Chapter 9

BROOKLYN, NY SEPTEMBER 1938

THE ALARM CLOCK RANG. Paul Rothstein turned over and squinted at the culprit. 6:00 a.m. Swinging his feet to the floor, he felt the breeze of the circular fan humming between the twin beds in the bedroom he shared with his brother Jake. He tried to walk silently to the only window in the room, but the tired oak floor creaked in response to each step. Jake began to stir. Paul pulled back the sheer curtains and leaned through the window. Flatbush Avenue already was streaming with traffic. As he turned around, Jake was propped on his elbow. “Kid, you ready for today? Remember, if you need anything, ask.”

Paul looked at his older brother by four years. “I guess,” Paul said with trepidation. “I wish you didn’t have to bust your ass so I could go to school. If I went to work, I could help put food on the table.”

“Go take a shower,” Jake answered, thinking of his roots. “I’ll put up some coffee.”

Abraham and Rachel Rothstein, childhood sweethearts in the small Hungarian town of Munkacs, married and landed in New York in 1914 weeks before the outbreak of the Great War. Abe, who learned the tailoring trade under the tutelage of his father, quickly became the floor manager of a small men’s pants factory. His lack of English posed little problem since the predominent language spoken at the sewing tables was Yiddish. Rachel found employment as a cook in a restaurant. Combining their two meager wages, the Rothsteins were able to rent a cold-water flat in Red Hook, Brooklyn.

The apartment consisted of two rooms, one a bedroom, the other a combination kitchen and living room. Within months, Rachel became pregnant with her first child. An 8 pound 15 ounce boy was delivered during a snowstorm in the winter of 1916, named Jacob after Rachel’s father. The loss of Rachel’s salary was devastating, causing Abe to take a second job to meet the rent and assorted sundry items needed for an infant. Life settled into a predictable pattern, Abe leaving for the garment center in Manhattan by 5:30 in the morning, returning usually by 9:30 at night, leaving Rachel alone to take care of the baby.

Abe and Rachel believed that to be real Americans, they needed to be able to read and write English. Attending adult school was impossible, but Abe was determined to acquire these skills. Rachel suggested they buy an Hungarian-English dictionary and together they would learn to read the newspaper. If anything, this nightly translation and reading session provided the couple with a chance to spend a few minutes together.

After years of enduring his grueling routine, Abe longed for a change. The 1920s opened the door to prosperity as the world of Wall Street demanded fashion in men’s haberdashery. He left his factory job to work in an upscale shop where “Kings of the Street” were outfitted. Abe’s income tripled overnight. The time arrived for the Rothstein family to move to a better, safer area. And move they did to Flatbush.

The apartment was located on the top floor of the three-story walk up. The pride of the apartment was its bathroom, providing convenience and privacy. Abe and Rachel couldn’t believe their good fortune; they had come to America with nothing, and then lived in what they considered luxury. With business booming, Abe thought about purchasing a home.

As Jake turned three, Rachel announced she was pregnant. This pregnancy was unlike the first. Into her second trimester, Rachel became ill. Her doctor ordered bed rest for weeks at a time. Paul Rothstein was born on July 18, 1920, six weeks premature. The infant weighed barely 4 pounds, raising fears for his survival. Paul proved to be a fighter, slowly gaining weight and strength. Medical problems continued for Rachel, leaving her lethargic and depressed. Due to his mother’s inability to spend time with his brother, Jake became Paul’s constant companion. Neighbors praised Jake to his father, not believing he was only four. Abe came to depend on his older son, who never complained or asked for the toys of childhood. Abe called him “my right arm.”

With Rachel’s problems, Abe decided to forgo moving from the neighborhood. They had become active participants in the synagogue where the women of the congregation were eager to help Rachel when she was unable to take care of the boys.

Jake at thirteen, was already six feet and nearly 180 pounds, exceeding his father by more than six inches. He was an anomaly in a family of short people. The year was 1929 and the Flatbush Avenue businesses were prospering like the rest of America. Abe was kept busy at the shop six days a week, leading his boss to offer him a partnership. The world couldn’t have looked better. The Rothsteins’ only cause for concern was Jake’s academic performance. It became obvious that their older child wasn’t able to read and comprehend the basic subjects. His teachers were at a loss in trying to explain his problems while he became less and less interested in school. Paul was the opposite of his brother having progressed steadily in his studies, winning glowing reports from his teachers, whether in public school or the Hebrew academy.

For many, life in the Borough of Brooklyn was as thrilling as a ride on the great roller coaster at Coney Island. Then the brakes were applied. The economy screeched to a halt, throwing businesses large and small into disarray. The date was October 29, 1929. Word filtered out to the street that a great sell-off was under way. Abe walked out of the shop and sensed the panic in the crowd gathering outside the Stock Exchange. The normal lunch hour trade was non-existent; orders were not picked up or paid for. As the trading day came to a close, dazed brokers walked past the shop. Abe looked at faces that said so much without a word. He had seen fear like that when he was a young boy as survivors of a pogrom in a nearby village sought refuge in his town. “How could such a thing happen?” they yelled. Now, the scions of the financial world were crying the same.

Each day was greeted with great anticipation, but hope turned to despair. Abe was frightened, but tried to be optimistic before his family. Slogans emanating from Hoover’s Washington didn’t put customers in the shop or food in their stomachs. Business was dead, pure and simple. Months turned to years, and by 1932, unemployment had reached 12,000,000. The situation in the Rothstein household was a bubbling cauldron. Abe the haberdasher was once again, Abe the tailor. The supply of gabardine suits vastly outstripped the demand. Instead of fitting three-piece suits, Abe darned holes and worn out knees. A man who was passionate about the rewards of hard work, who had returned home each night with a bounce in his step and a smile on his lips, had turned morose and crestfallen.

It was time for Rachel to support her husband, as he had when she held little hope for the future. Before her eyes, her Abraham aged rapidly; ebony hair had become mixed with silver. The boys, remembering when they couldn’t keep up with their father’s pace on the avenue, faked browsing the windows to let him keep step.

Rachel was resourceful and creative in running her kitchen. She had learned from her mother how to stretch what would feed one person to feed four. When her magic fell short, she was the one who ate less. Rachel joked that for the first time in her life, she had successfully followed a diet. A loss of twenty-five pounds put her back to the weight the day she married.

At dinner on New Year’s Day 1933, Jake announced that he had made a decision: he was leaving high school. Abe and Rachel sat in silence. “Jake, you only have one more year to graduate. Your mother and I know how difficult it has been for you, and we are both very proud how you have tried your best. You may lose a job, or possessions, but one thing you can’t lose, is an education,” Abe said.

“School and me don’t mix. I want to get a job and help out around here,” Jake said.

“Where are you going to get a job?” Rachel asked. “You’re sixteen. Grown men can’t find work. You’re not going to go ride the trains like the bums you see in the papers are you?”

Not surprised, Paul stared at his older brother. He tried to persuade Jake to stick it out with numerous discussions in the confines of their room. Jake countered each argument with the fact that their father was falling apart before their eyes and could no longer support the family both emotionally and financially. Jake couldn’t divine any other option.

“No, Mama. I’m not going to ride the rails,” Jake said softly. “I’ve been offered a job down on the docks by Nicky Spagnola’s uncle.”

Jake, by the age of sixteen, was six-four and had dramatically put on muscle. He was fast friends with Nicky Spagnola, nephew of a waterfront boss. Neither Jake nor Nicky was destined for scholastic notoriety, preferring to perfect their skills at billiards. Hooky became paramount in their lives. The question for them was how to stay one step ahead of the attendance officer.

At a birthday party for Nicky’s sister, Jake made the acquaintance of Tommy “The Corkscrew” Bavosa. “Are you sure you are really a Jew,” the waterfront boss asked. “You’re the biggest god damn Jew I’ve ever seen.”

Corkscrew was an under boss for Lucky Luciano, “Boss of Bosses.” Nothing moved on the docks without the permission of Luciano. Tommy became a made man for not making lighthearted decisions. He said to his cohorts, “Some day, this giant Jew is going to come in handy.”

Jake began his maritime career as a messenger and generalized gofer. The kid impressed the crew chief with self-confidence and self-sufficiency. He had one other quality that drew attention—honesty, a rarity in that milieu of deceit and corruption. Jake was quickly elevated to rank of stevedore. At times he questioned if he had made the correct decision to quit school. The doubts vanished when he returned home to witness his father sitting in his faded brown chair beside the radio. By 1938, Abe had become a shell of himself.

If it were not for Jake, the family possessions would have been out on the street. Each week, Jake turned over his paycheck to his mother. Rachel had no idea that more money was made by side-work consisting of theft and extortion. Abe was proud of his son and thankful that tranquility had returned to the Rothstein house.

Paul finished his senior year of high school with grades placing him at the top of the class, but scholarship money was impossible to find. Never thinking he wouldn’t be in the position of being able to provide an education for his child, Abe placed his pride in his pocket and approached Jake. “I have to ask you something a father shouldn’t have to ask a son. I need your help to send Paul to college. If you have plans that would be interfered with by this, say so, and this conversation goes no further. Paul has no idea I’m discussing this with you.”

Jake didn’t hesitate. “Don’t say another word. He’ll be the first Rothstein to graduate from high school and go to college. I’ll pay for it, but I want Paulie to believe you and Mama are paying.”

Abe looked up at his son with adulation. The young man standing before him was far wiser than his twenty-two years. Yet, he had a sense that Jake was concealing another reason for the clandestine proposal. “You come home and give your mother your paycheck and still have money to play around. Now, you tell me that you’ll pay the entire bill for Paulie. I smell something fishy.”

Abe didn’t like the company Jake kept; many were right out of a Damon Runyon story, looking and sounding like gangsters. Jake looked sheepishly at his father. “Look Pop, you know the guys I work with aren’t choirboys. A lot of things go on you don’t want to know. Paul doesn’t need to be troubled by my business.”

Tiptoeing past his parent’s room, Paul entered the kitchen as Jake finished preparing breakfast. Paul was never surprised by anything his brother did. In his mind, Jake was unquestionably a Renaissance man. Yes, he was limited in his book knowledge, but when it came to interacting with people, Jake was the best. “I was going to grab a doughnut.”

“Doughnuts are for cops.” Jake placed a plate with eggs and toast on the table. “You need some brain food. Eat up and get your tuchas moving, or you’re going to be late on the first day.”

Paul finished his breakfast, picked up his notebook, and made his way to 21st and Flatbush Avenue where he spotted Dave Cohen reading a newspaper outside Schwartz’s Cigar Store. The two could have passed for brothers, had fought over wooden blocks in kindergarten, and were inseparable through high school. Both families celebrated their admissions to New York University at a dinner held in the social hall of the local synagogue. They would commute together to Manhattan by subway.

“Have you seen this?” Dave asked, showing Paul the front page of The Daily News. The headline read: GERMANS ANNEX CZECHOSLOVAKIA.

“That bastard Chamberlain sold the Czechs down the river,” Paul said. “They’re letting Hitler have his way. Only Churchill has the guts to speak out.”

It was just a short walk to the subway, and they were already sweating. “What is it going to be like at noon? I’m dying now,” Dave said.

Paul didn’t answer, still thinking about the headline in the paper. His mother had received a letter from her Czech cousin begging to find a way to America. Rachel contacted every agency she could but to no avail. The immigration quotas were filled. She was told that “those people” would have to wait their turn. Abe wrote to his sister Miriam imploring the family to leave while they still could. Miriam replied that their home was in Hungary and things were still alright. The Jews were careful not to provoke the mainstream Hungarians who never needed an excuse to start a pogrom. Abe told her that one-day she would be sorry.

Paul and Dave walked down the steps into the bowels of the subway. The Brighton Beach Line was their conveyance to a new world. Conversation was impossible. Deafening noise entered open windows as the train shuddered to the Prospect Park station where an express train took them to Manhattan. Paul hated the pushing and shoving, and in the hot weather, the smell.

It was already 7:20. “The paper said to report to Main Building by eight. How much longer?” Paul asked.

“Twenty minutes at most. We’ve got it made in the shade.” Dave wrapped his arm around a metal support pole as the train lurched to a start. “My cousin Herbie joined an organization to fight these anti-Semitic shits that are coming out of the woodwork in this country. Even here in the city they exist. The radio guy Father Coughlin is going to hold a meeting at Madison Square Garden. Can you believe they would let a hatemonger rent the place?”

“For money, they would let Attila the Hun rent the place. Do you realize that on an average night 12,000 hot dogs are eaten and washed down with 1,000 gallons of beer and soda. That’s a lot of change,” Paul said.

The train reached its destination at West Fourth Street, Washington Square. The college career of Paul Rothstein was about to begin.