Sarah came into the kitchen and pulled up a chair. She turned down Jake’s offer of a plate of eggs. “I don’t normally eat at such an early hour,” she nervously explained.
Jake recognized the symptoms. “Last night, I didn’t ask if you’ve ever been on a plane.” She shook her head no. “Paul’s in the same situation, but he’s following my suggestion to get something into his stomach. Flying is no big deal. You’re going to love it.” He handed her a piece of toast.
Sarah forced half a slice and a sip of water. A horn blew. Jake pushed the curtains aside, seeing Nicky’s Buick. “Paulie, grab the bags.” He turned to his mother. “If you get into a bind with Pop, call Nicky. I’ll fill him in on what’s going on.”
Nicky rested against the fender, calmly manicuring his fingernails. The trunk was open. “Vinnie got a couple of Cubans to fuck things up on the dock. It should buy an extra twelve hours.”
“My father is giving my mother fits and I told her to call you if she gets into a pickle. The only option is to put him in Kings County Hospital. I don’t think we will be able to keep him home much longer.”
“Just get down to Havana, do your thing, and get home. Don’t worry about Abe. If necessary, I’ll take him over to Pleasant View, a rest home owned by Tommy.”
The trip to the airport was rapid. A silver DC-3 capable of seating 21 passengers, three flight crewmembers, and two cabin stewards sat one hundred yards from the gate. Jake became antsy. They were behind schedule and every minute counted for his four o’clock meeting in Havana.
Finally, at 7:30, an announcement was made to begin boarding. Jake led the way turning to see that Sarah was lagging behind. Allowing Paul to proceed ahead, he waited for the girl who talked a good game but her body language showed her true feelings. “Come on, it’s like going to Coney Island, just a different kind of ride,” he said, trying to build up her confidence.
“That’s the problem. I can’t stand those Coney Island rides. The roller coaster makes me sick. I get ill just thinking about going on the plane.”
She stood frozen at the bottom of the roll-a-way steps. Not hesitating, Jake lifted Sarah over his shoulder, fighting to control the kicking one hundred fifteen pounds. The DC-3 was configured with two seats on either side of an aisle. Jake deposited her next to Paul in the forward section. For Jake, the trip was going to be one for the books. He sat across the aisle.
Sarah looked out the window as the plane accelerated down the runway. The sight of the city seemed to ease her anxiety as the plane banked over the Statue of Liberty and began climbing. Paul propped a pillow under Sarah’s head and after a few minutes she fell asleep. “If she gets up, try to give her some of this,” Jake said, handing Paul a hip flask.
The flight plan consisted of three segments: Washington, D.C.; Atlanta; and Miami. With the DC-3 cruising at 170 mph, flying time to Washington D.C. was 1 hour and 15 minutes. The descent into Washington caused Sarah to complain about her ears. Jake passed her some chewing gum and told her to make believe she was a Golden Guernsey. They had twenty minutes to stretch their legs in the terminal.
Jake placed a collect call to Vinnie in Miami who was surprised to hear Jake’s voice. “Goomba, where are you? It ain’t possible that you’re here already.” Vinnie had a way with words.
“I just landed in D.C. Anything change?”
“The people on the ship are beginning to go crazy. This morning, one of my people in Havana told me a guy slit his wrists and jumped overboard. They fished him out of the harbor and patched him up in the local hospital. I guess the guy would rather die in Cuba than be sent back to Germany. The Cubans are getting real itchy. They don’t want any more Jews getting off. Jake, I don’t know how much longer we can stall them.”
“I’ll call from Atlanta. Make sure that the boat is ready to go as soon as I arrive.” Jake hung up. He did what he normally wouldn’t have done, bum a cigarette from a sailor waiting to use the phone. For whatever reason, the smoke helped settle his nerves. Jake picked up the Sunday edition of The Washington Post from a newsstand.
The lead article was President Roosevelt’s message to the National Meeting of Moral Rearmament. Roosevelt said, “The underlying strength of the world must consist in the moral fiber of her citizens.” Nowhere was there a mention of any arrangements being considered for passengers of the St. Louis to enter the United States. A State Department spokesman insisted that immigration quotas were to be upheld.
The article exposed an ugly blood money scheme: the president of Cuba demanded $500 per passenger to allow disembarkation. New York attorney Lawrence Berenson, representing the American Jewish Joint Distribution Committee, pleaded for time to raise the required half million dollars.
Jake tossed the paper into a trashcan. Paul and Sarah had already reboarded the plane and didn’t need additional bad news. He climbed the steps, paused to look at the outline of the Capitol building, and questioned how the members of the august body could disregard the plight of the passengers on the St. Louis.
The white sand of Miami’s famed beaches came into view as the plane followed the coastline. Finally, they were on the ground. A pudgy, balding, five-foot-five gnome rested against a chain-link fence near the terminal entrance. “That can’t be the famous Vinnie,” Sarah said incredulously. “He’s the most important guy down here?”
Jake didn’t laugh at her remarks. Vinnie was more important than she would ever know. Vinnie Sapienza, cousin to the boss, looked like an accountant. However, the only accounts that he kept were how many heads he smashed.
“It’s been a long time no see,” Vinnie said, placing Jake in a bear hug. “Must be your brother and the cousin of the dame who’s causing all this business.”
“The party responsible for this mess is in Berlin,” Jake corrected. “Sarah’s cousin is caught in a business deal.”
Paul picked their bags from the luggage cart. Vinnie led the way to his car left in a no-parking zone and opened the trunk of the black Cadillac. “I got my place fixed up. You two should be real comfortable,” Vinnie said in a distinctive Brooklyn accent despite living in Florida for almost twenty years.
Vinnie gunned the big engine and peeled away from the airport. The five mile trip brought the sights of majestic estates built prior to the stock market crash of 1929. Many were abandoned and had fallen into disrepair. Those with cash were able to purchase properties at bargain prices. Vinnie had the resources and a knack for buying low and selling high as the real estate market rebounded. “I just had a pool put in,” he said as he drove through a twelve foot high security gate that led to a circular drive way. It appeared nothing had been withheld when Vinnie constructed the house.
Vinnie’s household help was waiting to receive his guests. “We don’t have time for any mushy goodbyes. Jake, get your ass back in the car, we have a half an hour drive to the plane.”
Jake incredulously looked at his host. “What are you talking about? You were supposed to get us a speedboat.”
“Get in the car, and I’ll fill you in,” Vinnie ordered.
Jake leaned out of the window. “Paulie, call home and take care of Sarah.”
“Since when have you become a mother hen? If those two had any brains, they would use the time to study anatomy.” Vinnie wiped the sweat off his face with a handkerchief retrieved from a back pocket. “I’ve been down here a long time, you’d think I’d be used to the stinking humidity.”
“Never mind the weather report. When did the plans change? You could have told me before we were ready to go,” Jake protested.
“I didn’t see the point in scaring the shit out of the kids. The fucking Cubans are turning the screws. We don’t have the time to take a boat. If we get the broad off the ship, I have a feeling we’re going to need to get away from the island in a hurry.”
“Where’s the plane?” Jake asked. “There isn’t a private airstrip around.”
A breeze whipped into the speeding car evaporating sweat from their shirts. “You
gone mush in the brain or something? The Feds are always watching us, just waiting to make a bust. Hoover’s morons couldn’t find the planes I use to bring in goods if they stood next to them. We’ll be at the strip in a few minutes.”
Jake didn’t have to ask what goods meant. Dope was a new addition to Vinnie’s menu of prostitution, loan sharking, and gambling.
Vinnie pulled off the highway onto a narrow unpaved road. Between clouds of dust, Jake could see they were headed toward a dilapidated house that was straight out of the newly released movie Gone With The Wind. Vinnie slowed the Cadillac, inching across a wooden bridge spanning a creek almost dry from the sweltering sun. An alligator rested in the shade of a Palmetto tree. Vinnie drove behind a ramshackle barn onto a perfectly level grass field and stopped at a hay pile. Jake didn’t see a plane anywhere.
“Come on and give me a hand clearing this stuff out of the way.” Vinnie said. The hay was glued onto plywood, which they quickly removed revealing a blue Cessna. The usual identifying markings were missing from the fuselage.
Jake was no math whiz—there were only four seats. If they had to fly Minnah out of Havana, they would require a fifth seat. “Where’s the pilot, if I’m not too pushy,” he said, wiping his brow. The sun was like fire.
“I’ll give you three guesses who the pilot is, and the first twenty don’t count.”
Jake suddenly had a gnawing knot in his stomach. The ex-Brooklynite was the person he was about to trust his life to. “How long have you had a pilot’s license?”
“Who said I have a license. Relax, I’ve been flying for almost eighteen years. I’ll start the engine and taxi away from this pile of crap. You drive the car into its place and replace the hay,” Vinnie said, climbing into the pilot’s seat. “I have to go over the plane before we get going. I may look like a schlep, but I want to get back here in one piece like you.”
Jake climbed in and buckled up. Vinnie finished checking the gauges and released the brake. He increased the throttle. The plane turned into the sultry breeze. Moving along the grass at 50 mph, Vinnie pulled back on the stick and they were airborne, beginning a slow bank toward the southwest.
Under other circumstances, it would have been a beautiful day for sightseeing. Jake tried to relax. “Isn’t it customary for a plane to have ID numbers, like plates on a car?”
Vinnie laughed. “The Cubans don’t give two shits about who or what flies onto the island. The good old Yankee dollar is all the ID you need. I fly down almost twice a week. A little business, a little pleasure. We’re going to land at the main airport where my man Cesar will be waiting. He’ll take us to President Laredo Bru. I assume General Flogenico Batista will also be present. If I had to pick the guy to take out Bru, Batista would be the one. He’ll be the power broker some day.”
Jake, surprised by the turbulence on a clear day, became sick to his stomach. “How much longer? I’ve been flying too many hours, it’s starting to get to me.”
“If you have to puke, get it into the bag,” Vinnie said, handing Jake an air-sickness bag. “To answer your question, we’ll be on the ground in about five minutes. Look to your right, that’s Cuba.”
Vinnie was on the radio communicating with the control tower. Jake didn’t understand a word of Spanish. Vinnie cut back the throttle, proceeded to make a slow bank to the left, and then squared to the runway. He cut the throttle completely, gliding the Cessna onto the runway with a gentle thud. Vinnie taxied to an area of the field separated from the main terminal by a row of ramshackle huts.
Two men were waiting on the tarmac, one in a tan suit, the other wearing grease-stained overalls. Jake assumed the suit was Cesar. As soon as Vinnie killed the engine, the wheels were choked, and the overalls walked quickly away.
The tan suit advanced toward the Cessna. Vinnie didn’t introduce Jake. “You got everything set like we discussed this morning?”
“Señor Vinnie, please be assured we are expected at Batista’s office by 4:00,” Cesar responded in a subservient manner.
A Chevrolet sedan waited behind the building. The salty sea air wasn’t kind to metal; the car had more rust on it than a fourteen day old Brillo pad. Vinnie scowled, “What do you mean we’re going to Batista? You told me that we were set for Bru. What’s going on?”
Cesar knew he was treading on very thin tropical ice. “Batista is the guy running the show with this ship. Bru, I don’t know what he’s up to. You can be sure they will share any money extorted from your associate. There was nothing I could do.”
Vinnie put his arm on Cesar’s shoulder and gave him a pat. “Take it easy. I know how these bastards work.”
Cesar took the wheel advising his boss to use the right rear door, as the passenger door up front and the rear left couldn’t be opened. Jake hadn’t uttered a word since landing. He was out of his element and knew it. Vinnie was running the show. “You couldn’t find a bigger piece of shit on the island if you tried,” Vinnie fumed. “I’m embarrassed to be seen in this, no less go to the presidential building.”
Cesar maneuvered out of the airport. The road to Havana was lined with thick tropical vegetation. Palm trees gently swayed in the sea breeze. Jake thought he would pass out from the heat. Cesar opened a cooler filled with ice and bottles of Coca-Cola. He handed two bottles to his passengers. “Thanks for saving my life,” Jake said.
”Why are you thanking him? I pay him to take care of the details,” Vinnie pointed out. “Down here, a cold drink is one of the details. You’re my man, ain’t that right Cesar?” Cesar nodded his head in agreement.
Havana was a prime tourist attraction with beautiful beaches and bountiful nightlife. Cesar had the map of the city in his head, changing directions constantly to avoid traffic jams that seemingly were on every street. He pulled up in front of the central government building. The structure was a mini replica of the Capitol in Washington, D.C.
“Wait for us to come out. If we can make a deal, we’ll be going to the ship in Batista’s car. Follow us. We’ll need to get away from the ship as fast as we can,” Vinnie said.
Vinnie spoke Spanish to a sentry who checked a clipboard. “This shithead is going to make us wait. He wants us to get good and hot, then put the muscle to us. He speaks English very well, but may use Spanish to intimidate you. He gets a kick out of busting balls, let me deal with him. They never get it through their ears that haggling is a New York tradition and that we never lose.”
Vinnie took out a pack of Pall Malls offering one to Jake. “You act like the weight of the world is on your shoulders. If this piece of shit senses you’re in a desperate way, he’s going to squeeze you dry.” Vinnie struck a match. “We’ll use your moniker Ted Steele, sounds better than Jacob Rothstein. Here comes the messenger boy.”
This time the guard spoke English telling them to follow him to the general’s office. The building was deceiving; one expected an immense structure from its outside appearance. However, the inside was a maze of narrow corridors. For the seat of power, it was deathly quiet. Their footsteps echoed off the tiled floor. A sergeant stood guard at Batista’s office. Seated behind an immense hand carved mahogany desk sat the general, resplendent in a white uniform with gold brocade and a wall of medals adorning his chest. Batista stood, motioning them to two chairs in front of the desk.
“General, it is indeed a pleasure to see you again. On behalf of my uncle, I want to thank you for giving us your valuable time. I know that my associate Mr. Steele shares my sentiments,” Vinnie said.
“I’m fully aware of the purpose of your visit,” Batista said in impeccable English. “Time is of the essence since the St. Louis has been ordered out of port by five o’clock. It is now nearly four, so let’s get down to business.”
Vinnie started to speak, but was waved off by Batista. “The girl on the ship is a concern of Mr. Steele am I not right? How much are you prepared to donate to the Cuban treasury?”
Jake looked over to Vinnie, who turned to the window. “The New York Times sa
id your government was demanding five hundred per head. As a show of appreciation, I am prepared to donate one thousand.”
Batista laughed as he swiveled in his high-backed chair. “I think four thousand would be greatly appreciated for this delicate situation.”
“General, the best that I can do is three thousand.” Jake paused. “My people in New York would also appreciate your help.”
Batista’s mulled over the offer. It was six times what a Jew was worth. Besides, he really couldn’t afford to get the North Americans angry. “My government will graciously accept your donation.” He put on his army dress hat. “We go over to the harbor.”
Jake and Vinnie followed a few feet behind. They exited the building through a side door where a new Cadillac was waiting. The driver stood at attention and opened the opened right rear door for Batista.
The Cadillac moved away from the presidential building and proceeded to pick up speed. Vinnie turned around to look out the rear window to see if Cesar was in step. Batista laughed at the sight of the pile of rust on wheels. “Do you fellows plan to spend any time with us after we pick up our guest at the ship? It would be a pity if you didn’t take in the wonderful evening delights.”
“We would like it very much, but I have pressing business back in Miami. You understand how difficult it is to leave things to underlings,” Vinnie said.
Batista grunted in agreement. The Cadillac approached the waterfront where troops out numbered the passengers on the ship. The scene was surreal. Jake tried to imagine what it was like at night with searchlights bathing the water, daring the desperate to swim to freedom. Added to the mix were relatives of the passengers and representatives from various Jewish agencies who had traveled from the United States to escort the immigrants to freedom. The discourse between those on the ship and the pier produced a buzz from a giant beehive.
The attention of the crowd was drawn toward the approaching Cadillac, causing the troops to spring into action. The Cuban militia not needing an excuse to pummel anyone near the ship quickly cleared a path.
House of Ghosts Page 14