The Greatest Miracle in the World Page 4

  The old man was frowning and shaking his head at me. “That cannot be! That cannot be!”

  “You will read it for yourself. And what of your family?”

  “By this time, Hitler had come to power. Yet I, like most business people, had no idea of the monster we had blindly allowed to take control of our country. My wife was a Jew, and while I was on one of my many trips to Damascus I was visited, one day, by one of Hitler’s agents. He calmly notified me that both my wife and son were in what he called protective custody and they would be released to me only upon my signing over, to the National Socialist Party, my entire company and all its assets. I signed without hesitation. Then I immediately flew back to Frankfort and was arrested, by the secret police, at the airport gate. I spent the entire war years being trucked from one concentration camp to another. Not being a Jew, I guess, saved my life.”

  “And your wife and son?”

  “I never saw them again.”

  I started to say ‘I’m sorry’, but didn’t.

  “And your business?”

  “Gone. Everything confiscated by the Nazis. After the war I spent nearly four years trying to find any clue concerning my family. Both the American, and British were most cooperative and sympathetic. Finally I learned, through American intelligence, that both my wife and son had been murdered and cremated at Dachau almost immediately after they had been taken captive.”

  It was tough to continue. I felt like some cruel inquisitor forcing the old man to relive memories that he had long ago probably pushed into the background of his mind in order to maintain his sanity. Still I continued. “How did you get to this country?”

  “In my affluent days I had made many fine friends in Washington. One of them interceded with the proper immigration authorities, who waived my lack of passport. Another loaned me money for passage. I had visited Chicago in nineteen-thirty-one and liked its vitality, so I came here.”

  “What have you been doing all these years?”

  He shrugged his shoulders and stared up at the ceiling. “What can an ex-millionaire company president, whose ambitions all died in a gas chamber, do? I worked at a hundred odd jobs, only to survive … night club janitor, cook, city sanitation work, construction work … anything. I knew I had all the necessary knowledge, experience, and ability to start a new business of my own, but I had no stomach for it anymore. There was no reason to succeed or to acquire wealth, and so I made no effort. Finally I passed the city examinations and became a school janitor on Foster Avenue. That was very good for me. I was around laughing children all day. Very good. And now and then I would see a lad that reminded me of my Eric. It was a fine, decent job. I retired when I was sixty-five, and the city began paying me a small pension, enough to live … and read.”

  “Whatever made you decide to become what you call a ragpicker?”

  Simon smiled and leaned back in his chair, staring up at the ceiling again as if trying to remember details of an event that had been long undisturbed among his memories.

  “I moved into this small apartment soon after I retired. Lazarus, myself, and my books. Each morning it became a ritual for Lazarus and me to walk completely around this block. One morning, as I was leaving the building, I happened to look across at the gate to the parking lot, where I first met you, and there was a young lady who appeared to be in some sort of difficulty. Her automobile was parked at the approach to the gate, which was down, and she was angrily pounding on the metal box which accepts the coins that activate the gate. I went over to her and asked if I could be of assistance. She was crying, and between her sobs she told me that she had put her last two quarters in the coin box and the gate had not risen. Furthermore she was due in class, at Loyola, in less than ten minutes, for a final exam. I did what anyone else would have done. I removed two quarters from my pants pocket, dropped them into the coin slot, and this time the gate went up. Then I continued my walk with Lazarus.”

  By now the old man was pacing the room.

  “We had not gone very far when I heard footsteps hurrying up behind me and I turned to see the lovely young lady coming toward me, still with tears in her eyes, but smiling. Before I realized what she was doing, she had reached up, thrown her arms around me, pulled me down to her, and kissed me on the cheek … the first time a woman had embraced me since my wife. The young lady said nothing … there was just the hug and a kiss … and then she scampered off. That trivial incident was what gave my life a new meaning and direction, Mister Og. I resolved to stop hiding in my small apartment, to stop feeling sorry for what life had given me, and to begin giving some of myself to others after all the years of self-pity. Actually, you see, it was a selfish decision because the feeling that went through me, when that grateful girl kissed me, was one I had not known for many years. It was the feeling that only comes when one has helped another with no thought of personal gain. I have been a ragpicker ever since.”

  I felt drained. The questions and answers had exhausted me. Still, there was one thing more I had to know.

  “Simon, you mentioned that your son’s name was Eric. What was your wife’s name?”

  “Mister Og, my wife had a name as lovely as her soul … Lisha.”

  All I could do was sigh and whisper, “Simon, please hand me my book.”

  The old gentleman placed the book in my lap. I turned hurriedly through the first few pages and stopped on page fourteen. “Simon, look! Here … where I am pointing, halfway down the page—is the name I gave to the wife of Hafid, the greatest salesman in the world. Read it!”

  A half-sob, half-cry of anguish, escaped from the old man’s lips as he focused on the printed page. Then he looked up at me, unbelieving, large tears forming in those unforgettable eyes.

  “It cannot be, it cannot be!”

  He took the book in his giant hands, staring intently at the page. Finally he raised it to his cheek, caressed it gently against his beard, and murmured softly, over and over, “Lisha … Lisha … Lisha.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  A month passed before I saw him again.

  It was well past closing time and I was alone in my office trying to make some dent in the correspondence that had accumulated during my absence. I heard the outer office door click, and stiffened. Whoever had been last out had neglected to lock up, and robberies were becoming a way of life in that neighborhood.

  Then Lazarus appeared in my office doorway in a flurry of uncoordinated movements, tail wagging, ears rising and falling, sad eyes weeping, tongue flashing—pulling on the rope which led back to his master.

  The old man hugged me. “Mister Og, it is good to see you. Lazarus and I, we were both worried about you.”

  “I’ve been away on book business, Simon. I think someone is trying to change my life.”

  “For the better?”

  “I’m not sure. Maybe you’ll be able to tell me.”

  “I knew you weren’t here, Mister Og. Each day I would look out my window for your little brown car. No car … no Mister Og. And then this morning, there it was. I was so happy. I wanted to see you and yet I didn’t want to bother you. It took all day to get up the courage to come here.”

  “I’m glad you did. I’d have come over to see you, anyway, to tell you the news about the book.”

  “Good news?”

  “I’m still not sure it’s happening to me.”

  The old man nodded and patted my shoulder proudly. Then he led Lazarus to my coat rack and tied a loose knot around its base with the rope. The dog buried his nose in the heavy carpet and closed his eyes.

  “You look great, Simon. I’ve never seen you in a suit and tie before.”

  My visitor shyly rubbed his long fingers on his wrinkled jacket lapel and shrugged. “I could not come to visit a company president looking like a bum, could I?”

  “Why not? I imagine you ragpickers work in all sorts of disguises and have probably infiltrated more walks of
life than the CIA. Angels without portfolio.”

  The beginning of a smile evaporated suddenly when I said “angels.” Then he collected himself and forced a wry grin. “Only a writer would coin such a poignant description. Still we ragpickers are very short-handed. There is also a population explosion on humanity’s junk piles, and not enough of us to do the job properly. I wonder if your magazine’s publisher, W. Clement Stone, is a ragpicker.”

  We both turned our heads toward a portrait of my boss staring warmly at me from the paneled wall at the right side of my desk. “I think he must be, Simon. He picked me off the junk pile, sixteen years ago, when I was broke, alone, and taking frequent dives into the bottle. Funny, but you ragpickers also seem to have a policy of secrecy about your good deeds. Since I’m so close to him I happen to know about some of the people that Mister Stone has helped and yet very few of his Good Samaritan activities ever get into the papers.”

  Simon nodded. “That is because we ragpickers all try to follow the Biblical command which Lloyd Douglas popularized in his book Magnificent Obsession.”

  “You mean to do good … and shut up.”

  His booming laugh filled my office. “That’s what I mean although I’ve never heard it put exactly that way. I think I still prefer the original injunction from Jesus, as Matthew wrote it.”

  “Simon, did you know that when the book Magnificent Obsession, was published, Bible sales skyrocketed throughout the world?”

  “Why was that, Mister Og?”

  “Because everyone began to search for the biblical passage that formed the theme of the book, and Douglas, with a stroke of genius, never specifically pointed it out in the book. Looking for that passage almost became the most popular pastime in this country for a year or more and made Magnificent Obsession a bestseller. And those who found the injunction would keep the specific gospel, chapter, and verse to themselves, as if it were a privileged secret that one could only become a part of through one’s own discovery.”

  “We could use that sort of game today, Mister Og.”

  “Yes we could. Do you know the passage, Simon?”

  The old man smiled, rose to his full height, faced me across my desk, cupped his right hand so that only his index finger was pointed toward me … and proceeded to send shivers through me.

  “Take heed that ye do not your alms before men, to be seen of them; otherwise ye have no reward of your Father which is in heaven.

  “Therefore, when thou doest thine alms, do not sound a trumpet before thee, as the hypocrites do, in the synagogues, and in the streets, that they may have glory of men. Verily I say unto you, they have their reward.

  “ ‘But when thou doest alms, let not thy left hand know what thy right hand doeth; that thine alms may be in secret; and thy Father which seeth in secret, himself shall reward thee openly.’ ”

  I’m positive that it was never delivered better … except on that mountain … two thousand years ago.

  I poured my friend a cup of terrible coffee and we made small talk as he strolled, cup in hand, slowly around my office. He paused at the wall studded with autographed photographs and read the names aloud, his voice rising gradually in pitch with each additional name, as if to signify that he was impressed. The old fox was teasing me and I loved it.

  “Rudy Vallee, Art Linkletter, John F. Kennedy, Charles Percy, Harland Sanders, Joey Bishop, Senator Harold Hughes, Frank Gifford, James Stewart, Robert Cummings, Robert Redford, Barbra Streisand, Ben Hogan, Norman Vincent Peale … these are your friends?”

  “Some are … and the others thought they’d show their gratitude for an article we did on them at one time or another.”

  “I like James Stewart. All his movies … good movies. You know him?”

  “I knew him many years ago. I was a bombardier in his B-24 group in World War II.”

  “He was brave?”

  “Very brave. He completed his combat tour long before there was much fighter escort to protect our bombers. And he could outdrink all of us.”

  “Good. Good.”

  Simon continued his casual inventory of my office, probably comparing it to his long-ago presidential trappings in Damascus. A faint smell of camphor seeped from his severely cut pinstriped suit and yet he wore it with a dignity and style that made it easy to picture him behind a large mahogany desk, dispensing advice when necessary and also giving hell when someone deserved it.

  Finally he put down his coffee cup and said, “I can wait no longer. Tell me of your good news, Mister Og.”

  “You brought me good luck, Simon, I’m sure of it. There must be a lot of leprechaun beneath that ragpicker facade of yours. Remember that last night, at your place, when we discovered all those amazing coincidences between my book hero and you?”

  “How can I ever forget?”

  “Well, when I got home there was a message to call my publisher, Frederick Fell. He told me that a large paperback house wanted to meet with him, his vice-president, Charles Nurnberg, and myself on Monday to discuss their possible purchase of the reprint rights to the book. So, that Sunday night I was on my way to New York.”

  “Were you nervous, worried?”

  “Not very much … at least not that night. But the next morning, in New York, I was up at six and I smoked a lot and drank a ton of coffee waiting for our one-o’clock meeting. Even so, I arrived at the publisher’s building on Fifth Avenue an hour early. So … I did something I haven’t done for a long, long time. Right next door was a church. I don’t even remember its name but it was open and I went in.”

  “And what did you do?”

  “I prayed. I actually walked up to the altar, knelt at the rail, and prayed.”

  “How did you pray?”

  “The only way I know. I didn’t ask for anything, Just that God would give me the guidance and courage to handle whatever came up. Funny, Simon, but I could almost hear a voice asking, ‘Where have you been, Og?’ Then, before I knew what was happening, I was bawling … and I couldn’t stop. Luckily no one was around but I felt like a damned fool anyway.”

  “Why were you crying? Do you know?”

  “I guess being in that church reminded me of all the Sundays I had gone to mass with my mother when I was young. My world almost stopped when she died of a heart attack right after I graduated from high school. She was something special and had me convinced that I was going to be a writer even when I was in grade school. I still remember how she would review my compositions or the other written work I brought home, and we had such a great relationship that she could criticize my work, constructively, and I’d always accept it and resolve to try harder. She was so proud when I became news editor of our high school paper you’d have thought I’d just been tapped by the New York Times. She wanted me to go to college, but we were having a tough time just surviving in nineteen-forty. Then she died … and I joined the Army Air Force.”

  “You never attended college, Mister Og.”

  “No.”

  The old man looked around my office again and shook his head. “Amazing. What else took place in that church?”

  “Nothing else. I finally got control of myself, and by then it was nearly time for our appointment, so I left the church, walked across the street and into the publisher’s lobby. When I got off the elevator on the twenty-sixth floor I found myself walking down this long hall, flanked by giant posters of some of the most famous writers in the world, published by this firm. All I could think was, ‘Mom, we made it. We’re here with the best!’ ”

  “And your meeting with the publishing executives?”

  “It went sensationally. Large boardroom table, large room, many names, many faces. As we were told later, they had already decided to purchase the paperback rights. What they wanted to learn was whether I was marketable and promotable along with the book.”

  “Balzac, Dickens, Tolstoy … they would have failed that test.”

&nb
sp; “You’re probably right. Anyway, I spoke to them for about ten minutes, told them how the book came to be written, and I guess I made the proper impression.”

  The old man was now vicariously reliving every minute of my command performance. He leaned forward excitedly and pointed both hands at me, motioning me to continue.

  “Finally, their chairman of the board looked at my publisher, Fred Fell, and asked what we wanted for the paperback rights. Mr. Fell, in his best pokerplaying voice replied that he wanted one dollar for every hardcover copy we had sold … and we had, at that point, sold three hundred and fifty thousand copies. There was a little gasping and groaning around the table and the chairman said that he hadn’t expected to go that high. Then he excused himself, beckoned to one of his vice-presidents, and left the room. I guess they were only gone for a few minutes, Simon, but so help me it seemed like a year. When they came back the chairman went over to Mister Fell, put out his hand and they shook. That was it!”

  “It was that simple?”

  “Yes.”

  “They are paying you three hundred and fifty thousand dollars?”

  “Yes.”

  “Mister Og, you are wealthy!”

  “Not as wealthy as you think. Mister Fell gets half of that and then we both must share with Uncle Sam.”

  “But, Mister Og, you have already earned a considerable sum of money in royalties from all those hardcover sales, have you not?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you know that F. Scott Fitzgerald, three years after The Great Gatsby was published, received only five dollars and fifteen cents in royalties and by the time he died that marvelous book was already out of print?”

  “No, I didn’t know that, Simon. And don’t misunderstand. I’m not ungrateful. I can’t believe it’s happened to me yet. Maybe it was that prayer in church.”

  “And maybe it was your mother’s prayers, my friend. Now where have you been for the rest of the month?”

  “Well, since the paperback won’t be out until next Spring, Fell decided to promote the hardcover book heavily through this summer and fall and so I agreed to go on a radio, television, and newspaper promotion tour for three weeks. I’ve been in fourteen cities, been interviewed more than ninety times … and I’m getting to like it … even the book-store autographing sessions.”