“I’d love to come over, but tonight my mother asked me to take her to a friend’s house across Brooklyn and not in a great neighborhood. I’ll see you tomorrow night.”
Sarah understood what Paul was dealing with. “If it’s not my parents asking me to do something for them, then it is Minnah.” She leaned over and gave Paul a kiss. “I’ll be looking forward to tomorrow.”
With the end of class that Friday, a weekend respite began before exams. Paul was to meet Dave at 4:00 beside the subway entrance at West 4th Street. Dave was running late as usual, giving Paul the time to go over to the news kiosk and pick up the afternoon edition of the Tribune. The German army boasted their offensive was proceeding precisely as planned, but at a pace beyond the Werhmacht’s expectations. In Holland, airborne divisions seized intact bridges allowing tanks to cross flooded areas without difficulty.
The Associated Press reported massive bombing in Rotterdam. Within hours, explosions and fires decimated the center of the city. The Dutch, while putting up a spirited defense, were in retreat. Because of the consolidation of Dutch forces, the Belgian left flank was exposed, causing the Belgians to pull back. The Germans were in the process of crossing the Albert Canal. The Belgians highly touted fort, Eben Emael, said to be impregnable, fell to German airborne units.
Dave finally appeared. “Did you get a hold of Jake?”
Paul handed him the Tribune. “We’re meeting at Katz’s at six?”
The security breach with Abramowitz was a problem requiring immediate attention. They rode the subway without exchanging a word. When Paul arrived home, he found his father sitting in the living room listening to the CBS recap of the Nazi onslaught. Abe was still in his pajamas. “Sitting day after day before the radio isn’t going to change anything.”
Abe looked at Paul. “I have family over there and am powerless to help them. This news is just a confirmation of their deaths.”
Before Paul could answer, Jake rushed into the apartment and slammed the door, drawing his mother out of her bedroom. “Paulie, I got two tickets to the Dodger game tonight. Get your stuff together.”
It was a novelty to go to a night game. High intensity lights had just been installed in Ebbet’s Field. Paul feigned surprise at Jake’s excuse for missing their mother’s traditional Friday dinner. “I’ve got a lot of studying to do.”
“Kid, I busted my butt to get these.” Jake waved the tickets in the air. “We have to get going, the game starts at 7:00.”
“Baseball and the Dodgers,” Rachel said, “Have fun.”
They kissed their mother good-bye and left the apartment. “I’ve seen this guy Abramowitz a few times,” Jake said. “I always thought the guy was a schmuck, but maybe I’ve shortchanged him. When we get to Katz’s, I want you to tell the committee all about him.”
The committee was waiting in rear room. Jake broke protocol and announced they would examine various issues as the meal was served. By his look, those in attendance knew things were more serious than the news of the day. After a few remarks, Jake asked Paul to tell the members of the board the facts of the Abramowitz situation.
Paul went through the entire episode of the morning lecture. The three older members were not happy. “How much pull does this America First really have?” Lou Ginsberg asked.
“Its growing by leaps and bounds. Princeton University where Swedge’s son is a sophomore, America First is becoming influential. Multiply that by the number of colleges across the country and they have a boatload of activists for the isolationist cause,” Dave said.
“This Sheldon Abramowitz, he’s from Brooklyn?” Ginsberg asked in a subdued tone. “I’ve never heard of him.”
“He lives over on Fourth Avenue. Dave and I are only familiar with him from seeing him at school,” Paul said between bites of his sandwich.
“I know Abramowitz’s father Harry. He has a plumbing supply on Twenty-fifth. I’ve seen the kid in there, seems like a pretty smart young man, always polite and knows the business,” Bernie Hershkowitz said.
“We have to recognize that we have a potential nightmare on our hands,” Jake said, gesturing with a half-eaten pickle. “If Abramowitz knows of our activities, then others will. I suggest we invite him for a cup of coffee.”
Paul pushed his plate away. “I don’t think he’ll voluntarily come.”
“He’s an egomaniac. He’ll come,” Jake said.
Harold Katz carried in seven cups of scalding tea. At eighty, while not an official member of the committee, he could sit and give advice. He placed the cups in front of each member, and then took an empty seat. There was definitely something on his mind, as he usually left them alone. “I don’t mean to butt in, but there’s a question I would like to ask.” He deferred to Jake who nodded his approval. “Lindbergh.”
Lou Ginsberg put down his spoon after stirring sugar in his tea. “Again with that nonsense! I thought we straightened that out. How many…”
Jake interrupted. Ginsberg didn’t have any patience with Katz, calling him a dottering old fool behind his back. “Go ahead, Harold.”
Katz stared at Ginsberg then continued, “The bastard travels around the country giving speeches on why the United States shouldn’t get involved in Europe. He’s on the radio as often as that hatemonger priest from Detroit.”
Ginsberg pounded the table. “Tell us how we should kill Lindbergh. Why don’t we do away with the priest too?”
Moe Feinberg couldn’t contain his disbelief. “Harold, are you nuts or just senile? You’re talking about murdering Charles Lindbergh. Maybe the pickle juice has had an affect on your brain.”
Katz stood. “Okay, I’m nuts and senile. Mark my words, Lindbergh is big trouble.” He went round the table clearing the dishes and left the room.
Jake looked at Moe. “He is not crazy or senile. I’ve been reading the same stories, and I understand Lindbergh is going to step up his number of radio broadcasts. With his popularity, he could force Congress to fight Roosevelt’s attempt to aid the British and push the country further into isolationism. I think we have to have a contingency plan to deal with him.”
Jake led the way from the back room and walked behind the refrigerated display case where Harold was trimming a large piece of corned beef. He waited for Ginsberg and Feinberg to pass. “I value your opinion,” he said, shaking the old man’s hand. “Don’t mind those two.”
Paul and Dave were in the backseat of Ginsberg’s new blue Oldsmobile. Jake slid into the front seat and received a cold stare from Ginsberg who tightly gripped the wheel. “I shouldn’t have lost my temper,” Ginsberg said in a left-handed apology.
“Harold’s entitled to his opinion,” Jake said. “Let’s go.”
Ginsberg navigated to the other side of the borough and pulled into a parking space opposite the Abramowitz house. Paul didn’t have any friends that lived in their own homes. The neighborhood was upper middle class and grass grew instead of concrete in the front yards. Paul and Dave exited the Olds as Jake said through the window, “Dave, stay on the sidewalk in case he tries to make a run for it.”
Paul crossed the street, five strides ahead of Dave and climbed the steps to the front door. Poking its muzzle through the curtains on the old wood door, a collie began growling. Within seconds, Sheldon was looking at Paul. “To what do I owe this pleasure?
Paul prepared to race back to the car if Abramowitz let the mouthful of teeth loose. Abramowitz opened the door grinning ear to ear. “I didn’t think you ventured outside of Flatbush.”
Paul didn’t take the bait. “My brother wants to know if you would like to go for a cup of coffee?”
Abramowitz stepped onto the landing and closed the door. “Let’s go see the master of the universe.”
The trio made their way across the street. Dave opened the left rear door and pointed to the middle of the seat. Lou started the big V-8 and pulled away. He drove no more than twenty-five miles an hour, aimlessly taking lefts and rights. Sheldon tried to appear relax
ed, but his apprehension grew. Jake wasn’t in a hurry to break the ice, allowing Lou to tour the area.
“My brother told me about your speech today,” Jake said, without turning around. “Notoriety is not what produces results.”
Sheldon started to speak, but Jake cut him off. “You have a great deal of information on many subjects. What bothers me is your reference about me. To the best of my recollection, we’ve never met. Without bullshit, I want to hear how you know about the Faction.”
Sheldon waited to be sure that Jake was finished, not wanting to make a bad situation worse. They were on the way to Long Island. Arriving at an industrial section of Garden City, Ginsberg pulled into the parking lot of Dependable Trucking and killed the engine. Jake turned to Abramowitz cupping his right hand to his ear, indicating that he couldn’t hear him.
Sheldon cleared his throat that had gone dry. “Jake, I want to become a part of what you’re doing. We may not use the same tactics, but our aims are the same.”
Paul could sense that his brother was losing patience. He touched Sheldon’s elbow trying to move him off his soapbox. “Sheldon,” Jake said in a measured way, “I don’t want to hear what we agree on. I have to tell you, I’ve beat hell out of tougher and smarter guys than you. I’d hate for you to have your graduation party in the hospital.”
The N.Y.U. wrestling champ stammered, “When…you took over the camp in the Catskills, Bernie Hershkowitz bought plumbing supplies in a store owned by my uncle Nathan. At a family circle meeting, my uncle mentioned that a group of guys from Brooklyn were refurbishing the Hyman place, and did I know about it. Your men leave a mess up there. It’s amazing what you can gleam from somebody’s trash. When you talk to the locals, too many things are said. The words by themselves don’t make sense, but when you put them together in the correct order, you have a story.”
Jake nodded to Lou who started the engine. The Oldsmobile was back on the main road doing the speed limit. There was no need to take a leisurely ride. Jake had heard more than he wanted. “Sheldon, you’re welcome to join with conditions. The first—you quit being a lone wolf and stop antagonizing people. Second, if you have some information, bring it to David and he’ll pass it on. We all want action, but it has to be sensible for it to have a chance of success.” He turned to Ginsberg, “I could use a cup of coffee, find a diner.”
Chapter 18
PRINCETON, NJ & NEW YORK, NY OCTOBER 1941
PRESTON FELT PARALYZED WITH a bout of junior year jitters. Second thoughts of economics as a major and carrying a heavy course load to amass the required credits to graduate on time resulted in sleepless nights and incessant stomach trouble.
Clark’s insisting that they take advantage of their upper classmen status and move into the “influential” apartments in Pyne Hall had become a sore point in their relationship. Located on the far side of the campus, Preston found the three-mile roundtrip from the center of the campus grueling. For him, the slightly larger quarters outfitted with the same furniture as the other dorms and the “influential” residents weren’t worth the exertion.
He returned to their rooms to find Clark reclining on their second-hand sofa with a tumbler of bourbon and water resting on his chest. Clark’s blue sport jacket was draped over the back of the sofa. His suitcase stood on the coffee table next to a bottle of Wild Turkey and a Pennsylvania Railroad schedule.
“I must be walking five miles a day,” Preston said, dropping his books on the credenza near the door.
Clark took a sip of his drink. “Maybe you should go back to the freshman dorm and live under the thumb of Ellis Price. Albert Hall is central to everything a mama’s boy could desire.”
“Fuck you,” Preston said. He spotted the bourbon bottle and shook his head. “That bottle was full two days ago.”
“Mostly water,” Clark said, holding up his glass. “Been waiting since noon for you to drag your ass back. It’s damn near four o’clock.”
Motioning to Clark’s suitcase Preston asked, “Going home for a meeting with Father Coughlin? He must be proud.”
“I’m sure he is.” Clark beamed with pride, having organized an America First rally on campus two days prior that packed Alexander Hall with a crowd of one thousand to hear Senator Gerald Nye from South Dakota oppose American intervention in the European conflict. “Pack a bag, you’re coming with me.” Fishing a telegram from his sport jacket, he held it out at arms length.
Preston snatched the Western Union message and walked to the bank of windows. “A love note from his Excellency Douglas Stuart Jr.,” he said with contempt. Stuart, founder and head of the isolationist movement America First, had graduated Princeton in 1937. The son of the chairman of Quaker Oats had developed a strong friendship with Clark after a visit to the Princeton campus in 1940. “You said you weren’t going to Madison Square Garden to hear Lindbergh after what happened in Des Moines. I guess this personal invitation to meet Lindbergh backstage is your prize for the other night.”
Clark ripped the top off of a Lucky Strike pack and removed the last cigarette. His tobacco consumption had grown to two packs a day from a mere five cigarettes in his freshman year. He tossed the empty pack into a wicker wastebasket beside a credenza. “When are you going to get off Stuart’s case?” he asked, lighting the smoke. “If it wasn’t for him, we wouldn’t have a forum to battle Roosevelt.”
Preston handed the telegram back to his roommate. “Yes siree, America First sure is doing a bang up job. Lindbergh’s speech in Iowa last month has essentially killed the movement, damaged him in the eyes of the American public and has done more for Roosevelt than the president could ever have wished for. He may be a hero, but his speeches border on the bizarre.”
Clark bolted upright, splashing the bourbon on the leg of his pants. “Lindbergh is his own man.” He wagged a finger at Preston. “Many Americans have the same opinions, and if he decided to run for the senate or the presidency, he’d have a groundswell of support.”
“After Des Moines, I doubt that he could be elected dogcatcher in Bumblefuck, Montana,” Preston replied. “When he abandoned the reasons for staying out of the European mess and decided to collectively label the British, the Jews, and the Roosevelt administration as warmongers, the crowd became uneasy.”
Clark shifted to the edge of the couch and put the glass on the coffee table. His reaction to the Des Moines fiasco was much like Preston’s, except that he wouldn’t admit it. Lindbergh was turning into a public relations nightmare. The “Lone Eagle” was out of control.
Preston continued, “When Lindbergh says the greatest danger to our country is the Jewish influence in motion pictures, the press, radio, and the government, it makes middle America cringe. That statement could have been scripted in Berlin.”
Clark repeatedly puffed on the Lucky Strike. “America doesn’t want its boys’ blood spilled in Europe.” The growing cigarette ash fell onto his lap. He angrily swatted the mess to the floor.
“I don’t want it spilled either, considering mine will be in the pool,” Preston said, “but blaming the Jewish minority as the reason why this country is on track to go to war doesn’t pass the smell test. If that’s not bad enough, Lindbergh suggested Jews should be opposing intervention, neglecting to mention that the Germans are killing their people.”
“That’s not completely true,” Clark weakly protested. “He’s never condoned the German treatment of its Jewish population and has stressed that there had to be a solution without violence.”
“But,” Preston interrupted, “Lindbergh just couldn’t stop there. He had to make a veiled threat by saying that tolerance is a virtue that depends upon peace and the American Jewish community is placing themselves in a precarious situation, a situation that could easily develop.”
“Just like he said, the Jewish press has blown this out of proportion,” Clark said, jumping to his feet. “Just another ploy to discredit him.”
“Clark, maybe you’re right. I forgot that that he received
a mountain of praise from Father Coughlin, the KKK and the Bund. Lindbergh was even attacked by Colonel Robert McCormick in his editorials in the Chicago Tribune. No one has ever accused McCormick of being a supporter of the Jewish community. He was so worried about the way the paper is viewed, that he came out swearing he’s not anti-Semitic.”
Clark folded the telegram and put it back into his pocket, ending the discussion. “So what’s it going to be? Are you going to come with me to Madison Square Garden or not? The 5:48 will get us into your city by 6:50.”
Preston rubbed the stubble on his chin. “I’ve got so much work to do and never go out on a Thursday night.”
Wobbly, Clark stood holding onto the arm of the sofa. “You’re off Fridays.” He took the last drag on the cigarette that had burned close to his fingers and put the butt into the glass. “If Lindbergh can’t turn it around tonight, America First is dead. I know how much you doubt the value of trying to keep this country out of the war, but we’re approaching the eleventh hour. If all stops aren’t pulled out, Roosevelt will be leading us into the European meat grinder.”
Preston looked at his books, then to Clark. “What the hell, it gives me an excuse to go home and be tormented by the great Herbert Swedge. I’ll pack a few things.”
“We’ll be back for the Halloween festivities,” Clark said with a broad smile. “The grapevine says Albert Hall will continue the tradition of the great Ellis Price pumpkin drama.”
The cab ride to Princeton Junction in the past would have been mundane, however Clark had achieved celebrity status from leading the America First rally on campus. The driver kept checking the rear view mirror as the yellow cab meandered the local roads. “I recognize you Mr. Johnson from the pictures in the paper.”
House of Ghosts Page 17
