The McFeely

A radish would have a hard time coming up in Hoboken, N.J.--and would be disappointed if it did. Hoboken is not a garden spot. Its wharves, its factories, its warehouses, its 254 bars, its bookie parlors, its bleak blocks of ancient brownstone houses, its 50,115 people, their washing and their unspeakably articulate cats are all jammed into one clangorous, soot-shrouded square mile. But Hoboken was made to order for Bernard Nicholas McFeely. He grew and prospered there.

Hoboken didn't like McFeely. He was tough, glum, nickel-pinching, semi-illiterate and vindictive. When he left the seat of a dump cart for politics, he cultivated Democratic Boss Paddy Griffin so obsequiously that he was nicknamed "Me Too Barney." But when Paddy got sick in 1925, McFeely had what he needed to grab Paddy's power: he controlled the police and fire departments and thus almost all Democratic campaign funds.

"If I'm going to get up the money, I'm going to be the boss," said McFeely.

He got himself elected mayor, ran Hoboken strictly for McFeely. He loaded the public payrolls with 65 of his relatives, made his brother Edward chief of police, exacted 3% salary kickbacks and complete humility from city employees. McFeely's trucks collected Hoboken's garbage (but so carelessly that goats followed them in the streets). His city became a hangout for prohibition-era gangsters. In time, he had a fortune of $3,000,000.

No Show. Unlike most political bosses, he gave nothing in return. Tall, bald and sourfaced, he did not even afford his subjects the dubious pleasure of watching him make public appearances. He made almost no speeches (his grammar was too bad), took no interest in parades, and rode around in a bulletproof Cadillac with windows so small that he could sit back without being seen. He didn't even splurge on a mansion. A bachelor, he lived in a frame house across the street from an automobile scrapyard. He never went off to Florida, Saratoga, or Europe, was never photographed under palm trees or on streamliners.

He built no hospitals, made no philanthropic gestures. He hated Italians and did his best to make life miserable for them, even though they comprised 65% of Hoboken voters. Under his rule Hoboken taxes went skyhigh. Population fell off by a fifth; building almost ceased.

The morale of Hoboken police, firemen and teachers sank lower & lower.

McFeely put down uprisings with a ruthless hand. His political control penetrated everywhere. City employees were terrorized. Dock workers were compelled to vote the right way or risk the wrath of A.F.L. union bosses. McFeely had few worries about outside political interference --though he despised Hudson County's notorious Boss Frank Hague, he maintained a working alliance with him.

But last year the state of New Jersey slipped him a disturbingly potent mickey --it put voting machines into Hoboken. The effect was electrifying. Some of McFeely's cops, angry at having been directed to waive their overtime pay during World War II, campaigned for a civil service referendum. It passed. After that, Hoboken's long-suffering citizens began to think of throwing off their shackles.

Last week, they did it. After 22 years in power, the roof finally fell in on McFeely. Hoboken's jubilant voters swept the 64-year-old boss and all his henchmen out of office. As the returns came in, they cheered, waved torchlights and paraded in the streets. Three of the new city commissioners were Italians, one was an Irish cop whom McFeely had persecuted, and one was a C.I.O. union leader. An Italian, Fred M. DeSapio, became mayor.

Beaten, McFeely finally managed to give Hoboken a laugh. Said he: "It is the will of the people."

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