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the top of a sand dune, from which he could see part of the city, though much of it was covered with mist. The docks that stretched from “Montgomery Street’ (a cow path) to the Bay were swarming with sailors and every sort of riffraff. Tents, shanties and corrugated-iron shacks were crowded together just beyond the wharfs. The beach was strewn with boxes, bales of cotton, barrels of sugar, and sacks of flour and corn meal
    When Ephraim tried to make his way to Stockton Street to find a place to sleep, he had to remove his shoes more than once in order to pour out the sand.
    The energy of the city amazed him. Thousands of newcomers had arrived in recent months to seek their fortunes. San Francisco was a melting pot where the hardworking and the pious rubbed shoulders with prostitutes, cheap adventurers and criminals. Wherever he looked he saw hastily flung-up saloons, warehouses, hotels and stores,
     
    The brothels and gambling dens seemed to be the most flourishing businesses. For a moment he stood listening to the ringing of carpenters’ hammers to which the sound of tinny bar-room pianos seemed to provide an accompaniment. San Francisco was a city obsessed with quick wealth, with a morality that placed gold before God. But for Ephraim America’s promise of freedom and opportunity had been kept.
    The first thing he did was find a room, not much better than the garret he had left in New York. But here he could briefly savour the promise of the future. It was just a stopping-off place. He had barely enough money left to buy a grubstake, but he was willing to starve if it meant a chance to bring his family to the New World.
    Three days later he joined the ragged, hopeful army of miners that left San Francisco and made its way to the rivers and fields where the first discovery of the golden metal had been made.
    It was a time of frenzy, passion and intrigue. By day the miners panned for gold in the riverbeds and hacked away at the reluctant earth. At night they gambled, fought, and tried to cheat one another.
    It was a strange environment for a Jew from a shtetl. No one saw as he faithfully bound on his phylacteries each morning and each night. No one cared that he kept so much to himself. And then, one day, amidst shouts and jubiliation, he struck gold.
    He rushed back to San Francisco, registered the claim before it could be stolen from him, then stood in the assayer’s office and watched as the precious metal was weighed. When the scales tipped, Ephraim was the possessor of one thousand dollars.
    Sitting on the edge of his cot that night, Ephraim narrowed his eyes as he contemplated the coins in the palms of his calloused hands.
    There was money in gold, but the big claims had already been staked out. He had reached California late in the gold rush and he knew the earth would yield just so much. But perhaps the timing could be made
    to work to his advantage. Maybe success lay not in digging, but in lending. After all, many of the great French Jewish fortunes had been made in banking. Setting aside a small amount for himself, Ephraim financed two miners to a grubstake. He also had a document prepared which stipulated that, if there were any profits, he would receive half.
    Ephraim’s belief in himself was finally rewarded. The miners struck it rich and Ephraim doubled his money. The next time he financed four miners instead of two, and, within a year, Ephraim was an established banker. Small to be sure, but he had no doubts about the eventual growth of his establishment. After all, he was one of God’s blessed.
    Sitting behind his desk, dressed in a high, white, starched collar, a frock coat and fashionable curls, he looked every inch a Rothschild.
    Incongruous though he may have seemed in that primitive city of miners and pioneers, it was no less incongruous than the way he viewed himself. He enjoyed remembering the penniless boy who stood shivering on the Marseilles docks, his feet wrapped in rags. He could almost