Nothing to Report (38 page)

“Let’s turn around and drive onto the campus,” suggested Lt. A.

Charlie made a U-turn and steered the RMP toward Wagner College. The campus security jeep stopped them on their way in but the lieutenant explained that they were only coming in on un-official business and just wanted to look at th
e
campus. The security force was more than happy to have them there.

Charlie drove them down a narrow roadway which led around back of the mai
n
building on the sprawling grounds. The large, brick structure housed classrooms as well as administrative offices and was also home to the Hawk’s Nest, a café, malt shop and general hang out for students.

They continued to follow the winding road and soon they found themselves in front of an old house with a sign in front which read ‘Cunard Hall,’ home for the registrar as well as the office of the college president. Adjacent to this smaller building was an older house which served a
s
the living quarters for the president and his family. Befor
e
the property was donated to the Wagner College Association it belonged to Sir Edward Cunard, the manager for all U.S. Operations for the Cunard Shipping Company.

It didn’t take long before they arrived at a circle which would have allowe
d
them to exit the campus. This is where most of the school’s dormitories were located.

“Charlie, pull up to the edge of the grass. This is where we’ll have ou
r
coffee,” said Lt. A.

“Lou, aren’t you worried about the students?
”


“The students?” the lieutenant asked. “Well, the way I see it, they are sleeping, studying or getting laid. They’re not worrying about us and we’re not going to worr
y
about them.
”


The lieutenant was right. As they made their way to the edge of the grass, the few students who were out on campus at that hour for whatever reason didn’t give them a secon
d
look.

Since it was centrally located, this was a good place to have their coffee, allowing them to get to any place within the precinct quickly if they had to. As they enjoyed their steaming cups of java, the two men also enjoyed the view.

“Lou, the last time you told me one of your stories, it had a happy ending.”

“Right. That was the story about Joey Grayson,” replied the lieutenant.

“Did you ever meet anyone famous, like a movie star?
”
asked Charlie.

The lieutenant nodded. “Actually, I have. Autographs are scattered throughout my memo books from actors I ran onto in the streets as well as different details. I have pictures taken wit
h
various bosses who posed with different Presidents of the United States, as well as photos taken with beautiful starlets from back in the day when I was assigned to openin
g
nights on Broadway. Believe it or not, Charlie, they don’t really mean that much to me.

“On the other hand, I also me
t
a simple man who spoke broken English and made an indelible mark on me yet was not famous. He was a priest who had such enormous faith and love in his heart, and anyone he came into contact with him only benefitted from the encounter, no matter how brief.”

The lieutenant took a drink of his coffee and stared out the window for a moment, lost somewhere in his memories. After several quiet minutes, he finally spoke again.

“Father Josef had been a prisoner in the Nazi death camp i
n
Treblinka and his wrist bore the unmistakable tattooing of a Nazi prison camp. He had been interned there towards the end of the war and was involved in a democratic underground which aided Jews to escape th
e
Nazi’s and eventually, out of Poland.

“His name was Father Josef
Krackowski. How coul
d
I ever forget him? He was a lover of life, of men and most of all, of humanity.”

Charlie nodded as he drank his own coffee.

“After the liberation of the Nazi death camps by the allies,” Lt. A. continued, “Father Jose
f
immigrated to the United States where he settled in the community of Saint George. At the time, Saint George was a diverse community composed of Poles, Italians, Irish and blacks.

“As a priest, Father Josef was assigned to the Saint Stanislaus
KostkaChurch, which had served the Polis
h
community on Staten Island since 1924. He was pastor, friend and confessor to so many people. Maybe his love of life stemmed from the fact that he had witnessed and endured so much pain and suffering during his lifetime. He told me once about how he had come very close to being transferred from Treblinka to the ga
s
chambers of Auschwitz.

“I met this simple but endearing man in the summer of 1978. Frank and I had been partners for a few years already and were prett
y
much respected by all the brass in the 120
th
. We had made some high profile collars, but meeting Father Josef was one of the best experience
s
that either of us had ever hoped to have.”

We were assigned to a 4X12 tour one particular Friday night and thought we would be spending the night in our sector in Stapleton. A
s
luck would have it, however, we were re-assigned to a parking detail instead. We tried t
o
get out of it by asking the desk officer to give it to a rookie or foo
t
man, but there were no footmen available so we got it. The detail was at th
e
Saint Stanislaus KostkaChurch on York Avenue, deep in the confines of secto
r
J-John. We were instructed to be at the church at 5:00 P.M. sharp and introduce ourselves to a Father Josef Krackowski.

As instructed, we arrived at 5:00 P.M. o
n
the dot, after we had our coffee, of course. We parked directly in front of the church and walked over to the pastora
l
residence, an old wooden frame house that sat adjacent to the stone church. Directly nex
t
to it was another house built exactly the same way. As a matter of fact all the homes on that block looked identical except for the color of the different shingles.

When we reached the pastoral residence, we knocked on the door and a pleasant enough plump woman with a Polish accent greeted us the
n
let us in. She escorted us into a sitting room directly off o
f
the entrance hallway. There was a framed painting of the Last Supper hanging on one wall and a huge crucifix across the room on the opposit
e
wall. The painting looked like it had been created a million years ago. It was faded and lacked any brightness or color. The crucifix looked just as old. It was made out of wood and had so many chips in it that it appeared to have been made out of the wood right from Jesus’ cross. The carpet which covered the floor was tattered but clean.

I noticed right away that this was not a wealthy parish. The walls were clean but were in desperate need of a fresh coat of paint. The unmistakable smell of sauerkraut and Polish kielbasa hun
g
heavy in the air and caused both Frank and I to smack our lips.

The round, Polish woman asked us to sit then informed us that Father
Krackowski would be with us momentarily.

“Frank have you ever been here on a parking detail?
”
I asked as we waited.

“Never.”

“What’s with all this introduction stuff? Don’t we just stay outside an
d
do what we’re supposed to do? Why do we have to meet the priest? What’
s
he going to do? Tell us how to do our jobs?
”
I asked, feeling as though I was bubbling over with at least a thousand questions.

“I don’t have a clue,” replied Frank with a shrug.

No sooner had we fallen silent, a huge bear of a man walked slowly into the room.

“Hello! Hello, my friends! Welcome to my home and to Sain
t
Stanislaus Church,” bellowed Father Josef.

I was amazed at the size of the man. He was at least 6'3" and had to weigh in at a good 230 lbs. Since he was wearing a New York Yankees T-shirt, it was easy to see he had no beer belly and appeared to be in great shape. He spoke wit
h
a fairly heavy Polish accent and his hair was silver gray, thinnin
g
a bit on top. He had a contagious, opulent smile and I just felt like I had to smile back.

The burly priest began to sit down on a brown couch opposite where Frank and I had been seated but rose immediately, almost before he made contact with the couch. Without a word, he walked ove
r
to a well-stocked liquor cabinet where he pulled out a bottle of ChivasRega
l
and three glasses. With a smile, he set the bottle down on a small table separating the two sofas and spoke in broken English.

“Gentlemen, if you would please to join me in a toast to this wonderfu
l
night and celebration.”

We were both stunned that this priest was asking us to drink with him, and s
o
early in the evening!

“If it’s alright with you, Father, we’ll take a rain check on that until we finish our work outside,” Frank answered with a smile and a nod.

Looking at Charlie, Lt. A. said, “What purpose would it have served to greet a church-going crowd wit
h
booze on our breaths?”

Charlie smiled, picturing such a scene in his imagination, and the lieutenant continued.

“Exactly what is it that’s going on here tonight, Father?
”
asked Frank.

“Well, we have the pod luck supper in our Church hall,” replied Father Josef.

Although Frank and I realized he meant pot luck supper, neither of us corrected him.

“Every family, they bring in something from home. Nothing is bought outside. Everything comes from my people. We are a poor parish bu
t
everyone’s generosity makes us feel rich! My people will come at 6:00 P.M. and will set up the hall. Then, we begi
n
at 7:00 P.M.!” he said, smiling as he gestured with his hands.

As we talked, we found out that Father Josef had spoken to our Commanding Officer earlier in the week and gotten permission for his parishioners to park their cars perpendicular to the curb instead of parallel.

“You fine men please to handle it anyway you like,” he said as he grinned from ear to ear. “I want you to know that you come in to my home anytime you want. Just open door. If yo
u
use bathroom, it’s down hallway at the end. Remember, my home is your home.
”


“Thank you, Father. We’ll take care of everything,” said Frank.

We got up and went outside to our RMP. We had roughly a half hour befor
e
any guests were to arrive so Frank took the car and went to get us more coffee. We both couldn’t go because it was a fixed post so one of u
s
had to stay behind.

The first family arrived just after we finished our coffee and las
t
cigarette for a while. We both got out of our car and started to work.

The driver of the first car began parking his car in the normal manne
r
in front of the church but we re-directed him to park perpendicular. After that, all we had to do was remain there and make sure tha
t
the rest of the drivers followed suit, which they did.

Every one of those families either thanked us or said good evening and it seemed as if it was going to be a pleasant enough tour. After about thirty five minutes, the last of the arriving cars were parked. All of the guests parked and entered the church hall knowing that New York’s finest was going to be watching their cars for the night. That’
s
what Father Josef told them, anyway. Frank and I had no doubt that this would be an all-nigh
t
detail.

“Frank, why don’t you go and get us a couple of cups of coffee? And while you’re at it, get me a copy of the Staten Island Advance?” I asked.

“Do you want anything else besides the coffee?”

“Yeah, could you get me a tuna salad on white with lettuce and mayonnaise and make sure you get some of those garlic pickles?
”


Frank nodded. “Be right back.
”


With that I got out of the RMP and Frank drove to the diner at 40 Ba
y
Street. It was barely 8:00 P.M. and just starting to get dark. Thankfully it wasn’t to
o
humid and I started to think that once in a while it was good to get a relaxing tour. It was nice to get away from the ‘shots fired
’
of sector Eddie.