Anthology of Innocence: Stories from My Childhood

By Barry Altman MD

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 Altmans 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.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Nov 11, 2013
• ISBN: 9781491710470

Barry Altman MD

Barry L. Altman, MD, graduated from Jefferson Medical College of Philadelphia and worked as a physician for many years. Now retired from medical practice, Altman is a visual artist who creates relief paintings and sculptures. He lives in New Jersey with Lois, his second wife. This is his first collection of biographical short stories.

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ANTHOLOGY OF INNOCENCE

STORIES FROM MY CHILDHOOD

Copyright © 2013 Barry Altman, MD.

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ISBN: 978-1-4917-1045-6 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4917-1046-3 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4917-1047-0 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2013918803

iUniverse rev. date: 11/08/2013

Dedicated to the memory of my son,

Jon Mitchell Altman

And to my grandchildren,

Zakery, Kayli, Eli, and Kenna

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Preface

Chapter 1   Torture

Chapter 2   Icon

Chapter 3   Loss

Chapter 4   Thou Shalt Not

Chapter 5   A Fish Story

Chapter 6   New Kid

Chapter 7   Irony

Chapter 8   Journey into the Surreal

Chapter 9   Ears of Korn

Chapter 10   Sunday, Sunday

Chapter 11   Jealousy

Chapter 12   Main Event

About the Author

PREFACE

T hese autobiographical sketches were written for adult readers in order to render better understanding of what they might have forgotten or tried to forget when they themselves were children. These stories present insights into the imagery, thought patterns, and some machinations of the young mind. The concepts of gains and losses are explored by the puerile mind. Fears of uncertainty, constantly prevalent in the juvenile, can be a source of poor decision making in adult life. The child’s concepts of love are emphasized in these stories. There is a definite psychosexual manifestation in the mind’s eye at an early age that is rarely understood or respected by parents even though they themselves have experienced the same manifestations in their own youth.

Growing up in a very urban atmosphere during World War II, with the fears of the Holocaust at our doorsteps, was a frightening time. Children latched onto dreams of success but sometimes also failure as they gleaned attitudes from their parents and elders. At that time urban children, as in the New York City environs, grew up faster and were taught by many more wanted and unwanted stimuli at an earlier age than their rural counterparts. There was, I might add, a sense of confusion due to the rapid-fire stimulation in these environments. This added to the uncertainty in an urban child’s mind.

I have written this over a period of a few years, allowing my mind time to recall the emotions connected with each episode; the highs and the lows of childhood as a consequence of adults’ actions. It is written with the hope that the adult reader would take into consideration the effect that his or her actions, words, and mien have on a child’s life. It should not be treated lightly. The friendships that a child molds and his parents are his main sources of appropriate judgment and behavior. He learns how to be empathetic, sympathetic, and pragmatic in approaching life’s enigmas. This is emphasized in this book. As you read, try to compare it to today’s children, where there is a tendency to develop hatreds, form gangs, and care little for life; there is less processing of thought for the betterment of society and themselves.

CHAPTER 1

Torture

T he earliest recollection I have that is indicative of how unkind this world could be involved my dear aunt Edna. The youngest of my mother’s three sisters and ten or eleven years my senior, she was delegated to be my constant babysitter. My mother worked with my father, and my other two aunts worked as well. It was a tough time in the post-Depression years, and everyone had to contribute for the family to survive. My mother’s parents lived with us as well. It’s all very hazy; just little anecdotal memories come to mind. Many of these contributed to most of my phobias.

My grandfather owned a shoe store on Blake Avenue in Brooklyn. After she came home from school, Edna would take me to the store, where it was her job to stock the opened shoeboxes in their appropriate places. At the same time she had to make sure that I was all right. I was about three years old. Once she took care of the shoes, we were to walk back to our home on Alabama Avenue, a distance of about seven or eight blocks. My recollection of those walks fills me with feelings of utter exhaustion and bewilderment. For the entire distance my loving aunt Edna would twirl me around and around and around while holding my left hand 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 my balance, and then, with the cackling sound of a witch’s laugh, she would again begin to twist me around again and again while I bellowed sounds of pain and anger. Edna hated me, and this was her 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 assembly line in a factory in downtown Brooklyn. They worked there one day, telling everyone that their job involved packaging something, and she didn’t know what it was for. She and Pearly brought a couple of them home one day and showed them to Grandma. This is what you package, you nutty kids? she half shouted. Edna nodded, and Pearly did likewise and said, The boss likes us and promised to show us how they work someday soon.

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

Just then, Grandpa walked in. Grandma tried to talk but could not. Edna looked at him with a deeply puzzled look and shrugged her shoulders. She took the little packages from Pearly and tried to explain what they were doing in their new job, but before she could utter a word he slapped her so hard on the left side of her face that her head nearly came off her shoulders. He grabbed the packages from her hand and threw them in the garbage while the two girls stood there crying and surprised. Grandma was still trying to overcome her fits of laughter but generated enough strength to stand between Edna and Grandpa. In rapid-fire Yiddish he asked Edna if she knew what the little packets contained. She shook her head, and Pearly likewise shook hers rather violently, probably trying to avoid the pain of a possible slap in her face as well. None of this was good for me. I knew that no matter what the outcome, I would lose at the vengeful hands of my aunt Edna.

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

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

A few days after Edna’s sudden enlightenment of sexual methodology, she was at me again. This time we were at Grandpa’s store once more when Edna found a large corrugated box in which several pairs of shoes had been shipped to my grandfather. She emptied the box and put the shoes into their proper places on the shelves quite rapidly, looking forward to her next demonic scheme. Edna then took me into the back room with the box. She made believe we were going to play a game. I was hesitant and wary of her motives but went along slightly teary-eyed. She placed me into the box, and after cutting a few holes into the sides of the box, she taped it closed. It took only a few moments for me to realize that this 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 of this taped-up cardboard prison she had constructed. Each time that I tried to stand up and push on any side of the box it would roll over due to my weight. The more it rolled the more frightened I became. There was no help due to the fact that my grandfather had left the store on an errand, and no one but Edna, probably rubbing her hands together gleefully, heard my desperate cries. After a while I merely sat there screaming, becoming more and more petrified of the surrounding darkness. The small apertures cut into the sides of the box allowed laser-like streams of light to enter. But this was not at all comforting. After what seemed an eternity, my entombment came to an end when my aunt Rickey rescued me.

Edna was admonished, not that it did any good, and was told to take me back home immediately. Once more I was twirled on our way back to our house. No one could understand why I cried whenever I was left alone with Edna. She always managed to have the appearance of a concerned, loving aunt. At the age of three years it was difficult trying to tell my mother that I was being victimized by my aunt. Rickey wouldn’t dare tell anyone, realizing that both my father and grandfather would tear Edna apart. I’m sure that these episodes were the seeds of my claustrophobia as well as fear of the darkness.

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

I can’t remember its name, but he lasted only one week in my house.