Little Black Book

Little Black Book

The Daily Missal 

1921 words

As I have grown older, the wish to live small has become the focus of my imagination, and some time ago I began the process of sorting through the seemingly overwhelming collection of stuff I have accumulated over the years.  One pile for gifting, one pile for donating and one pile for keeps.  Starting with the bookshelf, which housed all manner of trinkets alone with an array of books I hadn’t looked at in years, I came across a small, well-worn, black leather-bound book with faded gold letters on the cover: Daily Missal.  Opening it, I saw it had been inscribed by my mother with the year of my birth: 1952.

As I turned over the gold-edged pages, long forgotten memories flooded in of my left-behind Catholic upbringing. In it were the prayers which I had once dutifully memorized, recited with the fervent hope that I might be delivered from the life I had been born into. But this was not my childhood missal; mine had been snow white, as befitted a little girl in the fifties, and I had written my own name in it. So whose missal was this?

Idly continuing to turn the pages, I came up short on page eleven, where in the corner of the page I found a faded inscription, written in a small, delicate, if now barely legible script. Had my Mother written this? Why? And when?

Extracting a magnifying glass from the pile for keeps, I read, “Looking far enough East you will see the West. Looking far enough West you will see the East.” What could this mean?  It had nothing to do with the prayers on either of the opened pages. Skipping to the next, I found a small illustration sketched on the once-empty bottom fourth of that page: a stately building with the name “Bank of the United States” engraved above the door.  On the following page was written, “Look to the end for the future.”

Completely puzzled now, and undeniably intrigued, I googled “Bank of the United States” and read that it had collapsed along with so many others in the early 1930’s.  The building, however, on the Lower East Side at 77 Delancy Street in New York City, had become the Hebrew Publishing Company but the business had moved on in the 1970’s.  Did the building exist still?  Why, yes it did!  These days it is a 21-unit apartment building.   I silently thanked technology as my mind reeled with possibilities. Perhaps my imagination was orbiting too far out—but my curiosity was certainly piqued.

“Look to the end for the future.”  What end?  Could it be a simple clue?  I turned to the last page, finding nothing.  Then, looking at the back binding, I noticed a raised area on the casing-in of the cover. I ran my fingers over it firmly. It was a key! I was sure of it.  Carefully, I cut a small horizontal opening with an Exacto knife and gently pushed the object out. It was indeed a key, stamped with the number “445”.  A safe deposit box key! Belonging to the long debunked “Bank of the United States”?  

Google obligingly served up the phone number of the Hebrew Publishing Company, so I called to see if any of the bank’s equipment and furnishings had been preserved from so long ago.  Passed from one person to another in what seemed to be a generational chain, I finally connected with an elder who remembered that some of the old vaults had been preserved, and to the best of his knowledge, remained in the old building on Delancy Street.

I called Zachary, an old friend in New York City, and asked if I might stay the weekend with him.  Arrangement made, I grew more and more excited as the week passed, distracting my now magnificently exaggerated imagination by continuing my seemingly endless sorting task.

Still, what did East and West have to do with any of the knowledge I had acquired thus far?  

On Friday morning I boarded the train heading south to Grand Central Station in New York City. It was an eight-hour trip.  Plenty of time to dream about what I might find.  I sat alone in the last car with the little black Daily Missal in hand.  Shifting between my memories and indulgent expectation, the time passed quickly and uneventfully.  The train pulled into Grand Central at dusk and in short order I found myself on the sidewalk, staggering slightly in the sudden hustle and bustle of the city, so crowded, noisy, and overwhelming. I made my way to the taxi stand.

Zachary’s apartment was a welcome respite.  After filling him in on the details of my intriguing search, the two of us puzzled over the possibilities while eating supper.   Now as captivated as I was, Zach was all in and agreed to help me with the quest.  Early Saturday morning we made our way to the lower East Side. This part of the city, as it happens in cities, had begun to upscale because it was affordable to artists and working people.  But continuing gentrification was now making it unaffordable for the common man. The apartment building, once failed bank and humble publishing house, was no exception.  We were greeted by a doorman who had no intention of letting us pass.  But money spoke volumes here, and fifty dollars later he escorted us to the lobby and there, behind a long wooden reception desk, was a wall filled with antique safe-deposit boxes.

I showed the key to the receptionist and was met with an attitude of disdain, in addition to a fair amount of suspicion.  I wondered if others had tried to access the deposit boxes? She shot a scolding look at the doorman, who shrugged and went back to his post.

These boxes, she explained, had been left untouched throughout the buying and selling and renovations of the building, save for a few others who had claimed to have keys for them and who had, in fact, damaged a few of the boxes attempting to open them. The rule was that now no one could touch them so that their historical value might be preserved.  

I did not intend to take no for an answer at this point. Zach and I stood at the desk unmoving for nearly an hour, after which the gatekeeper relented and offered to attempt to open the box marked 445 if I would surrender the key should it not fit the lock.  I agreed.  What did I have to lose?  She took the key and searched for the number.  Finding the box in the far right, bottom row, she inserted the key and turned it gently.  Click.  The door cracked open!   Gingerly, she slid the covered drawer from its housing and brought it to us.  

I opened the drawer to find an envelope that barely fit into the space.  It was yellowed with age but intact.  Under this was another, slightly smaller envelope, and under that was what appeared to be a letter addressed To the Descendant of Lieutenant A.J.  Mueller.

Tears sprang to my eyes. “This is my father!” I whispered, pointing to the name. I looked up at the clerk. She motioned zipping her mouth shut, slid a small card across the desk, motioning me to sign for the contents, and then quietly returned the drawer with the card tucked inside to the deposit box, locked the numbered door, and handed me the key.  

Zach and I found a café where we sat outside sipping coffee and staring at the bounty.  I told him my father had been a navy pilot in WWII.  He had flown a “Black Cat” which was a plane carrying artillery like torpedos and other heavy weaponry to the naval installations and carriers deployed in the Pacific. Beyond that I knew very little about where he had spent his years in the War, but I thought for sure it wasn’t the front lines.

I opened the letter addressed to The Descendant of.  In it was a note written by my Father saying the enclosed was for me, from both him and my Mother. There also was a letter handwritten in an old-fashioned cursive script under the letterhead of the “Hebrew Publishing Company.”

Dear Sir or Madam,

Our names are Jakub Ginter and Nina Ruth Wojciech.  Please find, along with this letter, two large envelopes in which are enclosed a bond we have purchased on behalf of Lieutenant AJ Mueller and a gift for his fiancée, whom we believe became his wife.

Before the War, Nina and I had been living and working in Japan, but by 1940, the atmosphere there toward Jews such as ourselves had become considerably inhospitable, making it imperative that we escape before we found ourselves in real difficulty. In the Fall of 1941, we were able to make our way to New Guinea on the first leg of a trip to Australia, where we hoped eventually to find passage to the United States of America. But we were detained in New Guinea by a lack of dedicated transport, everything being conscripted in anticipation of war. Shortly after the attack on Pearl Harbor, we began to see American airmen coming and going in the islands, and one night we were introduced to Lieutenant A. J. Mueller, who listened to our story with interest. To our good fortune, late on the night of 21 March 1942 we boarded the plane that Lieutenant Mueller was flying to the Pacific Island of Hawaii. From there we made our way to the United States where we connected with family who helped us find work.  In 1944 we moved to New York City where we were employed by the Hebrew Publishing Company, Nina as an illustrator and me as an editor. 

There is no way to know if Lieutenant Mueller’s family will ever find this, but our lives were saved by his kindness. We have attempted to locate him but have been unsuccessful. We did however send a letter to the Naval Base in Pensacola, Florida where he mentioned he had trained and learned he had survived the War. We hope this offering finds its way to him or to his family.

Please accept these humble gifts as a token of our gratitude.

Respectfully,

Jakub and Nina Wojciech

In the smaller of the two large envelopes was a $1000 Series E War Bond along with a receipt in the amount of $750 paid for this bond.  Included were tax receipts dated yearly until 2000, which interestingly was the year my Father passed away.  In the larger envelope were four pristine woodblock prints, signed by Paul Jacoulet, a French painter who lived most of his life in Japan.  On the back of each print was written 2/500. Together these gifts were worth upwards of $20,000.

In the evening, Zach and I toasted my treasure with Pinot Noir and a platter of delectable exotic fruit.  In the morning, I was off to Grand Central to head home. 

I have since sold my house and after built the small cottage of my dreams in the Adirondack mountains. The letter, war bond, key and framed woodblock prints adorn the walls where I can see them every day with gratitude and pride.

Had my parents left this treasure to me in contrition? I choose to believe they did indeed.