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Authors: Lawrence S. Kaplan
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one extensive orientation planned around textbook distribution and Dean Reynolds’ address.
Johnson walked into Preston’s room buttoning the cuffs of a highly starched white shirt. “It’s 5:45,” he announced, mimicking Ellis Price. “You must be presentable for dinner. You’ve got fifteen minutes.”
Preston left his desk and selected a seersucker lightweight sport coat and contrasting tie from the closet. “One hundred degrees and we have to wear a jacket and tie,” he muttered.
Johnson laughed, continuing his Price impersonation, “We are gentlemen, my good man. Not some riff raff.”
With Albert Hall accommodating fifty men, the hallway bristled with activity. After the debacle with the steamer trunk, Clark and Preston didn’t need to make any introductions as they navigated downstairs. Every dorm had its clowns—Clark Johnson and Preston Swedge were Albert Hall’s.
Ellis Price was at his post in the lobby inspecting his new charges. To his relief, the house passed muster. He bade them a good dinner as the contingent proceeded down the sidewalk. Preston tagged along as Clark gravitated to the head of the column.
The general commissary was a half-mile walk. On any other day, the excursion would have been pleasant, as the sidewalk meandered through a garden of wildflowers and manicured lawn. However, the temperature still remained in the ninety-degree range. By the time the troop arrived at the Roberts Building, the majority of the men had removed their sport coats and ties. White painted wrought iron railings led to a veranda wrapping around three sides of the building.
Clark paused at the wide-open double French doors. “We should try to set up our own table,” he whispered to Preston.
Roberts was unlike any dining hall that Preston had been to. The main roomwas paneled in deep mahogany with tables and chairs to match. The marble floor reflected light cast by a series of crystal chandeliers ten feet in diameter. Seating capacity was three hundred, allowing accommodation of the six freshman residence halls simultaneously. In order to provide for a true cross section of the student population, there were no assigned seats.
The china dinnerware, embossed with the Princeton crest, was set upon a crisply starched linen tablecloth. Clark settled into his chair, placing a napkin on his lap. Looking around the table reminded him of the admonishment his father delivered to him on the station platform: “Watch out for Jews, Negroes, and communists. You have to be courteous, but that is as far as you should go. It’s us against them. Stick with your own kind, and things will be just fine.” The elder Johnson wouldn’t have been happy with the dark skins, hooked noses, and names that ended in vowels that populated the other six chairs. Clark kept the conversation superficial as the main course was eaten.
Clark, without explanation, left the table at the conclusion of the meal. Preston found him on the veranda sitting in a wicker chair with his feet on the railing not looking happy. He had removed his tie and jacket. A cigarette was clamped between his teeth.
Preston towered over his roommate. “Michigan must have different manners. What’s your beef?”
Clark swatted at a mosquito on his arm. “This situation requires attention. If you want to be invited to an eating club, you better associate with the correct people,” he said, squinting into the setting sun. Eating clubs, where upperclassmen enjoyed their meals, were restricted to movers and shakers. “Yesterday I met a gal who has access to the roster for the dining hall. I’m going to look her up tomorrow to find out who we should sit with.”
Preston didn’t reply. He had heard the same tune from his father.
Chapter 9
B ROOKLYN , NY S EPTEMBER 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
Johnson walked into Preston’s room buttoning the cuffs of a highly starched white shirt. “It’s 5:45,” he announced, mimicking Ellis Price. “You must be presentable for dinner. You’ve got fifteen minutes.”
Preston left his desk and selected a seersucker lightweight sport coat and contrasting tie from the closet. “One hundred degrees and we have to wear a jacket and tie,” he muttered.
Johnson laughed, continuing his Price impersonation, “We are gentlemen, my good man. Not some riff raff.”
With Albert Hall accommodating fifty men, the hallway bristled with activity. After the debacle with the steamer trunk, Clark and Preston didn’t need to make any introductions as they navigated downstairs. Every dorm had its clowns—Clark Johnson and Preston Swedge were Albert Hall’s.
Ellis Price was at his post in the lobby inspecting his new charges. To his relief, the house passed muster. He bade them a good dinner as the contingent proceeded down the sidewalk. Preston tagged along as Clark gravitated to the head of the column.
The general commissary was a half-mile walk. On any other day, the excursion would have been pleasant, as the sidewalk meandered through a garden of wildflowers and manicured lawn. However, the temperature still remained in the ninety-degree range. By the time the troop arrived at the Roberts Building, the majority of the men had removed their sport coats and ties. White painted wrought iron railings led to a veranda wrapping around three sides of the building.
Clark paused at the wide-open double French doors. “We should try to set up our own table,” he whispered to Preston.
Roberts was unlike any dining hall that Preston had been to. The main roomwas paneled in deep mahogany with tables and chairs to match. The marble floor reflected light cast by a series of crystal chandeliers ten feet in diameter. Seating capacity was three hundred, allowing accommodation of the six freshman residence halls simultaneously. In order to provide for a true cross section of the student population, there were no assigned seats.
The china dinnerware, embossed with the Princeton crest, was set upon a crisply starched linen tablecloth. Clark settled into his chair, placing a napkin on his lap. Looking around the table reminded him of the admonishment his father delivered to him on the station platform: “Watch out for Jews, Negroes, and communists. You have to be courteous, but that is as far as you should go. It’s us against them. Stick with your own kind, and things will be just fine.” The elder Johnson wouldn’t have been happy with the dark skins, hooked noses, and names that ended in vowels that populated the other six chairs. Clark kept the conversation superficial as the main course was eaten.
Clark, without explanation, left the table at the conclusion of the meal. Preston found him on the veranda sitting in a wicker chair with his feet on the railing not looking happy. He had removed his tie and jacket. A cigarette was clamped between his teeth.
Preston towered over his roommate. “Michigan must have different manners. What’s your beef?”
Clark swatted at a mosquito on his arm. “This situation requires attention. If you want to be invited to an eating club, you better associate with the correct people,” he said, squinting into the setting sun. Eating clubs, where upperclassmen enjoyed their meals, were restricted to movers and shakers. “Yesterday I met a gal who has access to the roster for the dining hall. I’m going to look her up tomorrow to find out who we should sit with.”
Preston didn’t reply. He had heard the same tune from his father.
Chapter 9
B ROOKLYN , NY S EPTEMBER 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
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