ANGELINA

A short sequel to my WWII memoir, ‘Sicilian Escapade’ requested by several readers.

On Wednesday, June 25th, 1947, a date that was to be a uniquely happy celebration with my meeting the steamship, that held my intended war bride, began with the best of intentions; but through circumstance became a morass of confusion as the morning progressed.  I had driven to Pier 89, on the Hudson, well before the expected time of debarkation and found myself together with a hundred or more fellow greeters well clear of the docking area behind restraining wood railings.

There wasn’t anyone more anxious than I in that crowd.  An official of the proceedings standing near me announced that the ship would dock in about an hour an a half, and that no one would be permitted in that area until customs inspection was completed. I believed my original fanciful plan was therefore torpedoed.

“I want to greet her as she comes down the gangplank, in Hollywood style” I explained to the official.  He smiled, and suggested I go downtown to the Customs House at the Battery and ask for a pass permitting him on the dock during disembarkation. “Sometimes newspaper photographers do that,” he said, “when some big shot or movie star is expected.”

I lost no time; jumped into my trusty rusty old Dodge (sanitized for the occasion) to the customs house.  I explained to the officials that I wanted to romantically embrace her as she came down the gangplank in a true theatrical manner.  “Please don’t turn me down.”  The laughed, gladly issued the pass and wished me luck.  Heavy traffic delayed me on the return to Pier 87.  To my surprise I learned that the ship had unexpectedly docked shortly after I left.  All the passengers were gone.

At the far end of the pier appeared a small seated figure sitting on her weather beaten valise; a forearm upright on one knee supporting her chin pensively in the open palm of her hand.  Her gaze seemed to focus far beyond the sunlit reflections coming off the Hudson River, in a reverie of serious thought. ‘Was her voyage from Italy in vain, a shattered dream, awakening to a heart-sick reality?’  It had happened to others.  My unplanned delay at the Customs House probably gave her good reason to believe so; and wondered if I had reneged on my long ago promise ‘I will not forget you’.

Her mind recalled the well-intentioned warnings of friends, in one ear, out the other.  ‘Forget your soldier.  It would never work, they warned her.  He has probably forgotten you by now.  You’ll marry a nice Italian boy and forget all about him.’  The questions were not new, but her resolve was sure and steadfast.

‘I could do everything you say, she admitted, avoid problems, stay put, marry here, and perhaps be happy . . . and perhaps not.’  Here she became assertive, ‘Do you think I have risked arrest, jail, and grinding travel conditions with no travel documents, having to scheme and lie to officials, to pay off with cigarettes and other goodies, and fighting off those who wanted more than goodies; all this to forget my Milton now, wherever he was sent?  Do you think I could forget what all that meant to us?’

Only her loveable old uncle Giuseppe, the successful, worldly-wise businessman in the family preached to her the advantages in America.  The beauty of life is what we learn from all the risks taken successfully or not.  You are young enough to take such chances; and if you really love that boy, don’t hesitate.  From what you tell me about him, he will be there to meet you.  He leaned forward.  ‘If not for this war and my age, I would have been in America years ago.’  His optimistic nature had always been a great lesson to her in her growing years. Angelina had set him apart from the others in affection and confidence.

She paused to relive the past. She recalled how they had survived in Lido Di Roma; Rome’s former beach playground of the rich and powerful, now the crumbling remains of the retreating German’s.  We had made the best of the sparsest living conditions found in deserted battle-scared houses, a quarter mile from our barracks.  The few civilians who were permitted to return were friendly and helpful to us in our barest of bare households.  Milton reciprocated with food, ‘leftovers’ from his friendly mess hall chef; who was a well appreciated Italian cook, by the men, considering the limited foods available.

All this raced through her mind as she tirelessly prayed for Milton to appear.

During the voyage she had felt God’s protection through an offering by a compassionate family.  The mother was aware of the dangers facing this lonely girl, “We hope you meet your future husband, but if you are not happy, gioia mia, you can always come to our house in Bensonhurst.  I don’t want you to worry, we will take care of you.”  Such outspoken fellowship between relative strangers was not uncommon when help was needed. 

I personally had such an experience while stationed in Sicily.  During one of my desultory wanderings I had lost my way, and stopped to ask a storekeeper for directions.  In Italian I thought he said, “Don’t worry.”  He gently ushered me out of the door, which he locked behind him and personally walked me to the address ten minutes away.  I have never forgotten his kindness, his face, or his good humor.  His memorable act stirs within me when the need for compassion calls.  In his memory I happily fulfill the call as a small repayment for a kindness once shown to me. 

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Back on the pier Angelina spied me racing toward her; a roving reporter who had been preparing to photograph her as a sad example of a lover’s broken promise, chased after her as she ran into my arms; bursting with tears of happiness.  Our kissing and hugging replaced the painful separation since last we parted in Siena, in North Italy over a year ago.  Our photographer was so overcome he kissed Angelina and shook my hand vigorously, snapped us, and wished us luck.  “I didn’t worry, I knew you would come,” she sobbed, blubbering with joy in her elation.  “Benedica lo zio Giuseppe.”  (God Bless Uncle Giuseppe). 

This happy ending didn’t lessen other concerns.  Angelina worried over meeting Milton’s family.  “Will they like me?”  She was scared and feared the possibility of rejection on religious grounds; but she was prepared to accept them as her own, if they were nearly as wonderful as her Milton.  Nothing else mattered; she wanted so badly to become part of the family.  She repeated over and over, “They will like me.”

At this point she could love everybody. A coming meeting would bring an end to the endless attempts of my family to break up what they believed was a passing fling.  At one time I threatened to go back to Italy and return with her should my parents remained opposed to her.  My father relented, not willing to risk my never returning.  I had inflexibly stood my ground, unaware of their hurt and their considering me as another kind of war casualty. 

The moment Angelina feared was close.  I had asked my parents to meet her alone when she arrived, without the rest of the family present.  I think my father was as nervous as Angelina.  As a builder he knew many Italians in his construction work, but never associated with them socially.  In those days Jews stuck with Jews and Italians with Italians and others with others.  Immigrants clung to each other, rarely socializing with others, fearing ridicule and knowing little of strangers’ traits; only the jokes about each other’s habits.  My mother recognized people for what they were, with no preconceived notions.  While I loved them both, she was my ideal lady. 

Before our arrival we stopped at the Enduro Café, an old hideaway of mine, just off the Brooklyn side of the Bridge; for her first taste of good American food.  The owner recognized me, and delivered a benediction in his native Italian for our happy future.  Angelina felt that she wasn’t so far from home. 

Later, I asked her to pick out a new pair of shoes and any other clothing she might like.  I was very anxious that she make a good impression.  I kept staring at her and pinching myself in disbelief of her actual live presence.  Though tired, she glowed with happiness and showed wonder at her good fortune, in her new surroundings. 

“We will be married as soon as possible.”  I promised her.  My Italian at this time was quite good.  I had spent the months before her arrival in intensive study. 

My old Dodge auto brought us safely to my Brooklyn home, on Linden Blvd. the door opened and the moment of truth was upon us.

My expressionless parents stiffly arose from their armchairs.  Angelina advanced to my mother first, and firmly planted the traditional family kiss on her cheek and then on my surprised father’s cheek.  Both recoiled slightly at the novelty.  I translated her welcoming words and explained the happy kissing custom.

“I am so happy to meet you, and hope you will like me.  Your son has told me much about you, and so you are not complete strangers.  I must thank you for your help in making my voyage possible.  You have been very kind, and understanding.  You have a wonderful son,” she added, smiling directly at me.

Eyeing her from top to bottom, my father was very impressed.  “Welcome my dear.”  Then quiet.  “She doesn’t look Italian,” he whispered to mother, hoping that his neighbors would be relieved.  I couldn’t help a rarely risked reproach to my father’s opinionated line of thinking. 

“Dad,” I said, “Angelina might think you’re not typically American, because of your Russian lineage.  At least I am glad she didn’t understand you.  It’s a new world.  We are all closer to each other than ever before.  Old taboos are out, I hope.”  Father didn’t flinch.

Angelina sensed some discord in our voices and hoped she was not the cause.  “Not at all, sweetheart,” Milton reassured her, regretting her concern.

Mother offered her some lunch. Angelina was happy to try.  I thought to myself, ‘my parents, themselves; fugitive immigrants years before, were no strangers to frightening circumstances; understood Angelina’s feelings of a lost ‘pied à terre’, her homeland, and did their best to make her feel at home.’

Later that afternoon my three brothers and their wives joined us.  Mother made hot dogs and sour kraut for a snack and they all got to know each other better with plenty of fun in my translating.  My three sister-in-laws made her arrival delightfully acceptable.  They asked many questions about her.

Angelina spoke a few English words that I had taught her.  She will attend night school and learn English easily. They must have wondered about our personal relationship in Italy.  Of course they never hinted or asked about it.  It was a period of severe propriety.  The 1940’s were a time of the strictest taboos against unmarried co-habitation.  It did thrive sub-rosa in certain precincts; the subject of many double entendre jokes.  Nobody asked embarrassing questions.  Any references to that subject were eliminated from the diary I kept during my time in Europe.

At the time all of this was taking place my oldest brother, Bernard and I were busily occupied operating an upstate construction project in Hancock, NY.

My rattle trap Dodge carried me home on weekends.  A Jewish Holiday caused a postponement of our wedding to July 31st, 1947, before a small group of well-wishers and family. I understood why my parents catered a small rather low key reception.  It never dampened our happiness or enthusiasm.

She was sparkling in her white wedding dress, and when she answered the Rabbi’s important question with a loud and proud ‘I DO,’ laughter rumbled through the seated guests.  Our week long honeymoon in New York City was spent in a whirlwind celebration at the best night clubs and at a fine hotel.  She loved the double-decker sightseeing buses and the new world of skyscrapers, new faces and the intensity of its teeming inhabitants.  We were ecstatic. 

Back at home again she studied English at our near by high school.  She was thoroughly imbued in the language because there were no Italian neighbors with whom she could speak her own native language.  She learned much from my mother’s conversation and Jewish cooking and loved our strong family traditions; similar to the Italian’s style. Angelina believed in God and empathized with our sad holidays and rejoiced in the happy ones.

Angelina was so content with our new life that as a sign of family unanimity she converted to the Jewish faith.  My parents accepted her as a true daughter in loving affection for this unselfish noble act. 

Our out-of-town building project was soon completed and I could now spend more time with Angelina.  That, of course, pleased us both.  The after war home market for returning veterans gave me and my brothers a wonderful opportunity to go into Long Island construction in a heavy way.   

Valley Stream, Long island, just outside of New York City, was our first successful project, not withstanding our concern about the increased travel expense for the daily commuter into Manhattan.  The old nickel subway ride will be missed.

We thank the Levitt Company for opening the floodgates to mass construction of inexpensive homes for returning veterans.  A group of us builders carried on in a like manner.  Angelina loved the new homes, so I took one for our own.  We never had any regrets. 

Angelina made quick fast friends with the neighboring ‘settlers’, as we clung to each other in confronting a new lifestyle.  Many of us took turns hosting weekly get-together chit chats.

Automobiles were suddenly a necessity; car sales soared. Supermarkets changed our shopping habits.  School busses were needed because of the longer distances to our schools.

In 1952 Angelina became homesick and flew alone to Italy for a happy reunion with her family.  They were so pleased with her good fortune and she had much to tell. 

“Why didn’t Milton come?” they asked. “He is very busy with work; but next time we will come together.”

Two weeks later she was home. She conformed to the female predatorial shopping instinct, and showed it with many new Italian items. Our new home was soon filled with china, small furniture pieces and porcelain objects; all of which fit precisely into her predetermined locations.

The next year we were in Mexico and bought lots of beautiful solid silver plate flatware, a Russian style somivar tea pot, and a castellated fringed chafing dish.   

The following year business was good, and I began to think about a new and larger home.  Angelina’s knack for design and color made the project more enjoyable and kept her busy. We spent several weekends with my oldest friend, Al Mozell, and his wife Bina, an accomplished singer.  Al had been a WWII motion picture cameraman in the US Signal Corp., and continued his love of cinematography thereafter.  I was a photo hound and was at home in my darkroom.  My father discouraged any thought of pursuing that hobby as a means to a livelihood.

Al and I had spent most of the previous decade together in a barely profitable teenage photofinishing business during and after my college days.  It was a wonderful practical learning experience, and further cemented our friendship. 

The war put an end to that.  The country needed our services for the next two to three years.

In Massapequa Park construction on our new home began in mid 1956 and was completed by December.  Angelina was in her prime, decorating and furnishing it.  Her English was now quite good and she mixed easily with all the neighbors.  Her decorating skills caught the attention of neighbors who conferred with her very often when they themselves redecorated.  However, we never forgot our old neighbors back in Valley Stream and visited them often.

Then along came baby Allan to round out our family.  Angelina and I were now happier than ever.  He stirred things up enough to make life exciting.  Our lives had reached a turning point. 

I could not help but pause to reflect on my life’s direction from the War to the present.  To say I was fortunate is really a serious understatement. I mentally relived the steps along the way. 

First, the safe crossing of the submarine infested Atlantic to Casablanca, in an unescorted Army transport ship.  Then a random strafing of our troop train as it slowly moved across North Africa to Tunis; not a single casualty.  Our arrival by plane in Catania, Sicily, was relatively safe. 

I was assigned to an interesting statistical and intelligence section as a draftsman, handling classified plans and documents.  I was thrilled with the work and the hobnobbing with Colonels and Generals. 

So far . . . not a scratch, except for a case of skin scabies, a terribly itchy rash.  Then, my most fortunate event of all; my chance meeting Angelina and family at the Bellini Opera House, in Catania, that never closed, or sustained damage.  Giving up opera would have been the ultimate sacrifice for Italian music lovers. 

Good music, I say with absolute fear of contradiction, was better than a dish of pasta.  Angelina and I had no doubt about our feelings for each other and our destiny together.  I was attracted by her feisty loving manner and mere presence.  Wherever I was shipped she doggedly followed until our eventual rejoining after the war, in New York.

I cannot say enough about Angelina.  While I was stationed in Catania we saw much of each other.  I never believed such mutual devotion could be found on a back ground of worldwide devastation and human brutality as to defy the imagination.  In apparent defiance of nature’s laws there sprouted the tiniest daring vestige of life; a single green leaf struggling through the dense rubble to proclaim God’s message of eternal hope; definitely a sign to follow.

Years had passed.  Allan married his Louise, and we became the grandparents of two beautiful girls soon after.  We celebrated our 50th wedding anniversary in 1997.  Romantic Angelina insisted on a true re-marriage ceremony with a Rabbi at a well-catered affair.  I couldn’t talk her out of it, and was glad I didn’t; when she resounded with a loud “I do” at the Rabbi’s important question. 

We celebrated by flying to Linda’s family in Catania, and returned every year or so over the past forty years.

Angelina was very close to my mother. Although mother would never admit to family favorites, I’m sure Angelina was her choice.  Allan grew up to be a fine, handsome, respectful  boy. 

He did have his moments, his principal, Mrs Brady complemented him at our monthly meeting, of his born leadership instincts. He always led the kids in whatever games they played, and always made them laugh at his off the wall jokes. We were very proud of him.

In 2008, a routine x-ray examination showed a spot on Angelina’s right lung.  The regimen of cancer fighting pills and lung sprays began.  In the end, she passed away peacefully in November 2010, . . . a great  loss with which I could not cope. However, the sun still rises everyday and birds still sing while children laugh and play unmindful of tomorrow.

I believe she still enjoys all those things, as she looks down; but from somewhere in the space and time of another world. She is no longer at my side in this world, but beckons me to sit beside her and to dream of our youth in blissful eternity. 

I will be at her side in God’s good time.