Vina: A Brooklyn Memoir - Joseph C. Polacco

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Joint mob ventures were not unknown. As a youngster, I thought that as you got older you became Italian, ’cause all the old folks spoke something unintelligible, which I later learned was either Yiddish or some dialect from the Mezzogiorno. But, I could recognize blasphemy and foods in either language.

      During Mom’s last fourteen months I got to know Maimonides Hospital, named for a Sephardic Jewish philosopher of twelfth century Andalucía, Spain. A residue of that Jewish history is a lovely statue of Maimonides in the “Judería” section of Córdoba. The ruling Islamic Moors were kinder to Jewish subjects than were the Catholic rulers, Ferdinand and Isabel, who unified Spain in 1492 and expelled the unconverted Moors. Later came the Inquisition and the expulsion of the Jews. But, back to the present, Maimonides Hospital identifies a medical complex in the very Hasidic Borough Park section of Brooklyn. You vant to see a melting pot, dah-link? Just try Maimonides; it’s a minestrone, olla podrida, knaidl of cultures and religions. It’s yarmulkes, do-rags, and bop hats. It’s Shabbat from Friday sundown to Sunday mass. Oy gefilte, Maronna mia.

      Mom’s chemo sessions were at the Maimonides Cancer Center.

      Later in 2012, when the weather got colder, and Mom weaker, we would opt for a lift home to Bensonhurst from the chemo sessions. One miserable day, rain turning to sleet and ice, and the car service driver was waiting for us, but in a car with a different company name. The car was different, but the driver was typically disheveled, unshaven and, by the time we get in, he’s kvetching to the dispatcher. Bad start. But Mom, though just finishing a chemo infusion, is her typical empathetic self, and she doth soothe this savage beast, engaging him in conversation. They are now on the same side, and both agree that the world no longer has morals, and this is the reason we suffer from global warming, wars, AIDS, etcetera, etcetera. The driver identifies himself as Jewish, and says that he grew up in Atlanta, of all places. My mind is racing— an Atlanta Jew, here in Brooklyn? What’s the connection? Did Sherman’s March through Atlanta, on the way to the sea, beget the Sherman boys? Allie and Allan Sherman were two prominent Jews in my Brooklyn youth—Allie a 1960s New York Giants head coach and Allan, a singer-songwriter (“Hello Muddah Hello Faddah,” 1963). Noooooo, couldn’t be; but remember that they only needed to be Jewish on their mothers’ side.

      The driver rouses me from my reverie, turning the conversation to famous Jews and their contributions to American society and to human progress in general. He confirms what I already knew, that the Marx Brothers and Three Stooges were Jewish. I told him, “I’d be proud of the former, and quiet about the latter.” Then the litany goes to Alexander Hamilton on the ten-dollar bill I handed him. Hamilton’s mother was Jewish; ipso facto, he’s Jewish. Our chauffeur learns we’re Italian, and he could have really scored with the impressive list of famous Jewish-Italian scientists; but no, capo John Gotti’s son, and heir apparent, is also Jewish ’cause his dad married a Russian Jewess (Jewessky?). I tell him, ’cause now my dander is up: “Well, he’s also Italian, but if you want all of him, we’ll trade him to you for cash and two first-round draft choices.”

      Then, he hits me with his haymaker: “Who was the first Jewish mayor of New York?” I know he was expecting me to say our beloved Ed Koch, but I come back with Fiorello (Little Flower) LaGuardia, whose mom was Jewish. I felt like I was back in junior high. But I also felt guilty. I looked over at Mom. I think she enjoyed the floorshow. Her inscrutable expression could have signaled that she was still dwelling on the moral depravity of modern society.

      Mom spent many years in the New York garment industry. This was material for Myron Cohen, Sam Levinson, and many other beautiful stand-ups. Perhaps not appreciated is that the New York garment industry employed many Jewish and Italian seamstresses. For example, collectively they were the majority of victims of the tragic 1911 Triangle Shirtwaist Factory fire. Mom loved the interactions with her Jewish cohorts, some of whom picked up Italian dialect. In turn, Mom’s Yiddish-inflected rendition of Myron Cohen sketches was a killer: Could Yiddish “brogue” be emanating from a child of the Mezzogiorno?

      One of the great advantages for Italian and Jewish kids in Bensonhurst was access to each other’s food. Let me note that the increased density of Chinese in Bensonhurst may have enriched Jewish cuisine. Arthur Olshan, my best buddy in graduate school, was from Far Rockaway—just a little “jag” across the mouth of Jamaica Bay from Coney Island, in Brooklyn territorial waters. Arthur liked to call Chinese takeout “Jewish soul food.” His wife Laura definitely agreed, and I think it was Joan Rivers who said that a Jewish mother’s call to dinner is “Get in the car.” I love people who enjoy a good laugh at their own expense. Of course, Jewish cooking, like Italian, often born of hard times, is much deeper and more complex than a phone call, or a trip to the “House of Ming.” Mom made matzoh ball soup, used kasha, and loved the Jewish delis, especially those with daily specials. I know she more than once served me hamentaschen, claiming they were cuccidati. Both of these delights are dried fruit-filled baked pastries—the former commemorating Purim, Festival of Lots, and the latter, well, we always found them at the Christmas table. I know of Italian pastry chefs forming cuccidati into “three-cornered hats” to capture Jewish clientele.

      Over the years, our Bensonhurst neighborhood was becoming more orthodox, and Mom longed for the good ole days when “reformed” Jewry was the norm. We certainly shared with them a ribald sense of humor. Mrs. Epstein ran a clothing (almost schlock, or junk) store, three doors down from our floor-covering business, which was also our 86th Street family home. In 1965 I showed up at that home with a girlfriend from college. We walked the three businesses over to say hello to Mrs. Epstein who was stationed, as usual, in front of a typically spare, understated wood-framed storefront. The vintage “show window” seemed to function more as a visual shield to the goings-on inside. Our stretch of 86th Street was under the shadow of the West End El (elevated), and just like a native, the gal learned to suspend conversation in mid-sentence when the train rumbled overhead. Mrs. Epstein was charmed.

      A few days later, Mrs. Epstein called me over and asked if the young lady was Italian. She could have starred in a Broadway remake of The Ride of the Valkyries. Upon receiving the expected “No,” Mrs. Epstein countered with a conspiratorial look: “Doesn’t matter, all women look alike when you turn them upside down (cackle, cackle).” Being in on humor like this let me know I had become a mensch—a man. Like Mom, Mrs. Epstein raised two boys, and liked to tell Mom, “Look at the beauty we made in the back of the store.”

      Jewish humor really is truly amazing considering that incident occurred about twenty years out from the Holocaust and we are now about twenty-five years from Desert Storm. I was born near the end of WWII, and there was a large residue of holocaust survivors in the hood of my adolescence. One of the businesses between our store and Mrs. Epstein’s was a laundromat run by a lady with a serial number tattooed on her forearm. She was part of the inventory of the concentration/death camps. To me, she had a perpetual “deer in the headlights” look. She told Mom she would never know how she survived.

      Florie Ehrlich was one of Mom’s dearest friends. She lived in New York all her life but lost many of her European relatives to the Holocaust; others settled in Israel. Florie was a brave woman who, like Mom, was dealing with a recurrent cancer. Mom knew of her struggles, which Florie kept from many. Florie passed a couple of months before Mom, and her loss was a big blow to Mom's spirits.

      Florie was not religious, but lived with her niece Phyllis Diamond, who was religious—in a big way. Weeks after Florie’s passing, Phyllis and mutual friend Georgette Seminara Adams made one of their visits to Mom’s hospital room, and Phyllis said cheerfully, “I was speaking with Florie, and she recommended this nightgown, and the slippers.” They were indeed beautiful, and Mom loved them. There was nothing morose about it—we all knew Mom’s wish to be buried in a nightgown and slippers, because, as she said, “I am going to sleep.” Phyllis, Georgette, and Toni Caggiano sprang for the sleepwear.

      Florie and Mom were so close, yet in many ways so different. Florie never married; she had a career in Manhattan and was well-traveled, well-read, and college-educated. She did not get into cooking or eating, and was comfortable with a scotch and a cigarette, smoking right up to her last days. Mom? Well, Mom did read a lot, but her formal education was limited. She did not travel so much, especially considering that

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