33

WITH AMERICA STILL in the grip of the Depression, Abel was becoming more than a little apprehensive about the future of the Baron Group. Two thousand banks had closed during the past couple of years, and more were shutting their doors every week. Nine million people were unemployed, which at least meant that Abel had no difficulty in finding experienced staff for all his hotels. Despite this, the Baron Group lost $72,000 in 1932, the year in which Abel had predicted they would break even. He began to wonder if his backer’s purse and patience would hold out long enough to allow him the chance to turn things around.

Recently Abel had begun to take an active interest in politics, sparked by Anton Cermak’s successful campaign to become Mayor of Chicago. Cermak had pressed Abel to join the Democratic Party, which had launched a virulent campaign against Prohibition; Abel had thrown his support wholeheartedly behind the candidate, because Prohibition had proved so damaging to the hotel trade. The fact that Cermak was an immigrant from Czechoslovakia had created an immediate bond between the two men, and Abel had been delighted when he was chosen as a delegate to the Democratic National Convention held in Chicago in 1932, where Cermak had brought a packed audience to its feet with the words: ‘It’s true I didn’t come over on the Mayflower, but I came over as soon as I could.’

At the convention Cermak introduced Abel to Franklin D. Roosevelt, who had made a lasting impression on him. Later that year FDR went on to win the Presidential election easily, sweeping Democratic candidates into office all over the country. One of the newly elected aldermen at Chicago City Hall was Henry Osborne.

In 1933 the Baron Group cut its losses to $23,000, and one of the hotels, the St Louis Baron, actually declared a profit. When President Roosevelt broadcast his first fireside chat over the airwaves on March 12, exhorting his countrymen ‘to once again believe in America’, Abel’s confidence soared, and he decided to reopen the two hotels he had closed in 1929.

Zaphia was beginning to comment on his long absences in Charleston and Mobile while he took the two hotels out of mothballs. She had never wanted him to be anything more than the deputy manager of the Stevens. With every month that passed she became more aware that she was not keeping pace with her husband’s ambitions, and she even feared he was beginning to lose interest in her.

She was also becoming anxious that she had not borne Abel a child, although the doctor assured her that there was nothing to prevent her from becoming pregnant. He offered the suggestion that perhaps her husband should also be examined, but Zaphia didn’t tell Abel, knowing he would regard this as a slur on his manhood. Finally, when she had almost given up hope, and after the subject had become so charged that it was difficult for them to discuss it at all, Zaphia missed her period.

She waited hopefully for another month before saying anything to Abel or seeing the doctor. A month later, he confirmed that she was pregnant.

Zaphia gave birth to a daughter on New Year’s Day 1934. They named her Florentyna, after Abel’s sister. Abel was besotted with the child from the moment he set eyes on her, and Zaphia knew at once that she would no longer be the first love of his life.

George and a cousin of Zaphia’s became the child’s Kums, and Abel threw a traditional ten-course Polish dinner on the evening of the christening. Numerous gifts were presented to the child, including a beautiful antique ring from Abel’s unknown backer. He returned the gift in kind when the Baron Group made a profit of $63,000 at the end of the year. Only the Mobile Baron was still losing money.

After Florentyna’s birth Abel spent more and more time at home, and he decided that the moment had come to build a new Baron in the Windy City. He intended to make his new hotel the flagship of the group in memory of Davis Leroy. The company still owned the site on Michigan Avenue, and although Abel had received several offers for the land, he had always held out, hoping that one day he would be in a strong enough financial position to rebuild the Old Richmond. The project required capital, and Abel was glad he hadn’t touched the $750,000 insurance payout from Great Western Casualty.

He told Curtis Fenton of his intention at their monthly board meeting, adding the sole proviso that if David Maxton did not want a rival to the Stevens, Abel would drop the whole project. A few days later, Curtis Fenton assured Abel that his backer had no objection to the idea of a Chicago Baron.

It took Abel fifteen months to build the new hotel, with a helping hand from Alderman Henry Osborne, who hurried through the permits required by City Hall in the shortest possible time. The Chicago Baron was opened in May 1936 by the mayor, Edward J. Kelly, who after the assassination of Anton Cermak had become the leader of the Democratic Party in Illinois. In memory of Davis Leroy, the hotel had no seventeenth floor – a tradition Abel continued in every new Baron he built.

The Chicago Baron was praised by the press both for its design and for the speed of its construction. Abel eventually spent well over a million dollars on the new hotel, and it looked as though every penny had been put to good use. The public rooms were large and sumptuous, with high stucco ceilings and decorations in pastel shades of green, pleasant and relaxing; the carpets were thick and luxurious. The dark green embossed ‘B’ was discreet but ubiquitous, adorning everything from the flag that fluttered above the entrance of the forty-two-storey building to the neat lapel of the most junior bellhop. Both Illinois senators were in attendance to address the two thousand assembled guests at the official opening. Mr Maxton took his place among the guests, puzzled as to why he was seated on the top table.

‘This hotel already bears the hallmark of success,’ said J. Hamilton Lewis, the senior senator, ‘because, my friends, it is the man, not the building, who will always be known as “The Chicago Baron”.’ Abel beamed with undisguised pleasure as the two thousand guests roared their approval.

When Abel rose from his place to reply, he began by thanking the Mayor, the senators and a dozen congressmen for attending the opening. He ended his speech with the popular catchphrase, ‘You ain’t seen nothin’ yet.’

George had been briefed to lead a standing ovation. He didn’t need to, as everyone was already on their feet when Abel sat down. He smiled. He was beginning to feel at ease among big-businessmen and senior politicians, who treated him as an equal. Zaphia hovered uncertainly in the background during the lavish celebration: the occasion was a little too much for her, and she felt uneasy with Abel’s new friends. She neither understood nor cared for success on her husband’s scale; and even though she could now afford the most expensive wardrobe, she still managed to look unfashionable and out of place, and was only too aware that this annoyed Abel. She stood to one side while he chatted to Alderman Henry Osborne.

‘This must be the high point of your life,’ said Osborne as he slapped Abel on the back.

‘High point? I’ve only just turned thirty,’ said Abel.

A camera flashed as he placed an arm around the Alderman’s shoulder. Abel beamed, realizing for the first time how exciting it was to be treated as a public figure. ‘I’m going to put Baron hotels across the globe,’ he said, just loud enough for the eavesdropping reporter to hear. ‘I intend to be to America what César Ritz was to Europe. Whenever an American is travelling, he must think of the Baron as his second home.’