House Of Ghosts Part 7

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 cla.s.smen.

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 cla.s.smates. "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 Na.s.sau 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-rehea.r.s.ed cool demeanor.

Newman attempted to maintain his composure, but his voice became louder with every word. "I told you, I didn't 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 a.s.sumptions. As a Southern gentleman, sir, I am offended and shocked." Newman's remarks resulted in another round of laughter at Price's expense. 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 a.s.sumptions. 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 of 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 a.s.s. The little shrimp is really mad," Newman cautioned.

They left the dorm and walked to Witherspoon Street pa.s.sing 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 s.p.a.ce 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 p.i.s.sed 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 cla.s.sics 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 gla.s.ses of c.o.ke 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 pa.s.s-through, "5 and 5"

The short order cook lived up to his t.i.tle. 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 c.o.ke. "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 h.e.l.l 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 landma.s.s 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 p.r.o.nounce."

Tommy Shikiro, a j.a.panese-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 partic.i.p.ation."

"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 Na.s.sau 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 tried 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 Mercury Theater of the Air with Orson Welles. He turned his radio on. Instead of Orson Wells, there was a dance band playing. with Orson Welles. He turned his radio on. Instead of Orson Wells, there was a dance band playing.

"What the h.e.l.l is Ramon Raquello playing Stardust for? Mercury Theater Mercury Theater is supposed to be on," Clark said. 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.

Clark's geology professor, Dr. Arthur Buddington, ran out of Gyot Hall. "Johnson, you're coming with me," the mid-fifties professor wearing blue jeans and work boots ordered. "The report said the meteorite landed in Grovers Mills. We're going to take a look. I have shovels and specimen bags in my car."

Preston stayed by the radio. An announcer broadcasting from Grovers Mills described how the Martians were firing ray guns at anyone or anything that moved. Suddenly, there was silence. CBS switched to the commandant of the New Jersey State Police who ordered Mercer and Middles.e.x counties placed under martial law.

President Roosevelt came on the air, advising people to leave the cities. In the hallway, someone yelled that they better get gas masks. Preston looked through the window at supposedly intelligent people running around in circles. Something just didn't play true.

Clark climbed into Buddington's 1936 Ford woody station wagon. Cars trying to leave town jammed Na.s.sau Street. Halloween revelers were in a daze. Some were running, others sitting on the benches along the street looking as though they had resigned themselves to death. Buddington turned right onto Washington Road toward Princeton Junction. Grovers Mills was five miles east. They were going against the traffic. Any sane person was fleeing Grovers Mills, not going toward it. With their sirens screaming, police cars headed toward the landing sites.

Professor Buddington turned toward his student, "As a Princeton man, do you believe the events we've heard about can possibly be accurate?"

"Excuse me professor, as a Princeton man, I want to declare that I am scared s.h.i.tless," Clark said with fear in his voice.

Buddington turned up the volume on the radio. CBS was reporting the New Jersey State Police had been wiped out in the vicinity of the initial landings. New York was under attack, and that attacks were happening across the country.

They arrived in the hamlet of Grovers Mills. Cars and pedestrians headed in the direction of the town's only park. An excited crowd, approximately one hundred fifty people, wandered looking for Martians or the meteor. Nothing. There was no evidence of an explosion or invasion. Spotlighted by the headlights of the Ford, a shapely teenage girl decked out in a white sweater and blue jeans, was talking to a policeman. As Clark and Buddington got out of the station wagon, Clark heard her say, "Jerry, this broadcast has to be a hoax. Nothing has happened here, or I bet anywhere else."

Clark introduced himself and suggested that they go back to the Ford and listen to the reports of the attacks. "Don't you get it? This is Orson Welles's idea of a Halloween joke," the girl said, shining her flashlight into his eyes.

The girl was Gloria St. Claire, a tomboyish senior at Mercer County Regional High School. Gloria had heard the reports and caught a ride with Jerry Reynolds, a policeman from Grovers Mills. Her father, Gordon, was police chief, and Reynolds was anxious to drive Gloria back home.

Buddington motioned Preston to return to the car. "Do you mind if I call you?" he asked. Her smile said that it was okay.

Buddington was behind the wheel. "According to the bulletins, we're dead, and so is most of the East-Coast." He stepped on the clutch, and slipped the car into gear. Inching down the lane, they watched the bewildered faces. Reynolds's black and white cruiser slowed, allowing the majority of the crowd to walk ahead. As Buddington turned back onto Washington Road, an announcer came on the radio to remind the audience to stay tuned to the CBS radio network for the second half of the Mercury Theater Mercury Theater following a short intermission. "I knew this was an orchestrated attempt to fool the public. I didn't hear any explosion tonight, but I'm sure tomorrow there is going to be a real explosion when the public realizes what happened," Buddington said. following a short intermission. "I knew this was an orchestrated attempt to fool the public. I didn't hear any explosion tonight, but I'm sure tomorrow there is going to be a real explosion when the public realizes what happened," Buddington said.

Clark laughed. "For a couple of guys who were so sure this broadcast was just bulls.h.i.t, we ran around pretty good."

"Johnson, how important is it for you to pa.s.s geology? Just kidding. Anyone who didn't hear the beginning of the show was scared senseless. The radio can be a very powerful tool. We've heard Roosevelt calm a nation on the verge of collapse because of the Depression. On the other hand, we've heard Hitler use the radio to threaten his European neighbors."

The traffic was thinning as they approached Princeton center. Na.s.sau Street had returned to normal, however the Halloween mood seemed to have evaporated. Scary masks had been traded for somber looks. Buddington stopped at Witherspoon Street for a red light. Outside of the Balt, groups of three or four were in animated conversation.

Clark was amused. "Looks like a lot of tough guys. I bet not one of them would admit they were frightened out of their minds. I would pay the Gallup Organization to conduct a poll."

"Why don't you go over to Bank Street and make a proposal. They might pay you to find the effect on the student population. I think your hypothesis, as we say in geological jargon, is rock solid."

The light turned green. Buddington allowed the pedestrians to cross before turning into the main gate. The campus police had not completely relaxed; the yellow barricade was still across the road. The professor was easily recognized, and the blockade was slid back. "Thanks for riding out with me. Let me know what happened back at the dorm. By the way, has Ellis Price singled out anyone yet for his freshman treatment?" Buddington asked as they got out of the car.

"Price has identified his target. Actually, he has two: my roommate and me. Let's just say, he gives us a challenge. It's a game of cat and mouse."

Chapter 13.

NEW Y YORK, NY NOVEMBER 1938 1938.

JAKE WAS RESTING ON THE SOFA reading The New York Times The New York Times when Paul returned from school. "How's it going Professor?" Paul shrugged his shoulders. Jake continued, "There's an article here that says a Polish Jew living in Germany, shot and killed a n.a.z.i diplomat in Paris. I'm glad one of them had the guts to stand up and say he wasn't going to take it anymore." when Paul returned from school. "How's it going Professor?" Paul shrugged his shoulders. Jake continued, "There's an article here that says a Polish Jew living in Germany, shot and killed a n.a.z.i diplomat in Paris. I'm glad one of them had the guts to stand up and say he wasn't going to take it anymore."

Paul set his books down and took the paper. "Do you really think that this Grynszpan is going to make a difference? The French have him locked up, and are going to try him for murder."

"The Jews in Germany act like ostriches," Jake fumed. "With their heads in the sand, they keep wishing the nightmare will disappear. The n.a.z.is keep turning the screws and they stay silent. Ever the obedient Jews."

Paul sat down on the divan and turned on the radio. Bill Shirer came on the air with a special report from Berlin, "Brownshirt storm troopers are attacking Jewish shops and houses of worship throughout the country. I have personally witnessed Jews being beaten and abused on the streets of the capital. Dr. Goebbels has issued a communique from the propaganda ministry announcing the Gestapo's retribution against the Jews for the murder of Ernst Vom Rath in Paris: The Jews will be made to pay a fine of a billion Reichmarks atonement for Vom Rath's death. In addition, they will be responsible for repairing all damage to their property, with owners not being able to collect on any insurance."

Shirer continued, "I have one unconfirmed report of twenty-thousand Jews being arrested and on their way to concentration camps. The streets are covered with broken gla.s.s, and the event is being called Kristalnacht Kristalnacht-The Night of Broken Gla.s.s. Austria is reporting all of Vienna's twenty-one synagogues have been burned to the ground."

Paul switched off the radio. "What do you have to say now? Those German b.a.s.t.a.r.ds don't need any reason for murdering Jews. Maybe violence only begets violence. For once, you might be wrong."

Jake began pacing. He was as agitated as Paul had ever witnessed. Paul knew that his brother was an idealist, not a pragmatist. He couldn't stand injustice of any kind. Jake struggled for the words he wanted to say, something equal to the horrific news they had just absorbed. "No Paul, I'm not wrong. If it wasn't this Vom Rath business, then they would have found another excuse to exercise a reign of terror."

Jake walked to the window, raising the sash for a breath of air. "What do you think about the Bund Bund that has its headquarters up in Bushwick? They have the moxie to have a swastika flying on the door jam. I hear they're having a meeting tonight. Maybe it's time to give them a reason to reconsider." that has its headquarters up in Bushwick? They have the moxie to have a swastika flying on the door jam. I hear they're having a meeting tonight. Maybe it's time to give them a reason to reconsider."

"You're not thinking of going over there and breaking up the place?" Paul asked with a hint of concern.

"A group of us are meeting at Katz's Deli to figure out how to respond. Why don't you tag along, and at least you'll get a sandwich. With Mom and Pop visiting Aunt Rose in New Jersey, dinner is up to us anyway."

"Okay, I'll go, but I can't stay late," Paul hesitantly replied. "I've got studying to do for tomorrow."

They put on their jackets as they walked down the steps. Jake stopped to help a neighbor carry shopping bags into her apartment. Paul went out on the street and couldn't help thinking about his Brooklyn neighborhood where one could live his entire life never needing to leave its safe boundaries. Every necessity could be found within walking distance of the Rothstein apartment, including a hospital and a funeral home.

Jake appeared and they crossed the street, walking due east. Katz's had been a neighborhood fixture for fifty years as the business pa.s.sed from one generation to the next. Corned beef was in their veins, as evident by the number of heart attacks in the Katz family.

Paul could taste the chicken soup and matzo b.a.l.l.s with his nose as they walked through the door. Jake led the way to the back of the store where a makeshift table was supported by four pickle barrels. Out of twelve men, Paul only recognized Hymie Shapiro, the milkman. The Rothsteins ordered corned beef sandwiches and two egg creams.

The a.s.sembly was much older than Jake. Paul guessed the average age of the collection of working stiffs was mid-fifties. Arguments for breaking the n.a.z.i b.a.s.t.a.r.ds' heads were made. Paul listened as he consumed his dinner, keeping his thoughts to himself. The attention of the group moved to Jake. "I asked my brother Paul to come with me tonight, because it's important for us to take the pulse of the college crowd. They're young, strong, and intelligent-a resource that must be used in any fight we will be engaged in.

Paul was more than taken aback. He didn't realize his brother expected him to be a spokesman. "I'm somewhat embarra.s.sed in having to tell you, I haven't heard any real outrage at what is going on in Germany. The Yankees draw more discussion than the n.a.z.is. I bet this Kristalnacht Kristalnacht calamity will evoke nothing but small talk tomorrow." calamity will evoke nothing but small talk tomorrow."

Paul looked at faces that couldn't comprehend the ambivalence of the younger generation. "If you're looking for a ground swell of support, you're going to be disappointed. Until American Jews are threatened, I don't foresee any action in great numbers."

"I can't understand why you young pischers pischers don't give a s.h.i.t!" Sam Bernstein exploded. don't give a s.h.i.t!" Sam Bernstein exploded.

"It's not that they don't give a s.h.i.t, it's that the situation hasn't hit home. Some of us read letters from relatives in Europe, but they're just pieces of paper." Paul stood. "I have to get home and crack the books."

Jake stared at the table thinking of his midnight talks with his mother. Quizzed by her son on what she thought about the news from Europe, Rachel said, "It's terrible for those people. But we're a small number among many here in America and mustn't rock the boat. America has been gracious to let us in, and we Jews must remember that."