The Lehman Trilogy, page 36
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:
27
A Lot of Words
So to begin.
In Alabama, when I was born,
(well over half a century ago)
there was a black man who always wore a hat
we called him Roundhead.
He had a cart with two nags,
and he went up and down with it
carrying cotton.
One day—I wasn’t yet five—
he took me with him on the cart
and we went together to the plantation.
Word had got ’round that I was a champion with numbers:
at the age of four I already counted so well
that even my mother was amazed.
So before we set off
Roundhead pointed his finger at me with a smile:
“Now that you can count, master,
you have to tell me how many carts, how many horses
how many dogs and how many children we see
along the road from here to Sweet Hill!”
I know now that he was joking.
But a child?
He can’t tell the difference between jokes and serious stuff.
So I accepted the challenge:
I liked counting, I was a phenomenon.
And so, while Roundhead was holding the reins
I kept my eye on the road:
1, 2, 3, 4 carts
20, 30, 40 horses
8, 9, 10 dogs
50, 55, 60 children . . .
That day
Roundhead
obviously had some kind of torture in mind for me
because along the whole ride
he was singing a psalm
never stopped for a single moment.
I managed to hold out
with all my might:
he was singing, I was counting.
As soon as he stopped the cart in the yard at Sweet Hill
I was the one who pointed my finger at him:
“I’ve counted them all! I know the exact figures!”
He took it badly: he wasn’t expecting it.
But so as not to keep silent, he said:
“Master, I hope you ain’t lying,
for in my religion—and in yours too, I believe—
making things up is a serious sin . . .”
“I swear it’s all true!” I yelled:
“There’s 43 carts
90 horses
21 dogs
and 78 children.
79 with the one who waved to us from the well.”
Roundhead smiled.
And without imagining the consequences
he threw out an idea
one of those destined to sink deep
into the guts and farther down
to end up with all that stuff
that you can’t or don’t know how to deal with:
“But Master, how can I know whether you’ve lied . . .
Because them that drive the cart, you see, they don’t count the other carts
them that whip horses don’t count the horses that go past,
and them that think about avoiding dogs and children
can’t spend their time counting them.
And then, you heard: I was singing the psalm
and only them that keep silent can occupy themselves with numbers.
You understand what I said, master?”
And I certainly had understood.
Of course I had understood.
Maybe I had understood too well.
So that that evening
the carts had risen to 116
the horses to 320
the dogs to 98
and the children to 204
not taking into account
17 pregnant women
11 soldiers
7 beggars
a couple of barbers
and so on
with extreme precision.
Relentlessly.
By now
the whole of humanity was dividing into two:
those who sing while they drive
and those—quiet and reserved—
who count carts, horses, and everything else.
I was part of the latter.
All of a sudden
in short
I could see clearly before me
my role as universal counter:
I would watch the world go by
keeping count
never letting my mind wander
never losing the thread.
It mattered little or nothing to me
that as the years passed
I met no one else who could do the same:
everybody climbed onto their carts just to drive them
no one handed the reins over to another
no one apart from me.
And what was more
the disturbance around
—like Roundhead with his psalm—
was devastating.
For me it was a further reason
not to give up:
let them talk
let everyone talk
but—for my part—I counted.
1, 2, 3, 4,
170, 1,300, 4,000 . . .
For me it was numbers
instead of letters.
But I wasn’t complaining.
For over sixty years
I have never stopped counting.
I’ve had some tough moments, of course:
anyone born with an instinct for sums
comes face-to-face on certain occasions
with the ultimate, most dreaded enemy:
with the sudden feeling
of being minuscule
compared with the material to be counted.
Well: that’s not easy,
and sometimes it’s pure terror.
It happened to me once
in front of a crystal bowl
crammed full of grains of sugar:
impossible to count.
And then once,
at the start of the Civil War:
the square was full as never before
heads, hands, hats, flags.
I lost count.
And if you lose it,
it’s not easy to start again.
Up to the age of twenty
I used to count other people’s words as well as real objects,
but of the two, I preferred the second:
I was at that stage of life
in which whatever passes in front of you
seems more important
than what you’re thinking.
Then, as we know, everyone changes.
We discover that inside is much worse than outside
and at that point let the dance begin:
you’re among grown men.
It usually takes time
to realize this.
The real turning point, for me, was dramatic:
I was with your fathers
on a business trip to Oklahoma.
There too I was severely tested:
the effort it required to count the drills
and distinguish them from the oil wells
and the wells themselves from the tubing
was all sabotaged
by the barking of an animal
who for the whole time
never stopped irking me.
But it wasn’t this that caught me out:
I wasn’t an amateur.
The crucial point was more subtle.
When I heard that the animal and I had the same name
it was like heaven breaking open:
how could a small identical sound
be used to describe a genius at sums
and an animal that couldn’t count?
At that very moment a thought came to mind:
“Some order has to be brought
to the chaos of words.
Some light has to be brought
to the pitch darkness of speech.”
And to mark the beginning of my new mission
I literally brought light
by setting the black oil ablaze.
They shouted fire,
and it certainly was:
luminous, clarifying.
For me it was a fundamental step.
That evening I stopped counting things
and began to count words:
there is everything in words.
And Roundhead was quite right:
those who drive the cart
have a head only for driving.
Now I know that those who talk
do nothing but talk.
I write my numbers in these notebooks:
I have no end of them.
And you are there in all of them.
Without exception.
Constantly
for years and years
I’ve been listening to what you say
And I’ve written down the numbers.
Not feelings: numbers.
What did you say, just now, Philip? Facts.
Words are also facts.
And they are facts more than facts.
It’s a fact that you use them.
It’s a fact that they produce an effect.
Better than watered-down whisky.
In these rooms
over the last thirty years
I ask you: what words have echoed around?
What language have you all been speaking?
The first year I spent in here
there were three words on everyone’s lips:
21,546 times you said EARNINGS.
19,765 times I heard INCOME.
17,983 times RECEIPTS.
Over the past few years
none of these words
is at the top of my list any longer.
The first place has been taken 25,744 times by INTEREST.
and after that, 23,320 times you said PRODUCTIVE.
And this, dear cousin, isn’t just hot air,
this I believe is substance.
Because EARNINGS, INCOME, and RECEIPTS
are money that comes in: you see them.
Uncle Mayer and Uncle Emanuel
marked up the RECEIPTS every evening.
And INTEREST, on the other hand? Where is it? Do you see it?
You’re continually talking about “HAVING AN INTEREST” . . .
And when you say it, you mean that the bank is not cut out:
you want to know that our name is included,
in whatever—and I mean: whatever—deal.
One day, if they tell you that a cholera epidemic
is setting off some commercial effect
you’ll would want to get sick with cholera
just to say “I HAVE AN INTEREST, I’M INVOLVED.”
So far as I’m concerned
I prefer not to get cholera.
But there’s something else.
Over the last year alone
3,654 times you’ve used the verb IMPOSE
whereas before you used to say GAIN, SUCCEED, ACHIEVE.
2,978 times you’ve said EXPAND
and 2,120 times CONFLICT.
