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about joining the army, so he never got his chance to fight.

    O ne of my favorite things to do as a kid was to visit my father’s three sisters, who lived with their families in the Bronx. My parents would dress me and my younger brother Julius up in our nice clothes, and we’d get on the subway to go to see my aunts: Irene, Helen, and Barbara.
    Irene was a huge, obese woman who had married a man who was very thin, which struck me as funny. Aunt Irene would always greet us at the door with fresh-baked cookies or candy. Aunt Helen was also very generous. Her husband, Morris, owned a butcher shop, and every time I went to visit him there, Morris would cut up some meat for me, wrap it up, and say, “Take it home to the family.” My third aunt we called Barbara, although her given name was Burish. She had married a man in the restaurant business, and they had a giant of a son, as big as Soldier Harry.
    Among these three families, I had seven cousins, six girls and the young giant. I remember Cousin Stella best. One night when I was about ten, I was playing at Stella’s house when she and her two girlfriends went into her mother’s closet, took out lingerie and sleeping gowns, and played house. They took off their play clothes and put on these see-through garments. They were a year or so younger than I was, so watching these half-naked little girls prance around in their nighties didn’t have as much effect on me as it might have later on, but still it was something I never forgot. I wasn’t quite sure what sex was yet, but I knew it was something forbidden and exciting.
    One of the cousins enjoyed driving me crazy. When she was six teen she would wear summer dresses without underwear, and she would rub up against me. My other cousins were older, some much older, so I didn’t have a chance to get to know them very well.

    T he Hungarian lodge that my father belonged to met on the East Side of Manhattan around 110th Street. Sometimes when he went, he’d bring me along. As president of the lodge my father ran the meetings, and whenever he announced a five-minute break, I can remember everyone running next door to grab a smoke. All those lodge members were heavy smokers, and my father was no exception. From the time I can remember, my father smoked two packs of Lucky Strike cigarettes a day.
    The lodge members would light up and talk about sweet-looking girls they’d seen, how business was going, and how things were at home. After the five minutes were up, they’d stub out their cigarettes and drift back to the meeting room. My father would take up his mallet and rap the dais, and then they would discuss serious matters, like where they were going to hold the summer picnic.
    I wasn’t always a big fan of those lodge meetings, but I enjoyed that picnic the Hungarian lodge held every summer in Corona, Queens. The outdoor tables groaned under the weight of Hungarian salami, goulash, and stuffed cabbage—all the great Hungarian delicacies. Everybody had a good time. The women clustered together, gossiping and clucking good-naturedly at the children. The men sat around in their colorful, embroidered vests and long-sleeved shirts, smoking and telling stories about the old country. Going to those picnics was one of the few times I felt like I was part of a community, connected to something larger than myself.
    The idea was that lodge members were supposed to help each other out during tough financial times, but after the Depression hit in 1929, there wasn’t much anyone could do. They were all broke. Not long afterward my father lost interest in the lodge and in his Hungarian heritage. So did a lot of other men who were dragged down by poverty. Instead of pulling together, they left to go it alone.
    My memories of my mother, Helen Schwartz, are dominated by how unhappy she seemed in a loveless marriage. All she ever seemed to talk to my father about was his lack of financial success. She rode him mercilessly about it. I