Chapter 10
PRINCETON, NJ SEPTEMBER 1938
PRESTON ROSE EARLY. The cool breeze streaming through the window was a harbinger of rain. With the Mid-Atlantic States in draught condition for six weeks, a slow steady rain was the unanimous wish of the area’s population. He shaved, showered, and wrapped himself into a terry robe, then went downstairs to retrieve his copy of the newspaper.
Even at 5:30, he risked the wrath of Ellis Price. The man was resolute in enforcing the rules of the house. Price had admonished Preston not to venture into the vestibule in his robe. Preston, protesting that he was the only human awake in the building, drew a target on his back. Luck was on his side; Price was not lurking about.
Preston walked across the vestibule to the multi-locked front door. There was a time not long before Preston arrived that security was not a priority. The habit of the unlocked door, once a common practice in the rural Princeton area, had changed overnight. News of the Lindbergh baby kidnapping had spread fear throughout the community.
Preston turned the two deadbolt locks, then slid the security chain from its track. The sky was normally bright by that time, but rapidly traveling storm clouds let only faint rays into the portico. He lifted the bundle by the heavy twine wrapping, carrying it to the sidebar next to the reception desk. The headlines paralleled the weather. For weeks on end, the news from Washington focused on the confrontations between Democrats and Republicans. The Roosevelt administration had managed to pass the first minimum wage legislation. Republicans screamed it was pure socialism.
Economic squabbles were no match for the reports from Europe. The Spanish Civil War provided graphic portraits of fascist tactics where Generalissimo Francisco Franco provided the Nazis with a testing ground for their new air weapons. Photos of German Stuka dive-bombing destruction of the Spanish city Guernica stared back at him. American apologists for Nazi Germany had difficulty explaining the brutality-taking place in Spain. There was talk on campus about a contingent of Princetonians joining the Abraham Lincoln Brigade that the conservative right labeled a communist band.
Preston flipped through the paper until he found the sports section. The Yankees defeated the Detroit Tigers the day before 4-1. Another pennant was virtually locked up, adding ammunition for his daily verbal squabble with Clark Johnson. Up to that point, his roommate appeared to have most of the answers on any given subject. Clark could harangue an opponent into submission by invoking an endless supply of minutiae. However, baseball was the one topic that the great debater could not win; the standings were the standings. Two plus two equals four and the Yankees had defeated Detroit and were in first place.
Preston couldn’t contain himself. Not wanting to press his luck, he quickly made his way up the staircase. The rules of the house dictated no cooking of any kind in their rooms. Clark didn’t consider brewing coffee the same. When Preston unlatched the door, the aroma was present. Clark was in the process of retrieving two mugs from behind the couch where they were hidden with the electric pot. Preston liked a good cup as much as Clark, but coffee wasn’t worth the risk of being evicted from the dorm. “You’re going to get us into water hotter than this coffee one day,” he said.
Preston saw an aspect of his roommate’s character countering the one Clark projected. Appearing to be a conservative conformist, his daily coffee subterfuge was a way of fighting authority. “May I please have the paper, Mr. Swedge?”
Preston watched Clark’s eyes move to the dead babies pictured on the front page. His expression didn’t change, but Preston could sense his revulsion to the senseless slaughter. “Franco and Hitler make a terrific couple, don’t you think?” Preston needled.
Clark didn’t answer. Preston knew his roommate would continue the discussion about the headlines later in the day. As Preston refreshed his mug, he kept his focus on Clark, waiting for him to flip to the sports page. He wasn’t disappointed as the Yankee score hit Clark between the eyes. “Looks like your boys are going to do it this year. It’s too bad the Tigers are banged up, or maybe they would’ve given them a run,” Clark said dejectedly.
For Preston, it was a monumental breakthrough. To admit defeat to a city he considered amoral and a haven for immigrants, was unheard of. Preston couldn’t resist the urge to pour salt on an obvious wound. “When was the last time you visited New York?”
“Last year. My family stayed for a few days before we sailed to Europe. My father and I went to Yankee Stadium for a game with Detroit,” Clark said, never moving the paper from his face.
“You have to admit that the stadium is a beautiful park,” Preston said.
“Such a pity that it’s located in the wrong city.”
Preston allowed the remark to pass. “How long were you in England?”
“We never went to England.” Clark tossed the paper onto the coffee table. “We sailed directly to Germany. Ford is helping the Germans produce a new car named the Volkswagen.”
“The people’s car,” Preston translated from German learned in high school. “I can’t believe that an American company is working for a dictatorship.”
Clark freshened his cup. “You should see what the Germans have accomplished.”
“Come on!” Preston said, raising his voice. “How can you justify what they’ve done to the Jews and others who’ve lost their citizenship?”
Clark calmly lit a cigarette. “The minorities in Germany have brought on their own troubles when they exploited the country’s problems for their own personal gain.”
“That crap is straight from Father Coughlin.” Preston banged the mug on the coffee table. “The Nazis’ power is based on hatred.”
“When was the last time you traveled to Mississippi?” Clark asked, blowing a smoke ring. “People live in squalor and don’t have the right to vote. In Germany, you don’t see slums, bums, or disorder. We would like the same in this country, but we don’t have the guts to implement change.” Clark dropped the cigarette into the mug.
Preston took a deep breath. “I’d rather have slums than have a bunch of automatons like you see in the newsreels.”
Clark didn’t reply. He picked up the coffee mugs and emptied the percolator’s grinds into a paper bag. He’d wash the mugs and the coffeemaker when the bathroom was unoccupied. They finished dressing and prepared to head over to the dining hall for breakfast.
There was a knock on the door. Clark checked to see if he left any incriminating evidence. “Who goes?” Clark asked.
“Newman, open up.”
Clark opened the door. “Nice to see that you’ve managed to get on the same schedule as the rest of us.”
For the first three weeks, Brent Newman had been consistently out of step, claiming he was unaccustomed to Northern time. “It’s really too bad that comedy isn’t a major at this institution, Johnson.” Newman adjusted the knot of his tie. “If it was, you’d skip the first three years and proceed to senior status.”
Clark and Brent had become close friends. Preston assumed they were drawn together by their mutual dislike for New York. Clark retrieved the paper bag, placing it in the right pocket of his sport jacket. He held the door open, allowing Preston and Newman to exit. As he locked the door, Clark secretly placed a toothpick between the door and jam to alert him if someone had entered the room. As a rule, he was back from class before Preston. If delayed, he was sure that Preston wouldn’t notice if the toothpick fell to the floor.
The trio descended the steps. At the bottom, the house vexation was leaning against the spindles of the banister. “Good morning gentlemen,” Price uttered cordially. “I do hope that you have a profitable day. The secrets of the world are there for you to decipher.”