Chapter 13

NEW YORK, NY NOVEMBER 1938

JAKE WAS RESTING ON THE SOFA reading 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 Nazi 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 Nazis 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 communiqué 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 glass, and the event is being called Kristalnacht—The Night of Broken Glass. 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 bastards 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 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 passed 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 balls 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 assembly was much older than Jake. Paul guessed the average age of the collection of working stiffs was mid-fifties. Arguments for breaking the Nazi bastards’ 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 embarrassed 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 Nazis. I bet this Kristalnacht 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 don’t give a shit!” Sam Bernstein exploded.

“It’s not that they don’t give a shit, 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.”

“You and Pop have worked very hard, and in your own way have made America a better place. This country was built on the backs of those speaking with an accent. But don’t think for a minute that we’re really accepted here. If the anti-Semites come to the conclusion that they could avoid a war with Hitler by kicking us out, we would be packing in a minute. Jews in America have got to change. We have to become fighters, protect ourselves, and take no crap from anybody.”

“Jake, you get these ideas from the men you work with. They’re nothing but a bunch of gangsters. You’re becoming one of them!” she shouted.

“Yes Ma, some of them are gangsters, some are killers, but they don’t let anyone mess around with their people. The time is coming when we’ll have to trade in our prayer shawls for guns.”

Jake realized that he was daydreaming. “A few of my co-workers have supplied me with some equipment to help heat the Bund meeting hall. I understand they’ve been a little chilly. I think it’s best if we go over and take a look at the place. My friends advised me to make sure this auxiliary heater would be the right size for the job.”

“Is this heater available for installation this evening?” Lou Ginsberg asked.

Jake nodded in the affirmative. “I just have to call the supply house, and we’ll get immediate delivery.”

They split into two groups, with Jake riding with Sam Bernstein. Moe Feinberg, a pattern maker in the Manhattan’s garment center, chauffeured the others. The Bushwick section of Brooklyn had been the location for more than a dozen breweries. All changed with Prohibition and the shift to produce soda and near-beer.

The repeal of the Volstead Act didn’t fill the void left by the Queens migration. The old brewery area remained dilapidated, populated by the disenfranchised and impoverished. The Bund was located on Schaefer Street, a community populated mainly by Germans and Poles. It took about twenty minutes to navigate into the general area. With buses stopping on almost every corner, traffic slowed, not being helped by a light drizzle. It was a narrow street, paved with the original cobblestones. Jake took note—the stones were like ice when wet. As planned, they cruised by the target, with each member of the operation looking for specific details relating to security measures taken by the Bund. Jake wanted to know about lookouts and possible tails. He was warned that they kept members in cars to follow suspicious intruders.

Number 345 Schaefer Street was a two story brick and frame building standing alone with a parking lot on either side. The faded lettering spelled out Krause’s Tavern, the former occupant. A large swastika was flying at the side of the door. “In a million years, I wouldn’t ever have dreamed that I see a Brownshirt standing guard duty,” Jake said.

Bernstein slowed for a fraction of a second and then proceeded up the block, taking a right on Madison Street. He pulled to the curb behind Feinberg’s black Oldsmobile. “Pick me up at 8:30 and we’ll go get the transportation,” Jake said as he switched cars to go over plans with Moe Feinberg.

Feinberg doubled back to Schaefer Street. Jake wanted to take another look at the target. The near empty parking lots adjacent to the building filled rapidly. “The Bund is a very popular place,” Jake said. “Tonight’s meeting has been advertised as a double celebration for the annexation of Czechoslovakia and Kristalnacht.”

“Why don’t we just shoot these bastards? It would so much easier!” Feinberg said.

“It would be easier, but if we do it my way, they’ll have doubts about their own safety. I want them to worry about going into a place like this. Maybe their new headquarters will meet the same fate or worse,” Jake replied as he waved to get going.

Jake found his brother sitting at the kitchen table with a stack of books. “By the way, how’s your girlfriend?”

Paul turned a deep crimson. “What girlfriend?”

“Don’t bullshit me little brother. I can tell when a guy is dopey over a dame. I’m talking about Miss Sarah Greenbaum.”

“She’s not my girlfriend yet, but I’m working on it.”

Jake glanced down at the calculus book. “I have to go out for awhile, if I’m not back by the time you go to bed, don’t put the chain on the door. I hate climbing the fire escape.”

“You’re afraid of heights.” Paul looked up. “Anything related to the gentlemen I met at Katz’s?”

Jake moved to the refrigerator to grab a bottle of Coke. “From now on, unless I offer information, don’t ask. Whatever you do, don’t utter a syllable to Ma,” he said, taking a long gulp,

Paul knew his brother well enough not to argue when he used that tone of voice. This was his business face, no screwing with him. Paul returned to his books as Jake picked up the phone. “Jake here,” he said. “I need the wheels, make sure the other stuff is in the back of the truck. Thanks.” He hung up.

Jake re-dialed the phone. “Nicky, the plumber needs that heater. Anthony will have the truck in half an hour. Thanks and I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Jake picked up his jacket and locked the door behind him. Bernstein’s dark blue Chevy was parked across the street. Sam Bernstein was a sixty-three year-old lifelong butcher. His trade kept him in a physical condition that was the envy of men forty years his junior. Jake respected him for his common sense and his muscle.

“Boichick, you ready. Feinberg will be on Madison like before. If we don’t show in twenty minutes of the rendezvous time, the gang is going to come looking for us. Moe’s coming prepared: four shotguns and a bunch of baseball bats.”

“I hope Moe doesn’t get jumpy and blow the whole scheme,” Jake said, having a few doubts.

Bernstein made his way over to the industrial section of Pennsylvania Avenue, checking his rear view mirror like he had seen Bogart do in the movies. He wasn’t sure what he was looking for, but one couldn’t be too careful. His reservation for the operation was that more than two people knew what was going on. It was unavoidable. There were only twelve men in the entire movement. He hoped they could control their mouths.

The Brooklyn Union Gas Company depot was deserted. Bernstein pulled the Chevy into an alley. The car was hidden behind two large cardboard boxes. Approaching a gas company truck, Jake removed two pairs of brown flannel gloves from his jacket, handing a pair to Bernstein. “Put them on, we wouldn’t want to leave any pastrami traces.”

Bernstein found the keys on top of the sun visor. A friend of a friend of Jake’s provided the wheels and other required incidentals. Two sets of Brooklyn Union overalls were in the back. Jake opened the toolbox and lifted the tray, shining a flashlight onto a package marked “fittings.” His goomba had a sense of humor.

Bernstein assumed his place behind the wheel, turned the key in the ignition, and the old Dodge truck purred to life. Just as they began to move, another gas truck pulled into the depot. Jake looked away, trying to keep his face from view. “Let’s get going. If those guys get an idea we’re not supposed to be on duty, its curtains.”

“What the hell are you talking about? Do you think they only have one crew on a shift? This company provides gas for the entire borough. Relax!” Bernstein said.

Jake eased back into the seat, gazing at the industrial buildings as Bernstein drove toward Bushwick. The traffic had thinned. He checked his watch, 8:55. They were on time to arrive at the Bund just as the festivities were scheduled to begin.

Bernstein turned onto Schaefer and eased the truck into a no parking zone. “A cop wouldn’t bother with a gas company truck.”

“From the looks of the block, I doubt the police patrol it,” Jake said.

The adjacent parking lots were full. Bernstein looked at his young partner and gave him the thumbs up. Jake went to the rear of the truck and removed the toolbox.

A brown shirted goon stood guard at the door. “We’re from the gas company,” Jake announced. “There’s been a report of a gas leak. We have to check the buildings beginning at the head of the main. Which way to the basement?”

“You can’t barge in. Wait here,” the guard said.

They waited on the front steps. A short, fat, gray haired, pseudo Nazi appeared. “I am Fritz Steiner, commander. We didn’t call in a gas leak. You’ve come at the worst time, our meeting is about to start!”

“Listen Mac, the company’s instruments have indicated falling pressure in the main line. If you want to blow up, be my guest,” Bernstein said. He started to walk down the steps to the street.

“No, no, you have to do your job,” Steiner said. “Come inside and I will get someone to take you down to the basement,”

Krause’s Tavern had been transformed into the Munich beer hall where Hitler staged his infamous putsch. The original bar was still being used, and the revelers were lined up three deep. On the wall behind the bar hung a framed picture of Hitler. Bernstein fought to control himself, wanting to grab one of the large Nazi flags and smash the former paperhanger.

Steiner led one of his flunkies to them. “Sergeant Kress will show you the way.”

Kress led them down a narrow hallway and opened the door to the basement. “It looks like you guys have been in a few basements tonight,” he said looking at their filthy overalls. “If you need something, I’ll be down the hall.”

“Günter, we need you up front. Get your accordion,” a voice called down the steps. Kress turned heels and disappeared.

Bernstein led the way, with Jake closing the door behind him. The floor was stacked with kegs of beer. “I would like to take a leak in that,” Bernstein whispered as he pointed to the keg that was hooked up to the taps upstairs.

“Arsenic would be better.” Jake said, carrying the tool chest to the area behind the furnace that was draped in cobwebs.

Bernstein grimaced at the sight, “I hate bugs. If I see a rat, I’m outta here.”

“Don’t worry, all the vermin are upstairs toasting the Führer.” Jake put on his gloves, opened the tool-chest, and handed Bernstein a large open-ended wrench. The noise filtering through the floor made it difficult to hear if someone was coming down the steps. Bernstein positioned himself at the bottom of the stairs, prepared to adjust some bastard’s attitude if necessary.

Jake removed the package marked “fittings.” Tearing the brown Kraft wrapping paper revealed six sticks of dynamite connected to a timer. After turning the power off to the burner, Jake used a wrench to loosen the gas pipe leading to the furnace. He set the timer for eighteen minutes. Bernstein slipped his wrench into the large pocket on the right side of the overalls and climbed the steps. He peeked into the hall. The assembly was in the midst of patriotic songfest. Jake closed the door with his elbow and proceeded toward the front of the building.

Steiner was positioned near the door. “Do you gentlemen want a glass of beer?”

“We’ll take a rain check. We have more stops to make,” Bernstein said. “All the lines checked out. Sorry for any inconvenience we might have caused.”

“I appreciate your concern for our safety. Please come back when your shift is over. The party will really be hot by then,” Steiner said.

As they walked down the front steps, the guard saluted them with a “Seig Heil.”

“You should go inside and warm up. It’s getting a little chilly,” Jake said.

Holding their breaths, they waited for the truck’s engine to start. “I’m getting too old for shit like this,” Bernstein said as he pulled away. “I hope that putz takes your advice and goes inside.”

“I can’t get over the fact these people have the balls to parade around in their Nazi uniforms, doing their “Seig Heil” routine, and wish this was Bavaria,” Jake said. ”Where in the hell did they get that picture of Hitler hanging over the bar? I wonder if they have one hanging over the toilet.”

Bernstein slowly drove past the Bund hall. The guard at the door gave them a final Nazi salute. The truck turned on Knickerbocker Avenue. Bernstein watched for any tails. He hadn’t observed anything out of the ordinary, and proceeded to Madison to rendezvous with Feinberg.

Bernstein parked beside the black Oldsmobile. Feinberg rolled down his window. “In five minutes, our German friends will be taking a trip to Valhalla. Everything went smooth as glass,” Jake said. Bernstein made a U-turn to face in the direction of the expected explosion.

Jake checked his watch. One minute. “Bill, I know those bastards deserve what is about to happen, but in a way, I have mixed emotions. This is the start of something that is going to get real ugly.”

Bernstein gave him a look like he would do to his son. “Jake, we didn’t start this war. These goons look up to a madman. They’ve declared an open hunting season on our people. I’m just a common man, but I know you can’t close your eyes and make a wish that they won’t be here anymore. Vermin must be removed. We volunteered for the job.”

The black sky suddenly turned to orange-red as a fireball ascended two blocks away. Bernstein drove away, not waiting for Feinberg. Within minutes, the wails of sirens converged in the direction of Schaefer Street. Bernstein turned toward Jake. “Your goombas at the docks provide good equipment. Make sure you tell them how much we appreciate their help. Demolition isn’t taught in Hebrew school.”