by Sid Luft
I continued to drive my father crazy with accidents. Once I cut my hand just before a swimming meet. I’d been splitting a two-by-four with an ax when it happened. I was used to nicks from working with airplane models, but this time I was near split to the bone. I insisted on competing with a poultice over the wound. Reluctantly, Norbert drove me to the meet. How was I going to win? I didn’t place at all. I felt like I was dragging a bowling ball along.
I was well developed by fifteen, so it was a horrendous experience for me when I contracted chicken pox, just as I was getting to feel grown up and independent. I came home from football practice and noticed I was covered by nasty little red marks: on my tongue, in my nostrils and ears, in fact all over my body. I threw myself in the bath, which turned out to be the worst thing I could have done for my condition. Eventually I was swabbed down with Vaseline and forced to wear cotton flannels. It was extremely uncomfortable and I was irritable. I was not taking the illness well.
During my confinement mother had awakened especially early, five thirty in the morning, to bake. She’d put the dough in the icebox overnight. By noon there was the rapturous odor of her pastries: napoleons, eclairs, tarts. Elaborate and rich pastries for her rich customers. She’d send them along in a fancy box, with whatever clothes they’d purchased. That particular noontime father drove home for lunch. He noticed that the baked goods were gone from the cabinet in the dining room. “Sid, what did you do with the pastries?” I said, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He answered, “Son, I don’t want you to lie to me.” I said, “But I didn’t touch the pastries.” His jaw started to clench. He was thinking, This damn kid is defying me. It was clear he didn’t believe me. I knew Peri had packed the goodies up and taken them to school after my mother left the house for the shop. Peri did it in defiance of Mother and to give them to her friends in the hopes of gaining their interest.
I repeated, “I didn’t take the desserts.” But father wanted a confession out of me. Instead I put up my fists. He looked down at me and said, “Are you showing your fists against your father?” I said, “Yes, sir.” I was able to drive a car, but here I was with a children’s disease, and my father accusing me of stealing pastries.
“What were you going to do?”
“If you kept it up I was going to belt you.” And I walked out of the room. In a strange way, in defying my father I suddenly felt grown up, a man. I thought he should have known better; he should have trusted me. Mother didn’t make a big deal about the pastries; she knew her daughter.
In general, they were lenient parents. One winter’s night, shortly after the pox disappeared, Norbert, Leonora, and Peri went off to the opera. It was always an opportunity for me when the family was out of the house. I took Mother’s car to Mt. Vernon to the movies. Coming back, there was about a foot of snow. It was one of the harshest blizzards in years. My luck! I crept along the Bronx River Parkway from Mt. Vernon to Bronxville. Nearly three hours had passed. I was a half mile from home when a car hit me head-on. The front left fender was smashed, bending the wheel out of kilter. I had to call a neighbor to tow the car back to the garage.
I admitted to Father I’d taken the car. He was calm about it, and this time he was on my side. In the morning, he told mother that the car wasn’t working. Maybe by now he was afraid of me.
6
ONE SUMMER I SPENT a month with the Warren family on Schroon Lake in their log cabin. Bill and Mac Warren were pals. Their sister was married to a Jew, and Bill had a way of saying “You know, my brother-in-law the kike,” which was kind of Lenny Bruce funny, and I was never offended. He did that to tease me, because he thought I was overly sensitive. He was my good, loyal friend, a fearless fellow hell-raiser. Old man Doc Warren was a minister.
A mile or so down the other side of the lake was a nightclub, with an emcee and four chorus girls. Beer was available. Every Saturday night there was entertainment and dancing to a small band. The personable band leader sang and told jokes. The girls had a routine. They wore blue shorts, bright yellow blouses, campy hats. They tap danced and sang. Ruthie was one of the performers, and I took a shine to her. I had heavy competition in a lifeguard from one of the nearby summer camps who also had a crush on Ruthie. One Saturday night, Ruthie and I, after a few pints of beer, carried on a mock marriage. The lifeguard, a big fellow, made a negative remark. And with my reactive and explosive nature I said, “Let’s go outside.”
We were both drunk. He threw a punch at me, and I began kicking the shit out of him. He fell down, near unconscious, when someone cracked me in the back of the head with what felt like a fist. Too late I heard Mac scream, “He’s got a blackjack!” My head started to bleed over my white linen jacket. The drunk lifeguard was wavering on his knees. I didn’t feel the impact of the blackjack right away. Bill had managed to knock my assailant down by the time the sheriff arrived and broke it up. Back in the car one of the Warrens said, “Your scalp is ripped. We gotta find a doctor.” We found one in the local Jewish summer camp. He shaved the back of my head, stitched me up. Doc Warren was waiting for us in early morning light on the front porch of the log cabin. “Where you boys been?” We told him what happened. I was loony from the beer and the fight. I said, “I’m married. I’ll have to get the marriage annulled.”
We were privileged teenagers, able to participate in sports, given presents from caring parents, although we may not have perceived them as kindly at the time. We whiled away our evenings playing competitive poker games, talking sports, visiting gyms, thinking about girls.
There’d been a girl in the high school band when I was in junior high. She was kind of a flashy bleached blonde, a little knock-kneed. I used to neck with her, heavy petting, as it was called, on her porch, but that’s all it was. My one sexual exploit had happened in my freshman year, at age fourteen. I went with a group of boys to a house of ill repute on the boundary of Mt. Vernon and Bronxville. Three of us had the same girl. She was in her twenties, and we were drunk from downing beer all night.
My first real love, Charlotte Lunken, was naturally blonde. I was in love with her the last two years of high school. Our first date was at the Glen Island Casino. All the big bands played there. I wore white flannels, white shoes, a blue blazer, white shirt, and blue tie. I felt ridiculous. I had two big boils on my forehead—adolescent nerves. I tried to cover them up with powder. It didn’t work.
Charlotte Lunkenheimer was from that class I perceived to be golden. Her father had shortened their name from Lunkenheimer to Lunken. He owned the Lunkenheimer Valve Company in Cincinnati, Ohio, although the family lived in Scarsdale. There’d been two Mrs. Lunkens—Charlotte had an older brother from a different mother. Charlotte was a few years younger than I, and she resembled a young Bette Davis—large eyes and small face.
Around this time I got a secondhand Hudson Terraplane Eight that I would drive to school. To be free of asking for money all the time I worked in a Yonkers department store wrapping packages, and I also delivered for my mother’s shop. I was rarely without money in high school. I needed it to support my lifestyle of dating and going out well dressed. And if I didn’t have enough money for a tire for my car, I’d put five bricks under the rear axle of some guy’s Ford, let the air out, and take his. Johnny Leo would help me.
A black couple, Mr. and Mrs. Jim Bolling, worked for us. Jim would chauffeur my mother to work; my father preferred to walk. Jim had a good enough salary to buy himself a brand new little Ford. The first day he brought it home, I lifted the wheel off the back. I was incorrigible.
On Saturdays I’d play football, and Jim would cook me a big steak and baked potatoes. I’d eat this at ten in the morning before I ran to the field. Jim enjoyed cooking, and he taught me how to prepare food. We had a wonderful time together. Jim’s special sandwich of chopped-up lettuce, crisp bacon, tomatoes, and homemade mayonnaise on toast remains my favorite.
I was sixteen when I took my first flying lesson for five dollars. I’d save up and drive
out to the airport in Armonk, a half hour from Yonkers, taking the back roads. I’d wrecked two cars by then, but now I was in love with the Terraplane Eight and I was careful. I bought it for $300 and fixed it up. It was the fastest little car of its time. Dillinger owned one, and this had impressed me.
My virgin flight in the air was with a flight instructor in a two-seated, open-cockpit, single-engine plane. I was mimicking a pilot in goggles and leather jacket. I took about four or five lessons, no longer than a half an hour each, and soon I was able to handle the controls with some confidence. I shot some landings with the instructor. I was in heaven, more and more eager to fly solo.
I loved the sensation of soaring; diving 30 feet into the sound was one of my big thrills. I liked to climb trees as a kid, so it was a natural evolution from trees to high-dive platforms to airplanes. The motivation to be different was there, but aviation genuinely fascinated me. I experienced a sense of power looking down at the crazy world, and for that brief, splendid moment I was afforded a sensation of serenity in an open cockpit, seemingly in command of my fate.
Roosevelt High was a melting pot: Jewish boys from other parts of Yonkers attended the school. There was also a Jewish orphanage nearby, and some of these kids were in our classes. They’d arrive in old, beat-up clothing. It was cruel, but these kids couldn’t gain anyone’s respect.
There were several black athletes on our football team. These guys were well liked, but behind their back the fraternity boys would call them “niggers,” as the Italians were called “wops” or “guineas” and the Jews were “kikes” or “sheenies.” And not in a playful manner—it was intended to be demeaning. But generally, Roosevelt High was so mixed that pejorative words were the exception. I’d been raised by Jim Bolling, who was like an older brother, so I escaped from ignorant prejudices early on. My parents made it a point of never using any kind of racial epithet.
One of my closest pals was a transplanted Virginian, J. B. Rebling. His family lived in Lynchburg, Virginia. We hitchhiked there one time, easily catching rides all the way. On our arrival we learned that Lynchburg had just survived the worst fire in its history: one hundred or more black men were burned to death in a housing project. It was a terrible disaster, and it happened as we were on the road, ruining our holiday and the fantasy of courting southern belles. As it turned out, I was actually uncomfortable listening to all the racist talk and could hardly wait to get back to stuck-up Bronxville.
In my last year at Roosevelt High I became the captain of the track team, as well as captain of the football team. Along with the latter came an invitation to pledge a Christian fraternity. At first I was honored. I’d come a long way from the runt on the ice to gaining respect by excelling in athletics. The evening of my initiation, two frat boys came to my house to pick me up. I invited them both inside and proceeded to explain how I couldn’t become a member, since they excluded other boys of my faith. I thought it unfair for me to participate in such an organization. I explained how I didn’t like the Boy Scouts either, or any of the other boys’ clubs, not only because of the dreaded regimentation but also because I had come to believe that they bred prejudice.
I had thought a lot about the isolation of a bunch of guys, and said that I wondered why they didn’t include the Oppenheim boy, or the black boy, or the Italian? I was polite; I said I was grateful and felt privileged to have been selected. “No hard feelings.” I felt a kind of liberation when I told them I was not joining. I liked the guys, not the organization.
Meanwhile, the relationship I had with my football coach, Andy Thomas, was developing into a lifelong friendship. He was my mentor, filling the gap I suffered from Father’s indifference to my interests. Andy was a cool kind of guy with a great sense of humor, and he loved vaudeville. This appealed to me. Andy and I would go to the Palace Theatre or to the Lotus on 125th Street and watch Milton Berle or Tom Mix. His wife stayed at home with their daughter and Andy Jr.—the typical American family.
Coach Thomas received mail daily from various schools that were scouting athletic talent. Eventually he introduced me to another important Fred in my life: Fred Mann, who sponsored athletes for the University of Pennsylvania. Fred became the president and owner of the American Paper Box Company. He was affluent. He was also a gifted pianist of Russian descent. Fred saw me play the day I made a long touchdown. I was cornered, away from my team, and somehow came out of the pile and ran the rest of the sixty yards. The Yonkers Student ran a story on how I emerged miraculously to run the winning touchdown.
Mann wanted me for Penn, but my marks were lousy—I hated to study—and I needed a few points to graduate. So he arranged for me to go to the Hun School in Princeton, New Jersey. A prestigious institution restricted to ninety students, Hun was the preparatory school for students aspiring to Princeton University. A handful of the students were offspring of Hun instructors, and twenty were on athletic scholarship.
I received a weekly stipend, but with my taste I needed more money, so I rented out my car, which I kept off school grounds. By this point the Depression had stamped out the market for eight-cylinder cars, so I considered myself lucky to own one. The wealthy boys would rent it on weekends to drive their dates to Manhattan.
While I was at Hun we won the New Jersey title in football. Richard Bokum and James Aubrey at Princeton were two all-American football players who came out of Hun. Bokum would go on to discover the most prolific uranium areas in New Mexico. He created a company called United Nuclear and eventually sold out for millions. He was an exemplary person. His parents died when he was quite young, so he took on the family responsibilities, supporting his kid brother. He was a great tackle at Hun and a winning fullback at Princeton. And Aubrey would become president of CBS and later MGM.
It was at Hun that I became friends with Nick Du Pont and others who figured much later in my life. I was impressed by Nick’s family. We were to have business schemes together much later, our friendship remaining strong throughout our lives. When I was estranged from Judy, I went into a business with Nick, and later I was able to help him out when he was the victim of an international financial scam.
After one year at Hun I’d made up the necessary points to enter the University of Pennsylvania, so I moved into a Philadelphia fraternity house, TEΦ (Tau Epsilon Phi), and played one year of freshman ball at Penn. Our coach was Harvey Harman.
My introduction to Penn was paved by a line guard. He was large, about 250 pounds, and he’d grab me every time I was in the shower. He’d pinch me on the nipples. He was so tough, so macho, his behavior couldn’t possibly be interpreted as an advance. Locker politics, maybe, but it didn’t appeal to me. When he tried it again, I knocked him out cold. We did become friends, however. His ambition in those days was to make fifty dollars a week as a coach. Eventually he owned a lumber yard, became a millionaire, and retired young to Milwaukee.
One of my mentors, Ken Strong, was with the New York Giants. I’d go down to Ohio Field, where the NYU guys trained. I learned to punt there. A wonderful old man (he seemed old at the time), Strong was the best punting coach for colleges in the area.
Jews were not supposed to be pilots, athletes, or drinkers. Jews were in books or selling schmattes as far as the Christian world was concerned. Well, I wasn’t going into my mother’s business, or my father’s. I wanted to fly, to see the world, to remove myself from the stereotypical prejudices of what a Jew should be. I was interested in becoming recognizable for my best attributes. I had stamina, looks.
But I no longer had Charlotte Lunken. My first romance had ended when I left high school, after meeting with resistance from Charlotte’s mother. One evening Mrs. Lunken said right out, “You two kids are getting too serious. I’m not too pleased with you staying up all night either.”
Mrs. Lunken was up against a popular kid. If she had disapproved of Charlotte’s relationship with me from the beginning, I wasn’t aware of it. But she sent her off to school in Tarrytown. And when I went away to Hun s
chool, Charlotte had written me a “Dear John” letter.
By the time I got to the University of Pennsylvania, I learned that she had married. I was devastated. I thought, Fuck this, I’m skipping out on school.
I let people down by doing so. They’d had high hopes for me as an athlete.
7
IT WAS DURING a family weekend visit to Atlantic City that my life took a radical swerve. I’d taken a stroll on my own by the boardwalk when I encountered an extraordinary-looking woman. She was wearing an expensive outfit unlike any women’s fashion I’d as yet been exposed to: a navy blue blazer and white flannel slacks, black-and-white spectator shoes, a Scotch beret with a large red pom-pom. She looked wonderful, and there was something completely glamorous about her. I’d never been that intrigued. We chatted, and the mystery woman told me she lived near Armour Villa Park in Crestwood. As we began to walk and talk she told me her name was Eleanor Powell, she lived with her mother, and she was a dancer. She was older than me by a few years, enough to fall in the category of “older woman.” She was rather boyish to my thinking, flat chested, slim hipped; nevertheless, my new friend had a great smile, her lips were painted a seductive red to match her pom-pom, and her eyes held a Latin glint.
I was muscled but young, and too naive to realize I’d been picked up. Later when I sat in the audience of a Broadway theater I was impressed by Eleanor’s presence onstage—the grandness of the setting, the orchestra in the pit, and the curtain opening to reveal a dazzling performer. She had great legs; they were powerful and at the same time sexy. This was her greatest asset—this, and a kind of powerful charm she exuded when she performed. She was Miss Show Biz to me—and, as it turned out, to a million others once she became an MGM star. Eleanor and I would meet backstage after the show and go dancing. We’d kiss, be affectionate, but not have sex. She’d introduce me to Broadway actors—Ray Bolger and many others. I’d accompany her, always in the role of “younger brother” when introduced, but when we dined and danced it would turn intimate.
