Anne Dolon Achenbach Memories

Hells’ Kitchen: St. Paul’s before the War

Anne Donlon. Achenbach

from

A Trail of Love and Breadcrumbs . Kindle Edition.

450 West 58th Street

Pop King was a man, small in stature, large in dignity. He, too, took a “walk” daily down the Avenue, and again, no one dared asked where or why. He monitored both our households, and sometimes my Mother would tremble when she heard his knock on our door. She lived in fear that one day he would discover one of her female friends sitting in our kitchen smoking a cigarette. I wasn’t afraid of him, but we had little rapport. After all, the man had twelve children of his own, I doubt if he would have craved a “Happiness is being a Grandfather” sticker if he owned an automobile.

Pop King did, however, respect the privacy of our household. If he visited his daughter, he did it in the afternoon while Dad was at work, and Ellen and I were at school. Unfortunately, his son and daughter didn’t follow his example. Our kitchen in the rear of the apartment was always filled with magical music from the opera singers whose vocal coaches lived in Addison Hall on 57th Street. They seemed to practice incessantly. I learned to love their magnificent voices and the melodic arias they sang.

Not everyone on 58th Street agreed, and the sounds of “Shut Up,” “Enough” would often fill the air after an hour or so of music. While Pop wouldn’t call out, I am quite certain he had someone else in the household do it for him. I know he hated the music as much as I loved it. Often Aunt Helen was dispatched down the stairs to our flat to tell me to stop singing because it annoyed Pop King, my grandfather. He ruled the roost, but avoided direct confrontation which may be one of the reasons he lived such a long and relatively healthy life.

Our lives were soon to change, however, when the War broke out. It was a Sunday afternoon. Dad had taken me over to Central Park so I could ice skate on the frozen lake. We had barely started to walk up the stairs when Mom called out, “Hurry up, Bill. There’s news on the radio.” Of course, the news was about Pearl Harbor, and the date was December 7, 1941, and the streets of Hell’s Kitchen would never again be quite the same.

I was eleven when Pearl Harbor was bombed. I would like to say I remembered the hardships of this great conflict or the stories of the battles that the newspapers printed daily or be able to tell you precisely what it was like living during the war years. But that would be a fabrication. I was a kid, and a difficult one, self-absorbed and reclusive. I can tell you what I remember, but you will quickly realize it is only what related to me and a few of the people I cared about.

Dad signed up for the draft, and my two cousins, Lou and Billy, left shortly thereafter. Their brother, Mickey, received a medical deferment due to a heart disorder. The first casualty in the neighborhood was a young man, Edward L, who lived on 57th Street. Eddie had planned on becoming a Paulist priest until the war began. Eventually, his younger brother took his place in the priesthood, but left not many years after ordination. You can never fulfill another’s dream, but we all have to learn that, don’t we?

No longer did young men cluster on the corner wearing ice cream suits and watching the girls walk by. Occasionally, one would return for a brief furlough and be greeted outside St. Paul’s on a Sunday morning, but rarely were there groups of young men or women on the streets. Father Farley organized a Serviceman’s Canteen in the Hecker Club on 60th Street and dances were held every Friday night. Once a month the dance was formal and the young women in the neighborhood wore their prettiest long dresses. Ellen and I joined Aunt Helen watching at the window as the pretty young girls walked up the street on their way to cheer up the boys away from home. There were several romances that sprang from these dances, but to the best of my knowledge, only one ended in marriage.

Dad’s employment in the auto industry faded down to a nonexistence. He took a job in a munitions factory in Hoboken, NJ, commuting daily. He left home before I awoke, and returned shortly before I went to bed. He worked seven days a week, and we rarely saw him. Once again, I don’t know if money was an issue. Rather I believe patriotism and the fact that his nephews were making a contribution motivated my Father.

However, it was during the war years when my Mother returned to work so perhaps family finances were involved. The King family was not visibly affected. The three brothers maintained steady employment throughout the war years, and there were no younger relatives threatened by the draft. Ration books had been distributed for meat. Mom explained to Ellen and me that our uncles needed the meat more than we did so she traded our food coupons in exchange for their shoe rations. I knew we didn’t buy shoes as often as food, but I was becoming slightly wiser and kept quiet for once in my life.

Besides I liked chicken, which was not rationed, but we also began to have more fish which I hated. Fried mackerel has a unique smell and taste, and I disliked that meal intensely. Fried smelts, however, are sweet, and I could almost forget they were fish when they frequently appeared on our dinner table. I attempted to cook them once after I was married, but it was a culinary disaster. Still Ellen tells me often cooks smelts in a skillet with butter exactly the way our Mother did. Many nights we had thick tubes of macaroni with butter, no cheese. Both Ellen and I loved this dish, and it didn’t require any of our food stamps. Garlic was an unknown commodity during those years in an Irish household.

The one prevalent fear seemed to be that Manhattan would be the target of a bombing attack. The local tabloids fed this fear with rumors and warnings Dad volunteered to the Street Air Raid Captain. He managed to take time off from work to conscientiously attend meetings and parole the street several times a month. There were several air raid drills, unexpected and unannounced. The one I remember most vividly was the night a light was spotted from the street. The Captain and his deputies ran down the street, found the house in question, 450, and invaded the apartment, ours. I was cowering in my bed with a small flashlight I had bought for such an emergency. I had no intention of being caught in ab air raid without a light to guide me out of the bombed building.

I only saw my Dad’s anger twice in my life, but this was one occasion. I have never forgotten his displeasure or the fact that he refused to hear my explanation. In retrospect, it was probably the most embarrassing moment of his life.

My Grandfather willingly stood in lines to purchase silk stockings for my Mother and aunt. If you walked anywhere in the city and saw a long que outside a shop, you knew immediately there was a supply of some item that was hard to come by. If you were wise, you instantly joined the end of the line.

The windows that were like picture frames on the tenements became adorned with blue stars, and sadly during those years several were changed to gold in memory of beloved fallen warriors. Each Sunday another name would be added to the list of neighborhood boys missing in Action or wounded. Prayers were always said for them at each Mass. . . .

Social Life

Our cousin, Billy, came home on his last furlough before going overseas, and took Ellen and me to an Abbott and Costello movie. Then we topped the afternoon off with a hot fudge Sundae in Brokaw’s. Billy left shortly thereafter to spend the remainder of the war years in India. Our cousin was a remarkable human being: kind, generous and rich in love and laughter. I don’t believe I could have loved a brother more than I did Billy Hall. He had planned to take Ellen and I to the Roxy and then to Schrafft’s on 47th Street for ice cream. However, we asked to go to the theatre on Ninth Avenue and 56th Street instead and back to Brokaw’s. We should have told him the real reason. We wanted everyone in the neighborhood to see us with our beloved cousin in uniform. We were so proud of Billy Hall.

Our family (including Aunt Helen and Uncle Bill) sat in the kitchen and listened to every one of FDR’s Fireside Chats. Often Uncle Bill and Dad would have a heated discussion after the speech had ended. I wonder now if Uncle Bill had been a pacifist. I know my Father totally supported the President and all his wartime decisions. Ellen and I went to a Saturday matinee each week and most of the movies had a war theme. Yet it seemed quite far away, or perhaps I was too selfish to feel more deeply about such a major conflict. Mom had enrolled me in the YWCA on 50th Street and Tenth Avenue, and I walked there three times a week after school for swimming and ballet lessons. Ellen stayed home with Aunt Helen and bonded more closely with her than I ever had. . . .

The reality of the war touched not only me, but our entire family when we heard Lou, the youngest Hall cousin was injured. He had been badly wounded in Germany and was en route back to Walter Reed Hospital in D.C. Lou was tall and fell into the handsome “Black Irish” category, and had been my hero from the first day we moved to 58th Street. When we heard the news, Dad and Mary Hall, his sister, took the train down to Walter Reed. War was no longer something in the movies or far away to either Ellen or I. Perhaps that is when I finally began to grow up. . .

Neighbors were important in Hell’s Kitchen, and we had some really good ones. Mrs. Bernstein lived next to us for most of the years I was growing up. I always thought of her as an old woman, but in reality, she was probably in her early sixties during the war. Unfortunately, she had broken her hip in a fall and, minus therapy or surgery, was unable to leave her railroad flat. Her life revolved around the radio soap operas and her granddaughter, Dorothy, who lived with her. The family directly underneath us moved in after their honeymoon. From then on they were referred to as “The Bride and Groom” despite the fact their names were Lillian and Harold. When they moved from 58th Street to New Jersey several years after the war ended, they had three young children, but were still known as “The Bride and Groom.”

But the neighbors we were closest to were the Garrett’s, who lived one flight up at the top of the stairs. Jim and Emily Garrett had three children: Jim, Joan and Jackie. I adored Joan, who had the energy, initiative, and courage to do everything I was afraid to attempt. She was one year older, and I patiently followed her footsteps. The only problem we ever had (and that was in later years) was over a man, and that is a secret we will not share.

Joan was as beautiful as her Mother, but in a different way. Her coloring was not quite as dark, and she exuded vitality. I cannot even estimate how many times I knocked on the Garrett’s door which was always open. One memorable rainy afternoons, we would listen to Emily’s Caruso recording. Often in the evening during the spring and summer months, the men would gather on the stoops while the women watched the panorama of the block from the windows. My Dad, Jim Garrett, and Mr. Vie, a Spanish neighbor living on the ground floor, would stand for hours discussing the world politics and just life in general. Mrs. Vie never learned to speak English despite having lived in 450 for over twenty years. Their older son, Ramon, adored Joan Garrett from a quiet distance, but rarely spoke. Sadly, long after I left the block, I learned Ramon had been hospitalized for depression and eventually was committed to a mental institution. That was long in the future, however, and had not yet sent clouds onto the horizon.

There were other neighbors, of course, who did not live in our building, but had an important status in the hierarchy of 58th Street. One was Mrs. Shied, a lady who even intimidated my Mother. Her knowledge of all the tidbits of gossip was overwhelming and, invariably, accurate. Although she dressed like Barbara Walters with a silk dress and pearls, she was not only a wife, but a mother. While she hadn’t achieved the highest status of “Mother of a Priest” or “Mother of a Nun,” she was the “Mother of a Nurse”, and that was pretty close. She maintained a constant vigil at her third floor window in order to preserve her well-deserved reputation for veracity. When she shopped, she only carried small parcels allowing her the liberty of stopping to dispense her nuggets of information.

Shortly after the war ended, she dropped the bombshell that was the beginning of the end for our insulated existence. The rumor raged like wildfire down the block from house to house. “Mrs. Shied is moving – out of the neighborhood.!!!!!” It was not to be believed, but it was true, and move she and her family did. They moved to a “bungalow” in a place with the romantic name of Ronkonkoma. This was the first of the exoduses that rocked the existence of the neighborhood diehards. The word “Levittown” began to be whispered, and moving vans fluttered up and down the blocks. Everyone promised to return for Sunday Mass and perhaps they did once or twice, but we were no longer as insulated or comfortable. Brides began to want something better than the third floor flat on the same block as their in-laws, and even the lure of the Parish no longer held as much charm. It would take ten more years, but each family that moved left a hole in the unity never to be repaired.

On my fourteenth birthday in 1942, my Grandfather made a trip to the Social Security office, and I was presented with a card. I was quite surprised since I had not indicated any desire to go to work. My world was contented. I went to school, the Y, and spent the remainder of my day sketching the ongoing parade on 58th Street. I filled book after book with charcoal pictures of the people, the buildings. One evening as I finished another portrait, I said “Someday I will write about all of this.” A look quickly passed between the two sisters, my Mother and my aunt, and if I had considered myself an outsider before I spoke those words, I was shut out even more from that day on. I was not to be trusted, and possibly, they were right. Several years later when I was fifteen, my Mother told me never to embarrass her. I readily agreed mostly because in my naiveté’ or stupidity, I couldn’t quite decide what I could do to cause such humiliation. For many years I was confident I had fulfilled that promise. Looking back now, I am not certain I have. . .

Often I remember the memorable afternoon when I stood on the stoop with Joan and her Father, and he mentioned “A Beetz.” I said, “What’s that?” and he said, “You don’t know? Get in the car.” Jim Garrett was the only person who lived on 58th Street who owned an automobile, and he used it to transport everyone who needed help. Quickly, we drove down to 55th Street and Ninth Avenue for the first and hardly last pizza to cross my lips. Every time I have pizza, this wonderful, charismatic gentleman of my youth is remembered with great affection.

Parish and School

I must not neglect the strong influence the priests of St. Paul the Apostle and the wonderful nuns who taught us, The Sisters of the Holy Cross, had on all our lives. I have been taught that faith is a gift. While I believe that, I also know that it was instilled with loving care and accompanied by an intellectual curiosity by the priests and nuns who took charge of our education for eight years.

Their roles extended far beyond the hours in the classroom and the Sunday sermons at Mass. They inaugurated after school curriculums and teen-age groups along with other challenges that were long before their time. Their devotion to the youngsters of Hell’s Kitchen was beyond description. If they received any reward perhaps it is (to the best of my knowledge) the faith they helped protect and nurture lasted with all I know until this day. God bless them all, each and every one.

Often I went back to visit my friends, the Sisters of The Holy Cross, at their convent on 61st Street between Ninth and Tenth Avenues. I usually went with Antoinette Califano and Carmela Boccanfuso, who were sincerely thinking about joining the convent. Sister Marie Antoinette, the wise nun we visited, knew that both my friends would never be happy as nuns. I recall her looking at me and gently asking, “And Anne, you have no desire to become a sister, do you? I knew that was true. It had never entered my mind. However, I must acknowledge how grateful I am that no pressure was exerted from my Mother to enhance her own prestige in the neighborhood. She truly raised me to be independent, make my own choices, and that included making my own mistakes, of which there were many.

Joan Garrett was a good friend and included me in many things; some of which perhaps are best forgotten but were great fun. One of the most memorable was the day she was invited to serve tea for one of the Ladies Groups at St. Paul’s. She graciously asked if I could help, and the two of us arrived together. It was the first silver tea service I had ever seen. Joan was to pass the cookies, and I agreed to pour the tea. Never having lifted a teapot, I had no idea how heavy it was. I immediately spilled the tea all over the ladies holding out their teacups and then dropped the entire pot onto the floor. Not only was I invited to leave immediately, but so was Joan, my benefactor. . . .

The music I grew up listening to was not only inspirational, but spectacularly beautiful. The choir of St. Paul the Apostle was renowned, and the combined voices of men and boys often reduced me to tears with their beauty. I have never forgotten one October Sunday at 12:40 Mass when the majestic voice of Tito Guizar filled the church with the refrain of Ave Maria. He had finished his last show at the Waldorf Astoria at 2 a.m. the previous evening and managed to sing at Mass the following day. It was his version of giving thanks, and an example I have tried to remember (although never in song).

Some of the newly wed couples settled in the tenement flats. Soon afterwards, the young wives would be seen pushing a baby carriage along the Avenue. Sadly, a few of the husbands began to drink heavily. While Finnbar never married, he also never quite adjusted to the rhythm of civilian life. He was most comfortable in the neighborhood bars with boyhood chums. As they left for marriage and careers and the bar stools remained empty, he began to drink more heavily. A wonderful young man who became a victim of many thing: the war, the neighborhood, and most of all the bottle. He died at 40 of alcoholism.

The majority of the young couples, however, opted for life away from Columbus Circle and the neighborhood. Before the war, this was considered a cardinal sin. Marrying outside the neighborhood had dire consequences. The female oracles would whisper about the “outsiders” as they stood on the corner. Perhaps this was true a generation earlier, but life had now changed and so had the youth. Eventually, Joan and I would become two of the renegades who chose life partners from outside Hell’s Kitchen. I can safely say it was a decision both of us have always been grateful we made.

Achenbach, Anne Donlon. A Trail of Love and Breadcrumbs . Kindle Edition.