In 1942, Bennett Cerf and Donald Klopfer had been inseparable partners for fifteen years, ever since they founded Random House in 1927. Neither Bennett, who was forty-three, nor Donald, who was forty, was eligible for the draft. At first glance, if asked which of the two was more likely to take a leave from Random House and volunteer to fight in World War II, anyone would of course have said Bennett.
But it was Donald who enlisted in the United States Army Air Forces. Bennett must have been taken aback, even envious I think, when Donald announced he was joining up. It was more than a desire, as far as Donald was concerned, it was a duty—and you had to know him to understand just how morally strong that feeling was.
Donald was the rock of Random House. He had a deep affection and respect for books and the people who made them. He was the sort of person whose simple presence could help you solve your problems. He believed publishers had a special obligation; he once told a writer whose politics he disagreed with that he would publish his book if no one else would. When we gave a dinner for Ayn Rand at the publication of Atlas Shrugged one of her minions announced ahead of time that everyone from Random House was to toast her and that she would then judge each person’s loyalty to her. “Of course,” this minion said, “Mr. Klopfer doesn’t have to give a toast if he doesn’t want to. He’s a gentleman.”
Bennett was a perfect complement to Donald, but there were never two people who were so close yet so different. Bennett loved life—Bill Styron called him “a life-enhancer” at his funeral. He loved publishing, authors, and publicity. Everything about books excited him—as these letters so delightfully demonstrate. His eagerness and openness made him a perfect target for practical jokes—and this was strangely endearing. Tony Wimpfheimer, who was the managing editor, had once had the first few copies of Bennett’s newest joke book bound upside down, and then we waited for Bennett to come screaming down the hall to his office. Another time Lew Miller, our sales manager, dressed up in a fake mustache, goatee, and a suit from central casting and was ushered into Bennett’s office by Bob Haas, who introduced him as the French author of a novel we had just published. Bob tried to keep a straight face as he translated “gentleman Lew’s” Fractured French. Bennett was bug-eyed when Lew pulled off his mustache—but he laughed as hard as they did. Once one of these jokes backfired. Chris, Bennett’s son, sheepishly entered Bennett’s office one Monday morning and confessed that he had gotten married over the weekend. He showed his father Polaroid wedding pictures. Bennett was dumbfounded, and then he burst into tears.
The only thing I can think of that Bennett disliked was meetings. If he walked into a room with more than two people he would turn around and leave.
Bennett and Donald saw Random House pretty much as a big family, and they acted accordingly. If someone needed help they were there. They once tried to tell a senior editor that while he could remain as long as he wanted to he might be happier if he found a job elsewhere. The editor said he was under a lot of strain because he wasn’t able to buy a house in New Jersey that his wife wanted. Bennett and Donald immediately loaned him the money. The same thing happened to me, though I said nothing at all to them about wanting to buy a co-op that I couldn’t afford. Out of the blue they called me into Bennett’s office and Donald wrote out a personal check and handed it to me. I’d been at Random House only six months. One morning Bennett came to work and found our sterling receptionist—Debbie DeBanzie—crying. Bennett stopped and asked her what was the matter. She showed him a letter from RCA that congratulated her on her retirement. Sobbing, she said she wasn’t able to go back to Scotland yet. Bennett immediately told her that she could sit there as long as she wanted and from then on he would personally pay her salary, and he did.
Donald went to England as an intelligence officer in the 445th Bomb Group, and in his V-mail he modestly related his adventures to Bennett as well as his concern for Random House and even his future there. Bennett in turn wrote fully and faithfully—and with an exuberance unique to him—everything that was happening in the world of books.
As a result we are now the beneficiaries of these wonderful letters. I believe there is nothing quite like them. Not only are they a unique window into publishing, but they portray a perfect partnership. It was almost as though they were born to be together, so perfectly did they fit. The two men had a remarkable affection for one another. I’ve never known two men who were so genuinely close and respected each other with such intensity.
Their correspondence flourished, at times almost daily, for two and one half years, a test for any relationship. Many more letters passed between them than are printed here. A few of the letters have been edited where they were repetitious or dealt with personal matters, real estate, insurance, or taxes. Most people who worked at Random House have been identified, but not all of the hundreds of people Bennett and Donald otherwise encountered.
—Bob Loomis