"God Bless The Child Who's Got His Own" -pt. 6

I should begin by trying to explain what it is like to always feel the longing for family. I have never understood families where one relative does not speak to another, people in families that sit in judgment of each others behavior, opinions, thinking. I suppose it is because I never felt I had a whole family, that I become furious at this insensitive and selfish behavior. How can a daughter simply wipe out the existence of her parents, both mother and father, just cut them out of her life, with a clean sharp knife, with no remorse whatsoever. To refuse to visit a dying father's death bed. To deprive grandparents from knowing their grandchildren; and worse yet, to distort the truth behind this vile behavior and deprive the grandchildren of their grandparents. Because of something said by the Mother, something done . What could it have been? How does a brother not talk to a sister because of something she did that he disagrees with, that he sits in judgment of! What could these people have done; murder, theft? rape? Short of cutting off Bernie Madoff, there is no sensible answer.

One of these people once said to me, "I have made peace with it, with myself"..Isn't that great? SHE has made peace, but no one else has. Certainly not her father before he died. The word selfish, does not come close. Self-righteous, self-centered, narcissistic,....how about just plain hateful! I am convinced that what goes around comes around because guess what? Her own Mother did the same to her Grandmother. So you can imagine what she has in store for herself from her own kids.

What I do know is this; if my daughter decided to simply cut me out of her life, for some reason she felt valid.... well quite frankly, that would be the end of me. Kaput!

So there are two ways to go when one is hurt by a family member; one is to turn away and destroy their existence in our life, thereby depriving ourselves of the joy of healing and family, or, like me, to understand that when you have little family, you feel the need to hold on to whatever you have. No matter who in that family hurts you, or truly causes you emotional pain, you can forgive and forget because you need them to exist in your life. They do not need you, but you do need them. And I believe, because of that, you become grateful, for whatever they do give you...any little crumb of affection and attention. And you ignore the hurts, no matter now deep. You often will not even acknowledge them to yourself and to the people that hurt you because God Forbid....what if they left you? Well, hard as it is to believe that about me, considering I am known by friends and family as a pretty 'tough' gal, that is me. A shrink once said that some people don't feel they deserve love. Deserving means entitled and that is a foreign concept to someone like myself. Entitled? Never understood that concept, ever. If they haven't earned it, how could they really get it? And so they/me, become grateful and when you are grateful you leave yourself wide open to being emotionally abused . And we often are. Now that's not to say that people like me, cannot also turn on a dime if your cut is too deep, because we do have the ability to turn ourselves off with one clean click of the switch..walk away and not turn around to take a last look. We learned to do that since childhood and that ability is what saved us, kept us sane amongst the insanity around us; but that is only with non-family members . Never with family. Never!

For people like me, and you know who you are, it is sometimes difficult to separate 'liking' from 'loving', sexual passion from passionate love. Therefore, you are sometimes grateful to the wrong people and your choices are all wrong for the wrong reasons, and despite it all, you never do fill that empty hole inside of you anyway. Does any of this make sense? I suppose not. That same shrink said that when a baby is emotionally abandoned, and then the same child, over and over, one of the results of this is what I described above. Either that, or you go to the Texas Depository building, or a post office, or a school, and a blow a ton of people away, or maybe you become an addict or a whore, or maybe you become me.

One of my earliest memories is standing on the bottom rung of a black metal fence, tip-toe, bending over as far as I could, & craning my 3 year old neck to see up the street who was coming to pick me up. It is a Saturday and all the children that live there with me, and there are not that many, have been picked up already from the Ventnor Private School (my boarding house). I am the last to go. Who is coming? Will it be my brother Mikey? Mike is 5 years older than I am. My Father adopted him when our family doctor called my Father and told him about a local 16 year-old girl who had an out-of-wedlock baby. Since he knew my father wanted to adopt a boy he called and offered the baby. And that is how my brother Mike got into the mix. Michael had a terrible life. But that's another story. On Saturdays, Mikey would come walking down the street and I could not wait to take his hand and then take the trolley uptown to Oriental Avenue to stay with my grandparents. We would go to Grandmom Dora's apartment where there was good food and a comfortable bed, which I think was out on an enclosed porch. Sometimes I would sit on the floor and rub her feet when she asked me to. I think my Aunt Betty also lived there. Grandmom Dora died when I was very young and I remember nothing of it at all. I do know, or was told, that they never told my father while he was in prison. They told me later that if he knew she had died, he would have just fallen apart. Well he did anyway, but later on.

On Sunday nights I was brought back to the Ventnor Private School (read boarding school). I slept upstairs in a room where there were a row of cots. Downstairs, Miss Armstrong and Miss Zimmerman would teach classes but for the life of me all I remember is listening to the Blue Danube which I guess was our introduction to 'good music'. And I remember hearing the "Anniversary Waltz" which to this day I can still hum. The only birthday I ever celebrated or at least remember was held there and I got a 'brides doll', something I wanted very badly. To me she was the most beautiful doll I had ever laid my eyes on, with a white satin dress, and a long veil over her head. Why I wanted that doll I will never know, but I wanted it more than anything in the world. I never knew or remembered kids came there to actually attend school, and it was not until my 50th high school reunion that someoe came up to me and told me they went to that 'school' after they moved to Atlantic City and they needed a transition until they could start public school. I never knew kids came to school and left every day and she never knew some of us lived there.

I remember having my hair washed with 'tar' soap and one of the women brushing and braiding it as well. And I remember being carried in the dark of night down a long flight of stairs, wrapped in a blanket and into a waiting car. I asked them where I was going and they said to a hospital to have my tonsils removed. I know I wasn't crying or anything. I actually never cried when I was a child.

Once I was made to sit on a stool, in a room all alone, with soap and mustard in my mouth and I was told I could not spit it out. I was being punished for being a 'bad girl'. I had climbed a tree in the backyard, and when I saw the little boy that lived next door, I tried to hit him by throwing down branches and nuts and whatever else I could get my hands on. I guess he told his mother and they told Miss Zimmerman and Miss Armstrong. And so I was punished. But again I wouldn't cry. I felt they wanted me to so I would show some remorse, but I did not. However, I do remember hurting myself by rubbing my hands on my thighs really hard til I broke the skin...and I think I was touching myself sexually but I am not sure. That's where all my feelings went; inside, not outside! No yelling. No crying. No begging for forgiveness. And one thing I remember clearly is that I would not cry or spit out that soap. When I started to think back about my life in the Ventnor Private School, (boarding house) I think Miss Armstrong and Miss Zimmerman might very well havebeen lesbians. What better way to have a secret life together than to run a boarding house/ school? But they were kind to me. They probably knew who my father was and knew better than to mess with me.

I have often been asked why I was not angry with my aunts and uncles for putting me in a boarding school at 3 years of age. Why couldn't they raise me? Why wasn't I put up at my Grandmom Dora's apartment, instead of only being allowed to just visit on the weekends?

Well I believe that children accept whatever their circumstances are, whatever life throws them and never question, why? One reason is that they sense DANGER! ...don't tread any further as you might not want to hear the answer, and maybe people will get so angry at you for asking and that they might leave you...won't want to be in your life anymore.

So children just go along with whatever they are dealt. You really have no strong likes or dislikes of your own. Take what you are given, smile, be grateful and that's that.

When my daughter was really angry with me, she did not hesitate to yell or even curse or tell me she hated me more than life itself, as many teens do when they are really upset with their parents. And when she did, I was never really all that upset about it, because I knew that deep down she loved me and felt totally secure and safe in my love of her. She knew I would never abandon her ever ever ever. If she needed my right arm, it was hers!


Now that I look back on it all, I don't think anyone of of my relatives were really capable of raising a small child. My Aunt Jean was already taking care of her two kids and running the family grocery /liquor store. And her husband, who was a cop, hated my father and wanted nothing to do with me or any of the Friedmans. Or so I was told by other relatives. And he mosted hated that Aunt Jean would go to visit my father in prison, as much as she could. No matter what her husband, the cop said, she went. My Uncle Bernie, who truly adored me, was a drinker, Aunt Betty was considered just a simple 'old maid' in those days, Uncle Label was a bachelor and a loner, strange as hell; so who was there really? And what Jewish Grandparents wouldn't take a little child into their home? But not mine. I don't think they were really too crazy about me either as I was after all, the illegitimate child of that "shiksa dancer". If my father was not their blessed son, God knows where I might have been sent. So.....I think therefore, I was lucky to be where I was with at least the opportunity to have some family on the weekends. I never, ever ever asked "where is my mother"or what happened to my mother". Or, why can't I live with you? Never! It wasn't until I was 10 and was moved out of the boarding school and into the big house on Windsor Avenue, and enrolled in public school where kids asked me that very question, "where is your Mother"? So I asked my Uncle Bernie..."where is my mother?" And then he only said, "she died in Panama when you were a baby". And so that was that!

Whatever their failings, I adored my family, such as it was. My Aunt Betty was loving and kind and used to always sneak pocket change in my hand feeling no one in family should see her give it to me. She would whisper to me, to take the change and say, Shhhhh! I wonder who she was hiding this from? My Uncle Bernie bought me all my clothes, had all the photos taken of me that do exist. Taught me to drive when I was a teenager. Brought me up to college on the first day of my admission. Talked my house mother into not throwing me out when I did some typical freshman antics... He knew a drunk when he met one and he used to drive up on weekends and sit with her in her quarters. They would drink and talk and she would laugh and all would be well with the world agian.

They both gave me money for the movies which I usually went to by myself and I would also go to the Steel Pier to watch the Diving Horse in the Water Show and to the big music hall. I loved to watch the Ink Spots up on stage and that's where I fell in love with black singers and R&B. And I loved seeing "Tony Grant and His Stars of Tomorrow". This was a show just featuring children; tap dancers, and singers. I would love going into the Diving Bell. This was a very special entertainment. This huge steel structure, shaped like a bell with windows on the side would drop down very fast to the bottom of the sea and sometimes you could see fish. It could hold about 10 people and I would go by myself and was never afraid. I would watch other kids scream in terror as their parents tried to cajole them to go into the Bell and I would stand there and laugh.

I once asked Aunt Betty if I could call her Mommy and she just smiled and hugged me but no answer. She must have felt very uncomfortable. She and I shared a bedroom together and I can remember vividly watching her pull on this immense girdle with clips on the bottom to attach to her stockings. It seemed like torture to me. And she would be so relieved when she would take it off at night and just wear her nightgown.

Sundays were my favorite days at 26 S. Windsor. Aunt Betty would go out early in the morning and buy smoked fish, sturgeon, lox, bagels, cream cheese, olives, onion, herring, and danish for desert, the traditional 'Jewish' Sunday breakfast. Everyone would come to the table and eat together. I get a warm feeling when I think back on it.

My Uncle Bernie lived in the house as well. He was the male love of my life and I knew deep down that he adored me. I always felt that right down to my toes, even though he was what they call 'a no-good drunk'. Grandpop Frank was very tall and stern and sometimes he would pat me on my head but never ever kiss or hug me. I remember coming down the stairs early in the morning as I would get ready to go to elementary school which was right up the block. He would be praying, saying his morning prayers, rocking back and forth, facing a wall, wrapped in a tallet and with Tfillen (a leather slim strap) wrapped around his arm.

My brother lived upstairs on the very top floor, sort of like the attic and he liked it up there....was like a hideaway for him. And I do not remember if my father was already in the house when I was there or if he came into house after I arrived; all I know is that he was there. I never ever asked about him or where he was...he just suddenly appeared. I was kind of scared of him. I do not remember him ever really talking to me, or touching me. Never. Except when he yelled at me a couple of times for not doing what he wanted. Like calling my step-mother, "Mother", and I tried to stay out of his way. I was supposed to call him Daddy, so I did, but I never really felt like he was a Daddy. I never felt anything towards him. Even when I found him dead on the cellar floor.

But I do have happy memories of sitting on the living room floor and huddling up close to the big standing radio listening to "The Shadow", "Let's Pretend" and "The Green Hornet". And one day my father brought in a piece of furniture with a television screen. With it was a huge magnifying glass on a stand to put in front of it. We were the only house on the street with a TV. My Aunt Betty and I used to watch the Milton Berle show together and sometimes neighborhood kids were allowed to come in and watch also. He also brought in a big dog named Mark, that sort of was like my dog. He was a 'bird' dog and loved to go out on the sand dunes chasing pigeons. Suddenly, when I was looking for Mark, my father said Mark was stolen out of our car. I was really sad but he would not replace the dog with another one.I think my step-mother told him to get rid of him. I am sure of it.

Grand pop Frank would dill pickles in giant wooden barrels down in the cellar and I would love reaching down into them and scooping one out, when Grand pop said they were 'ready'. The juice was like a nectar and I would drink it straight out of the keg if I could. Even today, if I close my eyes I can see those kegs, and smell that brew and to this day, I still adore sour pickles.

So maybe now you might understand that when I was located by my real mother's family, I was hungry to see, touch, hug them. I loved them immediately. Without even meeting them. After all, they were part of my Mother.

When Elaine and I finally spoke on the phone, I felt like another part of myself was on the other end. I asked her a million questions about our Mother Ruth (alias Ondra), and about her own life. She was not bitter and she had every right to be. She, like me, dealt with what she was given and was only stronger because of it. Our Mom put her in a few different boarding houses to live in as a youngster. She was truly moved from pillar to post, sometimes to a relative's house as well. But never for long and never permanently. And as far as Elaine knows, Ruth never raised her. She does not know where she was when she was an infant. And to this day, she does not know who her father is. Elaine has vague memories as a very young little girl attending a big funeral and hearing whispers about the person who had died. She thinks her father was a small-time gangster and that would not be surprising because who else could our mother have met being in nightclubs all the time. Gangsters ran the clubs, visited the clubs, dated the showgirls. That's how she met my own father as well. It all makes sense.

When Ruth died, Elaine was eleven and was shuffled off to the West Coast to live with one of our aunts. Elaine was not happy there at all. Our Mother did not raise either one of us and mores the pity! As the song says, "God Bless -----" well you know.

My kid sister, Harlene, flew in from Los Angeles to meet Elaine, when I had my dinner party, as she wanted to be included and I think to state her place in my family. If she was worried about being usurped it was for naught, as I was always crazy about her. When she was around 5 years old and I was going through my boy-crazy teenage stuff, I used to have to schlep her everywhere with me; football games, to the beach, even to social events. Although I complained of course, I loved her dearly. My friends and I would use her to help us meet boys on the beach. We would send her over to a blanket with the cutest boys on it and tell her to ask them what time it was. She would point to us and the rest is history. She is incredibly talented, terribly smart, top% in every grade right through college and now very successful in her own right. I always said she got my Father's brains, and personality, that's for sure. And make no mistake about it, he was very smart. If not for him, all his brothers and sisters would have starved as kids. He was the hustler and the brains of the family and they all depended on him. If only he had used his brains for legitimate work or schooling, God knows what might have become of him. But there was real poverty and 4 younger siblings and two immigrant parents to support. He took the easier route. He was the only one born in Russia. The other's were born in Philadelphia which is where my Grandparents had settled when they came from the 'old country'.

After myparty, Elaine, 3 of her daughters ( my new nieces), and one of her sons, Keith who works out of New York 3 days a week, all went out to dinner the next night and when they left New York the next day, to return to Cincinnati, I became sullen and agitated. Elaine and I agreed that in April,we would first meet in Las Vegas right before the reunion that David had arranged to occur in Utah at one of his brother's homes. That is when I would meet all the Mormon cousins as David has two brothers and two sisters as well. There would also be 2ndcousins who's mother's were sisters of my Mom, Ruth. I could not wait to meet my new family.

Before the reunion, Elaine and I agreed to meet in Vegas and this time, my daughter Jennifer, flew in from LA and met Elaine and her husband Eddie. Elaine and I had dinner that night and got to talk some more. We had more questions of each other than was possible to answer in just a few short days, but I felt love for her, no matter what anybody says. Some say that is just wishful on my part. So be it. It is what I feel.

The next day, David picked us all up and we drove a couple of hours up to Utah and the reunion .Jennifer was a bit wary I knew. First, that they were Mormons and second, that they were my 'family'. Suddenly and out of nowhere! But she kept her doubts to herself and was as usual, charming to everyone. Everyone was crazy about her of course. She is beautiful, articulate and has all the graciousness of someone 'to the manner born' as they say. But I know she had her doubts as to whether these people were really 'my people'. And there are cousins that could not come out to Utah and I have yet to meet them. One is also called Dolores, only she spells it differently, and many have the middle name Ruth as part of theirs. They are all Christians of one faith or another.

It is because of Jennifer, that I asked Elaine to take a DNA test with me. Elaine did not feel this was necessary as she just "knew" we were sisters. But I needed to do it for all of the Nay-Sayers around me and I have plenty of them. So....not too long ago as a matter of fact, on my last visit to Elaine's home in Ohio, we went to a well-known lab, Genetica which happens to be based in Cincinnati. They took 4 swabs from the inside of our cheeks and said it would take 3 weeks to determine if we were in fact from the same mother. When they knew the results, they would call and follow up with a mailing of the results. This is the wording of the DNA test.

"MITOCHONDRIAL DNA TEST"
GENETICA lABORATORIES, INC.
June 22, 2009

Alleged Relative #1 Alleged Relative #2
Elaine R. Arlinghaus Dolores Danska
Born: November 29, 1928 Born: June 5, 1939

Maternal Lineage Likelihood Ratio: 563 to 1
Specimens from Elaine R. Arlinghaus and Dolores Danska were submitted for DNA analysis to determine the likelihood that Elaine R. Arlinghaus shares the same maternal lineage as Dolores Danska----the likelihood of maternal relatedness is 563 to 1 and the probability is 99.82%.

So there you have it! Elaine got the call first since she lives in the same city. She called me and said, "I told you so! We are sisters and there is absolutely no doubt about it. I just spoke to the lab! They will call you today as well."

And they did and said "congratulations to the both of you."

Now back to the Mormon reunion and moi!.

I was a bit concerned as I was going to stay at David's house after the reunion and I wasn't sure how his friends would react to meeting a new family member that one, was Jewish, and two, was the illegitimate daughter of his Aunt Ruth, and some small-town hood who went to prison and also blew his brains out.

David said he was not worried at all so I started to relax, but the day he told me we were going to his Mormon church and he wanted me to address his ward, with whom he taught bible studies, I almost died. He said they had heard all about me and his search and how he knew this was our destiny and he wanted them to now actually see and hear me. And so one Sunday, I'm finding myself standing in a Mormon church, in Hurricane, Utah. before a stern looking group of Mormon men, women, and young girls, to tell my story. As much of it as I could without getting into too much detail but to fill out what David had already shared with them. I told it as dramatically as I could, as if I were pitching a documentary concept, and I was looking for financing, something I was totally familiar with doing. I had told David to give me the high sign when I should wrap it up and he did. I knew I could carried away. When I was finished, they greeted me with hugs and smiles and told me how happy they were for me and for David and if it was true as the Mormons believe, that they could...then they must be in quite a tizzy!

I RETURN THE CALL - part 3

Of course I cannot wait until I can call this young woman back...Michelle Romano...whoever! As soon as it is 9 AM, I call and tell this person named Michelle that I am indeed Dolores Friedman who was born in Panama in 1939 and raised in Atlantic City. And you are?

Michelle tells me the following and as she spoke, I could barely control the sobs between my responses.

"As I said on the message, my Dad and I had been doing some genealogy research and found that he has a cousin we never knew about...and we are sure that cousin is you.

My Dad's name is David Isom, and his mother was Laverne Isom, who was one of your mother's sisters." "My Mother?? My real Mother? But her name was Ondra!". "No Dolores, her name was not Ondra. It was Ruth. Ruth Lake, and she was born in Montana". "Ruth Lake? Montana? Not Panama?"? "Yes Dolores, Ruth Lake, and Montana is where she and her family lived." Montana? Big Sky Country?John Wayne, cowboys? Impossible. There are no Jews in Montana and I am Jewish and this is crazy. Or so I thought!


Michelle said my mother was one of 5 siblings; she had a set of twin sisters, Lillian and Laverne, (Laverne, was Michelle's grandmom,) another sister Thelma, and a brother named Buddy. All of them were orphaned at a very young age. I had aunts and an uncle named Buddy. I was in shock, real shock! My mother had a name...it was not the name on her death certificate and not the name on my birth certificate but it was her REAL name. Ruth! From the bible I thought. Michelle continued.
She said the Lakes on my Grandfather's side came from England and my Grandmother Lake came from Scotland. England? Scotland? I had to ask her, " Michelle what religion are you?" She answered, "Mormon". I couldn't help it but I started to laugh out loud. Good God, I thought, I've got polygamists in my family!

I said to Michelle, you mean the kind of Mormons that wear those long dresses and braid their hair and are called sister wives with one husband? After all I had been hooked on that HBO TV series, about a Mormon family called, "Big Love" and furthermore we had just been inundated with TV news about the Texas compound of polygamists that had been raided.

She explained they were not polygamists, but simply Latter Day Saints, and that everyone in the Lake family were not Mormons, it was just that her Dad's Mother, Laverne, had married a Mormon at a very young age and so she converted from being a Presbyterian to her husband's religion and so her son David, my first cousin who actually did the research on me, was raised Mormon as well.

I asked if there were any other cousins and she said yes, several second cousins that were still alive and they lived all over the country and they were a mix of Baptists, Catholics and Presbyterians. I thought to myself, Grandmom Dora, who was not allowed to know about my Mother, the shiksha rumba dancer from Panama, must be spinning in her grave because now she really had her come-upins! My whole mishpulka were goyem!


And then, out of nowhere...Michelle dropped the mother load...."Did you know you have a sister who's name is Elaine? Would you like to talk to her? We have her number and she knows we were going to call you. She is waiting to hear from you."

That did it! I told Michelle to hold on as I started to sob uncontrollably.

LET ME INTRODUCE MYSELF - part 2

The child is me, Dolores Friedman (Danska). I was barely 3 years of age. ..and of course, that woman is not my Mother.... it is Marlene Dietrich, the famous actress of the thirties and forties. Ms. Dietrich is selling WW2 war bonds on the boardwalk in Atlantic City, New Jersey. That's what stars did as a way to raise money to help in the war effort back then. Many of Atlantic City's hotels were used to house troops and were tuned into hospitals as well. My uncle Bernie asked her to hold me so he could take a photo. You will note I am dressed like a little Hawaian girl....he dressed me in these Hawaiian outfits as apparently I performed like a trained seal and would dance the 'hulu' upon request.. I was always a performer. I have some of me in this 'hulu' costume dancing on the beach as well. When I aw themovie 'Beaches" with Bette Midler, I pictured myself entertaining the troops on the sand as well.

Uncle Bernie bought me all of my clothes. There 's a photo of me in a book that was written about Atlantic City, where I am in a navy navy spring jacket with little white shoes no older than 3, posing in front of a giant sculpture at leasst 2 stories tall, of a pink, blue and white rabbit on the boardwalk, in front of Convention Hall. It was clearly Easter and I it was Uncle Bernie that bought me that outfit.

He had no children of his own and lived on and off with the only woman he ever loved, Aunt Thelma....a gorgeous woman but an alcoholic just like he was. Periodically, I am told ,....they would both live a 'lost weekend' life in their apartment. They would lock the door, drink everything they had, bottle after bottle, and and would then both have to be admitted into the hospital to 'dry out' .... one of his favorite expressions. He told me he met her when she was a waitress at a local restaurant in town and that he fell madly in love with her. He said men often fell in love with waitresses as they served them food, knew what they liked and didn't like, and always made them feel good and special.

I am told he used to take me to his favorite taverns and I would entertain the patrons by dancing on the bar and being as cute as a 3-year old could be, The rest of the family would always fight with him about taking me to these bars, but it is where Uncle Bernie had his friends and he wanted to show me off. Although he was a dyed-in-the wool alcoholic he wast never too drunk as not to be able to take care of me....you see, my Father, his brother, was not around during that time. He was in prison. I will tell you about that later on.

Anyway, regrding the photo, it was in 1997, while reading an article in Vanity Fair magazine, that this photo of Marlene and myself appeared. Up to then the only place I had ever seen it was on my living room wall. Vanity Fair had one done a featire story on her apartment because her family was selling off her belongings in an upcoming auction and they wanted to publicize what was going to be sold. She had died in 1992 and for five years, her apartment had been left untouched. As I read the story and looked at the photos, I saw this photo in a small frame on a book shelf in her living room.. When I saw it, I froze. What in the hell was my photo doing in Marlene Dietrich's apartment? I immediately called Vanity Fair and asked if a stylist or photo editor had re-arranged the apartment and placed items for purposes of the shoot. Their response was that the photographer had not touched a thing and that it was shot the exact way they found it. I thought long and hard about this and decided, that maybe I was the unknown, illegitimate daughter of Marlene Dietrich? Could this be yet another secret my family kept hidden from me, because at this point I did not know who my Mother was and noone would talk about hr. And furthermore,

Now, deep in my heart, I knew I really wasn't her daughter, but since as I said, I did not know who's daughter I was since I had no information about my mother, except that she was a rumba dancer, that she lived in Panama where I was born, and that her name was ONDRA, or Andra, he was not sure of the spelling. That's all he ever knew. Uncle Bernie said her letters to my Dad, would actually be sent to him, and he would give them to my father, because, God Forbid if Grandmom Dora, would find out about this shiksa nightclub dancer her blessed son was seeing.

Uncle Bernie told me he did not know if my mother was Panamanian or American, if she had any family, why she lived in Panama, if they were ever married or why I was born there. He only knew that she died of ptomaine poisoning and her name sounded like Ondra. That's all I ever knew until many years ago when I wanted a passport so I could travel with the man who was about to become my husband. I then started a correspondence with Panamanian authorities giving them my maiden name, Friedman, the year of my birth, 1939, and the name of the one city my Uncle Bernie remembered, called, Colon. After several letters between the Bureau of Vital Statistics in Panama, this is what they sent me. I now had proof that I was really born in Panama, that I even had a middle name, and that my mother was really dead. And it is all I had up until a short time ago, which is why I am telling my story. The italics are my own.


"NAME OF DECEASED: ANDREA FRIEDMAN (Andrea?? not Ondra?)
AGE AT TIME OF DEATH: 25 (my poor Momma...God, she was so young!)
DATE OF BIRTH (OR DEATH): OCTOBER 7, 1940
NATIONALITY: U.S.
REGISTER NUMBER: 526
PLACE OF DEATH: HOSPITAL AMADOR GUERRERO, COLON, R.DE P.
CAUSE OF DEATH: INTESTINAL OBSTRUCTION - AUTO-INTOXICATION.

It also said her Father's name was John and her Mother's was Helen Young. I had grandparents named John and Helen Young...doesn't sound Jewish to me.....they were definitely American though. But where were they? Were they alive? Were there other children? Did I have any other relatives? I wanted my family, my Mother's family. But how to find them? How to find her? Where was she buried? Who buried her? All I wanted was to find her gravesite and talk to her. To call her a name I only whispered to myself ever since I was a child, "Momma". It was not until many years after I received this document that I was able to do just that. In fact, it was this year.

I know it is just a piece of paper - a death certificate. But you can't understand what this piece of paper meant to me. I don't think so really. Suffice it to say that now I new she lived, and now, for sure, I knew she was dead. No more fantasies. And she was American.. Not Panamanian!

Now I was determined to locate my birth certificate. See I think most people know about their birth because they have been told about it, they have parents and family that talk about it...but me, I knew nothing and nobody would ever talk about it! It was always such a secret. Lots of secrets in my family, such as I had and I will share them all with you. So getting my birth certificate meant everything to me. And when I finally got it, well of course, it only led to more questions.

CERTIFICATE OF BIRTH: Register no. 100288
FULL NAME OF CHILD: Dolores Elizabeth Friedman (Wow! I had a middle name. Never knew that.)
SEX OF CHILD: Female
DATE OF BIRTH: June 5, 1939
FATHER: Joseph Friedman - age: 35
MOTHER: Elaine Ruth Ondra age: 28, White ( So Elaine was her name- not Ondra...or so I thought!)
BIRTHPLACE: U.S.A.
OCCUPATION: Housewife (that's a joke!)

Now here comes the big payoff...the kicker as they say:
NUMBER OF CHILDREN BORN TO THIS MOTHER INCLUDING PRESENT BIRTH: Two.

Two? Who was the other child? Where was the other child? I had a sister or brother and no name and no way to find them. I lived with this information for years and years... that is until I received a phone call late one night.

My Story begins - part 1

Everyone has something in their lives that is remarkable or tragic or unusual and most people's lives are often truly, "stranger than fiction" . But I doubt that many people live a life believing one thing about themselves and then come to learn that what they thought, what they believed, what they were told, was all a lie. To learn that the facts of their life, are different than what they had been told, what they knew and what they expected is not your every day occurrence. And certainly not at 68 years of age. We do not expect life-changing surprises at this age, about ourselves or our families. Other than maybe a serious illness, which can rear up its ugly head at any time, and I had already gone through that with breast cancer in '94, I was not ready for what happened to me in when I came home late one evening,checked my voice mail and heard the following:

"Hello Dolores...My name is Michelle Romano and I live in Boston. My Dad and I have been doing some genealogy research and have recently found out that he has a cousin we never knew about. After doing some more research, we think that cousin might be you. If you were born in Panama, in 1939, you are probably her. If you're not, I'm sorry to waste your time, but either way, if you could call me back and let me know I'd really appreciate it!"
This was the exact message that Michelle left. I was in shock. At this age you do not expect to hear you have a cousin you never heard about. But this was to be only the tip of the iceberg, as they say.

All that evening, I kept asking myself, how could I have an Italian cousin? Her name was Michelle Romano and Romano certainly sounded Italian to me. But I was Jewish with the maiden name of Friedman. I once married an Italian and had his name for awhile but, she also knew my birthday and and that I was born in Panama. Few people knew that! Who was this girl? I didn't sleep well that night and could barely wait until I could call her in the morning. Little did I know that with that phone call, my life was about to change in ways I could never imagine. The photo you see here is that of Michelle and her husband Matt. Matt and Michelle have 5 children and they're not even Catholic.

I will share this story in bits and pieces, as things come to me, out of order, with no rhyme or reason other than I just have to get it all out...to write it all down. I don't know why. But you can believe every word as it is all true.

Harlene - Shakespeare & Zindel dies -PT 9

But getting back to the present, it is now July and Harlene and I are meeting in Central park in order to get free tickets to see Shakespeare's, "Twelfth Night" at the Dellecorte Theatre, starring Ann Hathaway. The stage is in Central Park and it is just magical to sit under the stars and watch for the most part, great theatre. They give out two free tickets at 1pm to the first 1200 people and we can see, as we walk, that the line stretches for about 30 blocks. Still we are confident we can score.

Harlene, known as Kim by her friends, and I, agree to meet at at 6 AM. We learn that the line began around 4am but we are confident we can score two free tickets as we are there so early. Most people are on mats, folding chairs, even hammocks. After sitting on the hard ground for 4 hours, sure as hell that any minute we will have our tickets, a theater assistant came out to the line and told us we did not have a prayer to and we might as well go home. He said the line would be cut 4 people before us. Damn! And I had just paid $5.00 to rent a fold-up chair as my behind was sore as hell.

Harlene changed her name to Kim when she started her career in television as a Director; one of the first women to direct prime time soap operas. I think she thought the name Kim would look better in screen credits and also it would not be read instantly as a woman's name. Lots of sexism in the TV business . I know, as I myself made a career in talk shows and documentaries. Have many awards as a matter of fact, but Harlene was in the fun side of the business, the fantasy side. She directed many of the top rated nighttime soap operas. Remember, Mary Hartman, Mary Hartman?. She did that too. Norman Lear saw her direction of a Shakespeare play out in LA and put her into a training situation immediately so she could direct Mary Hartman. She had never even been in a TV studio before. He knew she was a rising star. But she was always just Harlene to me. I am the one who introduced her to the theater actually, and had her running lights when she was just 13 years old for a summer stock show. And I had her audition for a Broadway show that came to Atlantic City, looking for people. She had an incredible voice, like Ethel Merman actually. Anyway, I could never call her Kim. Even today.

My father married her mother, Ethel, from Philadelphia, shortly after he got out of prison which was in 1945. Ethel had never been married and had a brother, Sam who had a bar in Philadelphia. He was well connected to certain 'people' if you know what I mean and he and my Dad knew many of the same. My Dad and Ethel were introduced by either Sam, or one of his best friends and business partner of my Dad's, a man named Jimmy C. We called him Uncle Jimmy.

I heard that Uncle Jimmy was part of an Italian New Jersey syndicate. I was crazy about him and his wife Aunt Del. All I know is that suddenly one day, I found myself living in a real house at 26 S. Windsor Avenue. It was white with red trim and had red concrete front steps that led up to an inside porch which led into a large living room. Walk straight through and it led to the dining room and a large kitchen where we ate most of our meals. If you did not walk through to the dining room but instead walked up the stairs, on the right, from the living room, you found my bedroom which I shared with my Aunt Betty.
The house had a back yard. I buried my turtle in that yard with Popsicle sticks as a cross to mark its grave.

I stopped by that house, last Summer. Parked in the driveway was a car with a man standing by the steps. I asked if the house was his and when he said yes I explained I would give anything to visit inside as I was raised in that house. He said yes! I went in and found the rooms exactly as I remembered them. I asked to go in the back yard but it was all paved over. I asked to go down in the basement to see the spot my father died on, but it was now a private apartment and there was no access. I never told the owner why I wanted to go down to the basement. By the way, I asked him what he did and he said he was a cop! Funny, isn't it?

My family was already living in the house before I moved in. I know my father was living there right after he got out of prison. I think I was living in the house before he brought in his new wife, who became my step-mother. I was enrolled into the public elementary school which was just down the street from us. I just remember him standing in front of me and saying, "this is your Mother now and you must call her Mother." Here I had never had a mother. Didn't know anything about mine if there was one and now I am to call a total stranger, 'Mother'. That was a tough pill to swallow andI gagged on the word.

So in total there was my Father, frankly, a total stranger to me, then my new mother, Ethel, my uncle Bernie (the alcoholic), my aunt Betty, my grandfather Frank, my brother, Mike and our housekeeper Lena. In those days she was called 'the maid' and behind her back and sometimes, not so behind her back, 'the shvatsa'. It was the fifties and prejudice was rampant. Not in obvious ways but it was always there and as young as I was, I was aware of it and it bothered me. Lena had her own room off the kitchen. I remember she always used to hug me and made me feel very loved. I got hugs from her, my Aunt Betty and Uncle Bernie. Ethel never touched me. Nor my father. And I cannot forget my Uncle Label. A taciturn man, single but living with a woman called, Peggy. "Shhhh! don't talk about it, the kinder is here". That's what I used to hear when her name was mentioned, as she too was a 'shiksa'. In fact I can remember so well hearing those words, " shhh,the kinde Of course, whatever it was I was not supposed to hear I tried even harder to listen to.Uncle Label eventually married Peggy She got pregnant. I know he loved her and no matter what his sisters and brother said, he stood by Peggy to the very end of his life. Seems all the men in my family loved non-Jewish women.

Once I went into Lena's room and I sat down on the side of her bed. I asked her if I could touch her breast. I have no idea why I wanted to do that, but I definitely remember asking . Lena said I could and she opened up her blouse and I did. I reached out, touched her large very dark breast and said thank you. She reached out to hug me and said "I love you Dolores". Then I left her room. I don't remember anyone saying that to me other than Lena. Even Aunt Betty. I always felt she loved me but none of them ever said those words.

Lena used to cook wonderful Jewish meals. Pot roast, brisket and always on Friday nights, chicken. The men would first have a shot of schnaps, whiskey straight down, before the meal. After dinner, a glass of hot tea with a sugar cube held between their teeth as they drank it. Russian style. Nobody spoke to me or asked me what I did that day. Nor to Mikey. It's like we were not there. They only asked if I wanted more food.

Ethel had new furniture moved in. A big drum table, which was the fashion of the times and she had the walls painted a deep forest green with white woodwork trim. The carpets were deep forest green as well. Not long after, she gave birth to my little sister, Harlene. I remember Ethel pacing back and forth in the living room and the front porch. She told me she was in labor and had to do this to ease the pain.

Ethel tried in her own way to be nice to me but she never smiled and never touched me. She was cold. I remember my Father screaming at me once again to call her "Mother". I just couldn't get that word out of my mouth. I was on the stairway looking down at him and he screamed, "I said to call her Mother". I was 10 years old. I ran upstairs and wrote "MOTHER" with lipstick on my dresser mirror. From that day on that's what I called her.

Ethel had a best friend from Philadelphia. A woman she grew up with, Aunt Evelyn. I once told Evelyn that I didn't think Ethel really loved me. That she never told me or never made me feel I was loved. I told her in confidence and never thought she would repeat this but she did. She told Ethel who then yelled at me for saying such a thing to her best friend, and embarrassing her. She never tried to correct me or say I misunderstood, that indeed, she did love me or say she was sorry I felt that way. She simply yelled at me for saying it. I knew then I was right.

During that time in my life, it seems I would never say "I'm sorry" if I did something wrong. What I ever did wrong to her I will never know because I was really a very good little girl. I was much too timid to purposely do anything 'bad'. At any rate, I apparently would NOT say those words. And I can still hear them both insisting I say those words for something I did. But.... I never would. Not even when soap and mustard was put in my mouth when I lived in the Ventnor Private School.

I remember there was a candy store on the corner of Windsor Avenue. In the early morning a truck would drop off of piles of comic books that the owner would remove from outside his shop when he arrived to work, and place them in his store. He must have seen me take a few while he was walking to the shop. I did but I thought I had hidden them under my dress. He told my Father and I got a good spanking for it. I remember as if it was yesterday. I did not cry and I did not say I was sorry.

Then there was the time I and a friend of mine decided to enter the house next door as we knew the family that lived there were away on vacation. We somehow got the back door opened. We first went into the kitchen and found some chocolate pudding in the refrigerator. We proceeded to eat it all. Then we went upstairs and went through all their drawers and tried on the woman's jewelry. We never took anything and put back everything we touched. As we were going down the stairs, I could see through their stairwell window, across the narrow alley between our houses into our stairwell window and there she was - Lena! staring right back at me. She did not tell my Father but I think she told Ethel and so another spanking but again, no "sorry". That was it, the only 'bad' things I ever did.

Ethel wasn't long in the house before she soon made my brother Michael move out and into a private boarding/prep school not far from Atlantic City. I had heard it was for troubled boys. When I learned as an adult, what kind of life he led while our father was in jail, it was no wonder he was troubled. My family had completely ignored him and he lived on the streets, in a Catholic school and with friends. When my father returned to the house, from jail, he brought Michael back into the house. But Mikey started to steal cars, and stuff like that. The police would see him and call my Dad. My Dad was crazy about him. That was clear.
Remind me to tell you about my brother Michael and the time he came to visit me when he was 70 years old and how he died right in my apartment.

Ethel also fired Lena and she never replaced her with a live-in again. I never learned why she fired Lena but I think it was because Lena was loyal to my Father and other family members and not to her. I don't think Lena really liked her and she probably sensed that. Lena knew too many secrets. At least that's my feeling. It took me a long time to get used to not having Lena in my life and I really missed her. Someone else in and then out of my life.

I have in my possession a copy of a petition for divorce that my father gave to the court, so he could legally divorce Sally, sometimes called Sara, in order to marry Ethel. Seems he and Sally were legally married at one time. The petition for divorce says she deserted him according on or around May, 1940. I do not think they were really married, but rather lived in a common-law state as my Uncle Bernie always said, but for the sake of getting a legal divorce, so he could legally marry Ethel, it was written that they were married. I think Sally fled the Coop when he went to prison as he could do her no good in there. And she could not run her brothels without him.

The date of the divorce is June, 1947, seven weeks before he married Ethel. So he married Ethel in 1947 and killed himself two years later. Shot himself in the head, in the basement cellar of our house and I found him......sprawled on the floor, on his back, with blood pouring out of his mouth, his arms flung out to the sides, spread eagle. That is my last vision of my father.

The reason I was even down there, and he must have done it right before I got downstairs, was that I had seen him sitting at he kitchen table in his robe and writing something. Something did not seem or feel right to me. It's almost as if I had a premonition ...which I have had many times during my life about different things. When I could suddenly no longer see him in the kitchen, I decided I would go downstairs to the basement and see if he was down there and what he was up to..If he asked me what I was up to, I would simply say I had to get my gym socks which were hanging on the laundry line. They were my responsibility to wash every week and that would be my excuse just in case he asked me what I was doing there.

When I got to he bottom of the stairs, I turned towards the door that leads to the outside, and not far from the door and not far from the washing machine and dryer, he was laying spread eagle, with blood spurting out of his mouth. I did not rush over to him. I did not ask Daddy, are you okay? I did not scream. I did nothing. I froze, looking down at him... and then I ran up the cellar stairs screaming, "Grand pop, Grand pop, Daddy's lying on the floor with blood coming out of his mouth". I remember every word, every action, every detail as if it happened yesterday. I find it interesting that I did not scream for my step-mother. And even more interesting that she never did go downstairs to see for herself and possibly try to help him. I did not know he had shot himself. I only knew he was on the floor spilling out blood.

I was asked to call my Aunt Betty at the cigar store and tell her to come home... and I did. The words I said were exactly this: "Aunt Betty you must come home right away. Something terrible has happened to Daddy. Hurry!" Then I was asked to go back downstairs and open the cellar door for the police so they could gain access into the basement. Nobody gave a thought as to what this little girl of 11 was going to see again! And I have never been able to erase the picture in my mind. Ever.

I should explain that I never spent much time with my Dad when he was alive. He rarely spoke to me anyway. He once took me on a father/daughter event that my school had arranged and I guess Ethel told him to take me. I only remember driving in the pouring rain at night, and I was way over on the passenger side, staring over at him. I don't think we talked much. I know he would take my little sister Harlene with him on his business runs in the morning, when she was a tot. She made him smile, I remember that. He never once took me. But I was used as a shill. He would tell me to stand in front of one of the boardwalk games that he ran and hold a great big doll, as if I had won it so people would stop by and look at me holding the huge prize and then they would want to play also. I was his shill so he could rip people off on those ridiculous games.

The newspapers had a field day the next morning about his suicide. When I read the paper, it was the first time I knew what my father was really all about. It read like a novel to me. My poor brother Mikey was called to come home and they had him wash up the basement floor of all the blood. I remember watching him do this. He was crying. How thoughtless and cruel of them to ask him. I am sure that this was the final straw to his holding on to his sanity

The Mormon Mishpoka Are Coming! - pt 8

I divert a bit to tell you of a visit from my sweet cousin Michelle from Boston. Michelle said she was driving down to the city from Boston with her 5 kids, her husband, her sister visiting from Utah and her kids, plus a girlfriend and her kids, all to spend the day in the city sightseeing. Michelle asked me to join them. I was overjoyed to do so. I met them at 9 am in Central Park. These kids are the best behaved children I have ever met. Never a whine, or a complaint and not once did I hear, "buy me" or "I want that" or "can I have...."? They all had their own allowance money and the rule was if you want something, then you must pay for it with your money. If you don't have enough, don't ask us. It's your choice. They were really disciplined and buy 2:00 pm, they had yet to spend a dime. One of the kids had sold lemonade for weeks, sold handmade jewelery and one girl gave ballet lessons to children of church members for a couple of dollars a week. I just loved those kids. And to think, they are all my cousins one, twice, three times removed. I was picturing my Grandpop Frank, who used to dovin every morning with the Paes wrapped around his shoulders and the tvillin wrapped around his arm....'he must be turning over in his grave', as they say.

They called me when they arrived and had parked their car up near my apartment. I walked over to the park and met them. We walked downtown from 90th street thru Central Park, 'cause Michelle thought the kids would enjoy the park. Forget about it...they wanted TOYS R US, and Times Square, so we continued down to first show them Rockefeller Center at 50th street.
By then the kids were starved and exhausted. They had just walked over 50 blocks. Between the walk and their 4 hour car ride everyone collapsed on benches and started to eat their lunch. Each had a sandwich, drink, snacks, fruit,packed in their own backpack. They, not the adults, had made their own sandwiches, assembly row style the night before. That's the Mormon way when you have lots of kids. Probably the way for most families with lots of kids. I only had one child, so I always did as much as I could for Jen. Surprisingly, she is nevertheless, totally self-reliant. Michelle tells me she laid out the cheese, lettuce, cold cuts, snacks, etc.on a long table and then each child took a pre-cut sliced roll and made their own sandwich. They were told to wrap it, bag it, and refrigerate it with their name on the bags, ready to go in the morning. Funny thing is, not one child forgot to get their lunch out of refrigerator and put in their backpack. Only the Dad, Matt and teenage son, Hunter. Men!

After they ate we went schlepped over to Toys R Us. While walking we passed the famous Magnolia cupcakes and I dragged Michelle and Matt inside so they could take a tasting of samples. Once they tasted the 1 inch layer of creme on each cake, they had to buy some for the kids and was it ever a surprise when they came out of the store with a box full of cupcakes. They bought six and divided them up. Each child got a half and nobody whined for their own cupcake or complained that someone else had a bigger half. They just devoured what they had with smiles on their faces. Just amazing! That's Mormon kids. Be happy with what you get and thank God for providing it while you're at it.


I was supposed to go up to Boston next week, because Sage, the youngest girl, is getting baptized into the Mormon Church and even David, Michelle's Dad, and my first cousin, who did all the research on me, is coming in from Vegas for this big event. I cannot go for personal reasons, but I will miss not being able to see David. He is the most gentle kind man I have ever met. He took me around Hurricane, Utah last year where I got to see the polygamists in their cotton dresses and long braids. What a gas! David explains that though they are Mormons and belong to the Church of the Latter Day Saints they have nothing to do with those characters. He said Polygamists have been ex-communicated from the church but they still see themselves as Mormons. And so does the rest of the world as well, much to the dismay of the official Mormon Church. I still do not like some of the basic tenets of the church. At one time they were definitely prejudiced against blacks and today are vehemently homophobic and against same sex marriage, which I am totally for. I have a step daughter who is married to the most wonderful woman in the world and they have a delightful daughter who calls me "Nana Dee". These girls are together over 20 years, longer than many many heterosexual marriages. They are both scientists, both brilliant, both caring, loving parents.

David and Michelle both know about my step daughter and her female spouse. I made sure I told them and other than ask me what they did for a living, not a word was said. But I am sure they were shocked as hell! But then again, maybe not. Anything is possible from this Jewish illegitimate daughter of their beloved Ruth, who's father lived with a Madam of brothels for 7 years, then went to prison for tax evasion, and then to top it all off, blew his brains out when he returned home. I am the cousin they were looking for, and found, although I may not be exactly what they were hoping for.