For many years
there has always been fresh fruit in the Lehman house.
And also in the rooms of the bank:
whole trays piled with bananas and pineapples
laid out on the glass tables.
Only in Dreidel’s office
is there no sign of them:
they wouldn’t survive in the smoke-filled atmosphere.
Each time Philip
walks into that room
he wonders
whether the impact on his lungs
is so very different
to what soldiers felt
over there in Europe
when the Germans used Yperite.
They call it mustard gas.
“A deplorable use of chemistry
applied to the art of war.”
Philip Lehman remarks
as the latest model of gramophone
wafts chamber music down the corridor.
That crackling
accompanies the staff
from morning to evening
in the background
as though it were attempting
from far away
to cover the sound of gunfire
on the other side of the ocean
over there in Europe.
They are killing each other like beasts
on the old continent:
the Habsburgs against the French
the Ottomans against the English
and the Prussians quite certain of victory.
Let them get on with it.
“It makes no difference to us
for the moment” Philip remarks
“we don’t have so big an interest in Europe.”
The one who disagrees with this assessment
however
is his cousin Herbert,
who’s becoming ever more abrasive
verging on the offensive:
“In your trifling position of banker, dear cousin,
do you really imagine that a war in Europe
can have nothing to do with us?
Simply because there’s an ocean in between?
The planet Earth has changed, we’re no longer in the 1800s . . .
Here the problem has become deep down:
we are all in a single system.
The question is a political one, Philip:
there is nothing that doesn’t concern the whole world.”
“Why not then read the Chinese newspapers, Herbert?
Why don’t you learn the Indian language or that of the Maoris?”
“Are you being sarcastic?”
“Not at all: I’m inviting you to be practical:
a banker, believe me, is a practical being.”
“Practicality means looking things in the face:
a war without precedent has broken out in Europe
and you treat it like a neighborhood brawl?”
“My hair is turning gray
not like yours:
I think I know what I’m talking about.”
“The problem lies deep down:
you bankers always think you know what you’re talking about.”
“May I remind you that you are also a banker?”
You sit with Dreidel and myself at the head of Lehman Brothers.”
“I was just trying to say that I’m not a banker like you.”
“I detect a slight hint of disdain.”
“You are wrong: it’s not a hint, nor is it slight.”
“Remember I’m getting on in years.”
“Remember I have a university degree.”
This is the tone of the daily altercations
between Philip and Herbert.
And after all
how could it be otherwise?
They have practically nothing in common.
Or rather: they have one thing in common.
Used—not surprisingly—used each day
as a final means of pacification
when arguments become too heated:
“You are an exploiter of the masses, Philip!”
“And you are a pettifogging idealist, Herbert!”
“You shouldn’t be running a bank but a slaughterhouse.”
“If you don’t like my methods, then vote against me.”
“In fact I do, and I’ll carry on doing so as long as I can breathe.”
“And as long as I can breathe I’ll tell you that you’re wrong.”
“A great prospect.”
“It will carry us to ruin.”
“Not too soon, I hope: shall we have a whisky?”
“I’ll never say no to a whisky.”
Whisky is the nectar of the gods:
high finance drinks rivers of it.
And no banker’s office is ever without
a cabinet chock-full of liquor.
This is what happens
more or less every day
between Philip Lehman, son of Emanuel
and Herbert Lehman, son of Mayer:
fighting
as never before
between a Lehman, always in block capitals
and a Lehman always ready to kick like a horse,
swords drawn
between the son of an arm
and the son of a vegetable
irreconcilable
but
promptly
reconciled
by a single malt whisky.
Even today
with a glass in front of them
the three Lehman partners
have discussed
the words of President Wilson:
“The war is not our business!
We do not hunger for supremacy
the United States are for peace
we’re not crazy
like the German people.”
Everyone today is talking about these words.
Including probably the Goldmans
to a couple of outsiders.
For Philip, they are always on his mind:
“They tell me Henry Goldman’s automobile
is decorated with a G in pure gold.
Did you know about it, Herbert?”
“Bankers like you and Goldman
need to spend their money somehow.
I would invest it in more decent factories,
while others put it into gold trinkets.
I wouldn’t be surprised if you had an L made.
Or rather: perhaps the whole name PHILIP.”
“I appreciate your sense of humor, Herbert.
I’ll pass your criticisms on to Goldman and Sachs.”
“When they get back.”
“Why? Have they gone off?”
“Yes sir: to Germany. Didn’t you know?”
“That’s news to me . . .
the Goldmans doing business with the Germans . . .”
“Don’t you see? The problem lies deep down:
you bankers really cannot
separate the mercenary aspect from everything else:
perhaps he’s just traveling for pleasure!”
“Perhaps he is. Perhaps not.
Good old Goldman: guten Deutschland . . .”
Exactly: the Goldmans.
Some wars are fought with guns.
Others are wars of silence.
The continuing war between Lehman and Goldman
was of the latter kind:
allies in appearance
enemies in substance.
Now, it’s very strange how sometimes
just a few words
are enough to light the fuse
which sets off the bomb.
That phrase from President Wilson
about crazy Germans
produced a similar effect
in the golden mind of Philip Lehman
who without realizing it
busily set to work:
the war that has erupted in Europe
might have its advantages
even though it’s far away.
Let us suppose that a generous
loose cannon
were suddenly to be fired
in a westerly direction
and with the help of a fair wind
—having crossed the entire Atlantic—
made a perfect hit
striking only
the offices of Goldman Sachs.
He wasn’t interested in them collapsing into a pile of rubble:
he just wanted them to be out of action
to lick their wounds
for a year, maybe two.
Three at most.
Yes.
Definitely:
the Germans’ demonic war
might be of help to him
if used wisely,
if word got ’round,
since high finance now
depended above all on gossip.
Or rather: on getting others to gossip.
Which is not the same thing.
To put the idea into practical use
his son, Bobbie,
was of great assistance.
There is something heroic
about that unique moment
when a son for the first time
proves to be helpful
in a father’s scheming.
When the son is destined to become “King of Wall Street,”
then such a transition is all the more significant.
In a letter from Paris
Bobbie informed him
that he had spotted a seventeenth-century Madonna
but this time
“you don’t have to send me money, Dad:
I need more time.”
The reason for this delay
was explained to Philip only six months later:
his rival bidder was a rich Portuguese
and Bobbie was convinced
he wouldn’t manage to buy it.
But he took careful notes
and discovered his rival was
more of a mercenary than an art collector.
And so, having persuaded the gallery
not to put the painting straight onto the market,
he arranged
in the meantime
to be invited to social events and dinners
with the specific aim
of harming his enemy’s credentials.
Having won his scalp in terms of reputation
he gained his victory
on the battlefield:
“I have Our Lady of Sorrows in my grasp:
now send me money, Dad!”
Sometimes, you can learn so much from children!
Philip thought along the same lines.
But did so
quite simply
on a larger scale:
it was no longer like the old days
when his Uncle Mayer ruled over cotton
armed with a slice of cake!
In the New York of high finance
everyone moved on a megaphone
called “Press.”
Anyone with influence over that mechanism
could hope to win any war.
After all, Philip asked
in his diary:
The three press barons were most cordial:
not very different in manner
from those of the petroleum market.
The only difference was the type of product.
Their objectives being otherwise the same.
Philip was very clear:
Lehman could see large profit margins
from a widespread newspaper circulation.
“THE NEW YORK TIMES”
“THE WASHINGTON POST”
“THE WALL STREET JOURNAL”
what were they, after all, if not instruments to exploit?
And at the same time,
with the thrust of a bank like Lehman
how much bigger could they grow?
“I dream of a future when everyone in the street
—and even in China, even in Australia—
will have a newspaper under their arm.
If this happens, you will be very happy indeed.
And I, as a bank, will be just as pleased.”
Wasn’t there a mutual gain in this?
The press barons looked at each other:
now it was clear why this man
bore a name that could be measured in karats.
And they decided that, yes, they could sign.
Just as they were getting up to go
however
Philip Lehman
brought home the real result:
“And what do you think, gentlemen, about the war in Europe?”
“We think what everyone thinks, Mr. Lehman:
we fear the madness of the Germans.”
“Oh no, gentlemen, surely not: I don’t agree.
Prussia doesn’t have the money to fight a war for very long.
Banks are needed, behind the armies, that’s clear.”
“Ah yes, that’s true.
Are you familiar with German finance?”
“We no longer have any links with Bavaria.
But the Goldmans, I know they do,
they went back there only yesterday: I’ll ask them
and then I can let you know.”
A seed, when dropped into the ground,
generally needs some time
before it germinates.
In this case it was extremely fast:
“THE NEW YORK TIMES”
“THE WASHINGTON POST”
“THE WALL STREET JOURNAL”
took no more than five working days
to voice a doubt
loud and clear:
was someone using American money
to finance German guns?
And Goldman Sachs, first and foremost, what side were they on?
Why these trips
“too often” onto Prussian soil?
Philip himself
was truly amazed
what effect this discovery had:
soon
almost everyone
on Wall Street
turned the other way
when they saw a Goldman.
What was this, other than victory?
What was this, other than justice?
It would have been
an excellent result
if the Great War
were limited to this contribution
to the family bank.
This was not to be.
And events moved differently.
Not long after
on an average rainy evening
at 119 Liberty Street
Philip Lehman
Herbert Lehman
and an entity wreathed in smoke
sat around a table
facing each other.
Philip ended his long discourse
making it clear
that his last word was followed by a full stop
and that there would be no more.
So he leaned back
and waited for his cousins
to vote on his proposal.
This time, however, there was no doubt:
the question really was political . . .
“What will the other banks do?” Herbert asked.
“Kuhn Loeb, J. P. Morgan, and the Rockefellers are ready to start:
they already have contacts in England.”
was the reply
while the curtain of smoke around Dreidel
began to resemble a London smog.
“So far as I’m concerned, I have strong doubts:
the problem here lies deep down,
I ask whether a bank can, ought (or even wants to)
finance an army at war.”
“To turn back, Herbert, would be cowardice.”
“I am putting the question in ideal terms!
You are calculating the profits!”
“You always put the question in ideal terms
which is why you are continually wrong.
I, on the other hand, keep to the facts. To the facts alone.”
“Enlighten me from the height of your wisdom.”
“Perfect: the Germans threaten to support Mexico against us:
they’ll help them to take back Texas.
There: this is a fact. Not an ideal: a fact.
And I’ll remind you that Lehman has petroleum and railroads in Texas.
Second fact: their submarines are targeting us daily,
the Lusitania is already sunk.
And this, Herbert, is not an ideal:
or do you want to know exactly how many died?
The third fact is that if we leave everything as it is
we’ll still come out of it badly:
if the Germans win, they’ll control half the world,
but if we enter the war, we’ll be in charge.
Facts, Herbert: these are all facts.”
“You take it for granted that we will win the war:
I would describe it as a mirage. Not a fact.”
“And you’re wrong again. Because now
the United States has only a few soldiers.
But with the massive involvement of the banks
there’ll be a million within a year.
With a million soldiers, the war is won.
It’s a splendid fact, dear Herbert.”
“Extraordinary. Marvelous.
To hear you speak is a rare treat, Philip:
we are on the very brink of a precipice.
You could finance a war
with not the slightest hesitation
and we are talking about a world war!”
“And so, in a word, are you against?”
“The argument is vast:
it would take a month to study it in depth!”
“And instead, I’m giving you a few minutes:
President Wilson is asking for support
and we can’t tell him
that Lehman Brothers needs more time
than the Capitol to decide.”
“I’m asking only to look at the facts
I’m asking to consider and reflect
I’m asking to interpret in my own way
what we’ve been requested to do
as members of the whole of humanity.”
“You’re a banker, Herbert, you’re not a rabbi.”
“And you’re a warmonger.”
“Wrong: the military people are the Prussians, not me.
Do you want the Germans to rule the world?”
“Not at all.”
“Then the Germans have to be fought,
and not with words, but with grenades.”
“And with our money?”
“With the American economy, Herbert,
of which Lehman Brothers has the honor to be a part.”
“I can’t reduce the question to a simple yes or no:
there are a thousand problems deep down,
which you Philip refuse to see.
If the state seeks the help of a bank to finance the army
then what can the bank ask in return? Laws? Regulations?
Do you understand how it creates a dangerous precedent?”
“This is just a lot of words.”
“Without adding that up to now
the money in bank savings was invested in growth,
whereas now you want it used for killing:
don’t you think in theory
we ought to ask each of our customers
if they agree to their money being used like this?”
“I ask you not to lose yourself in idle chatter.
Words are a waste of time, Herby,
they are like diluting whisky with water.
Therefore, less hot air and more substance.”
And Herbert would have replied
by pouring him a pure malt whisky,
except that he didn’t get the chance:
“May I speak?”
uttered Dreidel
stubbing out the whole of his cigar.
He stood up.
Took a notebook from his jacket.
Cleared his throat.
And this was what he said: