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                             Chapter Six

                  Aftermath and Time Forward

Loveland, Ohio

March 3, 1933

9:43 AM

Remaining standing until she left, then, sighing, dropped back onto the seat of his chair alongside the window as the door closed behind Agie Pink.

Having no used clothing to donate, nor the need to rummage through the stacks of used, donated clothing. Apparently, because he was the only person she knew with such experience, the questions had been about the same since late January— and what she wanted to know was something he simply could not say as, deep down Izadore (Izzy) Feldman knew Jimmy and Dane were dead — Absolutely feeling the boys had been killed either by the hateful hands of those that would kill simply for the shoes on their feet, or the illicit boarding of a moving train…

Simply knew… Izzy simply ‘thought’ he knew, so could not break the heart of this wonderfully kind woman by saying only what he but thought.

From late January, he would be questioned about the distance the boys might have traveled by ‘this or that time’, with the, ‘this or that time’, answer being: “Depends on the direction the trains they stole away on might be traveling. If straight on, they might be in California now. If not straight on— because when illegally jumping on, and secretly inhabiting a box car, who knows where the train is headed, or how long it might take to get there.”

Threading the needle he held between thumb and forefinger with dark green thread, the seamstress of Loveland — with hardly seen stitches, sewed a flowery patch onto a child's dress.

The ‘National Cash Register Company’ cash register sitting on it, the front sales counter at Pink’s Hardware is seven feet long, forty-two inches wide — as on occasion, very large items might be placed there waiting to make payment, or receive change — four and a half toot high, opened to the rear only and has one shelf.

December 23, 1934

A painful reminder: From the time the unopened Sears & Roebuck shipping container postmarked ‘December 11, 1932’ arrived at Pink’s Hardware it had sat on top, at the far right hand end of the sales counter with the thought that ‘most likely’ Jimmy and Dane had not found their father and continued looking for him with the thought that eventually they would give up and return to Loveland.

On this date, two years later, it was placed onto the shelf beneath the counter.

March, 17,1936

Insignificant odds and ends finding their way onto the shelf and beneath the sales counter. On this day, Morrie deciding the store needed more room for different insignificant odds and ends, and wanting to see what had been shoved there over the years; kneeling onto the floor while rummaging towards the far side, Morrie's hand came across the towel wrapped — actually forgetting he had the Colt Model 1861 Navy Revolver’, and thought that he would like to try target shooting again. But also thinking, that after all these years it might be a good idea to oil it up a bit but would do that at another time. Sliding the gun back onto the shelf, more or less where it had been, his hand came into contact with the unopened Sears & Roebuck shipping container, and sensing the ache of an extremely sad remembrance of what container was and for whom the contents had been purchased, and, ‘never’ allowing themselves to consider the worst, while bitterly angry that neither boy had common sense and decency enough to send, at the least, a postcard telling if they had or had not found their father. Not caring to look inside at this time, or possibly ever, calling, “Lester…” an employee “...could take this away..” handing it over the counter “... and put it into the storage area at the rear of the store.”

Notation: And there it remained for thirty-three years until discovered by Sharon Kaminsky and Clyde Murphy on the morning of the start of the day of their drive to the ‘Woodstock Music and Art Fair,’ held on the muddy field of a dairy farm in Bethel, New York during the steamy hot, and continual rainy mid- August of 1969.

Chicago, Illinois

(V1) Sunday, June 14, 1937

10:14 AM

A hot day on ‘Maxwell Street’, the yarmulke always on, the black frock off… “Shoes repaired!” Looking to the right. “Shoe s repaired!” Thirty-four year old Murray Kaminsky called — attempting to be heard above the incomprehensible babble of a thousand voices — “Shoes repaired!” Knowing the double meaning … “Holy soles replaced.” While in a friendly, inviting gesture, waving the shoes he held towards the pushcart one cart to the east on the other side of the street. As...

“Belts!” In a strong, barely discernible Irish brogue, holding four or five black and brown belts overhead. “Belts! Hand tooled belts and suspenders!” The tall, russet-haired man in a flannel checked shirt and bib overalls… “Belts! Suspenders!” Thirty-five year old Malcolm Murphy called attempting to be heard above the incomprehensible din of a thousand voices while, holding a handful of belts, returned the shoemakers friendly gesture.

Loveland, Ohio
Monday, June 15, 1937

2:05 PM

A hot day for mid June. Pinks front door open; the sounds coming from a number of closed doors to the east, sounding like…? Like three sharp puffs loud air. Then, a hysterical woman running up Main Street, her arms flaying about her head, screaming, “ ‘They’re robbing the bank’! ‘They’re robbing the bank’!”

Not the heroic type. Having no idea why, or even how he remembered the pistol was there. Apparently some primal instinct overtaking him— all in a matter of seconds: reaching below the counter and whipping the Colt Model 1861 Navy Revolver’ from out the protective kitchen towel as, popping the cylinder and… not taking time to wonder why all six chambers were loaded, Morrie then ran from the store onto the street as three men in black suites wearing fedoras ran from the First National Bank of Loveland and, piling into a black, ‘34, four door Chevrolet, and with the quick gnashing of gears, pulled from the curb onto the street.

As the Chevy began to gain speed, quickly positing himself in the center of the street. Taking a shooters stance— holding the pistol with his right hand steadying it with his left — not because he had been told to do it this way, but because the Colt was heavy— cocking the hammer, squeezing the trigger... the first shot sending a geyser of dirt into the air a hundred yards away. The second two shots chipping concrete from the curb. Numbers four and five, ‘ping’- ‘ping’, sounding as though impacting with metal, as the sixth slug burrowed into a tree.

Sitting at his favorite sewing position alongside the front window, hearing the commotion, and from a far off memory recognizing the sound of gun fire; rounding the corner of Sawyer and Main with a large pair of pointed scissors, Izzy made a denting stab at the cars rear fender as it sped past, then both making a dash to the bank. Jamming through the double plate glass doors, first thing noticed were three mounds of plaster debris from the shots fired into the ceiling and secondly, W.E. Forester on the floor behind his desk, with Florence Moorehead kneeling beside him.

Kneeling also. “He shot?”

“No, Izzy.” Her hand flat upon his chest. “Think it’s his heart.”

On the phone, frantically pumping the cradle. “The hospital…” Morrie said “… quick!” The connection promptly made. “There’s been a robbery at the bank here in Loveland, and we need an ambulance, fast!”

“He’s not shot...What happened, Flo?”

“When those three bad men came in and shot into the ceiling, Mister Forrester—Mister Pink, it was ‘frightening’, and Mister Forrester jumped up making a grab at his chest, and then just….” gesturing “...fell.”

“Is he still breathing?”

Bringing an ear to his mouth. “Can’t tell…” Florence said “...don’t think so.”

The urgent call to the local doctor going unanswered as the Loveland areas one doctor was on vacation.

The trip by ambulance from Cincinitti General Hospital to Loveland taking twenty minutes, however by the time it reached the bank, W.E. Forester was gone.

In truth, a smoker of cigars, an eater of fat rich foods, a vastly overweight man who spent eighty percent of his conscious life seated behind his desk, seventy-three year old W.E. Forester’s heart gave out with the shock of the first gunshot..

June 15 through September 1, 1937

In the capable hands of Miss Florence Moorehead and the more than merely capable hands of the one time, ‘New York’s National City Bank’s’ number three teller, Miss Agnes Longstead, AKA Mrs Agnes Pink; Loveland National Bank apparently operated in a more knowledgeable and capable manner than under those of W.E. Forrester until being taken over by the banks mew manager/owner: Mister Phil A. Malarkey.

Monday, June 15, 1937
6:54 PM

Placing a bowl of vegetable soup before her husband. “You know, you were very brave today, doing what you did.”

Worrying about the possible outcome of any newspaper publicity it might have caused. Wanting to change the subject. “You know I never cared about Forrester too much, but sure as hell never expected him to go out in a blaze of gunfire.”

“When we met him back in ‘fifteen…” putting a bowl of soup on the table before her chair “... he reminded me of all those self-important, stuffed- shirts I had to put up with, and so long as he’d had the impression…”

“Honey…” spooning a spoon full of soup into his mouth “...when you came up with that attitude…”

“Never intended too…”

“...That female lawyer attitude, surprising… ‘hell’ shocking me, you had the old goat tied in a knot.”

Laughing. “And he never got untied, did he?” becoming serious. “But he’s dead now, and I’ll miss him in a way.”

“Yeah. Me, too, I guess.” Tipping the bowl to get the last of the soup.

Finishing her soup also. “I’m surprised you even remembered the gun was there.” Taking both bowls to the sink, and returning with his plate of chicken and dumplings.

“I didn’t remember. It was… Don’t know why, but I just did, and then I remember wondering why the thing was loaded?”

“A while ago… Don’t remember when…” returning with her plate “... I came across it looking for something and, guess I figured while we had it! Who knows? So, you know, just in case.”

Dinner on this night finished with more talk of W.E. Forester and Agie’s ideas of how she intended keeping the bank operating until someone came to take physical control.

Too small a thing for National Radio News, however newspapers? The Cincinitti Gazette sure to cover it as they did when...

The Cincinnati Gazette: ‘Hugo McFeeney, a known strong-arm hoodlum and thief with three armed robbery ‘wants,’ had been discovered by CPD in an unconscious state sitting in a puddle of warm beer and bodily fluid looking as though having gone through five rounds with Jack Dempsey. Transported to Cincinnati General Hospital in handcuffs, upon recuperation Mister McFeeney’s next stop will be the Ohio State Prison’.

It was his Agie that broke that thugs face and now…

11:07 PM: Unable to sleep. Thoughts coming layered one atop another. Damn! Sorry I even thought of that damn gun! Could the police or even Interpol still be looking for me? It’s been twenty-two years and a world war since! With all the bad stuff going on in the world, why would they even still be looking for me? And the ultimate thought: Could they even find me here?

New York Harbor

(V2) May 3, 1915

2:35 PM

The ship docking in New York Harbor, it took the moderately rotund man carrying his two suitcases an hour from the time of the disembark alert to step from the gangway and find his way to the ‘passenger arrival immigration counter’ where, his passport handed to the officer in the grey uniform—forcing himself to remain calm— was opened and studied.

Tapping the counter. “Suitcases here, and opened, please.” Patting the contents, lifting some clothing and taking a quick look. “Okay. Close up.

Name?” The man was asked.

Releasing his breath. “Solomon Berkowitz.” He replied.

“Your ship?”

“Lusitania.”

Comparing the grainy picture inbedded within the passport — Pleasant Mid-aged face and hair line appearing to be near the same. “Profession?” The officer asked.

“Engineer.” The man somewhat honestly answered.

“People here to see?”

“Business associate.”

“Amount of cash you’re bringing into the country?”

Removing a leather wallet, the man retrieved seventy-six dollars, saying, “I've other funds at National City Bank.”

“Anything else to declare?”

“No…” nervelessly wiggling his toes “...nothing else.”

Having no idea how or when he was going to do it, Morris Pinowskiz, AKA, Solomon Berkowitz had been making telegraph cash transfers— having no idea how he was going to do it— under his own name to National City Bank in New York City, USA for the past year and a half.

“How long do you plan on remaining?” The US customs officer asked.

“Two weeks, maybe three. Until my business is finished.”

Handing the passport back. “Welcome to America, Mister Berkowitz.”

2:57 PM

Outside the Harbor, hailing a taxi, the man instructed the driver to take him to an address in New York City’s Jewelry and Diamond District on Manhattan’s 47th Street between Fifth and Sixth Avenue.

Out of sight of the cab driver, removing first one then the other size eleven shoes from his size ten feet, further loosening the laces on one of the shoes and jamming his index finger sharply forward, his long nail catching onto a tightly rolled ball of cotton, Morris Pinowskiz — first one then the second tightly rubber-band ball of cotton was worked along the instep then out of both shoes.

Sitting back, taking a deep breath and noting the drivers face looking stiffly forward. Both balls of cotton placed on the tightly held junction of his thighs and paunch, Morris Pinowskiz, AKA Solomon Berkowitz loosened the rubber-bands and carefully unrolled first one, then the second ball of cotton revealing eight, one and a half and two carat diamonds..

The diamonds removed from the showroom vault Friday evening shortly after sundown when old man Flischner, his despicable, holier than thou— pious employer would be at his synagog throughout that evening and all day Saturday unaware that the theft had occurred until reopening the jewelry store on Monday morning…

Thinking, Made it! Sitting back watching the cities population drift by. Morris Pinowskiz, AKA Solomon Berkowitz was anxious to sell the eight diamonds for the best possible price and withdraw the ninety dollars deposited at National City Bank, then disappear— away from either the east or west coast to somewhere into America’s great mid-west.

Loveland, Ohio

Tuesday, June 16, 1937

7:54 AM

Like always tossed against the store’s door by the newsboy, gabbing the daily paper as, unlocking the door, then stepping quickly to the counter while spreading the paper to the front page…

“ The Cincinnati Gazette”

Looking downward...

Oh, shit!

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                                         67

                                Chapter Seven

                              A black Chevrolet