House of Ghosts (10 page)

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.”

WITH DAVE PERFECTING THEIR COMMUTE to Manhattan, Paul settled into a groove. The forecast in the
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
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 class.”

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 passed through the turnstiles. “Cohen, as soon as the doors open, start pushing. 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 Hoarthy, on his way to Berlin to confer with Hitler, was looking for a deal to get a share of Czechoslovakia if and when the Nazis 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 masses. 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 Shirt 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, pushing the state assembly to pass 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,
the poor towns of Eastern Europe. For years, the main topic of conversation concerned the difficulties of assimilation 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 Washington Square. “I may need a tutor for math. Do you want the job?” Dave asked.

Paul was looking at the overhead advertisement for the new Edward G. Robinson picture
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.”

“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 shit what the Yankees do,” Dave said, “but Sarah Greenbaum does.”

“Is she the girl from the Bronx, the one in our political science class?”

“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. Classes 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 Washington 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.

Looking through the greasy smoke-streaked window, they surveyed the activity in Washington Square Park. The normal crowd rapidly thinned as heavy dark clouds drifted over. Sudden high gusts of wind sucked discarded newspapers from trashcans, plastering the wire fence surrounding the seesaws with newsprint. Paul checked his watch. “It’s ten minutes to eight, by the looks of that sky, it might as well be midnight. We better get moving.”

The building entrance was only three hundred yards across the park. Dave’s ever-present Dodger’s cap was ripped from his head and sent flying toward the fountain in the middle of the square. It disappeared from sight.

The cornerstone of the Commerce, Accounts, and Finance building read 1900. The building showed its age. While the Depression caused a monetary crisis in the city, the university wasn’t lacking for funds. A decision was made by the board of governors to curtail cosmetic renovations until the economic despair of the city’s population was assuaged. Maintenance was done only to prevent building code violations.

Room 404 was a huge amphitheater capable of seating five hundred, with lectern and three movable black boards. “Welcome to Calculus 101” was still visible on the top of the middle board.

Paul knew they stayed too long in the coffee shop. They were off to the side where it was difficult to see the middle board, the favorite of Dr. Ina Goldsmith. Goldsmith, entering her 26th year of teaching
Calc I,
appeared to be as bored as her students.

Observing the welcome message, Dave said, “It’s the same message that the Indians sent to Custer at Little Big Horn.”

“Compared to you, Custer had a better chance,” Paul whispered back.

Dr. Goldsmith approached the lectern and proceeded to explain the previous homework assignment before covering the next topic. Dave began to squirm
in his seat. Not one of the answers she chalked on the board resembled his. He glanced at Paul and placed his hands together like he was praying, except that he was begging.

A collective sigh reverberated through the hall as the clock approach the hour of ten. Bodies struggled to rise from their wooden cells, with arms and legs stretching in all directions. Paul led the way to the exit left of the lectern. The narrow corridor was lined with faculty offices, and most importantly, the men’s room. For the last thirty minutes of class, Paul needed to use the facilities. He swore to himself that he would stay away from Danny’s coffee.

While waiting, Dave checked the sports page for the Yankee score: 5-2 over the White Sox. Gehrig and DiMaggio accounted for all five runs. He had to face the fact that the Yankees were going to win the American league pennant again. They were fun to watch, great entertainment. His Brooklyn Dodgers were also entertainment, some said a mystery. The question each year was how close to the cellar would they finish. The suspense for the current campaign was over: the “Bums” would wind up in seventh place out of eight.

Paul rejoined Dave at the end of the hall. “I’ve got to get over to Brown for English Comp. I’ll meet back at the cafeteria around 12:20.”

“I’m glad I have to stay in the building for German. Try not to drown, it’s pouring.”

Paul went down the back staircase, entering the main rotunda. He left Brooklyn without a raincoat or umbrella. The forecast said nothing about a downpour. Brown Hall was two blocks over on Green Street. Cutting Comp wasn’t such a bad idea, except a critical analysis of
Homer’s Odyssey
was due. He put his jacket over his head and walked down the street.

Paul paused to read the bronze plaque commemorating the sacrificed lives of the Triangle fire, which proudly proclaimed that Clark Brown had donated the building to the university in 1929. It was considered an architectural marvel at nine stories with a high-speed Otis Elevator part of the central design. Classrooms and lecture halls were located on floors 2-6, with faculty offices occupying the remaining space. The building faced an easterly direction, and an attempt was made to utilize the sunlight by having the facade composed of large windows. Brown sorely required a facelift. A petition was posted on a bulletin board demanding at least a coat of paint to lighten up the gloomy interior.

Paul managed to navigate the two blocks staying under storefront canopies. As usual, out of four elevators, three were under repair, and the fourth completely mobbed. He decided to climb the four flights. Paul handed his paper to Professor Florence Grill then took a seat in the second row. The room quickly filled, and the
discussion of
Homer’s Odyssey
continued. Paul watched the sky turn from gray to midnight black. Dr. Grill also noticed the change, deciding that ninety minutes was enough for the day.

“Ladies and gentlemen, if you look to your left, you will see a sight that might depict what the end of the world will look like. The assignment is to read the next five chapters. No matter what the United States Weather Bureau has forecast for today, I suggest you consider going home or wherever you wish to ride out this storm.”

The off-hour dismissal afforded Paul an opportunity to ride an elevator to the ground floor. He checked the student activity bulletin board: The N.Y.U. basketball team was scheduled to play Columbia Friday night at home, one of the biggest basketball games of the season. Ten cents admission. Proceeds to be used for new uniforms. Czech students were to hold a rally against German aggression that afternoon at four.

Paul meandered to the windows at the right side of the main doors. The left windows were plastered with flyers for the student government election. He didn’t know any of those running. The freshman class had a slate of four to pick from—all from the Bronx. They might as well have been from Louisiana. The rain was hard and steady.

It was futile to keep under the awnings on the way back to the Commerce building. Covering his head with his jacket, the wind-driven rain smashed his face. Umbrellas were either turned inside out or ripped out of hands. Roth’s Deli provided refuge from the storm. Intending to buy lunch at the cafeteria, Paul decided to order a corned beef sandwich to go.

With the severe weather, the usual lunch crowd was non-existent. Paul was the only customer. He removed his sopping wet jacket and dried his face with a napkin. From a radio behind the counter, the Andrew Sisters were singing their hit song
B’Mir Mis Du Schoen.
The CBS announcer warned the audience to stay tuned for an important announcement. “That bastard Chamberlain has gone back to Munich to talk to Hitler. The English and the French are selling out the Czechs,” Louis Roth spat.

“Only the other day, the British warned Hitler it would be war if he moved against the Czechs,” Paul said. “How did everything change so fast?”

“It is very simple. The French and English have allowed their armies to turn to shit. Deladier and Chamberlain don’t have the balls to stand up to that Nazi bastard,” Lou said as he wrapped the sandwich in wax paper. “I forgot to ask, do you want a sour or a new pickle.”

“I’ll take the sour,” Paul said, putting his jacket on.

Roth handed Paul the sandwich and pointed to the store’s window. “Be careful.”

Paul placed the sandwich into his book bag and ventured back onto the sidewalk. Violent gales rattled the windows. Finding it almost impossible to walk against the wind, he moved from doorway to doorway between blasts. The seven-minute walk turned into a half-hour. Paul skipped going back to Commerce and proceeded straight to the cafeteria located in the student lounge.

Dave waved from a corner near the Coke machine. “My God, you’re going to get pneumonia.”

“I’ve been taking a leisurely stroll through the park, and I decided to take in the sights from a bench near the arch on Fifth Avenue.” Paul put his bag down and carefully removed the wax paper prize.

Dave’s mouth watered as he inhaled the aroma. He looked down at his jelly sandwich. “You wouldn’t consider sharing some of that precious creation with your good buddy?”

“I risked my life for this sandwich. First, you beg me to tutor math, now you beg for my sandwich. This is starting to become a one sided relationship.”

The other members of the table broke out in laughter. Dave turned to a petite brunette to his left. “Sarah Greenbaum, allow me to introduce my best friend Paul Rothstein.”

Paul looked squarely at Dave then pushed his sandwich to the other side of the table. Dave tore off a quarter. “Don’t push your luck old buddy and eat any more of my lunch,” Paul warned as he left to go to the soda machine.