House Of Ghosts Part 5

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 fas.h.i.+on 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 partic.i.p.ants 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 partners.h.i.+p. 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 antic.i.p.ation, but hope turned to despair. Abe was frightened, but tried to be optimistic before his family. Slogans emanating from Hoover's Was.h.i.+ngton 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 pa.s.sionate 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 b.u.ms 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.

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 G.o.d d.a.m.n 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 sh.e.l.l 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 cla.s.s, but scholars.h.i.+p 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 tuchas moving, or you're going to be late on the first day." 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 pa.s.sed 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 Daily News. The headline read: GERMANS ANNEX CZECHOSLOVAKIA. The headline read: GERMANS ANNEX CZECHOSLOVAKIA.

"That b.a.s.t.a.r.d 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 pus.h.i.+ng 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 s.h.i.+ts 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, Was.h.i.+ngton Square. The college career of Paul Rothstein was about to begin.

Chapter 10.

PRINCETON, NJ SEPTEMBER 1938 1938.

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 Was.h.i.+ngton focused on the confrontations between Democrats and Republicans. The Roosevelt administration had managed to pa.s.s 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 n.a.z.is 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 n.a.z.i 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 pa.s.s. "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 dictators.h.i.+p."

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 citizens.h.i.+p?"

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 c.r.a.p is straight from Father Coughlin." Preston banged the mug on the coffee table. "The n.a.z.is' 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, b.u.ms, 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 inst.i.tution, 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 a.s.sumed 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 cla.s.s before Preston. If delayed, he was sure that Preston wouldn't notice if the toothpick fell to the floor.

The trio descended the steps. At the bottom, the house vexation was leaning against the spindles of the banister. "Good morning gentlemen," Price uttered cordially. "I do hope that you have a profitable day. The secrets of the world are there for you to decipher."

Chapter 11.

NEW Y YORK, NY SEPTEMBER 1938 1938.

WITH DAVE PERFECTING THEIR COMMUTE to Manhattan, Paul settled into a groove. The forecast in the Times Times called for cool and rainy weather. Dave looked up to view the ominous clouds floating toward the city. "Paulie, I may not know much about meteorology, but this sky doesn't look like a little rain. I've never seen a sky change like called for cool and rainy weather. Dave looked up to view the ominous clouds floating toward the city. "Paulie, I may not know much about meteorology, but this sky doesn't look like a little rain. I've never seen a sky change like this this. Only a few minutes ago, the clouds were light and puffy. Now, they're like charcoal."

"David, as my mother says, you're not made out of sugar, so you're not going to melt. Let's get going, or we won't make our eight o'clock cla.s.s."

The subway was jammed. The changing sky drove pedestrians underground. Paul became impatient as a train screeched to a halt. It was the second totally full train to stop at the 21st Street station since they pa.s.sed through the turnstiles. "Cohen, as soon as the doors open, start pus.h.i.+ng. I'll follow like a halfback."

Miraculously, they made it inside but finding a seat was impossible. They leaned against the side of the car. Dave opened his math book and reviewed his homework. "Did you figure out these problems?" Dave asked. "I don't know why I signed up for calculus."

"The reason is very simple, you had to take a math course. Do you want to see what I did?" Paul replied.

"Yeah, I'll trade you the newspaper for the correct answers," Dave said.

The exchange was made as the train swayed, causing the lights to blink several times. It became harder and harder to look at the headlines. The Germans continued to wave their sabers. The news from Hungary wasn't encouraging either. Hungarian President h.o.a.rthy, on his way to Berlin to confer with Hitler, was looking for a deal to get a share of Czechoslovakia if and when the n.a.z.is made their move.

Exasperated, Dave asked, "Who helped you with these equations? I can't understand how you can comprehend this subject." With a desire to become an attorney, math and science were courses he viewed as a waste of valuable time. The Cohen family had a deep history of social activism. Dave believed that by practicing law, he could make a difference fighting the injustices faced by the working ma.s.ses. Cohen was by no means a communist, but many of his ideas definitely were socialist. Rising through the ranks, his parents became leaders in the organized labor movement of the garment industry. By working sixty hours a week, it was possible to raise a weekly wage from $4.50 to the unheard of sum of $14. They had witnessed the horror of the Triangle s.h.i.+rt Company fire in March, 1911 that resulted in the deaths of 147 workers trapped by locked exits and fire escapes. Triangle was vilified as an example of how businesses exploited young female Italian and Jewish immigrants. Sweatshops were targeted and exposed, pus.h.i.+ng the state a.s.sembly to pa.s.s legislation providing some worker protection.

Paul wasn't sure the path of study he wanted to take. There was no question of his ability in math and science and he entertained the possibility of medicine. Choosing a major was a little premature. The daily news reports caused distress in the Brooklyn community where there wasn't one family that didn't have relatives overseas. Almost all of his parent's friends had come to the United States to escape the hatred of the shtettles, shtettles, the poor towns of Eastern Europe. For years, the main topic of conversation concerned the difficulties of a.s.similation into American society. Now, thoughts were dominated with fears of German conquest and persecution. Paul was a realist-war was on the horizon and he would be in the army. the poor towns of Eastern Europe. For years, the main topic of conversation concerned the difficulties of a.s.similation into American society. Now, thoughts were dominated with fears of German conquest and persecution. Paul was a realist-war was on the horizon and he would be in the army.

The train lurched to a stop outside Was.h.i.+ngton Square. "I may need a tutor for math. Do you want the job?" Dave asked.

Paul was looking at the overhead advertis.e.m.e.nt for the new Edward G. Robinson picture I Am the Law. I Am the Law. "I've got enough to do for myself, but let me think about it. Besides, you might not find me an easy teacher." "I've got enough to do for myself, but let me think about it. Besides, you might not find me an easy teacher."

"What did the Yankees do yesterday?" Dave asked.

"Who cares what they did? The Dodgers lost in Chicago 5-3. I think they're dead," Paul said.

"I myself don't give a s.h.i.+t what the Yankees do," Dave said, "but Sarah Greenbaum does."

"Is she the girl from the Bronx, the one in our political science cla.s.s?"

"The one and the same," Dave grabbed the sports section. "A real baseball nut."

The train started rolling to its destination. The doors opened and the throng spilled onto the platform, the current sweeping them toward the exit. Cla.s.ses didn't begin for another twenty minutes, allowing for a quick cup of coffee at Danny's on the Square.

Danny's was a little hole in the wall on the east side of Was.h.i.+ngton Square kept alive by the campus trade. Cigarette smoke wafted through the open door. Paul and Dave angled themselves to the counter. Dave tried to order two regular coffees but was ignored. The burly counterman finally poured two mugs and placed them on the stained and scratched wood counter. Thirty years of resting elbows had burnished the finish to a fine patina.

Paul claimed two unoccupied stools at the window ledge. "Don't just sit there, take one of these," Dave said, holding out the steaming mugs. "They're taking the skin off my hands. I'm amazed the mugs don't melt."

"My theory is scalding coffee toughens the lining of the stomach, thereby allowing consumption of the entrees on the menu," Paul explained.