finer, Philip!”
and they bring
other shoots
—“More, Philip!”
other leaves
—“More, Philip!”
other branches
—“More, Philip!”
other garlands
—“More, Philip!”
but then Jews from the district
arrive in the garden, a crowd
and they also have leaves
branches
whole trees
and the roof of the sukka becomes enormous
becomes gigantic
—“It’s all going to collapse, Philip!”
but then the whole of America
—whites, blacks, Italians—
arrive in the garden
carrying stones, sticks, logs
—“It’s all going to collapse, Philip!”
—“It’s all going to collapse, Philip!”
—“It’s all going to collapse, Philip!”
—“It’s all going to collapse, Philip!”
Ever since his wife, Carrie,
has been sleeping in another room for peace and quiet
there is no one
to hold his hand
when Philip falls
plummets
down
under the sukka
knocked over
cut to pieces
by the gigantic collapse.
A secret.
Not to tell anyone.
Not even to write down in his diary
because block capitals
don’t work with dreams
and the dwarf’s hands have thirty fingers.
And then what do you do?
How can you go ’round saying
that the genius of Lehman Brothers
wakes up terrified
instead of sleeping soundly
now that everyone
but everyone
in the United States
has been caught up
in the fashion for the stock market?
Wall Street
is jubilant
always on the up.
Always a + sign
in front of that index
invented by
Charles Dow and Mr. Jones
putting together
the performances
of the top thirty industries
in America.
Always a + sign
for the Dow Jones Index.
And how could it be otherwise?
Everyone in America
but everyone
is investing
in bonds and shares:
“I’ll buy 200 International Steam shares!”
“I want 300 for General Electric!”
“400 for Gimbel Brothers!”
because
who doesn’t want to get rich
buying shares
for industries with the wind in their sails
that triple their profits
in two three years
and so:
“Americans, buy today:
you’ll have a capital tomorrow!”
to the point where
even the Temple shammes
the old man who lights and snuffs out the candles
brother of the tightrope walker
turned up
one morning at the counter:
“I’ve a load of money and want to make an investment.
Call one of your bosses for me.”
Exactly.
Let’s stop there, at these words
and this old man with greasy hair
who demands to see one of the bosses.
Since along the path in life
there are always many junctions
(and the life of a bank is no different)
the old shammes
so anxious to invest
finds himself without knowing it
with three extreme possibilities.
The first is to find himself before a wall of smoke.
The second, more reassuring, is to come up against Philip Lehman.
And in this case, the conversation would go like this:
“Baruch HaShem Mr. Lehman!
I have 10,000 dollars in my old bag
but I want them to be turned into at least 20,000:
they tell me that you multiply money.
And so: what can I invest in?”
“Dear Mr. Paprinski:
there are hundreds of shares
that will double their profits in a few years.
Do not ask the question
how they invest your money:
it’s a question with little meaning.
Not even we are in a position to tell you that!
Let us say, for example, that you have a piece of land:
you go to a good farmer
and you tell him to cultivate it, to produce a good crop. Yes?
At that point, what does the farmer do?
He takes a spade and a rake
and plants a little of everything:
fruit trees, vegetables, salad.
After which—a year later—
he comes and hands you a fine amount of money.
Why do you want to know whether that money
comes from apples, from tomatoes, or from carrots?
It’s enough for you to say ‘my field has made money’!
The same is true of your savings:
give all your cash to Lehman Brothers
and we’ll invest it
in everything that earns money.”
This is what Philip would tell him.
And it is highly likely
that after this fable about agriculture and banking
the good shammes would hand over
the whole of his 10,000 dollars
to be invested in shares.
But now
let’s take one step back.
And let’s imagine that the shammes
doesn’t meet Golden Philip
but the third head of the bank
the recent replacement
for a rabbit who has fled for the open sea:
“Baruch HaShem, Mr. Lehman!
I have 10,000 dollars in my old bag
but I want them to be turned into at least 20,000:
they tell me that you multiply money.
And so: what can I invest in?”
“Yours is a complex question, Mr. Paprinski.
For the problem here lies deep down
and the question becomes political:
I could tell you indeed to give us your money
so that we invest it for you in the stock market . . .
But it just so happens that Wall Street
creates strange mirages at times. Dangerous.
I remember that years ago, I was a young boy,
my mother, Babette—good soul!—decided to move some furniture
from her bedroom to the floor below.
As it was heavy,
she called in a couple of laborers
two brothers with broad shoulders,
Kildare was their name: I remember them well.
Toby and Johnny Kildare.
Well: they heaved the furniture onto their backs
and went downstairs a step at a time
without wavering, you understand? A real marvel.
They were so good
that my mother had them carry down
a six-foot pendulum clock as well
and then a table, and then a sofa
and the statue of Juno
and the one of Mercury:
the Kildare brothers would have shifted the world.
It was no problem for them:
they knew they had strong backs.
Maybe they were too sure of themselves
and this was the trouble:
when my mother showed them
a grand piano
which came—just think—from Alabama,
the Kildares didn’t say no,
but halfway down the stairs . . .
Have you ever seen a piano fly?
It’s quite an experience
not easy to forget, Mr. Paprinski.
And even the shoulders of Wall Street
however sturdy they might be
are not of marble, nor do they last forever . . .
I advise you to take care of your dollars,
put them safely into a savings account
you can have them back at any time
just as they are
and without the minimum of risk.”
“But in this way I won’t double them.”
“Of course not. But you know what the point is?
If my mother
hadn’t wanted to shift her piano
she could have played it until she was seventy.”
This is why
rather than jumping for joy
Philip Lehman
tormented by nightmares
now
sleeps in an armchair
with a heavy feeling
of being alone:
the real problem deep down
is that Herbert is rowing against the tide
and the question is becoming . . .
Oh dear, politics.
Herbert’s sacrifice to his ideals
has driven him to the point
that he and Edith have adopted a son.
His name is Peter.
And in all likelihood he comes from humble stock.
Philip hates politics
wholeheartedly.
Because that mass of people who decide with a vote
seem to him so inept.
They should at least pay to vote:
a dollar for each ballot paper.
Even a cent.
But totally free . . .
It’s unthinkable.
Philip Lehman
also has these thoughts
during his long nights of insomnia,
made even more disturbing
ever since the roof of the sukka
in his nightmare
is no longer covered with branches and leaves
but with canvases, paintings, watercolors, portraits:
they are being unloaded from a ship
each artwork under the arm of a jockey
in the saddle of his horse
and directing operations
it’s him, his son, Bobbie.
Ever since he graduated from Yale
with top grades
the boy
has been traveling the world
cultivating a passion for art collecting.
And so
each month
a letter from Europe
arrives on Philip’s desk
in which the boy informs him:
“I’m about to buy a Rubens:
if only you knew how beautiful it is, Dad!
With your taste for art
you cannot possibly say no.
Shall I get it? Send money, Dad!”
And the same for Monet.
“Send money, Dad!”
And the same for Goya.
“Send money, Dad!”
And the same for Velázquez.
“Send money, Dad!”
And the same for Bramante.
“Send money, Dad!”
And the same for Rubens.
“Send money, Dad!”
And the same for Canaletto.
And so it’s no surprise
if now in the dream
Bobbie is shouting to his jockeys:
“Put the pictures on the roof, guys!”
and it seems he can’t hear his father’s voice
shouting at him
“Stop, Bobbie! What are you doing?
Can’t you see it’s all about to collapse?”
“I’ve bought a Rubens:
look how beautiful, Dad!
Haul it onto the roof, guys!”
“Stop, Bobbie!”
“This is a Rembrandt
I bought it from a gallery:
heave, heave, onto the roof!”
“Stop, Bobbie!”
“Voilà: Monet! Hup: onto the roof!”
“Stop, Bobbie!”
“Voilà: Velázquez! Hup: onto the roof!”
“Stop, Bobbie!”
“Voilà: Cézanne! Hup: onto the roof!”
“Stop, Bobbie!”
“Voilà: Degas! Hup: onto the roof!”
“Bobbie!”
“Bramante!”
“Bobbie!”
“Perugino!”
“Bobbie!”
“Canaletto!”
“Bobbie!”
“Renoir!”
“Bobbie!”
“Pontormo!”
And having finished with painters
he starts on sculpture
full on.
What can a poor man do
to get to sleep
persecuted
by a sadistic son
who mistakes the roof of a hut
for the Louvre?
This nocturnal Sukkot
with its horses and art collection
has become more efficient
than an assembly line.
Well yes.
For among other things
it just so happens
that one fine day
Philip Lehman
felt the need
to do what his father once did:
to physically touch
go and see
understand
—for himself—
what
those wondrous
amazing
American industries
the envy of the whole world
really are.
Highland Park Plant.
Mr. Philip Lehman
has an appointment
at 10:00 a.m.
with Mr. Henry Ford.
And who cares
if he’s an anti-Semite:
we’re bankers, not rabbis.
The new Ford Model T
will be assembled
before his eyes
in exactly
ninety-three minutes.
Watch in hand
Henry Ford is about to kick off.
Conveyor belt.
Workers ready.
Each one in place.
Each one equipped.
Ready?
Steady?
Go!
four-cylinder engine
93-92-91-90
rear drive
89-88-87-86-85
engine transmission with bearings
84-83-82-81-80
side valves
79-78-77-76-75
two-speed gear-change
74-73-72-71-70
reverse gear
69-68-67-66-65
cooling system
64-63-62-61-60
thermosiphon radiator
59-58-57-56-55
steel chassis
54-53-52-51-50
single leaf spring
49-48-47-46-45
ammeter
44-43-42-41-40
starting handle
39-38-37-36-35
drum brakes
34-33-32-31-30
pedal control
29-28-27-26-25
flywheel magneto
24-23-22-21-20
petroleum carburetor
19-18-17
fuel tank under the seat
16-15
upholstered seats
14-13
velvet trimming
12-11
matte black body, the same for all,
10-9
single dynamo for headlamps
8-7
tempered steel wheels
6-5
wooden spokes, as for carriages
4
brass fittings
3
Ford nameplate back and front
2
horn
1
ready
for sale
will do fifty miles
on one gallon of gasoline.
Philip Lehman
is speechless.
He turns to look at Henry Ford
smiling with pride.
He looks at the faces
of the workers
each in their place
ready to send off
in ninety-three minutes
another Model T.
The fact is:
from that day on
ever since that visit to Henry Ford
an enormous
highly efficient
assembly line
now appears
in Philip Lehman’s dream:
his son’s artworks
are no longer brought in by jockeys
but on a conveyor belt
sorted by Ford workers.
As far as the eye could see.
And the Sukkot hut
under siege
collapses
each night
in ninety-three seconds.