Growing up in the Bronx, Part 3

Growing up in the Bronx, Part 3

Arturo Toscanini and my father

During the period between the two world wars in the 20th century, Arturo Toscanini achieved fame as the most knowledgeable, most efficient and most demanding orchestra conductor. With his main base in Milan, he conducting symphony and opera throughout Europe, with guest performances at the New York Metropolitan Opera and the Philharmonic. Through these visits he became friends with David Sarnoff, the head of RCA. Together, they came up with the idea of an orchestra that performed over NBC (a subsidiary of RCA) radio, in order to take advantage of the newly developed technology of recording music to turn Americans to an appreciation of the classical repertoire. This suited Toscanini just fine, not in line with Mussolini and the Fascists. Toscanini was not the person to fall in line. So, in 1937 he moved to New York to be the lead conductor of the NBC Symphony Orchestra - a position he held until 1954. In addition, the orchestra recorded arms-full of the classical repertoire, including the complete symphonies of Beethoven.

Toscanini achieved renown not just for his recorded work, but for his reputation as a fearful perfectionist. For one thing, he conducted from memory without a score. At times, in rehearsal he would stop the music, throw his baton directly at, say, the lead oboist, and berate him with something like this “the measures beginning at the 187th in the oboist’s score say ‘legato.’ The score does not say ‘glissando.’ You have interpreted that note as “not staccato.” That is a good beginning. But here the notes must be distinct, neither merged nor separated: ‘legato’ – neither ‘staccato’ nor ‘glissando.’” Then he’d get off the podium to go over to pick up his baton. Meanwhile the oboist has picked up the baton and had it ready for the maestro. When he accepted the baton he’d smile and say, “Thank you, and this time it will be perfect.” All this was done in Italian, for Toscanini insisted that his musicians understood Italian as the language of music. Stories like this of his demands abound; other conductors of his time recognized that his demands on his orchestra went way beyond the demands they would make.

Arturo Toscanini accepted the invitation by NBC immediately. Probably, the primary reason was the he was out of a job: Mussolini had seen to it that he would never again conduct again in Italy or most of Europe. Mussolini complained about Toscanini’s conducting as too fast and too staccato. Toscanini retorted that his performances are at the tempi proposed by the composers, but rarely achieved because of the inherent difficulties of the music. And the music is performed so that “every note can be identified and appreciated, something which Il Duce is too ignorant to achieve.”

But it was more than Il Duce’s lack of appreciation that offended Toscanini – it was the destruction of the sovereignty the nation of Italy achieved during the period of Giuseppe Verdi, and more than that, the unfettered imprisonment and torture of credible voices of dissent.

In the 1920’s my father was one of those voices of dissent in Italy. For that, he was committed to prison for three years (but released after one year as part of a general amnesty). Without passport he escaped to France in order to attend the third international congress in Paris to fight for Sacco and Vanzetti. In 1928, with forged papers, he returned to the United States to assume the editorship of the radical Italo-american weekly, “L’Adunata.”

Of course, as an elementary school child, I was unaware of any of this. What was known to me is that my father was an accountant; but a rather strange one at that. For, mostly he was writing, and once a week went to the printer to set his writing in type. Since I didn’t really know what it was that an accountant did, his activity did not seem exceptional.

It is not likely that the paths of Toscanini and my father intersected in the period between the two wars, but once both were in the United States, and both exercising their taste for structure and eloquence, it seems (in retrospect) natural that they would have an affinity for each other. My father was not as much of a listener to music as my mother, but once she put on the NBC Symphony of the Air, he stopped his work and came to listen. He once said that he wished he could write like that.

Meanwhile, Toscanini had become a subscriber to L’Adunata after reading a few issues that a friend had provided for him. He was enchanted by the way my father structured his arguments, and how he used the Italian language to provide power to those arguments. I imagine that, for him, this was analogous to the way he used the orchestra to provide power to the composer’s intent. Toward the end of the war, Toscanini entertained the idea of meeting my father, and asked an agent to look into the possibility.

My father, being an illegal alien and – at that – an anarchist who was editor (and chief writer) of an Italian language anarchist weekly publication, popular both in Italy and among Italo-American radicals, had good reason to be not too conspicuous; in fact, best to be not noticeable at all.

During World War II, L’Adunata lost the audience in Italy, and so its attention was directed toward the American involvement in the war. My father’s editorials opposed this involvement, and this opposition – based on steadfast adherence to basic principles – fractured the Italo-american radical community. This conflict, together with his opposition to the war, made the existence of L’Adunata precarious. Thus, for reasons of security for him and his family, he rejected entreaties to meet with people unknown to him, even if introduced by a reliable source.

Toscanini’s agent therefore got nowhere by inquiring within the openly radical Italo-American community. Finally, he discovered a Professor of History at Queens College (in New York) who was doing research within Italo-american radicalism for a book he was writing. The agent contacted this Professor, Paul Avrich, to tell him that Maestro Toscanini wanted to meet the editor of L’Adunata.

About a year before, in preparation for his book, Avrich knew that he had to have interviewed the editor of L’Adunata. So, he asked his friend, David Wieck, if there was a way to access him. Wieck was an American anarchist philosopher who had refused draft in the war. On arrest he insisted that he was a conscientious objector, but since that objection was not divinely revealed, he went to prison. Near the end of the war he was released, and again became active in anarchist protest. This brought him into contact with an East Village group that included several Italians, including Diva Agostinelli. They became partners and remained so until their deaths. Diva was a disciple of my father’s, someone he trusted completely. If it were not for Diva, Paul Avrich would never have met my father. But they did meet several times, at first at some downtown rendezvous, and ultimately at our home.

So, the string starting from Toscanini’s agent through Avrich, Wieck and Agostinelli, finally reached my father. Avrich spent many weeks informing my father of Toscanini’s admiration and desire to meet him. My father beamed at the possibility, but declined. Finally, Avrich informed my father of an invitation by Toscanini – to bring the family to the NBC studio for a Thursday evening performance of the NBC Symphony.

One evening, toward the end of dinner, my father arose to announce to the family that we would be going downtown the following Thursday to attend a concert, in fact, the Thursday evening performance of the NBC Symphony. . My brother, as he was already in on the family secret was surprised, but ecstatic about going to a concert. I really didn’t understand what “going to a concert” meant – a concert was something we listened to on the radio. But I expected I’d find out what it was. My mother was cautious, whispering to me “don’t tell anyone about this, you know how your father is about public displays. Besides, it is really very normal, and for us, a great treat. They will probably be playing the Pastoral Symphony of Beethoven.”

At 5:30 p. m. on the subsequent Thursday evening, we all got dressed in our best social clothes (for my brother, his first suit, and for me a brand new sweater and long pants!), walked to the subway and took the 7th Avenue express to Times Square. Then we walked over to Rockefeller Center. I remember passing the windows of a restaurant and seeing a chef swirling a beautiful vegetable, cheese and egg omelet into a tower, right at the street window. I asked my father (the omelet expert) if he could do that. His response was, “let’s try it tomorrow.”

When we got to the NBC section of RCA, my mother went to a window and chatted with the clerk. A short time later an officious looking man, wearing a jacket with a long string of red buttons, came to us and said to my father, “the Maestro is most excited that you have come with your family. Please follow me.”

I was sure that I had misunderstood what I heard, and that we were being escorted to the back door. My parents totally rejected any display of “importance,” and took pains to ensure that we were never treated specially. This reception was completely antithetical to my expectations. Nevertheless, I followed, hand in my mother’s hand, to an elevator that led us to the Mezzanine. From there we walked down a long aisle until we reached a door that our escort opened with a special key. On the other side of that door was a box directly over the stage, already equipped with chairs and music stands, with five seats. My mother instructed her boys to take the front seats, while my parents stayed in the rear.

Shortly thereafter, another young man, dressed like he was about to give a concert, brought in sheets of music and placed them on the music stands. My mother laughed and said to the young man, “but we don’t read music.” My brother immediately exclaimed, “I do!” The young man smiled and said that we are welcome to take the sheets with us when we go home, as a memento of the concert.”

We then watched the members of the orchestra come in, take their seats and start to play, sotto voce, little musical phrases. After a while, an announcer came to the stage and informed us of the program and the role of the audience. We were not just an audience: we were participants in radio production that will be transmitted into millions of living rooms across the country. This was the NBC Symphony of the Air!

And they did perform the Beethoven Pastoral Symphony. After the performance, as we prepared to leave our special box, the man in the coat with the red buttons reappeared and announced that the Maestro would like to talk with il Scrittore, and if he would come, the others of could remain, with treats that will be provided. He turned to my father and said, “the Maestro would be extremely pleased.” He accepted the invitation and told us, over his shoulder, that this would not be that long.

It was long; however, we had someone from the entourage entertain us, and of course the treats were just what my brother and I desired. My mother was clearly thrilled to talk music with a musician, despite her continued protestations that she knew nothing about music.

When my father reappeared together with the man of the red buttons, he was subdued and calm and simply said, “the Maestro is truly a great man.”

I never learned what happened during the interview with Toscanini, and – to tell the truth - I never wondered. The whole experience of being treated extra-special at a performance of the NBC symphony was magical enough for me. After my father passed away, I reminisced with my mother about this incident and asked her if she knew what happened between Toscanini and my father. She replied that she had pressed him about the interview, and he finally told her: “the Maestro told me that he was a man obsessed with perfection, not only from himself and his orchestra but everything. He said that he has been reading l’Adunata for years and often – but not always – agrees with the content. Sometimes he vigorously disagreed, and wished that he had the opportunity to discuss this with the author. This, however, was not the time – what he wanted me to know is what made him a regular reader. This was the only place, he said, where he could “enjoy the beauty and precision of the Italian language.”

My father was a modest man, and he probably did not tell this to my mother. But she knew how to interpret his statements, and this was what she remembered him saying.

In those days my parents had season tickets to the Metropolitan Opera (that they shared with their good neighbors the Bonvicini – the pun is not mine, the name really was theirs). Somehow we got to see Paul Robeson in Othello – the whole family with front row seats in the balcony. We also – as a family - saw Jose Ferrer on the stage as Cyrano.

And during that time, for about three years running, we had our New Year’s feast at an upscale Times Square Italian restaurant. When it came time to order, my mother first turned to my brother and me, and asked, “what would you like?” I remember saying “meat balls and spaghetti.” My mother tilted her head and smiled, in that way that I recognized as “how cute,” and then looked at the waiter and said, “he can have that at home any time he wants.” She turned to me again and asked, “what would like that is special?” I replied, “veal cutlets with lemon and capers… and gelato.”

At that time I did not wonder how my parents could afford such things, since their combined income was about the poverty level. Besides, my mother would never waste money on such extravagance, for she knew that when we went to College we’d need financial support.

I never thought about these extravagances, nor did I question other happenings which now seem to me extra-ordinary. The mid –orchestra seats at the New York Ballet in Alice Fisher hall? The special moment when Maria Tallchief stopped my mother on our way out and gave her a big hug?

These were not things that routinely occurred in the life of a lower middle class family from the Bronx. When they went to the Opera on their season tickets, my father sat behind a post, and my mother at his side with a partial view of the stage. We never went out to eat. Whenever my parents went to a movie, it was the matinee. Sometimes the kids went along – on those occasions we sometimes stopped to have malts, but never a meal.

But at these special events, we had next-to-best seats in the house. There was someone to take us to our box and ask us what we would like as refreshment at the intermission.

As I write about our family’s interaction with Toscanini, the memory of these extraordinary experiences came back to me. There was no way that my parents would, or could, buy front row seats for these spectacular popular events. And even if they did, how were they able to arrange the special treatment?

As I was writing this essay all those events came back to me, not in a rush, but slowly, one by one. How did these events happen, and why are they coming back to me in this essay on Toscanini… Was it? Could it have been? It had to be! Toscanini had provided my family with these experiences. Even more remarkable, my parents accepted his magnanimity.

I don’t know if this explanation is correct. It is far-fetched. But less so than any other explanation that comes to my mind.

Why Don’t Your Parents Vote?

My group of kids was a very close knit group. We went to school together, we played punchball or “in the tree” together, or went to somebody’s home together right after school to listen to the serials: the Shadow, the Green Hornet, and so forth.

My family lived on the fifth floor (apartment 51) of 797 Crotona Park North. The residents four floors below us (apartment 1) were the Edmonds: parents and three kids – 2 girls and then the youngest, Stanley. He was about two years younger than me, and much smaller than the group our age, but he was a good kid, and could really get an out (from second base) in punchball. So, he was a regular in our little group.

Stanley’s father was a hard working man, with a little store front on Tremont Avenue, about 5 blocks away from where we lived. He also was some kind of official in the local ward of the Democratic party. As elections neared, the front windows of the Edmonds’ apartment were festooned with placards exhorting the populace to “Vote for…”

During the war, I recall that he had a permanent poster in one of the windows that showed a caricature of Hitler with a big ear, listening to two kids talking. The caption said, “Stay Mum, Chum….Chew Tops Gum.” During the war, especially at the beginning, citizens were asked to search the skies for German warplanes. Each of us kids was given a page of silhouettes of aircraft: German, English and American, so that we could identify planes that we saw overhead. During (mock) air raids, we children were ushered up to the roof, with our page of silhouettes, to search for aircraft. The person who did the ushering was Mr. Edmonds. In many ways he saw to it that the people of the neighborhood were engaged in the war effort, and incidentally, totally behind President Roosevelt.

I also remember one Saturday morning in Fall, 1944 running down to Tremont Avenue with lots and lots of other people. President Roosevelt had come to visit the Bronx and his motorcade was to come up that street. We got there in time to get right in front at the edge of the sidewalk, so I could see. We looked down toward Southern Boulevard, and heard the far off sound of a roaring crowd. Then the motorcade appeared: in the lead were policemen on horses, then a few military vehicles loaded with waving soldiers, followed by a few limousines with darkened windows, and then a convertible with President and Mrs. Roosevelt. There he was: his Fedora tight on his head, and a cigarette holder (with cigarette) in his signature broad beaming smile.

One thing I also knew was that it was a shame that the 1944 Democratic ticket dropped Henry Wallace as VP, and replaced him with a clerk, apparently randomly selected. I knew this from the local Bronx politics, but it was reinforced by overheard discussions of my parents and those of Stanley.

The 1944 Presidential election was easily one by the Roosevelt-Truman ticket. Prosperity and security had been restored and the Allies were winning the war: Paris was liberated, the European front would soon be moved within Germany, and we were fighting the Japanese on their islands. Prosperity at home and the prospect of peace in Europe and the Pacific was enough for the voters to keep FDR in the White House.

And then, in April of 1945, he died. In my life I had known no other President. I had no idea how the succession took place. In my father’s view, Truman was a nice handkerchief salesman with no idea of what was going on, nor its parameters. It was pretty scary for us kids; especially since the adults themselves seemed bewildered. Can a handkerchief salesman actually bring peace to the planet? Well, peace in Europe came in mid and May, 1945 and in the Pacific in August, 1945 - a did the nuclear age.

In the Fall of 1948, I became involved in the Presidential election. The father of my friend Stanley was a Democratic ward leader, and he encouraged Stanley and his friends to be politically involved – although we couldn’t vote, we could still have an influence. From my perspective, everyone in the Bronx was a democrat – the republicans were those people in dark suits who lived in the high rises along 5th avenue in Manhattan (and half of the people in Queens, all of whom were loonies). So, how can we have an influence? Stanley’s father got us together and explained. “Yes, almost everyone in the Bronx is a democrat. But not everyone votes. So, we have to get them to vote. And that’s where you kids count. Go to there houses and tell them that the future depends upon their vote. Leave them with this set of instructions on how to do that.”

My father was upset that I was going around as a shill for the democratic party, but my mother, who actually was a laborer in the city, informed him “he’s growing up, and needs to be doing what he feels he wants to do. Just like you when you were his age.” My father never said how he felt about “what I wanted to do,” but the issue never arose again.

One day during the winter following Harry Truman’s victory over Tom Dewey, Mr. Edmonds walked in on me and Stanley watching TV (probably “Howdy Doody”) from the living room floor and asked me, “Why do your parents not vote?”

First of all, it never occurred to me that they didn’t vote- it wasn’t something that I might notice. I did know that on election day they listened carefully to the results as they came in. And on election day, 1948 they were very disturbed by the early returns that Dewey had a win – but then I went to sleep to find out the next morning that they were happy with the results.

Well, I answered Mr. Edmonds by saying that I didn’t know they didn’t vote. He asked, “ Don’t they tell you?” and I responded “No.” He said that he was just curious: since my mother was an active member of the ILGWU, he assumed that she was a strong Democrat. I assured him that my parents were strong Democrats. After all, my mother was the treasurer of the ILGWU unit of which she was a member.

In our home it was the habit that after dinner we had a little discussion. Mostly it was about how school was going, or what the latest news could mean – even if it was about baseball (which was boring because the Yankees always won). This night, I asked my parents “Why don’t you vote?”

My mother asked me “how do you know whether we vote or not?” and I responded that Mr. Edmonds asked me, so I thought I should know the answer. I fully expected my parents to tell me that whether or not they vote is nobody’s business, but instead I saw my Dad stiffen, and my mother sit back down at her seat at the table. She asked, “And what else does Mr. Edmonds know?” I responded, “that you are a faithful member – even an official- of the ILGWU.” Her response was, “I do what I have to do.”

My brother was at the table at this time – he was 4 years older than I – and he said, “They don’t vote because there is no point in voting.”

“But….but” I said “If we don’t vote, Dewey would be our President!”

My mother asked me, “what is the difference?”

“Truman is our President, and Dewey is a …. a lawyer…” I had somewhere heard that lawyers are suspect individuals. I continued to argue, “Hitler sent millions of people to concentration camps and death with no justification, and we have to correct that.”

Now my father cut in. “Hitler made up his justification: he sent people to concentration camps who were enemies of the state. And Roosevelt has done the same, by interring Japanese residents in concentration camps.”

“But Hitler did this to millions; Roosevelt to hundreds of thousands – and besides, the Japanese navy was just off the coast of Califronia.”

My father continued. “Are we talking about numbers: millions versus hundreds of thousands? Or are we talking about principle. And – were there Japanese ships of the coast of California, or was that what we were told? Were the Jews actually ripping the German people of their fortunes – or is that what we were told?”

I was befuddled. I didn’t know the answers of these questions. I did know that they did not answer Mr. Edmonds’ question: Why did they not vote.

In school, we were often asked to explain, in our words, why it was important that we were in this war. The answers that made sense to me were these:

To stop Hitler from taking over the world.

To save our democracy and way of living.

Now, there were new questions. Will stopping Hitler stop authoritarian abuse of power? Is saving our democracy the same as saving our way of living? It was uncomfortable to have thoughts that question “given truths.”

How I found out

As I approached the age of 15, I began to understand that my father was not an accountant. All the Italian language books and history books in his study, his typing away almost every night, every Thursday he and my mother reading proofs of an Italian language newspaper, visits to the printer on Saturday mornings - these were not activities of an accountant. Going to Italian language picnics every summer, at which my father gave the ending speech (in Italian) - something other than working with numbers had to be involved.

But, I was not curious about what he actually did. I never asked about whatever it was he did, nor why he was secretive about it. I was too busy with my own life, and I was certain that, whatever it was he did and why was none of my business.

Then, one evening, after listening to the news report of McCarthy’s vicious attacks on people who obviously were just plain hardworking…

It had always been the custom after dinner for Vinio and I to go to the living room table to do our homework, my father to his study to do his work, and my mother to do the dishes. But, thus night, as summer was approaching and I eagerly awaiting the day when we would go to Needham, mother instructed Vinio and I to go start our homework, while my father remained in the kitchen. This was before our customary coffee and conversation, so it appeared strange. Mom explained, “your father and I have something to discuss.”

OK, so we went into our homework assignments. We could hear mom and dad whispering to each other - this was strange behavior, so I asked Vinio, “do you know what they are talking about?” He said, “I think I know,” and leaned toward me just as Mom called out to him to join them in the kitchen. I got up too, but my brother said, “stay here.”

So, I thought, this is about me. I was detained in school a few days ago, so this must be about my behavior. Or, maybe it was about my clarinet lessons - I know my teacher had talked to my mother about my lack of progress. That’s it! That’s why Vinio was called in - he had become a trombone virtuoso while I could not yet contain the squeaking, “No problem,” I thought - I was ready to give it up anyhow.

Then, Mom called me in to the kitchen, “Come have some coffee,” she said. As I approached the kitchen table, I could see my brother sitting calmly with arms folded against his body. As my mother sat down next to me, my father got up to pour the coffee into cups. I waited.

Total silence until we all were sipping our coffee. Then my father asked me, “have you been in my room?”

Oh,no, can this be? “Yes Babbo, I’ve gone into your room to consult the Encyclopedia Brittanica.”

“Have you ever looked at the books on my shelves?”

Where is the conversation going? I thought. Yes, I looked at the books, but they were almost all in Italian.

Vinio asked, “what do you think Babbo does?”

I responded, “He keeps books. Look, I know that a bookkeeper is a kind of accountant, and that Babbo could not be that. So, with all these books around, I assumed that what he does is “keep books.”

I looked at my brother, whose face asked, “can you really be that naive?” I wasn’t that naive - I had long wondered what it was that he really does. As my brother started to phrase another question, my mother interrupted.

“ Your father writes articles that are strongly antigovernment… any kind of government. For that he was imprisoned in Italy, but escaped. He came to the U.S. because his friends wanted him and his writing, even though if he was found out he would be deported again.”

I interrupted, “what do you mean by ‘again?’”

My father responded: “I came to the United States when I was a teenager because I wanted to live in a place not dominated by religion. Here I met your mother’s father and joined him in trips to Lynn to protest against the treatment of the mill workers. There I met Galleani and was deeply impressed with his his speeches and the thinking behind them. I joined his group and in the process became an editor of his weekly newspaper.Then, at the end of the First World War, because the Revolution in Russia seemed like a great threat to all countries, the U.S. government rounded up foreign radicals and deported them to their home country. I returned to the U.S. about a decade later to be editor of the Italian language weekly, “L’Adunata dei Reffratari” - the Call to the Refractories.

Now, for a minute or two, there was no conversation. My family watched me as I reviewed what I knew about my family.

In a rush, it all began to make sense to me. My father at his typewriter every night; the Thursday evening when my parents read the proofs of a periodical, the Saturday mornings when I sometimes accompanied my father to the printer to make a last check on the issue, the several picnics in the summer to raise funds to keep the publication going. I assumed they were just fun times for old Italians to get together. It never occurred to me to be curious about the standing ovation for my father at the end of the speeches.

I then asked, “Will McCarthy’s committee send you back to Italy?” Will we have to …”

Here again, my father interrupted:”Hugo, if it is found out who is responsible for these writings, I will be sent back to Italy, If so, you also might be sent back, if not for your mother’s marriage to an Italian American veteran.”

It was often my responsibilty to run down to the first floor to pick up the mail. I wondered why some of the mail my mother got was addressed to “Florence Giannetti,”

So I asked, “so that is why she gets mail to ‘Gianetti?”

Here my brother interrupted,” I take that as rhetorical - of course this news resolves a lot of questions you’ve had. It did for me three years ago. Keep asking those questions, Mom and Dad will answer them. The important thing is that you must never tell anyone of this. Mom and Dad have worked this out so that it works, unless one of us breaks the silence. That is why we’re having this meeting. So that you will know the truth, and never tell anyone.’

I didn’t know if I could keep this secret, but I said that I will try. And then, I asked, “what is anarchism?”

My father responded, “When I was your age, I left my home town, in part, because, when I asked such questions, I was told not to ask such questions. So, I had to find the answers - if any - by myself. It is a good exercise, and I would not want to deprive you of the same experience.”