House Of Ghosts Part 15

Jake turned to a line of police attempting to corral a dozen protestors. "Which one?"

"Not there!" Abramowitz struggled to his feet. "The one standing by himself in front of Woolworth's."

In the entrance of F. W. Woolworth stood a husky cop smacking his nightstick against the palm of his hand. As Jake watched Abramowitz's a.s.sailant, Paul approached from the opposite side of the street.

"We've got big trouble," Paul said.

Jake whirled around and grabbed his brother by the neck. "What are you doing here? You were a.s.signed to watch Fifty-first."

"Two guys got flattened by debris from the explosion," Paul said as he tried to loosen Jake's vice-like grip. "I got a good look at them as they pa.s.sed me on the corner. I'd swear on mom's life they're the two schmucks from Princeton."

Jake let go. "Alive or dead?"

"I don't know," Paul said, trying to rub the sting from his neck. "Two cops were clearing bricks and gla.s.s off of them. Another was calling for an ambulance on the car radio."

"If they're taken to the hospital and not the morgue, Bellevue will be the place," Abramowitz said. "I'll call my cousin." His cousin was a second year medical resident on emergency room rotation and a member of the Faction.

"Get out of here now. Paulie, drag him if you have to." Jake ordered.

Paul supported Abramowitz under the arm and moved off. To Jake's relief, one of Leon Birkhead's legions offered to help. He watched the trio make their way toward Seventh Avenue. The commander of the Faction had a knot in his stomach-even though he didn't give a d.a.m.n whether the two Princeton schmucks were dead, the fallout was going to be brutal. With the Swedge kid's father being a heavy hitter on Wall Street, the N.Y.P.D. response to the explosion was going to be greater than if Al Capone returned to the city to set up shop. Maybe old man Katz was correct, they should've greased Lindbergh.

Jake took two strides toward Woolworth's as he lined up his target. Running like a linebacker straight at the cop he yelled, "Officer, you gotta help me."

As the unsuspecting policeman turned, Jake's bra.s.s knuckles found his nose.

Chapter 19.

BROOKLYN, NY DECEMBER 1941 1941.

THE FACTION'S EXECUTIVE COMMITTEE drifted into the back room of Katz's. Jake watched as they removed their coats and gloves. Kibitzing Kibitzing wasn't on their minds. The prior twenty-four hours had pa.s.sed in a blur. The country was rallying around Franklin Roosevelt whose voice came through their radios with words they understood. Nine years before, he calmed them with his fireside chats as the Depression ripped their lives apart believing when he said "that they had nothing to fear but fear itself." wasn't on their minds. The prior twenty-four hours had pa.s.sed in a blur. The country was rallying around Franklin Roosevelt whose voice came through their radios with words they understood. Nine years before, he calmed them with his fireside chats as the Depression ripped their lives apart believing when he said "that they had nothing to fear but fear itself."

This day Roosevelt didn't speak from the cozy environs of the White House and tell the nation that all would be alright. The president appeared before the combined houses of Congress declaring "December 7, 1941 a day that would live in infamy" following the j.a.panese attack on Pearl Harbor. He warned the country was facing grave danger and the military had suffered innumerable casualties, but stated without hesitation that the United States would "win with absolute victory."

"The j.a.panese are attacking Malaya, Hong Kong, Guam, the Philippines, Wake Island, and Midway Island. There are reports of American ships being torpedoed between San Francisco and Honolulu," a somber CBS staff newsman recapped the disastrous news.

"Turn it off," Jake said. Sheldon Abramowitz reached behind him and switched off the Philco.

"My cousin's kid was on the Arizona," Sam Bernstein said. "He sent me a picture of the battle wagon at anchor in Honolulu. Crazy kid. Who ever heard of a Jewish boy joining the navy?"

"In a couple of days, the n.a.z.is are going to declare war on us because of the pact they have with the j.a.ps," Sheldon offered.

Harold Katz wandered into the room with a tray of cups in one hand and a pot of coffee in the other. A bowl of sugar cubes was in the middle of table. "Help yourselves," he said and wearily took a seat.

All eyes turned to Jake. "I've called this meeting to address what Sheldon said, the Germans are going to declare war on the United States and Roosevelt is going focus on Europe." He poured a cup of coffee.

"I don't know about that," Moe Feinberg said, lighting a cigarette. The b.u.t.t dangled from his lower lip. "The j.a.ps are running through the Pacific like s.h.i.t through a goose. The country is mad as h.e.l.l and wants to kill every yellow b.a.s.t.a.r.d."

Jake took a sip. "When the first bomb fell on Hawaii, the isolationists went kaput. Roosevelt doesn't have to kiss a.s.s anymore. Without direct intervention by the United States, the Brits are going to lose and Hitler will control Europe."

Paul waved at the smoke drifting into his face from Feinberg's cigarette. "That being said, the Faction's mission is over. The Bund and every other fascist organization have been smashed. Now Jews can't be blamed for the United States entering the war. The draft is going to call every Jew and Gentile able to walk. We're in this fight together."

Bernie Hershkowitz stuck his hand out toward Feinberg. "Give an old man a cigarette," he said in his thick Polish accent. Feinberg tossed him a Pall Mall which was immediately rolled under his nose that bore the results of numerous fights. Hershkowitz savored the aroma before he struck a match. "Nothings changed for our brothers in Poland and all the countries the n.a.z.is have taken. They're rounding Jews up by the thousands."

Jake pounded on the table. "The Faction was conceived to protect our own in this country. Now that the threat has pa.s.sed, we move on to phase two." The room grew silent waiting for Jake to continue. "With the right connections, members can be placed into positions inside the military chain of command. Right now, the top levels of our government don't have European Jews on the top of their list, and I doubt they ever will. I'm not sure where the placement of Faction members will lead. It's not a question of if, but when opportunity will show its face. When it does, we better be in position to take advantage."

Sam Bernstein, pale and twenty pounds thinner since suffering a "mild" heart attack the night he a.s.sisted Jake placing explosives in the Brooklyn Bund spoke up, "Chicago and Cleveland have to be included."

Jake pushed his cup away. "I spoke to them this morning."

Harold Katz nervously wiped his hands on a towel tucked into his pants that served as an ap.r.o.n. He cleared his throat. "Who wants a piece of cake?"

Jake subscribed to the theory that morals and decency always take a back seat to the smell of dollars. He slipped an envelope into his woolen parka and waited in the hall of the family's apartment, listening for footsteps on the cranky wood floor. It had been another long night with his father. The thought of dealing with what the doctors called hardening of the arteries made Jake sick to his stomach.

Paul stayed overnight in the Bronx, having been caught in a heavy December snow the paper forecasted to be nothing more than a flurry. Jake, once jealous of his younger brother who had found the girl of his dreams, now worried about the couple. The draft was going take them apart and one never knew what fate had in store. He carefully closed the door and made his way down the stairs to the street.

Wind gusts whipped the coa.r.s.e snow into his eyes. A handful of cars made their way along Flatbush Avenue with their tire chains cracking against the pavement. The normal morning shoppers out for their papers and hot bagels were extra light for a Sunday morning. Jake crossed the street stopping to see Hymie Blankstein the Kosher butcher. What could Jake say to console a man who received a postcard from his sister who wrote a mere six lines saying she and her family had been relocated to a place called Auschwitz?

Jake shook Hymie's hand and made his way to the corner, stepping into the doorway of Solomon's Pharmacy to get out of the stiff wind. Across the street, a sign in a storefront window read, "Congressman Benjamin Goodman-11th United States Congressional District." The window and its gla.s.s door were obscured by white curtains that reminded Jake of the linings of expensive caskets he had seen when attending the wakes of a.s.sociates who lost their lives working both for and against his boss. A steady stream of women wearing babushkas and men braving the elements in their best clothes meant for the synagogue came and went.

Jake waited for a sanitation truck outfitted with a plow to pa.s.s down the middle of the avenue. Careful not to slip on the icy pavement, Jake crossed and knocked off the clumped snow on his shoes against a lamp post.

A bra.s.s bell tinkled as he opened the door. The twenty-by-twenty waiting room consisted of wood benches, a receptionist's window, an American flag, and a photo of the man every Democratic politician wanted to be identified with- President Franklin Roosevelt.

Jake wrote his name on a sheet of paper handed to him by the receptionist. The audience with the twelve term congressman was on a first come first served basis. Jake took off his coat and sat on the windowsill of the storefront window. German, Polish, Hungarian, and Yiddish flowed in a current circulating around the room. Nods and fingers touching hat brims were sent Jake's way. Growing up in the neighborhood brought Jake into contact with hundreds he knew by sight. They had one thing in common; their worries were stamped on their weathered faces.

Benjamin Goodman catered to his const.i.tuency. An ad in the Yiddish daily announced the congressman was back in the district, and his office would be open eight to twelve Sunday morning. The working stiff and the Shabbos Shabbos observant were the ones who couldn't make it during regular business hours and had trekked through the snow to see their Benny, a self-made man who went to college and law school at night while working in the garment district during the day. observant were the ones who couldn't make it during regular business hours and had trekked through the snow to see their Benny, a self-made man who went to college and law school at night while working in the garment district during the day.

For an hour and a half, Jake watched the hopefuls enter Goodman's inner sanctum with tense smiles to return to the waiting room with tears streaming down their cheeks. Jake looked away, not wanting to intrude on their mourning. They came to Goodman knowing that the possibility of obtaining a visa to the United States for their European family members was futile, but doing nothing would result in living a lifetime of self-flagellation for not trying.

"Mr. Rothstein, you can go in," announced the receptionist.

Jake entered the rear area that had been part.i.tioned into three small cubicles with furniture that looked like it was purchased from the second hand store three blocks away. Directly ahead was the congressman's office. Goodman, at five foot five, was as tall as he was wide. Sans suit jacket, a gray vest covered a white shirt and navy blue tie. Sleeves were rolled at the cuffs giving the appearance of a man hard at work. Goodman's cherubic face turned oatmeal pasty as Jake, with his coat slung over his shoulder, came into view.

"What are you doing here?" Goodman asked. "I did what Bavosa wanted. It was a one shot deal."

When Tommy Bavosa ran into resistance in his bid to land a government contract with the Navy, Goodman was approached. As the ranking member on the appropriations committee for the War Department, Goodman could put in "the word." When he resisted, a picture of the very drunk congressman with a woman not his wife, changed his mind. Jake had accompanied Bavosa to the meeting held in a motel in Westchester. The idea of a hulking Jew intimidating another Jew wasn't lost on Tommy the Corkscrew. "Take it easy, congressman. This visit is personal."

Goodman took a deep breath and reluctantly ushered Jake into his office. "Have a seat," Goodman said, sitting at his desk. The diminutive congressman wiped his forehead with a monogrammed handkerchief retrieved from his back pocket.

In contrast to the cubicles, Goodman's office was outfitted with a mahogany desk and leather chairs. Civic awards, diplomas, and photos that captured his political life filled the walls. Framed pictures of his wife and three daughters were displayed on his desk.

Joe took a seat and placed his coat on the adjacent chair. "I wouldn't have come to see you, but I don't know where else to turn."

Goodman puffed out his chest and looked up to the ceiling. "The man upstairs couldn't get another soul into the country." He removed a gold cigarette case from the center drawer of the desk and flicked a matching lighter. Smoke trailed from his lips. "Breckinridge Long, that f.u.c.ker over at the State Department, has tied up visas with rules and regulations an attorney specializing in international law couldn't understand."

"I understand, but ...," Jake said.

Ash exuded onto the desk as Goodman stubbed the cigarette into an ashtray already teeming with b.u.t.ts. "You're a first. I'm glad you understand." Goodman rose, and extended his hand.

Jake reached into his coat. Goodman stepped backward as if was preparing to run. To the congressman's relief, an envelope appeared in Jake's hand instead of a .45 automatic that was brandished under his chin when Tommy Bavosa thought he needed an additional reason to help a local businessman. "My problem is the draft."

Goodman returned to his chair, the color returning to his face. He dumped the ashtray into a wastebasket under the desk and lit another cigarette, keeping an eye on the envelope. He took two puffs on the cigarette, trying to calculate what Jake had in mind. "Military service is another matter." A grin broke across tissue paper thin lips with the image of the Brooklyn tough guy slinking out of the induction station.

Jake leaned forward. "As the ranking member on the appropriations committee you can pull strings."

Rocking back in the brown leather chair, Goodman rolled the cigarette between his thumb and index finger. "It's not that easy. The local boards make the decisions. A guy on the Dodgers called me, there's nothing I can do for him." He pointed the cigarette at Jake. "My own doctor is preparing to close his office. In a month, he'll be gone."

Jake placed the envelope onto the edge of Goodman's desk. "I'm not interested in staying out."

Goodman dropped the cigarette into the ashtray. "You've lost me."

"A number of my a.s.sociates are going to join up. I want them placed in areas that might be advantageous in the future," Jake said, keeping his hand on the envelope as he inched it towards the middle of the desk.

"a.s.sociates" in Jake's world was synonymous with a crew a.s.sembled to boost a truck for its cargo. Goodman thought supply depots and warehouses as he tapped his fingers to the beat of a hissing radiator behind him. His pro-union election slogan "fair pay for fair work" applied to any proposal that crossed his desk. If a buck was going to be made on the strength of his back, he expected to be compensated. He looked at the envelope suspiciously. "And Luciano and Bavosa have no connection to your a.s.sociates?"

"That's correct." Jake took a piece of Wrigley's from his jacket pocket and popped it into his mouth. He rolled the silver wrapper into a tight ball.

"When do you need this done?" Goodman asked, lighting his third cigarette.

"Immediately. I need your a.s.surance that things can be arranged." Jake worked the gum hard.

Goodman coughed to clear his throat, unsure about asking what was the purpose of the scheme. "How many?"

"Twenty-five. Some will be coming from outside New York."

Despite the coolness of the office, beads of sweat appeared on Goodman's forehead. "Twenty-five and multiple process centers?" Goodman shook his head. "This is a tall order."

Jake pushed to envelope to the middle of desk. "This should smooth things. An equal amount will be delivered on a satisfactory completion."

Goodman hesitated taking the envelope, his clear enameled nails reflected light from the desk lamp. By taking the envelope, the congressman would be signing a contract. He picked up the envelope, and opened the flap. Fifty Benjamin Franklins stared back. "I'll need a list of names and addresses."

Jake stood, handing Goodman a typed list. "I'll be in touch."

"All of these names are Jewish," Goodman said incredulously. "Is this part of..."

"A Jewish Boy Scout unit," Jake said with a laugh.

Chapter 20.

WASHINGTON, DC OCTOBER 1942 1942.

HIS HEART RACED AT THE SHRILL RING of the phone. Preston answered with a quick "Yes Mrs. Higgins" then straightened the knot of his U.S. Army issued tie. He'd been waiting for this call for two weeks after arriving in Washington, D.C. from Fort Benning, Georgia. His orders at the completion of Officers Candidate School were simple: report for a.s.signment to the War Department on E Street, Room 201.

Room 201 belonged to a.s.sistant Secretary of War John J. McCloy appointed in April 1941 at the behest of the Secretary of War, Henry Stimson. A Wall Street veteran, McCloy had established a name for his work in the corporate and securities areas. With investment bankers pushing German bonds, McCloy spent considerable time in Europe, particularly Germany.

For his knowledge of Germany, McCloy was appointed to investigate what came to be called the Black Tom Case. During World War I, American industry became the target of Germany spies and saboteurs, resulting in the loss of lives and property. Years of litigation finally produced an agreement for compensation.

In June of 1936, McCloy traveled to Munich where Hitler's deputy Rudolph Hess refused to sign any doc.u.ments concerning events prior to the establishment of the Third Reich. Hess and Hermann Goering, the German Air Force head, asked McCloy to stay for the Olympic Games in Berlin and see the miracles of the new new Germany. McCloy returned to the United States convinced the country better prepare for war. Germany. McCloy returned to the United States convinced the country better prepare for war.

McCloy, with his reputation as an expert on German spies, pushed for the creation of an intelligence apparatus before the United States was involved in the oncoming war. He advocated that the government, in the name of national security, could indulge in wiretaps, mail intercept, and the decoding of radio messages directed to foreign emba.s.sies in the country.

Roosevelt, needing Wall Street support for his programs to end the Depression and his planned military buildup, brought the staunchly Republican Stimson into his cabinet. By 1940, Stimson was using McCloy as his troubleshooter. McCloy had found a legal way for the president to send twenty B-17s to the British. It was McCloy who termed the United States "the a.r.s.enal of defense," and it was the United States that kept England alive.

McCloy's stewardship of Lend Lease brought invaluable contacts in Congress he used to advance his agenda of putting the country on a war footing. Convinced the Germans were involved in sabotage and were behind numerous labor disputes in the defense industry, McCloy sought and nurtured a relationship with FBI Director J. Edgar Hoover who increased the volume of wiretaps and mail intercepts without Justice Department approval. McCloy espoused the position that the events of the day required unusual action, even if it meant infringing on the rights of the individual.

Preston put on his solid khaki green dress jacket and checked the crease in his pants. He was happy to get out of the office and away from the mountain of facts and figures covering war production. Economics was his college major, but he had no knowledge of steel rivets or the technical aspects of mining bituminous coal. He locked the door and negotiated a warren of narrow hallways to the main corridor to find himself surrounded by shoulders stacked with gold braid and chests covered with campaign ribbons and medals. With the War Department being housed in seventeen different buildings strewn across the city, a new building to centralize operations was under construction near Arlington National Cemetery. The five-sided structure was unofficially being called the Pentagon. Independent design experts branded it a monstrosity and blight on the countryside.

The sound of pounding typewriters echoed off the granite tiled floor as he approached the outer office of room 201. Preston smartly saluted an exiting redfaced two-star general. McCloy's main mission was to act as Stimson's point man and troubleshooter. He had little time or inclination to deal with fools and incompetents. Ambiguous answers resulted in scores of resignations from the top-heavy general officer corps.

The cacophony of steel letters to paper was the labor of the three women secretarial pool trying to keep pace with McCloy's reports and "take a letter" demands. The silver haired Mrs. Higgins swiveled her head away from her typewriter. "Take a seat lieutenant."

Two oak benches occupied the right side of the room. Preston did as commanded, taking a seat closest to the door. In less than five minutes, the portal to the a.s.sistant secretary opened. Preston jumped to his feet as Charles Lindbergh pa.s.sed. The Lone Eagle was in town lobbying for support to regain his commission in the Army Air Corps, having quit after receiving a public tongue lashing from President Roosevelt. From the look on the hero's face, Preston surmised his meeting with McCloy didn't go well.

Mrs. Higgins sang out, "Lieutenant! Time is precious."

Preston felt his knees wobble as he gathered himself off the bench. He paused at the tri-paneled door, took a deep breath and entered. "Lieutenant Swedge reporting as ordered," he said, snapping to attention.

McCloy sat behind an oversized desk piled with files marked "Secret" and "Eyes Only." Still possessing the build of a wrestler, the nearly bald forty-five year old a.s.sistant secretary of war was dressed in his customary double-breasted gray suit. A Stetson hat balanced on the corner of a lawyer's bookcase behind him. An architect's site plan of the Pentagon hung beside windows providing a view of the Capitol. McCloy looked over the man who he had known since his birth. "No need for such nonsense," McCloy said as he stood, extending his hand. A broad smile broke across McCloy's face. "Military life seems to agreeing with you. Mr. Lindbergh misses it so much he's begging to be let back in. h.e.l.l will freeze over before that happens. If the country listened to him, j.a.panese would be the official language on the west coast and German on the east. Surrender would have been the only option with nothing to fight with. Take a seat and keep yourself busy with this," he said, handing a binder to the newly promoted first lieutenant, "while I finish this memo."

Preston sat to the right of his father's friend. A friendship so close McCloy was asked to be Preston's G.o.dfather. McCloy in his prior life represented Sterling Swedge and Company on numerous projects. As the American counsel to I.G. Farben, McCloy was instrumental in steering the synthetic rubber and oil deal Herbert Swedge's way.

The office was devoid of the trappings that adorned his Wall Street power center where framed press clippings touting his brokering blockbuster deals were on display to remind clients that the egregious fees they were paying produced profits that paled in comparison. Only the portrait of the current president, not the gallery of international industrial leaders and Wall Street elite, hung on the plaster walls.