House Of Ghosts Part 12

Jake opened the door a crack, slipping the weapon out. "First of all, I think we're going to have to let Minnah rest for a day or so. The best thing I can come up with is to put her on the train. Flying back is going to be too risky. They have too many immigration guys at the airport.

The light quickly faded. "How are we going to land in the dark?" Jake nervously asked.

"No problem tough guy." Vinnie began a slow turn to the east, while losing alt.i.tude. The Cessna was under 1,200 feet. The large Florida swamp pines seemed to reach out for the bottom of the plane. Suddenly a lit runway appeared. Vinnie cut the throttle-600 feet, with just a few seconds remaining in the flight. Jake saw the runway lined by cars with their headlamps on. With the slightest b.u.mp, they were on the ground. The Cessna rolled to a stop next to the movable barn.

Jake gently touched Minnah on her knee. She slowly opened her eyes. Realizing the plane had landed, Minnah unlatched her seatbelt. Jake picked up her suitcase and helped her out of the plane. Vinnie's crew quickly surrounded the plane with the plywood camouflage as they climbed into the Cadillac. The plane was hidden before they were out of sight.

"I'm impressed with your flying. If it weren't for you, we would never been able to get her out. I won't forget it."

Vinnie motioned Jake to stop. "I do what my uncle tells me." He turned into his driveway, blowing the horn as he pulled in front of the house.

The double entrance doors flew open with Sarah and Paul bounding down the steps. Unlike Havana, Jake didn't have to pull Minnah from the car. The two girls ran to each other, tears streaming down their cheeks.

Chapter 16.

PRINCETON, NJ MAY 1939 1939.

PRESTON HANDED IN HIS CALCULUS II CALCULUS II final exam. He was the last one finished out of fifty-five. The term was now officially over, but for a last hurdle-checking out of Albert Hall. final exam. He was the last one finished out of fifty-five. The term was now officially over, but for a last hurdle-checking out of Albert Hall.

"Mr. Swedge, I trust the exam was fair," Professor Hans Schmidt said in a tone that translated to I don't want to hear the opposite. Schmidt, by twenty-five, had published ground breaking work. His math acuity equaled his political activism. Schmidt was a frequent partic.i.p.ant in the informal debates that broke out in the campus coffeehouses where he met and befriended Clark Johnson.

Carrying an A average into the lecture that morning, Preston didn't recognize half of the problems. After three hours, he was worn out. "Extremely so."

"Have you decided to accompany Clark?" Schmidt asked, placing Preston's exam booklet on the collected pile. "You'll be missing one heck of time."

"I'm not so sure I want to go, considering what I read in the papers."

Schmidt looked at Preston with a bemused expression. "Open your mind to change. What is happening in the new Germany is the wave of the future. If the climate was so threatening, do you think the International Congress of Mathematics annual meeting would be held in Berlin? Clark and I have made plans to meet. I have family across Germany who are more than thrilled to put us up."

"Did you see the look on Price's face when I handed him the coffee pot?" Clark said, slapping Brent Newman on the back, unable to contain himself.

"Get in the car," Preston yelled through the window of the big touring Packard. Walters, the Swedge chauffer, drummed the steering wheel with his thumbs. They had been waiting fifteen minutes while Clark held court outside Albert Hall.

Brent Newman shook hands with the man voted by the dorm denizens most likely to be found stuffed into a discarded oil drum. "The offer still stands. Come to Charleston and I'll show you real real Southern hospitality." Southern hospitality."

"He can walk to the train. Let's go Let's go," Preston ordered.

Walters released the clutch and eased away from the curb. "Wait!" Clark screamed, running down the walk, hurdling over suitcases and trunks forming an obstacle course to the street. Walters screeched the brakes. "Can I help it if I'm wanted?"

"Like Dillinger," Preston scoffed.

Clark slid onto the plush rear seat and rested his feet on Preston's books. His things were picked up by a freight forwarder that morning for shipment to Michigan. "Try it again, Mr. Walters," Preston said.

The Packard pulled away, the Princeton Gate loomed ahead. With traffic spa.r.s.e on Na.s.sau Street, transversing town was easy. Walters headed north to New York.

"We did it." Clark pulled a silver hip flask from his pocket and unscrewed the top. "We made it through year one." He took a long pull of the Wild Turkey and offered Preston a drink.

"You had had to give Price the coffee pot," Preston said with disgust, shoving Clark's hand away, "and rub his nose in it after I did everything but kiss his a.s.s to get us checked out." to give Price the coffee pot," Preston said with disgust, shoving Clark's hand away, "and rub his nose in it after I did everything but kiss his a.s.s to get us checked out."

Clark took another drink. "Everyone thought it was a riot."

"One day you're going to push somebody too far." Preston closed his eyes.

Pulling all-night study jams resulted in both occupants quickly falling asleep. Midway through the Holland Tunnel, Clark woke with the smell of oil and exhaust in his nose. "Do me a favor Mr. Johnson, wake Mr. Swedge," Walters said, watching Clark in the rear view mirror.

Clark elbowed Preston, who sat up and rubbed the sleep from of his eyes. Walters maneuvered across Houston Street, stopping at a red light on the Bowery. The everlasting effects of the Depression were evident-the homeless population hadn't diminished after nine years. With the warm summer-like weather, the makeshif tent city was overflowing. There was no hope in sight for the apple and pencil sellers.

"Things look the same as they did a year ago," Clark said. "Roosevelt's programs haven't touched this bunch." He rolled the window up as panhandlers approached the car. "Detroit is in the same sad shape. This isn't how it is in Germany. There, the Depression is a memory."

"You forgot to mention Austria and those d.a.m.n annoying Czechs. Absorbing the two countries into the Reich did wonders for their economies. The Czechs will be eternally grateful," Preston quipped.

Walters took a left on First Avenue. Within minutes, the Depression seemed years in the past. Midtown was a boom in progress; the sidewalks were jammed with shoppers toting their purchases. Traffic on 42nd Street near Grand Central Station was the heaviest they encountered. Walters eased the Packard to the curb and removed Clark's luggage from the trunk.

"Well partner, I appreciate the lift. I'll call next week to finalize our arrangements. Remember what I said about handling your old man," Clark said. "Walters, I appreciate the lift."

"I do as ordered, Mr. Johnson," Walters replied curtly, trying to hide his disdain.

The Packard moved away from the station. Walters, employed by the Swedge family since Preston was a year old, was more than a driver to the young Swedge, he was a confidant. Stolen away from his English employer by Herbert on a trip to London, the British ex-patriate brought to New York refined manners and an adherence to protocol. Alone with Preston, the rules were relaxed.

"Robert, I want to ask your opinion. Clark has extended an invitation to join his family on a trip to Germany. I'm wondering how father is going to react?"

"May I speak freely?" Walters asked.

"Of course. We never pull punches with each other."

"Clark Johnson is a fool. Hitler ended unemployment by producing military hardware on an unprecedented scale and slapping every schnook who didn't have a job into the army. Sooner or later, the n.a.z.is are going to run out of money and war will be the only way to sustain their economy," Walters vented. "Why do you want to go?"

"The papers are filled with such conflicting opinions concerning Hitler. I want to see things for myself. Clark has made numerous trips to Germany; he can take me around."

"The young man is woefully misguided. If you were my son..."

"I asked about my father."

"He was talking about you working at the firm. He feels it's time you began your apprenticeship." Walters didn't want to get into the middle of a Swedge family fight. He witnessed too many over the years not to forget to mind his own business. "I would broach the subject very carefully."

Walters stopped in front of 2365 Park Avenue. Albert greeted Preston with a good-natured tap on the arm. "Mr. Swedge, asked me to send you up as soon as you arrived."

For a change, the elevator was unoccupied in the lobby. Preston rode to the tenth floor, fished his key chain from his pocket, and unlocked the door. Sunlight streaming through the windows overlooking Park Avenue brightened an otherwise dark decor. Wednesday was the maid's day off. The only sound in the 4,000 square foot apartment was the violin concerto playing on a 78 rpm recording in Herbert's study.

"You're late. Sit down," Herbert, his speech slightly slurred, commanded from his favorite high wing backed leather chair. A tumbler of scotch was at arms length on the edge of his desk beside a half smoked cigar smoldering in a ma.s.sive crystal ashtray. The day's issue of The Wall Street Journal The Wall Street Journal lay at his feet. lay at his feet.

"It's five o'clock. Princeton isn't around the corner," Preston countered, sitting on an adjoining leather sofa. His father having an afternoon bender was never a good sign. "Where's mother?"

"Spending my money," Herbert said, sipping from his gla.s.s. my money," Herbert said, sipping from his gla.s.s.

Spending money and flitting from one women's club to another filled Bernice's day. Preston was certain his mother wasn't the reason for his father's melancholy. "Tough day?"

"Everyday is tough," Herbert said with a wave of his hand. "When I was your age..." is tough," Herbert said with a wave of his hand. "When I was your age..."

Preston prepared himself for a trip down memory lane. It was going to be a long afternoon. "I know... you declined a chauffeured ride to grammar school, choosing to walk the three blocks."

Herbert puffed on the stogie and examined its glowing tip. "Summers are for kids and you're not a kid anymore."

The time was right to tell his father what was on his mind. "About this summer," Preston hesitated. Clark's admonishment to employ some testicular fort.i.tude and standup to the old man echoed in his ears. "Clark has invited me to accompany him and his father to Germany. They have a spare ticket. Pa.s.sage on the Munich Star Munich Star will be covered." He braced for the patented Herbert Swedge explosion. will be covered." He braced for the patented Herbert Swedge explosion.

Herbert put down his gla.s.s and peered over his reading gla.s.ses. "When?"

"Two weeks from today." Preston looked for the twitch in Herbert's left eye that forewarned he was losing his patience. Nothing. Preston was sure it was the scotch.

"An amazing coincidence," Herbert said, drawing on his cigar. "I booked pa.s.sage today on the Munich Star Munich Star. I have to go to Stuttgart."

"For what?" Preston asked, having the sinking feeling his father would be leading him by the hand around Germany as he did at Niagara Falls when he was five.

"For the past year and a half, the firm has been in discussion with I.G. Farben to finance their new synthetic oil process."

"There's more than enough oil in the world. Why produce a synthetic version?" Preston asked, stretching out on the sofa.

Herbert continued sipping from his gla.s.s. "In the United States, we don't have any such need with the tremendous output from our Texas fields. For the Germans, it would be critical in a time of hostilities. All their oil is imported. A project to produce synthetics on such a scale requires tremendous capital."

"The hostilities would be with Britain and France. Aren't you choosing sides with the devil?" Preston countered.

"It's business, not politics. Besides, the might of France and Britain will change Hitler's mind. His ranting and raving over the Polish corridor is nothing but bl.u.s.ter." Herbert balanced the gla.s.s in his palm. "The research department has just completed a study on the Farben project. You will act as my representative and deliver it to Farben's headquarters in Stuttgart, then have your holiday."

Preston could hardly speak. "What do I know about financing an oil project?"

"You have two weeks and will spend every waking hour learning everything there is to know." Herbert smashed the cigar into the ashtray. "You're a d.a.m.n Princeton man and a Swedge. Make no mistake about this, you will go and do the company justice."

Preston stared at his father. "I'll do it."

"This calls for a toast," Herbert beamed. "Pour yourself a drink."

Preston made his way to the sideboard without hurry and poured a splash of scotch into a tumbler. Herbert raised his gla.s.s. "A new beginning."

Preston let the scotch hit his lips. "By the way, have you seen Millie?"

"You mean the Gardner girl from the third floor?" Herbert coyly asked.

"The one and the same."

"As a matter of fact, I saw her yesterday. If you're not interested in her, you're dumber than I thought."

Walters knocked on Preston's bedroom door. "Mr. Swedge. It is approaching ten o'clock. Your father is waiting in the car."

"Be right down," Preston said, fighting b.u.t.terflies in his stomach, having spent the good part of the morning sitting on the toilet. He picked his leather satchel off the bed and tossed the note from his mother that was under his door when he got up at six into a wastepaper basket. Bernice wished a safe trip. She was off to Connecticut and a women's charity.

Walters waited at the curb, scooting around to the Packard's traffic side to open the rear pa.s.senger door for the newest Sterling Swedge executive. Preston took his place next to his father who was buried behind the first section of the Times Times. Herbert's not leaving for the office before six was unheard of. He folded the paper and placed it into his black leather attache case. "All set?"

"As set as I'll ever be," Preston said unconvincingly.

The trip to the Hudson River pier was less than fifteen minutes. Walters slowed on 11th Avenue, going wide around trucks making deliveries to the mult.i.tude of fruit and vegetable stores. The German line, Hapag-Lloyd, was located between 37th and 38th Streets.

The Munich Star Munich Star lay at anchor, awaiting the final boarding of its nine hundred pa.s.sengers. A festive air surrounded a milling crowd, with balloons tethered to children's wrists and baskets filled with bottles of champagne despite a police presence rivaling Times Square on New Year's Eve. lay at anchor, awaiting the final boarding of its nine hundred pa.s.sengers. A festive air surrounded a milling crowd, with balloons tethered to children's wrists and baskets filled with bottles of champagne despite a police presence rivaling Times Square on New Year's Eve.

"What a waste of the taxpayer's money, having to have the city provide security when a German vessel is in port," Herbert fumed. "Last week, a lunatic tried to throw a gasoline bomb aboard a cargo ship."

Walters deposited Preston's luggage in the designated area stacked with pieces that should have already been loaded on board. Preston and Herbert got out of the car. "Remember what I said about your briefcase," Herbert said.

"Not to leave it out of my sight," Preston replied irritated. "I'll defend the I. G. Farben papers with my life."

"I'm afraid things things are going to be delayed," Walters said on his return. are going to be delayed," Walters said on his return.

In front of the gangway leading to the baggage hold, twenty stevedores armed with baseball bats faced off with the ship's crew. Miss Velma Miss Velma, the tugboat a.s.signed to guide the Munich Star Munich Star down the Hudson, gave three sharp toots of her horn and backed away. down the Hudson, gave three sharp toots of her horn and backed away.

"Those men think they can control international trade. This is becoming the norm when the longsh.o.r.emen deal with German ships," Herbert said, looking at a young and very tall longsh.o.r.eman who appeared to be the ringleader of the slowdown.

"Who's in charge?" Preston asked.

"These Italian gangsters are working on behalf of Roosevelt and Jewish money that backs the Democrats," Herbert fumed. "Jewish firms are furious they've been cut out of the business being conducted between Germany and the United States. If they were making a dollar from the Germans, the German Jew would be sacrificed in a heart beat and no one would give a d.a.m.n."

"Jake, what do you want us to do?" one of the laborers asked the tallest one.

Jake pounded his bat against the dock. "Move it out." A signal was given to the tugboat and the Miss Velma Miss Velma churned the water on her return to the churned the water on her return to the Munich Star Munich Star. The showdown was over.

"Swedge! Over here!" called a familiar voice.

Preston surveyed the ship. Clark Johnson was standing along the rail on the main deck to the left of the bridge. "I'd better be going."

"Remember what I said," Herbert said.

Preston ignored his father, pausing at the base of the gangway to take a look at the large swastika painted on the Munich Star's Munich Star's main smokestack. main smokestack.