The Other Side of Me

By 1930, the Depression had gotten deeper and was squeezing the economic life out of the country. Bread lines had increased and unemployment was pandemic. There were riots in the streets.



I had graduated from Marshall Field grammar school in Chicago, and had a job at Afremow's drugstore. Natalie was working as a cashier at a roller derby, a new craze that took place in large roller dome arenas with huge circular wooden rinks where intrepid men on roller skates raced around the rink, knocking down their rivals and committing as much mayhem as they could while the audience cheered them on.



Otto, meanwhile, was traveling around the country putting together his hypothetical mega-deals.



Intermittently, he would come home from the road filled with enthusiasm.



"I have a good feeling about this. I just made a deal that's going to put us on easy street."



And we would pack up and move to Hammond, or Dallas, or Kirkland Junction, in Arizona.



"Kirkland Junction?"



"You'll love it there," Otto promised. "I bought a silver mine."



Kirkland turned out to be a small town, 104 miles from Phoenix, but that was not our destination. Kirkland Junction was a dilapidated gas station, and we ended up living in the back of it for three miserable months while Otto tried to corner the silver market. It turned out that there was no silver in the mine.



We were saved by a phone call from Uncle Harry.



"How's the silver mine?" Harry asked.



"Not good," Otto said.



"Don't worry about it. I'm in Denver. I have a great stock brokerage company going. I want you to join me."



"We're on our way," Otto told him. He hung up and turned to Natalie, Richard, and me. "We're moving to Denver. I have a good feeling about this."



Denver turned out to be a delight. It was pristine and beautiful, with cool breezes sweeping down from the snowcapped mountains through the city. I loved it.



Harry and Pauline had found a luxurious, two-story mansion in an elegant section of Denver. The back of their home looked out on an enormous, verdant piece of land called Cheeseman Park. My cousins, Seymour, Howard, Eddie, and Steve, were glad to see us, and we were delighted to see them.



Seymour was driving a bright red Pierce Arrow and dating girls older than himself. Eddie had been given a saddle horse for his birthday. Howard was winning junior tennis matches. The moneyed atmosphere in their lives was a far cry from our dreary existence in Chicago.



"Are we going to live with Harry and Pauline?" I asked.



"No." They had a surprise for me. "We're going to buy a home here."



When I saw the house they were going to buy, I could hardly believe it. It was large, with a lovely garden, in a quiet suburb on Marion Street. The rooms were large, beautiful, and welcoming. The furniture was fresh and lovely, far different from the musty furniture in the apartments I had lived in all my life. This was more than a house. This was a home. The moment I walked in the front door, I felt that my life had changed, that I finally had roots. There would be no more moving around the country every few months, changing apartments and schools.



Otto is going to buy this house. I'm going to get married here and my children will grow up here . . .



For the first time in my memory, money was plentiful. Harry's business was doing so well that he now owned three brokerage firms.



In the fall of 1930, at the age of thirteen, I enrolled at East High School and it turned out to be a very pleasant experience. The teachers in Denver were friendly and helpful. There was no throwing of inkwells at students. I was starting to make friends at school, and I enjoyed the thought of going home to the beautiful house that was soon to be ours. Natalie and Otto seemed to have settled most of their personal problems, which made life even sweeter.



One day, during a gym class, I slipped, hurt my spine, and tore something loose. The pain was excruciating. I lay on the floor, unable to move. They carried me to the school doctor's office.



When he was through examining me, I asked, "Am I going to be crippled?"



"No," he assured me. "One of your discs has torn loose and it's pressing against your spinal cord. That's what's causing the pain. The treatment is very simple. All you have to do is lie still in bed for two or three days with hot packs to relax the muscles, and the disc will slip back into place. You'll be as good as new."



An ambulance took me home and the paramedics put me to bed. I lay there in pain, but just as the doctor had said, in three days the pain was gone.



I had no idea how deeply this incident was going to affect the rest of my life.



One day I had an out-of-this-world experience. There was an advertisement for a county fair in Denver, where one of the attractions was a ride in an airplane.



"I'd like to go up," I told Otto.



He thought about it. "All right."



The plane was a beautiful Lincoln Commander and it was a thrill just to get in it.



The pilot looked at me and said, "First time?"



"First time."



"Fasten your seatbelt," he said. "You're in for a thrill."



He was right. Flying was a surreal experience. I watched the earth swoop up and down and disappear, and I had never felt anything so exhilarating in my life.



When we landed, I said to Otto, "I want to go up again."



And I did. I was determined that someday I was going to be a pilot.



Early one morning in the spring of 1933, Otto came into my bedroom. His face was grim. "Pack your things. We're leaving."



I was puzzled. "Where are we going?"



"We're going back to Chicago."



I could not believe it. "We're leaving Denver?"



"That's right."



"But - "



He was gone.



I got dressed and went to see Natalie. "What happened?"



"Your father and Harry had a - a misunderstanding."



I looked around at the home that I thought I was going to live in for the rest of my life. "What about this house?"



"We're not buying it."



Our return to Chicago was joyless. Neither Otto nor Natalie wanted to talk about what had happened. After Denver, Chicago seemed even more unfriendly and uncaring. We moved into a small apartment and I was back to reality, a grim reminder that we had no money, and that a decent job was impossible to get. Otto was on the road again and Natalie was working as a salesclerk at a department store. My dream of going to college died. There was no money for my tuition. The apartment walls were closing in on me. Everything smelled gray.



I can't spend the rest of my life living this way, I thought. The poverty we lived in now seemed even worse after the brief, heady taste of affluence in Denver, and we were desperately short of money. Working as a delivery boy for a pharmacy was not my future.



That was when I had decided I would commit suicide, and Otto had talked me out of it by telling me I had to keep turning the pages. But the pages were not turning and I had nothing to look forward to. Otto's promise had been empty words.



When September came around, I enrolled at Senn High School. Otto was on the road again, trying to make mega-deals. Natalie was working full-time at a dress shop, but not enough money was coming in. I had to find a way to help . . .



I thought about Natalie's older brother, Sam, and the checkroom concessions he owned at several hotels in the Loop. The checkrooms were staffed with attractive, scantily-dressed young women, and hang boys. The customers were generous with their tips to the women. They had no idea that the money went to the management.



I took the elevated train downtown to the Loop to see my Uncle Sam. He was in his office at the Sherman Hotel.



He greeted me warmly. "Well, this is a nice surprise. What can I do for you, Sidney?"



"I need a job."



"Oh?"



"I was hoping that maybe I could work in the checkroom at one of your hotels as a hang boy."



Sam knew our financial situation. He looked at me thoughtfully. Finally he said, "Why not? You look older than seventeen. I think the Bismarck Hotel can use you."



And he put me to work that week.



Being a hang boy was simple. The customers would give their coats and hats to the female attendant, who handed them a numbered check. She would then turn their coats and hats over to me, and I would hang them up on corresponding numbered racks. When the customer returned, the process would be reversed.



I now had a new schedule. I went to school until three, and immediately after school, I would take the El south to the Loop, get off at the station near the Bismarck Hotel, and go to work. My hours were from five P.M. to closing, which was sometimes midnight or later, depending on whether there was a special party. My salary was three dollars a night. I turned the money over to Natalie.



Weekends were the busiest time for parties at the hotels, so I found myself working seven evenings a week. Holidays were emotionally difficult for me. Families came to the hotel for Christmas and New Year's Eve celebrations and I watched the children celebrating with their mothers and fathers, and I envied them. Natalie was busy working and Otto was gone, so Richard and I were alone, and had no one to celebrate with. At eight o'clock, while everyone else enjoyed their holiday dinners, I would hurry out to a coffee shop or a diner, have a quick bite to eat, and return to work.



The bright spot in my nightly routine was when my Aunt Frances, Natalie's effervescent younger sister, came to work at the Bismarck checkroom for a night or two. She was a small and vivacious brunette, with a quick sense of humor, and the customers adored her.



A new checkroom attendant, Joan Vitucci, came to work at the Bismarck. She was only a year older than I, and she was very pretty. I was attracted to her, and I began to fantasize about her. I would start by taking her out on dates. Even though I had no money, she would see the positive things about me. We would fall in love and get married, and we would have wonderful children.



One evening she said, "My aunt and uncle have a family lunch every Sunday. I think you would like them. If you're free this Sunday, why don't you join us?"



The fantasy was coming true.



That Sunday turned out to be a lovely experience. It was a warm, Italian family gathering of about a dozen adults and children sitting around a large dining room table, filling up on bruschetta, pasta fagioli, chicken cacciatore, and baked lasagna.



Joan's uncle was an affable, gregarious man named Louie Alterie, the head of the Chicago janitors union. When it was time to leave, I thanked everyone and told Joan what a great time I had had. This was the real beginning of our relationship.



The following morning, Louie Alterie was machine-gunned to death as he was leaving his building where we had had lunch.



Joan disappeared from my life.



That was the end of the fantasy.



Between school during the day, the checkroom nights, and the drugstore Saturdays, I had little time for myself.



Something strange seemed to be happening at home. There was tension, but it was a different kind of tension. Natalie and Otto were whispering things to each other, and looking grim.



One morning, Otto came in to me and said, "Son, I'm going to the farm. I'm leaving today."



I was surprised. I had never been on a farm and I thought it would be fun. "I'd like to go with you, Otto."



He shook his head. "I'm sorry. I can't take you."



"But - "



"No, Sidney."



"Okay. When will you be back?"



"In three years." He walked away.



Three years? I couldn't believe it. How could he desert us for three years to live on a farm?



Natalie came into the room. I turned to her. "What's going on?"



"I'm afraid I have bad news for you, Sidney. Your father got mixed up with some evil people," she said. "He was selling vending machines to stores. What your father didn't know was that there were no vending machines. The men he worked for took the money and ran. But they were caught, and your father was found guilty, along with them. He's going to prison."



I was shocked. So, that's the farm. "For three years?" I did not know what to say. What are we going to do without him for three years?



As it turned out, I need not have worried.



Twelve months after Otto reported to Lafayette State Prison, he was on his way back home, a hero.