In time they grew to be a gigantic firm. Then disaster struck as dictatorial regimes came to power and seized everyone’s assets. The Mitsuis were finished. The dictatorial regimes soon fell and the new rulers put the assets back up for sale. There were no buyers, though, as everyone’s assets had been seized and no one had money. Then one old Mitsui remembered about the bar and the floor. He dug down, recovered the coins, and reacquired the company. The giant Mitsui Zaibatsu, larger and more powerful than any Western company, was reborn—mainly from the bartenders’ savings.

I didn’t own a bar or have a dirt floor, but I’d spent twenty years distributing brochures, publishing trade journals, and doing small real estate transactions. It wasn’t glamorous—no more than running a bar—but it was profitable. And the 25 percent of my annual income I’d squirreled away over the years was now a considerable sum. This money, however, I didn’t want to touch. It was for a rainy day so my family would be okay if everything went wrong. It was not in stocks or speculative investments for my savings. Not even bank CDs. (Grandma said you never know when one of those banks will go under.) No 100 percent U.S. Treasuries for me. This was family money, not to be risked. If I was willing to use it for IDT, I’d never have had to take in early-stage investors.

Now, however, there was no choice. A decision had to be made. The money was family money, but IDT was my family’s company. It was against all my principles to go for broke, but these were not ordinary times.

I mentioned that at this time we’d just had twins. Twins meant that our already tight house could no longer contain us without putting three kids in a bedroom. We had one kid living in the dingy basement, and we could barely fit around the dining room table, which doubles as homework command central during the year. We’d already begun looking for something larger and more expensive. But I was worried. The house we already lived in was all paid up. A new one would cost much more, and if the old one didn’t sell, it would cost that much more again.

On paper I was still worth millions. I had savings, a profitable publishing business, real estate holdings, and ran a public company. But who knew once I had to start putting money into IDT how much it might take? Maybe the house money could be the difference for the company. Or maybe I’d be living in a big house, but my company would be broke and the house would just be a reminder of better days. My wife kept making excursions with the real estate brokers, but I told her I was having second thoughts.

At about this time I went to a wedding with Geoff Rochwarger, a friend, though a dozen years younger than me, and the head of our telecom division. Geoff is a really solid guy—hardworking, good morals, smart, trustworthy—the kind of guy I’d like to be when I grow up, or that I’d like my son to turn out like. I told him about my house worries—three kids in a bedroom, a house like a sardine can.

“Well,” he said, “we grew up with four boys in a room.”

“And how did you like it?”

“It was great,” he said. “We’re all still really close.”