World War II was raging. Even in Hoboken, New Jersey. Especially at the rubber repurposing factory, where the countryâs used tires, rubber hoses, hot water bottles, and rubber bands were being transformed into crucial weapons of war.
Georgie Paolini was doing his part in the war effort; working part-time at the factory as he planned his life. Graduate from high school, get married, enlist in the army, kill Nazis, come home, make a difference in the world and become a professional musician.
But the best laid plans make God laugh.
25 years later, the post-war world was filled with uncertainty, angst, and a new generation of young people that had no interest in the past. There was an emptiness in the zeitgeist that no amount of sex, drugs, or rock and roll could fill. Unless you searched in places where no one was meant to go. Ever.
World War II was raging. Even in Hoboken, New Jersey. Especially at the rubber repurposing factory, where the countryâs used tires, rubber hoses, hot water bottles, and rubber bands were being transformed into crucial weapons of war.
Georgie Paolini was doing his part in the war effort; working part-time at the factory as he planned his life. Graduate from high school, get married, enlist in the army, kill Nazis, come home, make a difference in the world and become a professional musician.
But the best laid plans make God laugh.
25 years later, the post-war world was filled with uncertainty, angst, and a new generation of young people that had no interest in the past. There was an emptiness in the zeitgeist that no amount of sex, drugs, or rock and roll could fill. Unless you searched in places where no one was meant to go. Ever.
PART ONE - WINTER 1943
CHAPTER ONE
Hoboken hasnât been the same since the war started. The docks used to be termite-infested, dilapidated slabs of wood, and home to the occasional tramp steamer that couldnât afford to pay the docking fees across the Hudson in Manhattan. Now they were gleaming and teeming with merchant marines, sailors, soldiers, and naval and massive cargo ships. A spiderâs web of cables stretched across the sky for blocks and blocks as cranes hoisted crates, containers, and vehicles onto the awaiting vessels. More than a few unfortunate drunks at the dockside taverns had already been killed or maimed by nearby trains, trucks, and falling cargo. Sometimes there were ships unloading the most dreaded of all cargo, American flag-draped coffins.
Local watering holes that used to be old man dive bars with nary a female in sight, save for the early morning wife dragging a passed-out patron by the ear, were now filled with soldiers, sailors, and workmen from all corners of the country. Not to mention an influx of ladies wearing sweaters a size too small and extra friendly. Sometimes there were seamen from England killing time as their ships were loaded for the war effort across the pond.
When the Germans started bombing Britain in 1940, the ships being loaded were mostly cargo, filled with supplies of all kinds so the Brits could hold off the Nazis as they tried to bomb Londoners and Liverpudlians into submission. In fact, it wasnât a surefire bet that the U.S. would be sending their boys over there. In 1939 a Nazi rally was held in Madison Square Garden right in Midtown Manhattan with 20,000 Americans shouting âSieg Heilâ to a giant banner of Hitler himself next to a banner of George Washington. But all that changed when the Japanese attacked Pearl Harbor. The phony jackbooted chumps got the message good and hard. It was our fight now. And the brown-shirted rats went back into their Yorkville holes.
Yorkville was a neighborhood in upper Manhattan so full of Germans, there was a time when swastikas were displayed in shop windows. But after that day that will live in infamy, as President Franklin Roosevelt called it, December 7, 1941, any swastikas behind glass were a target for local brick and rock throwers, German-American and otherwise. The feds still kept an eye on the locals there. As they did with the Italians and the Japanese lucky enough not to be in an internment camp. A popular expression became truthâloose lips sink shipsâand blow other stuff up, too.
First generation German-Americans, Italian-Americans, and Japanese-Americans were signing up to fight in the war. They received more scrutiny than other enlistees, but many were eventually allowed to go to war for the country their parents had sacrificed all to call their adopted country âhome.â
Georgie Paolini was anxious to sign up. He was a seventeen-year-old senior in Hobokenâs Demarest High School. But he promised his mother that he would wait until graduation so he could be the first in the family to get a high school diploma. And he would also turn eighteen right after graduation on July 4th. His older brother, Vito, had dropped out of Demarest when he was a sophomore after their father was killed in an industrial accident at the Butler Rubber factory. Vito needed to work full-time to support the family. He was ten years older than Georgie and already had just achieved a vice presidency position at the plant.
As successful as Vito was, rising so quickly, it was Georgie who everyone in the family, in their building, and in their neighborhood thought of as the one destined for greatness. Although he was a C+ student in school, when it came to music and art, he was a standout without peer not only at Demarest, but perhaps in the entire state of New Jersey, and some thought even in New York City, which Hoboken looked at longingly across the river. When it came to athletics, he was also in the running for leading the pack in baseball, basketball, football, and even the local Irish hurling team, being the only Italian on the roster, and their leading scorer.
And to complete the package, he was also blessed with good looks, with thick wavy raven black hair and blue eyes. At five foot ten, he was only average in height, but his sinewy muscular build adding up to 140 pounds soaking wet meant he was an unlikely fierce middle linebacker in football, play maker guard in basketball, unmovable protector-of-the-plate catcher in baseball, and speedy forward in hurling. But, in senior year, the games had to take a back seat to the talents that most thought would be his ticket to greatness across the river âmusic and art. Georgie played saxophone. And trumpet. And flute. And clarinet. And piano. He could sight read music cold, and write music almost as quickly. Alto sax was his main instrument, and he dazzled high school students, teachers, and parents with his first chair solos. Girls swooned during âMoonlight Serenadeâ and many other sentimental big band swing tunes in the school bandâs sold-out performances in the high school auditorium or at assorted concerts throughout the city. One of those girls was Katie OâBrien. Georgie and Katie had been going steady since third grade, just after they realized that their constant teasing of each other in class, after class, on weekends, and during summer vacations meant they couldnât be without each other. And they rarely were. Even though Georgie was busy with his art and music, and now working part-time for his brother at the rubber factory, any free time was spent with Katie.
Georgieâs artwork came in handy at his job, doing sketches for product catalogs, preparing signage, and helping designers with their drawings for new products. The Butler Rubber Factory had also gained importance since the war started. The Axis had made inroads across Asia and Africa and pretty much closed off all sources of rubber for the allies, which was so desperately needed in the war effort. Butlerâs specialty since the late 1800s was recycling rubber into new products and raw materials, and the company was now producing 300,000 tons of recycled rubber crucial for Americaâs fighting forces.
Ever since Georgie was little, he remembered his family taking him to the warehouse to see the balloons for the Macyâs Thanksgiving Parade. They had arrived from the Goodyear factory in Akron, Ohio, and as they were unloaded from their shipping crates they were brought to life for the parade. Now, one of the highlights of him working at the Butler Rubber Factory was that he was allowed to help, thanks to one of his big brotherâs most talented and trusted rubber men, John Claude Mason, known to all as Johnny C.
Johnny was the same age as Georgieâs big brother, Vito, and had worked in the rubber business even longer. He knew the business from the bottom up. He was the guy everyone turned to when they needed to know why something wasnât working, needed fixing, or wasnât up to standards. Besides being hands on, Johnny knew all the chemistry that was so crucial to this specialized industry. He might have been promoted to vice president instead of Vito. But he wasnât for one reason: he was colored. It was just the way things were back then, and he knew when it came to the business world, he could only get so far due to the pigmentation of his skin. Even though he was a very light-skinned Black man.
But there was another area where he was starting to get some recognition and advancement. Like Georgie, he had the gift of music. This of course made Georgie look up to Johnny Mason, probably more than anyone on the planet, including his brother. Not only did Georgie learn about the artistry of the parade balloons, but also music. Johnny was a master tenor saxophone player who made regular trips across the river to sit in with professional jazz musicians from 52nd Street to Harlem. Johnny taught Georgie about the subtleties of jazz that couldnât be learned from a book. How to stay behind a beat, to improvise in every key, silently communicate while playing with other musicians, how to bend notes, and, most importantly, how to breathe.
But during the war, there were no balloon deliveries since the parades had been cancelled. They couldnât be wasting rubber and helium on balloons. Or using gasoline for vehicles to pull floats. The war was in full force in the winter of 1943. So much so, with little news of victories in battles overseas, many people were worried about the chance that the U.S. could be invaded. There were even warnings that there could be Nazi spies in New York City. Or New York might be bombed like London. Georgie couldnât wait to enlist and fight for his country.
It was an unseasonably cold day after Thanksgiving in 1943, and since school was closed for the holiday, the heat in the school wasnât set to a comfortable temperature. Georgie knew the janitor, Luigi, would be working waxing the floors on this Friday, and had made arrangements to use the band room. It was a large room with tiered seating arrangements with the louder instrument positions like Sousaphones and trombones in the rear, and the quieter instruments like flutes and clarinets up front. There was a podium in the middle of the semi-circle of seats where the music teacher, Mr. Ryan, conducted marches, classical pieces, and the occasional big band swing number. Georgie sat on the piano bench in front of the upright piano that was just behind the podium against the wall. Johnny Mason from the rubber plant had asked him to work out an arrangement for a popular Louis Jordan song that was currently a hit song on the radio, âFive Guys Named Moe.â
He was writing furiously on a sheet of paper with lined staffs already on it, and occasionally hitting a piano key or two. Suddenly the door to the room opened. It was Mr. Ryan. âMr. Paolini!
What in the world are you doing here today?â
âOh, hello Mr. Ryan. Iâm working out an arrangement for a friend.â
Mr. Ryan came up behind Georgie and inspected the notes he had been writing. ââFive Guys Named Moeâ? Is that what this says in your scribble at the top?â
âYes, sir. Itâs a hit song by Louis Jordan and His Tympani Five. Iâve been invited to a Friday night fish fry, and Iâm going to sit in with a combo at the party.â
Mr. Ryan looked puzzled as he shuffled through the pages. âTrumpet, alto, tenor one, tenor two. How are you doing these?â
âOh, I know the song well. I have the record at home. Iâve played it a million times.â
Mr. Ryan appeared befuddled. âYou mean youâre doing these different parts from memory?â
âWell, sometimes. I have to play the notes out on the piano to make sure Iâm getting it right.â
âI thought you had a piano at home.â
âWe did, but after my dad diedâŚâ
Mr. Ryan pulled a chair from the flute section, and sat next to Georgie. He studied the music sheets more carefully. âAnd you know how to transpose for the right instruments depending on the keys. How do you know how to do that?â
âYou taught us. In class.â
âI briefly went over it for about ten minutes. Well, in a few classes.â
âThat was enough. I went home and worked out all the keys and transpositions from there. Itâs not that hard once you figure out the formulas. Here lookâŚâ
âGeorgie, let me ask you something,â Mr. Ryan interrupted, and set down the music sheets. âWhat are your plans? I mean, long term. You know, I think if we tried, we could get you a scholarship to a prestigious music academy, like the Juilliard School of Music in Manhattan.â
âThat sounds neat, Mr. Ryan, but I already have my mind made up. Right after I graduate, I turn eighteen on the Fourth of July and Iâm enlisting in the Army.â
âWell, I canât argue with that. But promise me youâll keep up with your music no matter what happens. You know there are even opportunities in the service for musicians. Youâve heard about the Glenn Miller big band? Heâs a major, you know?â
âOh, I know all about him. But Iâm itching to get in on the action. I want to really fight for my country.â
âWell, youâre a real Yankee Doodle Dandy, born on the Fourth of July, Georgie. But keep your options open once you get in there. There are many ways to serve your country, and theyâll let you know where youâre needed most. I was in the Navy in the Great War. I served the whole time at the Great Lakes Naval Station in Illinois, and by the time I was getting shipped overseas, we turned around and came home, because the war had ended.â
âWow. That was lucky.â
âYes, it was. But my big brother wasnât so lucky. He was killed in France.â
âOh. Iâm sorry.â
âJust keep an open mind and never let your talent go to waste.â
âThank you, Mr. Ryan. Youâve always been a great help to me. You know, since my father passed awayâŚâ
âI remember him, Georgie. He was a very good musician. Heâd be very proud of you. Keep making him proud,â Mr. Ryan placed his hand on Georgieâs shoulder. âHeâs up there watching you.â He then thumped him on the shoulder. âAnd donât forget, there was another Demarest student who did pretty well in his music career, named Francis Albert Sinatra. Now back to work. You have a job to do. Make sure the shades are down all the way. Weâre in blackout.â
âWill do.â
It was easy to forget sometimes that there was a war going on, at least for a moment or two. But blacking out windows, ration books, streets filled with soldiers and sailors getting ready to board ships, little kids with their wagons collecting tin cans, scrap metal, and rubber easily knocked your head back to reality. Sacrifices had to be made on the home front, too.
On the way home, Georgie almost always went the long way. Even on freezing cold days like this. That was because he wanted to pass the tenement where that other Demarest student used to liveâFrank Sinatra. The Sinatra building was way more run down than where he, his mother, and big brother, Vito, lived. Since Frank became one of Americaâs top singing sensations in 1941, it seemed every store in Hoboken had a connection to him: âFrank Sinatraâs Favorite Bakery,â âFrank Sinatraâs Favorite Barber Shop,â âFrank Sinatraâs Momâs Favorite Yarn Store.â Georgie knew it was silly to add fifteen minutes to his walk home from school just to hang out in front of the Sinatra building, as if some kind of muse might suddenly rub off on him. And way back, deep in his mind, he thought that maybe, just maybe, Frank might one day appear, to stop by in person and see the old neighborhood.
Georgieâs mother, Angelina, wore black when she was outside the house like all the other Italian widows in the neighborhood. She was short in stature, but could still turn over a mattress by herself, and swing a large wooden spoon like Joe DiMaggio if you got out of line. They were lucky to have a spacious five room, second floor apartment in their building on Clinton Street. The landlord lived on the first floor and kept the common areas immaculate. They were very fortunate that there was some insurance money, a double indemnity payment, when Mr. Paolini died in a factory accident. And of course, big brother Vito took care of all the money matters, being an executive at Butler Rubber.
At home, Angelina was a happy woman. Always singing, humming, and delicately waving her hands like a conductor when listening to the opera on the radio. Although sometimes, when a certain song or aria came on the radio, she would stop, bow her head, bless herself, and try to hold back the tears as the memory of her dearly departed husband, Guglielmo, took hold of her.
Angelina and Guglielmo were married in Matera, Italy in 1900 and immediately boarded a boat to New York City. After some processing through Ellis Island, they soon were living in a cold water flat much worse than the Sinatraâsâ in Hoboken. But having experience in the rubber manufacturing business in Italy, Guglielmo landed a job at Butler and worked his way up from sweeper to supervisor. As the years and decades went by, they moved to better apartments, raised two sons, and even managed to attend the opera across the river at the Metropolitan Opera House upon occasion. Guglielmo instilled in the children a love of music, with his piano and mandolin playing always leading a roomful of immigrants, whether family or friends, in Sunday musicales after attending mass at St. Francis Church.
âMom, Iâm home!â Georgie announced loudly, entering the apartment. She could be in any of the three bedrooms down the long hall. He quickly removed his winter clothing and shoes, put down his saxophone case, and headed for the kitchen. âIâm gonna grab a snack then I have to run.â
âHave to run? Why you always running? Youâre gonna have agita so bad you wonât be able to blow into that saxophone.â Angelina hurried over to Georgie and gave him a big hug and a smooch on the cheek. âDonât grab just something cold from the fridge. I have some leftovers thatâll take three minutes to heat up on the stove. By the time you wash up and sit down, youâll have a nice meal to eat like a human being, not a wild animal.â
Angelina never wore black around the house, but always dressed in cheerful floral printed housecoats or aprons. Her hair wasnât all white yet, but an attractive salt and pepper gray that had a perfect Toni perm, short and neat. She didnât play an instrument, but had a lovely singing voice that gave her the potential to possibly become a professional if she had dedicated herself to it, instead of to her family. She knew many operatic arias by heart, and most of the songs on the Hit Parade. She was saddened when they had to sell the piano after Guglielmo died, but they needed the money. Now that Vito had been promoted to vice president, and Georgie was working part-time, there was talk of buying a new, player piano, so she could sing along to piano rolls when Georgie wasnât there to accompany her.
âAnd where are you rushing off to this time? To see Katie?â Angelina placed a plate of spaghetti and meatballs on the table, smothered in fresh parmesan cheese, with a hunk of freshly made Italian bread.
âIâm meeting Johnny, from the factory. Weâre going to be playing in a jazz combo at a Friday night fish fry. Iâve been working on some arrangements.â Georgie buttered his bread and dipped it in the red sauce.
âAnd where is this happening? And whatâs a fish fryer got to do with this crazy jazz?â
âItâs a Friday night fish fry. People open their apartments for a fifty-cent admission, and they provide fried fish, a band plays, and people have a party.â
âYou didnât answer where.â
âI donât know exactly where. Somewhere in Manhattan, I guess. Johnny is picking me up and weâre driving there.â Georgie was telling a white lie, even if it was by omission. He knew very well the fish fry was in Harlem.
âYou better be careful! I love-a that Johnny Mason, but he is colored, so maybe youâll be going to Harlem. Itâs dangerous there. For coloreds and whites.â
âDonât be silly. There are beautiful homes and areas in Harlem. Just like thereâs good and bad areas in Hoboken. Johnny would never put me in danger. Heâs like a brother to me.â
âI know. Just be careful. And slow down, youâll be blowing chunks of meatballs out of that saxophone.â
Johnny C. Mason was a bachelor, and ten years older than Georgie, same as Vito. He was raised by his grandparents in New Orleans, and moved to New Jersey when he was seventeen years old. His childhood had also been centered around music like Georgieâs. His grandfather played trombone professionally and was said to have even played with Louis Armstrong, Fletcher Henderson, and King Oliver. But the Deep South made sure that Johnny knew that he was a âcolored boyâ every day. He worked in tire shops, garages, and eventually a rubber factory, which gave him the confidence to move north and make a pretty good income if his musical ambitions didnât pan out. At the age of twenty-seven, with ten years at the plant, he felt that his musical career just might have a chance to take off. With an amiable personality, Johnny was easygoing and fit into just about every musical environment that offered an opportunity. He was getting well known in Harlem and on 52nd Street, New Yorkâs bullseye for live jazz clubs. Oftentimes, he was asked to sit in with small combos, big bands, and even a symphony orchestra one time. He played alto, tenor and baritone sax, plus flute and vibraphones. He could sight read music with the best of them, and knew music history from Beethoven to Bix Beiderbecke. New Orleans public schools for the colored from first grade through high school emphasized music education as a way for children to have an outletâone of the few opportunities available to Negroes in the jazz capitol of the world.
To look at Johnny C., âmusicianâ would probably be the last thing you would expect him to be. His shoulders were so broad that even regular suits looked like the cut of a zoot suit. His hands were oversized, and despite the calluses one felt when shaking hands with him, there was a delicateness to his fingers. If you saw him in loose fitting clothing, you might think he was overweight. But if you were to see him on the sands of the Jersey Shore in his bathing suit, you would see a torso and legs ripped with muscles, the result of a lifetime of manual labor. But strength was balanced perfectly with a demeanor that exuded his good nature, sense of humor, and tender facial characteristics. Quick to laughter, slow to anger, and oversized ears that heard what many others missed.
Johnny didnât hold it against Vito that he had been promoted to vice president. In fact, Vito treated Johnny with the utmost respect, and had him at the highest pay level for a supervisor. Something that didnât sit well with some of the white workers, and even some of the colored workers. Of course, he heard the same old whispers that have been around since the Civil War. Behind his back, sometimes, not very far behind his back, Vito would hear ânigger lover.â And Johnny would hear âUncle Tom.â But anybody who got too bold in front of Vito with these ugly tropes, colored or white, was sure to hear his wrath and was subject to disciplinary action. And anybody who dared utter the words in front of Johnny was subject to an ass whooping. Johnny and Vito trusted each other implicitly. And Georgie felt like the little brother to both. They stuck together like rubber glue whether on the job or outside of work.
Georgie peeked into the kitchen and saw his mom sitting at the kitchen table, sipping a glass of sherry, and reading Silver Screen movie magazine featuring âUntold Blunders of Hollywood Stars!â He knew sheâd be occupied for a while, so he picked up the telephone off its table in the living room, and stretched the cord as far as it would go into his bedroom, the first door on the right in the hall. He dialed and waited.
âHello, beautiful! I only have a few minutes. Momâs reading Silver ScreenâŚNo, dontcha remember? Iâm going to a Friday night fish fry with Johnny C. tonightâŚItâs a big chance to show off my abilities in front of some professional musicians andâŚI know, sweetnessâŚA huh...A huhâŚA huhâŚA huh. Look, how about Iâll climb up your fire escape afterwards and we can have a goodnight kiss under the stars? Oh, Katie, if you say things like that to me, Iâll never be able to go anywhere without you. Yes, weâll have all day tomorrow, and Sunday, and soonâŚforever. See you later, honey.â
Georgie quietly hung up the phone, closed his eyes, and slowly moved his head to and fro, smiling as if he were kissing Katie in his dreams.
âWake up, lover boy!â Georgieâs mom picked up the phone and returned it to the little table.
âWere you listening, Mom?â
âI donât have to listen to know whatâs on your mind. Katie, Katie, Katie! I know sheâs a wonderful girl, but arenât there any nice Italian girls that are just as wonderful?â
âThereâs not another like Katie whoâs Italian, Polish, Hungarian, Transylvanian, or even Irish. Sheâs the only one for me.â
âWell, donât put the carriage in front of the horse, and take it easy, Romeo. Youâre still in school, and so is Katie. Once you graduate and turn eighteen, you can do as you please, but not until then.â
âI know, Mom. I promise.â Georgie kissed his mother tenderly on the forehead. âDonât tell Katie, but youâll always be my number one girl.â
A car horn honkedâthree short sounds, three longer, followed by three more short soundsâMorse code for S.O.S., and Johnny C.âs signature car horn signal whenever he arrived.
Georgie opened the window. âCome on up, Johnny!â
âLet me fix something for you boys to take to the party.â Mrs. Paolini rushed to the kitchen.
âItâs a fish fry, Mom. There will be lots of food.â
âThen let me give you a snack for the ride.â
âLetâs ask Johnny C. when he gets here.â
The same S.O.S. code tapped on the door. Georgie rushed and opened it.
âJohnny C.!â
âIn person. Available for weddings, bar mitzvahs, St. Patrickâs Day dances, funerals, and Friday night fish frys. Georgie, you didnât tell me Eva Gardner was going to be here this evening. I would have worn my white tie and tails.â Johnny C. hugged Georgieâs mother.
âOh, Johnny C., you and your jokes. Itâs so nice to see you. Would you like something for the ride? Some salami, mozzarella?â
âNah, Mrs. P. Iâm playing tonight and I want my tummy to be resting while my lungs are busy working overtime. We should get going, Georgie. Grab your horn and letâs blow.â
âYou boys behave and be careful. Donât be too late.â
Georgie and Johnny C. grabbed some cases and boxes, and rushed out the door.
âBye, Mrs. P.â
âBye, Mom. Donât say good luck.â
âYou think I havenât learned all this time? Go break a leg.â
Mrs. P. shut the door behind them, closed her eyes, and had a similar misty smile on her face, like Georgie had a few minutes ago. She then blessed herself with the Sign of the Cross and kissed her thumb and forefinger.
Georgie and Johnny C. loaded their things into the 1939 Ford Coupe and headed north on the cobblestone street.
âYouâre not taking the tunnel into Manhattan?â Georgie asked.
âNah. I hate that thing. It makes me feel like Iâm on the road to hell. The George Washington Bridge is a thing of beauty. And with the full moon, weâll be able to see the skyline of the City, despite the blackout. Iâm so sick of this damn war.â
âCan I ask you something personal?â
âYou can ask. I might not tell.â Johnny C. glanced over to Georgie with a wry smile.
âDid you get drafted?â
âAlmost. A couple of years ago. Just when I was made supervisor. Your brother told the board I was in a crucial wartime effort position, which I am. As is your brother. Without rubber, we donât have an army. Plus, I did have a couple of minor health concerns at the time, and I ainât a kid no more, in case you havenât noticed.â
âIâm gonna sign up on my eighteenth birthday. I promised Mom thatâs how Iâd do it.â
âIf this war keeps slogging along, I think theyâll start drafting people in the old folksâ home. I hope they know what theyâre doing over there. What does your sweetheart, Katie, think of your plan?â
âSheâŚunderstandsâŚâ Georgie said softly.
âOkay. Thereâs something more to that line.â
âCan you keep a secret, Johnny?â
Johnny C. shot Georgie a look that said, Are you kidding me?
âI know that was a stupid question. I trust you more than anyone in the world, Johnny, and donât ever forget it. You mean so muchâŚto meâŚto my family.â
âOkay, donât start getting all sentimental on me. Just tell me the secret.â
âKatie and I are getting married.â
âYou think thatâs a secret? Everybody who knows you and Katie has known that since you were in the third grade,â Johnny laughed and shook his head.
âI mean the day I turn eighteen.â
âThatâs great and thereâs not a person you know who wonât be thrilled to hear that. You two are like Adam and Eve, Anthony and Cleopatra, Romeo and Juliet.â
âSome of those didnât end so well.â
âYou know what I mean. When the two of you are together, thereâs like this glow around you. Itâs hard to tell where you end and she begins. Well, except for that ugly eye-talian hairy face of yours. How many times a day do you have to shave? Shoot, I almost missed the turn for the bridge!â
It was an eerie sight, seeing the full moon shine its light on the nearly jet-black rectangular shapes shooting into the sky from the bridge in upper Manhattan all the way downtown. The moonlight reflected off some windows and across the rippling waters of the Hudson River. Even the boats in the water had lights turned off except for small red and green marker lights.
âIt seems strange weâre going to a party with music and food and people enjoying themselves knowing that the reason there are no lights over the city is because thereâs a war on. We could be attacked at any minute.â Georgie wistfully stared out the window to the right.
âWeâve got our lives to live, Georgie. Thatâs our job in the war effort. We churn out rubber by the ton. Weâre part of the war machine. But we still have to live our lives. In freedom. Thatâs what theyâre over there fighting for. So it donât come here. Now you got all the charts done for âFive Guys Named Moeâ? I hope you fixed up your sloppy penmanship from last time. It looked like spider shit the way you wrote those notes on that last piece.â
âNo, I was extra careful, this time. Youâll see.â
Johnny C. exited the bridge and took a right on Broadway. In a little while, theyâd be in the heart of Harlem at 125th Street.
There was a constant rhythmic rumble going down the cobblestone street of upper Broadway, with the street car tracks crisscrossing every few blocks. It was eerie with only the red and green traffic lights illuminating the way, since the street lights were turned off. The vast majority of stores and apartment windows had their shades drawn and the ones that didnât would probably soon get a knock on the door from the neighborhood civil defense volunteers.
âThereâs something I should tell you about the musicians at the party.â Johnny C. kept his eyes straight ahead and both hands on the wheel as he drove through the Friday night Manhattan traffic. âThe trombone player is someone who might be called an ofay.â
âOfay? What is that?â
âThatâs pig Latin for foe. But heâs not really a foe, itâs just a term we Negroes use for a white musician who doesnât particularly care for our kind.â
âHeâs a bigot against Negroes. So, what else is new?â Georgie said, matter-of-factly, not surprised.
âWellâŚheâs a bigot against everybody. His name is Terrence McCormick, and heâs a great bone player, but usually heâs a few sheets to the wind by the time he puts a chart on his stand. As the music flows, so does his Irish whiskey, and then he becomes an ofay. He hates Negroes, Jews, Italians, Poles, Germans, and pretty much anybody else who canât trace their ancestry back to the old sod.â
âThe old sod?â
âIreland. So, if he starts calling you a dago, wop, ginny, or anything else, just keep your cool. Oh, and he especially hates young whippersnappers who are more talented than he is. This is it,â Johnny C. said as he turned the corner on La Salle Street. âThe Apollo Theatre is a few blocks back there, and the Cotton Clubâs over on 142nd Street and Lenox, more on the east side. And thereâs about fifty more jazz clubs in basements, above Chinese restaurants, behind dry cleaners, and after hours in luncheonettes. They say if you want to find jazz in Harlem, just open your ears and follow your nose.â
They unloaded their things and walked up the narrow five flights of stairs with two doorways to apartments on each of the landings. Duke Ellingtonâs âTake the A Trainâ could be heard behind the steel apartment door marked 5A.
âYou know that song, right?â Johnny C. asked, pausing before he knocked on the door.
âAre you kidding? Of course.â Georgie was almost indignant.
âDid you know that when you take the A train, this is where it takes you? The subway stop is right down the street from here.â
âGee, I never knew that.â
Johnny C. gave his special S.O.S. knock on the door, and in three seconds it flung open. A smiling, young Black woman appeared. She was a tiny, delicate thing with a huge nest of hair piled high on her head. âJohnny C.! And your young friend. Iâve heard a lot about you. Come on in. The music stands and chairs are in place and the rest of boys will be here any minute. I so appreciate this, Johnny.â
âEsther, anything for you.â Johnny led Georgie toward the corner of the living room. âAnd Georgie, as pretty as this gal is, itâs nothing compared to the sounds she makes when sheâs singing. Like an angel came down from heaven.â
Georgie began going through his music folder and setting his charts on the music stands, quietly, methodically, as he listened to Johnny C. and Esther excitedly plan out the eveningâs events. There would be record playing for a half hour, then the fried fish would be served, followed by live music and dancing. There were four empty coffee cans on a stand with labels, one marked Food 50 cents, Beer 50 cents, House Tips, Musician Tips.
The knocks on the door were coming fast and furiously. Men with music cases of every size. Women with bowls, pots and pans with loose fitting covers that allowed the delicious aromas to immediately waft through the apartment. As the laughter and chatter grew among the majority of folks, four Black men and one white man, each with a sense of purpose on their faces unpacked instruments and made adjustments to music stands, chairs, and papers.
âJohnny C.!â shouted the white guy, Terrence McCormick, so loudly that everyone in the room turned their heads toward him. But soon they went back to what they were doing, because it was to be expected from him. âI got trumpet parts and no trombone nothing.â
âIâll take care of it, Terrence. Have a snort and relax for five minutes.â Johnny C. walked over to Georgie and whispered, âI left a bag in my trunk with some music, mouth pieces and reeds. Would you mind going down and getting them before Terrence blows a blood vessel?â
âSure.â Georgie took the keys from Johnny C. and swiftly negotiated his way through the growing crowd.
He bounded down the steps three at a time out onto the sidewalk, ran down the block and around the corner without his coat on this chilly, dark night. It was difficult to see where the car was as there were so many dark cars parked on the street and no street lamps. But as he approached Johnny C.âs car, he saw someone, dressed all in black, reaching into the trunk and pulling out a bag.
âHey you! Stop, thief!â Georgie shouted after the crook as he ran down the sidewalk, then pulled out a pocket knife and opened it as he gained on the would-be criminal. Like a middle-linebacker pursuing a running back, Georgie leapt and pulled the fleeing thief down. As the miscreant dropped the bag and turned around on the ground, a glint of steel flickered in his hand.
Georgie managed to grab the assailantâs wrist and pin his arm to the sidewalk, rendering the knife harmless. He pulled the crookâs beanie hat, which was pulled low touching his eyebrows, to reveal a very young face.
Although the guy was nearly six feet tall, he was thin as a rail, and looked to be no older than thirteen years old.
âWhat is wrong with you?â Georgie screamed as the kid displayed a look of abject terror.
âDonât kill me please, mister!â The kid said with a squeaky voice that hadnât even changed yet, as he dropped the knife.
âYeah, well, I would have if I had to.â Georgie picked up the kidâs knife and the bag. âHow old are you?â
âTwelve,â the manchild said, still shaking. âAre you gonna call the police?â
Georgie shook his head and let the kid up off the ground. âTwelve years old. I should call the police. But Iâm not going to. You almost got killed tonight or wound up in jail, for a bag that had some sheet music and saxophone reeds. Do you realize that?â
âAre, are, you a musician?â
âYes. Iâm gonna let you go. But Iâm telling you something right now. If you donât change what youâre doing from this minute on, youâll be either in jail or dead real soon.â
âI can play the piano.â
âWhat?â
âI can play the piano. Boogie-woogie.â
âSwear to God that youâll stop stealing and start studying piano.â Georgieâs voice was full of fury as he shook the boy by the shoulders. âIâll let you go and forget about this. But youâd better straighten up.â
âI swear, I swear! Really.â
âGo home.â
The boy turned and ran as fast as possible for about ten steps, then stopped and turned around. âI swear to God! Iâm gonna do it. Thank you, sir.â
Georgie put both knives in the bag and walked back to the car. The trunk was still open and there was a screwdriver on the ground. The lock had been jimmied and there were only some small scratches on the bottom of the trunk below the lock. He closed it, and it locked in place, which was a great relief to him.
He walked briskly back to the building and as he walked up the first few steps, he realized that his knee hurt. There was a tear in his slacks right over that part of his leg. He paused to inspect it, and he could see a nasty scrape and some blood. I hope nobody notices.
When they opened the door for him, he couldnât believe how the room had transformed from a few musicians setting up their chairs and music stands, to a full-blown Friday night fish fry. With windows closed and the shades drawn, the air was thick with smoke from cigarettes, cigars, fryers, and a sweet smell he suspected was reefer. There were fragrances, aromas, and smells that changed with every step he took. Overwhelming aftershaves and colognes, perfumes, hair pomades and treatments, plus plain old body odors. The noise was a cacophony of chatter, kitchen clinks, and sizzles from various boilers and fryers, with stabs of bips bops, rat-a-tat-tats, blurps, and bams from the instruments now in place ready to begin the beguine, rhumba, foxtrot, and if the neighbors didnât complain, some jitterbugging.
âWhere have you been, boy?â Johnny C. took the bag from Georgie and looked him over. âWhat in tarnation have you been through? A tornado?â
âI caught a kid rifling the trunk and he took the bag. I chased him and we scuffled. I went down. But he was just kid, so I let him go.â
âWhatâs that on your hand? Youâre cut, fool!â
Georgie inspected his left hand, and there was a slice on the back of his hand just above the wrist. âOh, I didnât see that. He had a knife. I mustâve brushed up against it.â
âCome with me,â Johnny C. said as he pulled Georgie into the room where all the coats were piled on the beds. âYou are a smart boy. The smartest. But you just did the dumbest damn thing possible. Donât you ever risk even a hair on your head for something as trivial as a bag with about fifty cents worth of paper and reeds. Even if itâs fifty thousand. You couldâve gotten stabbed, wounded, or even killed. Promise me youâll never do anything so stupid again.â His eyes were bulging.
âYouâre right, Johnny. I know. I couldnât help it. Something just kicked in and I couldnât stop.â
âPromise me.â Johnny said, calm and dead serious.
âYes, I promise.â
âLetâs play some music.â Johnny C. smiled and gave Georgieâs shoulder a reassuring squeeze.
I could not put this book down. It tells the story of seventeen-year-old Georgie Paolini and his friend Johnny C., who work together in a Hoboken, NJ-based rubber factory run by Georgie's brother, Vito, during World War II. Georgie is madly in love with Katie O'Brien and has been since they were in elementary school. Georgie has vowed to marry Katie and enlist in the war effort as soon as he turns eighteen.
Georgie is Italian and Katie is Irish, and, back during World War II, that was considered a "mixed marriage." Johnny C. is a light-skinned Black man, but his talents working at the rubber factory make him indispensable at his job. Georgie is a jazz musician of many talents; Johnny C., who's about ten years older than Georgie, is his musical mentor. Together they play at some of the most famous venues in New York City and New Jersey.
Georgie and Johnny C. have also been involved in launching the hot-air balloons for the Macy's Thanksgiving Day parade, which is on hiatus due to the War. Just before his eighteenth birthday, Georgie and Johnny C. are approached by the U.S. Army and interviewed intensely for a secret project. They're immediately drafted and can't get out of it; they're inducted almost immediately because they know how to deal with hot-air balloons and the manufacturing of rubber products. Georgie is also a skilled sketch artist, which is another skill the Army is seeking.
Georgie and Johnny C., along with the rest of the men recruited for this special project, are sworn to secrecy about what their unit, the Twenty-Third, will be doing during the war. They cannot reveal what they're doing, where they're going, and what their ultimate mission is. It's almost as if they're part of something as important as the Manhattan Project, which developed the atomic bomb during World War II. However, their project has to do with the Allied invasion of Normandy in June 1944: They're setting up the so-called "Ghost Army" as a decoy to the Germans, a top secret operation.
Music continues to play a role in their lives while they're in the Army. Twenty-five years after D-Day, Johnny C. is a professional musician living in Paris and must solve a mystery associated with Georgie. I won't reveal what that is; you will have to read this fascinating, well-written book to find out. The writing is compelling, and tackles not only issues of war and loss, but also racism in the segregated Army, the plight of unwed mothers, drug addiction, and the effect of the Vietnam war on the United States. This is a great read, especially for those who, like me, love historical fiction.
Bottom line: This book is one of my favorites of 2025.
(Reviewer's note: I'm well aware of the Ghost Army, since the husband of one of my friends has written non-fiction books about the Ghost Army and takes people on guided tours of the area in which the actual Ghost Army was situated during World War II.)