A CHECKERED PAST
A Memoir
by William Van Poyck
Also by William Van Poyck:
The Third Pillar of Wisdom
Quietus
A Checkered Past
Copyright 2001 by William Van Poyck.
All rights reserved
Smashwords Edition 2011
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each reader. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author. Some names in this book have been changed for obvious reasons
DEDICATION
This work is dedicated to Bernie DeCastro, a friend,
without whom it would not exist.
PART ONE
The heart has its reasons which reason knows nothing of.
---Blaise Pascal
The All American
Still today I measure all other men by the stature of my father, the finest man I will ever know. Yet, like Hamlet contemplating Yorick’s skull, I still examine my past and search my heart pondering how and why I broke him so. Haunted by Dad’s bitter disappointments, I wear them like iron shackles, unable to tell my own story without also sharing his—the man who inhabits my memory clothed in a thesaurus full of snapshot superlatives: Honorable. Principled. Strong. Infrangible. Courageous. Moral. Fearless. Quietly dignified. There exist competing tensions I will only truly see in life’s rearview mirror, for his heart sings in a multitude of keys: A brilliant polymath whose razor intellect is circumscribed by an uncommon common sense. Wise but pragmatic. A born leader who is inherently reserved. Adventurous but conservative. Intensely patriotic though suspicious of big government. A man of eclectic tastes and interests—as complex as a Mandelstam poem—whose love of Shakespeare, Chaucer, Dostoevsky and Pasternak is matched by Hemingway, Faulkner, Melville and Twain. He revels in Beethoven, Chopin and Mozart as much as Benny Goodman, Louis Armstrong, Artie Shaw and Fats Waller, and is equally at ease in an opera house as a downtown pool hall. He is a no-nonsense, pull-yourself-up-by-your-bootstraps kind of guy who seeks challenges and endeavors that anneal the body and mind. He is all that and more; and being human he is also less.
Walter Stewart Van Poyck is born in the verdant Pennsylvania Dutch countryside—a variegated quilt work of tidy Amish farms—the youngest child, with two brothers and three sisters, and emotionally distant parents unable to express love. Dad is the prototypical Quiet American, a man who endures the Great Depression by working himself through college, graduating from Susquehanna University with honors and a business degree. He teaches himself to play the clarinet, then forms a band that tours pre-war Europe, playing jazz and swing music in London, Paris and Berlin. He returns and joins a promising young company—Eastern Air Lines—becoming personal friends with its famous race car-driving founder, the World War I Ace, Eddie Rickenbacker, whose portrait will hang with honor in our house for decades. Then, sensing the gathering winds of war, Dad joins the U.S. Army three months before Pearl Harbor. There he volunteers for the then-nascent 82nd Airborne—the All-American Division—training in dusty army camps throughout the South—Camp Blanding, Camp Wheeler, Fort Bragg and Fort Benning, emerging a commissioned second lieutenant.
With General Ridgeway the All-American Division lands in Morocco and fights its way through the Atlas Mountains and across the North African deserts, seeing bitter combat at the Kasserine Pass, where Rommel’s panzers teach the brash young American army some harsh lessons in mobile warfare. Dad paratroops into Sicily and fights across the island alongside General Patton’s army, then spearheads the invasion at Salerno and fights some more. Dad’s men slug their way up the Italian peninsula—Dad is a captain now—through ancient stone villages, across fertile valleys and over snow-crested Alpine mountain passes, fighting gut-wrenching battles every inch of the way. The Italians have quit but the Germans fight on, and the blood-soaked battlefields pile up. Naples. Monte Casino. Anzio. At the Anzio beachhead Dad’s men are pinned down in foxholes for sixty days as the shrieking heavy artillery attempts to hurl them back into the sea. Dad is wounded and awarded the Purple Heart, then thrown back into the fray. They finally break out, then liberate Rome, receiving a hero’s welcome.
From Italy Dad returns to England for refitting and training until the early morning of June 6, 1944, when transport planes—flying through carpets of 88mm anti-aircraft flak bursts so thick that the pilots swear they could land on them—zoom over Utah Beach and dump the division into the still dark Normandy countryside. Dad’s men fight and claw through dense tangles of hedgerows, across landmined fields and shattered villages, gathering around the sleepy town of St. Mere Eglise. There, one of Dad’s wounded troopers (later portrayed by Red Buttons in Hollywood’s The Longest Day) hangs by his chute from the church tower steeple, playing dead while the battle rages in the town square below.
That autumn of 1944, the Allies launch the largest airborne invasion in history, Operation Market Garden, later immortalized in Cornelius Ryan’s book and movie, A Bridge Too Far. The objective is to capture a string of bridges in Holland, far behind enemy lines. The 82nd Airborne, along with tens of thousands of British and Polish paratroopers, in transports and gliders stretching from horizon to horizon, float down into fields of Van Gogh sunflowers. Allied intelligence has downplayed reports that numerous elite panzer divisions—honed and battle-hardened from the Eastern Front—are hiding and refitting in the area, and Dad and his men drop into a maelstrom of fiery destruction. Weeks of desperate, frenzied combat follow—troopers against armored divisions— fighting town-to-town, street-to-street, house-to-house and room-to-room. On a September afternoon Dad’s company is resting in a bombed-out farmhouse—enjoying a rare lull in the battle—gathered in a circle devouring roasted wild rabbits. Just as Dad leans back in his chair a German mortar round drops through a hole in the roof and hits his right leg. In that split-second blackout the thunderous explosion demolishes the room; the crunching concussion blows out eardrums and sucks air from lungs. Radiating shrapnel whistles by, tearing flesh and bones. But Dad is still alive. When he regains his senses Dad peers through the cloying pall of smoke and dust and sees his men dead and dying. Shaken, numb, on the verge of shock, Dad sees a bloody leg lying a few feet away. It takes him a moment to understand it is his.
“Captain,” one of Dad’s men calls out, “I’ve lost a leg.”
“I think I’ve lost both of mine,” Dad hollers back. The cries and moans of his wounded men fill the smoky room as Dad props himself up and injects himself with morphine—failing to chalk an X on his helmet, the sign that morphine has already been administered so as to prevent an overdose. He sees a long bloody cord—a tendon? a vein?—snaking from his stump toward his severed leg and for reasons he is later unable to explain he uses his bayonet to cut the cord and stuff it back into his raw, gaping stump.
Ever the stalwart commanding officer, Dad shouts out orders as troopers stream into the smoldering hulk of a house. Take out that damn mortar emplacement! Medics arrive and take one look at Dad, then mumble something about concentrating on those who can still make it. A medic injects Dad with morphine, but fails to chalk mark his helmet. Finally Dad is carried to a field hospital—a tent in the woods—where numerous troopers lie grievously wounded; the Germans are advancing and vicious fighting surrounds them. At the field hospital the doctors practice battlefield triage, where those deemed mortally wounded are given morphine and set aside to die while those who can be saved are operated upon. They examine Dad and shake their heads—better to work on someone with hope. Dad is given another morphine injection, and then laid on the ground, where he huddles in his corner surrounded by shattered bodies and listens to the doctors comment that he will soon be dead. Dad lies on the blood-soaked dirt struggling with death itself—like Jacob wrestling the angel at the Jabbok River—refusing to give up or accept defeat. Then Dad sits up and throws off his blanket.
“Dammit! I’m not going to die!” he barks.
The startled doctors—elbow-deep in blood—look up from the operating table in consternation. Give him morphine, one doctor instructs. When the medic approaches with the syringe Dad reaches up and begins strangling him. Suddenly a young Jewish doctor enters the tent.
“Wait,” he says, eyeing Dad. “Any man fighting like that isn’t ready to die.” The doctor leans close and whispers to Dad. “I don’t think you’re going to make it, captain, but we’re going to try to save you.” Dad nods vigorously, then pukes up the rabbit all over the doctor.
I know this story by heart though it is seldom told—Dad is not one to brag or glamorize war. The details must be coaxed and cajoled from him, usually at Thanksgiving or Christmas meals greased with liberal doses of good beer or wine. I once hear the story at an 82nd Airborne Association convention, told by a trooper who was there. Lesser known is the rarely told part Dad keeps close to his heart—I hear it only once, recounted with a mixture of sheepish embarrassment and adamant conviction by this solidly grounded man who does not trifle with truth. While unconscious, on the threshold of death, Dad has a remarkable vision—not a dream or morphine hallucination, he firmly insists—a mysterious luminous being of blindingly brilliant light, identifying himself as Dad’s Spirit Guide, appears to assure Dad that he will live. It is not yet his time to die. It is this profound experience that gives Dad the strength to rise up from the dirt and grip the medic’s throat.
Dad is promoted to major and decorated again, and ends up in Walter Reed Hospital outside Washington, DC. There he endures countless operations and grueling rehabilitation. He has lost his right leg above the knee and much of his left foot, and his body is riddled with jagged shrapnel that will still be working its way out of his flesh decades later. At Walter Reed Dad is cared for by a beautiful young army nurse named Phyllis Herland, and so they fall in love. When Dad is discharged—with a chest full of medals—he is told by Eddie Rickenbacker—who maintains a proud company policy of hiring disabled veterans—that his job with Eastern Air Lines has been preserved. And so in 1947, Dad and Phyllis move to Miami—languid and sunny and all aquamarine—with Dad’s new wooden leg and a pocketful of dreams, where they marry and settle into a tidy little bungalow to raise a family and seek the fullness of the American dream.
In my own young eyes Dad is Jimmy Stewart in Mr. Smith Goes To Washington and Gary Cooper in High Noon. And yet there is something distant about him, as if an important part of him is held in reserve. It is the cumulative weight that has mounted up with a biblical cadence, strung along the continuum of years, as fate painted ever more brushstrokes on his life’s canvas. If you look up stoic in the dictionary you will find Dad’s picture—wearing his Airborne uniform and cradling his Thompson submachine gun. It is an age-old story possessing the quality of a minor Greek tragedy, the contours of which—now absorbed with a wiser eye—are starkly clear in the light cast through the prism of hindsight. As a child I grow up aching desperately for my father’s attention and approval but he is constitutionally unable to give me what I need most, a simple hug and the words I love you.
In The Beginning
This is how it happens for me. My life begins unspooling on the cusp of winter, this terrible January morning—bitterly cold for Miami—a day when fate pauses, clears its throat and reshuffles the cards. It is 1956. My mother, Phyllis—young, beautiful, gentle in spirit, and heavily pregnant with her fourth child—is a registered nurse, naturally concerned over the mysterious illness plaguing the family next door these past several days. Dizziness. Nausea. Fatigue. Pounding headaches. A doctor has diagnosed a nameless virus, dismissing its importance. What more, my mother had wondered the day before, can I do to help? My father—blessed with a first-rate intellect tempered with down-to-earth common sense, stalwart, honorable, retired major, 82nd Airborne, twelve years removed from the shrieking German mortar round that blew off his leg and exploded his dreams in the dark, dense forests of Holland, aspiring young executive with Eastern Air Lines—had agreed with Mom. Yes, she could stay overnight with the neighbors, nurse them back to health. Now, as Dad cooks us a French toast breakfast— my older brother Jeffrey, almost eight; little Lisa, approaching three; and me, William—he wonders aloud what could be keeping Mom, why his phone call goes unanswered. Wait here and watch your brother and sister, Dad instructs Jeff. I’ll be back in a moment with your mom. I sit gurgling in my high chair—so I am told—wide-eyed and chubby at sixteen months, happily contemplating the promise of a velvet future.
Dad goes next door, leaning heavily on his briarwood cane, his limping gait defined by the limits of his wooden leg. When nobody responds to his knocks he opens the door and enters the house, stepping right into a stygian scene where everything is as wrong as it can ever get. Even now, at this distance, across the long span of years, I close my eyes and struggle mightily to imagine, to feel, the icy terror that stops Dad’s throat and grips his heart. There, crumpled on the floor, is the father of the house, Kurt Krohne. Lying on one couch is the wife, Lois Krohne. On another couch Dad sees Mom, deathly still. The family dog, a terrier, jumps up and down, yipping frantically. Dad, grizzled combat veteran and no stranger to sudden death, finds himself in a funerary chamber, inhabiting one of those moments that forever mark a man before and after. It only gets worse. Tucked in their beds, wearing colorful animal print pajamas, are the kids: Kurt, Jr., 8; Kathy, 3; and baby Karlene, 2. Everyone is dead or dying.
Dad instinctively deduces the culprit; carbon monoxide gas. Dad’s combat training kicks in and he smashes out windows, throws open the doors. He frantically races from body to body, struggling to haul them from the house, burdened with a leg that drags like an anchor. At some point he desperately calls for an ambulance, and surely cries out to God. The screaming police cars and ambulances race past The Parrot Jungle, pouring into our sleepy neighborhood where they discover Dad resolutely working to resuscitate my mother—there yet remains the faintest of heartbeats—battling to hold back the seepage of fatal time.
Next door, oblivious to the uproar, I impatiently squirm in my chair. Lisa plays with her French toast while Jeff wonders what is keeping Mom and Dad, and why the street is filling with flashing lights and moaning sirens. When Jeff tries to cross the yard a police officer stops him cold.
“Is everything all right?” Jeff asks, looking past the officer at the commotion next door.
“Yes. Everything is fine,” the officer lies. He grips Jeff’s shoulders tightly. “Just go on to school,” he orders.
Jeff demurs, struggling to get loose. “I can’t. My father told me to stay and watch over my brother and sister.”
The officer insists, pushing Jeff away. “Your father wants you to go to school right away. I’ll watch your brother and sister. Everything will be fine. Now go.”
And so he does.
The hospital scene is grim. Mr. Krohne and his two little girls are dead. My mother, Mrs. Krohne and little Kurt, Jr., (Jeff’s friend and playmate), shrouded in oxygen tents, barely cling to life. Mom dies at 5:55 p.m., and Mrs. Krohne follows two and a half hours later. Little Kurt, receiving continuous blood transfusions, hangs on until 3:50 a.m., and then draws his last breath.
Investigation establishes that Mr. Krohne, in an attempt to keep out the frigid air during that two-week cold streak, had stuffed the gas heater flues with steel wool, trapping in the warm air as well as the invisible, odorless carbon monoxide that a gas heater generates.
That afternoon, when school lets out, Jeff’s walk home is interrupted by the mother of his best friend. Why don’t you sleep over our house tonight, she gently suggests. I’ve checked with your father and it’s O.K. It will be fun. Jeff happily agrees, though he wonders why the woman is so sad—as if she’d been crying. Jeff spends the night playing with his friend, enjoying the unexpected adventure of a sleepover on a school night. The next day he is kept out of school—some excuse is invented—and he spends the day playing with his buddy. But by evening Jeff senses something is wrong, and he suddenly demands to go home. The woman invites Jeff to sleep over again but Jeff resists. I have to ask my mom, he insists. The woman gets on the phone, speaking quietly, and the uneasiness covers Jeff like a wet blanket.
“Your father says you can sleep over again,” the woman says cheerfully.
But Jeff digs in his heels, sensing some veiled menace he cannot articulate. “No,” he says. “I want to go home. I want to see my mother.” The woman nods, then begins to cry.
They drive up to the house to find the yard and driveway overflowing with cars. Inside, the house is packed with solemn adults—aunts, uncles, grandparents, friends—all red-eyed and grim-faced.
“Where’s Mom?” Jeff asks expectantly, looking around in bewilderment. “Where’s Dad?”
Our maternal grandfather, Ed, bends down and hugs Jeff tightly. He lives in Massachusetts and Jeff is surprised to see him.
“Your father wants to talk to you,” Grandpa Ed whispers hoarsely, steering Jeff toward Dad’s bedroom.
Jeff quietly enters and sees Dad slumped in his bed. Dad sits up and holds his arms out to Jeff, tears streaming down his face. Jeff has never seen Dad cry, so he begins to cry too. He runs to Dad, knowing that something is terribly wrong. Embracing Jeff tightly Dad speaks through a scrim of tears, explaining that God needed Mom’s help and has taken her away.
“When is she coming back?”
“She’s never coming back, son.”
Jeff cannot understand. Never? He tries to comprehend the dimensions of never but it is outside the limits of his imagination. A part of him recognizes that this is death, a concept he has heard of but never fully grasped, and he senses that his own circle of life has been irretrievably broken. Jeff erupts in anger, squirming out of Dad’s arms, and screams in protest.
“But God doesn’t need her! We need her!” Jeff hollers, pulling away from Dad. Then he races from the room—leaving Dad behind—wailing in despair. “I want my mother! I want my mother!” His plaintive cries echo through the house and the adults turn away. Grandpa Ed reaches out and catches Jeff. Let’s go outside. We need to talk. Outside he explains that because Mom was a nurse God needed her in heaven to help care for others. But Jeff does not want to hear it, and he pulls away angrily. “Then I hate God!” Jeff says, spitting out the words. He runs down the street screaming for Mom, while neighbors watch from behind curtained windows. With a grandfather’s patience Ed calls after Jeff, over and over, beseeching him to come back, until, crushed and bewildered, Jeff finally stops running and stands alone in the street, sobbing. Then, with no place left to go, Jeff turns around and slowly trudges back, his spirit overwhelmed by the weight of his grief.
So this is how it begins—seven souls, including my unborn sibling, flying away like a rush of angels. But this is not how it ends. It takes all kinds to make a world and different spirits meet life’s meanest circumstances in diverse ways. Some rise up, endure, overcome. Others less so. On this cold raw day our small family has stepped into another life. Like the spreading ripples of a stone-smacked pond the consequences of this terrible day will flow ever outward, cascading over my father, already gravely wounded by life, beating and driving him into a stoic shell. They will brush young Jeff with a very heavy hand, grinding him down, scarring his psyche until, burnished in the crucible, seeing the world through the lens of his own private pain, he will emerge headstrong, rebellious, distrustful, hating uniforms, authority and all they represent, desperately seeking THE ONE who stole our mother away. And ultimately, through Jeff, that singular event will reverberate down the hallways of our lives, reaching out across the years, prodding me incessantly, tapping me on my shoulder—ripples destined to shape and form Lisa’s and my lives until, still moving inexorably outward, they will bear their peculiar fruit and deliver their cargo of grief and pain, to us and many others, over many years and lives until finally, in each of our lives, coming full circle, pain against pain, loss against loss.
Someone To Watch Over Us
After losing Mom to poison gas and Dad to a sixty-hour workweek, life takes on a different tempo. The search is for someone to watch over us. It does not go well. We begin a four-year procession of uniformly unsatisfactory housekeepers whom Dad changes like counterfeit money. Their treatment of us ranges from indifferent to brutal, with each failing for her own singular reason. One is recklessly inattentive, another a drunk. Still another steals anything not nailed down. They sail in and out of our lives like ghost ships on a foggy sea, then west, beyond the map’s edge, leaving their own particular residues in their wakes. And always, skirting the periphery, lurking in the shadows, ever poised to swoop in to latch onto us kids, is the odd, frenetic woman we know as Aunt Phyllis. Technically not our aunt, Phyllis camps out on the fringes of the family network—such as it is—a strange woman, married to someone who is related to someone who is married to someone in the family tree—something like that. She owns a substantial documented psychiatric history including hospital commitments, psychotropic medications and electroconvulsive therapy. By the time she enters our lives she is a flighty, carefree spirit whose volatile mood swings and fierce temper are legendary—as is her drinking problem and her abuse of prescription narcotics. And, though married to “Uncle Al,” she is secretly in love with Dad and possesses a dark obsession with all of us kids, intent on making us her children. Later she will play a more substantial role in our lives, but during these early years she is relegated to the background, coming and going with mysterious irregularity.
In this often unaccompanied childhood I begin reading at three and never give it up. Dad is a lover of books and I take after him. Although dearly close to Lisa and Jeff, it is while lost in that solitary pursuit, inhabiting enchanted worlds peopled with heroic knights, magical dragons and wise kings, reading of endless adventures across vast, uncharted lands and seas, that I feel most at ease. It is alone, treading the pages of my books, that I find myself—or at least the person I want to be, brave, noble, honorable, chivalrous—as I doggedly search for my own place in the universe.
The train wreck that is our succession of housekeepers culminates with the hiring of Mrs. Dano. Stern and sour in disposition, square and solid as a linebacker, she emanates a cold, controlled fury, an angry bitterness with the entire world that she quickly acquaints us with, administering her rigid discipline with Teutonic vigor and efficiency. She has bone-white hair twisted into a tight bun, and a grim slit across her scowling face that passes for a mouth. A devout religious fanatic belonging to some obscure Christian sect, she fervently believes in not sparing the rod. Announcing that sin resides deeply within all children, and declaring the need for pain as a path to grace, she introduces us to her concept of pre-emptive beatings. When Jeff, age ten, returns from school each day Mrs. Dano beats him viciously with her favored instrument—a wooden coat hanger—declaring the punishment is for all of the sins he surely committed in her absence. Eventually Jeff begins resisting, running away to hide. Then he simply stops coming home from school until after dark when Dad returns from work.
Lisa and I, ages six and five, respectively, are trapped in the house all day. Almost daily Mrs. Dano lines us up, haranguing us bitterly, then beats us with the feared coat hanger. Then she locks us into a pitch-black closet the rest of the day, ignoring our screams, our sobs, until we finally stop crying and begin begging to be released. We hug each other in the darkness as the day slides by until Mrs. Dano finally opens the door. She makes us kneel and pray to God for forgiveness. Then, as she always does, she warns us—if we dare tell Dad, not only will he not believe us, but she will then chop us up and feed us to her dogs. She waves a big knife in our faces to reinforce her point. We are petrified, and even now my memories of those days, hazy as they are, remain infused with the fug of pure terror.
After long, desperate months it is Jeff who finally sets the brake, emptying his heart to Dad. Dad grimly inspects our legs and backs, striated in hues of red, black and blue. We trail behind him as he wheels into the kitchen to confront Mrs. Dano. He asks no questions, seeks no explanation, only points his service .45 at her chest and orders her to leave. She departs quickly, silently, and Lisa and I, squinting like gunfighters, peer through the spokes of Dad’s wheelchair as her car speeds away.
When Aunt Phyllis urges Dad to let her move in, it must seem like a good idea. Dad, busy climbing the corporate ladder at Eastern Air Lines, believes he can rely upon her to look after us. What follows is two years devoid of structure, marked by endless bright days spent at the beach. Aunt Phyllis is a fanatical sun worshiper and every morning she takes Lisa and me to one of Miami’s many beaches, plopping us on the sand to play among ourselves until the sun begins setting in the western sky. These endless summer memories now flash in my mind like sun-glazed snapshots: Lisa and I playing alone on Miami Beach, scooping sand into painted tin pails at the curling surf’s edge; Lisa and I lost among the feet of adults thronging Tahiti Beach or Matheson Hammock; Lisa and I chasing squawking seagulls and scuttling crabs along the shore at Key Biscayne. Most often we are alone, fending for ourselves, jettisoned there by Aunt Phyllis, who disappears for most the day. Jeff is rarely present. He’s either in school or roaming the neighborhood like a stray cat.
Other, darker images, vaguely sinister, wheel through my memory like dim, sepia-toned dreams: The many times Aunt Phyllis parks me at poolside at some cheap Miami Beach motel (Stay here, she orders me. Don’t leave the pool deck.) while she leads little Lisa away, hand in hand, deep into the rabbit warren of rooms. I particularly recall The Apache Motel—Aunt Phyllis’ favorite—its garish fluorescent sign forever burned into my memory. I am a regular there, sitting pensively on a chaise lounge awaiting her return, wondering what she and Lisa do all day in the rooms. Often Aunt Phillis recruits a poolside stranger (Watch this kid for me, she commands. Make sure he stays here.) and I spend the day running around the pool, occasionally swimming until some adult scolds me out. I recall trembling on the high dive, and the applause from a stranger when I finally dive in. Mostly I charge around, a restless, fidgety little boy with nowhere to go, adopted by guests and staff, like a lost pet, taking turns to watch over me. I spend many long summer days there, always alone, missing Lisa. Sometimes I am brought up to those rooms but, try as I might, the details escape me. The images are elusive—jerky, grainy and dark—flickering in my psyche like an ancient silent movie, barely tickling the edges of my memory. I wonder why I cannot remember—perhaps I do not really want to know—but the larger part of me is pleased I can’t.
It is a strange Gypsy-like existence. Life with Aunt Phyllis is simple—there are no rules other than to obey her. Jeff adores her, for she gives him free rein to do and go where he wants. Aunt Phyllis adores Lisa, dressing her up in pretty dress, brushing her long hair obsessively. Aunt Phyllis tolerates me, but even at my tender age I sense I am a burden, a nuisance accessory to the Barbie Doll role she has cast Lisa in. When her temper flares—and it is maddeningly unpredictable—she screams in my face and occasionally smacks me. But for the most part it is a life of benign neglect and I travel with her like so much baggage.
Then there is uncle Al—Phyllis’ tirelessly patient husband—a garrulous man, unfailingly kind to us kids, cheerful and jaunty with his rakish cap, seemingly wise in all the ways of the world. He has an infectious laugh and a take-over-the-room grin that fills his friendly, impish face. He often takes us to the racetrack, sagely pointing out the winners, sometimes bringing us back to the stables where Lisa and I eagerly pet the horses and feed them carrots. Just as often I am perched on a barstool in some dark, cool club where cigar smoke, whiskey and soft jazz permeate the air, where dice and cards and poker chips slap the tables and skimpily clad women bartenders pat my head and feed me peanuts. I taste my first beer and learn to calculate poker odds, and I feel special, secretly pleased, knowing I am not supposed to be in this forbidden adult world. Uncle Al— perpetually smiling, laughing, waving a drink—is always watching over me. And I feel safe.
At some point Aunt Phyllis begins telling Lisa and me that she is our real mother. She shows us a scar on her belly and tells us that is where we came out. We come to believe her and take to calling her Mother. Aunt Phyllis begins passing herself off as our mother to anyone who will listen—local shopkeepers, merchants, doctors, and school officials—capitalizing on the first name she shares with my mom. I become happy—it was all a misunderstanding—for now I have a mother again, just like all the other kids. I follow Aunt Phyllis around like a lost puppy, grabbing her leg and hanging on for dear life whenever she stands still long enough. I do not want to lose my mother again.
In the fall of 1957, Dad is a contestant on a local Miami television quiz show. He wins the grand prize, including an all-expenses-paid trip to Europe. Dad takes Jeff, then nine, as they travel through Holland, visiting and paying respects at the immense Margraten Cemetery near Maastricht, where the American war dead—including many of Dad’s friends—are buried. They visit the Canadian and British cemeteries near the town of Nijmegen. The bridges at Nijmegen and Grave, spanning the Waal River, are of particular interest to Dad, for that is where he lost his leg. Together with Jeff he locates the very farmhouse, his old command post, where he was hit. At some point they venture into Germany and tour our old castle—swindled from our ancestors a century earlier— now a tourist attraction.
Nineteen fifty-seven proves to be a portentous year for our broken family— though it is unrecognized at the time—for even as Dad appears on that TV game show, a young divorced mother of one, a struggling secretary named Lee, is sitting across town, watching that show. She comments to her daughter, Toni, about how smart Dad is and how much she would like to meet him. She speaks with great prescience, for her wish will come true, yielding fateful consequences that will reshape our destinies. She will enter our lives, which will never be the same, and I will learn that dreams die, like people, slowly, with dread, bitterness and regret, and right up to the very end, with hope.
The Die Is Cast
I am almost six that summer of 1960 when Dad lines us up like little soldiers.
“Do you remember Lee, the woman I’ve introduced to you?” We nod in affirmation. Lee is tall and blonde and appears nice enough. We have met her perhaps twice.
“I am going to marry her. She will be your new mother.” Dad states this as if pronouncing a sentence. “She has her own daughter, Toni, who is also twelve, just like you, Jeff.” Dad looks at Jeff meaningfully. “So you are also getting a new sister.”
Too young to fully understand, my feelings are decidedly ambivalent. What about Aunt Phyllis? I wonder to myself. Isn’t she our mother? I look at Jeff to take his cue; his face seethes with rage. Lisa’s expression is inscrutable.
“What about Aunt Phyllis and Uncle Al?” Jeff demands.
Dad tells us that they will no longer live with us after the wedding. Sensing our resistance Dad instructs us to be good and not misbehave. We must accept Lee and Toni with open arms, Dad orders. But even I can see that Jeff’s mind is already closed like an angry fist.
“We will soon have a new house, it is being built right now. It’s on a pretty lake and will have a swimming pool.” Dad throws this out like a hopeful bribe. “We’ll be moving there soon and we’ll be one big happy family.”
Jeff blurts out all of our thoughts—he does not want a new mother or sister, does not want to move, or leave the neighborhood—but Dad silences him with a commanding gesture. It is already settled and not open for debate. We must accept the facts. It is time for us to grow up, to act like adults, to be good troopers and follow orders.
Privately Jeff explodes in anger, telling Lisa and me that this is a terrible betrayal. Nobody, nobody, can ever replace our mother, Jeff shouts angrily as he stomps about. We must never, never accept an imposter. Jeff grabs my shoulders and shakes me like a doll.
“You must never forget our real mother, William,” Jeff instructs me through sudden tears. “Never! Don’t ever let anyone take her memory away.”
I nod dumbly—unlike Jeff, I have no memories of our mother to retain—but through my confusion I understand. It will be us against Lee—the enemy—whenever she moves into the house!
On another day we are again lined up—I am dressed up in my little Sunday school suit and Buster Brown shoes—while Lee examines us like a general reviewing her troops. She smiles tightly and makes small talk—I am too young to grasp the awkwardness she must be enduring—then introduces us to Toni. She is tall and gangly—all arms and legs like a filly emerging from the birthing paddock—with wavy, lustrous black hair and an endearingly bashful smile. She is painfully shy, with big hopeful eyes, and though Jeff has branded her the enemy I secretly decide I like her.
A loud, bitter argument fills the house, Lee and Aunt Phyllis throwing venomous words like hand grenades. I lie beneath my covers straining in the darkness to understand the words. Aunt Phyllis bellows, her words climbing the ladder of hysteria, shouting that we are her children and that Lee cannot steal them away. She marches Lee into the bedroom where Lisa sleeps in peaceful repose. Lisa’s long golden-brown hair is fanned out across her pillow, every strand perfectly in place, carefully brushed and arranged by Aunt Phyllis beforehand. Phyllis strokes Lisa’s head, then hisses to Lee: You can never be her mother. Lisa is mine. They are all mine!
But Lee holds her ground. She is equal to the task, and even at that age I sense her strength and determination, a steely will born of her own life’s mean circumstances. Lee is tough and wily and she will win this fight.
The wedding takes place in a beautiful stone church deep in the quiet subtropical heart of Coconut Grove. Then, hard on the heels of Hurricane Donna, we move into our new house on the southern fringe of South Miami. It is a relatively undeveloped area, still dense with vacant lots, forested woods and unexplored hardwood hammocks, before the hordes of bulldozers have their way. Ours is a nondescript modern ranch style—one of the first of what will be many to crowd around Rock Lake—custom built with extra-wide doorways to accommodate Dad’s wheelchair. It has four bedrooms, three baths—Toni and Lisa have their own bedrooms while Jeff and I share the other—and the promised turquoise swimming pool shimmering beneath a screened-in patio. Beyond the pool our newly sodded back yard slopes down to the lakeshore. The clear water teems with catfish, potbellied bass, turtles, ducks and coots, and white ibis and spoonbills and dark-headed wood storks patrol the cattail-fringed shore.
We spend that halcyon summer relentlessly exploring, venturing through thick tropical woods crowded with towering trees—ficus, banyan and strangler figs, their ropelike roots running down the trunks of ancient cypress trees. The jungle-like woods overflow with animals—snakes, raccoons, possums, armadillos and skunks. The trees are flush with colorful birds—iridescent wild parakeets flashing overhead, and big, squawking Amazon parrots and macaws on the lam from The Parrot Jungle. High above, Spanish moss, wild orchids and epiphytes cling and hang from every branch, while squirrels and green iguana play peek-a-boo. Beneath the forest canopy, burrowed in dark, moist tunnels, are the shiny blue land crabs that emerge once a year to scuttle across the land. These woods are suffused with a soft green light as though projected through an emerald lens. Everything is awash in green—giant ferns, elephant ears and smothering walls of kudzu vines.
We wiggle through the mysterious dark caves that riddle the karsts of coral and limestone bedrock, and climb the giant trees like chattering monkeys. This vast, idyllic neighborhood is bounded with low stone walls—native oolithic rock, a mottled tan and white coral—surrounding shaded old groves—mango, avocado, grapefruit, lime and lemon. In other areas the soil is sandy white, a dry scrub-and-palmetto landscape dotted with sable palms, scraggly loblolly and Australian pines peppered with mockingbirds and frenetic scrub jays.
But always our attention returns to our lake. We swim in there daily from dawn to dusk, catching tadpoles and water snakes and sun basking turtles, feeding the ducks, fishing and sporting about with the exuberance of river otters. The lake becomes the center of our small universe, our own private refuge where we can be alone.
By the time we settle into our new house Jeffrey already hates Lee’s guts. At twelve, he has been on his own since Mom died, given free rein to roam the neighborhoods, fending for himself like a suburban street urchin. Jeffrey is already getting into minor troubles—fighting at school, shoplifting candy—presaging what is to come. Jeffrey sees Lee as a despicable intruder, triple hated for trying to replace our mother, for forcing Aunt Phyllis—whom Jeff adores—from our lives and for driving us from our old house and neighborhood where Jeff’s only friends reside. Lee is a rigid disciplinarian, accustomed to being obeyed, and she sails into our lives bearing a righteous indignation, determined to impose her will upon us. She fails to grasp that we are a headstrong lot, by nature refusing to respond to beatings, threats or intimidation, preferring instead—like mules being smacked on the head with a two-by-four— to stubbornly dig in our heels, as if giving in to authority is an act of cowardice.
Lee views us all—but particularly Jeffrey—as wild children (her favorite description) who sorely need the rod of discipline. She constantly compares us unfavorably to Toni—quiet, polite, studious, obedient, the perfect child. Initially Lee attempts to reason with Jeff, but his willful, obstinate nature is equal to hers. When she correctly surmises that Jeff is poisoning Lisa and me against her, Lee declares Jeffrey a lost cause and gives up on him. Thus begins the epic struggle destined to tear our house asunder: Lee versus Jeff, implacable foes in a domestic tug-of-war, fighting for possession of Lisa’s and my hearts. When Lee tries to beat Jeffrey with a belt he will have none of it—he is old and big enough to fight back. Jeff’s will is just as strong as hers and he refuses to be disciplined, choosing instead to simply stay away. Lisa and I, caught in the middle, are left standing in precarious isolation. When I speak well of Lee Jeff pummels me and when I speak up for Jeff I feel Lee’s belt. I learn to keep my feelings to myself.
It is Lee who introduces me to politics, her all-consuming abiding passion. An ultra-conservative, right-wing Republican, Lee is soon enmeshed in leadership roles with the local Republican Party. For as long as I know her Lee is either president, treasurer or chairman of the Riviera Women’s Republican Club and is intimately involved in county, state and national chapters. (In 1964 our house becomes local campaign headquarters for Barry Goldwater’s run for the White House, with my bedroom stacked floor to ceiling with Goldwater bumper stickers and white plastic hats with Goldwater’s name emblazoned on the crown.) Lee draws Dad into her circle and he becomes increasingly political in his own right. But from the very beginning—while she still believes I am salvageable—her focus is upon me. Lee speaks to me earnestly about political ambitions—not her own, but her ambitions for me. As she shapes and forms my political worldview—though I am only a child—she constantly promises that my future is bright and that I can be anything —anything—I want to be. Increasingly I hear the whispered words, soon to become a familiar refrain: Governor. Senator. President. Time and again Lee murmurs them in my ear, laying out my future, painting rosy pictures. Yes, she constantly assures me, one day you can become president of the United States. Lee drags me to countless political rallies, meetings, lectures and speeches where she occasionally introduces me as a future United States president, and rich, old white-haired women smile down at me while patting my head and pinching my cheeks. I am but six or seven, yet even at this age I understand that Lee is grooming me to vicariously fulfill her own unrealized political dreams, and her hopes are riding on my back so that one day she can be the mother of the president of the United States of America. And for a season or two she makes me believe this vision. What I fail to see is the depth of Lee’s rage when such powerful dreams—along with my rosy future—slowly wink out like a dying ember.
Big Brother
My earliest memories of my brother—I am perhaps four—are of him hitting me. Throughout my youth his blows rain down upon me—kicking, choking, gouging, slapping, punching, squeezing me—always done, he invariably reminds me, for my own good, to toughen me up. Whenever he catches Lisa and me swimming in the lake or pool he crashes in, dunking me forcefully, gleefully, in an iron grip, holding me under as I flail in terror. Underwater I struggle desperately as my air expires, clawing for the surface, my lungs afire as utter panic seizes me. With exquisite timing Jeffrey lets me up at the last possible instant, just as the red fingers of unconsciousness begin ripping at my mind. I burst from the water gasping, screaming, crying—I learn the meaning of hysteria—and then Jeff, smiling like the Cheshire Cat, does it again. This pattern becomes a constant ritual, the only time I truly fear Jeff, until I learn to flee the water whenever he approaches. It is done to make me strong, Jeff says, for life is hard and unpredictable and above all I must be able to take it. Adversity reveals character and builds the spirit, Jeff often opines, intent on revealing and building mine. For the most part—except for the water where I sense Jeff wrestles with whether to let me up—I do not dread these sudden attacks nor harbor any resentment. Rather, I stoically accept my lot, so desperate is my longing for attention. If not loved I can at least be accepted. It is only much later in life, when there is sufficient time and space to walk out of the past and remember the details, that I come to suspect—rightly or wrongly—darker motives, as my mind’s eye sees Jeffrey animated by his own personal demons, beating me as though deeply regretting that I’d ever been born.
I grow up worshiping Jeff, the only male authority figure on my horizon. I mimic him, brag on him, obey him and love him, desperately wanting his approval and direction, accepting his every word as gospel.
Jeffrey launches a program to teach me to fight, an on-again, off-again effort spanning many years. He positions me in the proper boxing stance and teaches me how to make a tight fist. He shows me how to jab and hook, skip and dance, bob and weave, to properly use my feet and legs. And—particularly when he’s drunk—he teaches me how to take a punch. Jeff hits me often and hard, over and over, year after year, hammering home these lessons with his fists.
I am perhaps nine one summer afternoon when Jeff pounds on our bedroom window. I put down my book and see Jeff gruffly motion me to join him outside. When I go to our side yard I see a neighborhood boy named Lou—a big, Baby Huey look-alike kid, younger than Jeff, older than me and bigger than both of us—hovering in the background, his face a mixture of agitation and alarm. Lou is the same boy that Jeff beat up a year or two earlier, knocking out two teeth over some insults Lou had directed at Lisa. This assault had sent Jeff to Youth Hall, the first of many times.
“Listen,” Jeff says, putting his arm around my shoulder, “you are going to fight him.” Jeff motions toward Lou, who is visibly afraid. “You are going to beat his ass.”
I stare at Lou, who towers over me, uncertain what to make of this. Lou whines in protest, telling Jeff he does not want to fight me. Lou is petrified of Jeff and I sense his dilemma—if he wins the fight Jeff will probably beat him up.
“You will fight my brother,” Jeffrey snarls. “And you won’t hold back. It’ll be a fair fight. If you win, you win. But if you hold back or fake it I’ll kick your ass good.”
Jeff pulls me aside and kneels beside me. “I know he’s a lot bigger than you, but you have to learn that it is the size of your heart that matters most. You can beat this punk.” When I look up at Lou doubtfully, wondering if I can even reach his chin, Jeff squeezes my shoulder. “Remember what I’ve taught you.” Jeff instructs. “Don’t be afraid to get hit. It only hurts the first time, and only a little. Once you start fighting you won’t feel a thing. Now put up your hands.”
Jeff brings us together. “Now fight!” he commands, pushing me toward Lou, who holds his hands up awkwardly. We begin to fight, tentatively at first, until I start charging in, throwing wild haymakers, while Lou punches back reluctantly. I land some punches but Lou lands more—and harder ones. Round and round we go, punching, swinging, and flailing away. Lou connects and I taste my own blood; he connects again and my nose stings and my eyes water as I huff and puff and dance around. I charge in and Lou knocks me down; I charge again and surprise myself when I knock Lou down. We fight and rest and fight some more, with Jeff advising and encouraging me between each round. I learn that Jeff spoke the truth—after the first punch I feel no pain. My confidence grows as I wade through Lou’s blows and I see his eyes widen as I take his best shots. I actually see the fear in his eyes and watch his resolve melt away. I swing over and over, connecting again and again until suddenly Lou buckles and sinks to the ground, covering his face and blubbering that he gives up. An indescribable thrill of victory washes over me—I have beaten someone much bigger and older than me through sheer force of will. It is a small and childish event, but I learn a timeless lesson that I will carry through out my life—that a smaller man with a big heart will beat a big man with a smaller heart every time. I learn the value of ignoring pain and how relentless determination can take a man’s heart. I will never again fear a bigger man nor ever doubt my ability to win any fight.
I grow up with Jeff more absent than present—great blocks of my memory bear no trace of him—as he pops in and out of my life between his journeys. He is sent to Youth Hall for beating up Lou, and then Dad sends him to a Virginia military academy to straighten him out. Jeff qualifies for MENSA and finishes third scholastically in a class of 702, but is kicked out when he refuses to inform on his roommates over ownership of some civilian clothes; failure to inform violates their “honor code” and Jeff tells them to go to hell. In 1965 and 1966, Jeff spends a year in Marianna Boys School for burglaries. In the summer of 1967 he is sentenced to 98 years in state prison for assorted thefts and burglaries. I grow up catching only glimpses of Jeff and treasure the moments he shares with me.
Jeff grows up obsessed with our family history, which stretches back centuries to Germany and Holland. On our living room wall hangs an old, tall portrait—an ancestral oil painting in a gilded frame, of a dour, regal fellow with a pointed beard and piercing eyes, wearing an old world suit and flowing cape, a ruffled shirt with a round, pleated collar, and a funny-looking hat, looking like he just stepped off the front of a Dutch Masters cigar box. Squirreled away in a cabinet are tied-up bundles of family papers— letters, maps, deeds and proclamations. There are large ancient parchments better suited for a museum, printed and penned in florid High German and Latin—as cryptic to me as Cyrillic—some adorned with heavy red wax seals as cracked and crumbling as dry dead dreams, and long, tattered gold ribbons. Dad tells us that some are signed by long dead emperors, kings and princes and he points to dates that rub my imagination: 1284; 1351; 1428; 1618. I smell the history when the pages are turned—musty, exotic and pregnant with adventure. I see the ornate engraving of the family coat of arms—a knight’s visored helmet, a shield and two eagles—which Jeff caresses lovingly. Dad carefully unfolds the cracking brown papers—his warm crinkled eyes dance, clearly caught in a memory—and he patiently instructs us—he wants us to remember, to understand.
Our full last name is Poyck von Ehrenstein and we once owned a castle in Germany—the castle Ehrenstein—about five miles from Aachen (Aix-la-Chapelle), near Panesheide, a medieval fortified town surrounded by a substantial wall and drawbridge which once belonged to our castle. We lost the castle a century ago in some type of fraud perpetuated by other relatives, and thereafter we moved to Holland where we kept only the name Poyck. Our forefathers were reigning knights (Ritter) in Prussia, Austria, Belgium and Holland—our great, great, great, great grandfather, Heinrich, was the last reigning German Knight under the last Roman emperor. Many of our forefathers are buried at the great cathedral at Aachen (Aix-la-Chapelle). For centuries our ancestors were generals and governors (three were military governors of the fortified town of Donaumorth on the Danube River) and more than a few fought in the crusades. Even further back we were Vikings, once sailing up the Thames and sacking a muddy little town called London. Dad reads off some of the names of our ancestors and we listen as if it is our native tongue; the names trip off Dad’s lips like mysterious medieval warrior kings, firing up our imaginations: Caspar. Otto. Heinrich. August. Frederick. Maximilian. Werner. On a more sober note I learn that our great, great grandparents (August Joseph Werner Constantin Poyck von Ehrenstein and his wife) attended the cathedral at Aachen on Christmas eve, 1847, and after returning were found dead in the morning, asphyxiated by coal gas from the heating system.
Jeff’s passion for our family history is powerfully visceral and he hammers me with the salient point: we come from a long line of nobility—knights and generals and governors. We are warriors, fighters, adventurers and rulers, born to go forth to battle and conquer. It is in our blood, it is our destiny—we can be nothing else. Jeff utters words he says carry real meaning: Valor. Honor. Courage. Bravery. Duty. Country. Blood. Family. We must always be bold, Jeff instructs me, always fight—it is in our marrow and who we are. Above all, we must strive to uphold our family traditions. Jeff takes this obligation seriously, making sure I understand; but in the coming years he will apply his own patina, a unique interpretation that only he can explain.
I do not know when Jeff first begins to steal but I know when he teaches me how it is done. He shows me how to shoplift candy for him, escorting me to stores from which he’s been banned. I am a good student and I learn well, emerging with pockets stuffed with loot. It does not seem wrong and I feel no guilt—it soon becomes a natural thing to do.
Jeff enlists me in other projects. We build minibikes in our garage from stolen bicycles and lawnmower edger engines and wheelbarrow wheels for the rear. Jeff takes me along on midnight excursions, raiding our neighbors’ garages for minibike materials, and within a year we have stolen every edger, wheelbarrow and bicycle in the neighborhood, while the residents grumble about the Van Poyck boys down the street, roaring around on their homemade minibikes.
Jeff grows older and graduates to motorcycles—Triumphs, Nortons, a BSA and a Matchless—until he settles on a black Harley-Davidson, an incredibly loud Sportster with brutish straight pipes. Jeff joins a high school fraternity, Deucalions, a wild and rowdy bunch constantly at war with the preppy Ivy League fraternities at Palmetto High School.
Late one night Jeff staggers into our bedroom, drunk as usual, wanting to talk. I am already awake—his Harley wakes me, and the neighbors, up when he is still blocks away. On this night Jeff lectures me, laying out a befuddled life philosophy that he insists I adopt. Jeff tells me he is a cat burglar, he’s been breaking into homes—just the rich ones, he says—stealing money and jewels. He calls himself a Robin Hood bandit and throws a bundle of money on the bed. Then he digs out a small velvet bag from a hiding place and dumps the contents out. I see a jumble of rings, watches, necklaces and bracelets, all shiny gold, and a rainbow palette of sparkling jewels—diamonds, rubies, emeralds and sapphires. Jeff paws through the pile, showing off pieces, teaching me how to evaluate jewelry. He continues his spiel, telling me it is noble to steal, as long as it’s from the rich and you follow the code. Weren’t our ancestors glorified bandits? They were knights and generals who rode, pillaged, sacked and conquered, taking what they wanted by the edge of the sword. The key, Jeff tells me, is to go by the code: Never hurt women, children or old people. Never steal from the poor or a working man, and only from rich folks and banks and insurance companies. And, above all, never, ever rat on your friends—you never talk with or cooperate with the police. The worst thing you can do in life is rat out and betray a friend.