House Of Ghosts Part 9

Clark halted as they approached the post office. "I could use something stronger than a c.o.ke." He turned on his heels and jogged back toward Breslow's.

"Wait up," Preston called without success. Johnson disappeared at the end of the block. Hulfish Street, the south side of the square, was deserted except for a group of women bustling from the Christian Science reading room. With Clark nowhere in sight, Preston circled to his right and stopped at an alleyway guarded by an open wrought iron gate. The cobblestone pa.s.sage provided rear access to the shops on Hulfish.

Preston warily stepped through the gate. The alley was deserted except for a flock of pigeons pecking at the cobblestones a hundred yards away. Barred windows and steel doors with "NO ADMITTANCE" signs decorated the brick buildings erected in the early 1800s. Overflowing garbage cans baking in the sun produced a pungent aroma.

A door banged open where the pigeons were busy. The gray beggars quieted in antic.i.p.ation of receiving an afternoon snack. Breadcrumbs showered the pavement, producing a scrum between the birds.

Preston sidestepped a pothole where the cobblestones were missing and proceeded toward the feeding pigeons. Ceramic tiles depicting an orange tiger with ten-inch black claws were cemented to the bricks above the door. As Preston pulled on the handle of the aged metal door marked by saucer size areas of rust, a push from the inside knocked him backwards. A burly fellow, wearing grease stained mechanic overalls, gave Preston a cold challenging stare. Having faced his share of bullies at Choate, he recognized this one was itching for a fight. Despite being six inches taller, Preston gave the brawler room and watched him stagger away.

The repeal of the Volstead Act in 1933 ended Prohibition and the need for the speakeasy where tradesmen and professionals rubbed shoulders. Na.s.sau Street had its share of restaurants with liquor licenses, but for those wanting a shot of the hard stuff or a gla.s.s of suds without the glitz of starched linen tablecloths, the announcement of the downtown watering hole's closing was met with sharp opposition. The Tiger's Claw was the legitimate offspring.

Preston stepped into the Tiger's Claw and waited for his eyes to acclimate to the light provided by a series of low watt wall light fixtures mounted to bare brick walls and a pool hall green gla.s.s shaded lamp suspended over the bar where Clark sat alone with the newspaper spread before him. The bartender, busy stacking a supply of gla.s.ses, never looked at the new arrival. Two gray haired men wearing suits and ties occupied one of a dozen tables nursing tumblers and cigars. The lunch crowd was long gone.

Preston weaved his way around empty tables and slid onto a stool to Clark's left. "Sometimes I wonder about you and your games," Preston said, looking at the boxing memorabilia hung around the room. Behind the bar, a signed picture of Gene Tunney was prominently displayed next to a framed front page from The Daily News The Daily News proclaiming the end of Prohibition. "I didn't know this place existed. proclaiming the end of Prohibition. "I didn't know this place existed.

"There's a lot you don't know," Clark said, hoisting a beer mug. Introduced to the Tiger's Claw by uppercla.s.smen, he had become a frequent patron. "Have a beer, my treat."

With twenty-one being the legal drinking age in New Jersey, Preston cast a puzzled look at Clark who tilted his head in the direction of the bartender. "John, the same for my friend," he barked without concern. The current owners continued the established tradition of thumbing its nose at authority and served the university trade without asking for proof.

The bartender, compact with broad shoulders and heavily muscled forearms, pulled the tap and filled a mug without glancing at the customers who barely needed to shave. He slid the mug to Preston, and then returned to stacking gla.s.ses. "Nice of you to wait," Preston said. "We were supposed to go to the Balt."

"You hungry?" John asked without turning around. He could see the duo in the mirror hung behind the bar. "The kitchen closes soon. Good roast beef sandwiches." His accent was eastern European.

"Sounds good," Preston replied, trying to identify where John was from. "On rye with a pickle."

"You?" John asked Clark.

Clark snapped the paper to the front page. "I'm good." A smile covered his face.

John pushed the kitchen door open with his foot and yelled in the order. He returned to the gla.s.ses.

Clark flopped the Times Times on the bar. "Read the headline," he said, fumbling for a cigarette. on the bar. "Read the headline," he said, fumbling for a cigarette.

With his eyes as large as silver dollars, Preston read the article above the fold. "This is unbelievable," he said, taking a sip from the mug. "Nine hundred and thirty six pa.s.sengers, all Jews but six on a German s.h.i.+p out of Hamburg, docked in Havana where the Cubans renounced the validity of their visas. The s.h.i.+p was back into international waters."

John finished stacking gla.s.ses, moved behind the beer taps, and proceeded to wipe the area with a dishrag.

Clark struck a match and took a long pull on the Lucky Strike then tapped the ash into a sand-filled galvanized steel bucket on the floor. "You're not grasping the significance," Clark said, shaking his head vehemently. "The St. Louis sailed close to Miami, but the Coast Guard prevented it from entering our territorial jurisdiction."

Preston put his elbows on the bar, returning to the paper. "They were denied access even though the majority has papers designating them eligible for immigration? I don't understand."

John stopped wiping the taps and stood with the dishrag squeezed in a fist.

"That's the crux of what I am saying," Clark said, pointing his cigarette at Preston. "n.o.body wants them. That s.h.i.+p has been known in Was.h.i.+ngton for a week, and I don't see any welcome mat being put out."

Preston slapped the paper on the bar, drawing the attention of the two men at the table. "There are under-populated areas in this country where they could easily be accommodated."

"The better question is why the American Jewish community hasn't been heard from. The only vocal one I know of is a rabbi named Stephen Wise from New York. I asked Father Coughlin why Wise isn't evoking a response among his fellow Jews. Do you know the answer?" Clark asked, dropping the cigarette into the bucket.

Preston answered with a blank expression.

John threw the dishrag onto the bar. "They're afraid what happened in Germany could happen here."

Clark pounded the bar with his fist. "Right you are barkeep." He drained his mug and held it out for a refill.

John refilled Clark's mug then disappeared into the kitchen, returning with Preston's roast beef sandwich. He stood with his arms crossed on his chest. "The United States and the other democracies didn't scream too much over the Kristalnacht Kristalnacht episode. The n.a.z.is must think they can do what they wish without facing consequences," Clark said. episode. The n.a.z.is must think they can do what they wish without facing consequences," Clark said.

"You happy with the situation?" the bartender asked with bitterness.

Preston ate his sandwich, staying out of the conversation. He'd allow the thirty-something muscle rippling European to take on Clark. "What do you mean?" Clark asked defensively.

"You think it's funny there's a s.h.i.+p filled with desperate people who could find themselves back where they began," John said, losing control of his anger.

"John, I didn't know you allowed n.a.z.i lovers in here," one of the table's inhabitants said.

"I'm an observer of the political scene, not a n.a.z.i lover," Clark retorted. "Admission to the United States is contingent on the ability of the applicant to prove to consular officials that he or she will not become a drain on the American public. The Germans have limited the amount of money Jews can take out of Germany to ten Reichsmarks Reichsmarks, or the equivalence of four dollars. With only four dollars in their pockets, they can't possibly sustain themselves here, and are denied the necessary doc.u.ments for immigrating."

"Money," John seethed. "Lives for dollars."

"Money's not the point," Clark interrupted. "Hitler maintains that if America, a country that has in the past permitted the lowest kind of trash to immigrate, doesn't want the Jews, what is Germany to do?"

The door creaked open. Hyman Breslow was in for his afternoon beer. His orange tape measure was still draped around his neck. "Mr. Swedge!" he said as he doffed his fedora to the men at the table. "Janos, the usual. My throat is parched like a desert."

"You're a Czech?" Clark asked John. The smile disappeared from his face.

John tapped a pilsner for Breslow. "Hyman, do you know this one?" he asked, gesturing with his thumb to Clark. "Makes excuses for the n.a.z.is."

"No. Only Mr. Swedge," Breslow said, taking his beer to the end of the bar near the door. It was his turn to smile.

"I'm from Prague," John said menacingly to Clark. Janos Lederman left Czechoslovakia at the age of eighteen, arriving in Newark in 1928 to live with a cousin. John "found" Princeton while making deliveries for the bootlegger Abner "Longie" Zwillman.

Clark casually lit a cigarette. "I didn't..."

With one motion, John grabbed Clark by the collar and lifted the squirming freshman off his seat. "The Gestapo arrested my father, and he hasn't been heard from since. My mother prays he's alive. I suspect the worse."

Clark tried to break John's grip, but the result was a tighter vice around his throat. "You're choking me!" he rasped, his eyes wide with fear.

John dragged Clark along the bar, switching hands to bypa.s.s the taps. Preston recoiled, dropping his sandwich on the floor as Breslow calmly moved away from the action.

Clark dropped to his knees, gasping for breath as John dragged him toward the door. Preston stayed frozen as the incensed bartender pulled Clark to his feet. A combination of punches landed on the side of Clark's head and stomach. John pushed the door open with his foot and propelled Clark onto the cobblestones. "The drink is on the house," John said as he pulled the door closed and returned to his position behind the bar.

Preston backed to the door, expecting the same treatment. Breslow returned to the bar and retrieved his drink. "Mr. Swedge, I'll see you on Tuesday."

Chapter 15.

BROOKLYN, NY MAY 1939 1939.

IT WAS ALMOST ONE O'CLOCK in the morning when Paul unlocked the door to the apartment. He was surprised to see the kitchen light was still on and proceeded to step lightly down the hall. Hearing his mother's voice prepared him for an ensuing game of twenty questions. She was in the midst of a conversation with Jake as he appeared in the doorway.

"I was getting worried, look what time it is," Rachel said. "I couldn't sleep, then Jake came home and kept me company."

"Well Romeo, how was your date this evening with Miss Sarah Greenbaum from the Bronx?" Jake asked, nursing a cup of coffee at the table. His ma.s.sive forearms and chest stretched the cotton of his T-s.h.i.+rt.

"To answer your question big brother, my evening with Miss Greenbaum was very nice," Paul said. "I'll take a cup of coffee if you have any left."

"Jake tells me you and Sarah are keeping steady company. Is this the truth or is he just being his usual trouble making self?" Rachel asked.

Jake reached for the percolator on the stove behind him, giving it a shake to feel if he could eke out a cup. "Paul, there should be just enough to keep a tough guy like you up all night. Tell Ma if I'm a trouble maker or the bearer of the truth."

Paul held out a mug for Jake. "He's telling the truth. I wish she didn't live way up in the Bronx." He yawned, dropping a hint that he didn't want to get into any deep discourse on his date.

His mother had other ideas. "Not to get too personal, but what did you do tonight?" she asked.

There was no easy way out without telling her to mind her own business. "I intended to get to her house by five. Unfortunately, the subway was screwed up when I had to change at the Grand Concourse and didn't get to her place until nearly six," Paul said, sipping the coffee that had the consistency of sludge. "Her parents insisted we stay for supper. Don't worry Ma, the brisket was tasty, but not as good as yours."

Rachel blushed at the compliment. "I'm sure Mrs. Greenbaum is a good cook."

"All of a sudden, her aunt burst in with some astounding news. Her niece in Hamburg secured pa.s.sage on the s.h.i.+p St. Louis scheduled to dock in Havana in two days."

"I didn't think it was still possible to get out of Germany. It's a miracle, nothing more." Rachel put her hands together as if she were praying. "I'm a little confused by who this girl is related to. By the way, I baked a crumbcake, do you want a piece?"

Paul shook his head. "Minnah is Sarah's cousin. They're the same age. Sarah's mother has two sisters, one lives in the Bronx, the other in Hamburg."

"You can't trust the Cubans. They're capable of pulling a fast one at the last minute," Jake said.

Rachel stood up and removed her ap.r.o.n. It didn't matter that she was dressed in an old pink terry cloth robe. "Jake, sometimes you make me angry. With such wonderful news, you have to act like a wet blanket and suggest that something is bound to go wrong. You never were this way. I don't know what changed you." She stared at her older son. "Now that I know my boys are home, I can go back to bed."

The boys said good night. Jake nibbled on a piece of cake. "I've dealt with some Cubans down at the pier. Those guys would take your eyeb.a.l.l.s out and try to sell them back to you. They don't dare to pull any s.h.i.+t with us, because they'd end up floating back to Havana face down."

"Ma lives in her own world. Talking to her and Pop can wreck your mind, especially when the topic concerns what is happening in Europe. The Greenbaums have a bunch of relatives in Germany and some in Czechoslovakia. The talk centered on getting the rest over here."

Jake brushed crumbs off the counter. "It's not totally impossible to get someone out. The other day, I heard a s.h.i.+p came into port with extra cargo on board. Like everything else in this world, what is heartache to one is an opportunity to another. If a profit can be made on some desperate Jews, why not? I'm going to bed, shut off the light little brother."

The conversation with Jake knocked the sleep out of Paul. He went to the living room and stretched out on the sofa. A sudden thump on his chest woke him with a start. He sat up to find the Sunday New York Times New York Times sitting on his chest with Jake holding a worried look on his face. "I know Ma doesn't want us to sleep on this sofa, but come on," Paul whined. sitting on his chest with Jake holding a worried look on his face. "I know Ma doesn't want us to sleep on this sofa, but come on," Paul whined.

Jake turned the paper so it faced Paul. "Rub the sleep from your eyes and read. I'm going to put up some coffee."

The Times Times article was a rehash of the ongoing saga of the German s.h.i.+p, the article was a rehash of the ongoing saga of the German s.h.i.+p, the St. Louis St. Louis, with one bit of new news-Cuban President Federico Laredo Bru formally declared the travelers' immigration doc.u.ments were invalid despite the fact that a Cuban in charge of immigration had sold them. The unfortunate buyers would again have to obtain valid visas approved by the Cuban government.

Paul walked into the kitchen. "What is going to happen to those people on board the s.h.i.+p?"

"I told you the Cubans can't be trusted," Jake said, sliding a coffee cup to his agitated brother. "And I'm not sure about our own government either."

Paul took a deep breath and sat at the table, watching Jake slice a bagel and painstakingly place a slab of cream cheese on it. His brother was stalling, the taught muscles in Jake's eighteen-inch neck were a dead give-away. "Get it out before it hurts you."

Jake handed Paul the bagel and proceeded to repeat the ritual. "We're preparing for what could happen in this country," he said, knowing that if their mother found out what he was about to involve the baby of the family in, his life would be a living h.e.l.l. Eventually, Paul would be placed in harm's way, but the United States government would be responsible. "We're developing our own intelligence and military units."

"Why are you telling me this now?"

Jake was under pressure to find and recruit people that could be trusted. The movement required muscle and brains. The former was easy to find, the latter more difficult. "I'm asking if you want to join.

Paul took a bite of the bagel. "A Jewish underground army."

Jake crunched his legs under the table as he took a seat. "You'll be placing yourself in danger from a number of areas: The first being our fight with the Bund. They're desperate to find out who was responsible for hitting them. The second problem is our own government will put us in jail for the rest of our lives if we get caught."

"Why did it take you so long to ask me?" Paul asked. "Stop treating me like I'm your baby brother."

Jake returned to the counter and refreshed his coffee. "I'll remember that," he said with a wry smile. "The Greenbaums must be devastated by the Cuban double-cross. You know, it's kind of funny how one's perception can be changed by knowing someone on board."

"How so?"

Jake became animated, waving his arms. "If I read the story of the St. Louis and the poor devils on board before I heard about Sarah's cousin, I would've been sympathetic and outraged. Now, it is personal."

"You don't know the Greenbaums or Sarah's cousin. She's a name without a face."

Jake looked pensively at the headline. "How much do you like Sarah? It's hard for me to talk about this kind of stuff. Do you love this girl? Don't give me any bulls.h.i.+t. This is serious business."

"Sarah is different than the other girls I've dated. If missing someone is a definition of love," Paul hesitated, "then I love her. There I said it. But Jake, how do my feelings for Sarah change what's going to happen to her cousin?"

"Some people I work with," Jake said between bites of his bagel, "have contacts in Miami and Havana. I've done my share of jobs for those guys, and I can ask a favor. That's why I needed to know how you really feel about Sarah. I don't have an unlimited supply of IOUs. The situation has to be a matter of life and death, and Sarah's cousin is in it up to her neck."

"This deal is going to hinge on money, isn't it? How much and how soon?"

"How is Sarah's family fixed? This could be an expensive proposition. I have to be sure the transaction can be completed before we start. My a.s.sociates don't appreciate having their chains yanked."

Paul held his hand up and stopped talking. He pointed to the sound of footsteps in the hall. "Mr. Greenbaum works at the wholesale vegetable market in the Bronx. They have a nice apartment, but money to bribe somebody, I don't think so."

"This sort of thing requires a lot, close to ten grand. That doesn't include travel expenses," Jake said.

The footsteps reappeared. Abe Rothstein, in rapidly failing health, shuffled back to his bedroom. "Travel expenses?" Paul asked. "I thought you could swing this thing from New York."

Jake rose from his chair, stretched, and walked to the open window facing Flatbush Avenue. "The traffic sounds different on a Sunday. It's still crazy even this early, but instead of delivery trucks, you have family cars. People going and doing what they can't do during the week."

"I don't want to sound like a philosopher," Jake said, turning toward Paul, "but thinking about the St. Louis St. Louis got to me. Nicky's uncle Tommy can make the right connections in Cuba. The money has to be taken down there personally to ease the way." got to me. Nicky's uncle Tommy can make the right connections in Cuba. The money has to be taken down there personally to ease the way."

"Are you sure Nicky's uncle can do what you say he is capable of? I would hate to get the Greenbaums' hopes up and then smash them to bits. That would be worse than the situation now," Paul cautioned.