Copyright © 2011 by Sidney B. Silverman.

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ISBN: 978-1-4620-3076-7 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4620-3077-4 (dj)

ISBN: 978-1-4620-3078-1 (ebk)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2011909966

Printed in the United States of America

iUniverse rev. date: 07/14/2011

I started this book in mid-October 2008, at about the time our twin grandchildren Eleanor and Benedict were born. When I told Irene I proposed to dedicate the book to them, she protested: Our other grandchildren will feel slighted.

I dedicate this book to all our grandchildren, Daniel, Noam, Leo, Tamara and especially Eleanor and Benedict.

Addicts are disdained by society, scorned by friends, and ostracized by their own families. They are accused of being weak, lacking self-control and willpower. Those who can afford it are carted off to detox centers where psychotherapists delve into their destructive habits and they attend twelve-step meetings from morning till night. Those who cannot afford treatment make up a special underclass: the homeless, the street people, the bums. They end up dead well before their time, swept away from the gutter like detritus.

There is another kind of addict—those who spend their lives pursuing money. They are as obsessed with wealth as alcoholics are with wine. To them, a million dollars is petty change. In the 1980s, rich meant a bill, shorthand for $100 million. By the twenty-first century, the bar was raised to $1 billion.

For the money addict, the most sought-after prize is not a Nobel but inclusion in the Forbes 400.

Unlike other addicts, the money worshippers are rewarded by society. They are granted honorary degrees, appointed to presidential committees and boards of universities and charities. The haughty maître d’ bows as he escorts them to the best table. The super-rich travel by private jet and chauffeured limousine to Shangri-la. They are welcome everywhere.

How do I know? I was one of them.

There is an adage: every great fortune is built on at least one criminal act. I committed none, suppressed my darker inclinations, did my duty, and respected the law. Though not everyone agrees.

How do you do? My name is Henry Josef Wojecoski.

Contents

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

13

14

15

16

17

18

19

20

21

22

Conclusion

1

Walk along any big city street and you’ll likely see a mother or nanny pushing a twin stroller. Today, one in every thirty-two births is of twins, up more than 65 percent from the days before fertility drugs. Mary and I were born on April 6, 1949. Our double birth was traceable to genes.

We grew up in the working-class town of Riverhead, New York, down the road a piece from Southampton and, to be specific, in a plain wooden two-bedroom bungalow on Pulaski Street between Claus and Marcy in the heart of Polish Town, a fifteen-block section that actually exists on the map. It’s not just local slang for where poor Polacks hung their hats.

When they bought the house, the proud owners thought they would never outgrow it. But when Elizabeth returned from the hospital with her two babies, she told Andrew, We’re going to need a bigger house, with three bedrooms and two baths. Henry and Mary will each need a room. They can share a bathroom, but not ours. We should start planning now.

Don’t worry, my father said. It’ll be a long time before these two cashews know their heads from their tails. When they need separate rooms, I’ll fix up the attic for Henry and install a bathroom in the basement. When I was eight, he did just that.

Don’t call them cashews! We knelt and prayed together every night for their safe deliverance. How quickly you forget. Those earlier miscarriages were awful. The doctor doubted I could carry one child. With two, he predicted a certain miscarriage. Andy, I tell you it’s a miracle, bestowed upon us by Jesus. I thank Him every night for the twins. I’ve heard you do the same. Jesus gave us a complete family, a boy and a girl.

If our birth was a miracle, Jesus was paid back.

In celebration of the miracle of birth, Andrew and Elizabeth added to the many devotional symbols already in our house. A picture of our Lady or our Lord and a crucifix hung in each room. Scattered throughout the house were small statues of the saints. A pair of rosary beads adorned a small table near the front door. A bottle of holy water sat on a counter in the kitchen, which we used to bless ourselves before going to bed. I never remember a meal at which grace was not recited. Meat, our favorite dish, was verboten on Friday. We called on St. Anthony when we could not find something. We blessed ourselves when we passed a church and bowed our heads at the holy name of Jesus. We observed all religious holidays and never, except when sick, missed Mass.

As a kid, I accepted that Poles dominated Riverhead and did not question how it came about. Once I married Peggy, the origin of the Polish community was unmasked. In 1870, her great-grandparents, Francis and Regina Kuszniewoski, left their village of Mala Wies, a part of Poland ruled by Russia, and emigrated to America. They were farmers in the old country, and Riverhead was a farming community. The farms needed workers, and the Polish immigrants needed work. The Kuszniewoskis were the first Polish immigrants to settle in Riverhead. By 1910, three hundred thousand Poles had followed in their wake. Peggy’s grandmother on her maternal side, Veronica Sendlewski, was the first child born locally of Polish-immigrant stock. Well, the Kuszniewoskis and the Sendlewskis, said Peggy, were not the Cabots and the Lodges, but among the Polish community on the East End, they were royalty.

Although our country treated the new immigrants poorly, relegating them to low-paying, backbreaking jobs (the ones no one else wanted) and making fun of their intellect and dress, the Poles were fiercely patriotic. Flags flew on every national holiday, and the men enlisted, rather than waiting to be drafted, to fight in every war. The Riverhead Veterans of Foreign Wars had so many Polish members that it could rightly have been called the Polish American Veterans of Foreign Wars.

What caused the mass immigration? Perhaps their lives were even worse in their native land. But then why did they hold on to the old ways? Take church, that most important institution: Although there was an established, traditional Catholic church in Riverhead ready to accept the new arrivals, they founded their own, St. Isadore’s Roman Catholic Church of Riverhead, led by a Polish-speaking priest. Packed on Sundays and religious holidays, attendance was also high for dances, picnics, suppers, and trips to Radio City Music Hall at Christmastime. The church served as the center for religious and social life. My parents sang in the choir: Andrew, a bass; and Elizabeth, a mezzo soprano. They met at a rehearsal for a Christmas pageant and courted for six months before marrying.

The Irish and Italians prayed with their fellow Americans, intermarried, and moved up the social ladder. Not the Poles of Riverhead. They prayed in their church and, locked in their working-class jobs, passed them on from father to son. It was a rare father who said, My life is dreary. I’m at the bottom of the heap. I want my children to have a better life. Instead, they thanked Jesus for their hardscrabble existence; pushed their sons to become plumbers, carpenters, house painters, electricians; and encouraged their daughters to marry on the same social level.

It was weird that we were so insular when at our doorstep lay a world of privilege and opportunity.

Our home was 8.6 miles from the estate section of Southampton, where the houses were adorned with diamonds as big as the Hope. On my one-speed Schwinn bicycle, I could make the trip in fifteen minutes with the wind at my back, and they were the most glorious minutes of my life, except for when I actually arrived in this land of mansions and endless emerald green lawns and beaches whose waters stretched across the entire ocean.

How did I know so young that I wanted to live in luxury—that I had to? I will go to my grave not knowing the answer to that. I just knew. Maybe I was born knowing. Or maybe my father, the plumber, and my mother, the bookkeeper, secretly pointed me in that direction, while telling me all the while to embrace my heritage and to avoid the rich as though they carried the plague.

What do they know? my father would say. They need to be waited on hand and foot because they’re helpless. They’re pathetic.

Count your blessings that they need you to fix their plumbing, my mother would chime in. Without them, where would we be?

God, how I hated to listen to his bitterness and her always counting her blessings—for our little box of a house where nothing special ever happened. The people in Southampton did not speak this way or live the way we did. They didn’t whine; they didn’t have to count their blessings to be reminded of anything, because their good fortune was everywhere in evidence—and in plenty of places I couldn’t see.

Angry and eager to leave as I was, growing up in Riverhead, I witnessed the passion of blue-collar families in caring for and improving their homes. Awareness of this trait, and putting it into practice, enabled me to amass my fortune.

My parents thought Riverhead was God’s country, a place no sane person would want to leave. But they had no ambition and were content to stay imprisoned in their little world and endure boring, hard work. Their dull lives affected their appearances. Andrew, a veteran of World War II, was not what an objective person would call handsome. His features were prominent, his head came to a point, and his hair was thick, unruly, and all over his body. Years of maneuvering on his hands and knees through crawl spaces had stooped his shoulders and turned his skin dull and gray. In my mother’s kindness and affection for him, she’d say, As a young man, he had movie-star good looks. If he had wanted to, he could have made his fortune in Hollywood.

In a wedding photo taken when my mother was eighteen, she looked bright-eyed, pretty, and pleasantly plump, a very different look from the haggard woman I grew up with. She grew heavy, her blonde hair turned gray, and her face was lined with decades of hard work and financial worries. She looked old to me, older even than the mothers of my friends, and this sometimes made me sad even as a child, but I’m not sure if it was sadness for me or for her.

She impressed Andrew in a different way. The first time I heard that canary sing and got a good look at her, I knew she was for me. Over the years, she has gotten better looking. He bragged that while in the army, before he met my mother, he carried on with Frenchies, Brits, and fräuleins. Then he softened the blow. None could hold a candle to this all-American rose.

Although Mary and I were two peas from the same pod, we looked and acted differently. She had a well-shaped nose, big blue eyes, and honey-colored hair. She was tall and slim. The signs were clear: she would blossom into a beauty.

I was wide and thought I was ugly. My shoulders were broad; my arms, hands, and feet outsized. I never could understand why girls liked me. I thought about the Frenchies, Brits, and fräuleins who swooned over my father. Would they fall for me? We looked different, I thought. Maybe I was wrong. At my confirmation, the priest said, The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. Priests don’t lie.

Mary was a reader, an A student, and class valedictorian. I was an athlete, a three-letter man, and football was my passion. I played fullback on offense and linebacker on defense. In my senior year, I was the captain. I started on the basketball team and played center field in baseball. My grades were good for a jock, even though I spent little time hitting the books. I was popular. Maybe even the most popular, according to the yearbook.

Mom didn’t worry about me but she did about Mary. She reads too much. She’ll ruin her eyes. She’ll never get married. Men don’t like girls who are too smart. That’s why she never has a date. If she continues in her ways, she’ll die a spinster.

Her complaints were directed at me as well as Mary. Mary helps you with your schoolwork; why don’t you help with her social life? Fix her up with dates. Take her to parties. If I had not had a well-rounded social life, I would never have snared your father.

Maybe you’d have landed a better fish. I thought I was being funny.

Don’t you say anything against your father. You do that too much. I want you to stop.

In defending him, she offered the same excuse. He works hard doing dirty work to support us. She was so earnest you would think no other father slaved away. She spoke about his service in World War II and called herself dull compared to the women of the world he met during the war. He talked so often about his longing to return to London and Paris that she believed he would have been happier working as a plumber in those cities than in Riverhead. I almost believed circumstances, not Andrew’s nature, were at fault. She assured me Andrew loved me, though she admitted he had difficulty showing it.

My father and I had a bad relationship. As a kid, I laid the blame at his door; he struck me as ridiculous. For example, he celebrated the anniversary of VE Day by dressing for dinner in his army uniform. After we recited grace, he stood holding a glass of water, and year after year, he made the same toast: To my fellow brothers in arms, the valiant soldiers who died to make the world safe. He listed the dead he claimed to have known, but from year to year, the first names of the departed changed and so did last names. When he couldn’t remember a name, he made it up. Some service for his fallen comrades!

Andrew may have noticed the bored looks on Mary’s and my faces as he uttered his foolish speech for the umpteenth time because, when we were fifteen, he threw us a curve ball. To get our attention, he mentioned—mercifully without specification—the victory of his fellow soldiers over European women. Those Frenchies were hot stuff. My god, the things they did to please soldiers. The English dames pretended to be oh so proper, but they were wild. The hottest of all were the Germans. We conquered them but not their women. My buddies and I agreed: we beat the Nazis but surrendered unconditionally to their gals.

Our mouths agape, we burst out laughing. Mary, who had studied French, rattled on in that language while gazing soulfully at Andrew. Then she translated: You great, big, handsome Yank. My hero. You’ve saved France. Come with me to Paris and claim your reward.

Mary impersonated an English woman, speaking with a part cockney, part Oxbridge accent: King George VI is throwing a party in Buckingham Palace for all you American blokes. There’ll be plenty of proper English women there who won’t behave properly. The king’s daughter will fall head over heels for you. Women named Elizabeth generally do. You’re definitely the princess’s type. Tall and silent. Who knows? You may become the consort to the next ruler of England.

For the finale, Mary gave the Nazi salute; said, Heil Hitler; and sang, GI Joes are strong and mean but cannot conquer us fräuleins.

Mom and I howled with laughter. Even Andrew smiled but ruined it by adding glumly, That’s not the way it happened.

The following year, he stuck to the old script.

It did not feel like a happy household to me at the time, despite the essential stability. We were fed and clothed and taken to church. We had friends and Thanksgiving and Christmas dinners, and we did not fight all the time. But Mary and I were both so different from each other, and we were both so different from our parents, that I felt sometimes that I had come home from the hospital with the wrong family. Sometimes, but not always.

2

No is overused by two-year-olds. They don’t really mean it; it’s a way to assert independence. When I was two and urged to sit on the potty, I announced, I sez nope. Weeks later, the potty and I were friends.

The summer I turned fourteen, I said nope to working another summer for my father. This time, I meant it. I was sick of being pushed around, working long hours, and not being paid. When I said, There are laws protecting children, my father shouted at me, I feed you—and you eat more than me—put a roof over your head, buy you all kinds of things I never had, and what’s the thanks I get? You want to send me to jail! Here, I’ll pay you what you’re worth. He handed me a penny. That’s pay not for one day but for the whole damn summer.

On school vacations, Andrew took me with him on jobs and constantly criticized my work in front of others. Henry is the cleanest kid. He never has to take a bath. Why? My boy doesn’t do dirty work and never breaks a sweat. I could never satisfy my father. And he never found a word of praise for me.

One sweltering evening, I sat on the front porch in case a breeze wafted by. I was avoiding my attic sanctuary where it might be a hundred degrees. I had spent the day working for my father, and like so many of those days, we fought like bitter enemies. I was resting; he was watching TV. I guessed the program was over when my father appeared in front of me. He looked menacing. I was not frightened. He barked a lot but never hit me.

Look at my hands, he said, shoving them in my face. They’re the hands of a working man. Strong and calloused. They were that way when I was your age. Now look at yours. He grabbed them, yanked them up as though they were strangers to me, and held them in front of me. Soft, like a sissy’s.

You know what? I don’t want your hands. And I don’t want to be a plumber. For your information, I don’t like working in shit.

Bull’s-eye. I’d renounced a plumber’s life, challenging one of Andrew’s basic tenets. If you were born a plumber’s son, you were lucky and should follow in your father’s footsteps.

I thought I saw a tear in his eye, but maybe I was mistaken. Andrew was not an emotional man. He grimaced, turned his back, and returned to the house. The porch lights went off, and the TV droned on.

There was one bright spot that summer of my fourteenth year. In July, my father and I replaced a toilet and added a bidet in the master bathroom of Patrick B. McGinnis’s Southampton home. He was a railroad mogul, the former CEO of the New Haven Railroad, and was running the Boston and Maine. McGinnis was around, and we couldn’t avoid seeing him and he us.

At lunchtime, my father, as was his habit, went to his hangout for a sandwich and a beer. He never invited me. On the last day of the job, McGinnis spotted me sitting on the ground at the back of the house about to start my brown-bag lunch. Hey, kid. How come you don’t eat with your dad? That is your dad, right?

My dad won’t eat with the help. You see, master plumbers don’t mix with apprentices, even their own sons. At home, my mother insists he eat dinner with me as she refuses to cook separate meals, but he sits far away. I said it with a smile, and McGinnis smiled too.

Well, I’m not a master plumber, so no law will be broken if you eat with me. A friend cancelled lunch. We got plenty of fried chicken and corn. Toss your lunch in the garbage pail and come with me. He took me to a table just off the kitchen. A black woman brought out a platter of food piled high. McGinnis got two Cokes from the refrigerator; we drank from the bottles. When I saw him eating with his hands, I did too. The chicken and corn were finger-licking good.

McGinnis talked a lot but didn’t toot his own horn. He didn’t have to. Just a few weeks earlier, the Southampton Press, a weekly, featured McGinnis in its talks to column. My father regularly brought home the paper. He didn’t read it except to check on his ad and those of his competitors.

Although Southampton was home to many working-class people, the local paper focused on the celebrities. They were achievers, doers, and newsworthy. I read the paper from top to bottom, everything except the classified ads.

The close-up on McGinnis told how he’d started at nineteen as a runner at Lehman Brothers at fifteen dollars per week. By the time he was twenty-five, he was head of the firm’s bond desk. He moved from bonds to stock and became the leading railroad analyst and broker. Not content to make piles of money for his clients and himself, he left Lehman to run a small railroad. In 1954, he sought bigger stakes and challenged Frederick Buck Dumaine for control of the New York, New Haven, and Hartford Railroad. In the first proxy contest for a railroad empire, Pat McGinnis, an uneducated, street-smart guy, ousted Frederick Buck Dumaine Jr., the scion of a New England Brahmin family. The clash was headlined Pat vs. Buck.

A charismatic person can induce an alcoholic-like state in those around him. McGinnis had me in a semidrunken one, free of inhibitions and ready to expose my secrets. He asked whether I wanted to be plumber. About as much, I said, as you wanted to follow in your father’s footsteps. My wise-guy comment didn’t offend him. He sensed that I respected him. He asked what I wanted to do. I want to make a lot of money and run a big business, just like you.

Why not? he said. "It’s