Kane & Abel (1979) (58 page)

He arrived at the New York Baron in time for dinner. The dining room was packed, with girls clinging desperately to soldiers, sailors and airmen, while Frank Sinatra crooned to the rhythms of Tommy Dorsey’s big band. As Abel watched the young people on the dance floor, he wondered how many of them would ever have a chance to enjoy an evening like this again. He couldn’t help remembering Sammy’s explanation of how he had become maitre d’ at the Plaza. The three men senior to him had returned from the western front with one leg between them. None of the kids dancing tonight could begin to know what war was really like. He couldn’t join in the celebration - if that’s what it was. He went up to his room instead.

In the morning he dressed in a plain dark double-breasted suit and reported to the recruiting office in Times Square. Abel signed in as Wladek Koskiewicz, painfully aware that if they knew it was the Chicago Baron who was trying to enlist he would end up in a swivel chair with gold braid on his sleeve.

The recruiting office was even more crowded than the hotel dance floor had been the night before, but here no one was clinging on to anyone. Abel couldn’t help noticing that the other recruits appeared to be a great deal younger and fitter than him. The entire morning had passed before he was handed and had filled out one form - a task he estimated would have taken his secretary ten minutes. He then stood in line for two more hours, waiting to be interviewed by a recruiting sergeant, who asked him what he did for a living.

‘Hotel management,’ said Abel, and went on to tell the officer of his experiences during the first war. The sergeant stared in silent disbelief at the five foot seven, 190-pound man standing in front of him.

‘You’ll have to take a full physical tomorrow morning,’ the recruiting sergeant said when Abel’s monologue had come to an end, adding, as if it was no less than his duty, ‘Thank you for volunteering, Mr Koskiewicz.’

The next day Abel had to wait several more hours for his physical examination. The doctor in charge was fairly blunt about his general condition. He had been protected from such comments for several years by his position and success, and it came as a rude awakening when he was classified as 4F.

‘You’re overweight, your eyes aren’t too good and you have a limp. Frankly, Koskiewicz, you’re plain unfit. We can’t take soldiers into battle who are likely to have a heart attack even before they find the enemy. That doesn’t mean we can’t use your talents; there’s a lot of admin work to be done in this war, if you’re interested.’

‘No, thank you - sir. I want to fight the Germans, not send them letters.’

He returned to his hotel that evening depressed, but decided he wasn’t licked yet. The next day he tried another recruiting office, but he slumped back to the Baron after the same result. The second doctor had been a little more polite, but he was every bit as firm about Abel’s condition, and once again he ended up with a 4F classification. It was obvious to Abel that he was not going to be allowed to fight anybody in his present state of health.

At seven o’clock the next morning he enrolled in a gymnasium on West Fifty-Seventh Street, where he engaged a private instructor to do something about his physical condition. For three months he worked every day on reducing his weight and improving his general fitness. He boxed, wrestled, ran, jumped, skipped, pressed weights and starved. When he was down to 155 pounds, the instructor told him he was never going to be much fitter or thinner. Abel returned to the first recruiting office and filled in the same form, once again signing it Wladek Koskiewicz. Another recruiting sergeant was a lot more responsive this time, and the medical officer put him on the reserve list.

‘But I want to go to war now,’ said Abel. ‘Before it’s all over.’

‘We’ll be in touch with you, Koskiewicz,’ said the sergeant. ‘Just keep yourself fit. There’s no telling when we’ll need you.’

Abel left, furious, as younger, leaner men were signed up without question for active service. As he barged through the door he walked straight into a tall, gangling man wearing a uniform adorned with medals and stars on its shoulders.

‘I’m sorry, sir,’ said Abel.

‘Young man …’ said the general.

Abel walked on, not thinking that the general could possibly be addressing him, as no one had called him young man for - he didn’t want to think how long, even though he was still only thirty-five.

The general tried again. ‘Young man,’ he said a little louder.

This time Abel turned around. ‘Me, sir?’

‘Yes, you, sir. Will you come to my office please, Mr Ros-novski?’

Damn, thought Abel. Now nobody’s going to let me join in this war.

The general’s temporary office turned out to be at the back of the building, a small room with a desk, two wooden chairs, peeling green paint and no door. Abel would not have allowed the most junior member of his staff at a Baron to work in such conditions.

‘Mr Rosnovski,’ the general began, ‘my name is Mark Clark and I command the US Fifth Army. I’m here on an inspection tour, so literally bumping into you was a pleasant surprise. I’ve been an admirer of yours for a long time. Your story is one to inspire any American. So tell me what you are doing in a recruiting office.’

‘What do you think?’ said Abel, not thinking. ‘I’m sorry, sir,’ he corrected himself quickly. ‘I didn’t mean to be rude, it’s just that no one wants to let me take part in this damn war.’

‘What do you want to do in this damn war?’

‘Sign up and fight the Germans.’

‘As a foot soldier?’ asked the general incredulously.

‘Yes, sir. Don’t you need every man you can get?’

‘We most certainly do,’ said General Clark, ‘but I can put your particular talents to far better use than as a foot soldier.’

‘I’ll do anything,’ said Abel. ‘Anything.’

‘Will you, now? Anything? If I asked you to place your hotel at my disposal as our army headquarters in New York, how would you react to that? Because frankly, Mr Rosnovski, that would be far more use to me than if you personally managed to kill a dozen Germans.’

‘The Baron is yours. Now will you let me go to war?’

‘You know you’re mad, don’t you?’ said General Clark.

‘I’m Polish,’ said Abel, and they both laughed. ‘You must understand,’ Abel continued, his tone once again serious, ‘I was born in Poland. I saw my home taken by the Germans, my sister raped by the Russians. I escaped from a Russian labour camp, and was lucky enough to reach the safety of these shores. I’m not mad. This is the only country on earth where you can arrive with nothing and make something of yourself through hard work, regardless of your background. Now those same bastards who tried to stop me the first time round want another war. Well, I’m going to make sure they lose it.’

‘Well, if you’re so eager to join up, Mr Rosnovski, I could use you, but not in the way you imagine. General Deniers needs someone to take overall responsibility as quartermaster for the Fifth Army while they’re fighting in the front line. Napoleon was right when he said an army marches on its stomach, so you could play a vital role. The job carries the rank of major. That’s one way in which you could unquestionably help America to win the war. What do you say?’

‘I’ll do it, General.’

‘Thank you, Major Rosnovski.’

Abel spent the weekend in Chicago with Zaphia and Florentyna. Zaphia asked him what he wanted her to do with his fifteen suits.

‘Hold onto them,’ he replied. ‘I’m not going to war to get killed.’

‘I’m pretty confident you won’t be killed in a Baron hotel,’ she said. ‘That wasn’t what I meant. It’s just that your suits are now all three sizes too large for you.’

Abel laughed, and took all his old clothes to the Polish refugee centre. He then flew back to New York, cancelled any advance reservations for the Baron, and twelve days later handed the building over to the American Fifth Army. The press hailed this act as ‘the selfless gesture of a man who had been a refugee during the First World War’.

For the next eight months Abel organized the smooth running of the New York Baron for General Clark and only after continual grumbling was he finally called up for active duty. He reported to Fort Benning to complete an officers’ training programme. When he finally received his orders to join General Deniers of the Fifth Army, his destination turned out to be somewhere in North Africa. He began to wonder if he would ever set foot on German soil.

The day before Abel left to go overseas, he drew up a will, instructing his executors to offer the Baron Group to David Maxton on favourable terms should he not return. He divided the rest of his estate between Zaphia and Florentyna. It was the first time in two decades that he had thought about death - not that he was sure how he could get himself killed in a regimental canteen.

As his troop ship sailed out of New York harbour, Abel looked across at the Statue of Liberty, remembering how he had felt on seeing the statue for the first time nearly twenty years before. Once the ship had passed the Lady he did not look at her again, but said out loud, ‘Next time I look you in the eye, ma’am, America will have won this war.’

Abel crossed the Atlantic with two of his top chefs and five kitchen staff who had recently enlisted. The ship docked in Algiers in May 1942. Abel immediately commandeered the only half-decent hotel in Algiers, and turned it into a headquarters for General Clark. He spent almost a year in the heat and the dust and the sand of the desert, making sure that every member of the division was as well fed as possible.

‘We eat badly, but my bet is that we eat a damn sight better than the Germans,’ was General Clark’s comment.

Although he knew he was playing a valuable role in the war, Abel still itched to get into a real fight, but a quartermaster-major in charge of catering is rarely sent to the front line other than to fill empty billycans.

He wrote regularly to Zaphia and George, and watched by photograph as his beloved Florentyna grew up. He received the occasional letter from Curtis Fenton, reporting that the Baron Group was making steady progress, as every hotel on the Eastern Seaboard was packed because of the continual movement of troops and civilians. Abel was sad not to have been at the opening of the Montreal Baron, where George had represented him. It was the first time he had missed the launch of a new hotel, but it made him realize just how much he had achieved in America, and how much more he wanted to return to the land he now felt was his home - but not before the war was over.

Abel soon became bored with Africa and its mess kits, baked beans, blankets and fly swatters. There had been one or two spirited skirmishes out in the western desert, or so the men returning from the front assured him, but he never saw any action himself. He even drove one of the supply trucks to the front so that he could hear the firing, but it only made him even more frustrated.

One day, to his delight, orders came through that the Fifth Army was to be posted to Italy. Abel hoped this might eventually lead to a chance to see his homeland once again.

The Fifth Army, led by General Clark, landed in amphibious craft on the southern Italian coast, with aircraft giving tactical cover. They met considerable resistance, first at Anzio and then at Monte Cassino, but the action never involved Abel. His chest was now covered in medals that showed where he’d been, not what he’d done. He began to dread the end of a war in which he’d seen no combat, and would end up decorated for serving a million meals. But he could never come up with a plan that would get him to the front line. His chances were not improved when he was promoted to Lieutenant Colonel and sent to London to await further orders.