Chapter 5: Waldie and the Money Man

Up in the Avenues, the tree-lined streets on the Capitol’s hill where most of the L.D.S. High students live, a small crystal radio cackles in a back bedroom of a modest, well-kept home. A dependable little bird pops its head through the door of the Roth family cuckoo clock – brought with them from their native Black Forest – six times in a row.

“This is your news at the top of the hour,” recites the rookie KSL newsman between chirps.

The young man in the bedroom strains to catch the first headline.

“No sign of Captain Amundsen,” continues the newsman, a bit of emotion apparent in his delivery.

“Valdemar!” interrupts a shrill voice from downstairs with a distinct roll of the r.

“On my vay,” the young man shouts back in subtle mockery of Frau Roth’s pronunciation. “The name’s Waldemar, mother,” he says quietly to the mirror as he hastily adjusts his bowtie, stressing the “w” with rounded lips over and over again to reassure himself that he hadn’t acquired his mother’s thick, German accent.

Advertising posters of airships, which Waldemar had acquired from travel company presentations, bedeck the room’s walls on both sides of the mirror. His radio lies meticulously placed on a busy shelf between his model airplanes and a stack of Graf Zeppelin flyers, a barrage of which had been mailed out in anticipation of the Graf’s upcoming maiden voyage at the end of the summer. The brochures portray even the most modern ocean liners as outdated dinosaurs, stuck to a two-dimensional sea in their ports of call; luxury transoceanic airship travel is the wave of the future, and airships like the Graf are now making the third dimension and the most remote corners of the globe reachable to everyone.

The world is shrinking, and – at least to Waldemar – the progress seems unstoppable; in fact, an international crew had just landed an airship at the North Pole the previous week, and news reports regarding the crew’s fate have kept him glued to his radio longer than expected tonight. He initially held out hope not just for the crew, but for the lost rescue team as well – a team that includes Waldemar’s aviator hero, South Pole pioneer Roald Amundsen. His hopes fade a bit after tonight’s bleak news report, and he turns off the radio’s dial.

“Guess that’s the price of progress,” he says to himself as he runs down the stairs, forcing the disappointment from his face.

Waldemar darts out the door, snagging a wrapped liverwurst sandwich, a bag of laundry, and a peck on the cheek from Frau Roth. As he jogs down the street, the rushing waters of newly covered City Creek – another victim of so-called progress – compete with his feet in a buried pipe. He slows to a walk to gulp down his sandwich as he nears the business district. Though it is a few blocks out of his way, he had agreed to drop off the dry cleaning for his mother. Checking his pocket watch as he sets the bag on the cleaner’s counter, he begins to regret the offer.

He happens to glance through the large plate-glass window of the clothing store next door and spots another classmate running late. Waldemar lets out a laugh as he pokes his head through the door “Well if it isn’t the money man!” he mocks, finding it ironic to see the school’s treasurer digging through his pockets for change, “How do you do, R.J.?”

“Oh, hi Waldie, I’m just looking for a tip. I bought the suit here, so there’s no charge – see?” He points to the lettering on the door: Hibbs Clothing: no charge for pressing suits bought here.

Waldemar nods at R.J.’s familiar frugality, but still looks puzzled. “Well either way I’m surprised to see Mr. Early Bird running late – especially on your big night! You know distribution of the annuals ends at seven.”

“I know,” says R.J., turning to Waldemar, “I tried until the last minute to talk my father into coming tonight.” The disappointment on his face shows through, and he lets out a sigh. “No luck, though.”

Waldemar knows R.J. and his dad are at odds with each other, but missing commencement – that is unheard of for any parent. “Sorry to hear that,” he says quietly.

“Well, I think we’ll still make it in time if you want to hitch a ride.”

Waldemar nods in agreement.

“I’ll just be a minute,” says R.J., who ducks into a changing room and emerges shortly, sporting a sharp look for a bargain suit. R.J. places his street clothes, neatly folded, into the trunk and they hop into the old Studebaker. His father had amassed a small fortune – including the Studebaker – through bartering. Though they disagree on many things, he has never doubted R.J.’s sense of responsibility, and he didn’t give a second thought to letting him have the car keys tonight.

“Oh, hi Leona!” says a startled Waldemar, “I didn’t know you were waiting out here.”

R.J.’s little sister is in the back seat of the car. She has just finished her first year at L.D.S. as a junior-junior, a new term coined and voted on by her classmates with the apparent hope of avoiding being labeled as sophomoric. In any case, she knows it is quite a treat for a junior-junior to attend the commencement exercises in the company of upperclassmen. “Just waiting patiently for Mr. Fancy Pants!” she says, poking R.J. in the back of the head as he climbs into the driver’s seat.

“Oh hush,” R.J. says, drowning her out by turning over the Studebaker’s noisy Big Six engine.

“Now there’s a sound I love to hear,” Waldemar says from the passenger seat. “I heard that Studebaker plans to make a 24-cylinder engine for an aeroplane – biggest in the world! I’ll be working on some engines at the airfield myself this summer, you know.”

R.J. looks a bit disinterested – engines are definitely not his thing.

“What are your plans this summer?” asks Waldemar, sensing he should change the subject.

“I’m hoping to get an accounting job,” says R.J., perking up. “The market is really booming – I’m thinking about investing any money I get for graduation into the stock market.”

Waldemar nods but stops listening to the rest of the financial advice that continues to come his way as they make their way along North Temple toward the Tabernacle.

“He sure loves to hear himself talk,” Leona says from the back seat, “especially when it comes to money!”

“Hey!” R.J. says defensively.

No one can argue with the current boom; by all counts it’s a great time to be in the money business. Doomsayers are claiming that the margins cannot be sustained – some are even predicting a looming stock market crash – but no one in his right mind would have predicted the onset of an unprecedented, Great Depression just a year away.

Could Leona or any of the other underclassmen at the L.D.S. imagine that, with tithing funds dwindling, rising costs and scarce tuition money would force an exodus to public schools and that the exodus would, in turn, force the closure of their beloved high school before many of them even have the chance to graduate? Unthinkable! In the meantime, the future looks bright indeed, and the underclassmen certainly have as much to look forward to as the graduates.

L.D.S. College – including the high school and business college that are wrapped into a single campus adjacent to Temple Square – comes into view on their left. The fledgling junior college is not yet well known outside of Salt Lake; “The L.D.S.” as a high school, however, has become quite prestigious in academics and dominates the sports scene in its league. Even the campus itself seems caught up in the recent boom economy: Many of its buildings are being prepared with an overcoat of scaffolding as the facilities are upgraded over the summer to accommodate the ever more abundant academic and extracurricular activities of the students.

“Well, next year you’ll be there all alone, Leo, what do you think of that?”

Leona despises R.J.’s nickname for her and refuses to grace him with an answer. But inside, her nerves acknowledge his insinuation.

Scores of new cars, a tell-tale sign of the boom economy, seem to have overtaken downtown. Unfortunately, the city infrastructure hasn’t kept pace. The angled parking spaces lining both sides of the street are completely filled on any given day; an event in the Tabernacle makes finding a spot nearly impossible. The trio round all four edges of Temple Square, searching in vain for a spot.

“There’s one,” Leona finally shouts from the back seat, “and it looks like a perfect spot, right by the entrance!”

Waldemar and R.J. read the sign in unison as they pull closer: “Reserved – Grant.”

R.J. looks dejected, “I guess we’ll have to park down the street.”

“Just pull into that driveway,” says Waldemar, pointing to one of the few remaining residential buildings adjacent to Temple Square, “They’re not likely to be going anywhere tonight.”

But R.J. is a stickler for rules, and the thought of a parking citation tonight – or worse, a visit to one of the City’s new impound lots – makes him cringe. “No, we’re bound to find a legal spot around here somewhere.”

“Well, how about if you get out here and I go find a spot?” counters Waldemar, “You can’t be late, after all, not tonight!”

R.J. is torn, but he is anxious to arrive. Besides, he knows Waldemar has already been at the controls of an airplane; he uses that argument to justify entrusting Waldemar with his father’s keys. “Don’t you dare tell father, Leo!” he warns as they climb out of the car. She shakes her head and zips her lips.

R.J. turns to Waldemar. “Thanks!” he says, “I’ll pick up your annual for you if it’s not too late.”

As R.J. and Leona approach the Temple Square grounds, laughter and chit-chat echo off the walls. Leona isn’t much for socializing, and she heads straight into the Tabernacle to beat the crowd. R.J. makes a quick stop at the sagging “S” Book table.

“I was afraid you two weren’t going to make it tonight,” says Miss Stewart.

R.J. turns over his shoulder to see Waldemar sprinting to the table, quite out of breath. “That was quick!” R.J. says to him.

“I found something real close,” replies Waldemar, gesturing ambivalently toward the north gate. R.J. already has his hand out, anxious to get the keys back.

Miss Stewart checks two of the last three names off her list of engraved books.

“Did we make it into the book?” asks Waldemar, turning to Miss Stewart after handing over the keys to R.J.

“Oh, sorry Waldie, I haven’t had time to check,” Miss Stewart replies.

Waldemar stays at the table, nervously scanning the pages of his yearbook. He has just finished his tenure as president of the Aero Club, founded earlier in the year, its membership still growing when the cutoff for yearbook pictures passed. Waldemar, his head buried in the book, finally emerges with a grin when he sees his club’s photo, including his own clean-cut mug shot.

“We had quite a year,” he says, trying to strike up a conversation with Miss Stewart. “The future’s up in the air! That was the club motto that I thought up. Do you get it?”

Miss Stewart nods as she begins to disassemble her setup.

Waldemar points at the sky in a last-ditch effort to grab her attention. “You hear that buzz?”

Miss Stewart glances up and strains but can’t hear anything above the laughter and commotion of the crowd.

“It’s a Ford Trimotor – same as the one that Lindbergh flew.” His excitement seems to grow with the approaching sound, and soon Miss Stewart can hear it, too.

The top of the Tabernacle’s dome is painted with a huge compass and Salt Lake’s call sign; pilots use the landmark – affectionately known to airmen as the “burgeoning tortoise” – for orientation to line up their landing approach to nearby Woodward Field. Flying machines criss-cross overhead on a daily basis now, but this approaching aircraft still manages to attract the crowd’s attention. All eyes turn skyward for a moment. Waldemar starts to explain the Doppler Effect but changes the topic when he realizes Miss Stewart has tuned him out.

“Isn’t she a beauty?” he shouts over the buzz as the volume peaks, “That plane will be taking off with tomorrow’s mail before the sun comes back up!”

The sound diminishes, and conversations in the crowd resume after a brief lull. The plane disappears below the tree line on its approach to Woodward, but Waldemar’s eyes are still fixed in its direction, recalling Lindbergh’s landing at Woodward the previous year. Like Lindbergh, Waldemar hopes that the people in his native Germany will again build the world’s finest planes and believes firmly that the future, indeed, is in the skies.

Lindbergh’s visit had piqued an interest in air travel not just for Waldemar but for many other L.D.S. High students, helping to swell the ranks of the Aero Club. The entire student body still see it as an honor that Lindy, arguably the biggest celebrity in the country, had traversed their very own campus on his way to an overnight stay in the Hotel Utah.

Waldemar emerges from his daydream. “Well, Miss Stewart, if you look overhead during next year’s ceremony, you’ll see me at the controls.”

Miss Stewart gives him a stern look. “Well, if your grades are any indication of your piloting skills, I’ll be sure to run for cover.”

Waldemar suddenly feels the sting of being a bit out of place without his graduation robes. He had the chance to graduate as a junior this year, prevented only by a failing grade in Miss Stewart’s English class. On top of his summer job, he will be taking a few remedial classes at East High to make up for the time he had already spent mingling with the mechanics at Woodward.

“You’d get addicted, too, if you had the chance to fly,” Waldemar replies, a bit defensively – then adds with a smile, “You know, the Aero Club will be looking for a faculty sponsor next year.”

“You boys wouldn’t know what to do if a woman showed up at your club’s fraternity meetings.”

“Next year will be different, mark my words,” Waldemar retorts, “In fact, I hear there’s a lady looking to follow Lucky Lindy’s path across the big pond. If Lady Lindy makes it, girls will be lining up to join the Aero Club.” As they speak, the ambitious flyer is on her way to Nova Scotia to attempt the first ever Atlantic crossing by a woman.

“Let’s hope she makes it,” says Miss Stewart, pausing to stack the empty boxes around her table, “and earns herself the right to be called by her own name in the process.”

“Hmm...” Waldemar nods his head in agreement, never having considered that Ms. Earhart might just despise the nickname. “Well they’re already calling her the Queen of the Skies in the press,” he adds, “so maybe that will stick!”

“Well, Waldie, I still have one last annual to distribute. I wish you all the best for the summer.”

Waldemar looks around and finds that R.J. has already entered the Tabernacle without him. Finding himself otherwise alone, he excuses himself awkwardly. “Yes, you too Miss Stewart,” he says, “I hope to see you again – well, I mean I guess I’ll see you around…again…I hope.”

Miss Stewart nods with a smile.

Waldemar walks away, debating whether or not he had discerned the hint of a wink accompanying her parting smile. He scans the crowd intently for fellow Aero Club members to sign the club’s page in his yearbook. Who among them will be the next Lindbergh or the next Earhart? Waldemar can easily imagine someone from his very own club on a future Life Magazine cover. As his eyes dart back and forth through the crowd, he can only imagine who else among his classmates might change the world.

“Jack!” he shouts, redoubling his excitement as he spots a club-mate. “Well, we made it into the annual!”

They exchange books and each simultaneously draws a fountain pen out of his jacket pocket. With so many clubs and activities to choose from, every senior was pressed for time this year, and Jack is no exception. Jack has a soft spot for music and was leaning toward joining the glee club earlier in the year, but Waldemar convinced him that the Aero Club would give him more practical career skills.

As they part ways, Waldemar opens his book to read the signature. “Here’s to the future…up in the air – Jack Salmon.” Waldemar smiles when he sees that Jack has lent creed to his slogan, glowing with the success of having won a convert to the skies. His upbeat mood reflects the undeniable sense of excitement in the air tonight.

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