Streets of Gold (15 page)
The people running the war didn’t have to try very hard to sell it; anti-German feelings were running high long before the formal declaration of hostilities, and patriotic fervor was almost hysterical. But nonetheless, they
did
have a product on their hands which was, by definition, lethal. And they decided they had better do something to make the product seem a trifle more palatable. The reasoning must have gone something like this: We are sending a lot of our boys over there to die on foreign soil because we want to make the world safe for democracy, which is an inspiring cause, to be sure, but mightn’t someone (most likely a woman) ask a possibly embarrassing question such as “If my son goes over there to France and gets killed in a trench over there filled with poison gas and German bayonets, why then he will no longer be
in
this world, and how will it matter that he made it safe for democracy?” Now the way to avoid this question is to develop some sort of sales talk, some sort of pitch, native-born and inspired in concept, which we can shpiel at anyone out there who is likely to ask any questions about what this war is all about.
did
have a product on their hands which was, by definition, lethal. And they decided they had better do something to make the product seem a trifle more palatable. The reasoning must have gone something like this: We are sending a lot of our boys over there to die on foreign soil because we want to make the world safe for democracy, which is an inspiring cause, to be sure, but mightn’t someone (most likely a woman) ask a possibly embarrassing question such as “If my son goes over there to France and gets killed in a trench over there filled with poison gas and German bayonets, why then he will no longer be
in
this world, and how will it matter that he made it safe for democracy?” Now the way to avoid this question is to develop some sort of sales talk, some sort of pitch, native-born and inspired in concept, which we can shpiel at anyone out there who is likely to ask any questions about what this war is all about.
What we’ll do is we’ll organize bond rallies, so people will concentrate on buying bonds instead of on dying sons, put out these little Liberty Books, you know, where they can stick twenty-five-cent stamps in them, “Lick a Stamp and Lick the Kaiser,” get some of our movie folk out there to push the bonds, maybe Doug Fairbanks wearing boxing gloves lettered with “Victory” on one glove and “Liberty Bonds” on the other, and have him knock out some Kaiser we can get from Central Casting, get them away from the prime question, you see, which is “
Why
are you sending our sons to be killed?” And we’ll get old Herbert Hoover here, who’s our Food Administrator, to ask for voluntary sacrifices on the part of all the people, ask them to hold off eating bread or other wheat products on Mondays and Wednesdays, and pork on Thursdays and Saturdays, and any other kind of meat on Tuesdays — did we leave a day out? Idea is to get them thinking about their
own
sacrifices, you see, maybe even grumbling about them a bit, so they won’t be able to think of their sons getting legs blown off or being sliced up the middle by some German bayonet. Get them involved
here
, you see, do you get the overall idea?
Why
are you sending our sons to be killed?” And we’ll get old Herbert Hoover here, who’s our Food Administrator, to ask for voluntary sacrifices on the part of all the people, ask them to hold off eating bread or other wheat products on Mondays and Wednesdays, and pork on Thursdays and Saturdays, and any other kind of meat on Tuesdays — did we leave a day out? Idea is to get them thinking about their
own
sacrifices, you see, maybe even grumbling about them a bit, so they won’t be able to think of their sons getting legs blown off or being sliced up the middle by some German bayonet. Get them involved
here
, you see, do you get the overall idea?
Stella had no trouble getting the overall idea because, in her case, it had something going for it that did not apply to the vast majority of Americans. Since most of the men immediately surrounding her — her father, her brothers, her uncles, cousins, and goombahs — were either too young or too old or not even American citizens, they were not required to go to Europe to have their brains blown out. They were safe. So what better way to enjoy a war? Not only did Stella have all those socks and sweaters to knit, not only did she have the thrill of seeing her favorite movie stars right there in New York City pushing the sale of war bonds, not only did she herself proudly collect eight hundred and thirty-seven peach pits which she weighed on the grocer’s scale downstairs (having been informed that it took seven pounds of pits to make a filter for one gas mask), she
also
was secure in the knowledge that nobody near and dear to her was going to be killed. War was fun.
also
was secure in the knowledge that nobody near and dear to her was going to be killed. War was fun.
The only person near and dear to her (though he wasn’t near, and, certainly not dear to her in the years between 1917 and 1919) who
might
have been killed was a stranger named Jimmy Di Palermo, my father-to-be. While Stella was collecting her peach pits for a filter, my father was throwing away his mask because the fucking thing didn’t work, anyway — not against mustard gas.
might
have been killed was a stranger named Jimmy Di Palermo, my father-to-be. While Stella was collecting her peach pits for a filter, my father was throwing away his mask because the fucking thing didn’t work, anyway — not against mustard gas.
Giacomo Roberto Di Palermo was born on East 103rd Street in the year 1898. When America entered the war, he was nineteen years old. In June of 1917, he walked over to P.S. 121 and registered for the draft. By August of the following year, he was getting shot at in France.
My father rarely talked about the war. Even when I was a kid, and he took my brother and me to pictures like
Dawn Patrol
and
What Price Glory?
, even then, walking home to our apartment on 120th Street, he refused to answer any of our questions about the war. “What was it
really
like, Daddy?” we would ask. And he would say, “Oh, it was okay.”
Dawn Patrol
and
What Price Glory?
, even then, walking home to our apartment on 120th Street, he refused to answer any of our questions about the war. “What was it
really
like, Daddy?” we would ask. And he would say, “Oh, it was okay.”
Maybe it
was
okay. Maybe he’d lived through worse things than World War I.
was
okay. Maybe he’d lived through worse things than World War I.
In 1965, when one of my last record albums was being prepared for release, I was asked by the man compiling the liner notes to write something about the background of my parents, the idea being to show how they had influenced the music I make. (I think he had heard someplace that my father used to play drums.) I asked my father to jot down a few details, which I planned to edit before sending them on. This is what he wrote, on lined paper:
Dear Ike:Here’s my autobiography in part.I came from Harlem in a prominent Italian section. My parents were Italian born. I was born on the East Side around the 100’s. I left school in the 4th grade because my father passed away and I went out to work to help my mother and the rest of our brood, consisting of two sisters and two brothers. I started as an errand boy of a delicatessen. From there I worked on the New York City Transit (trolley lines) in the repair shop. From there I worked in a laundry running all the machines. Then I worked in a florist, and really learned this trade. While here I suddenly was plummeted in the machine-and-beading line. My mother went into a partnership with a man who graduated Cooper Union in Art. He was the designer. My services and my younger brother’s were free because my mother went into this business without a penny. So our pay was put into the business until the amount was made up. I learned designing from this man and did very well.Later my mother split up the business and we went on our own. I took care of the designing and drummed up the business. My mother took care of the girls inside of the store, also the home workers. While working here, I was compelled to take over a set of drums from one of our buddies on our block, so I may finish the payments. That’s how I became a musician. I formed a five-piece orchestra known as “Jimmy Palmer and the Phantom Five.” We did very well and got lots of work. Weddings, socials, baptisms, block parties, at most of the ballrooms in and around New York. I was still in the business of embroidery and crochet beading. At one of these functions, I met my wife Stella (it was at her sister’s engagement party). After a short engagement, we were married in 1923. A year later, our first son, Anthony, was born. I took a summer engagement in Keansburg, N.J., at the palais de dance. That’s where I formed a Dixieland band known as the “Original Louisiana Five.”When we finished this engagement, we went on the road with a show called the “Atlantic City Review.” We were on the independent circuit. We lasted about 6 months on the road, but the one-night stands was too much for me. We were booked at the “Wm Fox” theatre at 107th Street and Lexington Ave but turned it down. We still took bookings around town, then I realized that our business was going out of style and we paid up our creditors and went out. My second son was born in 1926. Then I took a test for the Post Office dept. and was appointed a sub in Jan. 1927. Then came the stock market crash in 1929 and our list was frozen. That meant 8 yrs as a sub with puny wages. A job here and there in music really helped along. Finally I was made a regular letter carrier in 1937. I was appointed to Tremont P.O. I worked there two years and was transferred to Grand Central P.O. I worked there three (3) years and went to Wmsbridge P.O. in the Bronx. I worked here for 29-½ years and retired in 1963. A total of 36-½ years for Uncle Sam. I am retired two years so far and really like it.During my younger years when I was in my 20’s I was a very good dancer. I gave exhibitions of Pat Rooney, Frisco, and a good imitation of the famous Charlie Chaplin. I now like to dab in art work, poetry and like to putter around my coin and stamp collection. My son is married and have three grandchildren, all boys.This is my life.J. R. Di Palermo
Rebecca, to whom I was still married at the time, read my father’s “life” to me, and commented on his singularly beautiful handwriting. I began to cry. I cried because there was nothing in it I could use for the goddamn liner notes, and I cried because he had neglected to mention three significant things: that his first son was killed in Italy in the year 1943; that he himself had fought on the battlefields of Europe in 1918; or that he had spent two years of his life in a Catholic orphanage, where he and his older brother Nickie were sent when their father was killed in 1906. He was eight years old at the time.
Giacomo wets the bed.
The nuns do not like this. When one of the children wets his bed, they send him out to stand in the sun with the sheets over his head until the urine has dried. Giacomo doesn’t know why they do this to him. Wouldn’t it be simpler to wash the sheets and then hang them up to dry? He does not understand a lot of things about this place. Most of all, he does not understand why he is here.
The nuns terrify Giacomo. They are always dressed in black, the way the women were dressed in black when Papa went to sleep. Papa was inside the box in the parlor, but they would not open the cover to let him see. His mother said there had been an accident,
un incidente
, something with a trolley car, and that Papa had gone to sleep afterward, and the trolley car was why they could not open the box, they did not wish to disturb his sleep. They put the box in the ground. He wondered why they were letting his father sleep in the ground. Nickie said, “He’s dead, dope.”
un incidente
, something with a trolley car, and that Papa had gone to sleep afterward, and the trolley car was why they could not open the box, they did not wish to disturb his sleep. They put the box in the ground. He wondered why they were letting his father sleep in the ground. Nickie said, “He’s dead, dope.”
There was talk in the kitchen. The uncles and aunts were talking in Italian to his mother. They could not send the girls away. Neither could they send the youngest child, Paolo, who was only four. They would have to send Giacomo and Nicolao. His mother explained it patiently afterward. There was not enough money. Even with help from the family, there was not enough money. He and Nicolao would have to go away for a little while. The nuns would take good care of them. They would be fed well. It would only be for a little while.
He does not want to hate the nuns, they are married to Jesus. But they make him stand with the sheets smelling of urine over his head, drying in the sun, and they beat him with a cat-o’-nine-tails when he can’t remember his Hail Marys or his Holy Marys Mother of God, or when he does not make his bed to suit them. His sheets always smell of urine. They do not change the sheets except on Fridays, and he wets the bed almost every night, and in the morning he stands in the sun until the sheets are dry, and then tries to make his bed look neat again, making it up with hospital corners the way the sisters have taught him, but though he pulls the sheets very tight and tucks them in all around, they are always wrinkled and yellow and smelling of urine, and his bed never looks like the other children’s beds, and the nuns are never satisfied, and they beat him because his bed is not right, and each time they beat him he remembers at night the beating that day, and becomes frightened, and wets the bed again, and still does not know why he is in this place. He does not even know where this place
is
. He was taken here in a bus. He got on the bus at Ninety-sixth Street, he said goodbye to his mother and his sisters and little Paulie, and then he and Nickie got on the bus with the nuns, and now he is here and he does not know where he is, and does not understand why. The other children in this place have no mothers and fathers. Why is he here in a place like this? He
has
a mother, her name is Serafina, she lives on One Hundred and Third Street, Two-Two-Seven East One Hundred and Third Street, Apartment Four-A, he knows it by heart in case he gets lost. He
has
a mother.
is
. He was taken here in a bus. He got on the bus at Ninety-sixth Street, he said goodbye to his mother and his sisters and little Paulie, and then he and Nickie got on the bus with the nuns, and now he is here and he does not know where he is, and does not understand why. The other children in this place have no mothers and fathers. Why is he here in a place like this? He
has
a mother, her name is Serafina, she lives on One Hundred and Third Street, Two-Two-Seven East One Hundred and Third Street, Apartment Four-A, he knows it by heart in case he gets lost. He
has
a mother.
Sister Rosalinda calls him
Pisciasotto
, which means “Pisspants.”
Pisciasotto
, which means “Pisspants.”
“Buon giorno, Pisciasotto,”
she says, and smiles.
she says, and smiles.
“Buon giorno, Sorella.”
He despises her.
She tells him of the Devil. She tells him that anyone who wets the bed as often as he does, with no regard for the comfort or health of those around him, subjecting others to the stench of his waste and his filth, anyone who has so little control over his bodily functions, is a prime target for the Devil, who can see what transpires on earth even as the good Lord Jesus can see, and who will surely come for Giacomo in the middle of the night if he does not stop wetting the bed, will come for him and lean over the bed with his glittering red eyes and breathe upon Giacomo a breath as foul as the stink of Giacomo’s own waste, and clutch him into his hairy arms, his body cold and slimy though he comes from the depths of the inferno, clutch him to his chest and spirit him away to Hell, his giant black leathery wings flapping as they make the fearful descent to that place of doom where Giacomo will burn in eternal fires stinking of urine, and the Devil will laugh and claim him for his own. Giacomo is more afraid of Sister Rosalinda than he is of the Devil. Would the Devil make him stand in the sun with wet sheets over his head? Would the Devil beat him with a cat-o’-nine-tails in the small white room the sister shares with Sister Giustina, who limps?
One night, he has a good idea.
It makes him laugh just to think of it.
The other children have been taken out to the summerhouse behind the dormitory, where sometimes one or another of the sisters plays violin or flute for them, or tells a story of the horrors of Hell and the rewards of Heaven. This is Sister Rosalinda’s night, and he knows she will be talking about the Devil; she talks so much about the Devil that sometimes Giacomo thinks she is married to
him
instead of to Jesus. He has been denied the pleasure of sitting in the summerhouse; he is being punished. Last night, he wet the bed again, and this morning he could not stand in the sun to dry his sheets because it was raining. So he has been sent to bed early, to sleep on the wet sheets and dry them with his own body warmth — unless he happens to wet them again, which he will most surely do. But he has an idea, and the idea causes him to chuckle out loud. He wishes Nickie were here so he could tell him the idea, but his brother is out with the other children, listening to Sister Rosalinda telling about what it’s like to be with the Devil in Hell-you’d think she’d been there herself one time.
him
instead of to Jesus. He has been denied the pleasure of sitting in the summerhouse; he is being punished. Last night, he wet the bed again, and this morning he could not stand in the sun to dry his sheets because it was raining. So he has been sent to bed early, to sleep on the wet sheets and dry them with his own body warmth — unless he happens to wet them again, which he will most surely do. But he has an idea, and the idea causes him to chuckle out loud. He wishes Nickie were here so he could tell him the idea, but his brother is out with the other children, listening to Sister Rosalinda telling about what it’s like to be with the Devil in Hell-you’d think she’d been there herself one time.
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