Borscht Belt Bungalows: Memoirs Of Catskill Summers

13. Crime and Punishment

Crime antiPunishment Dominating Woodbourne was its other, its most enduring industrythe Woodbourne Prison-which loomed on the skyline for many years. Established in 1934, the red brick pile has been expanded over the years, but its great smokestack was torn down a few years ago.l The prison is a distinctive element setting Woodbourne apart from the other Sullivan County hamlets. The prison guards and their families were, and largely remain, a distinctive social group. As goyim, they interacted very little with the summer people, but you often recognized them in town by their uniforms: light blue shirts, dark blue ties, and trousers. Grandpa knew some guards because he knew their parents, and our next door neighbor, Mr. Armstrong, was a guard before he and his family sold their place to summer people: the Yustmans and the Puttermans . The guards were usually drawn from local farming families and most had neatly kept small houses characterized by large vegetable gardens and large chained dogs. After the 1960s, while old-fashioned guards continued in evidence, new categories ofprison employees were added. The vo-tech teachers became increasingly important in the county, moonlighting during the summer season as electricians , carpenters, and the like. They filled in for the older craftsmen, especially the Jewish ones, whose children generally didn't choose to stay on in the area. 176 BORSCHT BELT BUNGALOWS Our plumber in 1950 was Jewish; our plumber in 1990 was a Christian, moonlighting prison instructor. From the 1950s on, there have been a small number ofJewish guards. These were generally people who liked living in the region, lacked specific skills, and wanted a year-round paycheck and job security. Typical ofthese is a man named Frank Fabian. The local Jews called him "the Vet," referring to his role in World War II. Why he was singled out for this distinction, I don't know, but he was. Frank owned a small grocery, worked as a guard, and dealt in almost any other kind ofmerchandise he could get his hands on. A few years after he retired from the prison, he moved from Woodbourne to a nearby town. At this time, he and his wife divide their time between Sullivan County and their home in Florida.2 Since the 1970s, guards who are people of color have been added to the local mix, but few live in Woodbourne. The prison lent a certain sense of danger and adventure. When you drove into Woodbourne on Route 42, you saw gangs of prisoners working on the prison farm, which today grows mostly corn. You also saw open trucks filled with prisoners pass the colony once in a while-a work detail on their way to a job site. Another common Woodbourne sight was to see a guard waiting for the bus with several, uncomfortable, suit-clad young men who had just been released from prison. Most were white. In an age of innocence and openness, the prison was fascinating as a place "you couldn't go." As kids, we wanted to walk down the back road we commonly called the prison road to see the Do Not Enter signs, and we would hope to get glimpses of patrolling armed guards. One day, when I was twelve, I was walking down the prison road when I heard someone callout, "Hey kid." I turned and saw two black Cadillac limousines, a rare sight in Woodbourne, except for funerals. "Is this the way to the prison?" "Yup," I answered, as I looked at the cars, both filled with swarthy hoods. They had what, years later, would be called "the Godfather Look." The hood look was not unfamiliar to me. I grew up in a section ofBrooklyn similar to the one depicted in the film Goodfellas.3 The prison also made more noise than anything else we knew ofin the mountains . Loud clangs and whistles were common, and we especially listened for long, wailing sirens-and the delicious horror of a prison break-or the imagination ofone. One July day in 1950 there really was a prison break. We were living in one ofthe bungalows at the time. I was sleeping in the kitchen (my folks were in the bedroom), when there was the noise of someone trying to get into the bungalow. Someone was pulling on our screen door-and it was about two in the morning. Then there was knocking. I was terrified. Now my...