House of Ghosts (15 page)

“Let’s go, unless you want to stay and see an old man dribble down his chin.” Johnson turned on his heels and continued walking toward Palmer Square. Shop windows announced the latest spring fashions and reminders not to forget Mothers Day.

Preston doubled-timed to catch up. “Einstein’s a treasure.”

“The
treasure
hasn’t come up with anything new since 1912. He’s a has-been.” Clark stopped. “Did you recognize the men he was with? I guess you didn’t.”

“I have zero idea.”

“Von Newmann and Danofsky, two physicists from Germany. Einstein attracts them like flies to manure. There must be a large arrow on the Atlantic Ocean pointing in the direction of the United States saying, all the unwanted and discarded are welcome. America is that a way.”

Preston wanted to throw the suit at Clark who stopped at a newsstand at the corner where Nassau Street intersected Palmer Square. The square was home to twenty mom and pop stores, the post office, and the Nassau Inn that had been a town fixture since 1756. “I’ll meet up with you,” Clark said. Preston kept walking.

As Preston passed the inn, Clark drew even. He had a newspaper tucked under his right arm, a cigarette between his teeth, and pack of Lucky Strikes in his shirt pocket. They crossed the street.
Breslow’s University Cleaners
was stenciled in gold on the storefront window. Preston tapped Clark on his chest. “Do me a favor, don’t say anything.”

Clark raised his arms in mock surrender, staying right outside the open door. He unfolded the newspaper. The distance from the door to the counter was no more than ten feet. Clean garments hanging on black pipe racks consumed the available floor space. Preston sidestepped a tailor altering a pair of trousers with a foot-powered sewing machine. “How’s my friend Mr. Swedge?” an elderly gentleman said in a heavy German accent, his back in an eternal hunch from years at a sewing machine. An orange tape measure was draped around his neck.

“Mr. Breslow,” Preston hesitated, placing the suit on the counter. “I had a little accident.”

Breslow examined the gray suit. “Mustard!” Looking over his glasses resting
on the tip of his nose, he shook his head in despair. “Mr. Swedge, have you ever heard of a napkin, maybe they should teach its use at the university. Tuesday, the suit will be as spot free as humanly possible.”

Preston thanked Breslow and waited for a woman carrying what appeared to be her entire wardrobe to enter. Clark folded the newspaper and followed him out into the bright sunlight. “Why do you let him talk to you like that?” Clark spat loud enough for Breslow to hear. “I use a cleaner over on South Tulane.”

Preston began walking back to the Balt. “What is this respect crap? The man is at least fifty years older than we are. I don’t think that’s the issue. My father had his clothes cleaned here, and I have told you what his feelings are.”

“I’m impressed by you’re sudden allegiance to your father,” Clark said sarcastically as he skipped along imitating a girl of seven or eight.

“Jerk.”

Clark halted as they approached the post office. “I could use something stronger than a Coke.” 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 passage 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 anticipation 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. Nassau Street had its share of restaurants with liquor licenses, but for those wanting a shot of the hard stuff or a glass 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 glass shaded lamp suspended over the bar where Clark sat alone with the newspaper spread before him. The bartender, busy stacking a supply of glasses, 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
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 upperclassmen, 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 glasses. “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 glasses.

Clark flopped the
Times
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 passengers, all Jews but six on a German ship out of Hamburg, docked in Havana where the Cubans renounced the validity of their visas. The ship was back into international waters.”

John finished stacking glasses, 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. “Nobody wants them. That ship has been known in Washington 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
episode. The Nazis 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 ship 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 Nazi lovers in here,” one of the table’s inhabitants said.

“I’m an observer of the political scene, not a Nazi 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
, 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 documents 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 Nazis.”

“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 bypass 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.”

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 massive forearms and chest stretched the cotton of his T-shirt.

“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.