Here are parts of the true story told by Ted Gup - grandson of the mysterious Mr. B. Virdot:
In the weeks just before Christmas of 1933 - 75 years ago - a mysterious offer appeared in The Repository, the daily newspaper here [Canton, Ohio]. It was addressed to all who were suffering in that other winter of discontent known as the Great Depression. The bleakest of holiday seasons was upon them, and the offer promised modest relief to those willing to write in and speak of their struggles. In return, the donor, a "Mr. B. Virdot," pledged to provide a check to the neediest to tide them over the holidays.
Not surprisingly, hundreds of letters for Mr. B. Virdot poured into general delivery in Canton - even though there was no person of that name in the city of 105,000.
[The letters] had come from all over Canton, from out-of-work upholsterers, painters, bricklayers, day laborers, insurance salesmen and, yes, former executives...
[...]
One, written Dec. 19, 1933, begins, "I hate to write this letter ... it seems too much like begging. Anyway, here goes. I will be honest, my husband doesn't know I'm writing this letter... . He is working but not making enough to hardly feed his family. We are going to do everything in our power to hold on to our house." Three years behind in taxes and out of credit at the grocery store, the writer closed with, "Even if you don't think we're worthy of help, I hope you receive a great blessing for your kindness."
Another letter came from a 38-year-old steel worker, out of a job and stricken with tuberculosis, who wrote of his inability to pay the hospital bills for his son, whose skull had been fractured after he was struck by a car.
One man wrote: "For one like me who for a lifetime has earned a fine living, charity by force of distressed circumstances is an abomination and a headache. However, your offer carries with it a spirit so far removed from those who offer help for their own glorification, you remove so much of the sting and pain of forced charity that I venture to tell you my story."
The writer, once a prominent businessman, was now 65 and destitute, his life insurance policy cashed in and gone, his furniture "mortgaged," his clothes threadbare, his hope of paying the electric and gas bills pinned to the intervention of his children.
A mother of four wrote, "My husband hasn't had steady work in four years ... . The people who are lucky enough to have no worry where the next meal is coming from don't realize how it is to be like we are and a lot of others... . I only wish I could do what you are doing."
Another letter was from the wife of an out-of-work bricklayer. "Mr. Virdot, we are in desperate circumstances," she wrote. They had taken in her husband's mother and father and a 10-year-old boy. Now the landlord had given them three days to pay up. "It is awful," she wrote. "No one knows, only those who go through it. It does seem so much like begging. "
Children, too, wrote in. The youngest was 12-year-old Mary Uebing. "There are six in our family," she wrote, "and my father is dead ... my baby sister is sick. Last Christmas our dinner was slim and this Christmas it will be slimmer... . Any way you could help us would be appreciated in this fatherless and worrisome home."
The wife of an out-of-work insurance salesman added a postscript to her letter, one not intended for her husband's eyes: She had just pawned her engagement ring for $5.
[...]
A week later, checks, most for as little as $5, started to arrive at homes around Canton. They were signed by "B. Virdot."
[...]
Of course, the checks could not reverse the fortunes of an entire family, much less a community. A few months after one man, Roy Teis, wrote to B. Virdot, his family splintered apart. His eight children, including a 4-year-old daughter, were scattered among nearly as many foster homes, and there they remained for years to come.
So why had my grandfather done this? Because he had known what it was to be down and out. In 1902, when he was 15, he and his family had fled Romania, where they had been persecuted and stripped of the right to work because they were Jews. They settled into an immigrant ghetto in Pittsburgh. His father forced him to roll cigars with his six other siblings in the attic, hiding his shoes so he could not go to school.
My grandfather later worked on a barge and in a coal mine, swabbed out dirty soda bottles until the acid ate at his fingers and was even duped into being a strike breaker, an episode that left him bloodied by nightsticks. He had been robbed at night and swindled in daylight. Midlife, he had been driven to the brink of bankruptcy, almost losing his clothing store and his home.
By the time the Depression hit, he had worked his way out of poverty, owning a small chain of clothing stores and living in comfort. But his good fortune carried with it a weight when so many around him had so little.
Like many in his generation, my grandfather believed in hard work, and disdained handouts. [...] But he could never ignore the brutal reality of times when work was simply not to be had and self-reliance reached its limits. He sought no credit for acts of conscience. He saw them as the debt we owe one another and ourselves.
