Private Gollantz (The Gollantz Family Saga Book 5)
Private Gollantz
The Gollantz Family Saga Book 5
Naomi Jacob
Copyright © The Estate of Naomi Jacob 2016
This edition published 2018 by Wyndham Books
(Wyndham Media Ltd)
27, Old Gloucester Street, London WC1N 3AX
First published 1943
www.wyndhambooks.com/naomi-jacob
The author has asserted her right to be identified as the author of this work in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, organisations and events are a product of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, organisations and events is purely coincidental.
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The Gollantz Family Saga series
by Naomi Jacob
published by Wyndham Books
The Founder of the House
That Wild Lie …
Young Emmanuel
Four Generations
Private Gollantz
Gollantz: London, Paris, Milan
Gollantz and Partners
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To
REGINALD HARGREAVES
Soldier, historian, writer and kindest of friends
MICKIE
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
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Preview: Hardacre by C. L. Skelton
BOOK ONE
Chapter 1
Emmanuel sat with his chin propped on his hand, staring blankly before him. The world ‒ that world which had once held so much warmth, beauty and happiness ‒ had reached, it seemed to him, the final stage of madness. Again and again during the past years he had watched events, listened to opinions, studied political questions, and always tried to hope and believe that one day Italy would assert herself; protest against a system which, however excellently it might have worked in the past, was now rapidly turning into a monster of terrible proportions.
He had come to Italy when his life had been touched with tragedy; when he had, for his mother’s sake, shouldered blame which should have rested on his younger brother Julian. His mother ‒ that mother whom Emmanuel loved so dearly ‒ had been gravely ill, and her doctor, Nathan Bernstein, had warned the whole family that she must never be allowed to suffer any shock. Julian was the best loved of Angela Gollantz’s sons, so when Julian contrived to become involved in a particularly unsavoury business, Emmanuel took the blame.
It was an old story now; only at rare intervals did Emmanuel remember it. His father had accepted his story and insisted that Emmanuel should leave England. Only Viva Heriot, who was now Mrs. Tatten and had been Emmanuel’s first wife, had refused to credit the story.
Emmanuel’s grave, stern face softened a little as he thought of Viva. She had asked for her freedom when they had been married about four years. They had always liked each other, felt a certain affection even in their worst days and in the midst of their most difficult arguments; only as a marriage it had not been a success. He had been too serious, too occupied, and ‒ even then ‒ he had known that Juliet Forbes filled his heart. He had married Juliet when the divorce was through, and Viva had married that queer, likeable little man, Toby Tatten, who looked like something between a jockey and Adolf Hitler.
Juliet ‒ Emmanuel whispered the name softly. Lovely Juliet, even the fact that Leon Hast had called her that didn’t hurt him now. That one year of marriage, of intense and complete happiness, the birth of their son ‒ and Juliet’s death. A death so sudden, so swift, that he shuddered now to think of it.
That little irritating cough, her saying, ‘Give me a glass of water, Emmanuel,’ and as he offered it to her, the sight of her slipping down in his arms. Months afterwards he had said to little Gilbert, ‘I shall be mentally lame all my life, Gilly.’
Gilbert answered, ‘My dear young man, many of us will be lame without Juliet.’
In those days he had found help from Gilbert, from old Simeon Jaffe, who took him into partnership, and finally left him the magnificent Galleries stocked with superb antiques, and from Guido Maroni. People like Toby Tatten, Viva, and even his own brother William, wondered what he could find in Guido.
‘Oh, I know that he’s a good fellow,’ William said, ‘but ‒ well, he isn’t your type, Emmanuel. He’s so over-coloured.’
‘So is Italy,’ Emmanuel said, ‘but you don’t notice that when you’ve lived in the country. I’ve lived with Guido sufficiently long to know him ‒ and love him.’
William Masters, his brother’s godfather, was even less understanding. Bill Masters was growing old and short-tempered, intolerant and over-critical. Emmanuel was fond of him because he had been devoted to Juliet.
‘Why in heaven’s name,’ Masters demanded, ‘you want to surround yourself with friends who are positively fantastic, passes my comprehension. Louis Lara, his over-blown wife, this Guido, and all the rest of them.’
Emmanuel had smiled; he was always tolerant with Bill. ‘And do you include the opera people in the fantastics?’
‘They have at least the excuse that they are artists!’
Now, in his splendid room at the Gollantz Galleries, Emmanuel sat thinking, looking back. He was thirty-three, very tall and slim, with hair which turned grey after Juliet died. Someone once described him as ‘an old-young man’. His face was unlined, pale and handsome. He looked arresting, and when he walked through the streets people turned to watch him. Like his grandfather ‒ the Founder of the House ‒ he was distinguished and somewhat eccentric in his dress. Admittedly, it was a carefully restrained eccentricity, but Emmanuel Gollantz, with his high black stocks, his ivory-topped cane, and his immaculate clothes, which had something about them of a past era, was a noticeable figure.
The family was of Jewish origin, the founder having been Fernando Meldola, an Italian Jew from Milan, Meldola had moved to Paris, where he had adopted his niece, Miriam Lousada. She married a Dutch Jew from Rotterdam, one Abraham Gollantz. There was a story told in the family that old Meldola had never forgiven his niece’s husband because he had gone with the army of Napoleon into Italy as artistic advisor.
‘Even then,’ Emmanuel thought, ‘there w
as a hatred of watching Italy suffer!’
The family had prospered; Abraham’s son Hermann had left Paris for Vienna, and after his death his only surviving son Emmanuel ‒ still referred to by his descendants as ‘Old Emmanuel’ ‒ had moved to London and founded the firm of Gollantz.
Thus it came about that there were branches of the family in Vienna, in Paris, in Holland and Germany. From time to time they came to London ‒ The Foreign Contingent ‒ Laras, Hirsches, Jaffes, Moises, Bruchs ‒ all connected by ties of blood or marriage with the original branch.
Emmanuel had been living in Italy ever since the scandal which he had allowed to drive him out of England. True, evidence had proved after several years that the blame did not lie with him, and he had let himself be persuaded to return to England. He was to work with his father, Max Gollantz, and his small son Simeon was to be brought up as an English boy.
It hadn’t been a success. Both Max and his son had managed their own affairs for too long, and with too much individuality. There had been difficulties, and finally Emmanuel ‒ with his small son ‒ had returned to Milan and the Galleries there.
Life had been pleasant enough, Emmanuel thought, except when something or someone reminded him too vividly and too painfully of Juliet. He had learnt to meet people who had known and loved her, he had schooled himself to listen to music again, to go about among his fellow men and women, even to entertain in that rather elegant and lavish manner which was characteristic of his family.
He had travelled up and down the country, he had delighted in its beauty and in the friendliness of its people. He often thought that the loveliness of Italy, the sunshine and the easy laughter, had helped to heal his heart and mind. He had watched political events with distrust. With the occupation of Austria the families of Hirsch and Bruch had left Vienna. True, they had contrived to take much of their wealth with them, and were living comfortably enough in England. Then the murder of Dollfuss had shaken him, and he had believed that the Italian Government would assert its authority and fulfil its promises. He had read in an Italian newspaper of some standing, ‘Europe is tired of having to live in an indescribable state of tension at the mercy of a handful of madmen.’ He had been conscious of a feeling of satisfaction. Surely that sentence, and the phrases which followed, meant that the heart and soul of Italy were stirred. He had listened to the great Requiem Mass broadcast to all Italy which had been said and sung for the soul of the Little Chancellor. He had watched the evidences of emotion on the faces of the people who listened to the blaring radios; perhaps the people were not so completely under the heel of Fascismo after all.
Abyssinia and the territorial ambitions of Il Duce: there had been a first flare of enthusiasm from the people, then, as the war dragged on, as taxes rose, that had died; when Addis Ababa fell, when there were processions and rejoicings, he felt that they were less demonstrations of joy for the victory than expressions of relief that the war was ended. In May, 1938, Adolf Hitler had visited Rome.
His telegram, which had caused so many Italians to smile wry smiles, sent after the Abyssinian war, ‘I shall never forget,’ was apparently forgotten by the Government. How many stories there were regarding that visit! The mayor of Milan had telegraphed to Mussolini that if Hitler came to Milan he came at his own risk. They said that when Hitler’s train drew into the station at Bolzano, the Duce whispered, behind his hand, to Ciano, ‘I don’t like this man!’ They said, they said, they said …
What was it all? Wishful thinking? Complete incredulity that Italy could form such a close alliance with a nation so unlike herself? Was it made through fear ‒ that alliance? Fear of what? Of whom? English diplomats had not been too wise, too skilful; they had bungled and bungled badly. How often had his friends said to Emmanuel, ‘Why did you send ‒’ this or that man? Again and again they had asked, ‘Why did England not send ‒ so and so?’ Out of the visit of Adolf Hitler one thing alone appeared to give satisfaction to the Italians. They resented the money which was spent like water, they disliked the infiltration of German police, and their interference with foreigners in Italy before the visit ‒ but they rubbed their hands when they heard that no matter who had received the German Chancellor, he had not been granted an audience by His Holiness Pius XI.
Again speculation ran riot, again there were stories, reports, inferences and insinuations.
The Germans returned to their own country, the triumphal arches were taken down, the Militia sent back to their homes. Emmanuel, watching, listening, exchanging ideas, realized that a new spirit was abroad. Again and again he heard the phrase used of Hitler, ‘Il Duce del nostro Duce’ ‒ the Leader of our Leader. The man who had risen so high was beginning to fall ‒ slowly but surely.
Now, on September the first, 1938, Emmanuel Gollantz sat in his study and understood that the manifesto against the Jews, which had been announced in May, was to be enforced. The manifesto had caused little attention. No one believed that it was anything more than a sop to Hitler. There was a sense of resentment that Italy must ‒ even on paper ‒ fall into line, but no one believed that there was the least likelihood of the Jews being either banished or, still less, persecuted.
Now ‒ it had come! Emmanuel spoke that word, ‘Persecution,’ and shivered. To this had Italy fallen. Italy, who had befriended so many of the Jews from Germany and Austria; Italy, who ‒ strong in her own Catholicism ‒ had never enforced her religious beliefs. He remembered the English churches in Florence, in Merano, in the lakeside resorts; he recalled the new synagogue in Verona. There had been freedom for religious creeds ‒ now that had been banished at the order of ‘Il Duce del nostro Duce’.
He, himself, was only half a Jew. His mother was lacking in any Jewish blood; his own son, Simeon, could boast of only twenty-five per cent. All the Gollantzes were proud of their Jewish descent, though for many years they had ceased to practise the Faith in any way. Of the three sons of Max Gollantz only Emmanuel showed any trace of Jewish ancestry. In his pale, rather melancholy features and his dark eyes there was much which was reminiscent of his grandfather as a young man. Julian and William were both fair, and resembled their mother’s family.
Knowing the Italians, Emmanuel doubted if this persecution would be carried out with any great degree of thoroughness. It might be nothing more than an attempt on the part of the Government to impose heavy fines, to confiscate money and investments with which to swell the ‒ very depleted ‒ exchequer. But … he sighed.
‘But, on the other hand,’ he said softly, ‘this is not the time for me, or any other man with Jewish blood, to wait. However little of that blood we have, this is not the time to attempt to conceal or deny it. My grandfather used almost to boast of the pride of race possessed by his people. Well, thank God, that pride is still there!’
He pressed an electric bell on his desk, took a cigarette from a huge onyx box and lit it carefully. The door opened and Guido entered.
The time had been when Guido’s love of ‘English sports’ clothes as interpreted by a cheap Italian tailor had set Emmanuel’s nerves on edge. Now, Guido had learnt. Emmanuel had been his pattern, his model; in addition, in these days Guido earned quite sufficient money to go to a good tailor. He was a small man, who only preserved his waist-line by violent and continual exercise. Guido played tennis whenever it was possible, though he preferred the game of rackets as being more English and more individuale. Although he was past thirty, he still retained his likeness to a cherub in a Baroque church. His face was round and beautifully shaped, his mouth full, and his eyes dark and of a melting affection. His clothes were supremely elegant; his light grey suit fitted him almost too perfectly, his tie was expensive and splendid, though restrained.
‘I believe,’ he said, smiling, ‘that this is the tea hour. How English we become! In England there is a proverb, “Everything comes to an end for tea.” Am I right?’
Emmanuel said, ‘Sorry, Guido. It’s not tea. Do you never read the papers?’
‘Not
if I can help it. What for should I? One paper belongs to Mussolini, another to Ciano, another to someone else. They all ‒ to use your English expression ‒ want to nourish me like a wet-nurse. Has something interesting happened?’
‘The persecution of Jews in this country is to be made an official business,’ Emmanuel said grimly. ‘You’re not a Jew by any chance, are you?’
‘No ‒ but I will become one if you wish.’
‘Well, I am ‒ half of me at all events.’
The soft brown eyes widened with horror. ‘It is not true! It cannot be true. Emmanuel, there is no one in Milano, in all Italy, who would dare to ‒ Dio, I cannot even speak the word in connection with you. My friend, my dear friend ‒ you must fly, with Simeon and with me. I shall follow you to the ends of the earth. Let me collect the best jewels, money, securities, and we shall leave in an hour.’
Emmanuel shook his head. ‘Bless you,’ he said, ‘don’t fly off the handle. I’m not going to leave unless they make me. It occurs to me that I am one of the lucky ones. I am rich, I have many friends, and I am only half a Jew. There may be others ‒’ He paused, and then said, ‘I can speak frankly to you, Guido, I know that.’
‘Frankly!’ Guido exclaimed. ‘Speak with rudeness or brutality, I can accept it on my chin!’
There may be others less fortunate. I have the Galleries. There are various entrances and exits. I may be of use to ‒ the less fortunate ones. You understand?’ Guido, his eyes still round with interest, nodded. ‘Now I am going to report to the Mayor.’
The little Italian sprang forward, ‘No, no! This is impossible! Emmanuel Gollantz to report to the podestà like some malefactor. I shall go. I shall go with haughtiness, and speak to the officials, but with my eyes looking over their heads all the time. I shall say, “Kindly examine these papers, these passports. Name: Jewish. Name also: honourable. Do you mind if, while you make this examination, I sing to hide my embarrassment at this intrusion into the private life of the great Signor Gollantz?” Then I shall sing softly ‒ but with clearness ‒ O bella libertà! Let me go, I beg.’