#971 Hen: A "Gentle Gentleman"

Dad upon his arrival in Hollywood, c. 1936

Today, January 21, 2024 is our father Henry’s 109th birthday. Though he passed away more than 21 years ago, not a day goes by when his children and grandchildren, his nieces, nephews and what few friends still occupy this mortal coil, don’t think about him, hear his ever-so-slightly Southern-tinged diction or think about what a difference he made in the lives of so many people. In his prime - which lasted most of his nearly 88 years - he was more handsome than Robert Taylor, wore clothes better than Adolphe Menjou and above all, was a humble success. (Ironically, when his hair turned white and he began wearing thick-black horn-rimmed glasses, he could have passed for Cary Grant’s twin brother.) In his obituary [published in the Los Angeles Daily News), he was most aptly described as “a gentle gentleman.”

Born in Baltimore, Maryland on January 21, 1915, the first of 3 children born to Isaac (“Ike”) and Sheva (Greenberg) Schimberg. Both the Schimbergs and Greenbergs had been living in Baltimore as far back as the 1840s, when its nickname was “Mobtown.” Ike, who was somewhere between hard-of-hearing and just plain deaf, worked as a clothing cutter. He must have been pretty good, because the company that employed him kept moving the family between Baltimore and Richmond, Virginia, where they had another factory.

In order to make ends meet, Ike and Sheva would occasionally take in what today we call foster children. According to family legend, one of these children was Mary Margaret Ruth, the sister of George Herman "Babe” Ruth. After doing a lot of research, I now think it is not a family legend; it is what in Yiddish is called a bubbe meise - an “old wives’ tale.” According to Mary, she didn’t like her first name; her brother George (The Babe) nicknamed her “Mamie,” which stuck. Well, it so happens that Ike and Sheva did have a youngester living with them for many, many years: Sheva’s younger sister also nicknamed “Mamie.” Whether truth or fiction, Henry became a devoted, lifelong baseball fan. Another family legend: Sheva was dead set on her son being admitted to the newly created Forest Park High School in Baltimore’s Dorchester neighborhood - it was going to be the best school in Baltimore. And so, the legend goes, she took herself across town to 4300 Chatham Road where the new school was located, took out a pillow and a blanket from her bag, and spent the night on the school’s doorstep so that come morning, she would be first in line. I would like to think the story’s true, for Dad did get admitted and graduated at age 16. From there it was on to the University of Richmond (in those days called “The Harvard of the South”), where he studied business. He left college after two years; the Depression was on, and he had to find work.

Grandma Sheva thought her son was the handsomest young man on the planet and urged him to go out to Hollywood, where she was absolutely certain he would become the next Robert Taylor. The year was 1936; Henry (called “Hen” by family and friends) took his mother’s advice, borrowed $100.00 from a man named Stone, and went out west seeking fame, fortune and flashbulbs. Alas, the first and and last of the 3 Fs was simply not to be. Despite being possessed of dashing good looks, a better than average speaking voice and had the innate ability to make an off-the-rack suit of clothes look like a creation straight from Saville Row, Hen really knew nothing about acting. And so, while making the rounds and working at enough odd jobs to keep the wolf from the door - where others might wait tables at Hamburger Hamlet he sold jewelry for Kays - he came to realize that the old Hollywood aphorism was correct: "If you can’t act well, you should at least know to behave.” And behave he certainly could; he was a gentleman with a gentle touch and a gifted mind, and was as honest as the day is long. Certainly something would come his way.

Memories of Jewelry Days and World War II

Even before the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor, Hen had enlisted in the United States military. He reasoned that America would eventually go off to fight the Nazi scourge, and that in order to do so, would need a universal draft. Figuring that any World War would last far longer than, say, a two-year enlistment, he decided to volunteer his services for six years. In that way, he reasoned, it would force the army to put him through a battery of tests, and figure out where he could best serve his country. And so, after a battery of aptitude tests, the then 26-year old found himself spending the next several years studying to become a "weather forecaster” - what they called "meteorologists” in days long gone. In the meantime, he meet our mother Alice at a party given by her cousin Mitzi at her home in Beverly Hills. She was a decade younger than he, already an accomplished stage actress, and like Hen, had come out to Hollywood (in her case from Chicago) to get into movies. She had arrived as a beautiful 17-year old armed with a good resume, a ton of talent as a singer, dancer, and actor, and all the self-confidence in the world. They made a great couple . . . their nearly 60-year marriage proves that. They were married in July, 1943; while Hen (still named Schimberg) would move from school to school studying weather, she would accompany him, working for quite some time in an Italian POW camp.

Eventually, Dad was shipped off to India (despite having studied weather in mostly snow-bound climates) where he spent the rest of the war as a T/Sgt., forecasting weather conditions for pilots flying over “The Hump" on a supply line in the China, Burma, India theatre. During the course of his 6 years in the Army Air Corps, he earned numerous medals and commendations - none of which he spoke of for more than half a century. In fact, it wasn’t until just about a year before he passed on that we got him to talk about his time in the military. “Why,” we asked, “have you never uttered a word about the war? Was it too gory?” “No, not at all,” he said, speaking into a video camera. “For me, the war in India consisted of going into an office every day and doing what I was trained to do. About the only time it got a bit hairy was when I had to urge a high-ranked officer to stay on the ground and not fly over The Hump due to terrible weather. Well, you know, these generals thought they knew it all, and here I was, just a lowly Technical Sergeant,” ordering them around. Fortunately, I was just a good enough actor to convince them that I knew what I was speaking about.”

“And besides,” he continued, “I feel sorry for all those lads who are still talking about the war more than a half century after it ended. How sad that that this was the high-point of their lives. For me, life was far more interesting both before and after the war. World War II was just a necessity, nothing more, nothing less. And besides, I really don’t want to think about it because every time I do, I feel guilty.” “Why guilty?” I asked. “You know,” he said, starting slowly, as if tiptoeing up on a difficult memory, “India was and is still a terribly poor country. And here I was, living in a wonderful flat, employing a cook, driver and personal valet. How can I remember all that without feeling guilty?” That’s just the sort of gentleman our father was.

Once the war was over and he returned to Hollywood, Hen started to look for what he was going to do. He figured that he had the intellectual skills, the drive, the contacts, and the innate sales ability to succeed . . . if only he could figure out what to sell. And so, after a few false starts (such as “Flash TV,” in which he tried renting color television sets to saloons and taverns . . . long before anyone had ever heard of color TV . . . he hearkened on a relatively new product and approach: Mutual Funds. Hollywood was full of people making thousands upon thousands of dollars per week and still merely scraping by. Why? Why? Simple. Few of them knew anything about budgeting their fabulous salaries or the importance of making investments in order to safeguard their futures. And so, along with a young friend pretty much in the same position as he, they created a company called “California Investors,” which became the first stock brokerage firm to specialize in Mutual Funds. He and his partner worked their tails off and before too long, had several offices and were doing quite well. Many of their clients were from the Hollywood community . . . Eventually they spread over much of California. At one point they began turning their attention to other financial vehicles such as “Completion Insurance,” in which dividends from their mutual fund would automatically the purchase of life insurance. I can remember a time when my father had a business card which on the back, had the name and home telephone number of every mutual fund manager in America. Indeed, it was a long, long time ago. As time went on, the house we lived in got bigger, the cars were newer and larger, and the firm owned a weekend property in Palm Springs. But dad was still dad: he bowled weekly in the synagogue’s Men’s Club bowling league (in which he managed to bowl one tremendous line every year thus winning a trophy), took us to Dodger games and was just plain dad.

At the synagogue, he became increasingly “important,” eventually becoming the shul’s financial vice president. How well I remember all the people hanging around him hoping to pick up a stock tip . . . which would have been illegal. Instead, with a smile, he would tell them “I have a great tip for all of you . . . come closer . . . “ And then, he would whisper “Buy low, sell high!”

Not what you would call a “flaming liberal” his firm, nonetheless, became the first to hire Black, Hispanic, Asian and Gay brokers. If anyone would ask him why (and remember, this was during a time when everyone was looking for “Reds Under the Beds”) he would answer simply but honestly, “Who stands the best chance of selling an Asian or Black a stock offering? Another Asian or Black!”

A lifelong, quiet admirer of FDR and the New Deal, he once mentioned to Madame that he might consider voting for Richard Nixon (whom she despised because of his having been a leading member of the House Un-American Activities Committee), she told him that she would “pull a Lysistrata“on him unless he changed his mind. He relented, and voted for Hubert Humphrey, who nonetheless lost to “Tricky Dickie.”

Madame, Dad, Erica and Yours Truly, c 1980

Right after I graduated high school and before I went away to university, he put me to work at the main office of California Investors on Olympic Blvd, not too far from Paramount Studios. I did filing, messengering and delivering important documents to the offices of the Pacific Coast Stock Exchange. The only rule I had to follow (besides being polite and honest) was not telling anyone (except for Mr. Jones, an executive who used to run Eastern Airlines) that I was Mr. Stone’s son. At first, I thought this was so that no one would treat me differently than any other young messenger making $300.00 a month. Following that rule actually had a great benefit: I got to hear his employees talk freely about the company and especially what they thought about its upper-level executives. It never ceased to amaze me - and bring great pride - that to a man or woman (yes, my father was among the first to hire female brokers) they thought he was a true gentleman.

Hen rarely spoke about himself. Unlike his beloved father-in-law (“Grandpa Doc”), he wasn’t a storyteller. Indeed, in almost any situation, Doc would say “that reminds me of a story,” and then go off to the literary races. Not so Dad. I do remember one true story he told me when I was working for him on Olympic Blvd:

One day a woman made an appointment with him and was ushered into his office. She was carrying a sizeable briefcase. After a few pleasantries, she told him that she was a schoolteacher, single, and living with her elderly mother. Opening the briefcase, she pulled out a sheaf of what looked like a sheaf of antique stock certificates. “I found these in our attic the other night,” she explained. “They are a bunch of shares in a mine that mom’s grandfather worked up in Minnesota a long, long time ago.” She quickly got to the point: “Do you know anyone who could track down the history of this mine and determine if they’re worth anything today?” Dad told her he knew someone who was a stock historian and if she would leave them with him, he would get back to her by the end of the week.

At this point in his story, Dad paused, smiled, and continued. “Turns out that that mine was the basis for the 3-M corporation” (Minnesota Mining and Manufacturing) and were still negotiable after all these years. “You know Kurt, I could easily have offered her a thousand, telling her that her story had touched my heart. But instead, when she returned, I presented her with a sizeable portfolio based on the current market value of 3-M, which would permit her and her mother to live off the dividends for the rest of their lives. You have no idea of what I could have done if I weren’t an honest man . . . “ That’s about all the bragging I ever heard came out of this gentle gentleman’s mouth.

Hen rarely ever showed a sense of humor; he just wasn’t that sort of fellow . . . except for one memorable occasion more than 50 years ago which is still as fresh in my memory as if it happened just last night: In about 1968, he called me up and asked if I could fly to Las Vegas and meet him and spend a couple of days with himself and his younger sister Jackie who would be there with my Uncle Marty. Hey, a free trip to Las Vegas . . . why not? And so I went and joined them. Dad really spread out the red carpet; nothing was too good for his sister, brother-in-law and son. After the second night, as Jackie and Marty were heading up to their room, Dad said, “Let’s go out; there’s somewhere I want to take you.” And so, we proceeded to the old downtown section of Vegas and went to what used to be known as a “Burlesque House” - a place with strippers and baggy-pants comedians. The women were shapely (zaftig, actually) and the comedians ridiculous. Turns out, the real show wasn’t on the stage; rather it was Dad who laughed so hard that there were tears streaming down his face. I had never seen him like that before, and certainly never would again. It was a side of him that he kept well-hidden. As we went back to our hotel, he winked at me and said “Let that be our little secret!”

Dad never really retired. Eventually, California Investors was sold and moved to the Beneficial Standard Building on the Wilshire Blvd. ”Miracle Mile,” just across the street from LACMA (the Los Angeles County Museum of Art, the La Brea (Tar) Pits and the recently opened Academy Museum of Motion Pictures. Mom and Dad built a new place out in Woodland Hills, about 2 miles from the Motion Picture Country Home (MPTF), once known as the “Mary Pickford House.” When we questioned why Mom would have Dad build a new house at his age (then at least 75), she said “He’ll have to live forever just to pay it off!” How typical . . . After Hen’s passing in 2002, Madame continued to live there for nearly another 20 years . . . (what would have been her 100th birthday will occur this coming February 8. A small gathering will be held in her memory replete with stories, food and fables).

From first to last, Hen was a unique blend of gentleman, devoted husband, father and grandfather, humbly successful super salesman, L.A. Dodger fan, world traveler and, above all, a gentle gentleman. There’s an old Hal David/Burt Bacharach song called “What the World Needs Now” (1965). For those who remember it, the “what” that the world so desperately needed was “love, love, love,” because “. . . it’s the only thing that there’s too little of.” A great lyric and even greater truism from the era of Flower Power. I would argue that what the world also needs are people like Hen . . . people of honesty and integrity, men and women who are graced with dignity, class and a dash of sophistication and panache . . . indeed people who achieve immortality through the very quality of their being.

Happy 109th Dad . . . we’ll be sharing tales about you and Madame at the party next month. Your seat at the head of the table, looking directly across at you child bride, will be empty . . . but you will be there.