House of Ghosts (8 page)

“Sounds better than the Philco I left home,” Clark said with a broad grin. “I’ll need to use it later to listen to Father Coughlin’s show.”

Preston recoiled at the mention of Coughlin’s name. “How can you listen to the guy?”

Clark flicked cigarette ash into the palm of his hand. “Me and three and a half million others agree with him that Roosevelt and the Jews are working behind the scenes to involve the United States in the next war in Europe and help the Russian communists destroy Christianity.” Red-faced, he pointed the cigarette at Preston. “Father Coughlin is a personal friend of my family. I’ve spent many Sundays at his church in Royal Oak.” Clark huffed out of the room.

Preston spent the remainder of the afternoon unpacking and closeting his clothes, making up his bed, and arranging his desk where he sat reviewing the paraphernalia he received from Coordinator Stan Phillips. According to the schedule, the next two days were one extensive orientation planned around textbook distribution and Dean Reynolds’ address.

Johnson walked into Preston’s room buttoning the cuffs of a highly starched white shirt. “It’s 5:45,” he announced, mimicking Ellis Price. “You must be presentable for dinner. You’ve got fifteen minutes.”

Preston left his desk and selected a seersucker lightweight sport coat and contrasting tie from the closet. “One hundred degrees and we have to wear a jacket and tie,” he muttered.

Johnson laughed, continuing his Price impersonation, “We are gentlemen, my good man. Not some riff raff.”

With Albert Hall accommodating fifty men, the hallway bristled with activity. After the debacle with the steamer trunk, Clark and Preston didn’t need to make any introductions as they navigated downstairs. Every dorm had its clowns—Clark Johnson and Preston Swedge were Albert Hall’s.

Ellis Price was at his post in the lobby inspecting his new charges. To his relief, the house passed muster. He bade them a good dinner as the contingent proceeded down the sidewalk. Preston tagged along as Clark gravitated to the head of the column.

The general commissary was a half-mile walk. On any other day, the excursion would have been pleasant, as the sidewalk meandered through a garden of wildflowers and manicured lawn. However, the temperature still remained in the ninety-degree range. By the time the troop arrived at the Roberts Building, the majority of the men had removed their sport coats and ties. White painted wrought iron railings led to a veranda wrapping around three sides of the building.

Clark paused at the wide-open double French doors. “We should try to set up our own table,” he whispered to Preston.

Roberts was unlike any dining hall that Preston had been to. The main room
was paneled in deep mahogany with tables and chairs to match. The marble floor reflected light cast by a series of crystal chandeliers ten feet in diameter. Seating capacity was three hundred, allowing accommodation of the six freshman residence halls simultaneously. In order to provide for a true cross section of the student population, there were no assigned seats.

The china dinnerware, embossed with the Princeton crest, was set upon a crisply starched linen tablecloth. Clark settled into his chair, placing a napkin on his lap. Looking around the table reminded him of the admonishment his father delivered to him on the station platform: “Watch out for Jews, Negroes, and communists. You have to be courteous, but that is as far as you should go. It’s us against them. Stick with your own kind, and things will be just fine.” The elder Johnson wouldn’t have been happy with the dark skins, hooked noses, and names that ended in vowels that populated the other six chairs. Clark kept the conversation superficial as the main course was eaten.

Clark, without explanation, left the table at the conclusion of the meal. Preston found him on the veranda sitting in a wicker chair with his feet on the railing not looking happy. He had removed his tie and jacket. A cigarette was clamped between his teeth.

Preston towered over his roommate. “Michigan must have different manners. What’s your beef?”

Clark swatted at a mosquito on his arm. “This situation requires attention. If you want to be invited to an eating club, you better associate with the correct people,” he said, squinting into the setting sun. Eating clubs, where upperclassmen enjoyed their meals, were restricted to movers and shakers. “Yesterday I met a gal who has access to the roster for the dining hall. I’m going to look her up tomorrow to find out who we should sit with.”

Preston didn’t reply. He had heard the same tune from his father.

THE ALARM CLOCK RANG. Paul Rothstein turned over and squinted at the culprit. 6:00 a.m. Swinging his feet to the floor, he felt the breeze of the circular fan humming between the twin beds in the bedroom he shared with his brother Jake. He tried to walk silently to the only window in the room, but the tired oak floor creaked in response to each step. Jake began to stir. Paul pulled back the sheer curtains and leaned through the window. Flatbush Avenue already was streaming with traffic. As he turned around, Jake was propped on his elbow. “Kid, you ready for today? Remember, if you need anything, ask.”

Paul looked at his older brother by four years. “I guess,” Paul said with trepidation. “I wish you didn’t have to bust your ass so I could go to school. If I went to work, I could help put food on the table.”

“Go take a shower,” Jake answered, thinking of his roots. “I’ll put up some coffee.”

Abraham and Rachel Rothstein, childhood sweethearts in the small Hungarian town of Munkacs, married and landed in New York in 1914 weeks before the outbreak of the Great War. Abe, who learned the tailoring trade under the tutelage of his father, quickly became the floor manager of a small men’s pants factory. His lack of English posed little problem since the predominent language spoken at the sewing tables was Yiddish. Rachel found employment as a cook in a restaurant. Combining their two meager wages, the Rothsteins were able to rent a cold-water flat in Red Hook, Brooklyn.

The apartment consisted of two rooms, one a bedroom, the other a combination kitchen and living room. Within months, Rachel became pregnant with her first child. An 8 pound 15 ounce boy was delivered during a snowstorm in the winter of 1916, named Jacob after Rachel’s father. The loss of Rachel’s salary was devastating, causing Abe to take a second job to meet the rent and assorted
sundry items needed for an infant. Life settled into a predictable pattern, Abe leaving for the garment center in Manhattan by 5:30 in the morning, returning usually by 9:30 at night, leaving Rachel alone to take care of the baby.

Abe and Rachel believed that to be real Americans, they needed to be able to read and write English. Attending adult school was impossible, but Abe was determined to acquire these skills. Rachel suggested they buy an Hungarian-English dictionary and together they would learn to read the newspaper. If anything, this nightly translation and reading session provided the couple with a chance to spend a few minutes together.

After years of enduring his grueling routine, Abe longed for a change. The 1920s opened the door to prosperity as the world of Wall Street demanded fashion in men’s haberdashery. He left his factory job to work in an upscale shop where “Kings of the Street” were outfitted. Abe’s income tripled overnight. The time arrived for the Rothstein family to move to a better, safer area. And move they did to Flatbush.

The apartment was located on the top floor of the three-story walk up. The pride of the apartment was its bathroom, providing convenience and privacy. Abe and Rachel couldn’t believe their good fortune; they had come to America with nothing, and then lived in what they considered luxury. With business booming, Abe thought about purchasing a home.

As Jake turned three, Rachel announced she was pregnant. This pregnancy was unlike the first. Into her second trimester, Rachel became ill. Her doctor ordered bed rest for weeks at a time. Paul Rothstein was born on July 18, 1920, six weeks premature. The infant weighed barely 4 pounds, raising fears for his survival. Paul proved to be a fighter, slowly gaining weight and strength. Medical problems continued for Rachel, leaving her lethargic and depressed. Due to his mother’s inability to spend time with his brother, Jake became Paul’s constant companion. Neighbors praised Jake to his father, not believing he was only four. Abe came to depend on his older son, who never complained or asked for the toys of childhood. Abe called him “my right arm.”

With Rachel’s problems, Abe decided to forgo moving from the neighborhood. They had become active participants in the synagogue where the women of the congregation were eager to help Rachel when she was unable to take care of the boys.

Jake at thirteen, was already six feet and nearly 180 pounds, exceeding his father by more than six inches. He was an anomaly in a family of short people. The year was 1929 and the Flatbush Avenue businesses were prospering like the rest of America. Abe was kept busy at the shop six days a week, leading his boss to offer
him a partnership. The world couldn’t have looked better. The Rothsteins’ only cause for concern was Jake’s academic performance. It became obvious that their older child wasn’t able to read and comprehend the basic subjects. His teachers were at a loss in trying to explain his problems while he became less and less interested in school. Paul was the opposite of his brother having progressed steadily in his studies, winning glowing reports from his teachers, whether in public school or the Hebrew academy.

For many, life in the Borough of Brooklyn was as thrilling as a ride on the great roller coaster at Coney Island. Then the brakes were applied. The economy screeched to a halt, throwing businesses large and small into disarray. The date was October 29, 1929. Word filtered out to the street that a great sell-off was under way. Abe walked out of the shop and sensed the panic in the crowd gathering outside the Stock Exchange. The normal lunch hour trade was non-existent; orders were not picked up or paid for. As the trading day came to a close, dazed brokers walked past the shop. Abe looked at faces that said so much without a word. He had seen fear like that when he was a young boy as survivors of a pogrom in a nearby village sought refuge in his town. “How could such a thing happen?” they yelled. Now, the scions of the financial world were crying the same.

Each day was greeted with great anticipation, but hope turned to despair. Abe was frightened, but tried to be optimistic before his family. Slogans emanating from Hoover’s Washington didn’t put customers in the shop or food in their stomachs. Business was dead, pure and simple. Months turned to years, and by 1932, unemployment had reached 12,000,000. The situation in the Rothstein household was a bubbling cauldron. Abe the haberdasher was once again, Abe the tailor. The supply of gabardine suits vastly outstripped the demand. Instead of fitting three-piece suits, Abe darned holes and worn out knees. A man who was passionate about the rewards of hard work, who had returned home each night with a bounce in his step and a smile on his lips, had turned morose and crestfallen.

It was time for Rachel to support her husband, as he had when she held little hope for the future. Before her eyes, her Abraham aged rapidly; ebony hair had become mixed with silver. The boys, remembering when they couldn’t keep up with their father’s pace on the avenue, faked browsing the windows to let him keep step.

Rachel was resourceful and creative in running her kitchen. She had learned from her mother how to stretch what would feed one person to feed four. When her magic fell short, she was the one who ate less. Rachel joked that for the first time in her life, she had successfully followed a diet. A loss of twenty-five pounds put her back to the weight the day she married.

At dinner on New Year’s Day 1933, Jake announced that he had made a decision: he was leaving high school. Abe and Rachel sat in silence. “Jake, you only have one more year to graduate. Your mother and I know how difficult it has been for you, and we are both very proud how you have tried your best. You may lose a job, or possessions, but one thing you can’t lose, is an education,” Abe said.

“School and me don’t mix. I want to get a job and help out around here,” Jake said.

“Where are you going to get a job?” Rachel asked. “You’re sixteen. Grown men can’t find work. You’re not going to go ride the trains like the bums you see in the papers are you?”

Not surprised, Paul stared at his older brother. He tried to persuade Jake to stick it out with numerous discussions in the confines of their room. Jake countered each argument with the fact that their father was falling apart before their eyes and could no longer support the family both emotionally and financially. Jake couldn’t divine any other option.

“No, Mama. I’m not going to ride the rails,” Jake said softly. “I’ve been offered a job down on the docks by Nicky Spagnola’s uncle.”

Jake, by the age of sixteen, was six-four and had dramatically put on muscle. He was fast friends with Nicky Spagnola, nephew of a waterfront boss. Neither Jake nor Nicky was destined for scholastic notoriety, preferring to perfect their skills at billiards. Hooky became paramount in their lives. The question for them was how to stay one step ahead of the attendance officer.