CHAPTER 3

Greenwich Village, New York

The rally for Spain filled Washington Square, the noisy crowd spilling over into the adjacent streets, creating momentary concern among the handful of police assigned to the park. But as soon as the entertainment on the makeshift stage started -- the flamenco singer's high-pitched raucous lament electrifying the crowd into silence -- the police relaxed. The hodge-podge of radical, mostly immigrant blue collar workers, fresh-faced college students, sprinkled with well-coiffed women and business-suited men, was united in its support for the beleaguered Spanish Republican government.

Banners on the stage urged those in attendance to SUPPORT THE INTERNATIONAL BRIGADES! and FIGHT FASCISM!

A number of young people wearing ribbons in the colors of the Republic were working the crowd, distributing petitions and selling red berets.

Susan Scheuer, a slim, vibrant young woman with quick intelligent eyes, brown as the curly hair crammed under her red beret, had used a ready smile and warm voice to dispose of most of her stock of the symbolic head gear.

Excited by the crowd, pleased by her success, rehearsing an explanation for her worrying mother as to why she was late coming home from the school her parents had scrimped and saved to send her to, worried about confessing that she was once again involved in politics, Susan had not noticed the young man following her. Scott Galvin, his athletic frame clad in a Princeton blazer, had come down from college with his roomate Petey Hoyt at his father's invitation "to observe history in the making" at the victory celebration for Fiorello LaGuardia, who had just won re-election as mayor of New York on the Fusion Ticket. Scott's father, Byron, though a Wall Street lawyer and a born Republican, was one of "the little flower's" prime backers.

But Scott and Petey had become bored by the yelling, smoke and confusion in the crowded hotel ballroom, and after thanking his busy father for "an experience I will never forget, sir", and, touching him up, at Petey's urging, for spending money, he and Petey had wandered out to explore the city. Petey had suggested they go to the Village, where there was a bohemian element, not letting on to the painfully shy Scott that "loose" women were rumored to abound there.

Petey was not interested in political rallies, foreign or domestic. But Scott was fascinated by the music and the eccentric nature of the crowd -- and then by the exotic good looks of the young woman in the red beret.

Promising Petey he'd be right back, Scott plunged into the crowd after Susan, wanting a closer look, hoping for he didn't know what, since he had never in his young life spoken to any girl he didn't know.

When Susan became aware of Scott, she pretended to ignore him. When he continued to follow her, she wheeled to confront him. "Got something on your mind, buster?" she snapped, and then became so confused by his unexpected good looks that she blushed.

"No ...no," Scott stammered. "I was just -- just trying to make a contribution!" Suddenly inspired, he pulled out the ten dollar bill his father had given him.

"Go ahead," she said, holding out her beret. "Drop it in."

Scott debated whether to ask for change -- then with a sigh, opened his fingers and watched the bill flutter into the beret.

"Aren't you the generous one," Susan observed. "Such generosity of spirit shouldn't go unrewarded." And to her shock and amazement (nothing compared to his) she suddenly found herself grabbing his shoulders (muscular, she was to later remember) and pressing her lips against his cheek. Then, turning away, aghast, she fled into the crowd.

"Wait, wait!" Scott called, hastening after her.

"What is it?" she demanded frantically, face still flushed, when he’d caught up. "Only one kiss to a customer – sorry, but those are the rules!"

"Yes -- no -- I mean I w-want -- to g-get -- to know you," Scott stammered, cursing himself for being inarticulate. "When you've finished here, maybe we can go somewhere and ... and ... and . . . "

"You got one kiss, and you think that means the rest comes easy, I suppose," Susan snarled. "Get lost, buster, go feel up a Vassar girl, that’s more your type!"

"You tell him, sister!" said a nearby blue collar man.

"Leave her alone, Bud," advised another, biceps bulging under rolled-up shirt sleeves, stepping between them. "Thanks, brothers," Susan said. "But I can handle it." She turned to Scott: "Better leave while you're still in one piece," she advised him.

Scott summoned what was left of his dignity. "My name's not Buster, it's Scott," he informed her, and again not knowing what else he might say, left.

Susan thanked her rescuers with a forced smile, and, having kept an eye on what direction Scott had taken, managed to intercept him as he was exiting the square.

"Hey, you there, fella, Scott!" she called.

Petey, meanwhile, had also spotted Scott. Both he and Susan reached him at the same time.

"I want to apologize for almost getting you beat up. It was all my fault," Susan said.

"Two bucks," Petey was exulting. "I can get my ashes hauled for two paltry simoleones!"

"W -- what?" Scott stammered, reddening as he looked from his friend to the girl who so attracted him.

"I said if you'll just let me have two dollars, I can..." Petey began, when Scott hastily interrupted.

"I heard you!" Scott cried. Then, to Susan: "What did you say?"

"Never mind!" Susan said, turning away. "Better take care of your randy friend."

"I'm broke," Scott explained to the dumbfounded Petey, then ran after Susan. "Please don’t go," he pleaded. "Talk to me."

"I don't believe we have anything in common," Susan said icily, and forcing her way through the crowd to the stage gave the burly, dark-featured man in charge of fund-raising her beret full of money -- mostly change, except for the ten dollar bill lying on top.

"How can you possibly say that when we don’t know anything about each other?" demanded Scott, close behind her. 

"I know that you belong to a club at Princeton, of which there is nothing in this world more snobbish, and that you don't know how to handle money, which comes from having more than you know what to do with, and that you think women are born to cater to men," Susan stated. "Furthermore, in thinking about your so-called generous donation, I now realize that you did it just to impress me -- which I admit you did, for the moment – until I realized you were thinking, just like your friend, that it would be a cheap way to get your ashes hauled!"

"Cheap?" the dumbfounded Scott managed. "That was a ten dollar bill!"

"Cheap to get me, Prince-ton," Susan said, snapping her fingers under his nose in time to the castanets being played by the gypsy dancers on stage. "Better get back to your friend before he dies of sexual frustration!"

"Nice work, Miss Scheuer," the man in the rumpled suit who'd taken the donation hollered, trying to make himself heard over the foot-stamping dance that rattled the stage boards. "You got time to make another round of the crowd?"

"Sorry," Susan said. "Gotta get home."

"Don't run out on me," Scott begged, pushing after her. "Nothing you think about me is true!"

"No?" Susan demanded. "Then why are you wearing a bow tie?"

"What's wrong with a bow tie?" Scott asked, fingering the bow in bewilderment. "This is hand-tied, you know, it's not one of your dime store clip ons."

"You see?" Susan said. "Only someone who’d wear a bow tie wouldn't know that working class people wouldn't be caught dead in one."

"Okay, so I'm slow," Scott said. "Explain it to me."

By this time they were out of the square. Susan finally looked directly at the importuning Scott – which was, she was to admit to herself later, a mistake of overpowering significance. He was no doubt the most handsome, clean-cut, physically attractive young man she had ever stood this close to. And kissed! She flushed, remembering. And the imploring look in his naiively innocent, sea-blue eyes was more than she could resist.

"Buy me a hot chocolate," she said. "And I'll consider it."

"Great!" Scott exclaimed. He took several steps with her toward the line of stores on the opposite side of the street, then stopped, in some dismay. "I can't," he admitted, lamely. "I gave you all the money I had."

Susan couldn't help it -- she laughed until her tears ran. "See?" she finally managed. "You just can't handle money. Never mind, I'll treat." And putting her arm through his, she ran him through traffic to the drugstore at the corner.

Once they'd given their order, both became inordinately shy. They sipped at their chocolate drinks then for a time, avoiding each other's surreptitious glances. "Well go ahead, talk," Susan finally said. "That's what you said you wanted to do, isn't it?"

"Are you a Communist?" he asked.

"Why on earth would you think that?" she replied, startled.

"The red beret," he pointed out. "And Russia's supplying the Spanish government with arms, isn't it? I mean the Communists are really running the popular front, aren't they?"

"Well, well," Susan said. "So some information about the real world does penetrate those ivy-covered walls? No, I'm not a Communist -- I just want the working man to get a better shake, that's all. And we've got to stop the dirty fascists somewhere, haven't we? I mean it may be no skin off a blue-eyed Protestant's nose whether the Jews are reduced to the rank of second class citizens, or whether the Catholics kill each other off, but to the rest of us it's a matter of some importance!"

"What makes you think I'm a Protestant?" Scott asked, somewhat shaken by her intensity.

"Aren't you?" Susan demanded.

"All Saints Episcopal," Scott admitted. "But that doesn't mean I don't know or don't care about what's happening!"

"You did donate money," Susan agreed.

He didn't know if she was mocking him or not, and decided it best not to pursue it. "And you -- are you Catholic?" he asked.

Susan laughed, though not so freely as before. "Jewish," she said. "Does that frighten you?"

"Why should it?" Scott asked.

"I'll bet you've never ever been this close to one before," Susan said. "Not knowingly, anyhow."

"Maybe not," Scott said. "But I like being close to you," he went on to say, reaching up to wipe at the trace of marshmallow on her upper lip, then blushing at his own boldness.

Susan hastily wiped her mouth with her napkin, then busied herself in her purse to dig out money for the chocolate.

"I'll pay you back for this," Scott said. "If you'll tell me where you live -- "

"No need for that," Susan said. "Thirty cents is not going to break me."

"I want to," Scott said. "In fact, I'd like to take you to dinner the next time I'm in New York -- in fact, I think I'm coming back to New York this weekend . . . "

"It wouldn't work," Susan said, patting his hand. "Can’t you see we don't go together -- with you a shaygets and me a Jewish girl, it'd be like adding vinegar to cream ... "

"A shay-gets?" Scott asked.

"A goy," Susan said. "Yiddish for gentile boys."

"You're prejudiced," Scott said. "How does that square with your liberal principles?"

Susan stared. "That's the last thing I am, is prejudiced," she stated.

"Prove you’re not," Scott said. "Have dinner with me."

"It wouldn't work," she said. "It can't. We're too dissimilar."

"You haven’t given me a chance to show we’re not,” he said. “Saturday night?" he asked. "Where will I pick you up?" 

"I'll be in Manhattan all day – but I’ll meet you somewhere," Susan said, finally.

"Under the clock at the Astor," Scott said immediately. "At six." And he dropped the hand he hadn’t realized he was holding, starting away before she might change her mind.

"Be sure to bring plenty of money," Susan called after him. "I'm a very big eater!"

Scott grinned and waved and kept on going, so elated it was all he could do to keep from breaking into a flat out run.