REMEMBERING 116TH STREET
by
Diana Tabone
The Pawnbroker, vintage film of the mid-1950s, sketched the life of a New York City pawnbroker who had lost his wife and children in the Holocaust. I deliberately didn’t go to see it fifty years ago because of its upsetting and graphic subject matter. Though I still do not consider this film “entertainment,” Rod Steiger’s fine acting ability and remarkable career recently prompted me to view the film.
The film was set in Spanish Harlem with its streets of crumbling tenements; misery oozed through the cement and robberies and murder were commonplace. One of the last camera shots of the film focused on the street signs indicating 116th Street and 3rd Ave. Until that point I
hadn’t recognized the neighborhood where I was born and raised right through sophomore year at Julia Richman High School. Yes, it was the same place, then known as East Harlem where the elevated train stopped on my street, and where for a nickel you could carry your baby brother and embark on a days’ outing to the Bronx Zoo.
Below the El ran the trolley car, the original mode of public transportation. Powered by electricity, its tracks were laid years before the advent of the El. Reversible bench backs accommodated the wicker seating to face in whichever direction the trolley was going. The conductor walked the length of the car with arms outstretched, banging the backs to the other side of the seat at the end of each run. Passengers would then face in the right direction. Traveling was easy; numbers went up for Uptown, and down for Downtown. Auto traffic was light in those days. Most city dwellers used Mass Tran, an efficient system of elevated and subway trains that carried you to all parts of the city. At that time, we were the only family in the neighborhood that owned a car.
As memory stirred my thoughts, I reached back to my own reality: Mom and Dad, Helen and Gus, older brother Sonny—all flashed to mind. We had all lived on the top floor of a four-story building whose first two floors housed Farenga’s Funeral Home. This funeral parlor also employed my father as chauffeur/mechanic, and his father, Egisto Ribolini, as handyman. Being a chauffeur at funerals sometimes entailed serving as pallbearer. Dad’s friend and fellow pallbearer, Red Colonna, was a joker who would whisper hilarious stories while they were carrying a casket to the gravesite. He came by his talent naturally since he was brother to Bob Hope’s sidekick, Jerry Colonna. Because of this association, we were all invited to meet Jerry when he was playing the Paramount in New York. I remember ascending a winding stairway to get to the dressing room, and my mom walking up to Jerry, tweaking his trademark mustache and asking, “Is this real?’ That was our glowing brush with greatness!
My grandparents were born in Italy and came to America with thousands of other 19th century immigrants. In our predominantly Italian neighborhood, being 2nd and 3rd generation made us a modern American
family--and being thus “Americanized,” we spoke only English at home except when Mom and Dad didn’t want us to understand what was being said! Handsome, strong, and gentle, Dad was a loving father and husband who exhibited a lot of patience with his pretty, loving, lighthearted, and slightly scatter-brained wife. Every once in a while you would hear an exasperated Gus exclaim: “Helen, you have no system!” She just couldn’t handle housekeeping and the care of two children--so, at age forty she ‘got religion’ and had four more kids…
Baby brother Augie, born when I was thirteen, was part of our Harlem history, but sisters Elena, Ann, and Elizabeth who arrived at a later date, never knew the Harlem city streets. They were mom’s special gift to me. Young enough to be my own children, they were and are an important part of my life.
In the city of those times, most relatives lived within walking distance of each other, a valuable support system rarely found in the twenty-first century. Dad’s folks lived in the apartment below us for a time with their youngest son, Herby; daughters Stella, Lucy, Rose, and Yondy never lived in Harlem. These paternal grandparents were not demonstrative and you really didn’t know how they felt about you. It was with much trepidation that this chubby granddaughter approached Grandpa for a penny. If I met him on the street, in his neat dark suit with his henna’d hair slicked down and the stub of a smelly DiNapoli cigar clenched in his teeth, I was never sure how he would react to me.
Grandma Dionesia, after whom I was named, was a handsome, stern-faced woman. Occasionally she would allow me to accompany her to a local movie house where, in the darkness, she would crochet beautiful, intricately patterned tablecloths. My mom respected her capacity for taking spindly-legged little foster kids and growing them into strong healthy children, an ability to be valued in any generation.
Mom’s family, on the other hand, was very demonstrative. Grandma Paulantonio lived on 120th
St. and a knock on her door elicited screams of
delight at our entrance. Angela and Antonio had eleven children, but at that time only Grandma, Aunts Rita, Gloria, Anna, and Uncle Joe lived together. Aunt Rita was the ‘saint’ of the family. Extremely religious with a brilliant mind and a gentle smile, she showed interest in everything we did and was our favorite. She entered State Teachers College at the age of sixteen, but soon started losing control of her body movements and began falling down. One of those muscle-deteriorating diseases eventually made her a “shut in,” but she never lost heart! Maintaining her cheerfulness, she taught Latin to the local altar boys. I remember her, rosary in her hands, an angelic smile on her face, sitting on the couch wrapped in a blue plaid blanket that kept her warm against the cold brought on by her lack of mobility. Our Grandma had a lot on her plate, but it didn’t curtail her from displaying a cheerful countenance or singing a rousing round of her “soldier boy” song.
Grandpa Paulantonio had died some years back. The only memory I have of him is his slicing dark orange peaches into his glass of red wine. He was a tailor; fine enough to outfit the likes of Enrico Caruso and Kate Smith. He was also a Mason – a dark secret in this very Catholic family. After his death Grandma paid off all his debts. Between that and some unscrupulous tenants who took advantage of her, she lost the apartment house they owned at 2283 First Avenue, the place in which I was born mid-wife style. Among my grandparent’s children were two pharmacists, a lawyer, a priest, and a nun. This immigrant couple really proved that America was a ‘land of opportunity’!
On Sundays our families would gather together--aunts, uncles, and cousins all sitting around the living room. The kids would be encouraged to recite. Because of my shyness, I wouldn’t utter a sound unless everyone looked away. Amidst much laughter they all obliged, turned their backs to me and after listening attentively, enthusiastically applauded! Some experiences need the distance of years to appreciate.
Even if you owned a car, you only used it for special trips. Walking brought you down to the East River Drive – to the tugboats and coal barges and the large grassy areas that sported yellow dandelions and purple clover flowers. Nearby was Jefferson Park with its pools and wartime Victory gardens, its swings, see saws, and my favorite, the monkey bars. But you didn’t have to walk to the Park to have fun. Our wide sidewalk allowed pedestrians to pass without interfering with our games of patsy (hopscotch), rope skipping, roller-skating, and bicycling.
School was a four-block walk away. After we had attended daily Mass at Our Lady Queen of Angels church, Dominican nuns taught us from first through eighth grade. Back then the Mass was prayed almost entirely in a kneeling position on uncushioned kneelers. Pain-filled ridges formed on your knees, requiring that you move your body slowly from side to side, making sure not to draw Sister’s attention. At noon my brother Sonny and I walked home for lunch. No fast food here! You might get a steamed egg nestled in a halo of fresh spinach, served with loving care, but no promise of a clean table.
In those days we were all identified by the parish to which we belonged. Church was an integral part of our lives and Sunday Mass would see kids and mothers--though very few fathers. Bingo nights, novenas, mission priests, and the big feasts were all chosen according to the customs and traditions of the neighborhood. For us it was July 16th, the feast of
Our Lady of Mount Carmel, that drew pilgrims from all parts of the city and beyond. As with any big fair or celebration, food vendors had a field day. The aroma of sausage and peppers seduced us from a block away. The focal point was the parade, a procession of the faithful trailing a float that held a statue of The Lady backed by a large banner. The banner was used as a depository for money, and currency was pinned to it before the parade or enroute by the onlookers. We considered it a privilege to donate and be a part of this tribute.
Our secular entertainment was in the form of the movies and Hollywood was producing fifty films a year. All you needed was ten cents for admittance to the popular Cosmo a block away. Cashing in milk and soda deposit bottles entitled you to four hours of pure escapism: two feature films, cartoons, serial chapters and MovieTone News. And it could happen almost weekly. At evening attractions, there was free dinnerware for the ladies!
Among those of Italian descent, no matter which part of the country you live in today, the question arises: Where can you get GOOD Italian bread? No problem back then – those Neapolitans knew how to bake bread! Before bread became one of the “forbidden” CARBS, one really felt you could live by bread alone. But of course you couldn’t, because there were the Pasticceria’s – pastry shops filled with sights and scents to weaken the strongest Weight Watcher. Pastaciotte, Sfoliatelle, Baba Un Rhum, Cannoli, Biscotte, and so many more varieties tempt the taste buds! And an ethnic delicacy that sat in a bowl in the window – a deep dark chocolate pudding that MyT Fine never produced: Sanguenacio, made with pig’s blood.
Pasticerias in the summer set up their Italian Ice stands and sold two-, three-, and five-cent paper cups of lemon, chocolate, cream, and lily-with-nuts--flavors that we called “lemonade”. In the winter, chestnut and sweet potato vendors pushed their little stove carts down the street selling their hot wares. Snowy days saw snowball fights in the streets and prompted Dad to take us to Central Park for ice-skating or to the Bronx for good sledding hills.
Food shopping, unlike today’s weekly trip to a supermarket, involved a daily walk to cart-lined streets where vegetables and fruits were abundantly displayed. We bought bananas from a peddler who guided a horse-drawn wagon filled with fruit and chanted “Bananas! Ten cents a pound!” as he made his way along the streets, stopping when women approached to make a purchase.
From the street vendors we’d proceed to the butcher shop, its floor covered with fresh sawdust. “I want some nice lean lamb chops, Frank,” and the butcher would nod knowingly at Mom, cut and trim the chops, and throw in some marrow bones--no charge. Personal transactions from a different world! Chickens back then weren’t the mass-assembly agri-business they are today and weren’t a frequent menu item. The chicken market was a garage-like building with crates piled high, filled with squawking birds. The chicken man would open a crate, grab the legs of a hen, feel the breast and pronounce it “nice and plump.” Upside down our feathered friend would be carried its last dozen steps to the white tiled room where, after wringing its neck, the chicken man would hold it under steaming hot water and strip it of its feathers. You met the cycle of life and death in mundane matters. A far cry from the colorful, but clinical, super markets of today.
The “Italian Store” sold only imported foods. Huge provolones, cylindrical and round, hung from the ceiling. Gallon tins of Pope Olive Oil were stacked like pyramids on the floor; dried sausages were piled on the counter beside tubs of ceci beans and the infamous BACALA (open barrels held dried, salted sheets of cod, stiff as boards, and a not-to-be-forgotten aroma). After three days of immersion in cold running water the bacala was ready for cooking!
Shopping also meant socializing and meeting friends and relatives. Offtimes the old grandmothers would pinch my cheeks and smile “benedica.” Any reference to my weight would mortify me, but instinct told me they meant no insult. Retrospect taught me they admired my looks because scrounging for food in the old country offered only sights of underfed children.
Neighborhoods change and childhoods disappear, but if you are fortunate enough to be jolted back to your past, as I was by a three-second glimpse of a street sign, the trip will likely evoke both smiles and tears, and perhaps a deeper understanding of what life is all about!
New Way to Support Old Church
Published: July 30, 2008
The Rev. Gilbert Luis R. Centina III stood behind the altar at Holy Rosary Church in East Harlem, staring at pancake-size plaster chips scattered beneath his sandaled feet.
On a morning quiet enough to count the raindrops pelting the stained-glass windows, Father Centina bowed his head for a moment. He then looked up to the heavens, where all he could see was a battered and leaky roof built nearly 125 years ago.
“These chips have been falling from the ceiling for months, and that’s just one of the many things that needs fixing in this church,” Father Centina said last Thursday after an 8 a.m. Mass at Holy Rosary, which was built in 1884. “In fact, we need more than $2 million to make structural repairs, and so I have been praying for help.” Those prayers are slowly being answered, not through divine intervention, but through an Internet connection.
Former residents of the neighborhood, which was once a part of the largest Italian-American community in the United States, have been discussing the plight of their old church and ways to raise money for its cause on www.theoldneighborhoodonline.com, a Web site that keeps them close to their old home.
Earl Wilson/The New York Times
“People I grew up with, some of who now live in places like Florida, Virginia and California, are very upset about the fact that Holy Rosary is falling apart,” said Jo Anne Claretti Mallano, 55, of Staten Island. Mrs. Mallano grew up across the street from the church, at 444 East 119th Street, between Pleasant and First Avenues.
The church was and still is a big part of our lives,” said Mrs. Mallano, who was baptized and made her confirmation there, and graduated from Holy Rosary grammar school around the corner. “It’s a beautiful place, with a lot of beautiful memories attached to it.”
Earl Wilson/The New York Times
"Thomas Saltarelli, 52, a photographer from Staten Island whose 91-year-old mother still lives a block away from Holy Rosary, began spreading the word electronically in April, shortly after attending a funeral Mass at the church.
“Growing up in the neighborhood, I had always looked at Holy Rosary as a work of art,” said Mr.Saltarelli, who spent several minutes at the back of the church last Wednesday night inspecting a damaged drain before marveling at a turn-of-the-20th-century pipe organ, some of the pipes more than a story high.
“When I came in here that day, I noticed that the church was in really bad shape,” he said. “There were holes in the ceiling, and cracks in the walls and floors, even in some of the statues, and the place looked like it hadn’t been painted in years.” Thomas Saltarelli uses a Web site that former residents of East Harlem visit to garner support to fix the neighborhood church.
Mr. Saltarelli met with Father Centina and consulted with others through the Web site. He volunteered to serve as a liaison on behalf of the church. He received their blessing and immediately contacted the Archdiocese of New York. He arranged for a member of its buildings commission to tour the church. During the inspection, they viewed gaping holes atop several of the tall beams inside the church and a collapsed wall near an entrance to the balcony. Father Centina, along for the tour, told the story of a family nearly hit by a large pile of plaster that had fallen from the ceiling during their child’s baptism.
Soon after, Mr. Saltarelli and Father Centina said they received word from the archdiocese that $500,000 would be made available to rebuild Holy Rosary’s foundation and a part of its roof.
“It’s a great start,” Mr. Saltarelli said. “But that leaves us about $2 million shy of getting the entire roof fixed and handling major problems with plumbing and electricity.”
In the past month, Mr. Saltarelli has received a number of donations from members of the old neighborhood, including a check for $10,000 from a donor who chose to remain anonymous.
Patti Ann Mahoney, 49, who grew up two blocks from the church and now lives in Yonkers, has also donated money. She chose not to disclose the amount, but was happy to add her two cents when asked how much Holy Rosary meant to her.
“I always felt that it was home to me,” she said. “I’ve attended Mass here in Yonkers and at other churches, and there just wasn’t a connection. God forgive me for saying that. Maybe it also had something to do with the fact that me, my brothers, sisters, even my kids made their sacraments at Holy Rosary.
“My mother also loved that church, and when she died, they had such a beautiful Mass for her,” Ms. Mahoney added. “I guess the bottom line is that the church was always there for me, my family and community — and now I want to be there for the church.”
By 1930, some 80,000 Italians had moved into the neighborhood where Ms. Mahoney and the others used to live, replacing most of the Irish and Jewish families that had arrived decades earlier. By the late 1970s, the neighborhood had given way to Puerto Ricans and other Hispanic groups.
Noting that history, Mr. Saltarelli is planning to reach out to Irish, Italian and Hispanic entertainers, perhaps singers, in the hope that they might hold benefit concerts at the church.
“These groups built this church and this entire neighborhood,” he said. “But the people who live here now cannot afford to save Holy Rosary.”
Just after Mass on Thursday, Marisol Perez, 45, said that she and her neighbors, “appreciate what the former residents are doing for the church, and we’re doing what we can to help raise money, starting with a bake sale next month.”
Several hours later, Father Centina was sitting at his desk, showing off a number of blueprints detailing the construction of the new foundation.
“These plans are great,” he said, “but the real foundation of any church is its parishioners. Many of the people who used to live here have moved on and done better for themselves, but I thank God that they have not forgotten where they came from.”
