From London, Murrow reported that Chamberlain proclaimed the pact with Hitler was “a peace with honor, I believe it is peace for our time.”
The room fell into silence as Shaw limped to the kiosk with his coffee cup and shut off the radio. He rested an elbow on the counter. “Mr. Cohen. What do you think about the British and French giving Germany a free hand?”
Staring at the floor, Dave looked up. “Hitler judged the French and the British correctly. They didn’t act two years ago when he occupied the Ruhr.”
“You Americans don’t appreciate the European experience,” a voice from behind them said in a British accent.
Shaw took a sip from his cup as he looked at the tall and lanky Britt with fire engine red hair. “Don’t be a stranger.” He pointed to empty seats on either side of Paul and Dave. “Mr.?”
“Lyle Richardson,” he answered as he gathered a black leather book bag and an expensive looking tweed sport jacket from a bistro table. Richardson loped around the sofa where Paul and Sarah sat and eased into the vacant armchair. “I didn’t mean to interrupt.”
“We welcome your input,” Shaw said. “Please continue.”
“The horror of the Great War is seen in the casualty figures that are in the millions. There isn’t an English town or village that doesn’t have an amputee or a gas victim. In one respect, I understand Mr. Chamberlain’s attempt to avoid military action, but I also hear Mr. Churchill who said today that this is the beginning of the day of reckoning.”
“You…,” Shaw began to say.
“I have one more thing to add,” Richardson interrupted. “You Americans came into the fray after the bulk of the massacre had already taken place. Yes, you took casualties, but you emerged from the war as heroes, the saviors of democracy. War to you is Teddy Roosevelt and his charge up San Juan Hill, a jolly good time. America doesn’t appreciate the other side.”
Shaw banged the cup on the counter. He returned to the sofa. Without a word, he rolled up his right pant leg and removed his artificial limb. A white stump sock covered his knee. Shaw stood the prosthesis on the coffee table. “Belleau Wood—June 1, 1918. My leg and my face. Do you want to go over it again Mr. Richardson, how war is abstract to Americans?”
The embarrassed Englishman didn’t answer. Sarah joined the discussion. “I have a cousin who lives in Hamburg and is pregnant with her first baby. The Nazis have decreed by their Nuremberg Laws what names can be used for Jewish children. The Nazis have made it against the law for Jews to work or own property, dooming the Jewish community to groveling and begging. What a world to bring a child into.” She began to cry and reached into her bag for a handkerchief.
Sarah struck a nerve. Those following the discussion looked away. The lounge took on an eerie silence but for the rain hitting the windows.
Shaw put his prosthesis back on and re-lit his pipe, “Mr. Rothstein, in the month we have been in class, you’ve been almost silent. I have the feeling something is waiting to jump out.”
“Maybe the accounts of Nazi persecution are too remote, coming from over thirty-five hundred miles away,” Paul said, leaning forward on the sofa. “The Japanese have been killing Chinese for years, and what has the United States done? Sell them more scrap iron to make bombs and bullets. I’m afraid that it will take the killing of Americans for the isolationists to pull their collective heads out of the sand.”
Shaw drummed his fingers on the table. “Paul, do you have any idea how the plight of the German Jews can be made tangible for the majority of Americans?”
Paul contemplated the question for a few moments. “I hate to say it, but the fate of the German Jew is out of our hands. They’re finished.”
The driving rain began to slacken as the fast moving storm left the area. It was almost 6:30. Into the lounge walked Jake, wearing the waterproof suit he used on the docks. “Are you ready to come home, little brother?” he asked.
“There’s flooding everywhere. How did you get here?” Paul asked
Jake stood with his hands on his hips. “Yeah, the roads are flooded, but you can get around.”
“Can we give Sarah a lift to the Bronx?” Paul asked.
Jake looked at the shapely co-ed sitting next to his brother. “I bet she’s a Yankee fan,” he said with a wink. “I’ll give her a break on account of the weather.”
Chapter 12
PRINCETON, NJ OCTOBER 1938
THE CAMPUS WAS ABUZZ with the morning announcement of a brokered agreement between the university and the Student Debate Council. Preston’s afternoon composition course ended early, allowing the few minutes walk from the McCosh lecture complex to Whig Hall, where the details of the agreement were being discussed.
Whig Hall housed the American Whig Society and the Cliosophic Society. The two debating clubs formed an alliance and were in discussion with the University Committee for Public Lectures. With the news out of Europe becoming more dramatic every day, the students wanted a say in the selection of outside speakers for the yearly lecture series.
Preston looked for his roommate Clark among the throng outside the building. Clark became active with the Whigs at the beginning of the term. Traditionally, freshmen were treated like children. He had taken the Whig’s position as a personal affront, maintaining he had as much right to be a policymaker as the upper classmen.
Stretching his six-foot, two-inch frame, Preston located his roommate over the crowd. Pushing through the rows, he moved beside him. “So my doubting roommate, what do you have to say now?” Clark asked, grinning like the Cheshire cat. “You declared for the university when we started this fight. It’s lucky you’re not a betting man. This is just the beginning of change in the thinking around here.”
The crowd became impatient waiting for Professor Miles Brown and Thomas Sinclair to come out of Whig. The two emerged twenty minutes later. Brown, carrying a portfolio, raised his right hand in an attempt to gain quiet from the boisterous crowd. “We have concluded our discussions and I’m pleased to announce the inclusion of the debating clubs in the decision making process.”
Taking his cue, Thomas Sinclair stepped forward and addressed his classmates. “Woodrow Wilson introduced the preceptorial system to encourage interaction between faculty and students. This agreement is an outgrowth of his ideas. It is my belief that a new era has been launched with the aim of uniting our campus community.”
A wave of applause descended from the audience, prompting Sinclair and Brown to shake hands and take a bow. As the crowd dispersed, Clark turned to Preston. “A group of us are going to go to the Balt for a bite. Do you want to come along?”
The Balt was the nickname for the Baltimore Dairy Lunch. Located on Nassau Street, it was a popular spot for students and truck drivers. The reasons were simple—it was affordable and open twenty-four hours. “I could use a break from the dining hall. I’ll meet you after I drop my books at the dorm,” Preston said.
Preston walked across Cannon Green where preparations for a Halloween bonfire were underway. Ghosts and goblins hung from trees on the perimeter. Three caskets sat next to a delivery van. As Preston climbed the steps to Albert Hall, raucous laughter spilled through the opened door. The lobby was filled with residents; many were holding their sides. Ellis Price shouted at Brent Newman, “Who’s responsible for this insult? In all my years, I haven’t witnessed such a disrespectful exhibition such as this.” The house manager had shed his well-rehearsed cool demeanor.
Newman attempted to maintain his composure, but his voice became louder with every word. “I told you, I didn’t have anything to do with this. Just because I’m friendly with Swedge and Johnson, doesn’t give you the right to include me in your assumptions. As a Southern gentleman, sir, I am offended and shocked.” Newman’s remarks resulted in another round of laughter at Price’s expense.
With Preston moving to the center of the room, the noise rapidly subsided. Price glowered at him. “Is this your handy work, Mr. Swedge?”
With the movement o
f a matador, Ellis Price whisked the cover off the object of his tirade. A large pumpkin had been painted with his face. Whoever did the art work had produced a masterpiece. An unidentified voice belted from the rear, “Pumpkin Price.”
Preston looked at the pumpkin and then at Price. The sneer of the pumpkin matched Price down to his dimpled chin. Preston began to laugh, and the lobby once again exploded. “While I would like to take credit for the distinctive qualities of the grand squash, I cannot. I have problems with stick figures.”
As Preston climbed the staircase, Price gave him something to take to his room, “I’m a very patient person. One day, you or Johnson is going to make a mistake, and I will be there. We’ll see who has the last laugh.”
Newman walked up with Preston. “Great! Completely great! I didn’t have the faintest idea you could draw.”
“I can’t, and I didn’t do it,” Preston said seriously. “That’s the truth. I’m going to meet Clark at the Balt. Do you want to come?”
They dropped their books in their rooms and met back in the hall. Congratulations were offered to Preston as they went downstairs. Price had removed the evidence. “I bet the pumpkin is locked in a closet,” Preston said.
“Someone better watch his ass. The little shrimp is really mad,” Newman cautioned.
They left the dorm and walked to Witherspoon Street passing through the Fitz Randolph Gateway. In 1905, a local attorney financed the installation of the wrought iron arch in memory of Dean Nathaniel Fitz Randolph. It became the official entrance of the university.
The Balt was always busy, and that day was no exception. Seated at a large table in the rear, were Clark Johnson, Thomas Sinclair, and two members of the Whig society Preston didn’t know. Clark made the introductions, telling Preston and Newman to grab chairs and sit down.
Preston slapped Johnson on the back. “Partner, you’ve totally ingratiated yourself with Ellis Price. The boys of the house have reserved space for you at The Museum of Modern Art.”
Clark smiled at Preston’s remarks. “I don’t have the slightest idea what you’re crediting me for, but if Price is pissed off, then it must be terrific.”
Preston and Newman filled in the details of what had happened. Clark couldn’t contain himself, almost choking on his coffee. Preston couldn’t tell if his protest of innocence was the truth. When dealing with the Detroit native, he had learned to be cautious.
Orange and black Princeton Tiger Halloween decorations hung from ceiling fans, giving the appearance of a pack slowly parading across the ceiling. The table was awash with excitement. The day’s event at Whig Hall provided fuel for thought: what direction was the accord between students and faculty to take?
Thomas Sinclair, bored by the classics of Shakespeare and Milton, suggested a focus on the new age writers. “I want Hemingway, Lawrence, and Rand. I want the alive, not the dead. It’s perfectly fine to study the masters, but the pace of world events behooves us to live for the now.”
The waitress automatically carried five glasses of Coke to the table. The order—five burgers and five fries. She picked up the menus and disappeared behind the stainless steel counter. The order was sent into the kitchen by a basic intercom system; she yelled across the pass-through, “5 and 5”
The short order cook lived up to his title. The waitress was back within seven minutes. “Economic reform is still the overriding issue. The Depression isn’t over, and the South won’t recover without new ideas,” Newman said, opening a catsup bottle. “I’ve read about this fellow John Kenneth Galbraith. He’s new, revolutionary, and dynamic.”
Preston reached for a napkin in a chrome canister. Wiping his mouth, he turned to Clark. “Since you were pushing for this deal, let me hear what’s on your mind.”
Clark sipped on his Coke. “Literature and economics are areas to consider. However, my concern is physics.”
“I haven’t heard you ever say the word physics since I met you,” Preston said. “What in hell are you talking about?”
The seniors stared at Clark, waiting for an explanation. “Preston, do you take everything in the literal sense? My understanding of physics is limited to gravity. All objects exert a gravitational force on other objects. The larger the object, the greater the pull. When is the last time you Knights of the Round Table have looked at the map of the world? The European landmass is larger than the United States. It’s this gravitational effect that I am concerned with. I’m afraid that this country is going to be pulled into another European war. Americans will die in places they can’t even pronounce.”
Tommy Shikiro, a Japanese-American friend of Sinclair, held his hand up to his forehead to emphasize his disbelief. Shikiro flashed an exaggerated toothy smile. “Tell me if I am wrong, but politics isn’t where we want to go. Who are you to think that you can suddenly appear and push this trash down our throats? Maybe we should reconsider freshman participation.”
“Gentlemen, we have to be open to suggestions. That’s what debate is all about,” Sinclair said, trying to be a calming influence.
Peter Thomas, nephew of William Randolph Hearst, was following the family path with a major in journalism. “My uncle has made his feelings felt through his newspapers. I don’t always agree with him, but isolationism is the wave that is flowing across this country. We should consider what Johnson is talking about. Sorry Robert, but I would like to hear him through.”
Shikiro rose from his seat. “I’m not interested in what he has to say, and I’ll fight his political agenda and any others.” He banged seventy-five cents on the table. “That should cover my part of the bill. I have better things to do.”
Clark smirked. “There’s no question that Roosevelt wants to align this country with Britain. The industrialists want to profit from war production, and the Jews try to influence him. The Jewish wing of the Democratic Party places it brethren in Germany above the interests of the United States. Jewish money can buy a sympathetic ear in Washington. Roosevelt is a political animal constantly monitoring which way the wind is blowing. If a strong enough gale can be sent to Washington, he might be made to sit on the sideline. The one person who has the power and the medium to present a case to the American public is Father Charles Coughlin. We should inquire if he is available.”
Hearst finished a bite of his burger. “I agree with keeping the United States out of the next European war, but why bring Coughlin here? The man plays to the fears of his listeners, spewing vicious hatred as he hides behind his cleric’s collar.”
Clark waited for Hearst to finish. “His broadcasts are listened to by at least ten million people on a Sunday, and he receives on the average ten thousand letters everyday. Father Coughlin is a force to be reckoned with.”
Preston checked his watch; the bonfire was about to be lit. They needed to wind up the impromptu meeting. “One thing bothers me about Coughlin. There are people who keep their dislike for Jews and Negroes to themselves. Then they hear Coughlin on Sunday, go to work on Monday, and say as they open their lunch pails, ‘I must be right, the Father thinks the same way.’ ”
Red wisps of the bonfire streamed to the sky. Cheerleaders led the crowd in singing the Tiger fight song, bringing the green alive with cheers of approval. The festivities drew people from Nassau Street, creating a curious mix of Tigers and kids from the Princeton Elementary School down the street. Barrels of apple cider, doughnuts, and candy were available for the taking. Suddenly the tops of the caskets flung open. Screams reverberated off buildings lining the square as ghoulish figures chased the kids, and in an instant, they reversed roles and were chasing the monsters. Monsters and children lay on the ground exhausted.
Clark and Preston decided to return to the dorm. “Whatever you do, keep your temper in check,” Preston warned. “Price is going to start with us the moment we open the door.”
Price was standing by the staircase with his arms crossed as if he had turned to stone. “Do you know where I can buy a good pumpkin pie?” Clark asked. Preston t
ried not to laugh, but one glance at Price, ended what little self-control he had.
Approaching the second floor landing, Price called to them, “Johnson, if it takes a lifetime, I’ll make sure that you curse this day.”
Clark could see Price through the banister. “Let him boil,” Clark whispered.
The doorframe was plastered with notes congratulating Johnson for his great work. He was becoming a legend, not only in the dorm, but also around the campus. Besides listening to Father Coughlin, Clark looked forward to the Mercury Theater of the Air with Orson Welles. He turned his radio on. Instead of Orson Wells, there was a dance band playing.
“What the hell is Ramon Raquello playing Stardust for? Mercury Theater is supposed to be on,” Clark said.
“Maybe there’s trouble with the show, maybe Welles ate himself sick, or maybe you’ve got the wrong station,” Preston said.
Clark fiddled with the dial and returned to the program. “It’s on CBS, this has got to be what’s on.”
An announcer broke in with a news bulletin that a meteorite had crashed not far from Princeton, killing an estimated 1,500 people. “Did you hear an explosion? What’s he talking about?” Clark exclaimed.
They weren’t the only ones to hear the news flash. Pandemonium broke out in the dorm. Residents ran around knocking on doors. When a second bulletin reported the local police had amended the initial report to the object was not a meteor, but a large metal cylinder originating from Mars. The cylinder had opened, releasing creatures armed with death rays.
Panic was everywhere. Clark ran down the steps and out to the green. Armed with shotguns, campus police emerged from the safety office. Barricades were erected to prevent access to campus streets.
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