House of Ghosts (23 page)

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.”

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.”

“That’s nice of you to say so,” Clark said with a broad smile.

“If I were you, I’d be careful,” the driver warned. “You may be a big shot in that high fullootin’ school, but once you’re on the street, it’s a different matter. A lot of the people in town don’t appreciate what you stand for. Maybe you should think about moving to Berlin, I’m sure they’d welcome you with open arms.”

The cab didn’t arrive at the station a moment too soon for Preston who was sure a fight was about to break out. The cab screeched to a stop curbside to the waiting room. The driver left the engine running as he scampered to the trunk and dropped the luggage onto the pavement. He banged the trunk closed, challenged Clark with a glare, and got back behind the wheel.

Clark reached into his pocket and produced two one-dollar bills, handing them through the driver’s window. The driver took the bills, crumbled them into a ball, and threw them back.

“As much as I need the money, I wouldn’t put anything you touched in my pocket,” the irate driver said. “I’d be afraid to catch whatever you have.” The cab sped off before Clark could reply.

Preston picked up his small leather duffle. “I can’t wait for the ride into the city. Maybe it would be a good idea if you’d put on a disguise—fake glasses and mustache. You can hide behind a newspaper, but make sure your picture isn’t on it.”

“Better to be cursed than unknown,” Clark said. He wasn’t smiling. “Loan me a couple of bucks, and I’ll buy the tickets. My wallet is empty, and I won’t receive my monthly stipend from my father for a few days.”

Preston wasn’t surprised. Clark had been running through money as if he had a printing press funding the America First rally. “You’re treating me with my own money. Nice touch. I’ll get the tickets, watch my bag.” He climbed a wooden staircase and disappeared into the waiting room.

The headlight of the
Mercantile Express
appeared in the distance. Originating in Pittsburgh, the twelve car train was one of the jewels of the Pennsylvania Railroad which boasted electrification of all its major lines. The change to electric locomotives allowed a seamless trip through the New York tunnels which had been closed to steam engines for safety concerns.

Preston exited the waiting room as the train came to a stop. The sleek bright steel cars reflected the setting October sun. Clark had drifted toward the tracks with the luggage in tow. Standing on the gravel apron, a conductor pointed to an open stairwell in the middle of the train.

Preston handed Clark a ticket and climbed the steps into the coach six cars behind the locomotive. All seats were occupied. They walked to the rear of the train and found two seats in the coach next to the dining car. Clark placed his suitcase in the overhead luggage compartment and took the seat next to the window. Preston deposited the duffle behind his feet under an aisle seat. “We’re going to have plenty of time to get to the Garden,” he said with confidence.

Clark shrugged his shoulders and emitted what sounded like “I hope so” and shut his eyes. Preston retrieved a copy of
The New York Times
from the seat across the aisle. The lead article was about the N.Y.P.D.’s anticipation of serious opposition to Lindbergh’s appearance. Deputy Chief Inspector John W. Conway said seven hundred police under his command would be on hand to deal with all lawbreakers. The article went on to list street closures and detours. He glanced at Clark who had fallen asleep and thought about what the cabbie said. He had little use for Lindbergh and loathed Charles Coughlin, and yet he was on his way to an American First rally. He feared he was infected and hoped it wasn’t fatal.

Clark awoke as the train entered the tunnel under the Hudson River. He ran his hands through his hair and checked his watch. “It’s 6:45. We still have to get uptown.”

“Trouble,” Preston said, pointing to the newspaper. “The subway isn’t stopping at Fiftieth. All traffic is being diverted around the Garden for a block on either side, including cabs and busses.”

Exiting the tunnel, the train slowed to a crawl as it approached the station. The rail yard was littered with thirty years of rusting train parts, spent locomotives and railcars. The conductor walked through the car announcing that Penn Station was the final stop and to collect all belongings. Preston tapped Clark on the shoulder. “We need to get off as soon as this tin can comes to a stop.”

Clark retrieved his suitcase and followed Preston to the front of the car. With the conductor out of sight, Preston unhooked the safety chain and stepped onto the platform before the train came to a stop. Clark did the same but with a stumble, falling onto his right knee as his suitcase slid on the concrete. “I hurt my knee!” Clark whined.

Preston raced to retrieve the suitcase. “I’ll get Stuart to kiss your booboo. Come on, we’ve got to get a cab.” He scrambled up the steps cutting a swath through the crowd rising to the street. With moves learned on the football field at Choate, he
left Clark to shove aside those unwilling to heed his call to get out of his way.

The football field size waiting room was designed to resemble a granite lined Roman bath and the Basilica of Constantine that was represented by a glass ceiling 150 feet high. During the day, sunlight lit the station, at night the stars and moon offered commuters an astronomical show.

Clark lagged as he hit the Italian marble floor. Preston waited for Clark to catch up and grabbed his suitcase. They made their way out of the main entrance on Eighth Avenue. A waiting line for taxis serpentined around the corner to Thirty-fourth Street. “This calls for drastic measures,” Preston announced. He fished a five dollar bill from his pocket and strode to the head of the line, thrusting the bill into the hand of a silver haired woman about to enter a waiting yellow cab. “This should be adequate compensation for stealing your ride.” He motioned for Clark to get into the cab. “Forty-eighth and Eighth,” he said to the cabby, sliding into the rear seat. The woman stood at the curb with her mouth agape examining her bonanza.