The Wally Lamb Fiction Collection: The Hour I First Believed, I Know This Much is True, We Are Water, and Wishin' and Hopin' (56 page)

Joan Rivers?

No, no. The goofy one with the one glove. The singer.

Michael Jackson?

Right. So no one’s too happy about the way things are going. Now, the Prussians are watching all this, see? Circling Bavaria like vultures. Bismarck’s already got the other German states to sign on to his North German Alliance, but Bavaria’s the biggest prize and the only holdout. So Bismarck comes up with a plan. He goes to Ludwig’s old buddy, that son of a bitch Wagner. Wagner’s all for a big German Empire, see? So he pays a little visit to the kooky king, and by the time he leaves, he’s got a letter for Bismarck that says Ludwig’s joining the Empire and is gonna transfer power to the Prussian Kaiser. Now when the loyalists find out their king’s signed away their Bavarian sovereignty, the wind shifts for the Weismanns. The famous inn where Kingy Boy stopped on that snowy night becomes a target, see? They take the torch to Zum Stern, burn the place down to the ground!

No kidding.

I kid you not! Now, it ended bad for Ludwig. They declare the royal
schlemiel
insane and jail him inside one of his fancy castles. Put him in the care of the doctors of the Munich Asylum. Then one night, Ludwig and his head shrinker go for a walk by the lake and guess what? They find them both the next morning, floating facedown in the water. Was it murder? Suicide? No one knows. But, of course, everyone knows what happened
once Bismarck unified Germany. What
that
led to…. Give me a minute, will you?

Here. Take a napkin….

But, Mr. Business Book, a king can fall and a commoner can rise! Because after Zum Stern burned down? Otto Weismann didn’t sit around, crying in his beer. He booked passage and came to the U.S. of A. Started all over again, with just his brewing recipes and his business smarts. And in 1886—the same year they fished King Ludwig out of the lake—Otto opened the Weismann Brewing Company of Brooklyn, New York. Corner of Forest and Bremen Streets. Rheingold beer—named by a German king after a German myth—becomes as American as apple pie ! So there.

So there.

And look who finally finished his inventory.

Sorry for the wait, guys. You wanna pay for these now or run a tab?

Run us a tab, Jake. And why don’t you make me another one, so it’ll be ready by the time I finish this one.

You got it, Pop.

Pop? Nah, it wasn’t me. Must have been the milkman. If I was your father, you wouldn’t have turned out so goddamned good-looking…. See, there’s a good tip for you, Jake. Compliment the barkeep and he might get a little heavy-handed when he’s pouring your next one.

Right. Hey, Peppy, I’m sorry to rush us along, but I promised your daughter I’d have you back by six o’clock, and what I’m really interested in—

So we call her, tell her we’re running late. So I don’t get home in time to watch Judge Judy read the riot act to some poor
schmuck.
So what? You want to hear about Miss Rheingold or don’t you?

I do. Particularly the—

Okay then. So Otto opens the Brooklyn brewery. It’s slow for a while, but little by little, sales pick up. Brewery gets its lucky break in 1898, when New York consolidated the boroughs. Before that, Brooklyn was a separate city, see? But now—

Hey, but you know what? Since my focus is on the contest years, why don’t we cover that stuff today? Then maybe we can schedule another time to discuss the earlier era. Because it’s fascinating, but—

Go
backwards?
Doesn’t make sense to do it that way, Jake. History’s all cause and effect. If I’m gonna show you how Rheingold became a success story, I gotta show you how they met the challenges along the way: anti-German backlash during WW1. Then Prohibition, the Depression, WW2.

And I
want
to hear all that. But let’s table it for next time, and then I’ll cut and paste it all together later on. That’s what writers do, you know?

Well, I don’t see the sense of it, but you’re the expert. How about if I tell you about the year I come aboard? Nineteen forty-two?

Fine. Start there.

Because, come to think of it, that was when the Miss Rheingold promotion was just getting started. Company’d put the gals at a table in the lunchroom, have them sell War Bonds to the workers. “Keep on buying, keep our boys flying!” If you signed up, they’d take it right out of your paycheck, see? Which I did, of course. I’m a young guy with all my parts working, including the part that responds to the opposite sex, and I’m going to say no to some of the most beautyful girls in Manhattan? By the way, I’m just curious. How old would you say I am?

Couldn’t tell you. So you started in forty-two and—

Go on. Take a stab. Not gonna cost you anything. Just keep in mind that I walk two miles in the mall every morning with the Senior Strollers and that every single tooth in my head is
au naturel.

Seventy-three? Seventy-four?

Eighty-four,
this coming April!

No kidding? Wow. Okay, let’s get back to business.

You’re the boss. Now Otto Weismann was long gone by the time I started at Rheingold, and it was the
second
generation of Weismanns running the show: Otto’s sons, Isadore and Herman, and their kid sister, Sadie. All three were in their fifties by then, each going about their business the way their father had laid it all out. Isadore oversaw the plant’s day-to-day operation and Herman was their chief buyer. He was on the road a lot, making deals with the grain merchants, the tin and glass companies. Now as far as the hops, the old man had been a shrewd one, see? He’d arranged a marriage between his son Herman and Greta Schein, daughter of Gustav Schein, who was the biggest hops merchant back in Munich. Can’t brew beer without hops, right? So Rheingold married into the family discount. Of course, Otto hadn’t figured on Hitler. Nineteen thirty-seven, thirty-eight, the Nazis arrest Schein and seize his business. This was before the U.S. of A. entered the war, of course. Lot of American companies, Jewish included, were still looking the other way at what was going on over there. But not the Weismanns. The company took a stand: refused to trade with the Nazis on principle. So Rheingold took a hit—had to reduce production, lay off some of their people.

Meanwhile, Herman Weismann found out his in-laws—Greta’s family—had been sent to the camps. He got the State Department involved, went over there himself two or three times to try to get them out. But after the Japs bombed Pearl Harbor, everything fell through. Poor Greta lost everyone—parents, grandparents, brothers, and sisters. Later on, Rheingold put up a memorial park in their honor. Right across from the Brooklyn plant, this was. Had a fountain, a wishing pond, a beautyful flower garden. Sometimes you’d see Greta Weismann over
there, fussing with the flowers or brushing off the stone benches with a whisk broom. They had people coulda done that stuff for her—the Weismanns were millionaires by then—but she had to do it herself. It was a sight to make you cry: this fine and fancy lady, watering plants, pulling weeds. Trying to make something nice out of her terrible loss.

Now Sadie Weismann—you remember her? Otto’s daughter? Usually it’s the eldest son who calls the shots, but it was Sadie who had inherited her father’s business smarts and the old man knew it. So before he died, he set things up so that Sadie held the purse strings and had final word on the big decisions. And what was even
more
unusual about the Weismanns was that both brothers went along with it. No power struggles, no hatchet jobs. Nothing like that…. Odd duck, Sadie was, though—six foot tall and three foot wide. She was married for a little while, but it didn’t take. Never had kids of her own. But you know what I always liked about Sadie? She was never too good to speak to her rank-and-file. She’d look you right in the eye, ask you how things were going, ask your opinion on things. Then she’d
listen
to your answer. That’s smart business, see? Creates loyalty. I tell you, Jake, I loved working for Rheingold. I’d come up from the subway every morning, get a whiff of the aroma coming from the plant, and walk a little faster just to get there.

Worker loyalty. Got it.

Now, they started me down in the government cellar, which was where they
stored
the beer, see? Called it the government cellar because that’s where they calculated the tax by what the pump read. Then from the g.c., I went to blending and brewing. Then to pasteurizing. You did three-month rotations, so you’d understand the entire crafting process. Again, smart business. Creates pride in your worker so he gives you a better effort. You see?

Yes.

I worked in sales for a while. I wasn’t too keen on that, but it was better money. By then, Cookie and I had gotten hitched and our daughter was on the way. Rochelle—the one you talked to. You know what the brewery did when she was born? First, they sent Cookie a big, beautyful bouquet at the hospital. Second, when I opened up my paycheck that week, there was a fifty-dollar gift certificate from Macy’s. I took the subway downtown, bought a bassinette and a hobby horse. Cookie had wanted the bassinette but we couldn’t afford it. So I bought that and the rocking horse, carried ‘em out of Macy’s, and hired a cab. Cabbie and I roped the stuff to the roof and we rode all the way from Thirty-Fourth Street to Roosevelt Avenue in Queens. When Cookie come home from the hospital and there’s the bassinette, she broke out in tears. Beautyful person, my Cookie was—active in synagogue, hospital auxiliary. Couldn’t do enough for people. Three years now since I lost her and I still … How about you, Jake? You married?

Separated.

Well, if you want my advice, bury the hatchet and get her back. Life’s too short for “separated.”

It’s a circumstantial separation, not a legal one.

Yeah? So what does that mean?

I’d rather not go into it.

Okay, okay. Let’s lighten up the party, shall we? You ever hear this one? Jewish girl tells her college roommate, who’s a Catholic, that she’s going home for Roshashanna. “Oh,” the Catholic girl says. “That’s the holiday where you light the eight candles, right?” Jewish girl says, “No, no, you’re thinking of Hannukah.” Catholic girl says, “Oh, right. Roshashanna’s when you eat the unleavened bread.” “Wrong again,” the Jewish girl says. “That’s Passover. Roshashanna’s when we blow the shofar.” Catholic girl says, “See, that’s what I admire about your people. You’re always so good to the servants.” You get it? Blow
the shofar. Blow the chauffeur? … Oy, such a chest-heaving sigh from you, Jake. Did I offend you? You a Catholic? Because I’ll tell you who told me that joke. Father Frank McElwain, that’s who! Retired priest. He’s one of the Senior Strollers.

I’m not offended, Peppy. I’m frustrated.

You’re not a Jew, are you?

No.

No, I didn’t think so. By me, a Jew knows another Jew. So what are you then?

Look,
you’re
being interviewed. I ask
you
the questions.

You believe in God?

peppy, I—

Do you or don’t you? It’s a simple question.

Let’s just say I have my doubts.

Yeah? That right? Well, let me give you a little piece of advice, Mr. I Have My Doubts. Next time you’re in a bad way and you’re asking this god you have your doubts about to help you, just remember that the question you gotta ask isn’t Why? or If? The question is How? You got that? Not
why.
Not
if. How.
You wanna write that down? Oh, that’s right. You got me on tape.

So you were in sales. Then what?

Then they transferred me to public relations, which was where I found my niche. Now
that’s
when I got involved with the Miss Rheingold contest, see? When I was in PR.

The archivist said you used to—

The who?

The Rheingold archivist. Your friend, Mrs. Nussbaum.

Yeah, well, I don’t know from archivist, but Shirley Nussbaum was Gus White’s secretary. Don’t let that name throw you, now. Gus was third generation Weismann—Herman and Hennie’s son. He went out to Hollywood for a while—tried to be a movie actor but it didn’t take. Leaves Brooklyn as Gustav
Weismann, comes back and he’s Gus White. Good-looking guy, Gus was. Beautyful set of teeth, quite the ladies’ man. And once he got California out of his system, he turned into a damn good businessman. Course, it didn’t hurt that he was his Aunt Sadie’s favorite nephew, either. Sadie groomed Gus for big things.

Shirley Nussbaum said it was Gus White who thought up the idea of the Miss Rheingold election.

No, no, that’s wrong—although I’m not surprised Shirley would give her boss the credit. Little case of idol worship there, my friend. Like Bush and that colored gal he’s got working for him—what’s her name?

Condoleezza Rice.

That’s the one. Condoleezza Rice-a-Roni. But no, it was the photographer for the ad campaign, guy name of Pete Hazelton, who come up with the idea for Miss Rheingold. He was a prima donna, that guy, which is Eye-talian for “pain in the
tukhes.”
Mr. Perfectionist at those photo shoots! Every shadow had to fall just right, every sleeve straight, every eyelash curled and hair in place. Yeah, it was Hazelton who sold Gus White on the idea of using a pretty face—same girl from month to month, so that she got identified with the product. First year, Hazelton just picked the Rheingold Girl. Second year, he gets a bunch of lookers from the modeling agencies, dresses them alike and photographs each one. Then Rheingold takes the pictures around to all the distributors and tavern owners and lets
them
pick their favorite. Democracy, you see? End of the year, Rheingold’s sales numbers are up maybe twenty percent. The voting gimmick went over so big that, in the third year, they got the bright idea to open it up to the public. Put cardboard ballot boxes with the girls’ pictures on them in bars and liquor stores and delis, and I tell you Jake, you never seen anything like it! Rheingold’s sales took off like a rocket. We go from number six or seven in New York to number one. Plant starts operating seven days a week instead of
five and we
still
couldn’t keep the shelves stocked. “Elect Miss Rheingold. Your vote may decide.” Sex and democracy, see? It was brilliant!