How could she just disappear? Without a word? Without a clue?
Just the year before, Mayor Fiorello LaGuardia had opened the World's Fair at Flushing Meadow Park, proclaiming it “The World of Tomorrow.” Yet, that sweltering summer of 1940, the war on the horizon was the only true promise for tomorrow. Poland had been blitzkrieged, the Low Countries had been rolled over, and France had fallen to the might of the German thirst for conquest. England had only recently removed its troops from harm's way at Dunkirk. The Battle of Britain was being waged in the skies over the white cliffs of Dover, as Winston Churchill was promising “to fight to the end, on the beaches, in the streets, and in the hills.”
Despite what was transpiring in Europe, the City of New York was unusually serene, upbeat almost, seemingly oblivious to the pain being inflicted in far off lands. The Depression was all but over, thanks to Franklin Roosevelt and his New Deal. No one wanted to think about war. That was for the newsreels. People were working; they were spending money again. The bars were hopping, the dazzling shows were lighting up Broadway, and the baseball pennant races were capturing imaginations everywhere. The celebration of life was on, albeit with the unsettled understanding that peace and prosperity could be stricken down at any moment by the march of fascism.
Tommy McCabe Martin was living the dream. He was young, he was exceedingly good looking, and he was exceptionally brilliant; a confident second year lawyer at one of the most prestigious law firms on Wall Street, Sullivan and Cromwell. He was a hard worker, undistracted, smart as hell, and tough, real tough. And yet, he was not afraid of a good time. They called him “Mac.” Alone in the big city for the past year, at heart he was a country boy from Poughkeepsie. He still found Manhattan intoxicating, in his abating naiveté. It was alive; so was he. Mac was set to conquer his own world. As was his way, he would worry about tomorrow, tomorrow.
Mac had met her, Sara Mandakovich, just the week before, in a prominent conference room on the twenty-eighth floor of the law firm. He had strutted into the meeting with an air of confidence, in his blue poplin suit, button-down Brooks Brothers white shirt, Liberty of London braces, and a matching silk tie. It was already stifling at ten in the morning. The windows of the conference room were open, a warm breeze competing with the composure of those already in the room. His eyes were immediately drawn to the young lady across the polished mahogany conference table, in the company of two older gentlemen. Sara reached across the table to shake his hand, introducing herself.
She was lovely. Dressed in a tailored, unbuttoned, off-white linen suit, with a lavender silk blouse open at the collar, revealing nothing but a promise. She sat back down in a heavy damask chair abutting the conference table. Her dark hair was fixed upon her head, but for one dangling strand down the side of her alabaster face. The little gold hoops hanging from her delicate ears accentuated the simple gold chain draping across her long neck. The make-up was understated, yet skillfully brought forth her best feature, her captivating deep blue eyes, which seemingly sparkled with unabated excitement.
It was not every day that Mac encountered a beautiful young lady at the stuffy Wall Street law firm. Apparently, he surmised, she was there to assist an emissary from the Russian Embassy, translating his words to one of the senior partners at the firm, John Foster Dulles. Mac understood it concerned the Russians wishing to purchase land upon which to build a new consulate, which would be an interesting feat considering that the Russians had recently signed a non-aggression pact with Germany, and that they appeared threatening to invade Finland themselves.
Mac shook the hand of the swarthy Russian diplomat.
“It is a pleasure, sir,” remarked Mac, as he sat down at the table with Sara and the gentlemen.
The Russian clearly wished himself an Englishman, dressed in a light blue striped seersucker suit, a white plain collar shirt, and a big paisley red bow tie. As sophisticated as he tried to be, his ruddy face, his vodka induced red bulbous nose, and his desperate need of a manicure, belied his intent, and was a certain contrast to the polished American attorney with whom he sought to do business. John Foster Dulles was tall and robust; the kind of guy that spent time in a barber chair each week. He wore a gray lightweight wool Brooks Brothers suit, a white classic shirt, with a Harvard club tie. His black wing tips were buffed to a careful shine, in sharp contrast to the Russian, who looked as though he had worn his shoes in a muddy gulag field. Dulles was sharp, and careful in his dress. He was obviously old money, and it showed. Mac wanted to be like his mentor in the way he dressed, in his gentlemanly mannerisms, and in his incredible success.
As impressive a figure as was cut by John Foster Dulles, in his traditionally appointed conference room surrounded by all his books, Sara Mandakovich still captivated the space with her poise and her beauty. At least in Mac's eyes. Her voice was melodious, as she translated for the older men, the sounds of a singing nightingale on a summer eve. Her perfume was light, but delightfully filled the air with a hint of a soft flowery sweetness. Mac found himself hopelessly distracted by the entire package brought to the table by Miss Sara Mandakovich on that hot summer morning.
Sara looked down at the red Persian carpet on the hardwood floor, blushing, clearly sensing his obvious interest. Nevertheless, she was professional, with a flavor of subtle coyness. Mac looked down at the yellow legal pad he had retrieved from the wooden credenza when he had realized that she had caught him mesmerized. He was embarrassed, but he recovered nicely as he started to take notes of the conversation between the two older gentlemen. Her words were music to his ears, still he deftly kept his composure. Dulles and the Russian looked caught up in what they were discussing, seemingly unaware of what was going on between the two young people. It was not like Mac to be distracted, but he was clearly smitten with this Miss Mandakovich.
“Mr. Martin are you getting this all down,” questioned a clearly perturbed Dulles. “We will need you to draft a general understanding as to the scope of our proposed engagement.”
Apparently, Dulles had noticed Mac's journey into fantasyland, tapping a pencil on the mahogany table after chastising his young associate.
“Yes, sir, Mr. Dulles,” Mac said, shaken out of his distraction. “I have taken down everything that has been discussed about the need for Federal approval, and the part the law firm would play in that objective. I will have something on your desk by this afternoon.”
“Very well,” replied Dulles, seemingly doubtful in his intonation.
The Russian smirked, nodding his approval. Clearly, the Russian emissary fully understood English, and perhaps had brought Sara along with the very intent of causing a distraction. He took a sip from the china coffee cup in front of him, more to hide his contentious smile than to quench his thirst.
At the conclusion of the meeting, they all stood, and engaged in niceties. As Sara shook Mac's hand across the conference table, she held on a little longer than necessary, sending electricity through his entire body. Her softness caused him to blush again, the heat rushing up to his face. She smiled, and she looked down once again, before turning to thank Mr. Dulles for his hospitality. Mac took leave of the room, his heart throbbing in his chest. Lingering in the hallway a few minutes, he studied the file in his hand, more as a stall than to satisfy any interest he had in the file.
After what felt like an eternity, Dulles walked out of the conference room, with the Russian, and then Sara, in tow. As she walked by Mac, now with an off-white velvet feathered hat on her head, she winked at him, and she surreptitiously slipped a folded note into his hand from her elegantly manicured fingers.
The biggest smile came to Mac, seeing it was a telephone number. He looked up in time to see her turn to catch his reaction, her hat flapping in response to the sudden movement of her head.
He mouthed, “I will call you tonight.”
Little did Mac know; his world had just changed forever.