Three into Nine

By Peter R. Brumlik

In 1945 seventeen-year-old Sal Hecht feels like a prisoner in New York City. For four years, he dreamt of fighting in the Second World War and being a hero. Now that the war has ended, it seems, at least to Sal, that his life is over as well. When his repeated efforts to enlist are thwarted, Sal joins the Merchant Marine and opens what he hopes is his gateway to a brighter future. As he begins a new chapter as an apprentice seaman, Sal has no idea of what lies ahead.

Two years later as the French battle what appears to be a futile war in Indochina, Sal’s destiny intertwines with two others as he enlists in the French Foreign Legion. Avram is an Auschwitz survivor who welcomes the opportunity to situate himself among a company of Legionnaires. Jaehne is a corporal who deserted the German Army shortly before the end of the war to join the Legion. Now brought together by fate to fight a colonial war as Legionnaires during the nine years of conflict in French Indochina, the three men each face challenges as they all become comrades and heroes in their own way.


Three into Nine is the story of three men from different backgrounds who find themselves in the French Foreign Legion amid the struggle to maintain a French Colonial Empire.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Archway Publishing
• Release date: Oct 26, 2020
• ISBN: 9781480897502

Peter R. Brumlik

Peter R. Brumlik immigrated from England to the United States as a child, eventually appearing in numerous Broadway productions culminating in the Tony Award winning “Inherit the Wind.” He enlisted in the air force and served three combat tours in Vietnam and Southeast Asia. Dr. Brumlik earned his PhD while serving his country and eventually retired after twenty years of active duty. Currently, he teaches history and the humanities at the University of Colorado. His other novels include; The Pope of Camden Town and Three into Ten the sequel to Three into Nine.

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Copyright © 2020 Peter R. Brumlik.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means,

graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by

any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author

except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents,

organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products

of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

Archway Publishing

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views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are

models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

ISBN: 978-1-4808-9749-6 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4808-9750-2 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2020920062

Archway Publishing rev. date: 10/23/2020

"A man’s reach should exceed his

grasp or what’s a heaven for?"

Robert Browning

Acknowledgements

I am grateful to my colleague Dr. Christopher Hill, History Professor Emeritus of the History Department, University of Colorado at Colorado Springs, without whose support and enthusiasm I would not have been able to finish this labor of love. Finally, I wish to thank Dr. Wiley J. Jinkins, M.D. for giving me the opportunity to earn a living while pursuing the luxury of writing.

Dedication

This book is dedicated to my wife, Sue Ellen Brumlik, and to the generation of men and women who fought the American Vietnam War largely due to warnings of caution unheeded when the country was known as French Indochina. This book is for them and for those who never returned.

Book I

Chapter 1 Sal

Chapter 2 Bud

Chapter 3 The Adventure Begins

Chapter 4 Farewell

Chapter 5 SS Washington

Chapter 6 Avram

Chapter 7 Auschwitz

Chapter 8 Liberation

Chapter 9 Macjek

Chapter 10 Danzig

Chapter 11 The Apprentice

Chapter 12 Magda

Chapter 13 Homecoming

Chapter 14 Jaehne

Chapter 15 Dobje Weis

Chapter 16 Death in Marseilles

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1

Sal

Sal Hecht was seventeen years old in August of 1945. He lived in a world of delusions and illusions. He overestimated his intellectual and physical capacity, but his dreams made him a gift of his deficiencies. He was a persistent dreamer, creating fantasies in which he maneuvered with the ease of a young man fit to navigate in every season. Now, at age seventeen, he felt like a prisoner in one of the largest cities in the world, New York City.

The war in Europe was over; for Sal, it seemed as if his life was over as well. For four years he had fantasized fighting in every battle of World War II, sailing on every ship and dying a hero’s death many times over. Now, with the war over, his death would be ignoble, an ordinary pedestrian death. The greatest war in history had ended, and he had never had the opportunity to be a part of it.

Four years ago, Sal was only thirteen years old when the older boys in the neighborhood left to join the army, navy, or the marines. Now, those men were returning home bathed in a halo of glory because they had won the war.

Sal had not been given a chance to start his life as he had dreamt. Just as he reached an eligible age to enlist, the war ended; it was taken away from him. Before now, his dreams had been constantly fortified year after year with the waving of flags, everyone buying bonds, and watching newsreels at the movies. His dream of becoming a soldier was ruined by the joy of the war ending.

While the nation cheered, Sal was in despair. While his neighborhood celebrated the return of the living, he mourned the death of his ambition. While the northern hemisphere enjoyed the most beautiful spring in recent memory, Sal was lost in a perpetual winter.

Though he did not feel ashamed to remain in the neighborhood, he couldn’t stand to greet all those returning faces that would in time hold him in contempt for not sharing with them the experience of military service. Sal would never be a member of their club. In his mind, the excuse of being underage would never bear him up as an equal. He would forever remain, an outsider. He had wanted nothing more than to join the military, and not doing so was a destiny to which he could not resign himself.

So, once again, he was on the subway en route to 42nd Street and the Times Square recruiting station for his fifth attempt to enlist in any service that would accept him. It didn’t matter whether it was the US Army, US Navy, or the US Marine Corps as each had rejected Sal before. The navy had been the cruelest though right on the mark in their judgement of him. You’re too short; go eat some bananas and stretch.

Ever since the attack on Pearl Harbor, Sal had thought of nothing but the war. His determination to be a part of it had become an obsession; Sal had become a captive of his own imagination. Closing his eyes, he could immediately see himself in uniform. Visions of fighting filled his dreams; battling with his comrades in Italy, France, and Germany, or perhaps holding a line on a beach in the Pacific. But each time he opened his eyes, he was back in his prison, the city of walls, and his age, the greatest obstacle of his life.

The subway rumbled on until it reached the station at 72nd Street where most of the passengers got off to change trains. He remained onboard and picked up the latest issue of the Life magazine left behind on the seat next to him. At first, he glanced at it sideways. Then, with mechanical hands he picked it up and held it up at arm’s-length, staring at the cover. The cover photo amplified his distress. The sound began in his stomach as a gurgle, then flew up into the back of his throat finally reaching his lips where it was emitted as a forceful, NO!

The image on the cover burned his eyes. There, in black and white, was the photograph of a sailor holding a nurse over his bent arm, kissing her passionately in Times Square. More poignantly, he could tell that it had been taken directly in front of the recruiting station where he had been revoked so many times. The meaning of the photo’s caption slowly sunk in as he read it over, and over again: World War II Is Over... World War II Is Over…

There was nothing in his imagination that he could call upon to overcome the reality of what he had just seen. For an instant, he tried to dream his way onto the cover and replace the sailor in the picture. This time, however, the power of fantasy failed him.

He threw the magazine on the floor, stepped on it, and began to pace the car. His chances of enlisting were doomed. Even Life magazine had plotted to destroy his dreams of combat. He would never read the magazine again! As he paced back and forth in the shaking subway car, Sal ran through his options. What more could he gamble? What else did he have to lose? Once again, he looked at the magazine that now lay trampled on the floor and softly spoke the words, World War II is over....

Gradually, speculation and a hint of optimism began to overtake his underlying sense of gloom. Perhaps, he thought, with the war’s end, men would be demobilized and there would still be a need for soldiers. Of course! Sal said out loud, With the war over, everyone will be in a rush to get out of uniform. There’ll be vacancies for others to fill—for ME! Convinced that he still had a slim chance of ending up in uniform, his pulse quickened as he neared the Times Square station at 42nd Street.

Time Square was the hub of New York City. It seemed as if all roads in New York converged onto these three acres of granite buildings lit by garish neon lights. At one end of the square stood the Times building with a ribbon of moving lights running around its waist presenting the headlines of the day. In front of the Times building, on an island in the street, rested a small aluminum hut on which was posted the official seals of the US Army, the US Navy, and the US Marine Corp. This was the high altar to which thousands of patriotic young men had come to offer up their services and, in some cases, their lives. This building was the bane of Sal’s existence, the house of rejection. This was the recruiting station, in front of which that fucking sailor had kissed the nurse!

The rest of Times Square was filled with hotels, theaters, and above all else, the most creative, animated billboards such as the one depicting a miniature Niagara Falls complete with a real waterfall cascading amidst a rainbow of colored lights. The Planters peanut was a favorite of almost everyone. He was a 15- foot-high peanut ‘man’ wearing a monocle and mechanized to tip his top hat at all who passed beneath him. A young girl manufactured out of neon lights demonstrated a Castro convertible, the sofa that folded out into a bed. This sign was so large that it covered the entire third and fourth floors of a building in the middle of the square.

The most impressive sign, however, was the one that sold cigarettes. The Camel Cigarette sign could be seen from any angle in the square. It depicted a gentleman putting a cigarette into his mouth through which a smoke ring was subsequently blown out every two minutes, 24 hours a day. Visitors would wait as if they were standing beneath a monolithic volcano watching the smoke billow out of the cardboard mouth.

It was into this court of signs that this very unhappy young man stepped; out from the musty darkness of the subway station and into the arena of incessant, unrelenting noise created by auto horns, screeching tires, and air brakes. In an instant, he was surrounded by people rushing to all points at the square.

Without hesitation, he embarked upon the same path he had previously taken-- four times. Toward the recruiting station he was drawn, once again, on a mission. This time, he told himself it would be different. This time, they would accept him. As soon as he stepped onto the street toward the island where the recruiting station stood, he encountered a bad omen. A taxi almost struck him, screeching to a halt just inches from his knees.

Sal startled and yelled, Look out! Ya Son of a bitch! With a slap on the hood of the cab and a wave of his middle finger, he jumped aside and onto the cement island. No time to waste saving his honor on a cab driver when the real objective lay inside the recruiting station.

Now, for strategy, he pondered. Which service should I try first? He tried to remember which one of the armed services had turned him down at his last try. Which one of them would remember him? The navy had sorely offended him. He remembered that; oh, yes, he remembered that rebuff. He would try the US Navy, last.

The recruiting station was nothing more than an aluminum box with each corner occupied by one of the armed services, including the US Coast Guard. As he stepped into the room, he encountered another bad omen. Except for the recruiters behind their desks, the place was empty. Either no one was joining up, or it could mean that they were not accepting anyone. He recalled a time during the war when volunteers stood three-deep in line waiting to enlist at the Times Square recruiting station.

As he stood in the center of the room, three beautiful uniformed specimens, each sitting in their assigned corner, stared him in the eye. The triangulation of their gaze brought beads of sweat to his forehead. He backed into the water cooler, turned to steady the water jug, then took a drink. He swallowed, but the water would not go down. Somewhere between his throat and stomach, Sal felt a bubble sticking in his chest as he turned to face the tribunal of recruiters.

This ain’t no soda pop shop, kid.

Another bad omen. The salvo had come from the direction of the marine recruiter.

Is there something we can do for you? The marine emphasized the ‘we’ as if the entire US Marine Corps were standing behind his chair.

Sal walked up to the marine’s desk and stood at what he considered to be his best imitation of attention just as the glob of water passed through his stomach and went directly to his bladder. With all his might he begged his bladder not to release one drop of urine.

The other recruiters resumed their routine occupations consisting of locking paperclips together and reading. The army man picked up a copy of the Life magazine, the one with the sailor and the nurse on the cover. The marine had already made up his mind that the specimen standing in front of him was too small, and too young.

What can I do for you, son?

I want to join the US Marines... sir. It was an unassertive reply, so for good measure, Sal threw in what he thought was appropriate slang.

I want to join the corps.

What’s your name, kid?

Sal’s mood brightened. The recruiter must be interested, or else why ask his name? With victory within his grasp Sal eagerly gave his reply, which was too much of a reply.

Sal Hecht, sir. That’s short for Solomon, sir. I mean nobody calls me Solomon, not even my friends, sir. My mom does, but she... This litany was interrupted by the marine who looked directly into Solomon’s eyes.

Christ, I don’t need your whole life story, just your name.

Sal’s shoulders began to slump downward, victory was flapping her wings and his bladder began to burn. The army recruiter reading Life aimed his jaw toward the marine.

"Hey gunny, you wanna read the Life?"

Sal began to rock, contracting his bladder.

Don’t take it! If he takes it, I’ll never make it, he thought to himself.

Sure. Throw it over.

The magazine flew from the army desk, landing short of the marine’s desk, and right at Sal’s feet. Sal picked it up and handed over to the marine without looking at the cover.

Christ, why the hell did they pick a swab jockey to kiss that dame?

From the navy side of the room came the reply, ‘Cause we are more photogenic. Everyone in the room laughed except for Sal, who knew that he was doomed. He would die in New York City; die of old age. The marine returned to the business, or rather the lack of business, at hand.

How old are you, sonny?

Seventeen, sir, but I’ll be eighteen years old in eleven months.

All the recruiters were watching him now and Sal was certain that this would be his only chance at joining anything in the room. It didn’t matter which branch of the service. At this point, he would join anything, and leave at any time; anything to get out of New York City. He told himself to expect rejection, accept it with courage, and perhaps the men in the room would change their mind and take him in.

One by one, the recruiters started shaking their heads. ‘No’, could be said in many ways, but the way they said it was painful. When the blow finally came, Sal felt the tears form in the corner of his eyes.

Don’t cry, whatever you do, don’t cry, he told himself. At least his bladder was under control.

In case you ain’t heard, the war is over, kid. We ain’t taking youngsters anymore.

The marine picked up the Life and flipped through the pages as if to emphasize his irrevocable proclamation. Sal looked at the army and navy recruiters, each of whom shrugged their shoulders and returned to their paperclip duties. Sal backed away and stumbled into the water cooler, again.

You can have a drink if you want, said the army man.

Sal mumbled an insincere thank you, but his tears kept him from accepting anything the recruiters had to offer.

He stepped out into the noise and chaos of Times Square, feeling numb, and discouraged. He could not hear the noise or sense the animation that surrounded him. What remained inside of him erupted as an involuntary cry accompanied by tears streaming down his cheeks.

Shit, shit! Sal’s last ‘shit’ was interrupted by shrieking tires of another taxicab which slid broadside into the curb. Sal never heard the curses or saw the gestures from the cabbie that wanted to wring his neck but was prevented from doing so by the traffic that continued to congest the street, as usual.

There is no place as exciting or as cheerful in New York than Times Square. It cradled the heart of New York City, and with the pronouncement that the war had ended, this is where people were naturally drawn- at least those who wanted to be with other people.

Sal did not want to be with people, nor did he feel caught up in the excitement of the territory. The square, full of uniformed men, only added bitterness to his exclusion from military service. Now, in Sal’s eyes, everyone who wore a uniform was his enemy.

All around him, the laughter and cheer spread by the army and navy men on leave drove him deeper into despair. In a split second, the time it took for the marine to pick up that Life magazine, Sal’s desire to be one of them turned into disdain. With the impulsiveness of youth, fired by the pain of rejection, Sal no longer wanted to be in uniform, whereas before, Sal had actively engaged the military men in conversation. He now avoided them. No longer did he want to feel what they felt, be where they had been, or do what they had done. In a split second, his dreams of glory had evaporated. The dreamer had dreamt his last dream. The only thing left to do was to find a place to sit down and figure out something else.

He sat on the curb, not caring about the traffic or acknowledging the neon shadows which changed the color of his sneakers every few seconds. His imagination was spent. The sounds of laughter that surrounded him became an irritant and caused his neck to tighten up. He squeezed his eyes shut and placed his hands over his ears; he disappeared, becoming invisible to the joy surrounding him. With all his might he tried to fantasize his way out of the situation, but the bewilderment and disappointment he felt were too much of a distraction. Where there had once been dreams of being among men at arms, there was now an abyss.

This was the end of the line for Sal. He had nowhere else to go. His mind began to take a slow and painful inventory of the sojourn which had led him to this curb in Times Square, the threshold of the worst moment of his life.

Where could he go? What could he do? He had done his best to antagonize anyone who could help him. School was out; not just for the summer, but out for good as far as Sal was concerned. He had been expelled due to truancy and, in the wisdom of the New York State Board of Education, the crime of truancy was rewarded by permanent absenteeism.

Of course, there had been a hearing which ensured that he would not be allowed to return to school. He was summoned by the principal who, along with an administrator from the Board of Education, greeted Sal with an interrogation held in the school cafeteria.

Young man, do you think you can clean up your act, shut your mouth, and do as you’re told?

The principal and the board administrator waited for his answer. Sal had sat quietly, rehearsing a speech he was sure would have an impact on not only his school but the entire Board of Education for the City of New York. The cafeteria smelled of grease, which had taken years to replace the paint on the walls.

Sal thought, Draft-dodging sons of bitches, they should have been in service instead of hammering kids.

Well, said the principal, do you think we’re going to put up with your crap for another year?

Sal took out a pack of cigarettes and started to lift one to his mouth when the principal interrupted him.

Put the smokes away, Mr. Wisenheimer, and stand up when I’m talking to you.

I don’t need this shit from you guys, Sal muttered.

What did you say, I couldn’t quite hear that?

They had him cornered now, one on each side, standing so close to him that he could smell their stale shaving lotion; the kind that old men wear. Now, it was the administrator’s turn.

You’re a punk, and this school system doesn’t need any more punks. The day you’re thrown out of here is the day you become eligible for the draft.

The principal whispered something to the effect that Sal was not yet old enough for the draft.

I don’t care. The little punk can join up; if they take him, though, I doubt they would because the armed forces don’t need punks either.

This was the only time during the hearing that Sal smiled. They, the school, were encouraging him to pursue his dream.

Well, what’s it going be, Mr. Wisenheimer? Do you think you can shape up and make something out of yourself? If you don’t finish high school, you don’t go to college. If you don’t go to college, you’ll be a nothing; a garbage collector, or a plumber.

Sal had thought about what it would be like to stand on the back platform of a garbage truck. He envisioned himself with large pipe wrenches tightening the pipes on some huge boiler. Either choice seemed better than sitting in a classroom for the next year, compelled to listen, read, and conform.

During the few days per week in which he had actually attended school, he mostly spent staring out of the window at a brick wall where a painted advertisement for Silver Dust soap powder gradually exfoliated as the interminably long hours lapsed by. The other people in the class, not truly classmates to him, were motivated to graduate and go on to become presidents and doctors, or something that required the thing he dreaded most--more school. He considered these students to be downright unpatriotic, as none of them had any inclination to join the service.

It was the principal’s turn, again. If you apply yourself, you can do it. If you...

Sal had had enough. He could not bear the thought of watching the brick wall peeling any longer or sitting next to people with whom he had nothing in common. He had to do something with his life which did not involve sitting in a classroom, and now was the time to start.

Sal’s speech was ready, his own personal declaration of independence. He took a deep breath and exhaled his reply to the two school officials, but the only thing that came out was,

I want out.

Within seconds, the verdict was prescribed. OK, Mr. Wisenheimer, you get your wish. This is the last time that I, or anyone in this school system, wants to see your face. You can take your place in the unemployment line. As of this moment, consider yourself expelled.

Sal slid past the two men and left the cafeteria with a mixture of relief and apprehension about his future. When he stepped out of the doorway, he knew that his next stop would be the recruiting station. Being thrown out of school confirmed his destiny. While it freed him from monotony, he was left with the realization that he would be a disappointment to his mother. She had, on many occasions, echoed the school’s conviction of his being a ‘nothing’, unless he finished school.

His days as a scholar were over. Now that he was on his way to putting on a uniform, he thought perhaps his mother would consider the military as somewhat worthwhile. As he raced to the recruiting station the first time, his enthusiasm was matched only by a deep sense of desperation; little did he know then, that he would face rejection by the armed forces, not once, but five times.

Sitting on the curb, Sal looked up, resting his chin on his knees. The recruiting station was dark. The recruiters had locked the place up and were gone for the day; now, he imagined, they were probably sitting in some bar nearby laughing it up at Sal’s belief that he could ever be one of them.

As cars whizzed by, he began to get a headache from the fumes of exhaust. Sal could no longer be captive to his imagination. Without the ability to dream his way into a better life, he was released into a world in which he would have to actively participate. He would have to do something. The reality of becoming a plumber, or a garbage man, loomed before him. His stomach twisted at the thought of doing something that chained him to New York City, to endure a mundane life.

He had seen the faces of tradesmen such as these walking the streets, their faces frozen in boredom. Their enthusiasm for life was clearly sucked out of them by the tedium of spending their days, and ultimately, years, living flat lives that eventually ended in the grave. Sal had seen the cemeteries next to the highways visible to drivers as they drove by; all of them would end up in the back plots waiting to be opened for them.

Sal had long suspected that there were many opportunities lying in wait for him beyond the Hudson River, much more diverse and exciting than anything New York had to offer. New York, the city he detested, the city that he perceived to be the genesis of all his troubles.

Sal stood up, looked about, and bathed in the neon lights of Times Square he sensed a momentous decision. The excitement of people around him who were there to celebrate life did not penetrate the melancholy which overwhelmed him. The fantastic shapes, the magnificence of the skyline that encircled him, made no impression. Sal knew that he had to leave this place. It would never be extraordinary to him nor would he ever be so attracted to the city that he would want to stay.

The thought of leaving New York triggered his brain to create a minor fantasy. Leaving this place meant fleeing from his mother; this gave him a sense of relief, because distancing himself from her would diminish the shame he felt in having failed to complete high school.

As his dream matured, he imagined writing to tell her that he was trying to make his own way in a world she could not see. He further justified this move by telling himself that if he failed at whatever was next for him, at least, she would not be there to witness another disappointment. He could lie to her, as he had so many times before; this time, without getting embroiled in a tangle of fantastic tales that neither his mother nor even he could believe.

Sal brightened at the thought of escape. He saw himself as a defeated athlete who, rejected by his team, returns as an Olympic champion running for glory, and revenge on those who had rejected him.

He began to run, dodging and weaving in and around the crowds. He worked his way towards 50th Street, vaulting over fire hydrants, jostling pedestrians whose curses he never heard. The restless enthusiasm that had been dulled by his visit to the recruiting station was rejuvenated. His imagination found an outlet in legs that carried a spirit infused by a vague dream. He didn’t get very far. On he ran until he was stopped quite suddenly by an immovable lump in the middle of the sidewalk. When he opened his eyes, he had difficulty focusing and was lying flat on his back looking up at an enormous neon peanut man who tipped his top hat on and off, on and off. Sal blinked his eyes until he realized that he was lying beneath the Mr. Peanut sign, the neon symbol of the Planters Peanut Corporation.

The giant peanut man was then obliterated by a face bending over him; an ugly face whose nose was gnarled, broad, and looked like it had been broken on countless occasions. The face drew closer, smiling a smile whose mouth was vacant of teeth on the left side. Sal was staring into the face of a talking human jack-o’-lantern.

Hey kid, you OK?

Sal blinked twice to see if the face would disappear, but it didn’t. Instead, it spoke again.

Jesus Christ, kid, you hit me so hard I thought you was gonna bowl me over.

The jack-o’-lantern face came into focus; its nose was covered with veins. Sal gasped for the air that had been knocked out of him. Without any effort on his part, he was being lifted to his feet by two weathered hands pulling on his shoulders. Bent over and still gasping, Sal felt his arms being pushed up towards the sky.

Take a nice deep breath, kid.

Air rushed into Sal’s lungs, as did the smell of roasted peanuts drifting out of the Planters Peanut Emporium.

Holy shit, kid, you look as white as a ghost!

Once he was able to catch his breath, Sal was able to get a few words out. I’m gonna be sick.

The stubby little man who faced him broke out into a half- toothed smile and escorted him to the curb where Sal emptied his stomach onto the streets of Times Square.

Did I get hit by a car, or something?

Naw, you just ran into me!

Sal stared at the white-haired old man, incredulous.

Honest, you ran right smack into me so hard I thought I was gonna get knocked over into the peanut place!

The mention of peanuts brought on another wave of nausea.

You want a cup of coffee? Might settle your stomach.

Sal shook his head slowly, sizing the man up. The blue-veined nose flared, and then sniffed.

It’s OK, kid. I ain’t no pervert. You look all out of sorts.

In a comforting, gentle voice the old man added, Come with me, I’ll get you a cup of coffee, make you feel a bunch better.

These were kind eyes looking at Sal. There was no threat behind the old man’s invitation. His smile, although incredibly ugly, was captivating.

OK... Sal acquiesced and added, But, I gotta tell ya something. I don’t think I ever had coffee.

The old man chuckled, flipped a cigarette into his mouth and shuffled off with Sal just behind him. They were headed to 46th Street, the middle of Times Square.

The sign in Times Square that awed New Yorkers and tourists alike covered the width of an entire building. The Camel Cigarette sign illustrated a debonair gentleman holding a cigarette to his mouth from which bellowed huge puffs of smoke rings.

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2

Bud

The ‘Camel’ building was old; the interior smelled of vinegar. While the Camel sign and the exterior façade looked new, the guts of the place had been left unchanged since the day it was built.

Sal followed the old man as he slowly stomped up the narrow stairs to the second landing, pulled out a large key, like the ones used by jailers, and unlocked the door. The old man entered, but Sal reluctantly lingered on the landing, craning his neck into the doorway to see if this was a safe place. A sound, the sound of hissing, very much like that of a steam shirt-pressing machine, came from the room. The old man came back to the doorway to reassure his young visitor.

It’s OK, kid. Nothing to worry about. Ain’t nothing in here that’s gonna hurt you.

Sal took two small steps forward until he was framed by the doorway. The room into which he peered was unlike any he had ever seen before. There were three brick walls, devoid of any pictures or photographs. A bed made of pipe supported a mattress whose springs had failed years ago. In one corner, there was a hotplate on a small wooden table holding a begrimed metal pot. A shelf over the table held an assortment of Campbell soups and an opaque glass filled with rusty spoons. Sal assumed this to be the kitchen area. All in all, this was less of an apartment, and rather more like a warehouse in which the old man lived; if there had been bars on the door, the room could have served well as a prison cell.

Somehow, the books that lined the walls and leaned against the dilapidated easy chair did not fit into the picture. The books were hardbound, not the cheap paperbacks that everyone on the subway seemed to be reading these days. The books and the old man seemed incompatible, but there they were, every size and shape without shelves to place them on.

The centerpiece of the room was the source of the hissing sound that announced itself at regular intervals; a large, black cannon whose mouth was aimed at an equally round hole cut into the 4th wall. PSSSSSST, PUFFFF, PSSSSSST, PUFFFF, the cannon with a steady rhythm blew out its rings of smoke; out through the hole which had no barrier, and nothing to prevent the billowing vapor from spilling into the room.

It was the cannon that lured Sal further into the room to inspect this extraordinary machine, fascinated as he inspected the assortment of copper coils and kettles surrounding it. A low rumbling signaled the initiation of the cycle. Sal took a step backwards as the cannon completed its mission. PSSSSSST, PUFFFF, as another cloud was sent on its way.

Quite a contraption, ain’t it? said the old man as he came over to pat the cannon as he would a dog. Sal, who was tempted to touch the cannon just stood there, transfixed.

Mister, you sure got some strange furniture in here.

The name’s Bud. I’d ask you to take off your jacket, but don’t do it. This place stays pretty cold on account of that permanent open window over there.

The low rumble began again. Sal went to the hole in the wall to watch the fog from the cannon being ejected into the air.

Go ahead, stick your head out the window, that smoke ain’t gonna hurt you.

Sal peered out through the large hole in the wall. Below him, the panorama of Times Square unfolded as if he had opened a pop-up book. From this vantage point, without being jostled by pedestrians or dodging cars, the entire square could be appreciated. Anyone on the street who looked up at the ‘Camel Man’ would have seen a smoke ring coming from a mouth containing a human head in one corner.

Pretty neat view, huh?

As he turned to answer, Sal’s face was engulfed by a puff of smoke. Bud began to laugh as Sal prepared himself for the worst. There was no smell, no tearing of the eyes, no coughing; just the cool sensation of a mist which met Sal’s face, like being caressed by a fan of feathers. Bud joined Sal at the window; now, there were two heads peering out of the mouth.

You know, I’ve been living here for five years. I never get tired of looking out at this view. This window’s the best seat in the house; you should see this place on New Year’s Eve, loaded with people, noisy as all get out. It’s better than Coney Island.

Sal turned to look at the little man whose bulbous nose was glowing from the reflection of lights bouncing off the Camel sign. His face, pockmarked with craters, held a smile so broad that it was engaging, and invited a reply.

Sal was embarrassed, he had forgotten the old man’s name and searched his memory for some clue. The old man came to Sal’s rescue.

You might not have heard me ‘cause of the cannon. My name’s Bud.

Bud offered a weathered and gnarled hand which Sal accepted with sincerity and a firm grip, without fear.

Solomon Hecht. Nobody calls me that; It’s Sal that I go by.

A puff of smoke sealed their friendship as the two shook hands in the middle of the Camel Man’s mouth.

Want some coffee?

Sure, I guess so.

Up till then, Sal had avoided coffee because his mother had told him it would stunt his growth. Up till then, his height had been a major concern with his desire to join the military; now that the military had no interest in any part of him, it didn’t matter at all to Sal if he stopped growing. Bud retreated to the hot plate where he had brewed instant coffee in a pot that had not been washed since the day it had been placed on the shelf.

Sal held a tin cup filled with a black liquid that appeared to have bits of rust floating on top. Taking his first ever sip of coffee, he became deeply aware that he had surrendered; the pain of his most recent rejection hit home again, prompting nausea to go along with the displacing amazement of his surroundings. He watched Bud stir the coffee with a slow methodical churning of a spoon. Awkwardly, Sal looked at Bud for some sort of remedy for the nausea. A message came from the old man in the form of a smile.

You sure were running like a bat outta hell. Somebody after you?

No, I was just running. Sal took another sip, as if to stop the nausea midway between his stomach and his mouth. The nausea won.

I think I’m gonna puke.

Bud leapt into action, helping his young visitor to a bathroom which doubled as a storage closet. There, into a brown-stained toilet, among sacs of white powder piled up to the ceiling, Sal unloaded the bile and acid that had accumulated since his visit to the recruiters. Bud thrust a dishrag under Sal’s nose, then pulled out one of the sacks, emptying it into one of the copper kettles next to the cannon.

As Bud poured the white powder into the kettle, he explained the process by which smoke was made for the cannon.

This thing takes four sacks of chemicals every four hours, ‘round the clock. Bud adjusted a knob on the top of the cannon until the hissing sound reached an acceptable pitch.

It’s only broke once since I’ve been taking care of it, Bud said loud enough to be heard over the cannon’s refreshed hissing. Some guy had to come up from North Carolina to fix it. The Camel people were pretty peeved about it. Wasn’t my fault, though.

Bud rambled on about his life behind the Camel sign. Sal, however, was spent. There was nothing left in his stomach and his spirit, it seemed, had gone down the toilet as well.

Sal was intrigued by the old man and the odd surroundings in which he found himself. The two gradually settled down for a long, comfortable chat; Bud, swirling his coffee around in an old, stained ceramic cup, and Sal, taking periodic long, deep breaths to stem the nausea that continued to lurk in his stomach.

Sal realized that Bud did indeed live in the room behind the Camel sign and tended to the needs of the cannon, 24 hours a day. He couldn’t leave for very long; he was tethered by a four-hour time limit at the end of which the cannon had to be replenished with the smoke-making powder. Times Square became Bud’s neighborhood; he knew every inch of the territory and knew all the ‘regulars’.

The ‘regulars’ are the guys, kinda like me, who live behind the signs that need tending to. Of course, my sign is the best. It does the most, and sure needs a lot of tending. Some of them other signs, they just need the lights turned on and occasionally some mechanical adjustments like that Mr. Peanut. Sometimes, he tips his hat too far. Once, he quit tipping it, altogether.

Sal envisioned a host of little people who, like Bud, lived and worked behind the neon fairyland in the most famous square in the world. But, Bud explained, these were not elves, or fairy folk. These ‘regulars’ represented an older generation. Bud, chief among them, had spent their lives and now, worn down, embraced the serene existence of a sign caretaker.

It ain’t too bad. The work is easy, got a place to keep out of the rain, and lots of memories to keep me company.

As Bud doled out the tale of his life, Sal sensed that this little man was quite extraordinary aside from his rough looks and antiquated language. For the next two hours, Sal was captivated by the stories of Bud’s life at sea as a merchant seaman. Bud spoke of exotic ports, freighters of every size and shape, and adventures that could have come straight out of a Hollywood script.

As Sal intently listened to his new friend, he began to transfer his fickle imagination long mired in the grasp of World War II, into a dream of a life at sea. What an adventure it would have been to be at Bud’s side as he sailed from continent to continent. What a sight it must have been to travel in a convoy of ships that stretched to the horizon.

While Bud spoke, Sal’s pain of rejection by the military began to abate as he realized that life could be exciting without wearing uniform. The juices of ambition began to flow again as Sal sat, an apt pupil, listening to his new mentor relive a life that set him apart from mere mortals. Sal smiled with an occasional chuckle at Bud’s jokes and held his breath as Bud concluded his epic tale of world adventure with his final docking in New York Harbor.

The sun had descended behind the surrounding buildings as Bud concluded his story.

Will you look at that? It’s dark outside. I musta really been runnin’ my mouth all this time!

Sal, who had not taken his eyes off Bud since his tale began, suddenly realized that the room was dark except for the streaks of colored lights entering the hole in the wall. When Sal looked out of the Camel Man’s mouth, it was as if he saw New York for the very first time. His conscience had been cleansed; enthusiasm had been fueled by the little man who fed the cannon in Times Square. Bud joined Sal at the window, adding his own impression of the square.

This place changes all the time. I never see the same thing twice. They put up a new sign and the character of the place changes. Of course, I go see if the new sign comes with another ‘regular’, so’s I can meet him. You’re just a kid, Sal, but I’ll tell ya, life is a lot like that street you’re looking at. It changes all the time. You can make it change, or else something will happen to change it anyways.

Sal vaguely heard the philosophy. He was thinking about his own life and whether he would remain a captive of the city. In the distance, he saw the Mr. Peanut sign, slowly tipping his hat. Sal decided that he would never eat peanuts again; this thought he coupled with the idea of leaving New York—for good.

Bud pulled out a pipe and lit it; he and the Camel Man puffed together. He sensed that Sal was disturbed about something. The aura of restlessness was obvious. Perhaps the kid was ready for something; ready to run. Hell, that’s how they met, the kid was running. Together they watched the traffic until it seemed as if everything was moving in a circle.

There’s a big world out there, Bud interjected. Much bigger than this place. You ought to see what it’s like when you’re out at sea. You can move in any direction without running into anything. No walls, no buildings, no crowds to bar your way.

Sal tried to imagine the vast expanse of the ocean, but he could not. He had never been able to see further than the next street, or the next house. The most distant thing he had ever seen was the George Washington Bridge crossing the Hudson River and even that was framed by the other side; the Jersey side.

Bud puffed until his tobacco was spent, then tapped the pipe into the palm of his hand.

This place can trap you, Sal. Big city can do that to a person. Stick around here and, before you know it, you’ll never get out. You wake up one day with the realization that you settled on being a plumber, or a street sweeper, or something like that.

Sal’s jaw began to tense; Bud’s words penetrated his wounded pride. From the corner of his eye Bud could see that he had struck a nerve. Nevertheless, he continued.

Soldier boys are gonna come home soon; they’ll get the best jobs. The country owes it to ‘em. Yup, they’ll eat up the town.

That was exactly what Sal did not want to hear. Bud was confirming the sentence. Sal suddenly saw the little man as a much wiser and more knowledgeable person than anyone he knew, certainly more so than his teachers. Perhaps Bud would be able to give him some pointers, help him decide what he should do with his life. He was talking about things changing or making things change. He had been around; hell, he had a career as a seaman in the merchant marine.

As he watched Bud put the pipe away, Sal felt a glimmer of salvation. One thing he was certain of, he could explain his hunger to do something, or his desire to be somewhere else in the world without fear of Bud laughing, or not understanding. Sal was confident that all he had to do was ask for advice; he knew that he could trust Bud to give it to him.

Sal finally spoke. I sure wish I knew what I was gonna do.

You ain’t got the slightest idea, do ya, kid?

That did it. Sal backed into the room, made himself comfortable, and without hesitation, brought forth a catharsis that spoke to his ambitions and dreams. He recounted the day’s events, the pain that the recruiters had inflicted on him, his wounded pride, and his loss of direction. Sal was honest, he confessed to Bud his contempt for school and for order, in general, as well as his frustration at not being equipped with the skills to break out of his dilemma.

Bud listened patiently, wondering about the kid’s parents. In spilling the beans, Sal never mentioned his parents; if there was a mother and father, he spoke not a word about them. Bud could not recall his own parents, although when he was young, he had thought about them often. He never knew why he had been raised by an aunt until he ran away; he suspected though, that if the kid had parents, they were probably not on the best of terms with him.

Sal did not attempt to persuade Bud by donning a persona of bravado. He was open and, at times, emotional, while describing his life; probably an act of subconscious reciprocation as Bud had seemed so honest in depicting his own life. By the time Sal had finished, his mouth was dry, and he was exasperated.

Want some more coffee?

Sal nodded and Bud decided to probe further from the distance of the hotplate. You know, when all those boys in uniform come home, it’s gonna be mighty tough to get any kind of job around here. To top it off, most of the factories is gonna stop making all the tanks and stuff. Sal squirmed a little.

You quittin’ school and all, well, I don’t know, it’s gonna be tough.

Sal moved awkwardly to a standing position and almost pleading said, I can’t go back to school, Bud. There’s nothing for me to learn there, nothing that I want to learn, anyways.

Bud realized that the kid was nearly in a panic. Handing him the coffee, he shuffled about the room picking up some books that had fallen off their stacks along the wall.

I never cared for school much myself. Never got beyond the sixth grade. Hell, I never used to read books until I went to sea. Being at sea gives you lots of time to think, and when you run out of things to think about, you read, and that gives you more things to think about.

Casually, Bud dropped a few of the books into Sal’s lap, then walked over to attend the cannon. Sal browsed the titles: Moby Dick, Mutiny on the Bounty, Great Expectations. He dropped them on the floor with a hint of contempt. The old man was telling him about the books. What Sal wanted was advice about a job, not an underhanded attempt at coaxing him back into school. Bud glanced at the books that had been placed back on the floor. He smiled at Sal. The books, his close companions, had once been strangers to him as well.

"Those ain’t just books, kid. Of course, they ain’t got pictures in ‘em, like comic books. Give