Fiction

In September 1943, during WWII, the American Fifth Army landed in Italy and started to slug its way up the boot of Italy. American forces were supported by fighting units from Great Britain, France, Poland, and others. By January 1944, the Germans had created a strong defensive position called the Gustav Line near Cassino, about 38 miles southeast of Rome, and the war in Italy had become a stalemate.

In order to break the impasse, Operation Shingle was devised. The plan was to bypass the Gustav line by landing from the sea near Anzio, move up the Liri Valley and strike at Rome, 30 miles to the northeast. As its part in the plan, the American 5th Army was to strike at German defenses in the Cassino area. French and British forces made advances between January 12 and 17, and on January 21-22, two regiments of the Texas 36th Division were to cross the Rapido River near Cassino.

But military operations don't always go as planned. The river was swollen with winter rains; it flowed at least four or five miles an hour, and its steep banks made the crossing even more difficult. The Germans had dammed the river in the north at its source and created diversions, making the area a marshy mess. Further, they had filled the terrain with mines. The crossings were a disaster, with the division suffering more than 1700 casualties in two days. Among those casualties was my 22-year-old cousin, a Pennsylvania native. His parents were notified that their son was missing in action, and a year later he was officially declared dead.

Since January, 1994, marked the 50th anniversary of Operation Shingle, I wanted to get postal markings as a rememberance of my cousin's death. I sent letters to Anzio, where the amphibious landings took place; Cassino, near where the Rapido crossings were attempted; and Nettuno, where my cousin is buried. (Although I made several inquires, I was unable at that time to find an address for the village of San Angelo.)

He wrote to say how moved he was by the story of a young man who had come to Italy "and never went back [to his home]." He went to the American cemetery, found my cousin's grave and took pictures that he sent me. He invited me to visit him and his wife, should I ever get to Italy. He sent me a portfolio of postal covers commemorating the liberation of Italy, and on another occasion, he decorated my cousin's headstone with the Italian flag and again sent me pictures. He was also able to get a postal cover from St. Angelo. All this from a complete stranger!

Sadly, we never met, but we had an ongoing correspondence until his untimely death from cancer. Fast forward to January, 2007; my cousin's sister became a great-grandmother when her granddaughter gave birth to twin boys. The parents named one of the infants after their great uncle who had died in battle. And, by chance, the father had discovered my deceased cousin's Purple Heart displayed online by a collector of military medals!

When I first approached the collector about my cousin's medal, he told me that even if he wanted to, he could not give, sell, or even mail the medal to our family because of the Stolen Valor Act (SVA). This was legislation signed into law in 2006. However, the collector's interpretation of this bill was incorrect, as I learned when I wrote to one of the sponsor's of the bill, Congressman John Salazar, of Colorado. I then provided the collector with the information about the law that I had learned from the Congressman and waited for a reply.

When I did get an answer, the collector told me that he had a "standing offer [made] three years ago" of $500 for my cousin's Purple Heart and, therefore, that was the price he was asking of me. He went on to say that "Radido River Purple Hearts are very rare..." I do not know if that is true, and I did not choose to ask him why he had not already accepted the $500 offer. I and others in my family were incensed by his offer.

It was my cousin's death, not anything this collector had done, to earn his Purple Heart; and when I think of the 1700 casualties that resulted from the attempted river crossing in January '44, I have to wonder how rare are these medals. As a collector myself, not of medals but other items, I think I understand the difference between "rare" and "available" as those words apply to collectibles.

My wife's Mennonite family approved of the circus for proper entertainment. My parents knew the circus as a wholesome place to be, and I caught on and told that to two or more generations. I learned to love elephants, which I feel can communicate with human beings. They are so enormous of size they can be dangerous, but basically, they are the gentlest of creatures. I had known several with the Cole Brothers circus that were called "killers" after having been aggravated. One in particular (which may have been the best trained circus elephant ever, Petunia--known as Pete--even after a death (and cleared by various officials), I fed favorite vegetables or fruits directly into her mouth as she gently moved up her trunk. With the Cole Circus I knew at least fifteen elephants who, I insist, knew me. One, as she got older, refused to perform when she saw me enter a tent. The handler asked me to come over and talk to her. I patted Pete on the trunk and said, "Good to see you, Pete. Now everything is OK, you can do your work," and she did!

Of the two kinds of elephants (African and Asian), I always prefer the Asians as naturals to be around human beings. They seem to enjoy working proudly with human beings, and they learn a vocabulary. They are usually smaller than the Africans, but like a pet dog, they enjoy the relationship and like to please their friends. The African is taller, with bigger ears--and they seem to me to be much like a cat--they are every bit as smart as the Asian, but they will do (like a cat) whatever it is IF they want to! Elephants will toss away a hotdog but enjoy the bun! They are complete vegetarians.

And successful circus performers are dedicated and, generally, truly fine people who get the "sawdust" in their systems. Some of my high school classmates were from circus families. One was a leading elephant girl with Ringling. One family of jugglers came from Canada, of the same family as the famous quintuplets, the Dionnes. We shared hopes and dreams each year when we met again. My father became a close friend of a man who starred on stage in Europe, then was a star with Ringling, then had a vaudeville theater in the building where my father had a store. In his last years he had a small hotel which seemed to me to be like an old folks home for circus people.

Fifty years ago, after a stormy weather season, the King and Cole Circus was stranded in my home town. The equipment was damaged, the hungry animals a big problem, and the ancient performers stayed with that circus. Five of the big elephants of that time were among them. After great difficulty trying to make new starts, a group which included Mr. King and several men who had been released from Ringling, merged the Clyde Beatty-Cole Brothers circuses at Hartford, Connecticut. It became the modern Cole Brothers circus. (Clyde Beatty had been a movie star and wild animal trainer who lent his name to the circus.) Eventually, John Pugh purchased the circus (the owners all died). Once, he told a reporter to ask me about the circus because he thought I knew more of its history than anybody around!

Of course in early days I too was afraid of the biggest animal critters in the world. But when I was old enough, like maybe twelve, I set out to visit any traveling circus that came to town with elephants. Some I learned to know, and some learned to know me to the extent that when any saw me in the tent or arrive on the lot, they faced me. Even old Pete (Petunia) refused to work until I greeted her and told her it was OK to do her work. Honest! The brain of the elephant is utterly fantastic to me. Some were kidders who teased and danced around in my presence. All were females (very few male performing elephants). Big Helen, the number three and giant of the herd was my very first friend. And even on her last trip she recognized me (while only she remained of the original dozen I knew well). Only one did my wife Evelyn indicate a fear about. I recall making movies of them in the parade that began the circus performance. Big Helen was a quiet friend until she died a couple years ago (about seventy). But my wife Evie did not like another who, holding the tail of the elephant in front of her in a procession in front of our seats, saw the blinking light of my movie camera, and always moved her head toward me (a greeting, not a threat). Big Pete was indeed the true star, but the first one in the procession was little Zoe. Then followed Helen and about ten others.

When Zoe wore out (rheumatism and usuals from living and working on the cold grounds) the owners tried to keep her at home, but she cried so much they carried her along with them for a couple more seasons of her choice, and then she died (after a delicate operation to try to save her). But Pete was the star of all elephant stars. He (she) pounded the ground with her legs if she were not permitted to install the poles of the big top. She paraded and perfromed. And then if it were muddy, she allowed a belt to be put around her, and she knew exactly how to pull a big tractor trailer out of the mud.

A famous lion tamer was Clyde Beatty. I saw him often. His last performance (he had cancer) was when his circus played at Easton. He owned no circus, but his name was so big in the business they named the circus with his name. He had starred in a number of movies, Ringling Brothers, and on and on. Then came his successor who truly was a friend of mine. (I hold items he gave me, such as a press badge.) Dave Hoover was the tamer for years, then was in charge of the elephant care. I visited with him in his travel home, and we exchanged personal Christmas cards. The long-time (very best) elephant trainer, the old Captain Logan, was like a cousin. His youngest daughter became a personal friend of ours. And so I knew the bosses of the elephants in the world's biggest (in tent) circus in the world. When a son died, we felt the sorrw as well. Sometimes I visited Cole Brothers close to a dozen times a year. In the earlier days, a Roman priest was assigned to Ringling AND to Cole for weekly masses in the big top.

And so, whie they are all dead now--only two of the newer elephants knew me too--I cannot get out to see them anymore. Peanuts were eaten, as we do. They preferred fruit and veggies. In fact, if one gave them, for example, hot dogs, the elephant would toss out the hot dog and just eat the bun! The elephants communicated with their friends and despised the roustabouts who hit them unnecessarily. A dog is fine, but one cannot equate them with elephants as "friends." Some elephants are independent and not to be played with. Some earn the title of killer, but there were usually good reasons for their actions, as the courts said.

One of the problems that history teachers have is that they usually have to back up 500 years to make a point. But it is probably safe to say that as Americans, we are all of immigrant origin. And except for African Americans, who were brought here as slaves, most immigrants were looking to escape religious intolerance and hoping for opportunities to better themselves and the lives their children.

My parents, Adolph and Rose came to Hawley, Pennsylvania, in 1927 from Scranton. My father had come to the United States in October, 1919. My mother arrived here in November, 1922. I was told by my mother's brother that the immigration people would not release her to my father until they were legally married. They were married in a civil ceremony in New York City. I went to the city archives to look for their marriage certificate, but I had a hard time finding it. I was about to give up when an archivist suggested that records of that sort might not be filed according to the date of the event, but possibly later. We then searched further on, past November, and, luckily, I was able to find their marriage certificate!

They lived in Scranton for about five years. My father's younger brother was in the real estate business, which probably influenced the family to buy the Hawley Inn and bring my parents to Hawley. My older sister was born in Scranton in 1923, but I was born in Hawley in 1929. My birthplace was an apartment at the rear of a Department Store, now the Dime Bank. My younger sister was born at a farm outside of Hawley in 1937.

I have been able to ascertain that my father managed the two-lane bowling alley that was in the basement of the hotel. I was told by a friend that he had at one time been a "pin boy" for my father. But I have never been able to learn why my father left the hotel and went into the "junk" waste material business on his own. He had a "yard" in a shed along River Street across from what was then the Wangum Glass Co.

My father told me that often, some of the wise guys in town and others would steal junk from the rear of the shed and then "sell" it back to my father. His business took him throughout the area and into New York State. He once told me that he met Franklin Roosevelt when FDR was governor of New York and was visiting a Boy Scout camp near Narrowsburg, New York.

In 1929, my parents opened a restaurant on Main Avenue in Hawley with a partner, but the relationship didn't last very long. Needless to say, 1929 was not the best time to go into the restaurant business. My parents did keep this business going until 1937. Both of my parents were good cooks, and I recall the "blue plate specials" cost $.50! The plates were literally blue and white, with an oriental motif. There were three sections in the plate; one for the major portion of meat, and the other two for vegetables and potatoes.

We used to buy an A & P brand of coffee called "8 O'Clock" and, apparently, the restaurant had a reputation for a good cup of coffee. We used to get a lot of truck drivers as patrons. In those days, they hauled a lot of coal from Carbondale,
Pennsylvania, to other sites.

I recall a man sitting at the counter who was carrying a gun. I went over to my friend and got him to come to the restaurant and pointed out to him the gun! On another occasion, I saw a man eating a raw hamburger (steak tartare). This man was apparently a World War I veteran who had collected his "bonus" after the so-called Bonus March on Washington in 1932. He pulled a piece of paper from under his shirt and showed it to my mother. I think it was in the form of a bond. The Bonus March was a gathering of 17,000 World War I veterans and their families looking for payment of their "Service certificates" granted in 1924. However, the certificates weren't supposed to mature until 1945, but the verterans wanted payment immediately.

The first was a man who lived on Shanty Hill. When I saw him, he was bedraggled, dirty, and generally downtrodden. He did, however, have a very nice handwriting and apparently knew something about bookkeeping. He came in to my parents' restaurant, and he would do the "books" for my parents. His payment was a bowl of soup. To this day, I can see him in my mind's eye, slurping a bowl of soup as he sat in one of the booths.

The other was a man named Emmanuel Jonadis. Jonadis undertook to push a wheelbarrow with a rock in it from Litchfield, CT, to LA in California. He gave my father a picture of himself and his wheel barrow. Years later, in the 1940's, we saw a caricature of the picture in a Ripley's "Believe It or Not" item reproduced in one of the Scranton newspapers. In recent years, I sent an e-mail to the Ripley Museum in LA and learned that Jonadis had indeed completed this feat. I was told by the curator that Jonidis had done the whole thing because he lost a bet!

In February, 1935, the local movie house, the Dreamland, was destroyed by fire. Soon after, another movie house, The Ritz, was built. There were lots of good films that came to The Ritz, although they weren't necessarily first-run films. I recall seeing "Flying Down to Rio" with Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers. But to demonstrate how youngsters can be influenced by what they see on the screen, after I saw a man jump out of an airplane and float down to earth with a parachute, I went home and tried to do the same thing. I packed up some things in a scarf, tied it to myself and went out on the roof with the intention of jumping off. My mother really had a sixth sense about things, and by some miracle, she came to the window that led to the roof and kept me from jumping off.

As indicated earlier, Art went on to become a social studies teacher and to contribute his insights into the American dream to his students. The story of his family is the story of many Americans whose families made their way here and not only prospered but also helped our country to prosper and grow. Each family made--and still makes--its own contribution to this great crazy quilt of immigrants we call the United States of America.