Anthology of Innocence: Stories from My Childhood - Softcover

Altman, Barry

Softcover

ISBN 10: 1491710454 ISBN 13: 9781491710456

Publisher: iUniverse, 2013

Synopsis

For author Dr. Barry Altman, growing up in an urban atmosphere during World War II made for a frightening childhood. Children like him latched onto dreams of success but also sometimes failure as they gleaned attitudes from their parents and elders. Also, at that time, urban children, particularly those in New York grew up faster, gaining knowledge from their environment more quickly than their parents might imagine. In Anthology of Innocence, Altman presents a collection of autobiographical sketches from his childhood during that precarious time. In the first sketch, "Torture" he tells how, as a young child, his fears and rage were propagated by a close aunt. The story "Loss" depicts what he saw and felt when a loved one died. "A Fish Story" explores Altman's questionable relationship with his father, while "Thou Shalt Not" enters into his world of sexual questioning and indecision. Anthology of Innocence reveals the maturation process of a child during the war years with the constant questions and situations that he faced. It narrates the trials and challenges as well as the warmth and closeness of family life.

About this title

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.

Anthology of Innocence

Stories from My Childhood

By Barry Altman

iUniverse LLC

Copyright © 2013 Barry Altman, MD
All rights reserved.

ISBN: 978-1-4917-1045-6

Contents

Preface, ix, 
Chapter 1 Torture, 1, 
Chapter 2 Icon, 9, 
Chapter 3 Loss, 21, 
Chapter 4 Thou Shalt Not, 31, 
Chapter 5 A Fish Story, 43, 
Chapter 6 New Kid, 55, 
Chapter 7 Irony, 67, 
Chapter 8 Journey into the Surreal, 77, 
Chapter 9 Ears of Korn, 93, 
Chapter 10 Sunday, Sunday, 105, 
Chapter 11 Jealousy, 113, 
Chapter 12 Main Event, 119, 
About the Author, 137, 

CHAPTER 1

Torture

The earliest recollection I have that is indicative of howunkind this world could be involved my dear auntEdna. The youngest of my mother's three sisters and tenor eleven years my senior, she was delegated to be my constantbabysitter. My mother worked with my father, and my other twoaunts worked as well. It was a tough time in the post-Depressionyears, and everyone had to contribute for the family to survive. Mymother's parents lived with us as well. It's all very hazy; just littleanecdotal memories come to mind. Many of these contributed tomost of my phobias.

My grandfather owned a shoe store on Blake Avenue inBrooklyn. After she came home from school, Edna would takeme to the store, where it was her job to stock the opened shoeboxesin their appropriate places. At the same time she had to make surethat I was all right. I was about three years old. Once she tookcare of the shoes, we were to walk back to our home on AlabamaAvenue, a distance of about seven or eight blocks. My recollectionof those walks fills me with feelings of utter exhaustion andbewilderment. For the entire distance my loving aunt Edna wouldtwirl me around and around and around while holding my lefthand until I was so dizzy that my little legs crumbled beneath me,and I was bursting with tears pleading with her to please stop.

Eventually she did stop just long enough for me to regain mybalance, and then, with the cackling sound of a witch's laugh, shewould again begin to twist me around again and again while Ibellowed sounds of pain and anger. Edna hated me, and this washer revenge for having to be my baby sitter without remuneration.In order to get out of babysitting she and a girlfriend of hers, Pearly,answered a newspaper ad and got part-time jobs on an assemblyline in a factory in downtown Brooklyn. They worked there oneday, telling everyone that their job involved packaging something,and she didn't know what it was for. She and Pearly brought acouple of them home one day and showed them to Grandma."This is what you package, you nutty kids?" she half shouted. Ednanodded, and Pearly did likewise and said, "The boss likes us andpromised to show us how they work someday soon."

Grandma burst into hysterical laughter, necessitating her toseek a chair as she nearly lost her balance. Tears rolled down herpretty round face, and she became flushed trying to regain hercomposure while waves of deep, uncontrollable laughter echoedthrough the house. The two puzzled girls looked at each other intotal disbelief. Why was Grandma behaving like this? What didPearly say or do that was so funny? Grandma tried to control herlaughter in order to explain, but every time she tried to talk thelaughter started again.

Just then, Grandpa walked in. Grandma tried to talk butcould not. Edna looked at him with a deeply puzzled look andshrugged her shoulders. She took the little packages from Pearlyand tried to explain what they were doing in their new job, butbefore she could utter a word he slapped her so hard on the leftside of her face that her head nearly came off her shoulders. Hegrabbed the packages from her hand and threw them in thegarbage while the two girls stood there crying and surprised.Grandma was still trying to overcome her fits of laughter butgenerated enough strength to stand between Edna and Grandpa.In rapid-fire Yiddish he asked Edna if she knew what the littlepackets contained. She shook her head, and Pearly likewise shookhers rather violently, probably trying to avoid the pain of a possibleslap in her face as well. None of this was good for me. I knew thatno matter what the outcome, I would lose at the vengeful handsof my aunt Edna.

Grandpa had fire in his eyes as he explained with only minimaldetail that the round, white, rubber tubes they were packing wereused in acts of sexual intercourse for contraception. Neither girlflinched. They just stood there speechless with gaping mouths.When he was done with his tirade, they looked at each other andbegan crying and laughing at the same time. Then Grandma startedher laughter all over again. Finally, realizing that neither girl knewwhat the condoms were for, Grandpa joined in the laughter fest.

In short order, the entire family found out about the fabulousjob that the two girls had. But the joke was on me. It meant thatEdna was once more my babysitter. Within a week the torturebegan again. It was only very recently that my mother told mewhy Edna hated me so. Apparently, when I was an infant, myparents went out to see a movie. When they arrived home, theyfound me in my crib crying and smeared all over with feces andurine. Edna was fast asleep. My father woke her up and smackedher several times for not staying awake. Since then I had becomeher target of revenge. She could not get back at my father, but Iwas an easy target, and like a predator toying with its prey beforethe kill, she practiced on me.

A few days after Edna's sudden enlightenment of sexualmethodology, she was at me again. This time we were at Grandpa'sstore once more when Edna found a large corrugated box in whichseveral pairs of shoes had been shipped to my grandfather. Sheemptied the box and put the shoes into their proper places on theshelves quite rapidly, looking forward to her next demonic scheme.Edna then took me into the back room with the box. She madebelieve we were going to play a game. I was hesitant and wary ofher motives but went along slightly teary-eyed. She placed me intothe box, and after cutting a few holes into the sides of the box, shetaped it closed. It took only a few moments for me to realize thatthis was no game. Instead, this was a new form of blatant torture.She left the room, and I remember crying and trying to get out ofthis taped-up cardboard prison she had constructed. Each timethat I tried to stand up and push on any side of the box it wouldroll over due to my weight. The more it rolled the more frightenedI became. There was no help due to the fact that my grandfatherhad left the store on an errand, and no one but Edna, probablyrubbing her hands together gleefully, heard my desperate cries.After a while I merely sat there screaming, becoming more andmore petrified of the surrounding darkness. The small aperturescut into the sides of the box allowed laser-like streams of light toenter. But this was not at all comforting. After what seemed aneternity, my entombment came to an end when my aunt Rickeyrescued me.

Edna was admonished, not that it did any good, and was toldto take me back home immediately. Once more I was twirled onour way back to our house. No one could understand why I criedwhenever I was left alone with Edna. She always managed to havethe appearance of a concerned, loving aunt. At the age of threeyears it was difficult trying to tell my mother that I was beingvictimized by my aunt. Rickey wouldn't dare tell anyone, realizingthat both my father and grandfather would tear Edna apart. I'msure that these episodes were the seeds of my claustrophobia aswell as fear of the darkness.

When I reached the age of four years, there was a lull in herhellish tactics. She just loathed taking care of me. She had apparentlystarted going out with Norman, who was to be her future husband.I liked Norm. He'd often joke with me, and we played gameswaiting for Edna to appear. One night I slept in Edna's bed as Ioften did due to the fear of darkness she instilled within me. Shehad gone out with Norm that night. I awakened in the morningand went to the bathroom as usual. I was sitting on the toilet seatwhen suddenly the door started moving. From behind the door outcame this monstrous beast that promptly bit my foot. I jumped offthe seat, and the horrible creature came running after me as I lefta trail of urine behind me. The entire household was awakened bymy screaming for help. I jumped onto a chair and then onto thekitchen table, hoping to escape the huge fangs of what turned outto be the most adorable six-week-old cocker spaniel, a gift to mefrom Norman. This was the beginning of my fear of dogs.

I can't remember its name, but he lasted only one week inmy house. Obviously I could not care for it at that age. Ednatold me that the dog was run over by a car. This news tore meup completely. I was just starting to get used to the puppy. Mymother consoled me, later telling me the truth that the dog wasnot dead. It had been given back to Norman because I couldnot take care of it at my age. The devastation lasted only oneday, as with most children, until my aunt Esther bought me acowboy outfit with a rubber gun and holster. With each of mydisappointments in life as a young child, Esther seemed to knowhow to make me forget them.

It was a very cold Sunday in March when, again, Ednawas assigned the task of caring for me. The usual morningdisagreements took place. I would not wash. I would not getdressed. I would not eat my breakfast. I was so negatively inclinedas I tried desperately to delay any further torture. I hid from herwhile she was dressing. I took one of her shoes and put it underthe couch. I tried everything. As soon as order was restored, wewere once more twisting our way to Grandpa's store.

I stayed close to Grandpa all day as much as I could. When hewasn't dealing with customers, we would play a bit. One game wasto climb a ladder, and he would take me off and swing me arounda few times. Suddenly, there were a few customers in the store. Iknew to keep quiet at this juncture. Unfortunately I was on topof the ladder at the time. I was totally unable to climb down atthat age. I quietly called to Edna to help me. She just stood thereand grinned at me. I became panicky. I felt tears welling up inmy eyes. Each time that I looked down at the floor, six feet away,I became more fearful. I quietly but tearfully beckoned my auntto help me off this precipice, but she just sat on a box at the footof the ladder with that disgusting grin on her face. I attemptedto sit down on the top of the ladder but nearly fell. That broughtsome vocal whimpers from deep in my throat, and Edna lookedat me sternly, reminding me that there was to be no sounds whilecustomers were in the store. I stood on top of the ladder withsilent tears streaming down my cheeks. Edna continued to grin.

It seemed an eternity that Grandpa was spending with thecustomers, and I could do nothing but wait. My legs were tiring.Finally I could take the discomfort no longer. I attempted totake a step to the top rung of the ladder. I very cautiously stoodsideways and extended my right foot toward the floor. My left footsuddenly gave way, and I saw the concrete floor rushing up to myface. There was a scream and a thumping sound, but I felt no pain.Instead, I was engulfed in the arms of my aunt Edna, who wascrying and yelling, "Are you okay? Barry, baby, are you all right?Tell me you're okay, Barry!" I was still crying, but now it was dueto the incredulity of the situation. Grandpa came rushing to theback of the store. He saw Edna holding me and kissing me allover my wet face. "Vas hat gesheht?" (What happened?), he yelled.Edna looked at him with huge, fearful eyes.

"He fell from the top of the ladder, and I caught him justbefore he would hit the floor."

"Is he hurt? Are you all right, 'Barrileh'?" he asked, lovingly.

I nodded, and as I did so I noticed that Edna's hand wasbleeding. Grandpa saw this as well. He took out his handkerchiefand wrapped it carefully around her hand, took her around whileI was still in her arms, and kissed her and me several times. I wasreally quite confused, but suddenly Edna smiled. She really wasenjoying the new role of heroine. She was getting more attentionfrom Grandpa than I was. In my puerile mind I suddenly saw theirony. I wrestled myself free and started to swing my fists at heras hard as I could and cried loudly. She merely took me aroundagain and started to kiss me once again.

Grandpa simply smiled and said, "He's still frightened. He'llbe okay, 'Yentaleh.' I have to go to the front. Wash your hand,and I'll look at it in a couple of minutes; then the two of you cango home." And so began my fear of heights. But more importantwas the fact that the episodes of torture became quite rare asshe and Norman became a much more serious entity, and alsoshe finally realized that I was a great conduit for recognitionand emotion by the rest of the family. I could still rememberthe plaudits she received from everyone for "saving my life," andsuffering a wound of her hand as well. Even my father embracedher and thanked her.

I was admonished for climbing the ladder.

CHAPTER 2

Icon

The tiny chips of the snow-white soap fell onto theoutspread newspaper on the bed. I lay there mesmerizedas I watched the exactitude of her nose take shape. Allof this was being done with a metal nail file and a piece of Ivorysoap. This tiny form was being created by a six-foot mountain offlesh (or so it seemed at the age of five years), with fingers largerthan the file being used. I had so many questions, but I dared notinterrupt his concentration. The tiny angle in the middle of hernose was just perfect. She had broken it when she was a little girl,and there was only an infinitesimal displacement with a hardlynoticeable convexity to the left. My father truly captured eventhis nuance.

I would lie on my belly propping my head up like a mini gargoylefor as long as it took for him to work on the sculpture or whenMom called us for dinner. I would never breathe deeply nor causeany inadvertent movement of the bed. That could distract him or,even worse, initiate an involuntary movement of his hands. Theywere large hands with small but thick tufts of hair that appearedalmost groomed between the dorsal knuckle creases. It was almostinordinate that these large hands could create something so small,so exact, so loving as the image of the woman he cherished mostin the world. The forehead was beginning to come into view nowwith a tiny furrow over her right eye that my mother still has tothis day, sixty years later.

"Boys, come to the kitchen, we're all ready to eat." I wouldnot move one tiny muscle until my father signaled that it was allright to get off the bed. He gently placed the opalescent, partiallycarved sculpture on the top of the chiffonier in their bedroom. Itstood there like a potential icon. I asked if I could have it when itwas all finished. My father looked at me with a slight smile andsaid, "She belongs to all of us." I was satisfied.

We lived on the top floor of a two-family house on AlabamaAvenue at the time. It was a half-block from New Lots Avenue inBrooklyn. Nine of us lived there in five rooms. Mom was pregnantwith my sister, Karen. The kitchen was small, and we had to eatin shifts. The kitchen always had a wonderful aroma of somethingcooking. It was the central gathering place when everyone camehome from work. The warm yellow color of the walls rendereda welcoming feeling to the room. Usually, I ate first with Momand Dad and also Grandma and Grandpa Miller (my maternalgrandparents). Edna, Rickey, and Esther ate afterward with Bubby(my great-grandmother) if she was to stay overnight, which wasoften. The three girls were my mother's sisters. Everyone joked andreferred to them as the "four beauties," and they were, in their ownways. They were completely different from each other. They did notlook alike. They did not think alike. They did not act alike. Eachhad (and still has) her own story to tell, enough for many volumes.

It was on Friday nights like this one that Mom lit the Sabbathcandles and said her prayers for the whole family. I ate rapidlyand ravenously in case my father decided to continue with hissculpture. Most of the time, I had no interest in food and remaineda skinny bag of energetic bones with wavy jet-black hair and sharpfeatures. I was the first one up from the dinner table. The livingroom was not very large, but it was comfortably furnished witha large sofa, where Bubby slept, and two large upholstered chairsand one huge hassock. The chairs always fascinated me. Each ofthem had an eight- or nine-inch-wide brown marble disc in thefront of each huge cushioned arm. I recall sitting on the floor infront of these discs several times musing at the tiny comical facesthat were created by the tortuous grains in the marble.

My after-dinner activity depended on the radio. Televisionwas something merely mentioned as a possibility in Flash Gordon.If my grandparents had their way, we listened to the YiddishHour and news of the world's most grotesque tragedy of ourtime—the Holocaust. If my parents had their way, we listened toa classical music station, and I was immediately transformed intoArturo Toscanini or Bruno Walter. Even at the age of five yearsI would get up on the hassock and, in childish fashion, conductwhatever masterpiece was being played. The exquisite soundstook possession of my mind and body even then. If the YiddishHour was played, I was perfectly capable of imitating SeymourRechtzeit or singing "Romania" like Aaron Lebedoff. It was awin-win situation for me, the child entertainer.

(Continues...)

Excerpted from Anthology of Innocence by Barry Altman. Copyright © 2013 Barry Altman, MD. Excerpted by permission of iUniverse LLC.
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Edition details

• Publisher: iUniverse
• Publication date: 2013
• Language: English
• ISBN 10: 1491710454
• ISBN 13: 9781491710456
• Binding: Paperback
• Number of pages: 150