The Early Years

The Early Years – Part One

I was adopted, it was 1948

That beginning would forever change the vector of my life. For the first thirty days my birth mother held, bathed and cared for me. The Jewish Family and Children’s Services Agency had rules to follow. No mother would be allowed to give up their child until they were sure that no bond existed between them. It was not a difficult choice for her. Shamed and hidden from relatives she steadfastly refused to make friends with the other women. Her parents had offered to raise me as their own, but she refused as that constant reminder would bring back the hurt and shame.

My birth surname is unusual – when I learned it fifty-five years later it took less than fifteen minutes to track down ‘family’. In the days leading up to that revelation I spoke at length to the adoption agency and told them what I remembered from my stay. “You can’t have those memories” the woman told me, “you were much too young.” She was wrong, you know, the first weeks in an adoption agency were fresh in my memory more than fifty years after I had left. There were yellowed window shades, brittle with age that were never raised. Women in nurses uniforms talked in hushed tones; they smelled of Germacide Spray and lavender. There were small raised cots with high sides that held all of us babies. From there I was transferred to three different foster homes, ultimately to be adopted at age two. In those two years, I was given multiple tests to determine if I was a Wonderkind; I was and God-Damned if that didn’t haunt me for decades. (see note on disabilities).

What follows are fragments of my life.

My adopted father (Sol) was born to poverty in the tenements of New York City in 1906. An uncomplicated home birth, he was the first of three children, destined to be the most successful and least known. His father (Abe) was an ornamental ironworker who saw his labor adorn the top of the main post office. Abe came to America with a torn shirt an ill-fitting jacket, one pair of pants and not a single cent to his name.

It is said that at age two, I crawled out of my crib and announced “Here I come!” ~ and I have never slowed since. I remember the first house, a small, simple and well decorated starter home on top of a short hill on Watson Road. Inside were my father, mother, sister and grandmother (mother’s mother). Shortly after I was brought home, we moved to Elizabeth Road. This was somewhat larger and had a two car garage. We lived there until 1957

My father would golf at least one day on the weekend at a local Club. These were business meetings. I missed his company on those days and decided to find out where he went. Hiding on the floor in the rear of his car, I took a ride. After what seemed to be a long while, I left the comfort of my sanctuary and explored.

Familiar with The Club, I wandered unchallenged. My mother noticed I was missing and had my father alerted on the course. The hunt was on! A kindly man sitting by the pool motioned to a steward to grab me up and bring me to him. I sat on his lap and heard tales of life in a faraway land where people played games for money and drank rum. He took ‘golden coins’ from his pocket and gave me one, promising more if I stayed to listen to his stories. While these were newly minted pennies, they were a fortune to me and I believed that they were really gold and worthy of a king.

His anger was apparent when my father approached, but gave way to a smile as I recounted the tales I had just been told. He would laugh when retelling how his son was given gold coins by Meyer Lansky. It would be thirty six years before I understood the relationship between my father and the man known as The Mob’s Accountant. Meyer Lansky had fronted the money for several hotels, casinos and night clubs in Cuba, making millions of dollars. When Fidel Castro came to power many of Lansky’s hotels and casinos were looted and burned to the ground.