House of Ghosts (9 page)

At a birthday party for Nicky’s sister, Jake made the acquaintance of Tommy “The Corkscrew” Bavosa. “Are you sure you are really a Jew,” the waterfront boss asked. “You’re the biggest god damn Jew I’ve ever seen.”

Corkscrew was an under boss for Lucky Luciano, “Boss of Bosses.” Nothing moved on the docks without the permission of Luciano. Tommy became a made man for not making lighthearted decisions. He said to his cohorts, “Some day, this giant Jew is going to come in handy.”

Jake began his maritime career as a messenger and generalized gofer. The kid impressed the crew chief with self-confidence and self-sufficiency. He had one other quality that drew attention—honesty, a rarity in that milieu of deceit and corruption. Jake was quickly elevated to rank of stevedore. At times he questioned if he had made the correct decision to quit school. The doubts vanished when he returned home to witness his father sitting in his faded brown chair beside the radio. By 1938, Abe had become a shell of himself.

If it were not for Jake, the family possessions would have been out on the street. Each week, Jake turned over his paycheck to his mother. Rachel had no idea
that more money was made by side-work consisting of theft and extortion. Abe was proud of his son and thankful that tranquility had returned to the Rothstein house.

Paul finished his senior year of high school with grades placing him at the top of the class, but scholarship money was impossible to find. Never thinking he wouldn’t be in the position of being able to provide an education for his child, Abe placed his pride in his pocket and approached Jake. “I have to ask you something a father shouldn’t have to ask a son. I need your help to send Paul to college. If you have plans that would be interfered with by this, say so, and this conversation goes no further. Paul has no idea I’m discussing this with you.”

Jake didn’t hesitate. “Don’t say another word. He’ll be the first Rothstein to graduate from high school and go to college. I’ll pay for it, but I want Paulie to believe you and Mama are paying.”

Abe looked up at his son with adulation. The young man standing before him was far wiser than his twenty-two years. Yet, he had a sense that Jake was concealing another reason for the clandestine proposal. “You come home and give your mother your paycheck and still have money to play around. Now, you tell me that you’ll pay the entire bill for Paulie. I smell something fishy.”

Abe didn’t like the company Jake kept; many were right out of a Damon Runyon story, looking and sounding like gangsters. Jake looked sheepishly at his father. “Look Pop, you know the guys I work with aren’t choirboys. A lot of things go on you don’t want to know. Paul doesn’t need to be troubled by my business.”

Tiptoeing past his parent’s room, Paul entered the kitchen as Jake finished preparing breakfast. Paul was never surprised by anything his brother did. In his mind, Jake was unquestionably a Renaissance man. Yes, he was limited in his book knowledge, but when it came to interacting with people, Jake was the best. “I was going to grab a doughnut.”

“Doughnuts are for cops.” Jake placed a plate with eggs and toast on the table. “You need some brain food. Eat up and get your
tuchas
moving, or you’re going to be late on the first day.”

Paul finished his breakfast, picked up his notebook, and made his way to 21st and Flatbush Avenue where he spotted Dave Cohen reading a newspaper outside Schwartz’s Cigar Store. The two could have passed for brothers, had fought over wooden blocks in kindergarten, and were inseparable through high school. Both families celebrated their admissions to New York University at a dinner held in the
social hall of the local synagogue. They would commute together to Manhattan by subway.

“Have you seen this?” Dave asked, showing Paul the front page of
The Daily News.
The headline read: GERMANS ANNEX CZECHOSLOVAKIA.

“That bastard Chamberlain sold the Czechs down the river,” Paul said. “They’re letting Hitler have his way. Only Churchill has the guts to speak out.”

It was just a short walk to the subway, and they were already sweating. “What is it going to be like at noon? I’m dying now,” Dave said.

Paul didn’t answer, still thinking about the headline in the paper. His mother had received a letter from her Czech cousin begging to find a way to America. Rachel contacted every agency she could but to no avail. The immigration quotas were filled. She was told that “those people” would have to wait their turn. Abe wrote to his sister Miriam imploring the family to leave while they still could. Miriam replied that their home was in Hungary and things were still alright. The Jews were careful not to provoke the mainstream Hungarians who never needed an excuse to start a pogrom. Abe told her that one-day she would be sorry.

Paul and Dave walked down the steps into the bowels of the subway. The Brighton Beach Line was their conveyance to a new world. Conversation was impossible. Deafening noise entered open windows as the train shuddered to the Prospect Park station where an express train took them to Manhattan. Paul hated the pushing and shoving, and in the hot weather, the smell.

It was already 7:20. “The paper said to report to Main Building by eight. How much longer?” Paul asked.

“Twenty minutes at most. We’ve got it made in the shade.” Dave wrapped his arm around a metal support pole as the train lurched to a start. “My cousin Herbie joined an organization to fight these anti-Semitic shits that are coming out of the woodwork in this country. Even here in the city they exist. The radio guy Father Coughlin is going to hold a meeting at Madison Square Garden. Can you believe they would let a hatemonger rent the place?”

“For money, they would let Attila the Hun rent the place. Do you realize that on an average night 12,000 hot dogs are eaten and washed down with 1,000 gallons of beer and soda. That’s a lot of change,” Paul said.

The train reached its destination at West Fourth Street, Washington Square. The college career of Paul Rothstein was about to begin.

PRESTON ROSE EARLY. The cool breeze streaming through the window was a harbinger of rain. With the Mid-Atlantic States in draught condition for six weeks, a slow steady rain was the unanimous wish of the area’s population. He shaved, showered, and wrapped himself into a terry robe, then went downstairs to retrieve his copy of the newspaper.

Even at 5:30, he risked the wrath of Ellis Price. The man was resolute in enforcing the rules of the house. Price had admonished Preston not to venture into the vestibule in his robe. Preston, protesting that he was the only human awake in the building, drew a target on his back. Luck was on his side; Price was not lurking about.

Preston walked across the vestibule to the multi-locked front door. There was a time not long before Preston arrived that security was not a priority. The habit of the unlocked door, once a common practice in the rural Princeton area, had changed overnight. News of the Lindbergh baby kidnapping had spread fear throughout the community.

Preston turned the two deadbolt locks, then slid the security chain from its track. The sky was normally bright by that time, but rapidly traveling storm clouds let only faint rays into the portico. He lifted the bundle by the heavy twine wrapping, carrying it to the sidebar next to the reception desk. The headlines paralleled the weather. For weeks on end, the news from Washington focused on the confrontations between Democrats and Republicans. The Roosevelt administration had managed to pass the first minimum wage legislation. Republicans screamed it was pure socialism.

Economic squabbles were no match for the reports from Europe. The Spanish Civil War provided graphic portraits of fascist tactics where Generalissimo Francisco Franco provided the Nazis with a testing ground for their new air weapons. Photos of German Stuka dive-bombing destruction of the Spanish city
Guernica stared back at him. American apologists for Nazi Germany had difficulty explaining the brutality-taking place in Spain. There was talk on campus about a contingent of Princetonians joining the Abraham Lincoln Brigade that the conservative right labeled a communist band.

Preston flipped through the paper until he found the sports section. The Yankees defeated the Detroit Tigers the day before 4-1. Another pennant was virtually locked up, adding ammunition for his daily verbal squabble with Clark Johnson. Up to that point, his roommate appeared to have most of the answers on any given subject. Clark could harangue an opponent into submission by invoking an endless supply of minutiae. However, baseball was the one topic that the great debater could not win; the standings were the standings. Two plus two equals four and the Yankees had defeated Detroit and were in first place.

Preston couldn’t contain himself. Not wanting to press his luck, he quickly made his way up the staircase. The rules of the house dictated no cooking of any kind in their rooms. Clark didn’t consider brewing coffee the same. When Preston unlatched the door, the aroma was present. Clark was in the process of retrieving two mugs from behind the couch where they were hidden with the electric pot. Preston liked a good cup as much as Clark, but coffee wasn’t worth the risk of being evicted from the dorm. “You’re going to get us into water hotter than this coffee one day,” he said.

Preston saw an aspect of his roommate’s character countering the one Clark projected. Appearing to be a conservative conformist, his daily coffee subterfuge was a way of fighting authority. “May I please have the paper, Mr. Swedge?”

Preston watched Clark’s eyes move to the dead babies pictured on the front page. His expression didn’t change, but Preston could sense his revulsion to the senseless slaughter. “Franco and Hitler make a terrific couple, don’t you think?” Preston needled.

Clark didn’t answer. Preston knew his roommate would continue the discussion about the headlines later in the day. As Preston refreshed his mug, he kept his focus on Clark, waiting for him to flip to the sports page. He wasn’t disappointed as the Yankee score hit Clark between the eyes. “Looks like your boys are going to do it this year. It’s too bad the Tigers are banged up, or maybe they would’ve given them a run,” Clark said dejectedly.

For Preston, it was a monumental breakthrough. To admit defeat to a city he considered amoral and a haven for immigrants, was unheard of. Preston couldn’t resist the urge to pour salt on an obvious wound. “When was the last time you visited New York?”

“Last year. My family stayed for a few days before we sailed to Europe. My
father and I went to Yankee Stadium for a game with Detroit,” Clark said, never moving the paper from his face.

“You have to admit that the stadium is a beautiful park,” Preston said.

“Such a pity that it’s located in the wrong city.”

Preston allowed the remark to pass. “How long were you in England?”

“We never went to England.” Clark tossed the paper onto the coffee table. “We sailed directly to Germany. Ford is helping the Germans produce a new car named the Volkswagen.”

“The people’s car,” Preston translated from German learned in high school. “I can’t believe that an American company is working for a dictatorship.”

Clark freshened his cup. “You should see what the Germans have accomplished.”

“Come on!” Preston said, raising his voice. “How can you justify what they’ve done to the Jews and others who’ve lost their citizenship?”

Clark calmly lit a cigarette. “The minorities in Germany have brought on their own troubles when they exploited the country’s problems for their own personal gain.”

“That crap is straight from Father Coughlin.” Preston banged the mug on the coffee table. “The Nazis’ power is based on hatred.”

“When was the last time you traveled to Mississippi?” Clark asked, blowing a smoke ring. “People live in squalor and don’t have the right to vote. In Germany, you don’t see slums, bums, or disorder. We would like the same in this country, but we don’t have the guts to implement change.” Clark dropped the cigarette into the mug.

Preston took a deep breath. “I’d rather have slums than have a bunch of automatons like you see in the newsreels.”

Clark didn’t reply. He picked up the coffee mugs and emptied the percolator’s grinds into a paper bag. He’d wash the mugs and the coffeemaker when the bathroom was unoccupied. They finished dressing and prepared to head over to the dining hall for breakfast.

There was a knock on the door. Clark checked to see if he left any incriminating evidence. “Who goes?” Clark asked.

“Newman, open up.”

Clark opened the door. “Nice to see that you’ve managed to get on the same schedule as the rest of us.”

For the first three weeks, Brent Newman had been consistently out of step, claiming he was unaccustomed to Northern time. “It’s really too bad that comedy isn’t a major at this institution, Johnson.” Newman adjusted the knot of his
tie. “If it was, you’d skip the first three years and proceed to senior status.”

Clark and Brent had become close friends. Preston assumed they were drawn together by their mutual dislike for New York. Clark retrieved the paper bag, placing it in the right pocket of his sport jacket. He held the door open, allowing Preston and Newman to exit. As he locked the door, Clark secretly placed a toothpick between the door and jam to alert him if someone had entered the room. As a rule, he was back from class before Preston. If delayed, he was sure that Preston wouldn’t notice if the toothpick fell to the floor.