“What the hell are you talking about? Do you think they only have one crew on a shift? This company provides gas for the entire borough. Relax!” Bernstein said.
Jake eased back into the seat, gazing at the industrial buildings as Bernstein drove toward Bushwick. The traffic had thinned. He checked his watch, 8:55. They were on time to arrive at the Bund just as the festivities were scheduled to begin.
Bernstein turned onto Schaefer and eased the truck into a no parking zone. “A cop wouldn’t bother with a gas company truck.”
“From the looks of the block, I doubt the police patrol it,” Jake said.
The adjacent parking lots were full. Bernstein looked at his young partner and gave him the thumbs up. Jake went to the rear of the truck and removed the toolbox.
A brown shirted goon stood guard at the door. “We’re from the gas company,” Jake announced. “There’s been a report of a gas leak. We have to check the buildings beginning at the head of the main. Which way to the basement?”
“You can’t barge in. Wait here,” the guard said.
They waited on the front steps. A short, fat, gray haired, pseudo Nazi appeared. “I am Fritz Steiner, commander. We didn’t call in a gas leak. You’ve come at the worst time, our meeting is about to start!”
“Listen Mac, the company’s instruments have indicated falling pressure in the main line. If you want to blow up, be my guest,” Bernstein said. He started to walk down the steps to the street.
“No, no, you have to do your job,” Steiner said. “Come inside and I will get someone to take you down to the basement,”
Krause’s Tavern had been transformed into the Munich beer hall where Hitler staged his infamous putsch. The original bar was still being used, and the revelers were lined up three deep. On the wall behind the bar hung a framed picture of Hitler. Bernstein fought to control himself, wanting to grab one of the large Nazi flags and smash the former paperhanger.
Steiner led one of his flunkies to them. “Sergeant Kress will show you the way.”
Kress led them down a narrow hallway and opened the door to the basement. “It looks like you guys have been in a few basements tonight,” he said looking at their filthy overalls. “If you need something, I’ll be down the hall.”
“Günter, we need you up front. Get your accordion,” a voice called down the steps. Kress turned heels and disappeared.
Bernstein led the way, with Jake closing the door behind him. The floor was stacked with kegs of beer. “I would like to take a leak in that,” Bernstein whispered as he pointed to the keg that was hooked up to the taps upstairs.
“Arsenic would be better.” Jake said, carrying the tool chest to the area behind the furnace that was draped in cobwebs.
Bernstein grimaced at the sight, “I hate bugs. If I see a rat, I’m outta here.”
“Don’t worry, all the vermin are upstairs toasting the Führer.” Jake put on his gloves, opened the tool-chest, and handed Bernstein a large open-ended wrench. The noise filtering through the floor made it difficult to hear if someone was coming down the steps. Bernstein positioned himself at the bottom of the stairs, prepared to adjust some bastard’s attitude if necessary.
Jake removed the package marked “fittings.” Tearing the brown Kraft wrapping paper revealed six sticks of dynamite connected to a timer. After turning the power off to the burner, Jake used a wrench to loosen the gas pipe leading to the furnace. He set the timer for eighteen minutes. Bernstein slipped his wrench into the large pocket on the right side of the overalls and climbed the steps. He peeked into the hall. The assembly was in the midst of patriotic songfest. Jake closed the door with his elbow and proceeded toward the front of the building.
Steiner was positioned near the door. “Do you gentlemen want a glass of beer?”
“We’ll take a rain check. We have more stops to make,” Bernstein said. “All the lines checked out. Sorry for any inconvenience we might have caused.”
“I appreciate your concern for our safety. Please come back when your shift is over. The party will really be hot by then,” Steiner said.
As they walked down the front steps, the guard saluted them with a “Seig Heil.”
“You should go inside and warm up. It’s getting a little chilly,” Jake said.
Holding their breaths, they waited for the truck’s engine to start. “I’m getting too old for shit like this,” Bernstein said as he pulled away. “I hope that putz takes your advice and goes inside.”
“I can’t get over the fact these people have the balls to parade around in their Nazi uniforms, doing their “Seig Heil” routine, and wish this was Bavaria,” Jake said. ”Where in the hell did they get that picture of Hitler hanging over the bar? I wonder if they have one hanging over the toilet.”
Bernstein slowly drove past the Bund hall. The guard at the door gave them a final Nazi salute. The truck turned on Knickerbocker Avenue. Bernstein watched for any tails. He hadn’t observed anything out of the ordinary, and proceeded to Madison to rendezvous with Feinberg.
Bernstein parked beside the black Oldsmobile. Feinberg rolled down his window. “In five minutes, our German friends will be taking a trip to Valhalla. Everything went smooth as glass,” Jake said. Bernstein made a U-turn to face in the direction of the expected explosion.
Jake checked his watch. One minute. “Bill, I know those bastards deserve what is about to happen, but in a way, I have mixed emotions. This is the start of something that is going to get real ugly.”
Bernstein gave him a look like he would do to his son. “Jake, we didn’t start this war. These goons look up to a madman. They’ve declared an open hunting season on our people. I’m just a common man, but I know you can’t close your eyes and make a wish that they won’t be here anymore. Vermin must be removed. We volunteered for the job.”
The black sky suddenly turned to orange-red as a fireball ascended two blocks away. Bernstein drove away, not waiting for Feinberg. Within minutes, the wails of sirens converged in the direction of Schaefer Street. Bernstein turned toward Jake. “Your goombas at the docks provide good equipment. Make sure you tell them how much we appreciate their help. Demolition isn’t taught in Hebrew school.”
Chapter 14
PRINCETON, NJ MAY 1939
WARM WEATHER USHERED IN THE FINAL weeks of freshman year. For Preston, the pressure of round-the-clock work was a relief compared to the previous ten days at 2365 Park Avenue, New York City.
Preston had contemplated traveling with Clark to Detroit for spring recess. However, spending a week with disciples of Father Charles Coughlin bordered on the profane. There wasn’t a viable alternative; Preston went home.
Preston didn’t expect to be welcomed home as a conquering hero, but being greeted by the doorman with a note from his mother wasn’t something he expected either. Tearing the flap open, he removed a lilac scented card. Her choice of stationary caused him considerable consternation at the dorm. His fellow residents couldn’t contain their curiosities concerning a possible girlfriend. When they realized the notes were from his mother, Preston was in for the ribbing of his short collegiate life.
He read the note, placed it into the pocket of his gray suit jacket, and proceeded to the elevator bank mildly amused. The original plans called for the chauffeur to drive from the city and take him home. His mother called the day before to say that the car was in the garage with some sort of problem she didn’t understand. Would he be a love and take the train?
“Excuse me, do you know a Preston Swedge?” a female voice asked. “I understand he lives in this building.”
Preston didn’t turn his head— Millie Gardner, apartment 3B. “How is the Smith whiz bang?”
“Where do you come off not finding time for me on Thanksgiving and Christmas?” She set her packages on the marble floor.
Preston and Millie had been friends since they were ten-years-old. “I’m sorry,” Preston said, taking her hand. “My father can turn a holiday into my personal hell. I d
read these visits, but a bit of news was delivered that’s like a stay of execution from the governor.” The elevator was holding on the ninth floor. “I busted my butt to get here and a note left with the doorman informs me my parents have departed for Connecticut and will return on Sunday.”
Millie looked at him sorrowfully. “Come for dinner. My parents would be thrilled.”
The elevator finally hit the lobby. Preston held Millie’s things, as she pressed number three. “I hope that your mother won’t be put out,” he said. The elevator car lurched to a stop. “Dinner is at six, but I know my parents would like to spend some time with you, and so would I. Come at five,” Millie said enthusiastically. “One other thing, give me the grocery bags!”
The door banged the wall, snapping Preston out of his daydream. “Partner, I’m beginning to crack up like this plaster wall. Let’s go out,” Clark said, plowing into Preston’s bedroom.
Preston, sitting with his feet propped on the desk, put down his economics book. “As long as we’re going out, I need to drop off a suit at the cleaners in Palmer Square.” He crossed the room and removed the garment from the bottom of his closet.
“We might as well stop at the Balt on the way back. All this mental exercise has increased my appetite,” Clark said.
The dorm was deathly quiet. Its occupants were either ensconced in the library or in their rooms. The denizens of Albert Hall suspended the normal mania for the duration of the term. The tension of exams expanded like steam in a boiler. If Clark was building up his appetite, then Preston was moving in the opposite direction. He had passed on breakfast and elected to stay in his room. His stomach had become a sea of semi-solid Jell-O.
Moving quickly down the steps, they entered the deserted foyer. The scent of viciousness hung in the air, but Ellis Price was nowhere to be seen nor was Preston’s copy of the Times. “Hold up a minute while I look behind the desk for my paper.” He came up empty.
“I’ll buy you a paper when I get a pack of cigarettes,” Clark said, snickering like a kid trying to keep a secret. Preston wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of asking what was so funny.
The shackles of winter had been removed with foliage of every description sprouting throughout the campus. A gentle breeze blew as they walked toward Witherspoon Street. Crowded outside the Balt, a group of elementary school students pressed toward the store’s windows. Preston understood the reason upon seeing Albert Einstein. After emigrating from Germany to Princeton in 1933, the professor became a celebrity whenever around town. Buying ice cream drew attention.
This was the first time Preston had been close to the legend. It was amazing to see him interact with the young children as the assembly consumed their frozen treats. With flowing gray hair resting on the top roll of his ever-present turtleneck sweater, Einstein demonstrated his technique for preventing melting ice cream running down the cone. Someone in the crowd asked if that was a law of physics. He laughed and said that he had been researching the topic for years and wasn’t sure.
“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.”
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