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Authors: Susan Isaacs
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He’d loosened his tie a little, so I got a bonus: a couple of extra inches of neck, the smooth part, where he didn’t have to shave. I would have loved to kiss him right there. I smiled; if I was the only girl left in the world, maybe he’d let me.
He saw me smiling. So embarrassing. I couldn’t decide whether to pass it off as a cooperative smile or, because it may have looked something more than cooperative, to make up a boyfriend: Sorry, Mr. Berringer, just thinking about, 46
SHINING THROUGH / 47
um, Joseph. Everyone calls him Big Joe. We’re kind of engaged to be engaged, and…
“All right,” he said, “let’s get to work.” I could have taken out my teeth and strung them on a necklace in a permanent grin; he wouldn’t have noticed. “We still have the Hayn matter and…”
His voice faded. For a second, he looked at the papers spread out all over his desk. He looked more than sad; he looked desperate, as if he knew his mind was somewhere in the room and his job was to find it.
That’s how I knew what bad shape he was in. John’s mind was always under control, whirring away like a perfect machine—even when all the other lawyers were sitting around looking like some lower, dopey form of animal life.
“We have Grunberg to take care of,” I said, trying to help him.
“And we’re a little behind on the Schaaf matter too.” He looked at me. His shadowed eyes looked empty, like the eye holes in the tragedy mask at the Roxy.
The work! It was too much. I felt as lousy as he looked. We came in before seven every morning and stayed late just trying to stop the clients’ fright from turning into panic. It wasn’t easy.
There was no one terrible event that March 1940, but each night the world grew worse. Turn on the radio, pick up a paper, and the only names on earth seemed to be Hitler and Mussolini.
One evil, one deranged, and they grew huge, thriving as Europe sickened. And as their blight spread, the clients wouldn’t leave us alone. Those beady little corporation eyes that had been gleaming at the thought of the rich fascist war machine the month before were suddenly blinky, nervous; now all they wanted was to see their way out: Can you tell us what the situation is? What they really wanted to know was: Will everything be all right? And their only hope was that John Berringer—brilliant, calm, masterful—would tell them, Don’t worry. What they all wanted to hear was, Everything’s going to be just fine.
They probably would have paid him double to hear it, but he wouldn’t have taken their money. He was too ethical. He was the best kind of international lawyer. He didn’t just 48 / SUSAN ISAACS
come up with a solid contract. He had the patience and the brains to explain to his big corporate clients how the German system worked. He didn’t just speak its language. He understood its laws, its ways of doing business, its people. But every day John was making transatlantic calls that didn’t get through. He was writing letters to people who no longer answered. Then he had to go back to the clients and say the words nobody wants to hear from a lawyer: I can’t help you.
“Mr. Berringer?” I said softly. He jumped, as though I’d just come into the room and yelled Boo! “If you have a lot of prepar-ation, I could come in real early tomorrow and we could finish the dictation then.” Maybe I was no diplomat, but it was better than saying, Hey, listen, you’d better get a good night’s sleep or you’re gonna find yourself on a funny farm.
If a man has some pleasure in one half of his life—home, work—he can usually take pretty much what the other half has to dish out. But in those weeks, what did he have? Hysterical bankers weeping on his desk in the office—and a lot of extra closet space at home. No wonder he looked like Boris Karloff’s first cousin.
And he just sat there, helpless. This had never been a helpless man. His face tilted upward, as if he was looking past me,
He saw me smiling. So embarrassing. I couldn’t decide whether to pass it off as a cooperative smile or, because it may have looked something more than cooperative, to make up a boyfriend: Sorry, Mr. Berringer, just thinking about, 46
SHINING THROUGH / 47
um, Joseph. Everyone calls him Big Joe. We’re kind of engaged to be engaged, and…
“All right,” he said, “let’s get to work.” I could have taken out my teeth and strung them on a necklace in a permanent grin; he wouldn’t have noticed. “We still have the Hayn matter and…”
His voice faded. For a second, he looked at the papers spread out all over his desk. He looked more than sad; he looked desperate, as if he knew his mind was somewhere in the room and his job was to find it.
That’s how I knew what bad shape he was in. John’s mind was always under control, whirring away like a perfect machine—even when all the other lawyers were sitting around looking like some lower, dopey form of animal life.
“We have Grunberg to take care of,” I said, trying to help him.
“And we’re a little behind on the Schaaf matter too.” He looked at me. His shadowed eyes looked empty, like the eye holes in the tragedy mask at the Roxy.
The work! It was too much. I felt as lousy as he looked. We came in before seven every morning and stayed late just trying to stop the clients’ fright from turning into panic. It wasn’t easy.
There was no one terrible event that March 1940, but each night the world grew worse. Turn on the radio, pick up a paper, and the only names on earth seemed to be Hitler and Mussolini.
One evil, one deranged, and they grew huge, thriving as Europe sickened. And as their blight spread, the clients wouldn’t leave us alone. Those beady little corporation eyes that had been gleaming at the thought of the rich fascist war machine the month before were suddenly blinky, nervous; now all they wanted was to see their way out: Can you tell us what the situation is? What they really wanted to know was: Will everything be all right? And their only hope was that John Berringer—brilliant, calm, masterful—would tell them, Don’t worry. What they all wanted to hear was, Everything’s going to be just fine.
They probably would have paid him double to hear it, but he wouldn’t have taken their money. He was too ethical. He was the best kind of international lawyer. He didn’t just 48 / SUSAN ISAACS
come up with a solid contract. He had the patience and the brains to explain to his big corporate clients how the German system worked. He didn’t just speak its language. He understood its laws, its ways of doing business, its people. But every day John was making transatlantic calls that didn’t get through. He was writing letters to people who no longer answered. Then he had to go back to the clients and say the words nobody wants to hear from a lawyer: I can’t help you.
“Mr. Berringer?” I said softly. He jumped, as though I’d just come into the room and yelled Boo! “If you have a lot of prepar-ation, I could come in real early tomorrow and we could finish the dictation then.” Maybe I was no diplomat, but it was better than saying, Hey, listen, you’d better get a good night’s sleep or you’re gonna find yourself on a funny farm.
If a man has some pleasure in one half of his life—home, work—he can usually take pretty much what the other half has to dish out. But in those weeks, what did he have? Hysterical bankers weeping on his desk in the office—and a lot of extra closet space at home. No wonder he looked like Boris Karloff’s first cousin.
And he just sat there, helpless. This had never been a helpless man. His face tilted upward, as if he was looking past me,
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