Nobody's Like Me: A Bronx Girl's Memoir

By Irene Abruzzese

Nobody's Like Me is a search for self, while simultaneously a tribute to women, family and the positive forces of love over generations. It exposes the raw emotions of a young girl, more spiritual than religious, who attempts to find her place in a world of non-Jews and within her own cultural group. Prejudice, isolation, ostracism, sexuality and lack of identity prevailed, as she moved from predominantly Irish neighborhoods in the Bronx, to her so-called own, safe haven of the Van Cortlandt, Amalgamated Housing area. The fire of this saga was further fueled by the awakenings of the fifties, the explosion of the sixties and her own tumultuous home.

Nobody's Like Me intimately and magically reveals common trials and tribulations unified by the significant people and events, influencing one's life. They are fated, should you believe, with a bit of the paranormal. Throughout the passages, a spider- like web emerges that entraps, enwraps and exposes the beauty in both life and death.

So embrace the cycle, peer through this window, travel beside those within and hopefully benefit through the journey together. YOU MAY JUST FIND A PIECE OF YOURSELF !

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Oct 13, 2014
• ISBN: 9781098321390

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All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

ISBN: 978-1-0983213-9-0

This book is dedicated to

Frieda, who planted the seeds for it all

Lillian and Robert who gave me life….

Bubba Fannie who survived for me……

Mildred, the ultimate nurturer….

Fran, the savior……

My children, Lyle, Carl & Derek

My dear friends,

My Husband Albert

for his enduring love and support

and

in memory

of all the guardian spirits in the

Greenspan/Lewine Families

who continue to sustain me.

PREFACE

Another child comes into this world, each with his or her own unique set of circumstances. Some are destined for greatness, others for ambiguity and some for suffering beyond our reasoning for birth at all. A myriad of life stories will never be known. Yet I am compelled to share one saga. A tale of a child whose life blossomed due to those not obligated. Memories whose recollection begets a powerful thread, like that of the spider.

Hopefully, these memoirs will serve as inspiration to others and provide strength, hope and spirituality within their lives. So a quote resounds throughout the contents, There is no ill wind that doesn’t blow some good. That is of course for those who survive. Some of us are fortunate to have been born into a better place than we think.

For the web that entraps, also enwraps; choose the paths wisely. If you are lucky enough to have any choice at all, heed the signs to escape entanglements and rise.

PROLOGUE

The evening before my birthday, I awoke driven to embark on our saga. The justification was simply the biological commencement of life outside the womb. The numbers on the calendar beckoned me, for still some fifty years later, Nobody’s Like Me.

We all yearn for belonging, identification, comfort of family, love. Now, this motherless child would focus on the women who sustained me; women whose combined journeys bore great lessons; time to recognize the men who shaped my life as well.

More and more, Aunt Frieda's hope and determination, in the face of fear and depression, resonated; "There is no ill wind that doesn’t blow some good. It became a life-long mantra that once opened a child's eyes to fathom the future. Her voice echoed the melodies of Some Enchanted Evening and Sweet Mystery of Life"; haunting lyrics to portend a mystical road laden with wonder and fear. The ‘dreidle, dreidich’, so life spins; words often uttered by my Aunt Mildred and Bubba Fannie.

I believe the blood, or souls of least three other young women, lived on within me; as well as some men. At least five souls powerfully drove me and who knew how many more. So we carry on for thousands of souls, to complete their purpose, with ours; all struggling with identity; trying to fit the preconceived notions of normalcy, feeling so strange and alone.

Travel along, as we may find each other.

Table of Contents

Dedication

Preface

Prologue

Chapter I. Endings & Beginnings

Seven Days ‘Til Summer

Chapter II. Moving On

Chapter III. My Little World

Chapter IV. The Closet Room

Chapter V. Fantasy Meets Reality

Chapter VI. Enter School

Chapter VII. Twilight Zone

Chapter VIII. Dueling Rocking Chairs

Chapter IX. Venturing Outside: Outer Limits

Chapter X. Hungarian Girl

Chapter XI. Roller Skate Queen

Chapter XII. Ride The Green Trolley

Chapter XIII. A Shattering Transition

Chapter XIV. The Matriarch

Chapter XV. Awakenings

Chapter XVI. Gangland

Chapter XVII. My Latin Moxie

Chapter XVIII. Days with Daddy & Sylvia

Chapter XIX. Beckoning Frontier

Chapter XX. That Doll Again

Chapter XXI. Wildflowers of the Green

Chapter XXII. Withering Wildflowers

Chapter XXIII. Embryonic Development

Chapter XXIV. Return to the Twilight Zone

Pondering

Chapter XXV. Just The First Trimester

Chapter XXVI. Plagues of the Mind

Then and Now

Chapter XXVII. Driving Forces

Chapter XXVIII. The Web’s Design

Chapter XXIX. Miracles Unfolded

Chapter XXX. Second Trimester

Chapter XXXI. Mother Again

Sestina

Chapter XXXII. The Whirlwind Years

Whirlwind (PartII.)

Chapter XXXIII. An End Cycle Commences

Chapter XXXIV. Reunions

Chapter XXXV. Validation

Dream I. The Power of Three

Chapter XXXVI. Malka

Chapter XXXVII. Portals to Passages

Chapter XXXVIII. Fran

Time for Frieda & I Again

Chapter XXXIX. Tarnished Years Made Aglow

Chapter XL. Keep Polishing the Tarnish

Chapter XLI. The Glow Ebbs and Flows

Dream 2. Once More

Chapter XLII. The Signs Strengthen

Chapter XLIII. Final Act

Chapter XLIV. Butterfly Eulogy

Chapter XLV. The Signs Continue

A Dream of Comfort

A Dream of Renewal: Cycle Complete

Epilogue

Chapter I. Endings and Beginnings

Fannie holds her head in her hands sobbing, not again. She survived the Russian Pogroms, came to America in 1903, pregnant, aboard ship to Ellis Island, and bore nine children over her seventy plus years. She also buried three young daughters over those years, and her husband Isidore, just two months ago. Now, almost fifty years later, her youngest daughter Lillian, who managed to make it through lifelong sickness, barely reaching thirty, also had death knocking. This time it’s bittersweet, as it came with a new life. A special grandchild named for Isidore. Over the next two years, a baby will briefly feel her mother’s touch. There will be few photos of mother and child. Those few provide a glimpse into a physical world, too soon to become metaphysical, or shall we say, touched in ways few comprehend. Then again, the lucky ones are those of you who will grasp the magic and hold it dear, as we did.

Please take her, Lillian cried. Bob is a good man, but must work and can’t care for her. Things are difficult enough. He can visit with her daily. At least we live in the same building. Hopefully, the hospital stays won’t be too often or too long. But they were, and soon Lillian knew she would have to leave her child forever; at least in this world.

There was no question about caring for this baby girl. Lillian’s sisters, Mildred and Frieda, and brother Harold, hadn’t married yet, and were still living with their mother Fannie; my Bubba, or grandma, as we say in Yiddish.. It was a Tennessee William’s, Glass Menagerie scenario. Siblings, in their forties, still at home with mom, not too uncommon in the nineteen fifties. All of these adult siblings struggled to work and contribute to the household, care of their elderly mother, and now this little one.

Suddenly, this helpless infant came into their lives completely. The kint or zeeskite, as the baby was fondly referred to, came into an extremely loving, quite interesting, but often volatile environment. To say the least, a whirlwind rocked this humble abode.

It is no wonder Lillian had to somehow oversee things, though facing her own serious illness. From her hospital bed, there was anguish beyond the physical suffering; a powerful yearning to be with her infant. No one truly knows what the heart and mind of a mother endures, until we become nurturers ourselves. No one knows what a parent is capable of. The usual morning arguments between Harold and Frieda must have begun. Maybe just the common battles as the siblings rushed out the door to get to work. Maybe it was a quiet afternoon while grandma snoozed in her chair; possibly a time during dinner.

The events cannot be pinpointed, nonetheless took place; before my mother, Lillian left this world, while she longed for her child from her hospital bed. The sound of a baby giggling resounds from the bedroom. Incredibly joyful shrills of a baby apparently being very entertained. Upon entering the room, the source of entertainment cannot be found. Yet the baby is perched upright, on a high armoire, as if someone had placed her there, holding her face to face in delightful play. Of course, there was no one in the room. No explanation for a baby that had not yet learned to crawl, to be found in this precarious, yet exhilarating position. She was immediately swept into Frieda’s arms, before falling off the ledge.

Numerous, unusual occurrences of the like, continued to take place until Lillian actually passed. This klana kint or little child, was often found in different places in the bedroom, other than where she had been placed in the crib. Someone carefully wrapped the baby in her blanket, placed her on one of the twin beds, and gazed upon this child; hugged her, kissed her, watched her sleep, playfully perched her all over the room; then silently left, never without the insurance of safety.

It was not something the family would openly discuss for many years to come. A bit of insanity already prevailed in this household. Such tales would add more fuel to the fire for the outside world; waiting to pounce on those needing protection; I was this klana kint, this infant child.

When finally Lillian was told there was no hope for recovery, she begged to be released from the hospital, to plan my second birthday party.

She was granted that last wish, bought her little girl a Mickey Mouse wristwatch, blew out the candles, hugged her two year old and returned to her hospital bed; or so I was told.

In the few weeks that followed, family gathered around. Lillian pleaded with her sister Mildred to marry her husband Bob. She felt the infant’s father and Mildred would make good parents after she passed. Lillian truly believed it would be best for all involved to encourage this, but fate would not allow.

On June 13th, 1954, Fannie’s youngest daughter Lillian died, left with the bittersweet care of her grandchild, amidst the rest of her grown children. She had lost her fourth daughter now, leaving five of her nine children and this precious infant girl; a child to protect and live for. The road was rocky but worth stumbling over. So my bubba and her children set my path, as my father mourned the loss of a four year marriage to the love of his life.

Seven Days "Til Summer

Spring is almost over,

And the birds start a summer song,

The air is fresh with the smell of flowers,

And the day is wonderfully long.

The birds and the bees are working,

And the sky is a deep billowy blue,

The sun is a scarlet fireball,

And the flowers are filled with dew.

Spring is a wonderful season

But it brings a first great sorrow,

When the death of my mother had come,

And love was only to borrow.

Seven days to summer,

When sickness came to rest,

My love for my aunts was great

And their embrace was my mother’s caress.

Irene Pearl (Age 11) 1963

Chapter II. Moving On

Frieda, the eldest of bubba Fannie’s two remaining daughters, decided to stay home and take over the mommy role. Well actually, there was much more to that decision.

Frieda had recently moved out in an attempt to make it on her own; an action most unmarried women, of that time, rarely did. She had struggled terribly at home, with the constant fighting over the male subservient, behavior expected of her. Her mother and sister Mildred were all too willing to accept their roles in the household, but Frieda was rebellious for her time, and also fought with her own internal demons. I learned she had a breakdown some time in her youth, with serious depression. Those days, I doubt proper diagnosis as manic-depression, or the bipolar disorder known of today. Exactly how much of it was truly the mental disorder or simply fighting for one’s rights, is another issue. Maybe it was the trauma of all the young deaths in the family. Maybe, being told to sit and watch her sister’s dead body at home, the few days waiting for the funeral. There were too often insufficient funds, for funeral arrangements. Unfortunately, Frieda bore the brunt of all sorts of situations, while mocked and ridiculed for her mental condition. Nonetheless, she tried to carry on, work and deal with life.

She was very close to her father Isidore and considered his favorite.. Yet, the world was different then and attitudes toward women were often harsh and demeaning; especially in an old-world European household. So, for a brief period, she decided to leave home, and seek another job, away from employment in the family business, and hopefully an escape from the web she felt entrapped in.

Then word came that her father was ill. Her mother Fanny, claimed he was heartbroken when Frieda left. Finally news came of her father’s heart-attack and death. Fanny blamed Frieda for it. She told her his heart just couldn’t take not having Frieda around at work or at home. What a terrible burden to bear.

Then there was her sister Lillian, pregnant, dealing with her father’s death, just two months before her child was born.

Frieda saw it as a time to return home, quit her job, and dedicate herself to this new child. Lillian had already become ill, shortly after childbirth. It was Frieda’s chance to come back home with justification, and to save face, despite all the other consequences still looming.

Yes her beloved papa was gone, and now there was Harold, a more powerful brother to deal with. He was now the new man of the house, in charge, and with much to contend with. Yes, he had his mental demons as well. Yet, I, that little child, was lucky to be so desired here, especially by Frieda and all the other women of this household. Even Harold had a soft spot for the daughter of his favorite little sister. All mourned her passing dearly.

So I was blessed with this home. With everyone working and Grandma Fanny aging, it was important for a loving family member to be there. Fortunately, with Mildred and Harold working the family business, this was possible for a while. A while, turned into five years that Frieda was able to remain home. Two years had already been spent, caring for me as an infant, between hospital visits to see her sister Lillian, before she passed. It was part time care then, but becoming more and more consuming as the situation worsened. After my mother Lillian died, her husband Bob continued to work at the family business, but then was encouraged to seek other employment. There just wasn’t enough to go around. The family was already paying all the hospital and funeral bills. He had indeed asked Mildred to marry him, but she just couldn’t do it, despite her sister’s dying wish.

Two years later, Bob met Sylvia and they married. He said he just was too lonely and needed someone again. The choice was by no means any benefit to me.

Now only four, I could recall hearing daddy was on his honeymoon and couldn’t be seen for a while. When he returned, I was told not to bother him, but was too curious to comply. I couldn’t wait to see my dad, ever, and when I did get to see him, I would hide his coat so he couldn’t leave. So this persistent child climbed up on a chair, that I’d pushed to the door, unlocked and ran downstairs to ring his doorbell. Frieda quickly followed and told me that daddy just wasn’t ready to visit with his little girl yet. Life with his new wife was established right then and there; the stage was set for much to come.

Decisions had to be made shortly about schooling. Since there was never any intention for me to live with my father and Sylvia, a move to a better neighborhood was planned. My father agreed and knew it was best, saying he would move close by shortly thereafter. Both families had been living in the same apartment building all those years. Now everything was about to drastically change. The days with Dad, being strolled in the carriage through Crotona Park, would soon be over.

The little play sessions with my father, for all to see, would soon be a faint memory. Everyone here who knew the family situation would no longer be available to confirm its truth. The local butcher would no longer ask how Lillian’s little girl was. The grocer would no longer send his regards, and inquire about the shana madela, that grandma always talked about.

The new neighborhood crowd would soon become the next passage of life to deal with. The true stories of my existence would soon be challenged, scoured at and downright denied. They were exchanged for dirty, sordid, skeleton closet tales, soon coupled with outright prejudice. A dual prejudice awaited this little Jewish girl, who just moved uptown, with this odd family.

I would face being an oddity to both, my own kind, as well as those who truly considered me an outcast.

Chapter III. My Little World

A three family house on 196th street, owned by the Goodmans’, soon became home for our little clan: Fannie, Mildred, Frieda, Harold, and of course, the kint, me. Just who did I really belong to and where did I actually come from? That was the neighborhood buzz for the next seven years and really for most of life until college. We had the upstairs apartment; two extremely steep flights up; a staircase that held many, nightmare backdrops for me. This was a somewhat, middle class neighborhood, in the Bronx. PS 46 was just up the block, on one side of the street, and Our Lady of Refuge on the other. Midway was a play-street that truly became middle ground for expression. Tales of the Irish friends, trials and tribulations from the Jewish contingent as well; I soon came to understand the cruelty of all kinds, young and old.

The same ethnic background or not, just didn’t matter to me. I was the most different, there was no one like me; a badge I hated to carry, but soon learned to accept and deal with.

Inside the walls of this unusual family, things were indeed different, but not as those without suspected. By today’s standards, the definition of family allows for many formats beyond the so-called status quo, or norm. It was the days of Donna Reed and Father Knows Best. There was little awareness then, to divorced family units, or my little world was unique, and somehow, deemed unacceptable, without any confirmation of or those of same sex parents. There was only the simple, but constant whispers, concerning the abnormality of my family unit, and the child’s illegitimacy. For my little world was unique, and somehow, deemed unacceptable, without the aforementioned labels.

Despite this, there was ignorant bliss; as I remained a happy, totally unaware child until entering school. There the notions of that outside world peered down, piercing my heart and soul. Just before starting school, my father and Sylvia moved closer to me as promised; not as close as being in the same building, block or even walking distance. Still he could visit easily and was only about twenty minutes away. I recall my fifth birthday party being held at their apartment. It was when I met all of Sylvia’s family for the first time and the only time Sylvia made an attempt to be motherly in some way. Alas, it was all just for show. I can’t remember what happened that night, after everyone left; I only know I never wanted to sleep there again, and never did. Sylvia established my first real sense of distrust and disingenuousness. It made a lasting impression of exactly where I didn’t belong. Little did I know her true disdain for me until years later.

It was hard enough being an only child, especially growing up in a house full of forty year olds and Grandma; with aunts and an uncle, still unmarried, and living at home with their mother. Yet these women gave me a true sense of belonging; they made me feel wanted despite that other scenario. Ah, but dear Grandma, bubba. How she loved and struggled to care for me. She entertained me and desperately tried to hold on, until I was old enough to take care of myself. Doctors say bubba was just as sick on the day my mother died, and lived another ten years on sheer will; the will to see her youngest grandchild survive. Communication was difficult between us but love does conquer. Although all of Fannie’s sentences were broken English, Yiddish and a bit of Polish, we did just fine together.

In Fannie’s attempts to deal with her remaining two older children, many Yiddish tirades ensued, teaching me the language by default. It was easy to learn this secret language, filled with powerfully, emotional superlatives. I would hold it dear the rest of my life. Yet times with my bubba were not sufficient.

Although I enjoyed playing, ein n svansik with her, better known as the card game 21, or Black Jack, a youngster needs playtime with children her own age. But grandma so dreaded allowing me to leave the house for anything.

She hadn’t left the house herself, for anything, for years now. She had many fears and desperately feared for my young life constantly, especially when out of sight.

After all, this little one was the last vestige of Lillian, her youngest child, whose soul she cherished within. She treasured me so that before that move from the old neighborhood, she begged to take one special photo with me. That trip to the local photo studio I believe was her last venture outside. But there’s just so much playtime with grandma, or so much imagination a youngster can utilize, without seeking some real friends.

For a time, one safe haven was available within the walls of our apartment; and one special room filled with nothing but wardrobe closets. It could have been a separate bedroom for one of us, but alas, strange setups were established here; and roles made abundantly clear.

Tantas Mildred and Frieda shared a bedroom with me, in an area that should have been the living room and parlor. They were indeed my dear tantas, or aunts, but I always called them by name. Mom was a word held sacred and they kept my mother’s name and status revered. They made sure there was no confusion about their role and honored their sister’s memory as my mother. It was embedded in me from the start that mommy was watching over me in heaven;

I always shared that living room area with Mildred. Just behind it was the sun-parlor room; a small area filled with paned glass walls where Frieda slept; probably just an enclosed terrace. Essentially, we all slept together, with Frieda and Mildred both guarding over me. The three of us had to stick together.

Grandma and Harold, my uncle and her youngest son, each had their own room on the other side of the apartment. Between the sleeping areas was the kitchen, living room, bathroom and entry staircase. Beautiful glass-paneled doors separated our sleeping quarters from the living room area. Doors that would serve as a portend to something bizarre in the near future; doors that filtered light but barely provided privacy or any real sense of shelter from fear. Fear of the great ogre, Harold; whose temper often left us all shaking in our boots.

Harold, or heshy as he was called at home, was a man both loved and feared; a mother’s son, a brother and an uncle; sometimes standing in as a surrogate dad, but only in my mind; reality was quite a contrast. Nonetheless, this man was a larger than life, headmaster of the household.

Indeed, someplace in the house was needed as a retreat. It would be a shelter, into the fantasy world of play, before venturing out into the other, outside world of the neighborhood crowd. The gift of this sense of sanctuary is owed to Frieda. She created this wonderful ability to feel safe through imagination. She provided strength, courage and overall the ability to dream and fight for personal freedom and respect. Frieda was the hand that guided me while she battled her own demons, within, and without. So we both sought shelter through the door of the closet room, together. Tinkerbell, and the kitten in the closet room, soon wouldn’t be enough, although it remained a safe retreat for many years.

Chapter IV. The Closet Room

The sanctuary was a long, narrow room, with one window at the end, filtering in the light between the dusty Venetian blinds. All sounds were muffled in this magic place. The dense clothing wardrobes packed with all sorts of random objects, made an almost airtight, vacuum-sealed environment. I dared not open those wardrobe doors, for fear of what might fall out, even if some were slightly ajar. Anyway, most were kept locked with tiny, metal skeleton keys. Towering rows of faux mahogany, wardrobe closets seemed to touch the ceiling and create a small passageway to move between. Amidst what seemed to be an endless tunnel, lived Tinkerbell. That little pixie with the fairy wand from Peter Pan, who made everything calm and beautiful, no matter what went on outside. The light danced from the walls, to the wardrobes and across the ceiling. As a child, I delighted in the tales Frieda spun, enabling me to weave my own. Go watch Tinkerbell dance now. Don’t pay attention to the nonsense out there. Close the door for a while and see how Fluffy tries to catch Tinkerbell. Fluffy the kitten often joined in the amusement of this magic fortress, playing with the dancing light and basking in the warmth of a little girl’s total love and affection. We comforted each other; or should we say, all who entered were comforted.

All of us need a place for the mind to wander and escape. The constant screaming, ranting and raving disappeared within these walls; we could run away without really doing so; .a blessing in disguise. It’s funny how light transforms reality; how we conjure up so much with eyes closed. We can all learn to use its magic. Still, really didn’t seem to need to venture alone, outside the closet room, the apartment, or the safety of my own home environment, crazy as it was, until the fourth grade.

Chapter V. Fantasy Meets Reality

Childhood fears are often buried in the shadows and stored in the deep recesses of our own minds. We push down the harsher memories. Some of us fortunate in the ability to retrieve the sweeter ones when needed. Some of us were even luckier to have guidance; someone to help us get to those warm places, amidst coming to terms with reality. Frieda was that special guide for me.

They say the most formative years are from birth through age five. Those were the years my time was spent with Frieda. Let’s go to the park today. We’re so lucky, we have two to pick from, St. James and Poe Park. Oh yes, it was hard to choose, as one had swings and monkey bars and more children; the other, one of awe, with Edgar Allen Poe’s Cottage, his actual home. Talk about fantasy meets reality; an author’s real place of residence; another dreamer’s world. In the center of that