As he’d listened to Baruch discourse on the art of moneylending, it had felt to Jacob as if someone were opening a door in front of him. This was an occupation that would use all his talents. This was the challenge he’d always been looking for. He just hadn’t known it. And with this realization came that wonderful sense of peace that comes to everyone when they find their natural metier. I could do that, he thought. That’s what I want to do.

And when Baruch had described the huge, international capacity of the Templars’ dealings, he had felt a sense not just of affinity, but of inspiration. It wasn’t only the scale that was fascinating. The efficiency of the operation, the intellectual economy, struck him forcibly. The endless possibilities of a credit system that spread all over Europe seemed to him one of the most beautiful and exciting ideas he had ever encountered. What could be better, what could be more interesting, than to take part in the workings of the universal world of money, the lifeblood of all enterprise, that knows no foolish boundaries, but can flow unimpeded from kingdom to kingdom? Though he did not quite know how to formulate the idea, he had just been given a glimpse of the wonders of finance.

“Could I come and work for you?” he suddenly asked Baruch.

“I thought you were going to be a physician,” the big man said in surprise.

“I don’t think so,” said Jacob.

“You had better talk to your father.”

Jacob promised that he would.

But somehow he couldn’t bring himself to do it. He meant to. He was certain what he wanted. But telling his father that he was going to turn his back on his birthright and wanted to work with a man his father didn’t like … It wasn’t so easy.

The next week he met Baruch in the street.

“Did you tell your father?” Baruch asked.

“I’m going to.”

“You can change your mind, you know.”

“No. I want to work for you.”

“I can talk to him if you want.”

“I’ll do it.”

“Don’t leave it to your bar mitzvah.”

But still he’d put it off. Each time his father smiled at him approvingly, or his mother said, “We’re all very proud of you,” it grew harder to broach the subject. How could he disappoint them all? And as the days went by he began to think that maybe it would be better to get through the business of the bar mitzvah and talk to his father about it afterward.

And so he’d let it drift, and drift … until the day.

He’d read well in the synagogue. They were all very pleased with him. That evening there were about twenty people in their house. His parents, their closest friends, the rabbi and Baruch had also been invited.