Turbulent Years

By Pat Onorato

Seventeen-year-old Jenia Cabresi stomped out of the Corner Caf into a late gray afternoon in downtown Los Angeles that slick November day in 1947; a day when billowy dark cumulus clouds hovered above the city, bringing an eerie dampness into every crevice of the metropolis. Drifting westward toward the blurred, thirsty Santa Monica mountains, the pending storm promised relief for the withering plants and fading foliage. The unusual appearance of the Los Angeles winter season begged for the moisture that was about to embrace every living thing in its path. A row of bright headlights splashed cautiously down Broadway in the approaching dusk, accompanied by honking horns emitting different pitch tones, transit buses puffing out black exhaust fumes, delivery trucks and merchant hand carts pushed by men scurrying in and out of side alleys running for shelter.

Ill show him. Ill show him. That sonuvabitch Jew Swartz. Jenia cried. Hes got it coming. Yelling at me again in front of all my customers in the middle of lunch hour. Who the hell does he think he is, anyway?

Slivers of rain rushed down her face beside her tears of despair, Mama, where are you when I need you? she silently implored.

Then her thoughts switched abruptly to the slums of the East Bronx, New York, in the late 1930s and 1940s where her mother, Tina, lived with her boyfriend, Sal, who tormented, beat, and abused Jenia and her sister, Dorothy, for more than 12 years. Rarely a day went by in their young lives that he didnt find a reason to whip them with his belt or punish them in one sadistic way or another. She remembered how she and her East Bronx girls gang would snuggle up in the corner of the junkyard, light a cigarette, and pass it around for each to inhale profusely. The street kids made solemn oaths to keep shared secrets to themselves. Jenia once told them about Sal catching the mouse in his wire box trap, holding two live electric wires to the metal box while making the girls watch the tiny mouse squirm, squeak, and go belly up. Sal just laughed. The girls screamed in horror.

She tried to shake thoughts of Sals cruelties out of her mind by recalling the events that had sparked her off earlier in the day. Overhead, a ferocious looking black cloud appeared to be descending. Perfect, she thought sardonically, marching onward as the cloud erupted above her with a roar that nearly jerked her off the ground, Goddam. Damn!

A couple of nuns scooted past her. Jenia lowered her head to avoid eye contact. She wanted to be a nun when she was in her early teens. She attended confession every Saturday with Dorothy and mass every Sunday. She loved church and God. It seemed to be the one retreat where she was free of the turmoil and anger around her; but time has taken its token.

Glancing at the dignified sisters, she made the sign of the cross, whispering, In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost, amen God forgive me but that Jew guy is driving me crazy.

The nuns, dressed in full habit, kept their heads bowed and sheltered under a black umbrella without noticing Jenia. Thank God they didnt hear me, she whispered, For sure I would have had to say 1000 Hail Marys and 1000 Our Fathers!

To the east, in the heart of the business garment district, torrents of hail furiously bounced off the windshields of crawling cars. Shining through the darkness, illuminating the hustle and the bustle of the days end, a bright slit of sun squeezed its way across the tall, vertical gray city buildings. It cast lively silhouettes framed by a half-moon rainbow, stretching its circle-like- aura over the cement slab horizon. While clouds roared angrily above, releasing torrents of wet hail on the glass-like sidewalks, people darted like little ants in and out of doorways trying to shield themselves from the sting of relentless pellets, holding umbrell

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jan 8, 2004
• ISBN: 9781477162446

Pat Onorato

Pat Onorato makes her fictional writing debut with “Turbulent Years.” Recognized by Sigma Delta Chi as Outstanding Journalism Alumnus Woman of the Year, she spent four decades editing, publishing newspapers, magazines, and writing her popular tongue-in-cheek satire column, “Off the Record by Pato.” She now lives in California.

Book preview

TURBULENT

YEARS

__________________________

A Gripping Story, Powerfully

Told, Entertaining

Pat Onorato

Copyright © 2003 by Pat Onorato.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any

form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording,

or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing

from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the

product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to

any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

To order additional copies of this book, contact:

Xlibris Corporation

1-888-795-4274

www.Xlibris.com

[e-mail]

21238

CONTENTS

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

1

JENIA, 1947

2

ANNA & TINA, 1945

3

ANNA’S BACKGROUND, 1946

4

BACK TO THE BRONX, 1900

5

AN ULTIMATUM, 1947

6

NATIONAL UNREST 1945

7

GREEK RESTAURANT 1945

8

POLYTECHNIC ADULT SCHOOL, 1947

9

THE INTERIM, 1947

10

CLASSES, 1948

11

THE BEGINNING, 1948

12

MISS SMITH, 1948

13

SOCIALIZING, 1948

14

THE POLY OWL, 1949

15

ANDREW, 1949

16

JAKE & MYRTIS, 1949

17

THE KOREAN CRISIS

18

THE SPEAKER, 1950

19

COMMUNIST SCARE/ McCarthy.1950

20

RACING AGAINST TIME, 1950

21

GRADUATION PRACTICE, 1950

22

A DAY REMEMBERED, 1950

EPILOGUE

To Darian

My inspiration, my confidante

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

My loving thanks to Darian, my 88-year-old lifetime partner and best friend, who first suggested I try my hand at fiction writing with a story about my teenage years with mentor, Anna. Without Darian’s enthusiastic hard work toward the completion of Turbulent Years, her sleepless nights sitting up with me, her tireless patience, and her encouragement, this book (originally written in 1961)would never have been published. Thank you Anton Diether for reviewing the mss and offering your criticism.

PICTURE CREDITS

1 ) Portrait: Portrait of Pat Onorato by Nina Davis

2) Painting: Whittier Street by D.J. Onorato

I expect to pass through this world but once. Any good, therefore, that I can do for any fellow being, let me do it now. Let me not defer it nor neglect it. For I shall not pass this way again. … . Anonymous

1

JENIA, 1947

Seventeen-year-old Jenia Cabresi stomped out of the Corner Cafe into a late gray afternoon in downtown Los Angeles that slick November day in 1947; a day when billowy dark cumulus clouds hovered above the city, bringing an eerie dampness into every crevice of the metropolis. Drifting westward toward the blurred, thirsty Santa Monica mountains, the pending storm promised relief for the withering plants and fading foliage. The unusual appearance of the Los Angeles winter season begged for the moisture that was about to embrace every living thing in its path. A row of bright headlights splashed cautiously down Broadway in the approaching dusk, accompanied by honking horns emitting different pitch tones, transit buses puffing out black exhaust fumes, delivery trucks and merchant hand carts pushed by men scurrying in and out of side alleys running for shelter.

I’ll show him. I’ll show him. That sonuvabitch Jew Swartz. Jenia cried. He’s got it coming. Yelling at me again in front of all my customers in the middle of lunch hour. Who the hell does he think he is, anyway?

Slivers of rain rushed down her face beside her tears of despair, Mama, where are you when I need you? she silently implored.

Then her thoughts switched abruptly to the slums of the East Bronx, New York, in the late 1930’s and 1940’s where her mother, Tina, lived with her boyfriend, Sal, who tormented, beat, and abused Jenia and her sister, Dorothy, for more than 12 years. Rarely a day went by in their young lives that he didn’t find a reason to whip them with his belt or punish them in one sadistic way or another. She remembered how she and her East Bronx girl’s gang would snuggle up in the corner of the junkyard, light a cigarette, and pass it around for each to inhale profusely. The street kids made solemn oaths to keep shared secrets to themselves. Jenia once told them about Sal catching the mouse in his wire box trap, holding two live electric wires to the metal box while making the girls watch the tiny mouse squirm, squeak, and go belly up. Sal just laughed. The girls screamed in horror.

She tried to shake thoughts of Sal’s cruelties out of her mind by recalling the events that had sparked her off earlier in the day. Overhead, a ferocious looking black cloud appeared to be descending. Perfect, she thought sardonically, marching onward as the cloud erupted above her with a roar that nearly jerked her off the ground, Goddam. Damn!

A couple of nuns scooted past her. Jenia lowered her head to avoid eye contact. She wanted to be a nun when she was in her early teens. She attended confession every Saturday with Dorothy and mass every Sunday. She loved church and God. It seemed to be the one retreat where she was free of the turmoil and anger around her; but time has taken its token.

Glancing at the dignified sisters, she made the sign of the cross, whispering, In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost, amen … God forgive me but that Jew guy is driving me crazy.

The nuns, dressed in full habit, kept their heads bowed and sheltered under a black umbrella without noticing Jenia. Thank God they didn’t hear me, she whispered, For sure I would have had to say 1000 Hail Marys and 1000 Our Fathers!

To the east, in the heart of the business garment district, torrents of hail furiously bounced off the windshields of crawling cars. Shining through the darkness, illuminating the hustle and the bustle of the day’s end, a bright slit of sun squeezed its way across the tall, vertical gray city buildings. It cast lively silhouettes framed by a half-moon rainbow, stretching its circle-like-aura over the cement slab horizon. While clouds roared angrily above, releasing torrents of wet hail on the glass-like sidewalks, people darted like little ants in and out of doorways trying to shield themselves from the sting of relentless pellets, holding umbrellas or crumpled newspapers over their heads. The work traffic began to line up bumper to bumper as the teenager scuffed defiantly through the splashing bubbling puddles. People brushed past her, disappearing into alcoves and buildings.

Fuck them! The bastards! she sobbed, shoving the scurrying figures away from her. I wish I was dead, goddam dead!

A cigarette stub, barely lit, sagged between her fingers. The other fisted hand lay rolled in the pocket of her fading navy pea-coat with two missing buttons near the neckline. Her flimsy water drenched satin skirt clung to her thighs reminding her of the many nights she lay sleeping in her own urine, wetting the bed until she was almost 13. The rainwater squished through her open-toe shoes. Deliberately, Jenia slid her foot across the raging water, splashing it up her bare legs. A car skidded around the corner spraying her as she stepped off the curb. Shit! What next?

Goddam. Damn! Just as she turned on Spring Street a trolley car stopped. She never took the trolley but this time Jenia thought about it for a moment, then raised a newspaper above her head and scooted past the transit car without breaking the pounding rhythm of her pace, the clicking of her cleats as they snapped against the crystal pavement.

Jenia’s head pounded with the fury of her thoughts. He did it again, the asshole did it again … and at a noon hour when the Corner Café was jam-packed with people standing, waiting. He didn’t have to call me a slob, she ranted, who the hell does he think he is … the fat pig … that Swartz, damned Jew. I always did hate Jews. Thinks he’s God or somebody. I’ll show that bastard. I’ll show him. He’s always yelling around, walking with that wet stinking ugly cigar stub hanging out of his fat lips.

Son of a bitch! That’s what he is, she ranted on in her dialogue with herself. So is his son … A fairy mama’s boy busting in our argument cuz his papa was there to protect him … he sure got brave all of a sudden. What nerve saying I always mix the orders up … Goddam it! I always get my orders right!

He’s the one who screws them up. They getcha working like a fucking nigga even when it ain’t busy; it’s fill the juices, scrub the shelves, fill the sugars, scour the tables … shit! I’m tired, fed up."

Jenia became aware of her heels clicking again … just like her mama’s used to. As a child, hanging on to her mother’s skirt, she’d look up at her, listening attentively to the clicking. Even now she could hear her Mama Santina’s New York accent as she kept repeating … like a broken record, If ya step on the lines in the cement ya break all the devil’s dishes. Jenia carefully balanced herself on the cement lines as though walking a tightrope, Damn Devil, Damn! I’ll break every one of his fuckin’ dishes!

A flash of lightning bolted through the sky, brightly illuminating the darkened city for a moment. A cloud burst caused her to cringe. Hail, the size of pellets, whipped at her face and clothing. She flipped the cigarette butt into a street puddle and watched it sail alongside the curb down the street. Wringing wet, sniffling, and pulling her sticky skirt from her thighs, she glanced up to see the Angel’s Flight dual-trams, one chugging its way up the incline to Bunker Hill and the other creeping down the steep grade back to Temple and Hill Streets, where the Cafe stood.

Jenia’s thoughts shifted to the day she and Anna rode the Flight for what seemed like a thousand times singing Judy Garland’s Ding, Ding! Ding! Went the Trolley; then they switched to different folk songs each time they rode up and down the bumpy tracks, Go tell Aunt Rhode, Go tell Aunt. … Jenia breathed hard and deep; relaxed for a moment, then leaned to the left crushing her foot on the pavement seam to perform her ritual with the devil.

She recalled the fun it was to be with Anna when the two of them skipped over to Broadway for lunch at Clifton’s Cafeteria, where the organ played continuously; the sounds of water trickling off the man-made cave-like cliffs inside the restaurant, the music and all. Anna loved the soothing lights and sound of music inside the tourist attraction.

Man, that’s really something, Jenia said of the little private room one could step into, just like a confessional booth in the Catholic Church, with dim lighting and soft music. Makes you feel like you’re all dressed up kneeling at the altar getting the Holy Sacrament, she told Anna one day.

Crossing Alvarado Street, Jenia passed through a brilliant strip of sun that lit the dark skies for a moment.

Swartz! That fuckin’ Jew, her thoughts continued. Who the hell does he think he is … Get that counter wiped clean right now, he had yelled to her at lunch hour, across a room full of customers. A heavy maze of clouds lingered above her head like a black cloak of death waiting in limbo for her. Go ahead, dump on me, you son of a bitch, everyone else does, she fumed.

Just because he owns the place … he’s always dumping on me … you might as well too. It’s always something to do … not a moment’s rest … sweep the floors, spark up the pie cases, empty the refrigerator … mop the floors … shine the silverware. Jesus Christ, he never shuts his fat ugly pig mouth.

Pushing into a doorway, packed with people who were shielding themselves from the rain, she snapped loud enough to be heard, A perfect day, just goddam perfect! Some rain dodgers smiled, others turned away quickly slipping out into the puddles.

Again, her cleats hammered away at the ground; the ones Kenny the shoemaker nailed on yesterday saying, Now you be careful there young lady, these things are slippery.

He must be a goddam psychic or something, she thought. Guess he knew what he was yapping about, she reasoned as the cleat took a slide, throwing her off balance. Damn! Fuckin cleats!

It wouldn’t have been so bad if he would of just waited until lunch hour was over … yelling at me in front of all my customers … the fat pig … that damned Swartz … he ain’t nothing but a friggin runt Jew!

A frantic shove sent Jenia reeling around to face a short stocky man wearing thick horn-rimmed glasses and carrying a broken umbrella. Instinctively, Jenia threw up her arms as he quickly ducked into the alley, Afongul! she yelled smashing her right hand into her left biceps, Afongul! Fuck you!"

The haunting sounds of her mother’s cleats grew louder and louder … the fighting and screaming sessions with her mother rang through her head … Devil. Damn Devil, she cried.

Up ahead loomed the quaint adobe apartment building where she shared a flat with Anna, an artist 10 years her senior. It glistened as though adorned in a halo and studded with sequins, seeming to rejoice as streaks of filth drained down its walls. She thought, it’s about time God cleaned up this mess. The day Kilroy died, fer chrissake, that was the last time it rained in Los Angeles.

Now Jenia, did you change your underwear? You wouldn’t want to have an accident and let everybody know how dirty you are, would you? I don’t think God would like that, her mother use to warn Jenia every day of her life.

One would think God could keep his own house clean instead of worrying about me getting caught wearing dirty underwear, Jenia mused as she walked up the stairs. Groping her way through the unlighted alcove that lead to their two-room studio, she pushed at the antique oak door with her shoulders, forcing it open. Fuck the door, too, She sobbed as she knocked over the floor lamp upon entering.

Thoroughly disgusted with her job, her boss, the Café and the goddam devil, she cried out, Mama, damn you, damn you. Jenia and her mother, Mama Santina, known by friends as Tina, locked horns whenever they were together for more than five minutes; theirs was a constant battle, with her mother wielding iron-fist control over her.

Punching her, swearing at her, and most times falsely accusing her, You’re a butana. Do you hear me? A butana … A bum … I’m going to beat the shit out of you, you goddam stupid liar, bum! Tina’s suspicions grew worse as the years passed.

As Jenia grew older and reached her mid-teens she was already a strong 5’6" and looking every bit 22 years old with her bleached strawberry blonde hair, flashy clip-on earrings, high heels and wearing her mama’s dresses. She was a beauty, and Tina lived each day in fear of losing her grip on her. Jenia’s thoughts returned to the present.

Son of a bitch! Some day they’re gonna fix that friggin’ door. I’ve had enough … enough of being pushed around. Now I’m going to fight back. Ain’t nobody going to push me around no more. Not that fat pig Jew or his fairy son, not Anna’s asshole boyfriend, Lee, who’s always butting in when I’m with her. Not no one. Least of all not him, or that Swartz Jew … no more."

The small apartment she shared with Anna smelled damp, depressing. Jenia passed through another shady alcove leading to the living room, modestly furnished with a couch, some orange crates filled with Anna’s books, books thought to be left-wing in 1946.

Anna, an educated artist and political activist, followed her ambition to bring worldwide equality to America. She was a budding painter of oils. Some of her large impressionistic art dominated the small but cozy room, where a Murphy bed rested inconspicuously in one wall.

Snapping the third button off her peacoat, Jenia threw her purse and coat on the armchair, pulled down the Murphy bed and sat up on it for a second, face in hands she fell backwards, staring at the ceiling. Shifting her eyes around the room, wondering if she should draw the curtain to keep out the slim stream of annoying light that fell on her face, she found herself staring at the picture on the wall in front of her. Jenia’s attention focused more clearly than ever on Anna’s painting above the sofa, one she had seen many times but never gave it any thought until now. It was done in blues, grays, blacks and greens; it portrayed frail looking men, mouths drooped open in agony, with wide empty eyes, bare from the waist up. Their boney fingers, dripping in blood, clinging to barbed wire … Its’ caption, Gentiles Only.

2

ANNA & TINA, 1945

I’m telling you, Los Angeles is the cultural center of the country, it’s an artist’s Mecca. Come on, you will love it, Lillian’s high-pitched annoying voice echoed from the hallway phone. Lillian Smythe and Anna were roommates, while volunteer camp counselors, at Youth Forest Camp for retarded children in northern Seattle. Now a psychologist working for Family Services, Lillian enthusiastically hammered away at all the reasons why Anna would be very happy in Los Angeles. Always appearing sloppily comfortable, Lillian wore colorless loose tailored short sleeve blouses, beach shoes, and long dirndl skirts. She had bushy eyebrows and hair that bobbed with the wind.

Anna, carrying all her worldly possessions in hand; satchel, brushes, palette, and sketchbook under her arm, took Los Angeles by storm in 1945. One week later the artist was working in a wholesale jewelry office near Fifth and Spring streets. She found a one-room rental at the Blaine Street rooming house. It was within walking distance of downtown and everything she loved about the city. Her room was furnished with a twin bed, night stand, small table, chair, and washbowl. Anna shared the community bathroom with other one-room tenants. She could be seen mornings, in her multi-colored dirndl skirt, wearing a low-cut midriff peasant style blouse and bright bandanna, and carrying her straw satchel while making the four-mile trek to her downtown job. Since she loved to walk, most of the time she did.

Anna’s room butted against a larger apartment where Jenia and her family lived. The luscious smells of spaghetti sauce and other Italian delicacies slipped under Anna’s door, and, loving all kinds of international foods, she eventually found a way to befriend them. That opportunity came one evening when Anna returned from work. While in the hallway unlocking the door to her room Mama Santina brushed against her, losing her grip on a couple of bags of groceries that were about to drop to the ground.

Let me help you dearie, Anna said, reaching across Tina to grab one of the bags. That’s Okay, I got it! Santina responded as the bag fell from her arms into Anna’s hands.

Jenia, upon hearing her mother’s voice in the hallway, opened the door. She took the other bag from her mother, and glowering at Anna she snarled, Thanks.

Ignoring the 15 year old’s indifference, something she was accustomed to in her volunteer work with teens up north, Anna, grinning directly at Jenia said, Hello. I’m your next door neighbor.

Yeah! So, Hi.

Dorothy and Joe rushed to the door taking the bag from Anna. Looking at Santina, Anna asked, Are you the magnificent chef who sends all those tantalizing aromas through these weary halls, into my room and up my nostrils?

Tina chuckled, Just cooking fer my family.

Anna breathed deeply, Where did you ever learn to cook like that?

From my mama, a big Italian family, we had. This is my husband, Joe Lambriazo, my little, but oldest daughter, Dorothy Cabresi, and my youngest, Jenia Cabresi. I’m Santina … but everyone calls me Tina.

Anna, smiling, stepped forward acknowledging each of them, Anna Slavowklik here. Nice meeting you, neighbors. Well, I’ll let you get on with your evening. She spun around on one heel turning to enter her room.

Anna, Anna Slavowklik. Tina called. You would like to eat some lentils and pasta tonight with us, yes?

Anna did an abrupt about-face. I was wondering if you’d ever ask? Here, please let me help you to put the groceries away. Emptying the bag, Anna said, So, Tina, I figure you’re from New York? Right? She looked at Tina, Where do these canned tomatoes go?

In the cupboard above the sink.

Putting the tomatoes away, she asked, When did you come to Los Angeles?

We been here a few months. Joey’s having a hard time finding a job.

Anna stepped over to the sink placing the fruit bag in it, That’s too bad. What does he do?

He’s a painter. You know, a house painter. But lately he’s getting into painting businesses … you know, commercial … a new drug store chain, Thrifty Drug Stores, is opening here in Los Angeles. We’re hoping he gets the job painting all the stores. We’re praying … It helps that Jenia and me work over at Coffee Dan’s downtown … I cook, she waits tables. It ain’t much money but it pays the bills.

It wasn’t long before Anna and Tina became friends. Saturday mornings they took the bus downtown to go shopping at Grand Central Market for fresh vegetables and fruit. Sometimes they went to China Town, arm in arm, for lunch. This friendship soon made Anna a regular dinner guest at the family table, where the artist delighted in eating delicious homemade cooking.

You eat like a man, God bless you, Tina would say in her deep throaty voice, half-joking. Anna did eat like a man. She was a food connoisseur, loving every delectable moment of the eating experience. Weeks passed with Anna entering their flat, saying the same words. Knock. Knock. Are my Italian friends there?

Yeah, Anna Slavowklick, come on in, Tina would answer. I’m just making linguine. You have some with us, yes?"

Just let me drop my satchel in my room and wash my hands. I’m starving.

When Jenia’s family and Anna got home from work it was a regular ritual. Here Tina, something to let the sun shine upon your day’s end, Anna would say poetically, handing Tina a bunch of flowers she picked up at Grand Central Market.

Gowan. Don’t waste your money on that stuff. I know you like my food. I think you like all food, Anna. Right?

You’re such a good judge of character, she laughed.

Stop the bullshit Anna Slavowklik. Eat.

Anna sat at the table,