My Dad wrote a book when he was 88! He was the original “Buk”. Me and my sibs are but mere copies. They broke the mold with him. He came to Christ and became the root of our family’s Christian faith that is still coursing through our exponentially growing clan. I am posting up the chapters on this substack page because it needs to be here for posterity.
Chapter 3
My good fortune would be violently interrupted by the greatest physical challenge in my fifteen years on earth. A large group of PRV part timers were on the No. 25 bus heading to Irvington at about 12:15 p.m. with schoolbooks on our laps. Classes start at 1:00 p.m. at Irvington High School. I was munching on my sandwich when Mark Basch, a tough kid with an attitude, was teasing one of the girls in our group. She asked him to stop. He didn’t.
She turned and swung at him with her book. He took the book from her and tapped her on the head with it in rapid succession. She pleaded with him to stop and to give her book back; he didn’t and continued to annoy her. She broke into tears. I told him to cut it out. He grabbed me and said, “Make me.” We pushed and shoved each other.
The bus driver stopped the bus, stood in the aisle, and said, “Not on my bus.”
We stopped tussling, and Mark said, “I’ll see you when we get off at Irvington Center,” which was a busy shopping area.
Mark chose the battle site. It was not an arena with a roped-in ring and a padded canvas floor. It was an unpaved dirt and rocky parking area behind the Castle Movie Theater. Mark was six months older than I was, taller, and a lot heavier. He seemed very comfortable in this situation. I was not. I was shaking inside. He swung at me. I ducked, grabbed him by the waist, and tried to take him down.
He didn’t budge. I knew then that it would be a long day. I flailed at him, striking some good blows, only to make him madder. After what seemed like forever, we wound up on the ground. We were both exhausted.
Somehow, I finally got the upper hand. I was on top of him. I was about to throw my best punch when a large man came out of the pool hall and broke it up. I headed for school, went directly to the boy’s room, and tidied up. Word spread and my resume grew. It was considered a draw until everyone noticed that Mark was absent that day, and I was present. Win, win!
One of the greatest win wins in the history of mankind, one that would change the world, was just around the corner. It was May 7, 1945, VE day, Victory in Europe. The Nazis surrendered. The entire company poured into Broad Street. All the stores and businesses closed, the city celebrated, the country celebrated, the world celebrated. Horns honked, traffic stopped, paper streamed from tall buildings. People cried, shouted, laughed, and hugged each other. When VE day was announced, I was in Maizie and Rita’s department. I left my mail cart, went outside with Maizie and Rita, and joined the celebration. We saw everyone hugging and kissing. I looked at Rita, and at fifteen, I became a man! I embraced her and romantically pressed my lips to hers, a kiss that I’ll never forget. I couldn’t believe I did it. I was shocked. She liked it, so I did it again! It was fantastic! I went all the way home on the back bumper of a public service bus. What a day! On August 14, 1945, the entire scenario was repeated. It was VJ, Victory Japan day. I couldn’t find Rita and was disappointed.
That September, football season started. I quit my job to participate. I was a big-shot high schooler. I was on the football team. Pop objected. New civilian, brother John overruled Pop and supported me.
Speaking of brother John, after he was mustered out of the army, he came home to a new neighborhood, a new business, and all his old buddies: Bill McGrady, John Bisset, John Kulakowski, Norm Morris, and so on. He was a twenty-nine-year-old, a war hero, with many stories to tell and friends to share them with. These guys owned the town. They were well known, loved by all, big, brassy, loud, funny, physical, and always celebrating life. It was great fun for me. My brother brought home a Nazi bayonet, a Nazi helmet, and best of all, a Nazi Walther P38 Automatic handgun and holster with a clip full of bullets. He said it was for me, but he kept it in his possession until I was eighteen. He let me show it to my friends when I wanted to.
He took me to Newark Bears baseball games at Rupert Stadium in Newark, and to Newark Bombers football games at City Stadium. His buddies John Bisset and John Kulakowski played for the Bombers, which were a farm team for the NY Giants. Later, after high school, I had a chance to work out with them at one of their practices. I was a boy among men, but it was fun.
One day in 1945, John woke me up at six in the morning. He said, “Up and at ’em! Put your combat boots on. We’re going on a forced march.” A forced march was thirty-six miles with ten-minute rests every hour, at military pace. Wow! This was great. I was fifteen and in the army. I had no idea what it meant or what was to follow.
His plan was to march from Myrtle Avenue in Irvington, to Journal Square in Jersey City, and back. I couldn’t believe it. As a little kid, I could remember visiting Mom and Pop’s friends, the Kwiatkowkis, who lived in Jersey City, and it was a long, tedious drive by auto. There was no way we would make it back. We would probably take a bus back. Just in case, I took some change with me. I was young, enthusiastic, and trusted my brother. Well, with a lot of goading, encouraging, and longer rest periods, we returned home at seven thirty that night. I remember it well. It was a great victory for me and my brother John, who bragged to all his buddies about me. The days after were spent soaking my feet and breaking blisters.