It Began in Brooklyn

By Vito Altavilla

'It Began in Brooklyn' started out after some of the guys that I hang out with after church service suggested I start writing down some of my stories that would come out during our weekly get-together. One thing led to another and before I knew it, I was in the process of chronicling some of the more humorous episodes of my life. Turns out I've lived through a lot of funny things. And a big part of it leads back to where I was born.

Brooklyn, New York, was a really special place back in the 40's, and I never realized, until much later in life, that the values and strengths that have served me so well over the years were built, not just by the dynamic present in my own family, but, by the community as a whole. At age 17, I was in such a hurry to leave it that I joined the Navy, and you know what they say about how you can leave home, but home never leaves you? Well thank goodness it's true.

The recollection of my experiences with catholic school, military service, childhood friendships, my career path, family traditions, and the joy of community, are uniquely mine, but somehow there is a universality to the imprint of these moments, and like the petals of a flower, they layer together to make something that is truly interesting to look at, no matter how imperfect some of these petals really are.

I hope you enjoy reading it.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Jun 22, 2020
• ISBN: 9781098319625

Book preview

Epilogue

Chapter 1

DAD’S TIME

I WOULD BE REMISS IF I didn’t tell you a story that my Uncle Joe told me about my father’s name, how it changed my Dad’s life and actually impacted mine.

The tradition in Italian families was that the first-born son should always be named after the father’s father, as a sign of respect. Consequently, my father’s first name was Crucifiasco, shortened in America to Cruci (pronounced crew-chee). It was a very Italian name. Unfortunately, there were many Italian kids in his school, and they knew exactly what that name meant once translated. Dad’s first name in English was Crucifix. Yup—Crucifix Altavilla.

Kids being kids, word spread that there was someone in school named Crucifix. Of course, this led to much teasing; his name was like a magnet for kids who were looking to start something. The situation got intense and occasionally physical, and by the time he was in the eighth grade, the torment became a regular occurrence.

My uncle Joe was only in the second grade at the time, but even the kids in his class were talking about it. That date was April 28, 1928 (an easy date to remember, 4/28/28). Cruci, had been in a fight earlier that morning before class started. Of course, it was because of his name, and he was getting very fed up with it. At thirteen years old, he weighed about 125 pounds. He had brown eyes, a very white complexion, and dark straight black hair. He rarely smiled.

Cruci tiredly slid into his chair. His religion teacher, Mr. Pickler, had just taken attendance. It was the Easter season, and since Cruci had a name that personified the structure that Christ was nailed to, the teacher addressed him: Considering your name, Mr. Crucifix—he actually used the English translation—I thought you might give the class some insight as to where you think exactly Christ’s nail holes were.

Mr. Pickler had, unfortunately hit Cruci’s breaking point. Cruci responded, Mr. Pickler, I don’t think the nails went through the palms of his hands. I think his body weight would have torn his hands and he would have fallen. However, if you put the nail just above the wrist, which is a very strong area, I’m sure that would hold. Look, see where I’m pointing? If you come closer, I’ll show you where I think the strongest point is. Look—I bet I could still make a fist if a nail went through right… here…

When Mr. Pickler bent over to see exactly what Cruci was pointing to, my father made a fist. With adrenalin still coursing through him from his earlier fight, and now being taunted by his teacher, the frustration came to a head. How much of this nonsense was a thirteen-year-old boy going to have to take? Just as Mr. Pickler was examining his student’s hand more closely, Cru swung hard. Let’s just say that Mr. Pickler’s chin ran into Cruci’s fist, and as they say, it was ‘lights out’. The story goes that it took five minutes to revive him. Cruci stood and stared at Mr. Pickler’s unconscious body on the floor and then turned to the class.

He took a slow, deep bow and said, See ya!. Then he walked out of the class. He knew he was going to be expelled, but he just didn’t care. On the following day, the assistant principal visited Cruci’s home. It was not unusual for the assistant principal to visit a home when a student had been expelled because most of the parents at that time were primarily new immigrants, and, although many could speak English, very few could read it. Therefore, it was up to the school administrators—in this case Mr. Brown—to inform the parents that Cruci could no longer attend school because he had hit a teacher.

Cruci’s dad was a believer in corporal punishment, and Cruci’s time had come. Cruci’s dad had a cat-o’-nine-tails that had only six tails. It hung behind the bathroom door. I knew this to be true because I remember seeing it during a visit to my grandparents’ house when I was sixteen. Cruci’s dad’s cat-o’-six-tails was made with six strips of leather, each about a half inch wide and twelve inches long with a knot at one end. The other ends were tied to a handle. Each hit was the equal of six strokes.

When Cruci’s dad got the news of his expulsion from school, he was enraged. He summoned his son, and Cruci came. (You obeyed in those days. Good or bad, you obeyed.) Take off your shirt! Cruci did. Down on all fours! Cruci did. Then the old man started swinging that ‘cat’ over and over again.

Uncle Joe told me, shaking his head in disbelief, Your dad never made a sound—just got up as well as he could from crouching on his hands and knees. He couldn’t stand upright when it was over because of the overwhelming pain. He lived with that pain for many days before it subsided. The scars didn’t start to fade for several months.

Uncle Joe continued his story by saying that, after the beating, my dad never went back to school. Instead, he got up early, even before his dad, hopped on a bus, and went to work. There were plenty of jobs at that time. He worked with fish mongers, he loaded trucks, and he became familiar with New York’s garment industry where people could always get work. Most times, he would come home after everyone was asleep.

As Dad’s history continued, eventually peace came to the family. Cruci’s contribution to the family income definitely helped keep that peace. At nineteen years old, Cruci was five foot eight and weighed 165 pounds. He was also really fit. He was the kind of young man who was ready for anything except boredom, so out of curiosity, he decided to enroll in a nighttime clothing design course, hoping to find a less-strenuous job. On his first day at school, he got a seat behind a pretty red-headed girl. When the class started, he tapped her on the shoulder and asked if she had an extra pencil. She didn’t turn around; just reached over her shoulder and gave it to him. About a minute went by, he then asked her if she had an extra piece of paper. Without turning, she gave him a sheet. The night school classes were held three times a week, and at every class for the next three weeks, Dad would ask the girl for pencil and paper, and she would comply without turning around. Finally, at the end of the third week, she actually did turn around. I guess you want another pencil and a piece of paper?

No. I have all your pencils here, and your paper is folded in my back pocket. I kept asking you for them because I didn’t really know how to ask you for a date."

His comments made her laugh, and she told him, My name is Antoinette Bartolomeo. She shook his hand. Dad then told her his name, but he also told her that he was in the process of legally changing it to Albert.

The first two years of their marriage was consumed with work—Dad at the machine shop and Mom as a seamstress in the garment industry. The objective was to save enough money for a down payment for their own home.

Dad held several part-time jobs while he worked full time as an apprentice in a machine shop. He must have had some free time because Mom got pregnant in 1938, and I was born in 1939.

Two more years went by, and Dad had saved over $600, enough for a down payment for their first home. They just had to find the right place, and with the help of a real estate agent friend of Dad’s, they eventually found a house in Gerritsen Beach, Brooklyn, New York.

I sometimes wonder how different his life’s path would have been if he had been given a different name and had never taken that design class.

Chapter 2

SEA SHORE IN THE CITY

MY STORY BEGINS IN 1941 when my family moved from a two-bedroom apartment in Bensonhurst, Brooklyn, New York, to 90 Astor Court, Gerritsen Beach, Brooklyn, a secluded peninsula in South Brooklyn and best described as a boating and fishing enclave east of Sheepshead Bay. The peninsula is separated into two sections by the Shell Bank Canal. When the area was first developed, it was referred to as the ‘Seashore in the City’ due to the fact that it was only thirteen miles from bustling downtown Manhattan.

The neighborhood was comprised of small, sturdy homes mostly on forty-by-forty-foot lots. Many were factory produced (kit homes) and economically priced. The homes were small but comfortable, and the narrow streets fostered a friendly community atmosphere. However, many of the homes’ backyards abutted the canal and its numerous boat slips. There was a lot of boat activity, especially on the weekends. Homeowners, appreciative of the uniqueness of this location, were responsible for their own backyard fences, which were a necessity to protect the children. Many had chosen solid wooden styles. On the other hand, when you were on a boat looking at homes on the other side of a fence, you could only see the rooftops—which was a really unique sight.

    With the help of his real estate friend, Dad found our house in Gerritsen Beach. There was tremendous demand for housing during the war, and it increased afterward. Young men were working again, and many were starting families. With a deposit of $500 and a total mortgage of $2,000, my parents moved into their first home. It was square, like most of the others, with three rooms downstairs (kitchen, dining room, living room, plus a bathroom), and three bedrooms upstairs. There was a sub-basement suitable for storage only. Our street was like a small town; all the residents knew each other and what was happening. Although we didn’t know it at the time, the neighbors were really looking forward to us moving in.

We were told that the previous owners were troublemakers and very unfriendly. I guess it didn’t take much to get labeled. The house went up for sale not long after the husband died, and the widow had moved out to Long Island to live with her son. Even though everything was in disarray—worn-out carpets, worn-out linoleum, dirty walls and the like—we moved in. Dad took some time off from work to do repairs, and Mom cleaned what she could while taking care of me and my little brother, Joey, who was only two months old at the time. Gerritsen Beach was a special place with special people. Dad told me of the wonderful welcome he received from Mr. Mahoney, the lead spokesman for the community.

When the neighbors noticed how hard Mom and Dad were working, Mr. Mahoney, who was also our next-door neighbor, knocked on our door and introduced himself. Albert, you know you can’t possibly do all the house repairs yourself. Before Dad could say anything, Mr. Mahoney continued, First of all, you’re going to have a problem with your roof if you don’t do something very soon. As my father was about to say something, Mr. Mahoney went on, Don’t you worry about it. Johnny the roofer lives down the block and is willing to take care of it. He has lots of different shingles left over from previous jobs.

But the labor involved? My dad managed to blurt out before Mr. Mahoney continued.

You don’t charge your neighbor the cost for labor.

There was a break in the conversation, and then Dad said, I still have some carpentry and painting work that needs to be done, and I’m willing to pay.

Once again Mr. Mahoney continued as he slowly shook his head from side to side, Like I told you, forget about the labor. You’re in luck. Mickey the painter just finished a job and has a fair amount of paint left—an outdoor off white and a couple of gallons of a neutral base, and he’s sure he has enough to finish your job.

This time my dad decided to wait before he tried to speak because, by now, he was dumbfounded by all this generosity being offered. But as he was about to speak, Mr. Mahoney said, I was just thinking, I’ll ask Jimmy the electrician and Bruce the plumber to stop by to check out the rest of the house for you tomorrow morning, since it’s Saturday. If anything needs to be repaired, consider it done. And by the way, welcome to our neighborhood!

Our house was a beehive of activity for the next two weeks. Mom appreciatively served the guys coffee and her favorite munchies daily. All repairs were made efficiently. What an incredible warm welcome for our young family! We lived there for ten years.

We never had a problem with our roof or paint peeling outside. All the indoor walls had wonderful washable paint, the wiring was all up to code, and the toilets always worked. It was a very comforting feeling for my parents to have such a well-maintained home.

My mom had a good friend named Jean who had two children close to my age; they lived five blocks away from us. I was now seven years old, four feet tall, and had dark, coarse red hair and lots of freckles.

Jean had invited Mom to visit, and after a very busy week—Joey had