House of Ghosts

by House of Ghosts (epub)

  Clark’s geology professor, Dr. Arthur Buddington, ran out of Gyot Hall. “Johnson, you’re coming with me,” the mid-fifties professor wearing blue jeans and work boots ordered. “The report said the meteorite landed in Grovers Mills. We’re going to take a look. I have shovels and specimen bags in my car.”

  Preston stayed by the radio. An announcer broadcasting from Grovers Mills described how the Martians were firing ray guns at anyone or anything that moved. Suddenly, there was silence. CBS switched to the commandant of the New Jersey State Police who ordered Mercer and Middlesex counties placed under martial law.

  President Roosevelt came on the air, advising people to leave the cities. In the hallway, someone yelled that they better get gas masks. Preston looked through the window at supposedly intelligent people running around in circles. Something just didn’t play true.

  Clark climbed into Buddington’s 1936 Ford woody station wagon. Cars trying to leave town jammed Nassau Street. Halloween revelers were in a daze. Some were running, others sitting on the benches along the street looking as though they had resigned themselves to death. Buddington turned right onto Washington Road toward Princeton Junction. Grovers Mills was five miles east. They were going against the traffic. Any sane person was fleeing Grovers Mills, not going toward it. With their sirens screaming, police cars headed toward the landing sites.

  Professor Buddington turned toward his student, “As a Princeton man, do you believe the events we’ve heard about can possibly be accurate?”

  “Excuse me professor, as a Princeton man, I want to declare that I am scared shitless,” Clark said with fear in his voice.

  Buddington turned up the volume on the radio. CBS was reporting the New Jersey State Police had been wiped out in the vicinity of the initial landings. New York was under attack, and that attacks were happening across the country.

  They arrived in the hamlet of Grovers Mills. Cars and pedestrians headed in the direction of the town’s only park. An excited crowd, approximately one hundred fifty people, wandered looking for Martians or the meteor. Nothing. There was no evidence of an explosion or invasion. Spotlighted by the headlights of the Ford, a shapely teenage girl decked out in a white sweater and blue jeans, was talking to a policeman. As Clark and Buddington got out of the station wagon, Clark heard her say, “Jerry, this broadcast has to be a hoax. Nothing has happened here, or I bet anywhere else.”

  Clark introduced himself and suggested that they go back to the Ford and listen to the reports of the attacks. “Don’t you get it? This is Orson Welles’s idea of a Halloween joke,” the girl said, shining her flashlight into his eyes.

  The girl was Gloria St. Claire, a tomboyish senior at Mercer County Regional High School. Gloria had heard the reports and caught a ride with Jerry Reynolds, a policeman from Grovers Mills. Her father, Gordon, was police chief, and Reynolds was anxious to drive Gloria back home.

  Buddington motioned Preston to return to the car. “Do you mind if I call you?” he asked. Her smile said that it was okay.

  Buddington was behind the wheel. “According to the bulletins, we’re dead, and so is most of the East-Coast.” He stepped on the clutch, and slipped the car into gear. Inching down the lane, they watched the bewildered faces. Reynolds’s black and white cruiser slowed, allowing the majority of the crowd to walk ahead. As Buddington turned back onto Washington Road, an announcer came on the radio to remind the audience to stay tuned to the CBS radio network for the second half of the Mercury Theater following a short intermission. “I knew this was an orchestrated attempt to fool the public. I didn’t hear any explosion tonight, but I’m sure tomorrow there is going to be a real explosion when the public realizes what happened,” Buddington said.

  Clark laughed. “For a couple of guys who were so sure this broadcast was just bullshit, we ran around pretty good.”

  “Johnson, how important is it for you to pass geology? Just kidding. Anyone who didn’t hear the beginning of the show was scared senseless. The radio can be a very powerful tool. We’ve heard Roosevelt calm a nation on the verge of collapse because of the Depression. On the other hand, we’ve heard Hitler use the radio to threaten his European neighbors.”

  The traffic was thinning as they approached Princeton center. Nassau Street had returned to normal, however the Halloween mood seemed to have evaporated. Scary masks had been traded for somber looks. Buddington stopped at Witherspoon Street for a red light. Outside of the Balt, groups of three or four were in animated conversation.

  Clark was amused. “Looks like a lot of tough guys. I bet not one of them would admit they were frightened out of their minds. I would pay the Gallup Organization to conduct a poll.”

  “Why don’t you go over to Bank Street and make a proposal. They might pay you to find the effect on the student population. I think your hypothesis, as we say in geological jargon, is rock solid.”

  The light turned green. Buddington allowed the pedestrians to cross before turning into the main gate. The campus police had not completely relaxed; the yellow barricade was still across the road. The professor was easily recognized, and the blockade was slid back. “Thanks for riding out with me. Let me know what happened back at the dorm. By the way, has Ellis Price singled out anyone yet for his freshman treatment?” Buddington asked as they got out of the car.

  “Price has identified his target. Actually, he has two: my roommate and me. Let’s just say, he gives us a challenge. It’s a game of cat and mouse.”

  Chapter 13

  NEW YORK, NY NOVEMBER 1938

  JAKE WAS RESTING ON THE SOFA reading The New York Times when Paul returned from school. “How’s it going Professor?” Paul shrugged his shoulders. Jake continued, “There’s an article here that says a Polish Jew living in Germany, shot and killed a Nazi diplomat in Paris. I’m glad one of them had the guts to stand up and say he wasn’t going to take it anymore.”

  Paul set his books down and took the paper. “Do you really think that this Grynszpan is going to make a difference? The French have him locked up, and are going to try him for murder.”

  “The Jews in Germany act like ostriches,” Jake fumed. “With their heads in the sand, they keep wishing the nightmare will disappear. The Nazis keep turning the screws and they stay silent. Ever the obedient Jews.”

  Paul sat down on the divan and turned on the radio. Bill Shirer came on the air with a special report from Berlin, “Brownshirt storm troopers are attacking Jewish shops and houses of worship throughout the country. I have personally witnessed Jews being beaten and abused on the streets of the capital. Dr. Goebbels has issued a communiqué from the propaganda ministry announcing the Gestapo’s retribution against the Jews for the murder of Ernst Vom Rath in Paris: The Jews will be made to pay a fine of a billion Reichmarks atonement for Vom Rath’s death. In addition, they will be responsible for repairing all damage to their property, with owners not being able to collect on any insurance.”

  Shirer continued, “I have one unconfirmed report of twenty-thousand Jews being arrested and on their way to concentration camps. The streets are covered with broken glass, and the event is being called Kristalnacht—The Night of Broken Glass. Austria is reporting all of Vienna’s twenty-one synagogues have been burned to the ground.”

  Paul switched off the radio. “What do you have to say now? Those German bastards don’t need any reason for murdering Jews. Maybe violence only begets violence. For once, you might be wrong.”

  Jake began pacing. He was as agitated as Paul had ever witnessed. Paul knew that his brother was an idealist, not a pragmatist. He couldn’t stand injustice of any kind. Jake struggled for the words he wanted to say, something equal to the horrific news they had just absorbed. “No Paul, I’m not wrong. If it wasn’t this Vom Rath business, then they would have found another excuse to exercise a reign of terror.”

  Jake walked to the window, raising the sash for a breath of air. “What do you think about the Bund that has its headquarters up in Bushwick? They have the m
oxie to have a swastika flying on the door jam. I hear they’re having a meeting tonight. Maybe it’s time to give them a reason to reconsider.”

  “You’re not thinking of going over there and breaking up the place?” Paul asked with a hint of concern.

  “A group of us are meeting at Katz’s Deli to figure out how to respond. Why don’t you tag along, and at least you’ll get a sandwich. With Mom and Pop visiting Aunt Rose in New Jersey, dinner is up to us anyway.”

  “Okay, I’ll go, but I can’t stay late,” Paul hesitantly replied. “I’ve got studying to do for tomorrow.”

  They put on their jackets as they walked down the steps. Jake stopped to help a neighbor carry shopping bags into her apartment. Paul went out on the street and couldn’t help thinking about his Brooklyn neighborhood where one could live his entire life never needing to leave its safe boundaries. Every necessity could be found within walking distance of the Rothstein apartment, including a hospital and a funeral home.

  Jake appeared and they crossed the street, walking due east. Katz’s had been a neighborhood fixture for fifty years as the business passed from one generation to the next. Corned beef was in their veins, as evident by the number of heart attacks in the Katz family.

  Paul could taste the chicken soup and matzo balls with his nose as they walked through the door. Jake led the way to the back of the store where a makeshift table was supported by four pickle barrels. Out of twelve men, Paul only recognized Hymie Shapiro, the milkman. The Rothsteins ordered corned beef sandwiches and two egg creams.

  The assembly was much older than Jake. Paul guessed the average age of the collection of working stiffs was mid-fifties. Arguments for breaking the Nazi bastards’ heads were made. Paul listened as he consumed his dinner, keeping his thoughts to himself. The attention of the group moved to Jake. “I asked my brother Paul to come with me tonight, because it’s important for us to take the pulse of the college crowd. They’re young, strong, and intelligent—a resource that must be used in any fight we will be engaged in.

  Paul was more than taken aback. He didn’t realize his brother expected him to be a spokesman. “I’m somewhat embarrassed in having to tell you, I haven’t heard any real outrage at what is going on in Germany. The Yankees draw more discussion than the Nazis. I bet this Kristalnacht calamity will evoke nothing but small talk tomorrow.”

  Paul looked at faces that couldn’t comprehend the ambivalence of the younger generation. “If you’re looking for a ground swell of support, you’re going to be disappointed. Until American Jews are threatened, I don’t foresee any action in great numbers.”

  “I can’t understand why you young pischers don’t give a shit!” Sam Bernstein exploded.

  “It’s not that they don’t give a shit, it’s that the situation hasn’t hit home. Some of us read letters from relatives in Europe, but they’re just pieces of paper.” Paul stood. “I have to get home and crack the books.”

  Jake stared at the table thinking of his midnight talks with his mother. Quizzed by her son on what she thought about the news from Europe, Rachel said, “It’s terrible for those people. But we’re a small number among many here in America and mustn’t rock the boat. America has been gracious to let us in, and we Jews must remember that.”

  “You and Pop have worked very hard, and in your own way have made America a better place. This country was built on the backs of those speaking with an accent. But don’t think for a minute that we’re really accepted here. If the anti-Semites come to the conclusion that they could avoid a war with Hitler by kicking us out, we would be packing in a minute. Jews in America have got to change. We have to become fighters, protect ourselves, and take no crap from anybody.”

  “Jake, you get these ideas from the men you work with. They’re nothing but a bunch of gangsters. You’re becoming one of them!” she shouted.

  “Yes Ma, some of them are gangsters, some are killers, but they don’t let anyone mess around with their people. The time is coming when we’ll have to trade in our prayer shawls for guns.”

  Jake realized that he was daydreaming. “A few of my co-workers have supplied me with some equipment to help heat the Bund meeting hall. I understand they’ve been a little chilly. I think it’s best if we go over and take a look at the place. My friends advised me to make sure this auxiliary heater would be the right size for the job.”

  “Is this heater available for installation this evening?” Lou Ginsberg asked.

  Jake nodded in the affirmative. “I just have to call the supply house, and we’ll get immediate delivery.”

  They split into two groups, with Jake riding with Sam Bernstein. Moe Feinberg, a pattern maker in the Manhattan’s garment center, chauffeured the others. The Bushwick section of Brooklyn had been the location for more than a dozen breweries. All changed with Prohibition and the shift to produce soda and near-beer.

  The repeal of the Volstead Act didn’t fill the void left by the Queens migration. The old brewery area remained dilapidated, populated by the disenfranchised and impoverished. The Bund was located on Schaefer Street, a community populated mainly by Germans and Poles. It took about twenty minutes to navigate into the general area. With buses stopping on almost every corner, traffic slowed, not being helped by a light drizzle. It was a narrow street, paved with the original cobblestones. Jake took note—the stones were like ice when wet. As planned, they cruised by the target, with each member of the operation looking for specific details relating to security measures taken by the Bund. Jake wanted to know about lookouts and possible tails. He was warned that they kept members in cars to follow suspicious intruders.

  Number 345 Schaefer Street was a two story brick and frame building standing alone with a parking lot on either side. The faded lettering spelled out Krause’s Tavern, the former occupant. A large swastika was flying at the side of the door. “In a million years, I wouldn’t ever have dreamed that I see a Brownshirt standing guard duty,” Jake said.

  Bernstein slowed for a fraction of a second and then proceeded up the block, taking a right on Madison Street. He pulled to the curb behind Feinberg’s black Oldsmobile. “Pick me up at 8:30 and we’ll go get the transportation,” Jake said as he switched cars to go over plans with Moe Feinberg.

  Feinberg doubled back to Schaefer Street. Jake wanted to take another look at the target. The near empty parking lots adjacent to the building filled rapidly. “The Bund is a very popular place,” Jake said. “Tonight’s meeting has been advertised as a double celebration for the annexation of Czechoslovakia and Kristalnacht.”

  “Why don’t we just shoot these bastards? It would so much easier!” Feinberg said.

  “It would be easier, but if we do it my way, they’ll have doubts about their own safety. I want them to worry about going into a place like this. Maybe their new headquarters will meet the same fate or worse,” Jake replied as he waved to get going.

  Jake found his brother sitting at the kitchen table with a stack of books. “By the way, how’s your girlfriend?”

  Paul turned a deep crimson. “What girlfriend?”

  “Don’t bullshit me little brother. I can tell when a guy is dopey over a dame. I’m talking about Miss Sarah Greenbaum.”

  “She’s not my girlfriend yet, but I’m working on it.”

  Jake glanced down at the calculus book. “I have to go out for awhile, if I’m not back by the time you go to bed, don’t put the chain on the door. I hate climbing the fire escape.”

  “You’re afraid of heights.” Paul looked up. “Anything related to the gentlemen I met at Katz’s?”

  Jake moved to the refrigerator to grab a bottle of Coke. “From now on, unless I offer information, don’t ask. Whatever you do, don’t utter a syllable to Ma,” he said, taking a long gulp,

  Paul knew his brother well enough not to argue when he used that tone of voice. This was his business face, no screwing with him. Paul returned to his books as Jake picked up the phone. “Jake here,” he said. “I need the wheel
s, make sure the other stuff is in the back of the truck. Thanks.” He hung up.

  Jake re-dialed the phone. “Nicky, the plumber needs that heater. Anthony will have the truck in half an hour. Thanks and I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  Jake picked up his jacket and locked the door behind him. Bernstein’s dark blue Chevy was parked across the street. Sam Bernstein was a sixty-three year-old lifelong butcher. His trade kept him in a physical condition that was the envy of men forty years his junior. Jake respected him for his common sense and his muscle.

  “Boichick, you ready. Feinberg will be on Madison like before. If we don’t show in twenty minutes of the rendezvous time, the gang is going to come looking for us. Moe’s coming prepared: four shotguns and a bunch of baseball bats.”

  “I hope Moe doesn’t get jumpy and blow the whole scheme,” Jake said, having a few doubts.

  Bernstein made his way over to the industrial section of Pennsylvania Avenue, checking his rear view mirror like he had seen Bogart do in the movies. He wasn’t sure what he was looking for, but one couldn’t be too careful. His reservation for the operation was that more than two people knew what was going on. It was unavoidable. There were only twelve men in the entire movement. He hoped they could control their mouths.

  The Brooklyn Union Gas Company depot was deserted. Bernstein pulled the Chevy into an alley. The car was hidden behind two large cardboard boxes. Approaching a gas company truck, Jake removed two pairs of brown flannel gloves from his jacket, handing a pair to Bernstein. “Put them on, we wouldn’t want to leave any pastrami traces.”

  Bernstein found the keys on top of the sun visor. A friend of a friend of Jake’s provided the wheels and other required incidentals. Two sets of Brooklyn Union overalls were in the back. Jake opened the toolbox and lifted the tray, shining a flashlight onto a package marked “fittings.” His goomba had a sense of humor.

  Bernstein assumed his place behind the wheel, turned the key in the ignition, and the old Dodge truck purred to life. Just as they began to move, another gas truck pulled into the depot. Jake looked away, trying to keep his face from view. “Let’s get going. If those guys get an idea we’re not supposed to be on duty, its curtains.”