The Hebrew National Orphan Home: Memories of Orphanage Life

The Hebrew National Orphan Home: Memories of Orphanage Life

Ira A. Greenberg Editor

BERGIN & GARVEY

The Hebrew National Orphan Home Memories of Orphanage Life

Edited by Ira A. Greenberg with Richard G. Safran and Sam George Arcus

BERGIN & GARVEY Westport, Connecticut • London

The editor’s royalties from sales of this book will be donated to a fund in support of doctoral dissertation research on nineteenth and twentieth century United States orphanages.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data The Hebrew National Orphan Home : memories of orphanage life / edited by Ira A. Greenberg with Richard G. Safran and Sam George Arcus. p. cm. Includes bibliographical references and index. ISBN 0–89789–817–6 (alk. paper) 1. Hebrew National Orphan Home (Yonkers, N.Y.). 2. Orphanages—New York (State)—Yonkers 3. Orphans—New York (State)—Yonkers—Biography. I. Greenberg, Ira A., 1924– II. Safran, Richard G., 1935– III. Arcus, Sam George, 1921– HV995.Y62H43 2001 362.73'2'09747277—dc21 2001035052 British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data is available. Copyright
2001 by Ira A. Greenberg with Richard G. Safran and Sam George Arcus All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced, by any process or technique, without the express written consent of the publisher. Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 2001035052 ISBN: 0–89789–817–6 First published in 2001 Bergin & Garvey, 88 Post Road West, Westport, CT 06881 An imprint of Greenwood Publishing Group, Inc. www.greenwood.com Printed in the United States of America TM

The paper used in this book complies with the Permanent Paper Standard issued by the National Information Standards Organization (Z39.48–1984). 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1 Copyright Acknowledgments All materials used from the Hebrew National Orphan Home Alumni Association files and publications are reprinted with permission.

All of us from The Home who have contributed to this book are proud to dedicate it to Harry Lucacher (1883–1938). He was superintendent of the Hebrew National Orphan Home from 1931 to 1938. He died in the throes of a massive heart attack in his struggles to keep The Home alive and keep us fed and sheltered during the nation’s Great Depression. We also dedicate this book to Reuben Koftoff (1895–1978), who, as executive director of the HNOH (which later became Homecrest), from 1939 to 1962, revolutionized orphanage administration and brought his very personal approach of caring for youngsters in institutions to the field of professional social work. Mr. Koftoff, known to us as “RK” or “The Boss,” retired in 1964 from the Jewish Child Care Association, which had absorbed both HNOH–Homecrest and the Gustave Hartman Home for Children (which earlier had been the Israel Orphan Asylum). He was responsible for bringing positive approaches in child care to orphanages throughout the country, and we, “his boys,” are proud of him and grateful to him.

Contents

Preface Ira A. Greenberg

xiii

Acknowledgments: An Appreciation Ira A. Greenberg

xv

Prologue: Retrospective: Orphans No Longer Richard G. Safran

xix

Part 1 Introduction: Our Asylum 1 Villages Ira A. Greenberg

1 3

2 Early Days at Different Homes Richard G. Safran

13

3 First Day and First Month Ira A. Greenberg

18

4 Growing Up in HNOH Sam George Arcus

22

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Part 2 Life in The Home

Contents

43

5 A Novelist’s Formative Years E.M. “Mick” Nathanson

45

6 Captain of the Band Charles Vladimer

55

7 Major Zundel, the Band’s Lothario Ira A. Greenberg

58

8 Fights Ira A. Greenberg

61

9 Jobs, Fighting, B.A., and “Laying Chickey” Samuel Prince

66

10 Orphan Dogs Sam George Arcus

70

11 Varsity Athletics Richard G. Safran

73

12 Lesser Athletics and Other Things Ira A. Greenberg

78

13 Scouting and Social Inadequacy Ira A. Greenberg

83

14 High School Soccer, Football, and Other Things Ira A. Greenberg

88

15 Home at The Homelite E.M. “Mick” Nathanson

94

Part 3 Hebrew National Orphan Home: History and Personal Stories

101

16 The Home through the Decades Ira A. Greenberg

103

17 My Journey Charles “Chick” Baker

109

Contents

ix

18 Manny, Marty, Alex, Simon, and George Ira A. Greenberg

116

19 Seymour, Spike, and Henry Ira A. Greenberg

120

20 Adoptions Ira A. Greenberg

123

21 Foreigners: Tom Bondy, the Furmans, Obshatco, and Others Ira A. Greenberg

125

22 From City Streets to Forest Trails Bill Weinstein

128

Part 4 Precipitating Factors and the Dark Side

139

23 Traumas Samuel Prince

141

24 One Small Stone Sam George Arcus

143

25 My Dear Aunts Told Me Ira A. Greenberg

153

26 “Chick” Baker, Battered but Unbeaten Richard G. Safran

154

27 Sex at and in HNOH Sam George Arcus

156

28 “Little Ox,” a Wild and Crazy Guy Ira A. Greenberg

162

29 The Good, the Bad, and the Very Bad Ernest Levinson

164

Part 5 Secular Education and Religious Orthodoxy

177

30 Grade School and Junior High at the “H” Samuel Prince

179

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Contents

31 Mrs. Skinner Gave Me a Life Ira A. Greenberg

183

32 Brief Recollections of Some of Our Favorites Ira A. Greenberg

186

33 The Neither-Nor of Religious Education Samuel Prince

190

34 Religious Regimen: What Went Wrong? Ira A. Greenberg

192

35 Religious Reverence: What Might Have Worked Ira A. Greenberg

202

Part 6 Humanitarian Giants

207

36 Harry Lucacher, My Hero Charles “Chick” Baker

209

37 Samuel Field, a Man for the Age Richard G. Safran

212

38 Reuben Koftoff, the Kind-Hearted Revolutionary Richard G. Safran

214

39 Mr. Koftoff Always Got His Way—to Our Benefit Ira A. Greenberg

218

Part 7 We Knew Them Well

221

40 Sam and Jerry Ira A. Greenberg

223

41 The Honorable Marty Miller Ira A. Greenberg

227

42 Murray Feierberg, Best Friend Ira A. Greenberg

231

43 Charlie Vladimer, Best Friend Sam George Arcus

241

Contents

xi

44 The Pincus Brothers and More Jerry “Yippy” Pincus

245

45 Tony, Lew, Eddie, and Abie Ira A. Greenberg

260

Part 8 As Others See It

263

46 Gingrich Was Right about Orphanages Richard B. McKenzie

265

47 Homes, Foster Kids, and Big-Bucks Businesses Ira A. Greenberg

268

48 No Simple Solution Nicholas Scoppetta and Philip Coltoff

272

Part 9 Conclusion: The Need

273

49 Final Days and Later Ira A. Greenberg

275

50 Newt and Hillary Were Each Right—and Perhaps Wrong! Ira A. Greenberg

281

Appendices

287

Appendix A: Questionnaire for Our Village: The Home

289

Appendix B: Mother’s Day Poem

292

Appendix C: Honoring the Leagues and Auxiliaries

293

Bibliography

295

Index

299

About the Editors and Contributors

303

Photo section follows Part 2

Preface

The twofold purpose of this book, as I see it, is to tell the story of the village that reared us and to give to the various professionals who work with children some understanding of what life in an orphanage is like. In terms of the latter aim, I see an important audience for this effort as being composed of social workers, teachers, police officers (both juvenile specialists and officers assigned other duties), as well as those who formulate the laws affecting children, specifically municipal and county council members and state and national legislators. It should be remembered that each of us who went through the Hebrew National Orphan Home (The Home; HNOH; the “H”) experienced, saw, and underwent only small slices of life in this large institution. We, of course, shared many experiences, but we often reacted to them differently, according to our genetic makeup, our pre-orphanage lives, and our ability to incorporate life in The Home into who we were. Thus, there does not seem to be one inclusive way of telling our story; and with memories having dimmed over the years, the personal input of a number of contributors seems a more valid way of presenting it than through the more sociologically acceptable method of surveys, statistical analyses, and documentary research. For these reasons, the approach we have taken has been to encourage each contributor to report on the areas of his interests or involvements in the form of personal recollections. This often, as reflected in some of the writing, caused some of us to mentally and emotionally regress to the age we were at the time of the experiences. The editor has sought to fit these recollec-

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Preface

tions into sections of the book appropriate to them in order to give more organizational meaning to what we were reporting. Initially, when this project was first proposed in early 1997, Rick Safran and I sent a questionnaire to the 300 members of the HNOH Alumni Association, and, as the Contents will illustrate, we had responses from a little more than a dozen of the alumni. The purpose of the questionnaire was to stimulate the thinking of the alumni so that they might better recall their experiences in The Home. Those who did respond, responded well, and I feel that most of the important aspects of life in The Home—our village—have been covered. Looking back at our labors, it is doubtful that we could have handled a much larger response. Therefore, in telling our personal stories and in expressing our feelings, we hope a more general picture of our life has emerged. Ira A. Greenberg

Acknowledgments: An Appreciation

There are many unsung contributors to projects large and small, and the production of a book such as The Hebrew National Orphan Home: Memories of Orphanage Life has its share of people to whom we are grateful. Although the undertaking of this effort was sparked by Hillary Rodham Clinton’s It Takes a Village in late 1996, there are many who earlier had much to do with this endeavor. Foremost among them are the officers of the HNOH Alumni Association, who from its inception in the 1920s or 1930s and through the subsequent years to the present provided the means for our keeping in touch with each other, furthered our sense of identity, and enhanced our pride in who we are by keeping alive important memories of who we were. Also to be singled out for appreciation are the editors and their staffs at The Alumnus, the association’s newsletter that kept our widely dispersed membership informed and in touch with each other. Unfortunately, with the passage of time, the names of many who were important to us over the years were lost, but the Alumni Association presidents who are known are Jack Macy, who served several terms in the 20s and 30s; Irwin Abrams, who served several terms in the late 40s and early 50s; Harry Frankel, 1954–56; Irving Tarr, 1956–58; Phil Pincus, 1958–60; Bill Weinstein, 1960–62; Jerry “Yippy” Pincus, 1962–64; Bernard Fuchs, 1974–76; Milton Davidson, 1976–77, who died in office; and finally E. Louis Amber, who has been permanent president since 1977. The editors of The Alumnus, to whom we all owe much, are, according to Sam George Arcus1: Unknown, 1935–? The Alyon (Alumni of Yonkers); Lewis

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Acknowledgments

Zedicoff, who began The Alumnus, 1951–?; Manny Bergman, 1971–76; Lewis Charles, a great musician and entertainer, 1976–81; Carl Estrin, 1981–83; George Frederics, 1984–88; Murray Feierberg, 1989–95, and Richard G. Safran, 1996 to the present. I also wish to express appreciation to Ed Lippman, retired New England corporate executive, who in 1996 produced the 90-minute videotape, titled Our Childhood Remembered, a nostalgic review with photographs, music, and voiceover of life in The Home during the 20s, 30s, and 40s. Ed, born in 1919, entered The Home in 1926 and left ten years later. His brother, Sy Lippman, one of my classmates, entered HNOH in 1930 and left when I did in June 1942. After soldiering in the Pacific in World War II, Sy became a police officer in the Miami Beach (Florida) Police Department, rising to the rank of lieutenant. To Sy I wish to say thanks for the many fine photographs he furnished. At the same time Ed was producing Our Childhood Remembered, Sam George Arcus produced the hour-long audiotape, HNOH Oral History, which proved highly useful in planning and producing this book. Both the videotape and the audiotape are on file with the American Jewish Historical Society,2 and the videotape is also on the Web site.3 I also thank Al Furman and George Frederics, contemporaries of Ed Lippman, for their help. Al read the draft of the “Religious Regimen” chapter and provided some important information, as he did with the “Foreigners” chapter; and George was helpful in researching some information for these Acknowledgments pages. Also, I want to thank E. Louis Amber, our Alumni Association’s president-forlife, for his many helpful suggestions for Part 8, “As Others See It.” I also wish to thank longtime friend Phillip H. Taylor, M.D. (a Thousand Oaks, California, psychiatrist and nutritional therapist) for his answers to a number of questions and for his and his wife Sara’s encouragement in this endeavor. Another friend, screenwriter and author Frank McAdams, a Marine Lieutenant who fought in Vietnam, was very helpful in regard to the manuscript for this book. Also, I would like to thank Steven Linan, Los Angeles Times staff writer, for his help in researching a television show that I used as a simile to make a point about each individual’s life in The Home, and Michael Levin of Los Angeles, author, novelist, lecturer, and writing coach for very good advice. To the staff of the Brentwood Branch of the Los Angeles City Library, I express appreciation for the research help rendered. Finally, I wish to thank Shirley Safran, wife of Richard who is one of the co-editors of this book, for her good counsel and support, and the same to Adele Arcus, also orphanage-reared and wife of Sam. And a special thanks to the many “boys” of The Home for their good wishes and encouragement. Finally, I would like to thank the staff of Greenwood Publishing Group and Bergin and Garvey Press, specifically, Jane Garry, acquisitions editor; Emma Moore, production editor; and copyeditors Denise Quimby and Debi McNeill. These editors caused me to tighten up the book to make it more readable and improved it considerably through very professional editing, catching many typ-

Acknowledgments

xvii

ing and other errors I had missed, and generally fostering the production of a much better book. At the same time I accept full responsibility for any overlooked flaws. Ira A. Greenberg NOTES 1. Sam George Arcus, Deja Views of an Aging Orphan (Philadelphia: Xlibris Corporation, 2000), 97. 2. 15 West 16th Street, New York, NY 10022. 3. Web site: Welcome HNOH Alumni at http://www.scruz.net/~elias/hnoh

Prologue Retrospective: Orphans No Longer Richard G. Safran

We had no choice in the matter. We were orphans. Our parents had somehow disposed of themselves leaving us to get on as best we could. It was not a simple matter to be thrust at an early age into the bleak indifference of orphanage routine. Still, we survived. We not only survived, we flourished. We became tough and self-sufficient. We didn’t cry when we were hurt and we could, when necessary, be callous and brutal. Ours was a world punctuated by brawls, struggles in the scramble for adolescent prestige, and some fierce hatreds that were just as sustaining as love. Tenderness was something we rarely experienced and certainly never understood. What replaced love was a fierce devotion to one another, to our many championship athletic teams, and to our hazy dreams of capturing a measure of success. We were not at all sure of what success might mean, but it was a phantom we pursued with grim determination. Some boys dreamed of large amounts of money. Others longed for prestige and social standing (even to denying their orphan background), and still others had fantasies of bedding down large numbers of beautiful, bosomy, leggy women. Marriage and family were almost never talked about. We were, I think, very fearful of marriage and of having children. There was a terrifying thought that if we had children, they might somehow end up in an orphanage as we did. This was a horror that could not be mentioned, and so there was discussion of epic sexual conquest, but none of love. Today, although we may carry scars, they are healed wounds, badges of life’s combat experience. We are able to work and to love. While we live very much in the present, we can talk for hours about the old days. In some ways they

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were exceptionally fine days. It is unnecessary to focus on particular occasions. We do that well enough with one another when we meet over coffee or whiskey. Now we are adults, mere grown-ups without parents, which we know is not quite the same as being an orphan. Our memories of the more distressing times in an institution are dulled and blurred by the passage of years. Although we have not forgotten the ache of loneliness, which we could not understand, but could feel only too well, what remains in our brain cases are the better moments, the common heritage of no heritage that we shared, the sense of rapport and brotherhood, and the feeling that we were somehow different from everyone else. Time and age have endowed us with varying shares of titles, properties, and positions. In direct contrast to our origins, our characters in the affluent present are in danger of being corrupted by ease and comparative security. Our dreams, perhaps, are no longer compounded of the heady stuff they used to be. So we think back to our earlier, younger selves to that time when we dreamed, schemed, fought, cursed, planned, and groped our way through adolescence and young manhood. That boy-world of the orphan home takes on an aura of intense living and feeling. The world’s indifference, the periods of inarticulate despair are drawn from the vortex of our memory once more to be keenly savored, for it is in the struggle that we are most ourselves and increase our appetite for life. Our recollections of that struggle can be sweet indeed!

PART 1 INTRODUCTION: OUR ASYLUM

1 Villages Ira A. Greenberg

In approaching our final years we often find that a sound, a sighting, a touch, or a smell will instantly bring us back to our earlier scenes, and by these quick associations we are reliving a momentary childhood experience—or possibly one of major importance—that helped shape who we were to become. It could be the chirping of a bird amidst gently rustling leaves, the slightly fermented smell of a fallen apple, or the shouts of children boisterously at play. Whatever it was that set us off, we would find ourselves once again being the child, joyful or fearful, surprised or stunned, exulting in the sheer pleasure of the moment or in dread of painful consequences for having been caught breaking a rule. At least it was so in my case. I have never lived in a small dustbowl Texas town, but I felt a warm sense of identification during the opening scenes of Peter Bogdanovich’s The Last Picture Show. For those who may not have seen this 1971 classic, based on a story by Larry McMurtry,1 the film begins with two young men, portrayed by Timothy Bottoms and Jeff Bridges, moving about town on a desolate Sunday morning in 1951. They are high school seniors who played their last football game the night before, and their ineptness in a crucial play lost their team the game. Thus, every man they encountered that morning chewed them out for what they had failed to do in this important game. They took these verbal blows with hangdog sheepishness, agreeing they played poorly. I personally felt very good on seeing this. It brought me back to my early years, and I felt comfortably at home during these short scenes. Both the men who were angry and the boys who were crestfallen knew that the men had a right to their feelings and a right to express them so directly and forcefully.

4

Introduction: Our Asylum

Though not related, they were family. That is what a village is; and from the anonymity of my seat in the audience, I felt strongly connected to it. Years later, in December of 1996, while reading Hillary Rodham Clinton’s It Takes a Village,2 I found myself frequently drifting away from this interesting and well written book. Then I would have to pull myself back from my many reminiscences and resume following the former first lady’s personal and scholarly review, exploration, and report of child-rearing practices. I had been wandering off to my own village, a place where adults and youths did not hesitate to correct or instruct or punish younger boys. As a younger boy, I had accepted this, knowing that the bawlings out or the shovings or the slappings in most instances were accompanied by genuine feelings of caring and a need to instruct or protect. Though not related, we were family, living in a village whose official name was the Hebrew National Orphan Home, an institution of about 300 boys, ranging in age from six to 18 years, and located in a suburban section of Yonkers, New York. TO REAR ORTHODOX JEWS This orphanage, which we referred to as the “H,” HNOH, or The Home, was established in 1912 and opened two years later on the Lower East Side of Manhattan as a place where needy Jewish boys, either orphans or half-orphans, could be reared in an Orthodox Jewish environment. The Home’s two primary purposes were to provide for destitute children and prepare them to take their places as devout members of Orthodox Jewish synagogues and involved members of the Jewish communities in which they lived. Known as the Hebrew National Orphan House in its early years, the “H” consisted of two back-to-back, four-story tenement buildings that shared a courtyard between them. The first building was renovated for the housing of 50 boys and the second almost doubled the capacity. On July 20, 1920, the boys moved 17 miles north to a 20-acre site purchased for $300,000 the year before from a philanthropic organization known as the German Odd Fellows. Located at 407 Tuckahoe Road, a mile west of the village of Tuckahoe and a little more than a mile east of Nepperhan Avenue, where the trolley line from downtown Yonkers ended, the land boasted a monolithic four-story structure that was to serve the housing, dining, educational, religious, recreational, musical, and indoor athletic needs of the boys who would live there.3 The grounds, during my nine years at The Home (1933–42), included farmlands; an apple orchard; horse stables; chicken coops; a playground with swings, slides, and seesaws; and athletic fields for baseball and football. Two small cottages for employees and a large frame structure known as “the white house” (inhabited by The Home’s superintendent and several staff people, including the bandmaster and the librarian) were also on the grounds. Most of the staff lived in rooms in the main building, with dormitory supervisors in rooms adjacent to the dorms in their charge. The “H” then became the Hebrew National Orphan

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Home, a more impressive name than “House.” The somewhat rural and isolated setting provided a healthier climate for the boys than was found in densely populated and air-polluted New York City. However, its new location made Sunday afternoon visits a difficult two-hour (or more) journey from Brooklyn, Manhattan, and the Bronx, where most of the relatives lived. Still, The Home was not completely isolated: a five-to-ten-minute walk east brought one to Theodore Roosevelt High School at the intersection of Tuckahoe Road and Central Avenue, and many of the boys would sneak under the fences to see high school football and baseball games free or to use the athletic fields themselves on days when there were no school events, usually Sundays. Across the street from The Home was the Grassy Sprain Golf Course, where older boys caddied. On its grounds was a creek known as “B.A.” because almost all the boys risked punishment to swim there “bare-assed,” to the general dismay of lady golfers and club officials, the latter sending out groundsmen to chase us off. IDYLLIC BUT NOT IDEAL The setting could be described as idyllic, and in a way it was, but The Home was also a cauldron of churning anger, joy, fear, pleasure, and pain. In the days before Reuben Koftoff became executive director in 1939 and Samuel Field, a real-estate magnate, became president, The Home was staffed by some employees the boys liked and respected and with some, brutal in their administering of punishment, who the boys learned to loathe and fear. Punishment was often severe and included beatings and detention. The latter, described in detail elsewhere in this volume, was a painful procedure in which boys stood rigidly at attention or in squatting postures for lengthy periods of strain and fear, knowing that if caught moving they would be hit hard from behind by supervisors or monitors (older boys chosen to help run dormitories). There also were a few older boys (not necessarily monitors) and occasionally an adult supervisor who sexually molested some of the younger boys. Nevertheless, The Home was not Dickensian. Most of us led fairly happy lives. We were busy growing up. We also were kept very busy marching in groups from one event or activity to another, and no matter how bad things got for us, they were made more bearable by our knowing that we were all in this together and the shared misery made the burdens easier for each of us. DAILY ROUTINE A typical weekday began about 6 A.M. with our waking, washing, bedmaking, and cleaning the area around our beds, sweeping it down by passing the brooms from one end of the dormitory to the other. We then marched outside for the raising-of-the-flag ceremony, accompanied by the appropriate bugle call played on the cornet or trumpet by one of the boys, and then we marched to the

6

Introduction: Our Asylum

synagogue on the second floor of the building for morning prayers, which lasted from 15 to 30 minutes. From there, we marched to the dining room, also on the second floor, for breakfast, consisting of hot or cold cereal and bread and butter or pancakes or eggs and toast, downing it with a glass of milk. Thereupon, we marched back to the dormitories—freshmen and juniors on the third floor, seniors on the fourth—up the main or central stairway to the classrooms on the fourth floor. Classes ranged from first through eighth grades in what was P.S. 403, Manhattan, when I entered The Home in late March or early April, three months before my ninth birthday on June 26. As best I can recall, it was in 1937 or 1938 that the school added a ninth grade and its designation was changed to P.S. 404, Manhattan. As The Home’s office in mid-Manhattan served as its official address, we came under the jurisdiction of the New York City school system, rather than that of Yonkers, and all of the eight to ten teachers and two principals we had during my stay were not only exceptionally well qualified but they genuinely cared about their profession, and they cared about us. We were most fortunate in the quality of education they provided, whether from schoolbooks we used or from lesson plans or from their recounting of personal interests and experiences, such as in traveling, as a means to motivate us to learn. Shortly before noon we would march down to the lavatories to wash and then march to the dining room for lunch, usually consisting of soup, meat, vegetables, dessert, and bread without butter, as Orthodox law required. Because The Home maintained strict kosher standards, there were two kitchens with two sets of dishes, silverware, pots, and pans so that dairy dishes were not contaminated with meat and vice versa. After lunch was naptime for the freshmen; the older boys attended classes from 1 to 3 P.M. After that we had time to play for an hour or for those in the band to practice before going to Hebrew School at 4 P.M. Hebrew classes lasted an hour and were held in classrooms used earlier by the public school. Hebrew School was mandatory for boys up to the age of 16 or on entering high school at 15 as sophomores, the schools being Roosevelt, Commerce High School, and Saunders Trade–Technical School, all in the Yonkers school system. Following Hebrew classes, we marched to the dormitories to clean up for afternoon-evening prayers in the synagogue and for supper, which followed. After supper, the freshmen played for about an hour and then returned to their dormitory for brushing of teeth, showers, and bed. The juniors and seniors had several hours to study, read, play basketball, or roller-skate in the Old Gym, or pursue their hobbies—photography and model airplane building being the two most popular during my early years in The Home. Wednesday nights included seeing current movies in the New Gym. If a swashbuckling Errol Flynn picture was shown, the next day saw many freshmen and some juniors dueling furiously with each other using swords made from the thin wooden slats of orange crates. Of course we all wanted to grow up to be Andy Hardy, as portrayed by Mickey Rooney in the Andy Hardy film series; this, we felt was the real America, made up of happy, energized high

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school young men and women who came from upper-income, two-parent homes in an idealized community. The New Gym also was used for varsity basketball games in which The Home’s team played outside teams and usually won. This gym also served for dramatic or concert presentations, for ceremonies including elementary school and junior high school graduations, and for addresses by outside speakers. One of the most interesting speakers for me and for most of the boys was a special agent of the Federal Bureau of Investigation, probably in 1938—at that time I wanted to be a G-Man. CHORES AND JOBS In addition to this busy schedule most of us worked either at chores4 we had been assigned or which we had selected and for special events, where tips could be earned. Some of the jobs we had paid 50 cents a week and others paid nothing. These latter chores included pulling weeds on the farm and picking crops at harvest time, plus general work on the farm, which included cleaning the chicken coop and barn to serving meals in the dining room and washing dishes afterward, many of which were details one did on rotation. One of the desirable jobs was working in the staff dining room, which usually one boy was assigned to or volunteered for. I did this when I was 14 and 15, setting the tables, serving the meals, washing the dishes and pots afterward, and then setting up for the next meal. It took quite a bit of my time, and some of the guys called me a sucker for doing this, but there were payoffs. I got to eat a lot more than I would have working in the main dining room or kitchen—one night when I was 15 I ate 15 ears of corn! Another payoff was the fantasy I periodically found myself caught up in, about the middle-aged woman who ran the staff dining room. She had a son my age who I had no feeling about—for or against—but at times while washing dishes or doing other work, I would find myself fantasizing that she might be my mother. I have the feeling that she may have suspected something like this as she seemed to find many ways to exploit my need to please her.5 Entering The Home as youngsters undoubtedly was traumatic for most of us. Some came “kicking and screaming,” begging their parents not to leave them. Others entered in a state of numbness, often a state of shock, perhaps accompanied by denial, not believing this was happening to them, hoping that it was all a bad dream that would disappear in the morning. And for some who had lived in other orphanages that cared for very young children, the move to HNOH when they had outgrown their previous homes was simply another move in their lives and therefore was not as daunting as it might be for those new to institutions. Whatever our backgrounds, we adjusted to the new situation fairly quickly and soon became caught up in our particular spheres of this institutional world. The huge building we first saw as imposing, awesome, or overwhelming

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Introduction: Our Asylum

soon became the backdrop to our lives, and we found our places within its protection. DORMS, CLASSES, AND CATEGORIES Most of what we did and most of our interactions were with members of our particular group or dormitory. The freshman dorm was a long, narrow room in the east wing of our U-shaped building on the third floor directly over the synagogue. From our windows we could see the Croton Aqueduct, which marked The Home’s eastern boundary and which brought water to New York City. This 60-bed dormitory was for boys six to ten years of age,6 with 30 white iron cots lining each wall. When a boy turned ten he transferred to the junior dormitory, located on the same floor and like the freshman dorm running southto-north but in the west wing of the building. The junior dorm had a capacity for 130 boys aged ten to 14. When a boy reached 14, he would be promoted to the senior dorm, which also had a capacity for 130 beds but was located on the fourth floor, directly over the junior dorm. The boys would remain there until they left The Home, usually after graduating from high school. In each of the dormitories were age ranges, and so one’s actual group became narrowed down to those in the same school class, who most often were of the same age; these were our peers. We studied the same things in class, and wherever we went, we went as a unit, and most of the things we did—recreational activities, work, and dining—we did together. We also fought with each other on occasion, shared candy and cookies sent by family members, and shared some of our boyish aspirations, such as wanting to be a fireman, a cowboy, a detective, and in later years, an engineer, a novelist, a surgeon, a lawyer. HELD-IN FEELINGS At the same time, and this should not come as a surprise, we did not share our innermost feelings or our apprehensions or our remembrances of past traumas. The reason for this may be that at the time we did not recognize these feelings, were ashamed of such weakness, or were unable to articulate what we were aware of. Also, in those days and in that society, sharing feelings just was not done by most of us. We revealed surfaces to each other but we generally did not introspect; there may have been too much scar tissue for this, and also many of us probably could not deal with the inner pain of others, and we might have callously kissed off any sharing of another’s deep fears and feelings, primarily because we were not capable of dealing with our own, other than to put a lid on them and bury them deeply. As for work, when weeds needed picking on the farm or the front lawn, or chickens needed plucking for the Friday evening meal, the freshman dorm was called upon, just as were the two older boys’ dorms; we were equals in our

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work. And although we were peers in terms of our classes in public school, we were not generally equal throughout each dormitory because of the differing ages within the range of each dorm. Age and strength were determining factors, and in most instances one was directly related to the other. In the junior dorm, for example, 12-year-old boys were stronger and more knowledgable than tenyear-olds, and so leaders developed accordingly. Most were good leaders, a few were bullies, and a very few were thieves or stalkers. Because we lived so close together and knew what just about everyone was doing, there developed not only a closeness with our peers and those on either side of our age, but also a very strong sense of ethics as to what was right. We learned to deal honestly with each other; we learned that our word reflected who we were and was an almost sacred entity, and that once given could not be retracted; and without realizing it, we developed codes of conduct and of personal honor, our own sense of morality, that would stay with us throughout our lives. We had a community, much different, but similar in some respects, to one described by Minnesota governor Jesse Ventura, ex-Navy SEAL and former pro-wrestler, who noted that morality cannot be legislated. He states: There are other ways to handle those things, better ways. One is called parenting. The other is called community. I was very fortunate: I was raised in a time and place where family and community were still strong, when people fought to keep family and community together and keep them respectable. If you got out of line, you had an army of family, friends, and neighbors who you knew would be personally disappointed in you— people you cared about and respected. Have you ever felt what it’s like to know you’ve disappointed someone you cared about, someone who really knew you and knew you were capable of much better behavior? That’s a far more effective means of “regulation” than anything government can do to you.7

We had our friends and admired staff members, while other staff members represented “government” and punishment. WE ARE NOT STATIC, WE ADVANCE Another aspect of life in The Home was the change in who we were in relation to The Home and its residents. E. Louis Amber, president of the HNOH Alumni Association since 1977, put it best when he said in an interview for this book that we were not stationary members of The Home population but changing members. Lou, who entered The Home in 1941 at the age of eight and graduated from it in September 1951, observed that in a typical family the youngest child remains the youngest in the family for the rest of his life, just as the oldest retains his or her seniority status forever. However, in The Home our positions and roles changed as we moved up from freshman to junior to senior dormitories. The freshmen who followed the leadership of the older boys—whether in

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rebuilding the B.A. creek dam each spring, working on the farm, playing sports, or following the orders of monitors—eventually achieved new positions in these and other activities as they moved upward into a different category of life in The Home. Therefore, as Lou put it, the child did not remain the child of The Home family but in time became the middle brother and eventually the older brother. In this respect, boys in The Home had learning and growth opportunities lacking in a more normal home environment. THE STIGMA As good as it was, there were also disadvantages in our status as residents, inhabitants, inmates of this our village, the Hebrew National Orphan Home. One aspect of this was the stigma of being an orphan, of having some sort of mystical connection to death, something dreaded by many. Thus, in 1994 when Newt Gingrich, then speaker of the House of Representatives, proposed the bringing back of orphanages to serve large segments of the disadvantaged child population, many well-meaning people angrily rejected the Georgia Republican’s suggestion. Some distrusted his motives and others rejected the message. Leading the opposition was first lady Hillary Rodham Clinton, followed closely behind by many nationally known child-care professionals. Undoubtedly, much of the opposition was based on the reputation for cruelty and venality often found in nineteenth- and early-twentieth-century orphan asylums. Yet, it is possible that some part of the emotional response may have included the stigma often attached to those touched by the hand of death, particularly children. These types of reactions by well-intentioned people concerned about our welfare often felt uncomfortable to many of us in The Home, and it is very likely that the people revealing these pity–fear feelings were themselves unaware of the feelings behind the messages they unwittingly sent. It was as if somehow we were unclean in a pseudoreligious sense involving the concept of death and the sufferings of survivors. And because we lived in an orphanage in which others contributed financially and otherwise to our care, we at times felt unworthy, felt we inherently were not as good as those who came from a “normal” two-parent family and were cared for by the family and not by charitable strangers. This manifested itself to me one day in high school. LUTHER VAN ANDEN I was a high school junior when I showed up for my first intermediate algebra class at Roosevelt, which at the time was attended by some of the richest kids in the country. These were youngsters from Bronxville, about a mile and a half from The Home, and, like a few other nearby towns, was inhabited by stockbrokers and top officers of leading national corporations. Also enrolled were

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some very poor kids; namely, those from The Home and from low-income families living in run-down sections of Yonkers. Most of the class members were stylishly and expensively dressed, while a few of us wore cheap sweaters and pants and shoes that obviously were not new. The teacher, Luther Van Anden, lean and ascetic looking, welcomed the class, and in the next breath tore into us as lazy, irresponsible, privileged leeches on society—or something to that effect. I was shocked. “How could he talk to these rich kids that way?” was my first thought. Most of the class seemed as shocked as I was, at a loss to understand this teacher’s tirade against them, and many remained stunned throughout the period by this unexpected and undeserved onslought. They—we—were being attacked for being who and what we were, and we took it, and, as I was able to observe, the wrath of the gods and the wrath of the world of power and privilege did not descend on Mr. Van Anden. It requires no explanation to the fact that I had accepted as perfectly natural that such and other charges be directed at me; this was a normal event in my village, The Home. But, for him to direct the attack at them seemed unthinkable. A footnote to this story is that “Van,” as some of us learned to address him, would spend the first 10 or 15 minutes of class time attacking us and the elements of society that supported our lazy, nonthinking approaches to events of the day. In a fairly short period of time a few of the boys, including myself, began talking back, defending ourselves, and on occasion attacking Mr. Van Anden. He took it well, especially as he usually won the arguments. I am very grateful to Van; he caused me to come out of my protective shell and become a person in the class. I was still the poor boy from the orphanage, but the class knew that I was one of a handful there who would not take abuse from Van without striking back. I was someone who had some respect in the class—from this special teacher and from many of my classmates. Luther Van Anden would then spend the remainder of the period teaching algebra. He taught well, and he was a tough grader, but I think we all, even the silent ones, got much from his class. But talking to those rich kids like that, wow! MANY THINGS, MANY STAGES The Home was many things to all of us at different stages of our lives there, but throughout, it remained our village; a self-contained, yet diverse conglomeration of boys, boy monitors, adult supervisors, other caretakers, plus thieves, bullies, rapists, and some crazies. Yet, in spite of the bad—and the bad was conspicuous in our midst against a generally good, caring population background—my estimate is that the bad represented not more than two or three percent of The Home’s population. But the bad stands out in our memories because it was painful to observe or to experience, and often unnecessarily cruel. And yet, when I think of The Home, it is with very strong feelings of affection

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and gratitude. What exactly does this village, this monolith, this often-in-turmoil population represent to me? Simply stated, it is where I have lived. For good or ill, it was my point of reference. It was where I belonged. It was my home. NOTES 1. Larry McMurtry, The Last Picture Show (New York: Penguin Books, 1966). 2. Hillary Rodham Clinton, It Takes a Village (New York: Simon & Schuster, 1996). 3. See chapter 4 for a detailed description of The Home’s main building and grounds. 4. See chapters 9 and 44 for more specific descriptions of chores, details, and jobs available. 5. Two years later, while editor of The Homelite, I wrote a Mother’s Day poem in place of my usual editorial, and though the poem was mainly for my mother, this woman’s face would occasionally come before me as I struggled with thoughts, rhyme, and meter. See Appendix B for the poem, the purpose of which was to honor the ladies of the various leagues and auxiliaries who helped raise money for The Home and who supported The Home in other ways; they are listed in Appendix C. 6. Freshmen became juniors at age nine in the 1920s and beginning 1930s, but during the depths of the Depression many did not move up until age ten after the age to leave The Home was raised from 16 to 18 or until after high school graduation. 7. Jesse Ventura, I Ain’t Got Time to Bleed (New York: Signet, 2000), 262–63.

2 Early Days at Different Homes Richard G. Safran

FIRST DAY AT FIRST ORPHANAGE: THE ISRAEL ORPHAN ASYLUM, JUNE 1942 Far Rockaway, New York His mother’s lip was trembling. The boy knew that if she stayed much longer she would begin crying. She spoke about seeing him soon and how he would get used to the place and make friends, but nothing she said helped. He did not cry yet. He was having too much trouble struggling with combined feelings of dread, isolation, and some anger at his mother for bringing him here and abandoning him. He could not end the sentence with the word Mommy, which he always used with her. At the age of seven plus one month, he knew that things were now changed for him, irrevocably different, and that he must now fend for himself. His perception that this was his situation was not the result of rational consideration. It was something he simply knew. “Okay,” he said. “I’ll see you.” He watched his mother walk across the large yard filled with playing, noisy children. He felt nothing. He sat on the cement edging of a grassy plot and watched his mother disappear. In a few minutes an older kid came by. The older kid wore short pants, sneakers, and a white T-shirt that said in large red letters: BROOKLYN DODGERS. The older kid—he must have been at least 11—quietly looked down at the

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silent, skinny, red-haired boy. After a quick but apparently satisfactory inspection, the older kid said, “You’re the new boy, ain’t you?” The redhead sadly nodded in agreement. “Well—here—here’s a comic book. It’s about Superman. You’ll like it. Take it.” The new boy took it. The older kid said, “My name’s Tom. Tommy Bondy. See this Superman? See how he pushes these buildings around? He don’t take crap from no one!” The new boy listlessly examined the comic book. He followed Tommy’s pointing finger to a picture of Superman knocking down three hoodlums. And then his feelings came alive. There were deep, heaving breaths, and sobs. Finally, the tears came. Tommy just watched and waited. After a few minutes he asked, “What’s your name, Kid?” “Ritchie.” “Okay, Ritchie—Do you like Superman?” “Yes.” “Okay, then. If you like Superman, then you oughta know—Superman don’t cry.” Ritchie, the new kid, looked at his friend Tommy, the older kid, and almost smiled through his tears. “You’re right, Tommy. Superman don’t cry.”

It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness . . . it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair, we had everything before us, we had nothing before us. —Charles Dickens, A Tale of Two Cities

THE ORPHANS They entered the orphanage together. They walked up the front stairs into the huge, red-brick building, a procedure that they would repeat for many years together. The two were friends. They were boys who already had shared sixand-a-half years of orphanage life as well as the thoughts and dreams of a life beyond the first orphanage in which they had met. Harry Farber, nicknamed “Heshie,” was dark and thin. Richie Safran was equally thin, but fair-skinned and with an unruly head of auburn hair. His friends called him “Red.” They were too old to remain in the Israel Orphan Asylum (IOA), an institution for infant boys and girls through the age of 11. Somehow Heshie Farber and Richie Safran had remained at the IOA much longer than was usual for orphans. The orphanage administrators looked askance at the children, aware that when they played together, the boys were running their hands over the girls’ emerging breasts as they pursued each other in games of tag, hide-and-seek, and ring-a-

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levio. A subsequent policy of prudence resulted in the boys and girls then being sent to single-sex institutions. Now, Heshie and Richie were entering a new, strange place. Their testing, not unexpected by them, began immediately.

WELCOME TO ROOM 12, HNOH, NOVEMBER 1948 John Cunio, a staff member of the Hebrew National Orphan Home, was over six feet, three inches tall. A smiling, genial giant to Richie, he had been warm and welcoming. Richie waited alone in the room into which John had brought him. After the 100-bed dormitory Richie had been used to in the IOA, the room with five beds with its bookcase and round study table with chairs and two lounge seats seemed warm and inviting. John had assigned Richie a closet from among those lining one wall, and assured him he would like his roommates who would welcome him when they returned from school at 3 P.M. The first roommate’s greeting could not be considered welcoming by any standards. Barry Berman, a 14-year-old as skinny as Richie, was the first to come into the room. Berman, an inch taller than the redhead, stood close to Richie, thrusting his face forward. “You’re the new kid,” he sneered. “Nuts!” thought Richie. “This guy’s trouble.” Richie said nothing. He just clutched the book he had taken out of The Home’s library on the second floor, which was one of the first places John had taken him during a quick orientation of the building. Berman looked at the book in Richie’s hand, pulled it out of his hand, and looked at it before returning it to him. It was a copy of The Adventures of Captain Blood. Meanwhile, three other boys had entered the room, all 16 or older. Berman looked steadily at Richie, a hostile, measuring look. “You think you’re hot-shit, don’t you?” Berman asserted. Richie, caught off-guard by the unprovoked hostility of the other boy’s manner and tone of voice, countered in what seemed even to him to be a highpitched, almost scared voice, “No. I don’t think I’m hot-shit!” To Richie, time seemed to freeze. He felt almost removed from the situation. He knew that how he acted in the next few moments would have a great effect on the quality of his life in his new room in this new orphan home. Simultaneously, he found himself creating in his mind a picture of a pile of hot, steaming fecal matter, wondering how and why “hot-shit” could represent something that was desirable. “Sure you do,” insisted Barry Berman. “You think you’re hot-shit!” At that moment, Richie didn’t think through what he did and said. He just acted. “No! It’s you that thinks you’re hot-shit!” And, speaking those words, Richie gripped The Adventures of Captain Blood

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Introduction: Our Asylum

with both hands, swung his arms back, then forward, and hit Berman with the flat side of the book. Barry, caught unexpectedly by this solid blow on the side of his head, was knocked off his feet. He lay on the floor a moment, not realizing what had happened. When he looked up at Richie, he saw Richie flanked by the other older roommates who were grinning approvingly. “How do you feel, Hot-Shit Berman?” said Stanley Levine, who was the oldest and strongest and toughest kid in the room and head of the H’s Rod & Gun Club. “What’s your name, kid?” Stanley asked Richie. Richie, the redhead, answered, “Richie.” “Okay, Red Richie, welcome to Room 12.” For the next year and a half Barry Berman had to live with Red Richie—and the nickname “Hot-Shit,” but the two later became friends. The summer before their sophomore year of high school, Berman was hero of an incident at the Wilson Woods swimming pool in which he was ready to defend a smaller Home boy some outsider kids were picking on. Because of this and, as if by common agreement among the tribe of HNOH boys and without comment, Berman’s negative nickname was dropped. GETTING ONE’S JUST DESSERT The 200 boys of the Hebrew National Orphan Home moved into the cavernous dining room, seated themselves by room numbers at the round tables large enough to accommodate six diners. On the evening of his first full day at the HNOH, Heshie Farber sat down once again to eat with his new roommates at the table for Room 20. It was his second evening meal with his room. So far things had gone well. He thought his roommates were friendly enough. Certainly he had not yet met any hostility, but he knew he must be prepared for some kind of initiation rite. He found the food good, although he had missed dessert yesterday. By the time the dessert bowl holding portions for the entire table had gone though the fourth boy at the table, it was empty. Heshie thought that inadvertently a portion had been omitted and chalked this up to a random miscount. He had experienced worse in the IOA. When the boys at the table had finished the main dish—a meal of meatloaf, mashed potatoes, and string beans—and the table was cleared, the boys assigned as servers placed the dessert bowls on each table. Unlike yesterday’s dessert of applesauce, Heshie noted this meal’s dessert was canned pears. There was half a pear for each boy in addition to the canned pear juice in the bowl. Heshie noted that all of his roommates were now grinning. The first boy served himself a piece and a half. While none of the boys looked directly at Heshie, the grins got wider. When the last portion of one-and-a-half pear pieces was being pushed toward “Big Al” Braunzweig, a taciturn, heavy boy, secure in his size and bulk,

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and who looked huge and menacing, but was actually protective toward smaller kids, Heshie realized he would never get any dessert unless he acted then. He stood up, swiftly walked around the table, took the bowl before Big Al reached for it, and with both hands picked it up, reversed the bowl neatly and dumped the pears and pear juice on Big Al’s head. Big Al looked at Heshie and then lunged to grab him. Suddenly, other boys appearing swiftly out of nowhere, separated the two. John Cunio strode to the table, looked first at Big Al, then at the dessert bowl, and then at Heshie. “Big Al,” John said with a grin, “you have to be more careful with dessert bowls. You know how slippery they get in the hands of new boys who aren’t used to our ways of serving.” He patted Heshie on the back of the head. “I’m sorry, Big Al,” said Heshie. “The bowl slipped.” Big Al looked at Heshie and said without rancor but also without humor, “Just don’t let it happen again. You’re in a good room.” All the boys were then dismissed from the dining room, free until evening Club hours began at 7 P.M. They moved out of the dining room into the main hall en route to their various hangouts: to the stairways, to the Old Gym (a long, bench-lined hallway), to the gym itself to shoot some baskets, or to their rooms. John Cunio, the head supervisor, looked at Richie and Heshie, who had walked out of the dining room together. John, having had intelligence of the rites-ofpassage of the two new boys, turned to his first assistant, Roger Byrnes, and commented: “Roger, I think those two are going to make things interesting around here.”

3 First Day and First Month Ira A. Greenberg

FROM FAMILY TO BOARDING SCHOOL My mother died when I was five years old, and I spent a half-year or so living with my grandmother and her youngest daughter, Aunt Ina, in a small apartment a few blocks from the Grand Concourse in the Bronx. When my grandmother became ill my Aunt Ethel (Gottlober) took me into her luxurious apartment in mid-Manhattan, and I became a part of her family, which consisted of two daughters—Naomi and Laurel, respectively, a year-and-a-half older and younger than me. Their father was my Uncle Shulem (Sigmund), who owned a small general advertising agency and whose clients included Broadway theatrical and symphonic music producers. Life there was pleasant and interesting, but when I turned seven, the family decided to spend a year in Europe, and my aunt placed me in the somewhat tony Manument Boarding School in Poughkeepsie, New York, paying tuition for the first year. It was a great year for me, which began in April, three months before my eighth birthday, with swimming and horseback riding in the summer and the wonderful adventures in the fall and winter, which included my taking a horse out without permission, riding a few miles from the school, investigating a deserted house, and then returning. I was tall for my age then and was leader and protector of the seven- and eight-year-olds, especially from a bullying nineyear-old with whom I eventually had a fight that included attacking each other with staffs and hurling chairs at each other. The bad part was that another boy and I were assigned to clean the horse stables throughout the winter; the pitchforks were cold and we had no gloves; the kids assigned to the cow barn had

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it much easier. This prelude is to emphasize how eagerly I looked forward to the coming summer. GOODBYE, SUMMER One night in early April 1933, I organized a campout with some of the boys my age, and we were told that if we did this we would have to spend the entire night outside and were not to enter the kitchen to warm ourselves before the cook arrived. The remainder of the large schoolhouse would, as usual, be locked for the night. The camping went well until I wakened at about 3 A.M. and found our spot in the meadow was surrounded by water. The situation appeared dangerous, and I thought we all might drown. I immediately woke the others, and we trooped into the kitchen, threw our blankets on the floor, and promptly went to sleep in this safe and comfortable place. I felt guilty about having broken my word, especially after noting when the sun came up that what I had assumed was threatening water turned out to be nothing but heavy dew. During the confusion of our getting up from the kitchen floor when the cook began to prepare breakfast, my father arrived and told me I would be leaving Manument. This seemed like strong punishment for what I felt was a minor infraction of an order, though I did break my word. However, I was guilty and therefore I did not protest. I also knew in the back of my mind that my father could not afford to pay a year’s tuition, and so I left with him in something of a state of shock. Then began a train ride, a number of lengthy bus rides and waits for connections, and finally by mid or late afternoon we took a trolley car and got off at the turnaround point that I later learned was Nepperhan Avenue located on the outskirts of Yonkers, New York. We walked for a mile or so until we came upon two very tall young men taking a stroll. My father asked directions to the orphanage, and they informed him it was just a short distance ahead. I was strongly impressed with how courteous these young men were to my father. I later learned their names were Sam Pentofsky and Al Arcus, and they must have been 13 or 14 years of age. But they undoubtedly appreciated the anguish my father must have been experiencing and perhaps identified with me by recalling their own introductions to the Hebrew National Orphan Home. However, I do not remember experiencing any emotions at this time. My mind and feelings were numb. I vaguely recall sitting in an office while my father must have been answering questions and signing papers. My first recollection was of a woman escorting me to a long, narrow dormitory with whiteframed metal cots and standing in front of the cot I was assigned to and being told we would then march to the shower room to take our showers before evening synagogue services and supper. MY PHOBIA This frightened me. I knew I had to tell someone in authority immediately that I did not take showers, only baths. Ever since I could remember, I had a

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deadly fear of falling shower water. I was not afraid of rain, only shower water, and all of my life adults had indulged me in this fear. I knew I had to inform the lady in charge of this condition. I had to let her know that I did not take showers. As we marched to the shower room one of the boys whispered to me, “Be careful of her, she’s a mean lady,” and this also frightened me. I must have gritted my teeth in determination, and my thinking was, “Well, I’ll do what they tell me to do, and if I start screaming, maybe they’ll let me take baths.” We entered the white-tiled shower room, and I braced myself for whatever would happen as we stood alongside the wall waiting for the water to be turned on. And then it was turned on, and I was under the falling water and, to my utter surprise, nothing terrible happened. The falling water felt good, and the exhilaration I experienced was so strong I wanted to shout about it, to tell everyone I was no longer afraid of showers—but I didn’t; the mean lady might punish me. I don’t remember much else that first day, but I felt wonderful lying on my cot with the sheets tucked up under my chin. I drifted off to sleep feeling very good about no longer being afraid of taking a shower, and I had no thoughts about what the next day would bring. YEARNINGS I had been in The Home a month or so, and things were going well. I was finding my way in the big building where we lived, played, and attended school and daily worship services, and I was getting to know the other kids in the freshman dorm. I was making friends and felt quite happy about my life. Then a community meeting was called, and this evoked some strange feelings within me. The community meeting was held early one afternoon in the Old Gym, and all 300 boys in The Home were gathered for it. Also attending were the freshman, junior, and senior supervisors and other staff members. The usual purpose of this type of meeting was for the staff to tell us of plans that were in the offing, the pointing out of rule violations and punishments to be given, the singling out of individuals or athletic teams for special praise, discussion of work details, and of everything else involved in the operation of a large institution such as The Home. Various staff members addressed the gathering, issuing complaints, praise, or recommendations. The boys also had the opportunity to speak, to express their thoughts and feelings, and so the community meeting seemed a good thing for all concerned. Roll call was the first thing to occur after we had all arrived and taken our seats on benches or for the younger boys on the floor. Our names were called by dormitories, and we each responded with a “Here” or “Present.” Freshmen rarely spoke at such meetings because we either did not have anything to say or we did not quite know how to say it before such a large gathering.

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Possibly another reason for our silence and lack of interest in such proceedings was that if we spoke up we might sound stupid and thus gain the unwanted attention of others and get some of the bigger boys mad at us. For these and other reasons we freshmen sat passive and uninvolved. We responded to the roll call, and then went back into our thoughts as juniors and seniors answered when their names were called. Thus, I found myself alone with my thoughts or daydreams as the names that were called and the responses to them faded into the background. And then I heard my name, and I immediately came alert. But it wasn’t my name. The name called was “Greenberg,” but it was for someone else, a slim, darkcomplected older boy who responded with a “Here.” I couldn’t take my eyes off him. I felt a strong sense of identity with this other boy who had my last name. Our eyes met, and then he looked away. And then I heard another “Greenberg” called, and a stocky guy with light brown hair responded. I found myself staring from one Greenberg to the other, but no further contact was made. I knew we weren’t related. Two or three years before when I was living with my parents or with my grandmother from the age of four to six, there was another boy my age named Ira Greenberg living nearby in the Bronx, and we were friends and playmates, but we knew we weren’t related to each other. Also, I didn’t feel I was closer to this other Ira Greenberg than to the other kids I played with. But it was much different for me at The Home. There was a yearning for something I wanted from these two older boys, who to me were really young men. I felt a need for an affiliation of some kind, if only that they acknowledge my presence. But nothing happened. Although we usually related to boys in our own age groups, I had occasion to talk to a number of older boys—usually to ask questions or to seek instruction—but I never had the opportunity to speak to either of the other two Greenbergs. They must have been all of 12 or 14 when I first heard their names called, and they undoubtedly had problems of their own. They had nothing to give an eight-year-old who had yearnings he was unable to put into words.

4 Growing Up in HNOH Sam George Arcus

“The Best Laid Schemes ’O Mice and Men Gang Aft A’gley.” —Robert Burns, “To a Mouse,” Stanza 7

For a few months after our mother’s death, in February 1929,1 our father, Nathan, tried to hold his American family together by having his sister, Tante Sonia, look after our two-and-a-half-year-old sister, Henny, and arranging with a local delicatessen proprietor to feed my brother Alex and me. Alex was almost nine and I was seven-and-a-half at the time. But these arrangements proved to be unsatisfactory; and so in April 1929, Pappa placed Alex and me in the Hebrew National Orphan Home, located in the isolated, rural outskirts of Yonkers, New York, and placed Henny in the Israel Orphan Asylum for infants and toddlers, located in New York City proper. This separation of brothers and sister was necessary because the HNOH accepted boys only, beginning at the age of six. The trip to the HNOH from 65 Willett Street on New York’s Lower East Side took more than three hours. The Home’s social worker, Claire Fiance, accompanied us on this long, tortuous journey, which involved taking the Broadway/Seventh Avenue Interboro Rapid Transit all the way to the end of the line at Van Courtland Avenue in the Bronx, then taking a trolley (streetcar) to Getty Square in downtown Yonkers, and transferring to another trolley to an outpost known as Nepperhan Avenue. From there we slogged along an unpaved Tuckahoe Road for almost two miles until we came to the four-story, square, Ushaped, red-brick building that formerly housed the German Odd Fellows Home.

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Germans? Odd Fellows? Not very reassuring. And why so far out? Miss Fiance explained that it had been determined that fresh, country air was much superior to dirty ghetto air. As for the inconvenience for relatives in visiting their kids, well that’s part of the price paid for the advantage. And on this bleak April day it rained all the way to Tuckahoe Road, so that the street was a sea of mud. We boys took turns asking our father: “Pappa, why are you putting us here? Pappa, why can’t we stay home? Pappa, I’m wet and cold!” The separation of father and sons at the orphanage was heartwrenching, and the trip back to an empty apartment on Willett Street for Pappa must have been unbearable. It could have been that at this time the thought occurred to Nathan Louis Arcus that all his problems could be resolved by the simple plan of bringing Bashya, his first wife, and her children from Poland to America. And then we kids could be taken from our respective orphanages to join one recreated big, happy family, and the Arcuses and the Erkuses could be together at last. The family’s name in Europe was originally Erkus. It was involuntarily changed at Ellis Island because of a failure to communicate, an all-too-common experience. NEW ARRIVALS As we approached the fenced grounds and the massive building at 407 Tuckahoe Road, trudging up the colonnaded front steps of the main building, entering through the heavy double doors, we encountered the portrait of a stern-looking personage in black robes and gold-rimmed eyeglasses peering down on us. Justice Aaron J. Levy, long-serving president of the Hebrew National Orphan Home, didn’t even greet us with a smile. We were brought into the office of the superintendent, George Goldenberg. He greeted us with a smile and signed some papers given to him by Miss Fiance, while Pappa, Alex, and I stood by frightened and perplexed. Mr. Goldenberg returned the signed papers to Miss Fiance, and she turned to Pappa and said: “We better leave now, Mr. Arcus; it’s a long trip back to the city.” We boys desperately clutched our father, who reciprocated with a bearlike embrace. A man and woman then entered the office. The man helped Pappa disengage himself so that he could, ever so reluctantly, leave, his eyes filling with tears as we boys wailed our protests. With Pappa gone, the man now took Alex by the hand and gently but firmly pulled him from my clutches. As he left, Alex turned to me to say, “Sammy, if I don’t see you again, remember you have to say Kaddish [the mourner’s prayer] for Mama.” Not knowing what was to happen next, I nevertheless answered that I would remember, adding, “G’bye, Alec.” He disappeared up the huge central stairway with his supervisor, while the woman, Mrs. Rubenstein, took me by the hand up the mysterious stairs to my dormitory, Company “E,” on the third floor of the east wing of the massive building, passing the portrait of the still unsmiling president. En route I pondered the loss of my mother and my baby sister and

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Introduction: Our Asylum

of my father and now my brother. I asked Mrs. Rubenstein where the man had taken my brother, and she told me that, being older, he was assigned to Company “C&D,” on the same floor but in the west wing. While relieved to learn that Alex was still in the same building, I wondered why we had been put into what seemed to be some kind of army place, even though we were such small, young boys. Mrs. Rubenstein and I arrived at the Company E dormitory—a long, narrow, hall-like room with one row of 30 cots along the window wall and another 30 of these army-type metal beds against the opposite wall, with a narrow space of about five feet between them, serving as the dormitory’s center corridor. I would learn that this was the smallest of the three dormitories, accommodating only 60 boys in contrast to the 130 boys in each of the other two. I was assigned an iron-frame cot, told my number was 180, which I would keep throughout my stay in The Home, and to watch the other boys and do as they did. At a given hand signal, all of us stood rigidly at attention in front of our beds. At another hand signal, half of the dorm went across the hall to the washroom to clean hands and faces. On their return, the other 30 boys went to the washroom and the first 30 stood rigidly at attention in front of their cots. Upon completion of this procedure, the 60 of us marched by twos and in size– place down the stairs to the synagogue directly below our dorm for the afternoon–evening prayer services. I thought I caught a glimpse of Alex in one of the rows of pews, but I couldn’t be sure. When it was time for the mourners to come to the front of the synagogue to recite the Kaddish, Alex and I were momentarily reunited. Only to again be separated as each of our companies marched to the dining hall for our supper, each company being segregated in its own section of this large room. Here, too, I was compelled to become oriented quickly to the regimentation and discipline of orphanage life. I was assigned to a table of eight, and we stood behind our chairs, waiting. At the hand signal, we all sat down. At another hand signal we recited the prayer giving thanks to “the Lord our God who bringest forth the Bread from the Earth.” And now we could eat—but not talk! Being famished from the long trip and the long day, I very quickly devoured my small portion and looked for more. But rather than more food there was more prayer, again to thank the Lord for what we had just devoured. And then Company E, being the youngest and closest to the exit doors, rose as one body and marched out, again in double file and size–place, and silently. We marched downstairs to the Old Gym, to march endlessly around the six columns supporting the building. This was punishment for some of the boys having violated the no-talking-while-eating rule and because it was presumed to help us digest what we’d just eaten. Companies A&B and C&D would be punished in their respective dorms by a form of detention known as “standing on line,” something I would soon become familiar with. Such was my first day and evening at the Hebrew National Orphan Home.

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As we wearily trudged up the stairs to our dormitory, a boy whispered to me that it used to be worse when “The Colonel” was at The Home. I was told I was lucky because he had left about six months ago. I pondered my luck as I stood at attention in front of my cot, putting on my pajamas at the authorized hand signal, and finally climbing into bed at still another signal. And I wondered if we were nothing more than trained dogs. When the lights went out, so did my life’s future, or so it seemed. And then it all came crashing down on me and I began sobbing uncontrollably, trying to understand what was happening, and why. And then Mrs. Rubenstein was there, comforting me. She stroked my head and brushed the tears from my cheeks and softly assured me that, in time, I would get used to it. And in time I did. I spent nearly 12 years at HNOH. EXPLORING THE HOME The Home was so vast. The building and its 20 acres were an explorer’s dream, especially one seven and a half years old. The four-story building had been built to house the German Odd Fellows. I had some idea who Germans were but not the slightest clue about what “Odd Fellows” were. There already were legends about morgues and skeletons and hidden secret recesses, although I never found any of them. The ground or first floor’s west wing accommodated the Old Gym, the band room where the instruments were stored, and the washrooms and toilets. The east wing contained the laundry, bakery, shoe shop, tailor and seamstress rooms, carpentry shop, aero club room, arts and crafts rooms, and similar facilities. The ground floor connecting the two wings contained the photo darkroom, the electric utilities room, the maintenance department, and The Home newspaper office. The New Gym, built around 1932, was tacked onto the rear or north end of the west wing, abutting the band room. The New Gym was of necessity a two-story affair so that the library balcony now overlooked the interior of the magnificent new structure, giving spectators an excellent view of basketball games and allowing the scorekeepers to post results on a large scoreboard. The second floor of the west wing contained, from south to north, the staffs’ small dining room, the boys’ large dining room, the game room, and the library. The east wing contained, from south to north, staff rooms and apartments for the rabbi and Hebrew teachers, the coatroom, the synagogue, and the infirmary. Connecting the two wings on the second floor were the superintendent’s, administration, clerical, and head supervisor’s offices; a board room; a lounge; the large main lobby; and, of course, the grand central stairway going from the first or ground floor to the fourth floor. Boys generally were banned from using the main lobby and central stairway except for special occasions. The third floor of the west wing housed Companies C&D, later to become the junior dormitory, plus its washrooms, toilets, and an L-shaped group shower room. It also provided a room for the supervisor and a supply room containing

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Introduction: Our Asylum

small, numbered cubicles for each dormitory resident. The east wing housed Company E, later to be the freshman dormitory, together with its washroom, toilets, playroom, and storage room with cubicles. Company E did not have its own shower room. We kiddies had to march through the C&D dorm to shower. But it did provide a small apartment for the Company E (freshman) supervisor. Connecting both wings were additional staff rooms and storage and supply rooms. Finally, the fourth floor’s west wing housed Company A&B, which later became the senior dormitory, plus its lavatory, washroom, showers, store–supply room, and a room for the supervisor. The east wing accommodated the classrooms serving P.S. 403/404, Manhattan, and the Hebrew School. And again, connecting both wings were mostly staff living quarters and the grand central stairway, above which was a massive skylight providing much desired illumination. There was another connecting corridor between the two wings, rising only two stories above the boiler room. This was the facility containing the two kitchens, one for preparing meat meals and the other for dairy. Between this connector and the four-story connectors was an empty space, referred to as the boiler room yard. North of the two kitchens was the kitchen yard, to which all deliveries were made, including coal, foodstuffs, milk, and clothing. The east wing of the building had space for a narrow roadway that reached the back of the building and its kitchen yard. Alongside this roadway was a chain-link fence separating the HNOH from the aqueduct supplying water to New York City’s thirsty millions—and at the same time helping to ensure The Home’s isolation and insulation from the outside world. I was at the HNOH for nearly 12 years, and I don’t believe I discovered all the nooks and crannies inside that massive structure. THE 20 ACRES In front of the building were perfectly manicured hedges surrounding a large square of lawn in the center of which was a very large flagpole, from which flew a very large American flag. We pledged allegiance to the flag every morning before religious services and breakfast as Milty Resnick, one of our boys, sounded the flag-raising call on his trumpet. On the west side of the building was the small bluestone gravel-covered playground, and just west of this was the freshman playground, located behind grape arbors and vines, with swings, slides, and seesaws. There also were two bungalows that were used to house employees with families. And to the west of all this were the barn, the school garden, one of the fields of our extensive farm, and the chicken coop with hundreds of our own chickens. The barn housed our two horses, Stockings and Playboy, who were used to pull plows and wagons. Protector of the chicken coop was a foxlike canine called Rickey, who had come out of the woods one day and put herself in charge of the chickens by

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killing rats in and near the coop. This was about the time of President Franklin Roosevelt’s New Deal program focusing on the National Recovery Act (NRA), which we boys surmised meant, from Rickey’s viewpoint, “No Rats Allowed.” North of the bluestone gravel-covered playground was a small, all-purpose field, and north of that was The Home’s baseball diamond, with its outfield melding into an apple orchard, whose fruit was always prematurely harvested, giving the harvesters bellyaches. And on the west side of the baseball diamond and field was more farmland, yielding lettuce, tomatoes, corn, potatoes, cucumbers, carrots, radishes, and, of course, kohlrabi, that exotic vegetable that looked like a head of cabbage but was harder to bite into and was related to the turnip family. Quite a change for boys, many of whom were from the Lower East Side of New York City. And one may well wonder why HNOH boys would ever feel the pangs of hunger. Well, farm products must first ripen and be harvested. And this occurs only in the fall. In other seasons, one can indeed feel hungry. Our explorations were not limited to the building and our 20 acres. There was also “our own lake,” the reservoir only a few short miles north of The Home. On its waters we could row a boat and sometimes even fish. And there was the aqueduct, under which ran the pipeline carrying the reservoir’s waters, to be hiked on and explored. There also were neighboring farms, like Schmidt’s on the west side and through which we trudged—to Schmidt’s constant consternation—and many other wooded areas. It was, in short, a rustic, rural, and isolated place. And our building with its 20 acres of farms and barn and chicken coop constituted an almost selfsustaining community, a village, if you like. And that had its positives and negatives. SETTLING IN AT HNOH Sometime in late 1930 Harry Lucacher, The Home’s business manager and fund-raiser, succeeded George Goldenberg as superintendent or chief executive officer. And soon after that the names of Companies A&B, C&D, and E were changed, respectively, to seniors, juniors, and freshmen, a positive portent of other things to come. What made my early days at the HNOH tolerable was my father’s continued assurance that our stay at the orphanage would be a short one. That first Sunday, Pappa was at The Home by 9 A.M., which means he must have gotten up at 4 A.M. to accomplish this. He was told that in the future he’d have to abide by the rules, which limited Sunday visiting from 1 to 5 P.M. This time an exception was made and Alek and I were excused from our “details” (chores). Pappa now openly talked with us about our “new” mother (still in Poland with our “new” sister Mary and our “new” brother Harry) who had agreed with his plan of “reuniting” the Arcus/Erkus family. While not totally surprised, it still caught Alex and me unaware—this sudden expansion of our family. But we were delighted to know that we would “soon” be getting out of this overwhelming place.

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“Soon,” however, was to stretch out to months and ultimately to years, as we would learn. Our new sister Mary, 18 and a half, and brother Harry, 16, arrived in the United States in December 1929, without their mother, Bashya, because she needed to resolve her visa and passport problems created when Pappa’s sister, Tante Sonia, used Bashya’s visa and passport to come to the United States in April 1914 (see Chapter 24). Alex and I met Mary for the first time in January 1930, when shortly after her arrival from Poland she accompanied Pappa on a Sunday visit to The Home. For me the experience was unforgettable. How many kids meet their older sister for the first time when she is over 18 and you are eight? I know she was thrilled to suddenly have two younger brothers, because she was all charm and loving, joking with us and attentive to whatever we said. She gave me a small mirror with a picture of herself on the back, saying (in Yiddish, of course), “Sholem, if you get lonely and tired of looking at yourself, turn it over and I’ll be there.” My new brother Harry couldn’t come that Sunday because his job, distributing a Jewish daily newspaper, required that he live with the distributor’s family on Long Island. Alex and I would meet him at a later time. Pappa and Mary visited us at The Home nearly every Sunday during the first few years of our stay, and their standard reply to our recurring question of when our new mamma was coming so that we could leave and join the one big, happy family was again “Soon . . . everything takes a little longer.” In fact, our new mother would not arrive until November 1932, a good 18 years after she was first supposed to come to America. There was nothing Alex and I could do but settle into the routine of institutional life. And that routine dictated that, as you grew older, you were required to move to a dormitory for older children; in my case, it was from the freshmen to the juniors. The physical layout of the HNOH building dictated that there be only three large dormitories. (When Reuben Koftoff took over in 1939, that of course would change.) Company E (freshmen) could accommodate at most 60 boys ages six through nine (primary school grades); Company C&D (juniors) could accommodate at most 120–130 boys, ages 10 through 13 (primary and junior high), and Company A&B (seniors), also with 120–130 beds, ages 14 through 17 (high school). So, after I turned nine in October 1930, I was slated for transfer to the juniors, where Alex (now Al) resided. Even though the transfer would not occur until January, I was ecstatic. After a long (almost two years) physical and emotional separation, I was about to join my brother in the same dorm. But a dormitory housing 120–130 boys is a large place, which I immediately discovered, having come from a much smaller community of at most 60. EXCELSIOR: DORMITORY TRANSFER “Excelsior” means “onward/upward.” Although the junior dorm was on the same (third) floor as the freshmen, for me it certainly was “onward,” if not an

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“upward” move. Either way, for me and nine other freshmen, it was a significant event. We gathered our few belongings, including our respective numbers, and after a tearful good-bye to our younger companions began our short trek to the junior dormitory. We turned a corner to cross the main hallway, passing the grand central stairway, and entered the double doors of the junior dorm. There, all the boys were standing at attention in front of their beds to acknowledge our arrival. I scanned the faces and when I spotted Alex’s—excuse me, I mean Al’s—I smiled and waved my hand limply, which he reciprocated unobtrusively. Obviously, The Colonel’s influence had not yet fully dissipated, and such public displays of feeling were still not fully acceptable. The ten of us, new juniors, marched through the first part of the dorm, turned right and then marched all the way down the middle of the dorm, which separated two rows of beds on either side of the aisle, to where our iron-frame cots awaited to be made. As we marched, the boys of the junior dorm sang a “Hearty Welcome” to us, which we felt was very nice. But I discovered that Al was all the way back at the other end of the cavernous dorm, with his contemporaries of ten and a half and older. And that was not so nice because I discovered that I was hardly any closer to him than before. We made our beds, “hospital corners” and all, and then took our few possessions to be deposited in our assigned cubicles in the dorm storeroom. They were very small cubicles, but then, we had few possessions. Each cubicle assigned already had our names and numbers posted. There was something reassuring about seeing our names and numbers on our cubicles, greeting us anew and yet providing a continuity, a perpetuity, a permanence: Sam Arcus, #180. OSTEOMYELITIS Early in 1932, when I was ten and a half, I suffered an attack of rheumatic fever, which caused severe inflammation of both legs and ankles, but fortunately it did not cause any permanent heart damage, a usual consequence of that illness. However, one of The Home’s visiting physicians did some unnecessary lancing to alleviate the swelling, and this consequently caused osteomyelitis (bone infection) requiring a series of five operations: three on the left shin and two on the right ankle. The surgery involved scraping the respective bones and draining the pus. Thereafter, periodically, I suffered from swelling and inflammations resulting from the slightest impact to the sensitive areas. I became a regular at St. Johns Hospital in Yonkers and a wheelchair speed devil through its corridors, and a frequent patient at the HNOH infirmary. The second time I was at St. Johns Hospital, a very distraught Pappa visited me and was more attentive than I ever remembered him. Later, I learned that the doctors had been considering amputating my left leg because of the severe damage to the shinbone. But Pappa had adamantly refused to authorize the procedure and Mr. Lucacher, now The Home’s superintendent, had backed him up. Al and his best friend, Sam “Penny” Pentofsky hitchhiked to St. Johns to

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Introduction: Our Asylum

tell me to stop faking it and to get on home. I knew they were just trying to cheer me up. I became a celebrity of sorts at the HNOH. After all, how many kids landed at St. Johns Hospital for five operations? And each time I returned to The Home’s infirmary I was placed in the same bed, in the first ward by the window looking out into the kitchen yard and into the kitchens themselves, and into the boiler room over which the kitchens were located, and the Old Gym, and the New Gym, and my junior dorm above the dining hall, and the senior dorm over that! And frequently looking out my window I could see activity in all these areas and sometimes one of the kids would see me and yell out, “Hey, I see Sammy Arcus! Howya doin’ Sammy?” When weather permitted, Simon “Kelly” Rosenberg, a senior boy assigned to help Nurse Flanagan, carried me outside to the north side stoop so I could soak up some sunshine, each time kibitzing me that it must be his charm that motivated me to continually return to the infirmary. And I would bask in the sun and the admiration—or was it mere curiosity?—of my fellow orphans. For them, I was either a pitiful victim of circumstances or a klutz always putting myself in harm’s way. In either case, I was getting attention, and in an orphanage that was something! This illness or injury, however one might look at it, was undoubtedly a seminal event in my life. It compelled me to modify my lifestyle, or at least my activities. I was then a very active kid who especially liked rollerskating in the Old Gym and playing soccer on the bluestone gravel yard, both activities exposing me to impacts on the shin and ankles. And it didn’t require a violent impact to again land me in the infirmary or even worse, in St. Johns Hospital. Finally, the doctors forbade me to play in any sports or take part in fast physical activity, thus compelling me to direct my energies toward intellectual and cultural pursuits. I thereupon read a lot more, developed my artistic talents (with Charles “Chick” Baker as my mentor), and became active in lots of clubs, such as dramatics, photography, chess and checkers, journalism, and many others. In fact, I became president at one time or another of nearly all of them. And when A.K. Kersch, supervisor of the junior dorm, ran the many tournaments, such as checkers and chess, I wound up the winner in most if not all of them. So I guess there is truth to the adage that life tends to compensate. Or that, according to a Jewish proverb, “When God closes a door, He opens a window.” AN OPPORTUNITY TO LEAVE HNOH When our sister Henny turned six on July 16, 1932, she was transferred from the Israel Orphan Asylum (IOA) to the Hebrew Orphan Asylum (HOA) on Amsterdam Avenue and 137th Street, New York City. HOA was a coed institution, and I remember Claire Fiance calling Al and me into Harry Lucacher’s office to ask if we were interested in joining our sister at HOA. I was ten and a half going on 11 and Al had just turned 12 in June. We had been at the HNOH

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for three years and three months. We looked at one another perplexed. We remembered having a baby sister, whom we practically never saw. Seldom were we taken to see her or was she brought to see us. Pappa visited us almost every Sunday, so when did he visit Henny? We knew that both the other homes were in New York City proper, so perhaps he visited her during the week. But in any event, since we were continually being assured by Pappa that we would “soon” be leaving the HNOH to join a re-created big, happy family, it didn’t make sense for us to leave one orphanage to go to another. And Miss Fiance and Mr. Lucacher made no effort to convince us otherwise. Years later, as a professionally trained social worker, I learned about the city’s and state’s capitation for orphans and dependent children. This was a system whereby both the city and state of New York paid a per capita sum of money to institutions to help offset the cost of their care. Empty beds in any orphanage would mean loss of so many dollars to that institution. Hence, a competition developed among the institutions to see which ones could keep most of their beds filled. Now I understood why Al and I were not encouraged to consider transferring to HOA. BIDING OUR TIME So Al and I settled down at the HNOH and bided our time, waiting for the right time when we could leave to join the one big, happy family. I tried a stint in the HNOH band, seeking to emulate my then best friend, Milty Resnick. But when the bandmaster, Gregory Zundel, insisted on my playing the French horn instead of the trumpet, such as Milty was playing, I quit. Zundel insists he threw me out because I kept playing the trumpet part on my French horn. He was probably right. A.K. Kersch was one of the longest serving supervisors of the junior dorm, putting in a total of five years or more. He was a complex man, straddling the legacy of The Colonel’s disciplinarian system and a more constructive philosophy embodying keeping his charges heavily involved in all kinds of activities, including competition in leagues and tournaments and activities in clubs. He was from Finland, with an impressive athletic background and introduced soccer to The Home. He organized basketball and baseball leagues involving all members of the junior dorm and provided trophies and medals for the winners. He organized the Stamp Club and held tournaments for checkers and chess and was a leading force in the HNOH school boys race track team, which competed against other school boys race teams in citywide track events. He was a dynamo for good, but he was also rigid and clung to aspects of The Colonel’s regimentation. He arrived at The Home a single man, but met and married the woman supervisor of the freshman dorm. During his time at HNOH there was no reason for any boy of the junior dorm to be bored or uninvolved. In fact, participation was compulsory. And I took full advantage of his offerings. My earliest involvements were the Stamp Club, Dramatics Club, Chess and

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Introduction: Our Asylum

Checkers Club, Art Club, and Arts & Crafts Club. Later, I would become very active in the Journalism Club, which produced The Home newspapers, and also be active in the efforts at self-government. I had a flair for checkers and chess, but it was the Dramatics Club that was most rewarding. It was there that I first met Charlie Vladimer, forging a friendship that would last more than 65 years. In fact, I once wrote a “Deja Views” column for the Alumni Association newsletter, The Alumnus, in tribute to Charlie, recalling his devotion to the Dramatics Club, a devotion that (to exaggerate just a little) almost cost him his life. Mr. Kersch’s baseball league game was conflicting with a scheduled Dramatics Club rehearsal, and Charlie came up to the ballfield to collect his thespians; whereupon, Kersch confronted him, demanding, “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” When Charlie explained his need of the ballplayers for the rehearsal, Kersch exploded with: “To Hell with your dramatics rehearsal. This is an official league ball game!” And Charlie stupidly replied: “Yeah, well, to Hell with your baseball!” Kersch’s roundhouse punch floored Charlie. He then picked himself up off the ground, dusted himself off, and walked away muttering all kinds of expletives. The Dramatics Club productions required backdrops and stage settings, and here entered Charles “Chick” Baker. Chick was an HNOH alumnus who had encountered hard times in New York City during the first years of the Great Depression and who Harry Lucacher hired in 1933 to serve as coach and allaround assistant. Chick produced all the backdrops and sets for the Dramatics Club’s productions, as well as for the P.S. 403/404 dramatic efforts. And I helped him with most if not all of them. Chick taught me how to take plain old bedsheets, glue–size them to stiffen them to canvaslike consistency, and then to do our artistic magic. The HNOH Minstrel Show backdrops were part of our masterpieces, as was the twinkling lighthouse backdrop of H.M.S. Pinafore. Chick also organized the Art Club, where we dabbled in charcoal, pastels, and oils. THE BAD, SAD SIDE OF HNOH Some people would call it the “dark side,” but certainly it was bad and sad. As mentioned earlier, Al and I were fortunate that by the time we arrived at the HNOH in April 1929, the infamous Colonel Anderson had been gone about six months. But his legacy of harsh discipline, corporal punishment, and detention persisted. The dormitories, as previously described, were organized as military companies, and as members of our companies we marched everywhere—to the dining hall, synagogue, classrooms, showers, lavatories—everywhere. And for the slightest infraction of any rules (usually talking), we were given detention. This consisted of lining the boys up in two files (a column), in size–place with our arms behind our backs and standing thus, rigidly, for hours at a time. After my osteomyelitis attacks I was frequently, but not always, excused from “stand-

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ing on line” and made to sit on a bed with my arms folded in front rather than behind my back. As the time dragged into hours my shoulders drooped forward causing extreme back pains. But I could not convince my dormmates of this because they so envied my being excused from standing. Some of the more sadistic supervisors found ways to “improve” upon this time-honored technique. There was the deep-knee bend, for example. In this exercise the unlucky boy or boys lowered the body and stood on their toes with arms outstretched. And sometimes a soft object like a pillow would be placed on the outstretched arms, or a pair of heavy shoes if the boys were considered “really bad.” Or there was the standing stiffly with hands over one’s head, or to the front or to the sides until the pain slid into numbness of the limbs. Corporal punishment was commonly used to enforce discipline and to control a large number of boys. Usually it was open-handed (e.g., slaps across the cheeks) or the boxing of ears, which involved using palms to slap against both ears simultaneously. But sometimes closed fists were used. In 1933, when I was 121⁄2, I had an encounter with A.K. Kersch—or perhaps I should say an encounter with the other side of A.K. Kersch, our own Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. The junior dorm was at attention, as always, each boy standing stiffly in front of his own bed listening to instructions from Mr. Kersch. Someone in my section of the dorm whispered something, which Kersch overheard. He demanded to know who had talked. Of course, no one would admit to being the culprit. Kersch zeroed in on my dorm section and ordered me to step forward directly in front of him. His eyes bored into me as he asked if I was the talker. When I denied being the one, he demanded that I then tell him who was the violator. I answered honestly that I did not know, and I received my first open-handed slap across my cheek. The sting to my face was sharp enough, but to my sense of fairness, even sharper. Now, even if I did perchance know, there was no way I was going to tell! The second open-hand slap hurt even more, but I was determined not to cry. This evidently was interpreted as defiance, and the subsequent blows were now delivered with closed, clenched fists. The man was rapidly losing control of himself. From wanting to know who had talked, his focus now shifted to why I was not crying! I looked directly at him through misty but not tearful eyes. I could taste the blood in my mouth and felt the pain of my crushed lips. Finally, I slumped to the floor as everything grew faint. Lew Zedicoff, one of our monitors, used this opportunity to step in, to help me up, and, with a befuddled Kersch’s consent, to take me to the infirmary. I believe that it was the poet William Henley’s “Invictus” that best described that scene, specifically, “My head was bloodied, but unbowed!”2 That experience intensified my desire to get out of the HNOH and join the promised “one big, happy family.” But it still was not yet to be. Even though my step-mother had arrived in the United States in November 1932, it was felt she needed some time to settle in. And now my father’s health began to dete-

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Introduction: Our Asylum

riorate and Mary supplanted him as the major wage earner. That “one big, happy family” would have to wait just a little while longer. MORE EXCELSIOR In June 1934, Al turned 14 and was transferred to the senior dorm. It meant that once again we were physically separated in two different dormitories. But our experiences in the junior dorm were such that this time it was not traumatic for me. We each had our own circle of friends and were involved in different activities. Al continued in athletics, ultimately becoming a varsity member of both the baseball and basketball teams. His friends included Sam Pentofsky, a tall, slender, amiable fellow; Louie Rosen, short, rotund, jolly; Harry “Bosco” Cohen, blond and blue-eyed with a perpetual grin; Lew “Niggy” Feinmesser, whose nickname accurately captured his dark complexion, was six-feet tall and served as the center of the HNOH varsity basketball team; George “Shirley” Brodsky, whose fine, curly hair earned him his sobriquet; Danny Lovett, short, dark-complected, and the poet of the clique; Sam Meyers, handsome and outgoing; and Max “Mac” Laub, another member of the varsity teams. Al became a member of The Home’s newspaper staff, first The Accomplisher and then its successor, The Homelite, serving as the humor columnist. It was that role that later earned him the distinction of being “the funniest boy in The Home.” My circle of friends will be described in greater detail in the next section. But once I suffered the osteomyelitis attacks my participation in sports and physical activities was ruled out of bounds. And so I gravitated to the intellectual, artistic, and cultural pursuits. I followed Al onto the staff of The Home newspapers, first as staff artist and then as news columnist, associate editor, and finally editor-in-chief. In October 1935, at age 14, I followed Al into the senior dorm, this time in a genuine excelsior, moving “onward and upward” to the dorm directly above the juniors. And this time it didn’t matter that I was at one end of the dorm and Al and his contemporaries at the opposite end. As I’d said, we moved in our own circles. MY FRIENDS AT HNOH With so many boys at the HNOH, one would have had to be catatonic not to develop more than a few meaningful—or even lifelong—friendships. Of course, those relationships were determined by events of the time, one’s evolving or changing interests and involvements in specific activities. I have difficulty recalling my earliest buddies in Company E and the freshman dorm. However, things come into sharper focus when I remember the days in the junior dorm. I can recall my first fistfight with Solly Sklar, although it’s inaccurate to call it “fist.” More like open-hand slapping on my part. No one, not even my brother Al, a Golden Gloves aspirant, ever taught me about closing my hands into fists, or about conserving my energy rather than flailing away wildly until I exhausted

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myself. Solly won easily and graciously helped me off the floor. And we became good friends. Thereafter, I mastered wrestling, using my wits and weight and usually came out on top, literally. My first best friend was Milton Resnick (later to be known as Raynor), and from 1932 to his departure in 1938 we were inseparable. He played the trumpet in the band, and I wanted so much to emulate him that I joined that group. Even after Zundel kicked me out because he wanted me to play the French horn and I kept playing the trumpet parts on the horn, Milty and I remained friends. Many a Sunday when I had no visitors, I would join him when his dad and older brother and his wife visited. We played checkers and munched on goodies. In September 1938, after playing his trumpet with a combo in the “Borscht Belt” (Catskill Mountains) all summer, Milty told his father that he adamantly refused to return to The Home. He and his father then lived together in a small apartment in New York City until his father died, cradled in Milty’s arms. My next best friend was Charlie Vladimer, who I first met in 1935 while active in the Dramatics Club. Even though Charlie was three years older than me, we seemed to have a common chemistry, especially around skits and sketches like “The Broken-Hearted Deutscher” and “Who’s a Coward?” Charlie left The Home in 1938, but he visited regularly to help with the Dramatics Club. Our interests further entwined when we joined in establishing the Harry Lucacher Alumni Society (HLAS) in 1940 to commemorate the memory of the man who died suddenly while still on the job in 1938. We worked together as counselors at Delaware Cliff Camps for two summers and, in September 1940, went to Baltimore to find work in the defense industries while dreaming of getting higher educations. In my later years at the HNOH, Paul Schrenzel emerged as a rock for me. I had erred in choosing a nonacademic program at Roosevelt High School, and Paul persisted in arguing with me until I changed to academic. During this time I also developed a meaningful relationship with Jerry Tobias, a blond, extremely bright, and quick-tempered rebel, with and without a cause. My social circle also included Sam Goldwitz, who loved to argue and debate and orate over the most trivial of subjects, including what was or was not trivial! And Arthur “Spike” Schiller, skinny and serious; “Pinky” Liebowitz, called “Pinky” because his first name was “Pincus”; and Jerry Boison, the dark-complected, curly-haired clarinet player. Also, David “Fishy” Bass, who was called “Fishy” because it seemed so appropriate, and Irving “Fanny” Berman, who played the big tuba. Why he was called “Fanny,” well, I just don’t remember. And then there was Martin Miller, a little younger, certainly much smaller, but one of the best athletes The Home ever produced. Like Eli Resnick [just before him,] he could dribble a basketball right between his opponents’ legs. And of course there were my coworkers slaving away on The Homelite as the production crew, Dave Fruchtman and his assistant and close friend Hyman Furman. Incidentally, their older brothers, Aaron Fruchtman and Al Furman also were best friends.

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Yet I still longed for the one, big happy family. Al and I visited for brief periods with the family, usually during Jewish holidays. My oldest brother, Harry, did not get along with our father from the start. Harry had never known his father, being only weeks old when our father left for America. Harry had grown up in his mother’s hometown in Poland, to which they returned after the Odessa pogrom. Thus, Harry had never had a steady father figure in his life, and so had difficulty relating to his authoritarian father in America. At age 19 in September 1933, Harry married and moved out of his father’s contentious household. Pappa’s health continued to deteriorate, requiring Mary to emerge as the head of the family, financially and otherwise. In addition, Mary wanted to marry, and did so in August 1937. In short, it never seemed to be a good time for Al, Henny, and me to leave our respective orphanages. However, since Al and I were now older and allowed out of the HNOH on our own, we undertook to try to remedy a deficit that had long gnawed at us: our infrequent contact with our kid sister Henny. Every spring the HNOH held a series of lunches for the many women’s auxiliaries that were supporting the orphanage. Al and I worked as waiters and received what for us were substantial tips. We pooled our monies, bought dolls, games, and toys and visited 12-yearold Henny at HOA. And for a time it seemed that a relationship might be reestablished. But again there was the quandary of “the best laid schemes.” The philosophy of child care had been changing and was turning against institutional care in favor of foster care. The Hebrew Orphan Asylum, disregarding Pappa’s change of mind, placed Henny with a foster family and thus began what seemed to us at least, a process of alienation of affection by the foster parents. The few times that Al and I visited Henny in this setting, we were made to feel less than welcome, particularly by the foster mother. And we easily succumbed to Pappa’s perception that the foster parents had a good thing going for them, namely, a built-in maid, dishwasher, and when their children arrived, a baby-sitter. Many years later, well into adulthood, my sister would set the record straight, at least from her perspective: her years with her foster parents were far superior to her years in the HOA. She had “parents,” albeit “foster” ones. And when their children arrived, she had “brothers,” albeit “foster” ones. And she has maintained a relationship with them for more than 55 years. A FULL, HECTIC LIFE AT HNOH I’m not sure when I finally concluded that the elusive dream was a mere fantasy and that it was best to make the most of my remaining years at the HNOH. Al graduated high school in January 1938 and left in June to work and live with the family in Brooklyn. He also had difficulty with Pappa, and so he joined the Civilian Conservation Corps (CCC) and went off to Priest River, Idaho, for hard outdoor work.

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My last years at the HNOH were hectic, if not frenetic. Jerry Tobias, in his Homelite column, dubbed me “the Club Dynamo.” I was active in almost all the clubs, serving as president or other officer of each at one time or another. Among my many roles on The Homelite was that of news editor, and my particular focus was on foreign affairs. In fact, for a time my nickname was “Haile” because of my impassioned support for the Ethiopians and their emperor during the Italian invasion of that country. I worked with Lew Zedicoff, who in addition to being the editor-in-chief of The Homelite was also the monitor of the junior dorm. And I worked with Danny Lovett, who succeeded Lew as editor of The Homelite upon Lew’s departure from The Home. And finally, when Dan left, I took over as editor-in-chief in September 1938, with Jerry Tobias serving as assistant editor. I’m proud to say that during my stint I brought on board many younger boys, creating a junior editorial staff. The mass exodus of older boys in 1937 and again in 1938 created dangerous gaps in the paper’s strength, so it seemed essential to groom younger fellows, such as Ira Greenberg, coeditor of this book (with Richard Safran) and Murray Feierberg, always with the slanted smile, and Erwin Mickey Nathanson, who became a novelist and author of The Dirty Dozen and other books. In fact, before leaving the HNOH in September 1940, I appointed Ira as the new editor of The Homelite, and I’m not sure if he has yet forgiven me. Before television and when radio was just coming into its own, entertainment at the HNOH was provided by the Dramatics Club’s two or three presentations a year, the Wednesday night movies initially held in the Old Gym and after it was built in the New Gym, and the “Story Tellers.” I had always admired the Story Tellers immensely. They included Lew Zedicoff, Danny Lovett, and my brother Al. And I aspired to become one also. And in this endeavor Lew was my mentor. I describe this experience in my short piece, “Is Anyone Still Awake?”3 in which I recall how Lew encouraged me to tell my stories, ultimately tricking me into coming to the center of the very dark, chilly, cavernous dormitory to tell my first story. In the spring of 1938, Harry Lucacher died suddenly from a massive heart attack. I had been appointed monitor for the junior dorm just a few weeks before. When I was first approached to take the job I was reluctant to do so because of my memories of some not-so-nice monitors. But my brother Al and his best friend Sam Pentofsky had been monitors before their leaving The Home, and they had changed the mold. I accepted the offer with trepidation, vowing to try to be a good monitor. I discovered that all my skills and talents could be brought into play and thus was able to do a creditable job and even serve as mentor to some of the younger kids, as Chick Baker and Lew Zedicoff had served for me. My art talent, crafts skills, and storytelling ability came in handy in my serving as a monitor—and mentor. Thus, meaningful relationships developed with some of the younger boys, including the four Moritz brothers (Seymour, Max, and

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the twins Ralph and Morris), Irving Ruga, Bill “Beanie” Weinstein, Ira Greenberg, Erwin Mickey Nathanson, and Murray Feierberg. At the same time I was able to maintain meaningful relationships with my peers. The summer of 1938 was a hectic one for me. I attended summer school at Mt. Vernon High for the month of July and then went to work as a houseman (maintenance) at Androns Mountain House in the Catskills. I originally wanted to work as a waiter, having heard that they made lots of money, and since I was experienced at this, having served all the ladies of the various auxiliaries, I looked forward to it. But by August there were no waiter jobs left; thus, I accepted the maintenance job. Hey, we Home kids were adept at doing most anything. PAPPA’S DEATH ENDS THE ELUSIVE DREAM On December 2, 1938, Pappa died from “indeterminate causes,” as an autopsy was not authorized. My sister Mary sent a telegram to Al in Idaho at the CCC camp, but he was unable to attend the funeral. At the HNOH, I was paged to receive a call from my cousin, Harry Bronstein, telling me that my father was dead at the age of 53. Henny, a young lady of 121⁄2, was able to attend the funeral along with Mary and her husband, Joe, and with Harry, our stepmother, and me. Even at such a climactic event we still were not all together as the “one big happy family,” with Al away. After the burial, while sitting shiva (mourning) we mused on how God works his wonders, how he toys with us, raising our hopes and then dashing them, and how there might have been one big, happy family, but there never was. So, after the shiva period I returned to the HNOH to serve out the rest of my sentence; Henny returned to her foster household; Al’s term with the CCC was cut short and he returned to Brooklyn in March; Harry returned to a rocky marriage; and Mary, Joe, and my stepmother moved out of New York to Indianapolis. But those are other stories. FINAL YEARS AT HNOH (1935–40) In many ways my final four or five years at the HNOH were the most interesting and productive. Perhaps that’s true for every adolescent boy as he nears the end of his teen years and approaches young adulthood. We leave grade school behind and enter the high school portals and its challenges. I almost failed that challenge. Being so close to my brother in age—only 16 months separates Al and me—there was always a degree of competitiveness between us. But Pappa had always made it clear to me that he regarded Alex as the one with der ziese kopf (sweet head or smart). Thus, I always felt as if I walked in my brother’s shadow, even when we were in different dormitories and in different grades in school. For example, at Al’s public school graduation in 1934,

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he won the medal for overall scholastic achievement, plus some other recognitions. But I was awarded the medals for best in art and history, even though I was not a member of the graduating class. Pappa was certain that the teachers had made a mistake, that the medals were meant for Alex and not for me. He quarreled vociferously with the teachers and Annie Sutherland, the principal, about this. They acknowledged the unorthodoxy of giving a nongraduate an award, but they stated they were very impressed with my knowledge and skills in those areas. Pappa was not convinced and wanted me to give Al the medals, which of course I adamantly refused to do. Still, I regarded Al as the one with der ziese kopf. So, when I witnessed him switching from an academic to a general program at Roosevelt High School, I wondered what chance I would have when it came my turn to attend Roosevelt. Therefore, when I began attending Roosevelt in September 1937, I signed up for the general and not the academic courses. The irony about Al’s difficulties with some academic subjects was that it derived from his and Penny Pentofsky’s being assigned to monitor the freshman dorm, which had been emptied of its usual occupants to accommodate 60 boys afflicted with German measles in 1935. The resulting quarantine prevented Al and Sam from attending school at Roosevelt, and that six-week absence caused them to flunk some courses. Years later, Al acknowledged that if he had repeated those courses he probably could have passed and gone the academic route. But, he reasoned, “What was the use, as it was highly unlikely that I’d ever get to go to college,” so why not just settle for the general diploma? But at the time, all I knew was that Al, with der ziese kopf, had changed from academic to general. So I signed up for the general program, despite the displeasure of my friends, specifically, Jerry Tobias, Solly Sklar, and Paulie Schrenzel. Paul kept up a constant barrage of arguments, so much so, that as I was finishing my first (albeit sophomore) year at Roosevelt, he finally convinced me to switch to academic. To make up for the missed academic courses in the year past, I attended summer school for the next two summers: Mount Vernon High in 1938 and White Plains High School in 1939. I became quite familiar with Westchester County and quite proficient at hitching rides to and from the schools. In any event, I was able to graduate from Roosevelt with an academic diploma in June 1940. My final years at The Home were also interesting in that they featured some colorful supervisors. One was Leo Youdelman, also known as “Young.” He supervised the senior dorm and coached baseball. It was rumored that he was hiding out from somebody or something, but we could never put a name or a face on the allegations. He was an outstanding baseball player, and it was hinted that he had played major league ball. When he hit a baseball, it was gone! So, it was natural that he coached The Home’s varsity baseball team. He was a genial sort of guy, always kibitzing (wisecracking), but his memory was phe-

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Introduction: Our Asylum

nomenal and he could tell jokes rapid-fire for hours without running dry. Then one day, he was gone. Then there was Leroy Fishkin, a very tall, ruggedly handsome athletic fellow, who also supervised the seniors. He also served as a coach, especially of The Home’s varsity basketball team. After leaving The Home, he became a dentist. Joe Ben Lasser was not an athlete but an intellectual who was gentle and compassionate, a far cry from the notorious Colonel. Mr. Lasser served as head supervisor and assistant superintendent under Harry Lucacher and was succeeded as head supervisor by Joe Linsky, if I recall correctly. Linsky was a tall, gangly man with a dark mustache and wore horn-rimmed glasses. However, he didn’t stay long. And then I remember a slight, blond, gentle soul by the name of Henry “Chick” Landis. He also was a good baseball player and had a ready smile and a hearty laugh. He relied more on persuasion than on “authority” and was quite popular with the boys. And finally I remember portly Harold Wolpert (no relation to the Wolpert brothers then in The Home) who served as junior dorm supervisor in 1939 and 1940. MOST POPULAR BOY Moi? Yes, why not? In May or June of 1939, I was voted “The Most Popular Boy” by the residents—no longer “inmates,” you’ll note—of the Hebrew National Orphan Home. Every year the Alumni Association sponsored a series of awards, including Best Hebrew Student, Best Public School Student, Best High School Student, and so on. And, at the annual Alumni Day, usually held in May or June, the association would award the many medals at the evening’s dinner. Of course the other awards were not subject to popular referendum. You either had the grades or you didn’t. Only “Most Popular Boy” was determined by popular vote. Lew Zedicoff had won it two years in a row just a few years back. And the fact that my campaign managers included Jerry Tobias, Davy Fruchtman, and Hy Furman had nothing to do with my winning the award. Well, not too much anyway. Hey, I was junior dorm monitor, editor-in-chief of The Homelite, president of the General Organization (the self-government entity then prevailing), and had the keys to the photography darkroom, plus a few other advantages. So, why should there be any surprise at my winning the muchcoveted (and deserved) award? UNIVERSAL SCHOOL OF HANDICRAFTS Harry Lucacher died in the spring of 1938, and Reuben Koftoff arrived to assume the role of executive director (not superintendent) about a year later in 1939. In the interim a man named Lloyd Levy filled the slot. Reuben Koftoff was the first professionally trained executive the HNOH ever had. He had been raised in an orphanage in England, and after coming to the States, he went to

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college and graduate school and studied child welfare. His professional experience included work at many child-care facilities, including the Brooklyn Hebrew Orphan Asylum just prior to coming to the HNOH. We hit it off immediately, and he arranged for me to take courses at the Universal School of Handicrafts in New York City on Saturdays and late afternoons during the week so it would not conflict with high school classes during my final year at Roosevelt. I studied leather crafts, metalwork, woodcraft, and plastics. And to further sweeten the deal, Mr. Koftoff paid me a nominal sum to instruct The Home’s younger boys in the new Arts and Crafts program. WORLD’S FAIR AND WORLD WAR The New York World’s Fair opened in 1939 in Flushing, New York, and on September 1 of that year Hitler’s Nazi Germany invaded Poland. On that date, at about 6 A.M., Chick Landis, then junior dorm supervisor, awakened me, one of the two junior dorm monitors, to tell me the news and to add, prophetically, that he guessed he wouldn’t be at The Home too much longer since he would be joining the U.S. Army Air Corps. Later in 1939, while a large group of our boys visited the World’s Fair under the supervision of Harold Wolpert and myself, we noted the lights of the Finnish pavilion going out, and this was followed by an announcement that the Soviet Union troops had invaded Finland. This was immediately followed by the playing of the Finnish national anthem, “Finlandia,” composed by Jan Sibelius. It made the hairs of our necks stand up, and we older boys found ourselves wondering about our futures. After my graduation from Roosevelt High in June 1940, Mr. Koftoff hired me as the Arts and Crafts instructor to help keep the kids occupied through the summer. I left The Home on September 2, 1940, after almost 12 years there. Just as my osteomyelitis had steered me away from athletics, so my attending the Universal School of Handicrafts and subsequent employment by Mr. Koftoff was a seminal event in my life. The experience gained as handicrafts teacher qualified me to be an arts and crafts instructor and counselor at summer camps and then at Jewish community centers. As I furthered my higher education, I was able to advance to club leader, unit head, department head, program director, and finally, executive director of Jewish community centers all over the country. Who knows, maybe events and the development of our lives are in fact bashert (predestined)! I do know from painful personal experience that as Robert Burns wrote a long time ago, “The best laid schemes. . . .” NOTES 1. See Chapter 24. 2. Editor’s Note: Some time after Sam Arcus’s terrible beating, Mr. Kersch came across something that did not belong in the junior dorm, and as I was nearby, he de-

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Introduction: Our Asylum

manded of me the name of the boy responsible and out popped my words, “It vasn’t me,” and I was terrified. Unintentionally, I had mocked his accent, and I dreaded the beating that would follow. He glared at me and suddenly turned and walked away. 3. Sam George Arcus, Deja Views of an Aging Orphan.

PART 2 LIFE IN THE HOME

5 A Novelist’s Formative Years E.M. “Mick” Nathanson

What follows is Nathanson’s frank and thoughtful responses to a lengthy questionnaire (see Appendix A for the complete questionnaire) sent to the 302 members of the HNOH Alumni Association in 1997 through its newsletter, The Alumnus. (The numbers in parentheses represent specific questions from the 37item questionnaire.) (1) Your Name. E.M. Nathanson. I was named Erwin at birth with no middle name and nicknamed “Mike” by my father. At The Home I was nicknamed “Mickey.” Once I had a girlfriend, more than 50 years ago, who liked “Mick” better, and so did I, so that’s who I became. I’ve used “Eric” as a byline, and it follows me around on some documents. Since 1965, I’ve used the initials “E.M.” as my book byline and as my name on many documents. (8) What you liked best about The Home. It was really a home for me in which I could grow, learn, and play in an environment that was better than the one I would have had if I’d been living with parents or relatives. It was also Summer Camp all-year-round. There was also the band of brothers in the best sense of the word “brothers.” Sure, there were rules and regulations and discipline that sometimes were restrictive, but in the years I was there and as I grew older and more competent and confident the reins of control were loosened and one could pick out which rules were to be overlooked. I thought the education at the in-house P.S. 404 Manhattan, which included

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the ninth grade, was terrific. There was structure and discipline without being rigid. There was inspiration and motivation from the teachers and the opportunity to range free with one’s mind, hopes and aspirations. I also had the opportunity to skip grades twice and move faster in school. I graduated ninth grade in January, 1942, and entered Roosevelt High School as a sophomore. (9) What you disliked most about The Home. The occasional neurotic, psychotic or rotten kid who took his problems out on other boys, including me. But there were very few of them. If they were “big kids,” you tried to avoid them; if they were the same size as you or smaller, you sometimes had to threaten them or fight them if you couldn’t get rid of them any other way. Another dislike was the occasional feeling of loneliness or aloneness despite having many friends. It didn’t happen to me often, but it did happen. It did, however, contribute to an emotional toughening process and foster independence and the will to succeed at something. (11) Who were your close friends? By age, more or less, starting from older boys, some of whom were mentors as well as friends: Sam Arcus, Ira Greenberg, Murray Feierberg, Ross Green, Morris “Tony” Bond, Alex Brewis, Lloyd and George Plafker, Simon Growick, Sam and Frank Goldwitz, and Stanley Goodman. And I’ve probably left out 20 or more other names because we quickly went off on different tracks after The Home and disappeared from each other’s lives, though I could name them and remember them as friends. There were friends I liked because we tuned into each other mentally and had similar interests and goals. There were others I admired and befriended because they were leaders who held out a helping hand or were good athletes. Some were friends because we shared a particular activity like performing in the band or working on The Home’s newspaper. (12) What activities did you enjoy most at The Home? All of them, and not necessarily in the order that follows: a. Games and sports early on and then later when I was able to play on Home and high school varsity teams. I was really glad to be a Home boy on the Roosevelt High School football team in my senior year, even though I wasn’t big enough or good enough for the first squad. b. School learning and even the academic competition. Certain teachers, when I reached the junior high school years, really motivated me to extend myself, especially teachers like Mrs. Perron and Mr. Henry. c. The Library and being able to read books all over the place, even when I was supposed to be doing something else. I can still conjure up the images of the muted atmosphere and furnishings of the Library: filled shelves along the walls, the door that let you out onto the balcony overlooking the New Gym. I

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look back on it as being something elegant and fine. And I fondly remember Dave Konigsberg who was the librarian and also, maybe later, worked in The Home’s front office as an aide to Mr. Koftoff, and I think he also became one of the dormitory supervisors, though I don’t remember which one or when. One thing I remember about Dave Konigsberg is that he was often the source of nickels and dimes borrowed by the boys, including me, so that we could buy a treat in The Home’s candy store or in Tuckahoe. The money was returned to him from allowances earned around The Home or out of money gifts from relatives, but there must have been many nickels and dimes that were never repaid. I remember many an evening, after dinner, in the twilight or dark, when Dave would accompany some of us boys on the long walks to the diner in Tuckahoe, and we would buy treats there, sometimes with money borrowed from him. Treats like pie-a-la-mode, which might have cost 15 or 20 cents then, maybe a quarter, and I particularly remember being introduced there to rice pudding with a big scoop of chocolate ice cream on top of it. d. The band. Actually making music in a group and having the different, orchestrated sounds of the many instruments come together under Major Gregory Zundel’s baton—sometimes used as a club—and sound good was rewarding and exciting. In the beginning, learning to play the clarinet was often tedious and arduous, but when I became competent at it I enjoyed it. e. The Home newspapers. There were a few names of Home papers before The Homelite, but I remember it best because that’s the paper on which I started my newspaper career at about age 11. Three years later I was appointed editor. f. The photography club. That was both a creative learning experience and a lot of fun. My first camera was a Baby Brownie, a present given to me by The Home for my birthday at one of the monthly birthday parties held in the dining room. I think it was for my 10th birthday and cost a dollar. I’ve still got negatives and prints taken with that camera. Later on, I was able to get a slightly better camera and had access to others. When I was 14 or 15, some of my relatives pooled their resources and bought me a good camera. I was really happy with it. Then, during the time when there was a lot of rebuilding going on in the clubrooms in the basement [first floor], some son-of-a-bitch stole my camera out of a desk drawer in The Homelite office. Sic transit gloria mundi. Other than that, for many years I enjoyed taking pictures, developing film and making prints and enlargements and learning the various techniques to improve a photo in the darkroom. I never became a professional photographer, but there were times when being able to use a camera helped me in newspaper and magazine jobs. g. The Printing Club. Because of my early interest in newspapers, I was also interested in printing. I was a member only a short time. I don’t remember if the club continued for very long. Maybe it had something to do with wartime

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shortages. Anyhow, I remember learning how to pick metal letters out of a compartmented tray, compose words, lock them into a chase and make proofs. h. Arts and Crafts. This wasn’t a major hobby interest with me, particularly as I grew into my teens and had other interests, but I did make some craft items and enjoyed doing it. (13) What is your most vivid memory of or at The Home? There are so many. I could conjure up or flash on images for hours, associated and disassociated. Perhaps the opening and closing scenes at The Home will do here. First Scene, December 27, 1935. I am in the Dispensary, talking to Miss Flanagan—Flanny, the nurse—who’s telling me I’m going to be kept there a few days, even though I’m not sick, to make sure I haven’t brought in any sickness to infect the other boys in The Home. I learn a new word that day: “quarantine.” I’m also introduced to a soldier visiting there, the oldest of the Resnick brothers, and I’m somewhat in awe, very impressed to learn he’s stationed at West Point. But what could I possibly have known at that point in my life to be impressed by West Point then or the Army itself? And where did I get the inspiration and motivation, the presence, to be interviewing Flanny and the soldier in woolen olive drab uniform about life, about their lives, for surely that was what I was doing. I am seven and a half years old the day I enter the HNOH, but already a veteran of four years in the Israel Orphan Asylum in Manhattan and Far Rockaway; so a transfer to the Hebrew National Orphan Home in Yonkers, where the older boys go, and where some of my friends like Alex Brewis and Ross Green have already preceded me, is a move that I’m taking in stride and had probably been looking forward to. I think it was my aunt who brought me to The Home after a few days of a “furlough en route” with her and my uncle in their small apartment in The Bronx. Last Scene, End of June 1944. A Saturday. Probably around noon. I’m 161⁄2 and have just graduated from Roosevelt High School. Lloyd Plafker and I have already gotten ourselves jobs as summer camp counselors in upstate New York. Lloyd is a year older and has just graduated from Saunders Trade-Tech. We’re leaving The Home this day, and we’ve got a train to make in Tuckahoe to take us to Grand Central Station where we will connect to the train that will take us to Copake. I rush down to the chicken coop, holding the key to The Homelite office. Herman Harrow (Horowitz), who’s in charge of the chickens, is the man I want to take over as editor, even though he doesn’t want the job. I thrust the key at him, shout, “You’re the editor, Herman,” and flee as fast as I can before he can refuse and throw the key back at me.

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I then run out of The Home to catch a bus and then a train that will take me to the start of a new life. (17) Please comment on the religious aspects of HNOH. You ask for comment on the religious aspects of life in The Home. I think it should really be a separate topic, but I’ll write about it here, to follow your numbering setup. Regarding rites, rituals, Hebrew School, attendance in the synagogue, I followed it all by rote because I was a kid in The Home and that was what The Home required of a kid. There were only rare times that I felt awe or an emotional or intellectual connection to the religion I was being taught; I was being indoctrinated, I realized, only because it was the religion of my forebears, who were hardly part of my daily life. My most immediate forebears, too, except for my maternal grandfather, only paid lip service to it anyway, as far as I could see when I went to visit them or they came to visit me at The Home. I was taught to read Hebrew at The Home, but the meaning of the Hebrew words and prayers—even the Hebrew speech I had to memorize for my Bar Mitzvah in 1941—were mostly unknown to me. For whatever reasons—maybe the cut-anddried way religion was taught, or my resistance to it—the heart and soul of Judaism never infused me; though, for a few years, I was enthralled by a fear of God who would punish me if I didn’t observe the do’s and don’ts. I left most of the religious indoctrination behind me when I left The Home, and I have had no connection to a religious life or Jewish observance since. I feel a tribal–historical connection to Jews–Hebrews–Israelites–Israelis rather than a religious connection. What did stay with me, though, was a moral sense and a realization that I have “sinned” whenever I fall away from my own code of honor. (20) Who was your favorite staff person? Reuben Koftoff. He elicited respect, admiration and affection by the manner of his being and what he gave to the boys, to me, in the way of warm regard, advice, guidance and discipline. His mind communicated with us and he never spoke down to us. I’ve always felt, since he died, that if there is such a place as heaven and if there are saints there, then he dwells among them. (21) Other favorites. a. Dave Konigsberg. Besides the various duties he had at The Home, enumerated above, he was like a kindly uncle, a friend and advisor—or maybe I was impressed that he always had a nickel, dime or quarter to lend when you needed it. b. Leo Youdelman. I think he started out as a night watchman or in some other job like that, but he eventually was a junior supervisor, maybe later, a senior supervisor. Early on, we knew about his baseball prowess, and he used to coach us. I think he had played for a major league farm team, maybe the

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Pittsburgh Pirates. I remember that after he became a supervisor and I was working on The Homelite, he took pleasure in showing me some poetry he’d written and in discussing poetry and books. I remember too how proud he was when he became engaged to a woman I met. I don’t remember when he left The Home staff, but I had some sort of contact with him afterward, enough to learn that he married and later had a child. Leo is one of those people about whom I’ve always wondered, Whatever became of . . . ? c. Major Gregory Zundel. If he hadn’t existed, the “Major” was a character I would have been excited to invent and put in a novel—and I might still put him in a book one day. The major had played French horn for the Czar and claimed to have been a teacher and bandleader at West Point. How and why the Major wound up as music teacher and bandleader at The Home I don’t know, but how lucky we were to have him. He was a Casanova who seemed to chase any good-looking woman who turned up at The Home and probably many more outside, though I think a lot of the ladies ran from him rather than to him. We boys used to kid with each other as we watched him go into action and telling each other how he might tell a young mother, “Your son has good lips for the drum; I would like to teach him.” I’ve often wondered . . . d. Walter Oppenheimer. Walter was a German refugee, probably in his midto-late 20s when he came to work at The Home in the mid-30s. He started out in a menial job, maybe a dishwasher, and later became a supervisor of the junior dorm. Two of Walter’s cousins, also refugees, also came to work at The Home. Julius, a tall, thin man who had been in a concentration camp for several months, worked in the kitchen as a dishwasher; the woman, whose name I don’t remember, worked elsewhere in The Home, but I don’t remember what she did; maybe she was a freshman supervisor. She and Julius, despite being cousins, got married some time after they came to The Home. Walter, who had been a medical student in Germany and was a bright, ambitious man, was the scoutmaster of our Troop 51 for a couple of years in the early 40s before he left to go into the Army. He was a warm, friendly man who inspired us by his example as a teacher and leader. I’ve wondered . . . e. Mac Gustin. Mac was either junior or senior supervisor for a few years, or he might even have been head supervisor. He was an intelligent, kind, and very dapper man who supervised the boys with warmth and friendliness. What I remember most about Mac was that when I was editor of The Homelite he gave me a book that I’ve kept to this day. I think the book, a novel, had a great influence on me. It’s the story of a newspaperman who held a number of jobs in different parts of the country, gets married and has a family, never advances very far in his career and all along really wants to be a novelist, but is never able to find the time to write. The novel is by Clyde Brion Davis and is called The Great American Novel. Mac left his job at The Home to go into the Army, but I ran into him briefly some years later when we were both students on the G.I. Bill of Rights at the Washington Square campus of New York University. I already had the ambition to become a newspaperman when I was in The

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Home and when Mac gave me The Great American Novel. Years later, when I ran into him at NYU I was working for Fairchild Publications as a copyeditor in addition to being a student. But I’ve sometimes wondered if it was the book he gave me that motivated me, if only a little bit, to make the moves and take the chances I did, and still do: to toss off newspaper and magazine staff jobs, become a freelance writer and eventually a novelist, as the protagonist in the novel sadly did not. f. Eddie, the nightwatchman. A man diligent in his rounds to maintain night safety and security in the building, and very watchful that we didn’t violate the rules. An Irish Catholic, he made damned sure that none of us tried to violate Orthodox Judaism by not observing the do’s and don’ts of the Sabbath. (22) Which staff person did you dislike most? Others you disliked? I remember that there were some martinet disciplinarians, but I don’t recall them specifically. However, I do remember group punishment, where we all had to stand with our arms outstretched or over our heads or in some other uncomfortable position for long periods of time. Maybe some of the supervisors I remember as good people were also guilty of tough discipline and excessive punishment, but their names and faces haven’t stayed with me. I think that some of the older boys who were monitors also employed that sort of tough punishment or beat you up to keep you in line. In the early days that I was in The Home, when there were still the long, open dormitories, I think the freshman dormitory was treated gentler than juniors and seniors. I remember hearing about the harsh punishment meted out by a supervisor named Kersch in the junior dormitory and may even have experienced it, but I’m not sure. (24) What are some of the good things you got from The Home? Education and enlightenment that was an opening to the world. A feeling of security that I might have been denied otherwise. Independence that included a sense of responsibility. Emotional and physical strength. The inspiration and motivation to try, and try again if you fail. A spirit of adventure. Moral integrity, or at least knowing what moral integrity is. Enduring friendships. The mystery of women, although that might be listed as not so good. (25) What are some of the things you wish you hadn’t gotten from HNOH? If I feel them, they’re deeply hidden, or I don’t know them. (26) How would you have changed The Home, if you could have? I would provide more individual attention to each of the boys by adult mentors, and I would prevent as best I could the occasional cruelties inflicted by children upon children through a mass-mob mentality that sometimes occurred and that has been well depicted in both the novel and the film Lord of the Flies.

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(27) What work assignments did you have at The Home? I sometimes had jobs cleaning up alleys and other places around The Home, for which I was paid an allowance, maybe 15 cents or a quarter or more. Then there was KP, washing dishes and pots and pans, but I don’t remember if we got paid for that. I was fascinated by the big, professional dishwashers that roared and steamed. I think that as I got older and was occupied with more activities, like The Homelite and the band, and more schoolwork and activities in high school, I didn’t have any of these paid jobs anymore. I don’t remember where I got the little bit of money that I might have had. Were older boys given an allowance? Did I get an allowance or gifts from relatives? (28) What high school did you attend? I attended nearby Roosevelt High School. (29) How did being in The Home affect your high school involvement? I don’t think my being in The Home affected my high school involvement one way or the other. I liked the fact that we were so close and that I could walk to school and back. I participated in high school activities, sports, and clubs, as much as I had time and interest for them. I was delighted to be around girls at last. (30) If you went to college, what degree(s) do you have? I went to Washington Square College of NYU. I worked and saved money to pay for my first few terms. Then I went into the Army, and when I came out I was lucky enough to have two years in college on the G.I. Bill. I majored in anthropology and minored in English, but dropped out with about a semester to go and never did get my bachelor’s degree. I dropped out because I ran out of G.I. Bill benefits, couldn’t afford to continue to pay for it myself, and ran out of interest. I was already working as a newspaperman and didn’t need the degree to continue. Later on, when I applied for other jobs, I used to write on applications what my major and minor had been and obscure the fact that I hadn’t stayed in college to get a degree. I don’t think it ever made any difference in my writing career, though I’ve always wished I were better educated. I did not get any financial aid for college from The Home, though I remember that sort of help was given to boys a few years after I left, and I thought it was great that the boys who came after me were able to take advantage of it. (31) What occupations have you had since leaving The Home? Camp counselor, machine shop and assembly worker, newspaper copyboy, reporter, editor, U.S. Army, magazine editor and writer, freelance writer, novelist and screenwriter.

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(32) How did having been in The Home affect your occupations and/or career? I think it had a big and positive influence. It got me started toward becoming a newspaperman. I had a chance for hands-on experience that I enjoyed. I learned and grew. To this day, my workroom–study resembles The Homelite office. (33) How would you define yourself in terms of religion? I’ve written about this as part of (17) above; here is more: Though enormously interested in the subject of all religions from an anthropological and sociological perspective—a historical, intellectual, rites-and-practices and even emotional point of view—I’m personally agnostic, indifferent, and sometimes hostile to “true believers” and proselytizers. I recognize good and bad in the tenets of all religions and in the tenets and philosophy of atheists. I’m hostile particularly to the endless blather of platitudes handed down in varying forms from generation to generation, based on the visions of crazies in the desert and other lonely places and those later rites, rituals and practices proclaimed and prescribed by followers and interpreters. I wrote a novel, The Latecomers, published in 1970, about one such crazy. I’ve been in a church more often in the last few decades than I’ve been in a synagogue, but the visits were pro forma, not devotional. The closest thing to a religious experience that I’ve felt since leaving The Home was in 1966, sitting alone on the broken columns of an ancient synagogue at Capernum on the Sea of Galilee in Israel, where Jesus was said to have preached. I felt as if I had been among the people who lived there once and had come from them, and I was still listening, looking for answers. (34) Talking about The Home years afterward. I don’t think I publicized it or broadcast it unduly, but I also don’t think I felt ashamed of having been brought up in two orphanages. I told new friends and associates who expressed interest in me, but I never casually laid out the whole megillah (long story) on anyone who didn’t want to know or have to know. If anything, I think I felt rather special because of the way, time and place I was brought up. I remember taking the girl I later married on a brief visit to The Home, probably early in 1952. I remember us being in the New Gym shooting baskets and taking her around to different parts of the building and grounds to show her, rather proudly, where and how I’d grown up. In later years, I remember feeling even more comfortable volunteering stories and data about my childhood whenever I was with people who were talking about their childhoods. Once, when I told about my “unusual upbringing” to a married couple who were new friends in Laguna Beach, I was surprised and delighted to learn from the wife that she had spent some years in the Brooklyn Hebrew Orphan Asylum when Reuben Koftoff had been the director there and

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that later, after she had become a successful dancer in musicals, she had visited him at 407 Tuckahoe Road and made a cash donation to the HNOH. (35) How do you look back at your years at The Home? I look back at my years in the HNOH with nostalgia and pleasure. (36) How do you feel about whomever it was who placed you in The Home? I’m glad that my father and his sister, my aunt, placed me in the HNOH. I think I was less glad, four years earlier, when I was placed in the first Home, the Israel Orphan Asylum, but I think I got used to it in a few weeks; though I remember wanting to run away during my first few days there. My mother was ill then, in a hospital; my father and his relatives were unable to care for me properly—although I think that my maternal grandmother, who had already raised nine children, wanted me to live with her. My father had legal charge of me then, and I believe he and his relatives made the right decision in placing me in the two Homes. I would not have had the opportunities for growth and development with them or any of my relatives that I had in the HNOH. One negative aspect of living those early years in both orphanages was that I never had a chance to really bond with my mother. I felt emotionally closer to my father in those early years because I saw him more often, little as it was. A few years later, when circumstances allowed me to get to know my mother better and see her frequently, I liked her a lot, understood her, loved her, but never felt a deep emotional bonding. She died at 97 in 1998 in a nursing home in New York City. A corollary aspect of growing up in orphan homes from the time I was three and one-half years old is that, on the surface anyway, I think I escaped the “guilt trip” regarding parents that I later perceived afflicted a lot of teenagers and adults who had been raised in a traditional nuclear family. Though I might have felt certain standard obligations and responsibilities toward my parents and relatives in a vulnerable childhood—and some guilt whenever I was led to believe I wasn’t fulfilling those obligations—in later years I came to realize that I owed more to people like Reuben Koftoff and the staff and teachers at The Home than I did to parents and relatives. I had escaped from a lot of negative influences and guilts. Anything else? I could probably go on and on for days as memories and associations came to mind, but I don’t want to spend the time on it now because I’m in the middle of writing another novel and have to return to it. I found that even responding to the specific questions made me think of people and events I haven’t thought of in years and partially opened the floodgates of memory.

6 Captain of the Band Charles Vladimer

What can be more exciting for a child than to watch a parade, listen to the clamor of martial music, and gaze at the spectacle of marching musicians in colorful uniforms? As early as I can remember, my family had an RCA Victrola. We were poor, but opera and serious music were important parts of our daily lives. Also, my father was a professional musician and on occasion would take me along on an engagement. Therefore, it was natural for me to gravitate to the band after I entered The Home in 1927 at the age of eight. Mr. Ferber, the bandmaster at that time, actually knew my father as they both belonged to the same musician’s union. Mr. Ferber lived on The Home premises and gave musical instruction during the afternoon and early evening hours. He was a strict teacher but also a gentle and kind person. Several years later he was followed by Major Gregory Zundel, who we all believed had been the bandmaster at West Point.1 Major Zundel also was a good instructor and had a little more patience with his young students than Mr. Ferber. Major Zundel could be funny at times, although this was not his intention. He also had a reputation for “making out” with some of the younger band members’ mothers. I believe a few of these mothers felt that this relationship might help their sons’ musical studies, but this was not the case with the majority of the mothers. One kindness of Major Zundel I shall never forget is the day he made me captain of the band. This was the greatest honor in the band and was usually reserved for either the best or most popular musician. I was neither, but I believe he felt that I had tried very hard and that it would mean a lot to me. It sure did.

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BAND TRIPS AND EATS Trips away from The Home were exciting, especially to a boy like me since they opened up all sorts of new places and adventures to experience. There were certain events we could count on yearly, particularly the Yonkers Firemen’s Parade. I was about ten when I participated in my first Firemen’s Parade, and I had not yet learned to play the marches on my clarinet, but Mr. Ferber let me go anyway and told me to “fake it.” This was common practice for boys new to musical instruments, and I was a faker for a long time afterward. After I learned the marches I found that nothing could be more exciting than marching down Getty Square to the cheers of spectators along the route. Sometimes I would get so excited I’d practically “blow my brains out” in the exhilaration of playing. One of my monitors, Chick Baker, who would march alongside the band and keep the column straight, once told me no matter where he was he could hear my clarinet squealing away. Another annual event was the Bar Mitzvah banquet for boys 12 and 13 who were entering symbolic manhood through religious ceremonies in the synagogue. The celebration was always held at a prominent New York City hotel (often the Astor Hotel). The ceremonies were legally symbolic but religiously real in that afterward the boys had the status of men during religious services. But the prime purpose of the banquet was to raise money for The Home. Following the dinner wealthy guests heard speeches given by Home officials describing life in The Home and the Orthodox religious training the boys received. Three boys would also give speeches: one in Hebrew, one in Yiddish, and one in English. To round out the evening the band would play various classical and modern pieces, but the best part for me was when we stopped playing during the speeches and ate. Eating, whether banquet fare or hot dogs and soda, was always for me the best part of any trips we took. CONCERTS FOR WOMEN Band concerts were given for the various women’s auxiliaries throughout the year on Home grounds as a part of the fund-raising effort. The women would be served lunch in the children’s (freshmen) area of the dining room while the band played unobtrusively in the nearby Game Room. Some of the best musicians, like Walter Lewis on his clarinet or Milton Resnick on his trumpet, would get a chance to “shine” by playing difficult solo pieces. An important part of the band experience for me was the friends I made. I can recall the long conversations I would have with fellow clarinetist Arthur “Spike” Schiller as we returned by charter bus from an engagement. Sadly Arthur died in World War II when his ship was torpedoed crossing the English Channel to France. That was a long time ago. I am now more than 80 years old, but I still enjoy trips and have spent my life as a social worker in California, Washington, New

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York, and Israel. I now can and do eat all the food I want, and I still enjoy music. As a matter of fact, I feel a return to my youth whenever I hear a band playing “The Stars and Stripes Forever,” “Our Director,” and “Old Comrades,” plus any Strauss waltz. I have many happy memories of the band, and for Mr. Teitler, the first Home bandmaster I knew, Mr. Ferber, Major Zundel, and “Spike,” and all the terrific boys I knew in The Home—I want to say, “Thank you, dear HNOH.” NOTE 1. Editor’s Note: There is no record of this at the U.S. Military Academy at West Point.

7 Major Zundel, the Band’s Lothario Ira A. Greenberg

Major Gregory Zundel, formerly of the Czar’s Imperial Orchestra and later claimed to have been the bandleader at the U.S. Military Academy at West Point, was known in The Home, where he was bandmaster in the 1930s, for two things. They were his wide knowledge of music and of all musical instruments and his vast appetite for involvement with the ladies. And one passion dovetailed into the other to the vast amusement of the boys in and out of the band. Recruiting boys and teaching them to play the many instruments that made up this marching band segued beautifully to provide his opportunities to meet the boys’ mothers and to charm them with his Continental airs. Charm them he did; but most of the women, with life’s problems on their minds, failed to succumb. His favorite joke was to single out a boy and in a mock-recruitment approach tell him, “You should be in ze band; you have ze good lips—for ze drum,” and this we repeated endlessly to each other. Of course good lips were important for the playing of such brassy instruments as the trumpet, the trombone, and the various horns, and for the playing of such reed instruments as the clarinet and saxophone. Recruitment for the band was an endless task for Major Zundel since each year many of his best musicians would graduate from high school and leave The Home, and boys would drop out periodically through loss of interest or disgust at the endless arguments between many of the gifted players and the major at each Sunday morning full-band rehearsal. Those of us not so gifted would find these arguments boring and a frivolous waste of time. We wanted to get the rehearsals over with as quickly as possible so we could put our instru-

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ments away and get on to more exciting activities. We overlooked the fact, however, that to the serious and gifted musicians the music was the exciting activity. THE FRENCH HORN My first experience with the band came when I was 10 or 11 years old. Major Zundel singled me out one day and told me I looked as if I had musical talent and should report later that day to be given an instrument and begin my instruction. I did, and he handed me a French horn, telling me it was the most beautiful sounding instrument in the band and that it came closest to resembling the human voice. He then sat me down on the long, narrow, built-in bench that extended the length of the Old Gym on both sides and proceeded to teach me the notes (valves) of the instrument, as well as to show me how to blow into the mouthpiece. He told me to practice this and then moved down the bench to instruct another boy sitting about ten feet away. All along the benches on either side of the gym were boys at various stages of musical development practicing on their varied instruments, with Major Zundel moving from one to another, providing brief instruction, comment, or criticism. The music for the French horn in our band’s repertoire was fairly simple— the reed instruments and the trumpets had the more complex parts—and eventually I was able to read it and even to keep up with the marches being played. However, I was not particularly interested in music, I didn’t listen to radio or phonograph music as many of the boys did, and I soon dropped out of the band. To me, reading was a much more exciting activity, and so at this stage I didn’t get to go to any of the gala fund-raising events for The Home in which the band was featured. A couple of years later Major Zundel again recruited me, and this time he assigned me to the soprano saxophone, which I liked. It was an instrument that carried a melody and wasn’t as difficult to play as a trumpet, clarinet, or alto or baritone saxophone. And then I not only went on numerous band trips but had some important solos that could be played either by the trumpet or the soprano saxophone. I was still only a fair musician, but I think I got my important solos because of my good behavior at Sunday morning rehearsals. It should be stated that I didn’t know enough about music to be able to argue about it, as did many of the other boys. THE GREAT LOVER But no matter the varying degrees of talent and training among us, when we played in public, we were impressive. We wore modern military-type band uniforms and Major Zundel wore an Army cavalry Class A uniform. Though short of stature, the major in full uniform stood with a stern, commanding expression that was accentuated by the thin mustache he sported. On these occasions he

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was able to meet and impress women of a higher social strata than the mothers of boys in The Home, but his amorous success rate continued to be frustratingly poor. However, as impressive as he was on band trips, almost striking in his military glory, we found the major to be a laughable butt for humor on The Home grounds. He lived in what was known as the “White House,” a large, frame building near the entrance to The Home property where The Home’s superintendent, Harry Lucacher, and other staff members also resided and where later the executive director, Reuben Koftoff, would live with his family. Because the “White House” was in a location convenient to viewing the boys’ visitors as they arrived each Sunday afternoon, the major could easily spot potential quarries as the package-laden mothers, fathers, aunts, and others appeared and then plan his tactics. Major Zundel would zero in on his targets, oblivious to the chuckles of the boys witnessing his approaches, and at times managed to lure some of the ladies to his quarters. But many did not stay more than a few minutes and often emerged red-faced with anger or embarrassment. But the major persisted seemingly nonplussed by the frequent rejections. To us, on those Sunday afternoons, he was Groucho Marx in action. His opening line to the women he approached was his wanting to discuss their sons’ musical education. We had many laughs over Major Zundel’s antics and pursuits, but it should never be forgotten that he was a great musician who did his job well and who taught us much. He was responsible for a number of the boys becoming professional musicians and for others to use their musical knowledge in other pursuits, such as working their way through college. Major Zundel was funny at times, angrily serious at other times, remarkable in many ways, and memorable.

8 Fights Ira A. Greenberg

Where boys are gathered together there will be fights. Where people are gathered together there will be fights. And so it was at The Home. However, there were, surprisingly at first glance, comparatively few fights there, given the size and dynamics of the population. Perhaps this was because we all knew where we stood in the pecking order, and so, with few exceptions, whatever fights occurred were usually among peers. I was (and still am) basically a very peaceful person, as were most of the boys at The Home, and yet I had a few encounters during my nine years there. The first was not so much fight as it was an event. I was ten and had some business at the tailor shop on the first floor early one afternoon. Also there was a 12-year-old (whose name I can’t remember). He was the third or fourth best athlete in our junior dormitory after Marty Miller and Henry Josephberg, both about 11 then but definitely the two best. The tailor shop was not yet open, and to make conversation I said something I am sure was friendly. The next thing I knew I felt a striking clout to the jaw, and I immediately saw a big star at the moment of impact. I fell to the ground, and my initial reaction as I opened my eyes was more of amazement than anger or fear1 as I noted my assailant walking away. “It’s true what you see in the comics,” was my first thought. The daily newspaper comic strips usually showed a bunch of stars about the head of someone who was struck, and so I was doubly surprised: (1) that the star effect was true, and (2) that there was only the one big star rather than the cluster often shown.

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THE DOUBLE SWING Although fights weren’t too frequent, The Home’s dormitories put on a number of gloved boxing matches in which contestants were matched on the basis of age and weight. We had been taught basic boxing lessons, but most of us weren’t very good at it. So I was surprised when I saw Ross Green, a year younger than me but the best athlete in his class, use a new approach to boxing by swinging both fists side by side and about a foot apart, as if swinging a scythe at face level and thereby hitting his opponent twice with each swing. Ross won his match, but he was such a natural athlete that he would have won no matter what he did. I remembered this technique a short time later and not long after my experience of the big bright star when I got into an argument with Sol Klein, a good friend. We were 10 years old and were in a special quarantined dormitory with some three dozen boys between eight and 14 years of age who had succumbed to the first great German measles epidemic that struck The Home. The second came a few years later but fewer were affected as most of us had by then gained immunity. Sol was a slim, good-looking boy about an inch or so taller than me, a gifted singer and clarinetist, and the second most popular boy in our class after Jerry “Yippy” Pincus, who was his best friend. The argument occurred over some trifling matter; and as we began to swing at each other I simply imitated Ross Green’s double-fist movements and won the fight, which is understandable as neither Sol nor I knew much about boxing; my scything swing would not have worked against a better boxer. The fight ended without either of us having been much damaged, and we soon became friends again. A recollection I find interesting: When the epidemic first broke out I was one of the few in my age group not affected, and so I felt I was someone special until while climbing a tree just north of the infirmary I happened to glance at my chest and noted the telltale splotches. I immediately slid down the trunk of the tree, picked up my shirt at the base of it, and walked to the clinic to join my fellows. German measles is a disease that is not too uncomfortable for children, although it can be deadly for adults, and we boys had a great time in our quarantined special dormitory. However, it may not have been much fun for those monitors who were in charge of us and who tried on occasion to keep the noise down. The first thing I did after we were out of quarantine was to climb the same tree in which I’d spotted the measle eruptions. Was this treeclimbing, a very popular activity among the boys, the result of our reading the many Tarzan books in the library or simply an atavistic brachial expression? It’s something worth pondering.

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MEEK SEEN AS WEAK On another occasion when I was 13, a 15- or 16-year-old boy known throughout The Home as a sissy began verbally attacking me for something I had done that I shouldn’t have or for something I did not do that I should have, and I very meekly accepted his accusations and apologized profusely for my “bad” behavior. I think now that my intention then was to see how long he would continue this harangue and possibly how he would handle this unusual, for him, feeling of power. I found out when he suddenly struck me in the face. I hit him back, he shrieked, and ran away. Had I intentionally sandbagged him? Possibly. One more incident comes to mind, and this definitely does not present me in a good light. I was being pushed around by Charlie Small, who was in my class in school, but who was a year or so older. Parenthetically, his older brother Stanley also was in the class, and both brothers were bored by the schoolwork and spent their time in class drawing beautiful pictures of cars and airplanes. In any case, on this day when I was 12 or 13, Charlie was bullying me, and to deflect his pending attack, I whined, “Why don’t you pick on someone your own size, why don’t you beat up David Horn?” David was taller than Charlie and the brightest boy in our class and well liked by most of us. Of course I expected Charlie to back off from this, fearing to attack David, and in shame leaving me alone. Instead, Charlie replied, “Okay,” and then sought out David and proceeded to beat him up. I felt awful. David may have been taller than Charlie, but like most of us he was a peaceful sort of guy and had no special fighting skills at that time. David, if you are out there and reading this, I humbly apologize. My final fight in The Home occurred when I was 16 and living in one of the six-boy rooms that Mr. Koftoff had brought about in what was the senior area. One of the boys had taken in a sick puppy, and as we were trying to sleep the puppy was overcome with a severe case of diarrhea, and the smell was distressing to us, or at least to me. As much as I loved dogs, I could not stand this and so put the puppy out in the corridor where it began to whine and bark in its abandonment. I felt guilty about this but was selfishly more concerned with my personal comfort than with the puppy’s need to be cared for. The puppy, however, had a defender. He was Hyman Passin, short, stocky, strong, and very independent minded who never hesitated about stating his thoughts and feelings. Hymie was always a good boxer, but his strength and courage had more to do with his many victories than his skill, and many times seeing him box I felt relieved that I was not his opponent. But this night we had strong feelings about our positions and discretion on my part simply fled. POSTURING SPECTATORS We fought with fists in the corridor and soon afterward we found ourselves wrestling on the floor, each trying to gain an advantage. But soon my anger

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toward Hymie passed and I imagine he felt the same. The anger shifted to two of the members of the Hunting and Fishing Club, Charlie Small, thin with brown-reddish hair and one of our roommates, and Walter Kuperinsky, darkcomplected, muscular, and very bright, though not interested in academics. They were standing a few feet from where we were struggling on the floor, feigning complete uninterest, as if our fight was not worthy of their taking notice. As they placidly discussed mundane events in their lives, I found myself infuriated at this posturing, and I imagine Hymie felt the same way. Ideally, what should have happened would have been for Hymie and me to turn on them and beat them to whimpering states. But that could not happen. They were a year or so older than us and a good bit stronger, and we were exhausted. Finally, Hymie and I just quit, neither of us having the strength to continue. We stood up. Hymie put the puppy back in the room and said, “I’ll see you tomorrow afternoon.” I replied, “You know where you’ll find me,” and he nodded. In the afternoons after school, I could be found outside the Old Gym practicing on my soprano saxophone, and the day after the fight was no different. As usual I set up my music stand and chair outside and began practicing one of the marches we were scheduled to play at our next trip away from The Home. As I began the practice I was feeling considerable trepidation about what was to occur soon. However, the more I practiced the calmer I became, and when the time for Hymie to appear arrived I felt almost ready for him, but he did not arrive. The more I waited the readier I felt—the calming effect of the music having much to do with this readiness—and after a while I found myself eager for his appearance, but he did not arrive. When an hour had passed I knew there would be no fight, and I put my instrument in its case and returned everything to the band room. Later, I learned that Hymie had been eagerly looking forward to the encounter, but his older brother Jack, two years our senior, stocky, dark-haired, and respected by all for his wisdom, his sense of caring, and his ability to remain calm in the most stressful of situations, had talked him out of continuing the fight. AN EPIPHANY The fight that was something of an epiphany for me, one that gave me a better sense of who I was and where I stood in the scheme of things, occurred some four years before the incident with Hymie Passin. One of the boys in our class who had always been a few inches taller than me was a known thief and was the first person suspected when I discovered that I was missing a 25-cent piece— important money to us in those days. With some other boys as witnesses, I searched his bed and found a quarter hidden in one of the hospital folds at the foot of his bed. I immediately sought him out to accuse him of the theft and then to beat him up, which was the accepted procedure for this type of situation. I knew I was a better fighter than he was and so approached the task to obtain

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my justice quickly and easily and then get on with my activities for the day. But it was not to be so easily done. When I found him I told him I was going to beat him up for stealing my quarter, and then I proceeded to do so, but it was much more difficult than I had expected. In the past year or so this boy had grown about six inches with little notice of this by any of us. And so we fought. I had righteous anger on my side, and he had accepted guilt on his, and for these reasons—and no other—I managed after a lengthy struggle to beat him up. Task accomplished, I left, but I carried with me a much-diminished sense of who I was. Although like everyone else I knew what it was like to be small alongside those older than me, I now had to accept the reality of being a small person among my peers. I could no longer take for granted the things I could have done with impunity in the past. I had to look at the reality of who I was, not who I imagined myself to be. Thus, the fight that I eventually won was something of a humbling experience. There were things I did easily in the past when I was of average size for a boy my age that I could no longer expect to do. There was a new need for better self-awareness, to see myself not as I had wanted to as in the past but to try to see myself through the eyes of others and thus see myself in a more realistic manner. I had won the fight but lost, perhaps fortunately, a sense of self that realistically was no longer appropriate. And yet, it should also be stated that I have always been a peaceful person, both in The Home and afterward. I did not seek out fights, but as with most of the boys in The Home, when they came my way, in the Army and elsewhere, I did not run. Today, in the late period of my life, with no need to seek to prove anything, the aphorism that discretion is the better part of valor makes a good deal more sense to me now. NOTE 1. While typing this more than 60 years later, I found myself experiencing some small surge of anger.

9 Jobs, Fighting, B.A., and “Laying Chickey” Samuel Prince

JOBS I had a number of jobs during my nine years at the “H” and though some were better than others, I felt all were good for me in terms of my learning good work habits. This stood me in good stead during my more than four years as an Army Air Corps enlisted man and during more than 30 years of employment in industry. At various times I worked in the shoe shop, the tailor shop, and the laundry room. I also was a dishwasher, busboy, and waiter in the staff dining room. Another job I had, though this was more a position than a job, was as a monitor in the freshman dormitory. In the shoe shop I laced and polished shoes, while in the tailor shop I pressed pants and put clothes in various piles for repair or replacement along with putting clothes ready for distribution in various bins according to size. The laundry room at the “H” was run by Mr. and Mrs. Gerber, who were almost noncommunicative but they were not harsh or mean. As a monitor in the freshman dormitory, I at first did what all monitors before me did, meaning I treated my charges as badly as I had been treated. But I was feeling guilty about this, and after a month or so I conscientiously changed for the better. The problem all monitors had was maintaining discipline and keeping the boys from misbehaving, and the kinder approach seemed to work. What I am most proud of, however, is my ending the “grabby” system for freshmen in the dining room. During mealtimes, eight boys sat at a rectangular table, and food sufficient for eight was served to each table. In the “grabby” system, the strongest boy grabbed as much food as he wanted and then passed

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the serving dish to his buddy. Very often the last two boys to receive the serving dish found it empty and had to fill up on bread and butter. My solution to this problem was to set up a rotation system during mealtimes so that each boy had a chance to get at the serving platter first, and eventually each boy got a fair portion of food. I am very proud of this. FIGHTING When I entered the “H” in December 1931, at the age of ten, I was forced into or pushed into many fights in the alley at the rear of the main building. I remember one fight in which a number of boys surrounded my opponent and me and shoved us back into the fray every time we signaled that we had had enough. The rules were no kicking, no weapons but your fists, and even if you lost the fight you were not to be bullied by the victor. Now I realize that many of my fights occurred after Saturday afternoon punishment. And Saturday afternoons were times I really disliked because that was the time we most frequently were punished by being made to stand in detention. Detention meant standing rigidly at attention for an hour or more in one to three files, depending on the number being punished. Hands were folded either behind the back (the easiest position) or held out to each side or held out in front. If a boy moved while in detention he ran the risk of being slapped in the face or the side of the head or struck with a fist by a monitor or supervisor. Most monitors and supervisors slapped often and hard, but a sadistic few used their fists. To me, Saturday afternoon was especially galling because the contrast between spending most of the morning in the synagogue and being punished right after services made me often ask myself, “What kind of God or religion would sanction such a desecration of the so-called ‘holiest’ day of the week?” B.A. AND “LAYING CHICKEY” We called the swimming hole we snuck off to “B.A.” (short for “bare ass”) and we swam that way because we had no bathing suits. B.A. was located across Tuckahoe Road from The Home on the grounds of the Grassy Sprain Golf Course, and we knew that if we were caught there we would receive a few slaps in the face and made to stand detention. However, this didn’t stop most of the bolder boys from going, and all ages from the youngest to the oldest were represented there. And this was something we did year after year. Yes, it was worth the risk. Chester Kaplan, about my age and also known as “Cheesie” (God rest his soul) was my partner in crime at B.A. We called him Cheesie because of his keen sense of sight and hearing, which he used to detect a “rat,” namely a monitor or supervisor coming to catch us. The term used when spotting a hostile authority figure was “Cheese it,” meaning, get out of whatever you’re doing or run from the place where you’re doing it as quickly as possible. The term for

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the person assigned to give the warning was “laying chickey.” Any of the transgressors who spotted the “enemy” would yell, “Cheese it,” and everyone would take off running. If one person, usually the senior person or leader, said to another, “Bill, you lay chickey,” that meant Bill’s principal job was to observe and give warning while the others did whatever they were going to do, such as swimming in B.A., raiding a farmer’s fruit trees, or doing other misdeeds. Thus, because Chester was so good at this he was known to everyone as “Cheesie” Kaplan. One time Cheesie detected David Shiner, one of the supervisors, sneaking up on us. His warning, “Cheese it!” gave us enough time to snatch up our clothes off the grassy bank and hide in the woods. We evaded Shiner that time, but we both caught a severe case of poison ivy in our private parts. Among my fondest memories about B.A. was the team effort by all of us sneaks to rebuild the stone dam each spring, even though we knew it would be dismantled by golf-course employees in a few days or weeks, and we’d have to do it over again. This dam-building usually was a well planned and well carried out event, with the older boys planning it and directing the placement of rocks and the younger kids finding and carrying the rocks to the dam site and carrying out other orders. There was a good sense of teamwork and camaraderie during the period of working and a happy sense of accomplishment afterward. LIKES AND DISLIKES There were many things I liked about the “H” and a few I disliked intensely. On the positive side, I had a lot of friends, and these are lifelong friends. Also, I was a member of the Glee Club and captain of the “Giants,” one of the intramural softball teams. Even more, though, I loved to exchange thoughts with my friends and tell bedtime stories. In addition, I learned to be a team player, the value of work and study, and empathy for the underdog, and I gained an appreciation of music and a love of reading and of sports. Being accepted by everyone but not necessarily being chummy with everyone was important to me, and friendships developed from shared ideas, playing together, and respecting each other. My close friends were Chester Kaplan, Jerry Tobias, Ira Greenberg, Benny Cohen, Abe Roth, Lennie Horowitz, Lloyd and George Plafker, Stinky Weeston, Beanie Kirsch, Jack Passin, Teddy Noble, and Jerry Kresch. I also enjoyed the fact that there was plenty of space outdoors and indoors for pick-up sports games such as baseball, football, basketball, and such other things as Johnny-on-the-Pony, kick-the-can, roller-skating, and roller-skating hockey. Even though our daily routine was so predictable, I felt secure in following it, rigid though it was. In addition, I enjoyed making hard candy from melted sugar, listening to our band during rehearsals, reading in our well stocked library, and listening to Lew Zedicoff telling us bedtime stories of movies he’d seen or books he’d read, and later, my emulating him by doing the same thing

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for the younger boys. On leaving the “H” I was awarded a medal for being the most popular boy there, possibly in part for trying to be a mentor to some of the younger boys. I should add to the things I liked one more, which was Lennie Horowitz’ mother taking me to her home in the Bronx at least three times a year to enjoy good home-cooked meals, where I developed a crush on Lennie’s younger sister, Vera. There also were things I disliked. They included being punished as a group because one or two boys broke a rule, being hit in the face for moving while in detention, and, finally, the lack of an adult mentor and not receiving any vocational counseling. Not having my own Sunday visitors, as both parents were dead, also was painful. However, the most depressing day for me was when my older brother Harry left the “H” in 1936. I was so disturbed to see him go and feeling so miserable that I hid in the cornfield near the clinic on the east wing and cried. I also regret my feelings of inferiority for being in an orphan home and being too ready to please authority figures over me and being too gullible and trusting for the outside world. Now, however, I appreciate very much that during the Great Depression we were adequately fed, clothed, housed, and were able to finish high school. All in all, the good far exceeded the bad, and I am grateful for my years in The Home.

10 Orphan Dogs Sam George Arcus

Probably the title should be “Orphanage Dogs” since we had no way of knowing if the furry friends were in fact orphans or merely taking up residence in an orphanage, our HNOH. In any event, the 1930s were bleak years, and for whatever reasons the supervisors at The Home seemed to tolerate the appearance and staying on of vagrant dogs. Maybe it was the hope that for a short while at least the presence of canine companions would take the edge off some of the hard conditions of institutional life. In my memory there are at least four such loving creatures: Beauty, Butch, Rex, and the memorable Rickey. BEAUTY Beauty was the first adopted pet for me, for my brother Al, and for Paul Schrenzel. We found the black and brown tiny Doberman-type canine cowering on the baseball field, and after a brief argument over who saw her first, we agreed to share custody. We built a dilapidated shelter of wood scraps and cardboard behind the ballfield at the stone wall marking HNOH’s north boundary. It did not occur to us that this imprisoning was more for our convenience than for the dog’s safety; it was to ensure she would be there for us when we found the time from public school, Hebrew school, and other activities to spend with her. But her whining and yelping could be heard all the way down to the dormitories, and we decided this was not the right thing to do. So we took turns sneaking her into our beds until A.K. Kersch discovered this, and promptly

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took her into his room, and thus she very quickly became the junior dorm’s pup. But not for long. Home officials periodically called the Yonkers Humane Society to remove dogs that had collected over a period of time. Who made the decision, I don’t know, but I’m quite certain that even A.K. Kersch did not appreciate that sweep. He joined us in looking out the windows overlooking the front driveway, watching dog after dog, about six in all, go into the van and be driven off. I don’t know if he shared our tears over this. BUTCH It didn’t take long before other dogs found their way to us. The next one I recall was Butch, a mongrel, probably a cross between a golden retriever and a German shepherd, with a massive chest and squarish head. He loved to join us in soccer on the bluestone gravel yard and was able to grab the ball in his mouth and run off with it. End of soccer game; sometimes end of soccer ball. Kersch, who had brought soccer to The Home, did not like Butch. He was able to repair some of the balls, but after too many teeth punctures, they had to be discarded. But where he had triumphed in soccer, Butch failed in baseball. The batted ball was too swift for him to catch, and, after loping around the bases, he would take off for the reservoir. I don’t know where he slept, but it wasn’t in any of the dorms as he was too big to be snuck into any boy’s bed. Eventually his time came and he was carried off in the humane society van, but not before giving the dogcatcher a good run before his capture. REX Aptly named, though I don’t know by whom, Rex was almost pure German shepherd. He was a handsome dog but his fame came through miscreance. We were eating our Sunday lunch when a loud shout came from the kitchen, and Rex came charging out carrying a slab of beef in his mouth. He was followed by fat Herman, the chef, armed with a meat cleaver, yelling, “Shtop, shtop him, that’s yur zupper, boys!” But for the boys, the contest was more important than the contested item, and the cheering boys at the far end of the dining room opened the double doors enabling the thief to escape with his loot. The 300 boys cheered the escaping Rex. He evidently enjoyed a good meal; we did not. But the laughing that came from the chase may have been worth it. The next day, Rex was gone, into the death van (the dogcatcher’s vehicle). RICKEY We were in awe of Rickey. She survived all the death vans because she was never on the grounds when they arrived. She was a small, tan, and very foxlike,

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and no one knew when she first showed up or where she came from, other than out of the reservoir woods. She was very smart, and we were in awe of her. She seemed to sense when the humane society’s van was due, because when it came she was gone, back into the woods. And when the van left, she would return to resume her duties as guardian of the chicken coop and barn. She was everybody’s dog and yet nobody’s. She could have no one master because she felt responsible for 300 masters and a coopful of chickens. She could identify a Home boy even away from The Home; we must have had a “Home” smell about us. She had staked out the chicken coop as her private domain when she first arrived, demonstrating her rat-killing skills by depositing the carcasses in front of those in charge of that area. And the chickens were not afraid of her. They seemed to know she would not harm them, and they were right. Rickey became very special, and lived at The Home for years, keeping the coop and barn rat-free. Upon her death, under the wheels of a car on Tuckahoe Road, the boys gave her a formal funeral and burial. And The Home’s newspaper, The Homelite, gave her death and burial front-page treatment.

11 Varsity Athletics Richard G. Safran

We were required to attend synagogue twice a day, half a day on Saturdays, and for longer periods on religious holidays. We did so because we had no choice. Few of us were truly inducted by these experiences into the ritual and mysticism of the Jewish religion. For most of us, athletics became our true religion. We were its novitiates and acolytes; our coaches were its high priests. The pursuit of athletic perfection became our institutional quest for the Holy Grail. The perfectly executed somersault or handstand, the strike-out pitch and the clearly observed homerun hit, the skilled basketball handling around and through opponents which culminated in graceful placement of the ball through the hoop and a winning game, holding the lead mile after mile in the citywide schoolboy races, the smooth transfer of the baton to the next relay runner, the football victories over teams with better equipment and ballfields on which to practice—these were transcendent acts that lifted us into a world of personal and group ecstasy. The infusion of self-respect, pride of accomplishment, and self-actualization by coaches like Charles “Chick” Baker1 and teacher Charles N. Henry brought us closer to a sense of ethics and fair play and the capacity to endure and to persist much more than anything provided by the rabbis and the after-school Hebrew classes the boys were required to attend. Our basketball jerseys with the letters HNOH on the front chest and the Star of David beneath marked us individually and collectively as teammates in the pursuit of excellence. Of course, we didn’t think about it in just that way, but we lived for, were affected by, and defined ourselves by the athletic achievements of individual boys and by our team championships even when we were not athletes ourselves. Our athletic achievements were assertions of our exis-

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tence, of our competence to do and achieve, and a counter to all the implications of our description in the New York City Social Workers Handbook which described us as: “orphans, half-orphans, neglected and destitute children.” During the 20s, 30s, and 40s, coaches Charles Henry, Chick Baker, Artie Wilkins, A. Cohen, Leo Youdelman, and Roy Fishkin led HNOH athletes to myriad championships in basketball and baseball. In the 50s, when Roosevelt High School’s Joe Seidell became our after-hours coach, individual and team city championships were added to our list of accomplishments. The “H”, in effect, became a farm team for Roosevelt High. Local neighborhood kids would come to the “H” gym and join with our own athletes, and the group itself would become future varsity team stars at the nearby high school.

DIVING AND THE YMCA Reuben Koftoff had also initiated a summer sports program, again using the talents of Roosevelt High’s Joe Seidell. The HNOH intramural summer tourney, with some of our own older boys hired as sports counselors and team leaders, resulted in a popular hard-fought, spirited softball competition. As part of the summer program, we also went by bus about twice weekly to swim at Wilson Woods Park swimming pool in Mount Vernon, New York. Although The Home did not have its own swimming pool, I was introduced and encouraged at those sessions to begin diving in competition. Since Roosevelt High School did not have its own pool, the Roosevelt High swim team practiced weekly at the Yonkers YMCA. Membership in the YMCA cost $15 yearly— an almost impossible sum for a 15-year-old from the local orphanage to raise. I don’t know where the money came from, but when Coach Seidell found out about the need for membership, he and RK arranged for it, and I think I was the only HNOHer ever to be a paid-up member of the Yonkers Young Men’s Christian Association (YMCA). I won the Yonkers High School City Diving Championship and placed second and third in the Westchester County Diving Championships in 1952 and 1953, directly as a result of the HNOH staff’s encouragement. The sense of joy and participation in high school sports when we watched our HNOH brothers in action was unique. What grand moments there were during those high school games when, for example, before a packed, cheering crowd Tom Bondy (HNOH ’52) threw a basketball across three quarters of the court into the net for the last half-minute victory for Roosevelt High, his final game in his senior year. Or when I was getting ready to enter high school and watched a basketball game in which Homer Liese, Hy Gross, Marshie Gottesfeld, and Bill Firstenberg moved down the court together. See those kids from The Home! What cheers! What a sense of triumph! Those were special moments for all of us, putting us into the emotional frame of the exhilaration of athletic excellence of classical Greece.

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ARCUS ON HNOH ATHLETICS As editor of The Homelite, Sam Arcus knew HNOH sports of his era well. In one of his popular “Deja Views” columns in The Alumnus, the Alumni Association’s quarterly newsletter, Sam wrote of the role athletics played in the boys’ lives in the 30s and 40s. He links those days to later periods and suggests why athletics were central to our lives and represented more than scores, medals, and trophies. He states: “There’s no question that, for whatever reasons, the boys of the HNOH excelled in athletics, especially basketball and baseball, from the 100-pound category up to the varsity high school level.” The October ’97 issue of The Alumnus featured a photo of the HNOH basketball team which had won the 1935–1936 Westchester County, New York, Public School Athletic League (PSAL) championship (Coach Chick Baker). The photo’s caption: “while the Koftoff Era basketball teams focused on older high school varsity players, this championship team—coached by an alumnus—is what established the HNOH’s reputation for basketball excellence. Youngsters participating in the PSAL sometimes graduated to high school varsity basketball, but the standard of excellence was established and maintained for an impressively long time at the earlier school levels. The schoolboy team whose picture appeared in that paper was one of a long line of impressive junior players whose reputation had been established for many years.” Some statistics from Spalding’s Athletic Library 1936–1937 (the official basketball guide) reveal: Orphanage teams have won twenty-two titles and lost only seventeen games in the last ten years. They were grammar school 125-pound champions of Yonkers in 1926, 1930, 1931 and 1932, and won the 100-pound title in 1936. In 1928, 1929, and 1936 they won Westchester County grammar school 100-pound championships, and in 1930–32 were the 125-pound champions. They were Westchester County Institutional 100-pound Champions in 1928–29, and 125-pound in 1930–32. In 1930–32 they were also New York State institutional 125-pound champions, and in 1936 won the 100-pound title.

Sam Arcus continues: “Leaves you almost breathless, doesn’t it? And yet, this was only the tip of the iceberg. The older boys on the HNOH varsity, playing in not-so-structured leagues and tourneys, nevertheless established themselves not only as the scourge of Westchester County, but all of New York State, regularly playing and defeating longtime rivals such as Leake & Watts, Hawthorne Cedar Knolls, Pleasantville, Hebrew Orphan Asylum (HOA), Brooklyn Hebrew Orphan Asylum (BHOA) and (in unofficial games) Roosevelt High, Yonkers High, Commerce High, Saunders Tech and countless others. It was like gunslingers coming from all over to challenge the ‘fastest gun in the West.’ ‘The HNOH varsity is the one to beat!’ is how the Yonkers Herald Statesman put it one day in 1935. “What was it that made our teams (almost) invincible? Our guys were not

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taller (in fact, in those days, height was not the factor it is today), nor heavier. Some of our best players (like Eli Resnick) were very short, but superb dribblers and dead-shots with the baskets. Was it a special motivation? I have a theory. (1) Sports were an avenue for channeling anger and frustration; (2) we were used to working and living together as an entity; (3) yet sports provided an opportunity for individual achievement and excelling. Also, perhaps, the skills developed in the Old Gym, dribbling around the six poles supporting the building, with low ceilings demanding that every shot to the basket hit its mark— these skills seemed to have been passed down to younger varsity members when the New Gym was completed in the early 1930s. “Ah, yes, the New Gym, specifically designed for basketball as its primary utility. . . . Just watching the Varsity practice, whether directed by Coach Chick Baker or later, Roy Fishkin, was like watching a ballet. Knute Rockne’s taking his Notre Dame football team to watch the Rockettes in NYC had nothing on our ballet-boys! Like the HNOH varsity of 1937, coached by Roy Fishkin (later to be Dr. Roy Fishkin, dentist) which included Captain Eli Resnick, Max Laub, Dan Lovett, Harry ‘Bosco’ Cohen, Sid Scheiner, Lew ‘Niggy’ Feinmesser, Sam ‘Penny’ Pentofsky, Al Arcus, and Sam Barry. I don’t remember any of them being over 5 feet 9 inches. “Yes, basketball was our sport. But we were no slouches in the baseball game. We had leagues in baseball and basketball, which undoubtedly contributed to our prowess in these sports. It was like having an entire farm system for our varsities. Like chicken soup, it didn’t hurt. “Soccer was a latecomer to HNOH, introduced by A.K. Kersch. It caught on for some, who, when they (we) went to Roosevelt High School finagled that school to set up a soccer varsity team consisting almost solely of HNOH guys— Sam Arcus, Paul Schrenzel, Jerry Tobias, and others. “Tennis anyone? Well. HNOH belatedly constructed a tennis court where some of us learned a bedraggled version of that game. Herbert ‘Immy’ Immerblum was not a bad player, as I vaguely recall. “What have I left out? Football, for some reason, never became a major sport activity for us at HNOH. Oh, there were plenty of pick-up games, but no consistent leagues or tourneys such as we had for basketball and baseball. Maybe because of the much larger expense for football uniforms, with all that necessary protective gear. Compare that need for the simple shorts and jersey for basketball. Or maybe there was something in the Talmud about such bodily contact, bone-crushing activity. In any event, football never took off the way the other sports did. “And there’s no question that regarding basketball and baseball HNOH was above everyone else. Way above HOA, BHOA—all the Jewish orphanages in the metropolitan area. So the question still remains, What was it that propelled HNOH into such prominence? After all, the inmates of the other institutions also experienced anger and frustration, so that the explanations of # 1, # 2, and # 3 advanced earlier could apply equally to them. Why was it that HNOH bested

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the other orphanages almost every instance, especially in the game of basketball? And at this point, I must retreat (like Tevya in Fiddler on the Roof) into the reply: ‘I don’t know, but it’s tradition.’ “Maybe it was because HNOH was more isolated and insulated than any other Jewish orphanage—and the only all-boys institution. And this instilled in us such a closeness and sense of brotherhood—more so than in any other orphanage? Could be. What I do know is that our guys played like Hell! They were sending a message: ‘We are somebody. The world will take notice of us!’ At least that’s what my brother, Al, of varsity fame, once told me.” NOTE 1. Many years later Baker employed these same practices while working as a recreational therapist with handicapped children at one institution and while serving as assistant director of the Protestant Home for Children in Buffalo, New York, during the 60s and 70s. See Bibliography.

12 Lesser Athletics and Other Things Ira A. Greenberg

Varsity athletics brought much glory to The Home, and we were all very proud of the players and their achievements, but The Home also provided many athletic opportunities for those who were less-gifted. These included intramural baseball, basketball, and football leagues in which we competed against those of our own age, as well as individual sports such as boxing and wrestling, again organized according to age and weight. In addition, there were many pick-up games in which captains were designated and they chose their team members, alternating turns. The pick-up games could be in any sport, but usually they were in basketball, baseball, and football, the latter two being hardball and tackle. For some reason we rarely played softball and touch football. My first two football experiences came when I was nine, and they were truly terrifying. They took place on the baseball field just north of the main building, and each team consisted of 20 or 30 players of all ages. Thus, the bigger boys called the shots and carried out the plays while we younger boys served as cannon fodder. Imagine being on the line with a bunch of fellow freshmen trying to stop a charging 16- or 17-year-old powerhouse. They, of course, ran right through us, knocking us aside, and eventually were brought down by older boys in our backfield. This was not really football, but it made us appreciate the game much more than otherwise when in 11-boy teams we played against our peers. FEW INJURIES We played without body-protective equipment; nevertheless, serious injuries were infrequent. But they did occur. It happened to me when I was 15 in a

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pick-up game of our boys one Sunday morning on the Roosevelt High football field. Ross Green, 14, one of the best athletes in the senior dorm, was carrying the ball, and I tried to stop him with a flying tackle. While in the air, a 12-yearold threw himself on top of me, so when I hit the ground my inertia moved me forward and his weight pressed my knee into the ground. I immediately walked back to The Home and went directly to the infirmary where Mrs. Flanagan sought to ease the pain with heat treatment. For an entire year our nurse saw a lot of me as the slightest touch to my knee would bring on a sharp pain. After that I always wore a basketball kneeguard when playing football, even in the Army. In baseball, emulating Hank Greenberg of the Detroit Tigers, I always sought the first-base position. Also, I liked the first-base glove in which the ball is caught in a pocket made by the upper part of the glove, rather than in the hand, which gloves for every other position except catcher called for. I liked this glove so much that I used it on second base and in the outfield—I was not good enough to play shortstop or third base. Over the years, someone else must have come to the same conclusion because today all baseball gloves, except the catcher’s mitt, seem patterned on the first-baseman’s glove. STAMINA While the varsity team practiced and played basketball in the New Gym, the lesser teams or pick-up teams played their evening games in the dust-laden Old Gym. This gym was swept and mopped each morning, and there was a freshness about it early in the day, but by late afternoon, with boys walking and running through it, band members practicing in it, and boys roller-skating in it, the gym became a dust-laden place. One evening when I was 12 I got into a pick-up basketball game in the Old Gym and found the constant, fast movements too much for me. By the end of the first half I was totally wiped out and had to quit the game, watching from the sidelines as the others, still moving fast, finished the game and then, to my amazement, played another game, while I was still trying to recover from merely half a game. Later, I would play one-on-one or half-court basketball, but I never again tried to play a full-court game. More than 50 years later, a physician told me I probably had a genetically caused inability to restore oxygen quickly to the cells, something essential for quick-moving athletes in a lengthy game. However, there were other sports that less-gifted boys could play. These included handball, tennis (the court was built in 1938), various intramural sports, boxing, and wrestling, which dorm supervisors organized. RIPSHIRT AND THE DUMP There also were unorganized, unofficial, and illegal sports that we enjoyed. One of these were ring-a-levio, otherwise known as “ripshirt,” and skiing down

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the slope of The Home’s garbage dump. The latter was quite dangerous as many lethal metal objects and any number of pitfalls were well concealed by the snow, but the older boys would mark out a fairly safe path, or “ski trail,” and we would try to stay on with our uneasily controlled “skis,” which were barrel staves with straps nailed on to hold them to our shoes. The dump was the closest thing we had to a hill on The Home grounds, and so it became our downhill slope. I went down it once, but by the time I climbed back to the top, a classmate, Sol Klein, had broken his arm skiing down the trail—and that ended the “ski season.” As far as I recall, none of us were punished. Ring-a-levio was something like my early encounter with “group” football. There was no limit to the number on a team, though they were supposed to be evenly matched. Each side had a flag, and the object was to capture the other side’s flag and bring it home. In an attack or in a team’s defense of the flag, anything went. Thus, the term “ripshirt.” In seeking or defending the flag, boys could block each other, tackle each other, strike each other, or grab each other’s clothes. A ring-a-levio game would give our nurse, Mrs. Flanagan, many injuries, mostly minor, to repair, and our tailor shop many clothes to restore. Thus, it was frowned on by the authorities, and anyone caught playing the game often stood two or more hours of detention. Ring-a-levio wasn’t played too often, but one game would give kids plenty to talk about for quite a while afterward. STOOPBALL A game more acceptable to the staff was stoopball, which was played on the stoop at the southwest corner of The Home building, the steps of which led up to the dining room on the second floor west and to the administrative corridor, which ran the length of the building’s south side. This was the most popular stoop of the building, and boys would sit there to talk, read, and play checkers or chess, but not when a high-powered stoopball game was in progress. The game was simple. One boy would throw a ball against the steps and his opponent would have to catch it, and then he would throw the ball. It was a simple game easily played with most types of rubber balls. But at The Home, most juniors and seniors used golf balls, and the good players threw it as hard as they could, and this made it dangerous. We played at our own levels, aware of the danger of trying to exceed our abilities, and prudently got out of the way when the good players came on the scene. JOHNNY-ON-A-PONY Another popular game, especially among the freshmen, was Johnny-on-aPony. This called for team members who were the pony to bend over and hold tightly to the waist of the boy in front. Standing in front of the first boy was the captain, his back to the wall for bracing and the shoulder of the first boy pressing into his stomach. When the Pony was ready, members of the Johnny

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team would run and leap on the back of the Pony. If the Pony held up under all of the Johnny team, the Pony team won; if not, the Johnny team won. Many times there was no real winner because an older boy, seeing the game in progress, often could not resist and would hurl himself on top of the Pony, and his force and weight would collapse it instantly. It was fun for the older boys, and they would happily depart afterward, leaving a disgruntled bunch of youngsters behind. A LIFE METAPHOR AND HUTS Shooting marbles was another popular unorganized sport, especially among juniors. Occasionally, supervisors would set up a formal competition, but most of the time the boys played it on their own. The usual game involved shooting marbles out of a circle, often with oversized marbles known as “agates.” You kept whatever marbles you shot out of the circle during your turn as shooter. Some of the boys with natural ability became quite rich in marbles, as did others motivated to practice until they became winners. The rest of us were simply duffers, and often had to spend whatever candy money we had earned to buy more marbles so we could stay in the game. There appears to be an appropriate life lesson here, but we were too involved in playing to note it. Hut building was not a game but an activity that boys of all ages enjoyed. I was fully involved in this at 10 or 11, primarily because I enjoyed the mental and physical processes involved. We did our building with our peers, and I imagine the older boys, whose huts were elaborate and well constructed, may have done this to have their own clubhouse or place of privacy. We all used the same approach. We would select a small piece of ground away from the play areas, dig out a basement-type room, and then cover it with boards, tree limbs, cardboard, and dirt. The older boys often had a fire in or near their huts and would make rock candy by melting sugar in a pot and letting it harden as it cooled. In the huts I helped build, those who had worked on them would sit in them, sometimes with candles and other times not and tell ghost stories. Being in our own private place seemed important at the time. RAIDS Another outdoor event, not a sport but calling for some athletic abilities, was going on raids. Simply stated, a raid involved a group of boys, usually bigger juniors and younger seniors, sneaking off the grounds on a Saturday afternoon, and “raiding” neighborhoods or miles-distant farms of fruit. Some of the boys were chased away by angry farmers, and a few were pelleted with shotgun blasts, later bragging of their exploits. This caused a number of younger boys to seek similar adventures. When I was about 12 or so I went on a raid with several of my classmates, and without intervention by anyone we managed to steal some pears from an

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orchard a couple of miles away. We encountered no angry farmer and disappointingly no shotgun blasts. As a matter of fact, it seemed kind of boring, and I don’t recall ever trying it again. Most of us were not varsity-caliber athletes, but we enjoyed sports as do most youngsters, and The Home provided us with many opportunities to play in competitive games and to develop our skills and ourselves to whatever extent we were able or desirous of.

13 Scouting and Social Inadequacy Ira A. Greenberg

The HNOH got its second Boy Scout troop in 1938, some four or five years after the demise of its earlier Boy Scout Troop 34.1 The new Troop 51 came into being through the efforts of The Home’s Big Brothers affiliate and one or more of the Yonkers support organizations. I was 14 at the time, and I don’t remember whether I was among the first to join or if I was among those who joined through the influence of Marty Miller. The first scoutmaster was a local dentist named Dr. Epstein, a man who sported a military mustache like Major Zundel, the bandmaster, but who carried himself with a great deal more dignity. I don’t remember our first assistant scoutmaster, but some time after the formation of Troop 51, a slim, jokecracking man named Harold Ackerman appeared on the scene and made scouting come alive for many of us. Marty Miller entered the picture when one of The Home’s supervisors or another staff member asked him to become the junior assistant scoutmaster as a means of encouraging other boys to join. Although only six months my senior, Marty was thought of as being a good bit older by most of the boys in my class because he was two years ahead of us academically, one of the best athletes in The Home, and one of the brightest and most personable boys there. Thus, how or when I joined the troop is of little matter, but after Marty took up his post troop membership swelled to 50 or 60 boys. For whatever reason, I took to scouting enthusiastically, and after working my way from tenderfoot to second-class to first-class scout, I became a patrol leader, as did Murray Feierberg, one of my best friends with whom I had served as a freshman dormitory monitor. Each patrol was like an infantry rifle squad

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in size and included an assistant patrol leader and ten younger boys. The only person I remember being in my unit—the Raven Patrol—is Mickey Nathanson, who was four years younger than me. He joined the troop some time before his twelfth birthday. Being a Boy Scout was fulfilling for me as I was able to do well at it; whereas, in athletics I was very average. Also, I enjoyed wearing the Boy Scout uniform, supplied by one of The Home’s support organizations, and like most other scouts enjoyed such activities as hiking, cooking on an open fire, camping (with minimal equipment), and attending the various Boy Scout rallies in the Yonkers area. Learning such things as first aid, knot-tying, and woodcraft also were enjoyable, as was learning to teach these things to younger boys. One of the most important lessons learned in my first six months of scouting was that the best way of learning something well was to try to teach it to others. ACKERMAN’S WAY One of the best teachers we had in scouting was our assistant scoutmaster, Ackerman—which is the way we addressed him. We called him by his last name, omitting the “Mr.” because he was like a good older brother to us who did not stand on formality. Ackerman, who had been in the Army in the early or mid-30s, must have been in his mid-20s, and so we felt very comfortable with him, as opposed to the awkwardness we felt in interacting with the imposing Dr. Epstein. So for all practical purposes Ackerman ran the troop. Among the things he taught us was the “Army way” of making a sleeping bag, which simply involved laying the first blanket lengthwise, placing a second blanket lengthwise along one-half of the first blanket, folding them over each other, holding them together with blanket pins (huge safety pins), and folding the bottom end a foot under itself, thereby creating a warm and comfortable sleeping bag. Interestingly, when I entered the Army at the age of 18, nobody seemed to know about this “Army way” and I was one of the few who slept comfortably during our early basic training bivouacs, but soon others picked up this procedure and also slept comfortably, thanks to Ackerman. MERIT BADGES One of the things I enjoyed most about the Boy Scouts was the opportunity to earn merit badges, which are badges of achievement for having learned things important to scouting. It took five merit badges for a first-class Scout to become a Star Scout, a total of ten badges to become a Life Scout, and a total of 21 to become an Eagle Scout. Since I had joined scouting two years after the eligibility age of 12, I found myself in a hurry to make up for lost time, and so I enthusiastically began accumulating merit badges, something that required study and motivation, being good at the first and having plenty of the second. In a little under two years I had attained the rank of Life Scout with an

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accumulation of 21 or so merit badges, seemingly enough to qualify as an Eagle Scout. Each obtained merit badge had involved learning a particular skill or an area of knowledge, working with a scout counselor (an adult in the community active in scouting), and then appearing before the Court of Honor to prove the lessons had been learned and the merit badge earned. I had all the merit badges required for advancement to Eagle status, with one exception. Required for Eagle was either the merit badge in camping or in pioneering. As I recall, the camping badge called for the Scout to camp out on his own for a weekend, using specifically required camping and safety equipment, which I did not have nor could afford to buy. Thus, my only option was to go after the pioneer merit badge. To earn a pioneer badge, a scout was required to construct something useful in a wilderness setting, such as a bridge across a creek or a permanent shelter. And since I liked construction work, and since I had a patrol of youngsters eager to work, the task seemed to pose no problem for me. Across Tuckahoe Road from The Home was the very large Grassy Sprain Golf Course, as well as “our own” B.A. Creek, and I knew I could not build a bridge there as it would draw too much attention to “our” swimming hole. However, just west of The Home and on the same side of Tuckahoe Road was the smaller Sprain Golf Course, together with a wooded area near the course through which a small creek gently flowed. That would be our construction site. My plan was to build a simple bridge with two 12-inch-thick tree trunks crossing the stream, braced three feet apart with short, thick limbs and with lateral limbs tied to each trunk forming a walkway. Then I would tie two thick ropes across the stream to form handholds for those using the bridge. The first day out we chopped down two thick trees to form the base or transoms (to use the military Bailey Bridge term) of the bridge, wrestled them across the stream, and then happily returned to The Home with the intention of completing the bridge in the next two days. We felt we had done good work and were very pleased with ourselves. In those days, forests were abundant and the cutting down of a few trees for construction purposes or for firewood at a camp rally was considered by many adults as acceptable and appropriate. We returned the next day enthusiastic about continuing the work on our bridge. But the timbers we had chopped down and so diligently gotten across the creek were gone. Nothing remained of our efforts, even the scattered chips from our ax cuts and the many tree limbs cut from the trunk were gone, swept away as if they had never been there. We assumed this had been done by the golf-course employees and also assumed they believed they had made their point and would not be back. The Raven Patrol returned a week later, and we chopped down two more trees, and again with great effort got them across the creek. On returning the next day we found all traces of our efforts were gone. We then decided to build our bridge some distance away, deeper into the woods. Once more, with great effort, we spanned the creek with the two base tree trunks, and the following

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day we once more found our efforts were eliminated with little to show we had been there. What had required tremendous effort on our parts was easily undone by a couple of strong adults. I thereupon gave up on my plans to build a bridge, earn my pioneer merit badge, and attain the rank of Eagle Scout. Shortly afterward, at the age of 16, I ended my Boy Scout career by dropping out. The demands on my time as newly-named editor of The Homelite and my entering Roosevelt High School as a sophomore left me no room for scouting activities. SOCIAL SKILLS AND PROBLEM SOLVING At Roosevelt High School, I had the opportunity to intermingle with boys of different social backgrounds. As for girls, I could neither afford to date them nor did I know how to meet them. All I could do was admire them at a distance and keep my yearnings to myself. Looking back at the situation now I can understand how other boys knew of many things and of many ways of dealing with the world that were beyond my experience of social interactions and the ability to deal with a power structure. I can think of such classmates as Bill, an average math student but the school’s star baseball pitcher. Or Roy, my peer in math, and a superior player on the tennis team who was always well-groomed and wore quality sport coats and slacks. Or Ralph, a big, heavyset guy who breezed through French, my most difficult subject, and who I ran into at a USO Club in Paris a few months after the war ended. And then there was Larry, gifted in looks, personality, and social background, but no friend of mine. He was the guy most often surrounded by the prettiest girls and his clique of socially elite boys. Any one of these classmates of mine could easily have solved the problem of the bridge that I had given up on. Each would have made an appointment with the golf club president or club manager, explained his need, and been given permission to construct the bridge, possibly at a designated site where it would remain as a semipermanent structure. My point is that they knew how to address authority figures respectfully and effectively. Had they been boys with lesser social skills, they could have presented this problem to their fathers or to other adults in their lives and been advised how to deal effectively with it. I could have gotten this same good advice from Mr. Koftoff, but it had never occurred to me to approach him with my problem. POSTSCRIPT After I left scouting, Mickey Nathanson took over as Raven Patrol leader and Walter Oppenheimer, junior dorm supervisor and a refugee from Germany, became scoutmaster. As the older boys were leaving The Home and entering the armed forces, Mickey, who also became editor of The Homelite and Central

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Council president, rose in rank and held the troop together. By the time he left The Home at 16 he was serving as acting assistant scoutmaster and often as scoutmaster. NOTE 1. For additional information on Troops 34 and 51, see Sam George Arcus, Deja Views of an Aging Orphan, 104–106.

14 High School Soccer, Football, and Other Things Ira A. Greenberg

SOCCER A dozen senior students, including seven from The Home, brought varsity soccer to Roosevelt High School during the 1939–40 season, and it was still going strong two years later when two more HNOH boys made the team. According to Sam Arcus, this was a year or so after the junior dorm supervisor Abe K. or A.K. Kersch, a former Finnish athlete who had organized athletic tournaments and club events at The Home, formed The Home’s first soccer league as an intramural sport. The senior students designated Arcus, Solly Sklar, and Jerry Tobias to represent them in approaching Roosevelt High School principal Henry A. Richards with a petition for the school to form a varsity soccer team. The other HNOH boys of the group were Seymour Kasonsky, Marty Miller, Jack Passin, and Paul Schrenzel. “Hank” Richards, as he was affectionately referred to by all, but never to his face, was not only open to the idea but was strongly encouraging. However, he stipulated that the boys would have to do it all themselves. And so they did. The seven, plus the five outsiders, all of whom were in the 1940 high school graduating class, brought other students from throughout the school onto the team, organized a practice schedule on a side field near the football field two or three afternoons a week, and they got A.K. Kersch to serve as their enthusiastic coach. The group thereupon organized a high school soccer league that included a half-dozen schools, worked out a league game schedule, and coordinated all league activities that first year.

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The team stars, Arcus recalled, were Marty Miller, Jack Passin, Solly Sklar, and Jerry Tobias. But Seymour Kasonsky, Paul Schrenzel, and osteomyelitissuffering Sam Arcus also played in enough games to qualify for Roosevelt High’s athletic letter. And therein lies another story. The high school coaching staff did not feel this new team had been in existence long enough to qualify for the school letter, a badge of honor that high school and college athletes throughout the nation proudly affix to their sweaters or jackets. Jerry Tobias, known in The Home for his angry refusal to tolerate injustice of any kind, thereupon led the team into Hank Richards’ office to voice a strong protest. Richards, admired, respected, loved by all HNOH boys attending Roosevelt, agreed the team had a just complaint and stated that those team members who had earned their letters would get them, perhaps a little late because they had to be ordered separately, but get them they would, and so it happened. It should be recorded at this point that not only did the boys from HNOH accord Hank Richards the highest esteem, but so did just about every other student at Roosevelt High School. Hank Richards was to Roosevelt students what Reuben Koftoff was to the boys at The Home, much loved and highly respected. Two years later, when Morris Moritz and I were on the Roosevelt High soccer team, soccer had become a well organized school activity with a high school coach in charge and with the high school athletics department scheduling the games and handling the many other details involved in an interschool varsity team league. Morris, who we called by the diminutive of his Yiddish name, Moishe, which we reduced to “Mersh,” was one of the four acrobatic Moritz brothers at The Home, and, although the smallest member of the team, was the team’s star. I, on the other hand, was merely a second-string player; however, I had enough game time to squeak by and earn my letter, which, by this time, soccer letters were handed out along with all the other athletic letters at the annual awards ceremony in the school auditorium. Getting the junior-varsity-size letter was of course important, but the really big thrill for me as I recall those long-ago events was to hear the several hundred rich Westchester County kids cheering during home games. “Come on, Mersh,” they would yell in their well modulated voices, “Go get them, Mersh,” and “One more goal, Mersh,” as Mersh Moritz dribbled down the field and racked up points by getting the ball past the goalie. Such was typical of most games that, through the efforts of Mersh and other top players, we often won. There was an exception, however. Most of our games were against schools like ours which had football teams, and so the games were pretty evenly matched. Once we played a school that had no football team and we were clobbered severely. The winning team walked off the field with a ridiculously high score. One of the giants took the ball I was dribbling away from me, gave it a hard kick, and his foot went over my head.

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FOOTBALL Only two HNOH boys ever made it on high school football teams, one at Roosevelt and the other at Saunders. On the Roosevelt team was our most celebrated alumnus, E.M. “Mick” Nathanson, while on the Saunders team was his good friend Lloyd Plafker, later to become a highly successful businessman. Like most of us, Mick and Lloyd had played in many hard-tackle games at The Home, and they liked it enough to want to get into big-time high school football. Lloyd made it on his varsity team and got to play in a good many hard-fought high school games. Mick was not so fortunate. Good-sized by Home standards, he was the smallest one on the Roosevelt team and adds he wasn’t good enough to make the varsity squad. He first tried out for the team a year after Mersh Moritz and I were on the soccer team, but as Mick was only 141⁄2 then, Coach “Doc” McCurdy in his booming voice told him to return the following year when he would be eligible for insurance coverage. Mick did this and he made the team. “I wasn’t big enough or good enough to make the first team,” he stated, “and so like all but one of the others on the second string, I never got to play a school game.” He did get to play, though. He and others on the second team played daily scrimmages against the first team, which, of course, would consistently plow through them. However, Mick and his squadmates made their tackles, and it cost them in painful bruises and other injuries. But they wore their bandages as proud badges of courage, which is what they were. Mick earned his letter, but it was not the large varsity-size that first stringers got but the more modest junior-varsity-size the second string received, which also was the size firstand second-string soccer players received. Not to take anything away from the courage shown by Mick and Lloyd for going out for high school football, but the reason they were the only two from The Home to go out for football was that all high school football games in Yonkers then were played on Saturday afternoons, Shabbas (Sabbath). In the years before Mick and Lloyd entered high school, the religious staff at The Home and the dormitory supervisors would have known of any HNOH boy on a school football team. That boy would have been punished severely, not for being on the team but for being available to play on the sabbath. By the time Mick and Lloyd entered high school the orthodox rules were not so rigidly enforced, and so they were able to get away with it. Nevertheless, Mick and Lloyd did The Home proud being on their high school football teams in the 1943–44 season, and we are all pleased with their later achievements, respectively, in writing and in business. A final note about our principal at Roosevelt, Hank Richards. I visited with him in the spring of 1946 shortly after being discharged from the Army, and although he tried not to show it, he had become a tragic figure. He was still the same caring person I knew when I was one of his 1,500

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students in 1940–42, but something was missing. He was no longer the dynamic leader I knew when I was at Roosevelt. He was interested in what I had to say and, as earlier, was supportive of my hopes in regard to a possible career. And yet the essence of what had made him our Mr. Richards was missing. The spark that had made him the person we knew was gone. I could feel his need to identify with me, and I understood it. While I and many other Roosevelt High grads had returned from the war with futures before us, his only son had not. Hank Richards’ son, who was also Hank Richards’ future, as the child always is for the parents, was killed in combat in World War II. This is always a terrible loss, and being the great man that he was, he sought to make up for this loss by continuing to do his best for the high school alumni and for the boys and girls who would be in his charge during his remaining years at Roosevelt High School. OTHER THINGS Humiliations come in two types: those brought on by others to enhance their own sense of worth or importance (usually bullies and cowards) and those brought on by oneself through shortsightedness or precipitous unthinking actions or insensitivity to the needs of others. It is this second category that is under examination here, and the victims are this writer and Mick Nathanson. I was 13 at the time, and although I could play many sports such as baseball, football, and handball and was a good broad jumper, I knew from what had occurred the year before that I did not have the stamina to play basketball or get into other sports that called for sustained effort over an extended period of time. Thus, in November 1936, the second year HNOH boys ran the annual Yonkers Schoolboy Race, known then as a mini-marathon, I had no interest in it despite the fact that many of my friends and dormitory mates were among the 22 HNOH participants. My attitude was the same a year later in October 1937, when there were 34 HNOHers, the largest contingent, who were preparing for it.1 However, after the group had been training for a few weeks, running along Tuckahoe Road and up and down the nearby Croton Aqueduct before breakfast, entering the dining room flushed and exhilarated, I suddenly found myself caught up in their exuberance, and I immediately joined in. This was about ten days before the race. The morning runs didn’t seem too difficult, and I was quite comfortable being in the group of slow runners who made up the contingent’s rear. And then it was the day of the race. As the event was held on Saturdays, the religious staff permitted The Home boys to participate provided they walked the three miles to and from the event. None of our boys had any difficulty with this. Assembled for the event, I was amazed at the size of the crowd of runners awaiting the starting pistol shot; there must have been several hundred. And then the shot came, and in a flash they were off running fast, a surprise to me

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as I’d assumed we’d all start slowly to conserve energy, and suddenly I found myself in the rear and in a short while very much alone. But I kept plugging along, exhausted as I was, especially trying to run up the small hills, and eventually I was running toward and then into the starting-point stadium, exhausted but knowing that once around the track and I would finish the race. The crowd in the stands roared and I felt great knowing they were cheering for me. But something made me look over my shoulder and to my dismay I found little Roy Felder, red-haired and freckled and a couple of years my junior coming up from behind, and he was gaining on me. The cheers were for him. I wasn’t going to let him beat me and resolved to give it everything I had. But I had nothing left. I couldn’t go any faster than the slow pace I was at, and Roy kept gaining on me, and the crowd’s roar grew louder, and then he passed me and the cheers were deafening, and then I too was across the finish line, and I heard nothing more. Two of the officials grabbed me and kept me upright, and the boys from The Home surrounded me, telling me I looked white as a sheet. Then I was seated and fed some liquid. The officials conferred with our coach, junior dorm supervisor A.K. Kersch, and soon I was in an automobile being driven back to The Home. Before we drove off, some of the boys comforted me with, “Well, at least you finished the race . . . a lot of kids didn’t.” At The Home, Mrs. Flanagan gave me some orange juice and put me to bed in the infirmary. A few hours later she released me and I joined the guys for the cold Saturday evening supper. They told me I’d done fine, but nobody had to say it. I’d come in last. Everyone seemed to forget that incident of my humiliation. But I didn’t. After I graduated from The Home, Mick Nathanson assumed some of my titles and jobs, plus gaining a few of his own. He became editor of The Homelite and president of the Central Council. Morris “Tony” Bond, who had been acting assistant scoutmaster of our troop, had also left The Home, and Mick, as junior assistant scoutmaster, ended up running the troop. He was 141⁄2 then, two academic years ahead of his age group, an important member of the band (playing the clarinet), and at the same time trying out for the Roosevelt High School football team. After Mr. Koftoff, it seemed to many that Mick was in charge, and a number of 16-, 17-, and 18-year-olds took umbrage at this seeming sense of his importance. They decided he had gotten “too big for his britches” and resolved to do something about it. One day, as Mick was walking past the executive offices at the front of the building on the second floor, a group of older boys grabbed him, dragged him kicking and struggling into the lounge at the east end of the corridor, removed his pants, and quickly departed, with the pants. Mick “de-pantsed,” was left to plan his moves. He was in an area of the building where a number of women worked, and he needed to get to his room in the area where the senior dorm had been, diagonally opposite at the northwest corner from where he then was, and on the fourth floor. Somehow, after a period

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of ducking and hiding, Mick was able to get to his room without being seen sans pants by the female employees. He quickly dressed himself and then sat on his bed to ponder the meaning of it all. NOTE 1. For more details of the annual Yonkers Schoolboy Race, see Sam George Arcus, Deja Views of an Aging Orphan, 88–89.

15 Home at The Homelite E.M. “Mick” Nathanson

Mention The Homelite to me and I smell mimeograph ink and typewriter ribbons and correction fluid for the stencils and the slightly musty aroma of a room filled with paper and books and the tools of the craft we were learning. Though, for some of us it was just fun rather than apprenticeship. I see the ink-stained hands of those of us who operated the mimeograph and hear the comings and goings of the boys who contributed articles and art to the monthly newspaper put out by the boys of the Hebrew National Orphan Home. And I remember the supervisors who advised us and the guys who enjoyed the privilege of just hanging out there. It was a light-painted room, maybe 20-by-18 feet, its doorway opening from a dim passageway on the ground floor of the building. It contained all the paraphernalia of a student newspaper in those days, 50 and more years ago. There were two old desks and swivel chairs (though there might have been more), and one or two old Royal or Underwood typewriters, and a table on which was the creaky old hand-turned mimeograph machine; and there were bookshelves, cabinets, and maybe school-type lockers. Were there pictures, posters, or calendars on the wall? I don’t remember. But in the middle of one wall was a window, probably barred on the outside, that looked toward the boiler room, an interior alley that was like a concrete atrium: daylight filtered down from four stories above, but there were no plants or flowers. A SANCTUARY To me, between the age of 11 when I began working on The Homelite as a junior reporter and 161⁄2 when I graduated from The Home after being news-

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paper editor for two years, it was a beautiful room. It was a den, a sanctuary, and a hangout. Actually, during those years, there were two Homelite offices, one succeeding the other. My memories are stronger about the new office, which was renovated for the newspaper and its staff during the early years that Reuben Koftoff was executive director of The Home and much of the old building underwent a wonderful rejuvenation. By the time we moved into the new office I think that Sam Arcus was the editor, or was it Ira Greenberg the editor and Murray Feierberg the assistant editor? (Editor’s Note: Sam Arcus was the editor.) Our leader and mentor, Sam Arcus, who had been editor for a couple of years (1938–40), had graduated from high school and left The Home soon after naming his successors. It was Sam who had given me the chance to write my very first newspaper story, probably in 1939. I think it was about some exciting event or activity in the Intermediate or junior1 dormitory. When I handed it in, Sam skimmed it while sitting at his desk (probably in the old office) and then looked at me suspiciously. “Who wrote this? Did you write this?” he challenged. When I assured him that I had, he complimented me on it. What a thrill it was for me to see my story in print with my byline on it when the next issue came out. I used to believe that I was only seven when I decided to become a newspaperman, but that doesn’t seem logical now. After all, what could I possibly have known about such a distant, exotic, and grown-up world? At seven I was still in the Israel Orphan Asylum (later, the Hartman Home) in Manhattan and Far Rockaway, and had been there for about four years. Before I turned eight I was transferred to the Hebrew National Orphan Home in Yonkers—what we children in the Israel Orphan Asylum used to call “de yudder Home.” AMBITION’S UNKNOWN CAUSE I don’t know where the idea to become a newspaperman came from. I had no relatives or friends in journalism or associated in any way with the word business or the academic world of letters, and I couldn’t have read many newspapers, magazines, or books with any degree of awareness and understanding at age seven. Perhaps I saw a movie that inspired me, though I couldn’t have seen many in those days before television. Maybe it was a picture I saw after entering The Home in December 1935. The weekly movies shown every Wednesday night in the New Gym were exciting events. Whatever gave me the idea to become a newspaperman, when I heard at the age of 11 that editor Sam Arcus was opening up The Homelite staff to younger boys, I presented myself to him as a candidate and wrote my first article. I don’t remember if I used a typewriter, pen, or pencil, but if it was a typewriter it was probably located elsewhere in The Home and I was probably still using an amateur’s hunt-and-peck system. After that I think I was assigned to write news stories about people and happenings in the junior and Intermediate dormitories on a regular basis.

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The division of responsibilities on The Homelite was that the editor was in charge of the word and art content and the assistant editor, sometimes called the managing editor, was in charge of the technical aspects of production. Associate editors and reporters were assigned different beats to cover, such as sports, club news, and the various dormitories, and were expected to generate articles on subjects that interested them. However, this separation of powers and responsibilities was not strictly observed, and there were also contributors of material from time to time who were not regular staff members. We all pitched in and did what had to be done to put out the monthly newspaper. I remember copying stories already written, typing them onto blue, waxy mimeograph stencils—and making mistakes, again and again. The typewriter ribbon had to be locked into its deactivated position so that the striking head of the keys cut directly into the stencil. Corrections had to be made with great care by rubbing out the errors with a little glass rod, coating that spot with a special viscous fluid, and waiting for it to dry and harden on the stencil before typing over it again. It was a painstaking job and stencils were occasionally botched. The boys in the art department used a glass-topped, lighted box and a stylus to cut their cover drawings and other artistic touches onto stencils. REVIEWING THE PAST Looking at a few old issues of The Homelite sent to me recently by Rick Safran and Ira Greenberg, the names of Leonard Horowitz, Jerry Kresch, Joey Tobias, Robert Youngner, and William Josephson are listed on the masthead as being in the paper’s art department. Reading the issue of November 13, 1941, I see that I had risen to the position of associate editor by that date, along with Dave Apfelbaum, Jerry Coogan, Herman Horowitz, and Joe Tobias, and a later Homelite had Alex Brewis in this position. There were more than a dozen other boys named on the masthead in various departments of the paper or as contributors, including Frank Goldwitz, Bob Wolpert, Fred Greenberg, Simon Growick, and George Plafker. I’ve tried to remember characterizing details and anecdotes about the boys I worked with, to draw accurate word-pictures of them then, but time and changing interests and perspectives have confused my memory and let details escape me. In my young mind, though, all the editors before me whom I knew—Ira Greenberg, Murray Feierberg, Sam Arcus, Lew Zedicoff, and Danny Lovett— I thought of as being studious and scholarly fellows and I looked up to them. After all, they were older, had experienced more of the world, knew more than I did, and had the responsibility of putting together this living, breathing record of our days and getting it out on time. Ira had also been my Boy Scout leader and he played soprano sax in Major Zundel’s band, in which I played clarinet. Murray was on The Home’s varsity basketball team and was a fast, hard-driving competitor. When we moved into our new office, it was with feelings of excitement and

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appreciation. The room’s entrance was on the same corridor as our previous office, but it was closer to the Old Gym, which by then had been or was in the process of being broken up into specialized club rooms and a band practice room. Right next to The Homelite office, on the other side of the solid wall on the east, was the bottom dogleg of the main stairwell. The sounds of people coming down or going up those stairs bounced around the bottom of the well and off the walls and came into our room whether our door was open or closed. By the time I was editor of the paper, I had become very adept at identifying who was approaching by the sound of their footsteps. Everybody had his own pace, rhythm, and distinctive degree of loudness. Sometimes I even knew what they wanted, and that made me feel like Sherlock Holmes. In the June 30, 1942, edition—the last one from the team of Greenberg and Feierberg, who were leaving The Home—there is an item that says that I was appointed the new editor and Frank Goldwitz was to be the mimeographer. That probably means that Frank was also the new assistant (or managing) editor. Or did Hermon Horowitz get that slot? He was on The Homelite staff but, as I recall it, he was more interested then in farming and taking care of the chicken coop. SERVING THE G.I.s Within less than a year of leaving The Home, both Ira Greenberg and Murray Feierberg were in the Army. They later served in the war in Europe. Murray, an infantryman, was wounded in action; Ira was a combat engineer. They were a long way from “Our Village”—The Home—living each day in peril, but they kept in touch by mail. We sent The Homelite to every alumnus in service whose address we could obtain, and a lot of the men—they were no longer boys— wrote to us. I still remember with sorrow when an unopened envelope to Seymour Kasonsky was returned to us with a rubber stamp notation: Deceased. One outstanding thing I remember about Frank Goldwitz, besides reddishhair and freckles, was that when Pearl Harbor was attacked he had in his possession photos of the Army base on Oahu at Schofield Barracks, which the Japanese also had attacked. His oldest brother—not Sam who was in The Home with us—had been in the Army before the war, stationed at Schofield Barracks and had taken the pictures. When his enlistment was completed he had been discharged and returned home just a month or two before the attack. Frank and I—two hotshot newspapermen with lots of experience on The Homelite—called The Yonkers Herald-Statesman from the public phone in the main lobby of The Home and told them about the scoop. The Herald-Statesman sent a reporter out to The Home to meet with Frank, and some of the photos ran in the Yonkers paper in the next couple of days. Frank, who was a year or two older than me, left The Home before me, went into the Merchant Marines, and had extraordinary adventures all over the world during the last year or so of the war. After the war, sailing as the purser aboard

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a merchant ship called the Hawser’s Eye—how’s that for memory? it’s not all gone—Frank found his bride, Matilda, in Havana. It was a very romantic story. I used to see a lot of Frank and Matilda in the late 40s when I lived, worked, and went to school in Manhattan, and also his older brother Sam and his wife. STAFF ADVISOR There were at least two faculty advisors during the time I was with the paper, maybe more. I don’t remember what they did, maybe oversight of good taste and correct parsing and spelling, but I don’t think they were intrusive. Supervisor Bert Ludwig was faculty advisor for a while when I was an associate editor, but then he followed his brother Bob, also a supervisor, into the armed services—Bob entered the Army, served in the South Pacific, and rose to the rank of master sergeant, and Bert went directly into the Coast Guard Academy to become a commissioned officer. There was the look and sound of university men about the Ludwig brothers, and they instilled a sense of ambition in us and a desire for an education. Supervisor Mac Gustin took over the faculty advisor’s job then, until he, too, went into the military. Mac was an intelligent, kind man, very dapper, who supervised the boys with warmth and friendliness. What I remember most about him, though, was that when I was editor of The Homelite and had the ambition to become a newspaperman Mac gave me a book that I’ve kept to this day. It’s a novel called The Great American Novel by Clyde Brion Davis. It’s the story of a newspaperman who holds a number of jobs in different parts of the country during his career, but never advances very far. All along he really wants to be a novelist, but is never able to find the time to write. It’s a sad story about a man getting trapped by circumstances and never trying to fulfill his aspirations. Mac left his job at The Home to go into the Army, but I ran into him briefly some years later when we were both students on the G.I. Bill at the Washington Square campus of New York University. I was working for Fairchild Publications as a copyeditor, besides being a student. (Murray Feierberg and Morris “Tony” Bond also got jobs there right after getting out of the service and made their careers there. Ira Greenberg went to journalism school after the Army and was a newspaper reporter for ten years before earning his Ph.D. and starting his second career as a clinical psychologist.) I’ve often wondered if it was The Great American Novel that Mac gave me that motivated me to make the moves and take the chances I did—and still do—to leave newspaper and magazine staff jobs and become a freelance writer and eventually a novelist, as the protagonist in the novel did not. In my boy’s mind, editors of The Homelite were always exalted personages— until I became the editor and knew damned well that I wasn’t exalted. I loved the perquisites that came with the job, though. The Homelite office was my refuge. I did my high school homework there, received my friends there, and vaguely remember that we occasionally had parties there.

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Almost every workroom I’ve ever set up over the years in houses and apartments where I’ve lived reminded me of The Homelite office and somewhat resembled it. They were snug and cluttered rooms, as is my present study. I’ve wondered sometimes what may have become of me, what work I might have gone into, if there hadn’t been The Homelite and its cozy clubhouse-like office. Over the decades, it has seemed to me that everything I did later in newspapers, magazines, and books grew out of writing for and editing the monthly newspaper we put out. MY SUCCESSOR When I was about to leave The Home at the end of June 1944, there was still one important matter to be resolved regarding The Homelite. The current editor always had the duty to appoint the new one. The boy I wanted, Herman Horowitz (later, Harrow), had refused it. Herman was happy with his farm and chicken duties, was studying hard in high school and planning to go on to a university, and he didn’t want any more responsibilities. Can’t say that I blame him. But, there was no one else around who I thought was as ably suited for the job. The last scene. A fine weather day at the end of June 1944; A Saturday; Probably around noon. I’m 161⁄2 and have just graduated from Roosevelt High School. Lloyd Plafker and I have already gotten ourselves jobs as summer camp counselors in upstate Copake, New York. Lloyd is a year older and has just graduated from Saunders Trade–Technical School. We’re leaving The Home this day, and we’ve got a train to catch in Tuckahoe to take us to Grand Central Station in New York City where we’ll connect to the train that will take us to Copake. I rush down to the chicken coop, holding the key to The Homelite office. Herman is busy feeding chickens. I thrust the key at him, shouting “You’re the new editor, Herman!” and flee as fast as I can before he can refuse and throw the key back at me. The bus is on its way up Tuckahoe Road from Nepperhan Avenue as I come in sight of the flagpole and front lawn, and Lloyd is outside the grounds, across the road, waiting to stop the bus. I race to join him and just then catch sight of that small, cheerful, bearded gentleman in a yarmulke (skull cap) who is in charge of all things religious, kosher, and holy at The Home. He is taking his Sabbath ease on the front stoop, watching the world go by. I may have waved to him with insouciant brass or I may have guiltily avoided acknowledging his presence, but I flew out the gate and across the road just as the Sabbath-breaking bus lumbered to a stop. Lloyd and I climbed aboard and embarked on the beginning of our new lives. NOTE 1. Mr. Koftoff established the Intermediate section for boys older than freshmen and younger than juniors.

PART 3 HEBREW NATIONAL ORPHAN HOME: HISTORY AND PERSONAL STORIES

16 The Home through the Decades1 Ira A. Greenberg

The Hebrew National Orphan Home got its start December 5, 1912, on New York’s Lower East Side when a group of men and women raised $64 and committed themselves to creating an Orthodox Jewish home for destitute children. The orphanage came into being on October 14, 1913, as a committee of Bessarabian–Verband paid its first installment of $400 on a four-story tenement building at 57 East 7th Street. On June 7, 1914, the Hebrew National Orphan House opened its doors to the four Kassofsky brothers: Simon, Willie, Louis, and Meyer. By the end of the year, 20 boys lived in the “orphan house,” and as an unknown alumnus wrote: “Each morning in their rush to work, the dwellers of the tenements in a particular three-block area were impelled to pause and watch a parade. “The marchers were neither military or in uniform and their cadence was dictated by the usual conglomeration of noises emitted by the morning’s hawkers of newspapers, freshly baked rolls and pretzels, not-so-fresh fruit and vegetables, fish, and clothing to exchange. They marched in a column of twos, each boy holding the hand of the boy alongside. “This was not so much in accordance with drill or tradition but more as a measure of security, lest one get lost amidst the pushcarts, garbage cans, and baby carriages, which laid claim to the same narrow sidewalks which constituted the parade route. “The dwellers of the tenements, old and young and under pain to get to work on time in the mid-town sweatshops or in the newer uptown (above 23rd Street), did, however, pause and with sympathy watch the morning processional. “It was the march of the yacermalachs (the little boys from the new Home),

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along 7th Street to First Avenue, down to 5th Street and east to Avenue A to P.S. 25. At first there were but four—the Kassofsky brothers—then there were more. Up to 20 in the first year, 60 in the second year, and over 100 in the third year.” By the third year, a second four-story tenement building was bought, directly behind the first, at 52 St. Mark’s Place (at 8th Street). The buildings shared a concrete courtyard between them. ISOLATED LIFE “In those years the Hebrew National Orphan House of two buildings could do little more than reflect the . . . limited knowledge and understanding regarding care of orphaned and displaced children. Shelter, food, clothing was an accepted philanthropy via collection of food and clothing in shopping bags and rent money in nickels and dimes. It is to the everlasting glory of The Home’s founders that the bare essentials were thus provided.” In each of the two houses were dormitories housing about 25 boys. Food was oatmeal in the morning, a sandwich for lunch, and a slightly more substantial meal in the evening. The day was spent at P.S. 25. Between 3 and 5 P.M. and after supper was Hebrew School, with teachers donating their time and talents, and play on the paved yard between the two buildings. The yard had one ring and net basket and room for games derived from baseball and basketball but not large enough for either of the basic games. But it served its purpose and resourceful boys made it suffice and got pleasure from the games that emerged. “What was most significant of life on East 7th (and 8th) Street was the isolation of the HNOH boys from the rest of the community. Symbolic was the tall iron fence separating The Home from the rest of life on 7th Street and beyond. It sure was different to be an orphan. Even at P.S. 25, the only hours spent away from The Home, teachers and other kids showed that they knew the difference.” And then, on July 26, 1920, came the move to “the country,” to the 20-acre site with the huge four-story, red-brick building with two large wings at 407 Tuckahoe Road, which became the Hebrew National Orphan Home, not “House.” There were two dormitories that could accommodate 130 beds and a smaller one for smaller children that held 60. In time the building gained a gymnasium (the Old Gym), music room, library, workshops, a complete synagogue, and a school—P.S. 403, Manhattan. NEW DEAL CHANGES “Still lacking, however, was the pragmatic approach and training for the life that was to follow in the real world outside 407 Tuckahoe Road,” the unknown alumnus wrote. “That’s how it was for 20 years, from 1920 to 1940. Actually it was the social reforms brought on by Franklin D. Roosevelt’s New Deal that

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gave to the HNOH, as it did to all of the nation, the new and healthier concepts of social responsibility, of the needs and the rights of the young and the displaced, in the fabric of a free and democratic society.” It was also the dramatic changes brought about by Executive Director Reuben Koftoff and HNOH President Samuel Field that had much to do with the new directions taken by The Home. Harry Lucacher, superintendent for six years, died of a massive heart attack in 1938 brought on by his often thankless task of keeping The Home alive during the Great Depression. “New Deal legislation adopted in the 1930s for Social Security, for direct aid to widows and dependent children had a direct impact on The Home. Orphaned children, given financial support by government agencies, could now be taken care of by relatives or close friends of their parents. The term orphan was heard less and less. Another kind of child, more urgently in need of help, came forward. The child of the broken-up home, the displaced. Everywhere throughout the nation the era of the ‘orphan home’ was coming to an end. “The metamorphosis started at HNOH in 1940. The Home census had begun to dwindle from its high of 300 a few years before. Simultaneously, the newer social concepts already had convinced The Home’s officers of the need to depart from the old policy of isolation and regimentation of its young charges.” KOFTOFF CHANGES “First reform was the demolition of the 130-bed capacity dormitories and conversion of their space into six-boy rooms and later four or five boy rooms. Some of the space was utilized for vocational training programs and hobby shops, and instructors were brought in to direct these new activities. “Next came the enlargement of The Home’s Social Services Department and extension of its program to include foster-home placements. In 1943 a professional Case Service was introduced and in 1944 a Psychiatric and Psychological Service. Instituted the same year was a Remedial Education Program. By 1950 the character of The Home had indeed changed. The stigma of orphan could no longer apply to the youngsters now housed at 407 Tuckahoe Road. The name was changed to ‘Homecrest,’ The new name was selected by the youngsters themselves, most of whom had been brought out of broken-up homes to Yonkers. “The issues of institutional care versus ‘home care’ in an integrated community had, however, not been settled. But soon it would be, for it was a question affecting not Homecrest alone but all of the child-care agencies in the area. In 1955 the Federation of Jewish Philanthropies of Greater New York conducted a thorough survey of the community’s needs and responsibilities in this field of service. “Federation recommended an end to the large institution-type care and a merger of several agencies in the field to provide the ‘home in the community’ care needed by an increasing number of children.”

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COMMUNITY LIVING “In 1956, Homecrest, once the HNOH, merged with The Gustave Hartman Home for Children to become Hartman–Homecrest. In the next year, the first of the community-integrated living quarters for youngsters under care of the merged Home was established in Howard Beach, Queens. “There in four tastefully decorated and well furnished apartments lived 18 boys and girls, ages 13 to 18. With the help of a ‘House Mother’ and a ‘House Father’ they led quite normal lives. They attended the local high school, worshipped in the local temple and participated in all of the cultural activities and the riches of community life available to all youngsters of like ages. Similarly, 18 children between the ages of six and 13 were domiciled in a large, mansionlike home in Mount Vernon, New York, and 20 were being housed in Far Rockaway, New York. A staff of physicians, psychiatrists, psychologists and social workers serve their special needs. But there is no isolation, no stigma, no procession through the streets as objects of sympathy.” On June 27, 1958, the old red-brick building at 407 Tuckahoe Road closed its doors. “At the outset, specifically 1914 through 1916, the Hebrew National Orphan House was supported by humble funds raised through synagogue groups, auxiliaries and Bar Mitzvah banquets,” recalled Morris S. Halpern. He wrote of summers at Rockaway, a different place each year, including a former hotel at Arverne, a former clubhouse of the Atlantic Athletic Association with its huge gym used as a dormitory, and the tent city another time alongside the tracks of the Hammels Station of the Long Island Railroad. “Those were days of joyous beach parties with hotdogs and soda and great baseball teams, with Max Resnick pitching and Harry Beeres stealing bases.” Jules Turoff, reporting on the 1917–19 years, wrote of the thorough medical exams provided newcomers by Dr. Gans, whose office on St. Mark’s Place was across the street from The House and who spent many hours away from his practice to serve as the boys’ athletic director in games like box-ball and punchball, variants of baseball. He wrote fondly of the Orpheum Theatre on Second Avenue where the owners made free seats available weekly for the boys to see the silent films of the day. “For an added treat, we were given a weekly allowance of one cent to buy jelly beans or gumdrops.” Irving Tarr, writing of the 1920s decade, stated: “The years . . . were rough years. The Home began to feel the pinch of the dollar and things started to go from bad to worse. With the changing times came a new and stricter group of supervisors2 and regimentation became a daily occurrence. “Who can forget the daily punishment meted out by ‘Piggy’ Rosenthal for the most insignificant offense and the constant supply of new canes used by ‘Colonel’ [Hans Christian] Anderson3 to show his authority? But somehow each new punishment seemed to bring us closer together, each new hurt brought stronger feelings for one another until we became truly closer than brothers.

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“Of course, we had good times too. Those treats going to Tuckahoe or Yonkers to see a first-run movie, sleighriding down our own ski slopes on barrel staves, fireworks every Fourth of July, candy every Friday night brought in by ladies of various auxiliaries, those baseball and basketball games starring our own Lou Resnick . . . and many, many events, pleasant to remember.” And Lewis Zedicoff, writing of the 1931–38 period, recalled: “You look back and can’t help remembering when good old Tuckahoe Road was just a winding dirt path, then tarred, with the first trolley running from Getty Square to Nepperhan. . . . The trolley has been gone for some time and Tuckahoe Road with its broad paved lanes is now an important highway. “The hikes through the adjoining meadows, woodlands and wild fields past the nursery [northwest of The Home] . . . cannot be forgotten. There was that haunted house on the aqueduct and the apple and peach orchards on Kessman’s, Paulik’s, and Schmidt’s farms. And yes, those hot summer days down in dear old ‘B.A.’ ” Bill Weinstein, covering the years 1939 through 1945, recalled Mr. Koftoff’s first address to all the boys during lunch in 1939. “We sat erect in the big dining room, eight to a table, listening to the man who would make the greatest change in our lives. We did not fully understand what he meant when he told us the dormitories would be torn down and small rooms for six boys each would take their place. As he spoke of the end of detention lines and physical punishment I remember the unbelieving expressions of my young friends. . . . “The big war started . . . and I remember the older boys talking about the recent graduates who had enlisted. We did not know then that hundreds of our boys would be fighting all over the world. Lew Zedicoff’s letters and articles in THE ALUMNUS on the progress of our boys still stands high in my memory. . . . The war ended, we counted our losses and mourned deeply our dead. “I was 16 then and remember completing an application for college. Few of our boys, for many reasons, mostly economic, ever went to college. We in the class of 1945 were the spearhead of a drive for higher education that was inspired by Mr. Koftoff and Mr. Field who helped us get started. The send-off for the class of ’45 was different. For the first time The Home extended itself beyond high school graduation.” Richard G. Safran, who covered the 1946–57 years of “Decades of Memories,” recalled The Home’s name change. “A new sign HOMECREST in gold, block letters replaced the old [HNOH] sign. ‘Too pretty!’ said one disapproving conservative. Social workers and psychologists made their appearance. The Central Council, our own governing body, consistently veered between apathy and surprisingly energetic effectiveness. . . . “To many of us, the physical symbol of The Home was the soapstone stoop on the [southwest] side of the main building facing the asphalt punchball court. We used to sit on the steps there and gripe or discuss the issues . . . and if no one was around, a boy might muse over the names carved on the stoop, for this

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stoop was the chronicle of our times. Upon it, our achievements were recorded with meticulous care. “We watched the face of the Yonkers countryside change as buildings sprouted up all around us and the Rod & Gun Club quietly died because of lack of activity. We lurched from one worry and joy to the next. And all-too-quickly, we were high school graduates—no longer Homecrest Seniors, but young men standing on our own, filled with both eagerness and apprehension as we left 407 Tuckahoe Road to carve our achievements, not on a soapstone stoop, but on life itself.” NOTES 1. The information and quotations in this chapter come from the 1958 Annual Journal of the Hebrew National Orphan Home Alumni Association, now on file with the American Jewish Historical Society, New York City. Used with permission of the Alumni Association. 2. The incomplete list of superintendents and head supervisors of HNOH is as follows: 1919–21, Mr. Pushkoff, superintendent, and “Piggy” Rosenthal, head supervisor; 1921– 24, George (?) Goldberg, superintendent, and “Piggy” Rosenthal, head supervisor; 1924– 31, George Goldenberg, superintendent, and “Colonel” Hans Christian Anderson, head supervisor (Anderson left in 1927); 1931, Jacob Ferber, superintendent; 1931–38, Harry Lucacher, superintendent, and Joe Lasser, head supervisor (Lucacher died of a massive heart attack in 1938 at his residence, the “White House”); 1939–57, Reuben Koftoff, executive director, the first professionally trained and experienced staff member. 3. Reportedly the grandson of the famous storyteller.

17 My Journey Charles “Chick” Baker

After reading some research on attachment and separation, I was prompted to reflect upon my own childhood. From the time I was six to the age of 16 my existence could best be described as turbulent, even chaotic. I wondered if there was any relationship between my misbehavior and the fact that I lost my mother when I was about seven in 1918. This in no way is an attempt to rationalize my actions. I realize that I alone am responsible for my irresponsible behavior. I was left with my father and older brother, Jack. Both had to go to work very early in the morning, and this left me to my own resources, as there was no one around to tell me what to do or what not to do. So I did what came naturally. Young people are excellent explorers, being by nature inquisitive, and in no time at all I got into enough mischief to become known as a truant, a thief, and some of the many other labels applied to unsupervised children. Eventually, my father’s inability to cope with my misbehaviors forced him to seek outside help, and, in a short time and at the age of seven, I was placed in a foster home in New Jersey. My first night away from home was one big nightmare. I cried most of the night. I was lonely, lost, and confused. When I was able to close my eyes, I dreamed of home, of Mamma and of the old neighborhood. The torment of loneliness and hopelessness is difficult to describe or explain. It’s just a feeling one has, a sad feeling, a feeling of emptiness. Within a day or so I began to wet my bed, something I had never done before. So the lady of the house, poor soul, rubbed my face in my wet sheets. This does not foster a good relationship between a lady and a “brat.” In no time, I found myself in a new foster home. Although I cannot recall the circumstances,

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I was told I had practically destroyed the furniture in my room. The wheel continued to turn, and I was back with the Children’s Aid Society.

CHAPPAQUA For many years I hated my father for “putting me away” because immediately after my short tour with the second foster home I was shipped to a Catholic institution for children in Chappaqua, New York, through the courtesy of the Children’s Aid Society. Now I was a little fish in a big pond and a bit frightened. In the center of the building was a winding staircase with a large, cylindrical wooden banister. A tremendous-sized American flag hung in the center of the staircase, from the third floor down. The kitchen, dining room, and library were all on the ground floor. The boys’ department was on the first floor, the girls’ on the second. From a cocky city brat, I suddenly became very docile, for I found myself in a cage, so to speak. I was worried because here everything was governed by numbers and by Mr. Clark’s hairbrush. This is how you destroy the spirit of a little boy. I don’t know if some classrooms today still have the same procedure for permission to “leave the room,” but in this home not only did we have to ask permission for “Number one and two,” but we also had a “Number three and a Number four.” The saying was, “God help the boy who asks Mr. Clark to go Number one and ends up with a Number four.” Most people are familiar with Numbers one and two. Number three was to blow your nose and Number four was to pass wind. Mr. Clark was the supervisor for the boys’ department. For some unexplainable reason it seemed Mr. Clark didn’t need an excuse, but, like clockwork, I became the recipient of a belt on the head or in the ribs. Mr. Clark stood very tall, especially to an eight-year-old, which I had become. He was slim and very strong. His developed muscles were seen by all as he led us in calisthenics while in his bathing suit. I think we were all afraid of him because he was not a friendly person and never smiled at us. Usually barking his orders, he was not a cruel person, but he was very, very strict. In those days there was no concept of a benign environment in treating children who presented severe behavioral problems. Today, it is the core of most treatment programs in social agencies and is referred to as “Milieu Therapy.” My shining light and my only salvation at this juncture of my life was Sister Mary. Just thinking of her, I see a saint. I always seem to have her on my mind. She was the only light in that long, dark, miserable tunnel. Oh, I almost forgot to say that I was the only Jewish boy in that department, perhaps the only Jewish child in the institution. The place was supervised mostly by nuns from a nearby convent. They did most of the household chores of cooking, cleaning, laundry, and supervising the children. I seem to remember particular aromas in that place,

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including the smell of fresh baked bread, fresh laundered linen, and that antiseptic smell of clean floors. SISTER MARY Sister Mary was a short, beautiful lady with a round face that always had a smile on it. To me, she was a motherly angel. She was warm and always there for me whenever I was in trouble, and that was almost always. If ever I was homesick or if I got a beating, no matter, she was there for me. Many were the days when I cried myself to sleep in her loving arms. This was in 1918 or 1919. In 1947, my wife and I were working in Pleasantville Cottage School in Pleasantville, New York. I asked her if on our next day off, she would like to go with me to see Sister Mary. She thought it a good idea. The next Wednesday, with our little five-year-old son Joel, we drove to Chappaqua, a little over an hour away. We reached the Children’s Home about 1 P.M. I asked for Sister Mary and was informed she would be at The Convent. When I rang the bell there, a young novice answered the door. I asked to see Sister Mary, and the novice politely replied, “You must mean Mother Superior.” It dawned on me then just how many years had gone by, and I answered, “Yes.” In about ten minutes, which to me seemed an hour, a little, beautiful nun came to the door and asked, “May I help you?” I looked at her and almost melted in my tracks. The words were very slow and hard coming out, but I managed to whisper, “Sister Mary?” She looked at me and squinted. For a while, neither of us said anything. We just stared at each other. Then she said, “Charles?” That did it. I grabbed her; we hugged each other and the tears just flowed. As we were crying, my wife Midge joined in. All this disturbed my little son who also started to cry, but he calmed down as soon as my wife picked him up and held him. What amazed me was that after 28 years, Sister Mary still remembered me. I was so overcome I could not speak for quite a while. Looking at this noble lady, I smiled through my tears. Is not this what love and life is all about? When I informed Sister Mary, or I should say Mother Superior, that I was in the child-care field, she just smiled. She invited us to tea and we had a most enjoyable afternoon. Even my son enjoyed himself. Saying good-bye was very difficult, at least for me, for I truly loved this lovely lady. I shall never forget her last words to me. As we were about to leave, she first kissed Joel good-bye, then Midge, and then as we hugged each other she cried and whispered in my ear, “Good-bye, my sweet Yiddishah Boichick.” Not a day goes by that I don’t say a silent prayer for her. I search for words that may adequately describe how I feel about her and what she has meant to my life. She was a guardian angel who filled a deep void in my young life at a time when I needed it most.

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LEAVING CHAPPAQUA I don’t know what precipitated the change, but I was removed from Chappaqua and placed in a home on St. Mark’s Place in New York City. From there, in the fall of 1920, a group of us were eventually transferred to a place at 407 Tuckahoe Road in Yonkers, New York, that was to become the Hebrew National Orphan Home. It was an old brick building in the shape of a “U,” and had been the German Odd Fellows Old Age Home. Before we left, we were told we would all be going to the country where there were horses, chickens, cows, and lots of room to play. That was S.O.P. (standard operating procedure) for social workers in an attempt to soften the blow. If you want to catch the attention of a city kid, just mention horses. As we were traveling to Yonkers, my mind was full of thoughts. “I hope I will meet some nice guys.” “I hope they will like me.” “I hope no one will beat up on me.” “I wish I had my mom back again.” I thought of all the trouble I was causing my dad. At the same time, I was angry with him and hated him for sending me away all the time. “What the hell is wrong with me?” I asked myself. “Why am I always screwing up?” To say this was all upsetting to me would truly be an understatement. One of the popular pranks the older boys at The Home would play on the young, immature rookies was to offer to take them on a tour of this tremendous building. Most of the kids grabbed at the offer. After being shown the kitchen, the laundry room, the hospital, and the synagogue, they would lead all of us down to the very dreary, spooky basement. It had no lights at all, so the tour leaders switched on their flashlights. The little ones were quite squeamish about walking along in the dark. Suddenly, the leader of the “tour” would flash his light on empty coffins, and all hell would break loose. The screaming was deafening; it was heard all over the building. Yet most people treated this as a big joke. It was sport for the older boys, but the little ones had nightmares for some time afterward. Oh, yes, I was told on the first day that my number was 241. I didn’t pay much attention to that since my head was full of so many other things, but when we received our new laundry and clothes, “241” was sewn and taped on every bit of clothing, as well as my sheets and pillowcases. CONFUSION On the second day in the late afternoon, we all had haircuts and showers. “Haircut” meant a “baldy.” We were told it was for health reasons. That night, as I was walking from the lavatory to my bed, in a very large dorm with four rows of beds, something strange happened. As the lights went out, a big ruckus started all over the dorm. The whole world was raining feathers. I had never witnessed anything like this before in my life. I was in the middle of the dorm,

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staring at this strange sight, when all of a sudden I felt a sharp pain on my buttocks and fell to the floor. No one was laughing or yelling. All was quiet. Alone and in my nightgown, I looked up at a man who was yelling at me, “Who are the other guys?” I got up to tell him I didn’t know because I had just arrived yesterday. I never got the chance. He slapped me in the face. Again he yelled, “Who else was with you?” This time he hit me with the black string he held in his hand. I went down again. “Get up,” he yelled. I got up. “I asked you a question!” Again, he hit me across my backside. The fact that it was dark prevented him from realizing I was new. I didn’t know anybody’s name. When they took me to the hospital, I realized the “black string” was actually an electrical extension cord. I have the marks to this day. I suppose that was my initiation into my new home. It would not be honest to place blame on any particular person or organization for my predicament. Although I hated him for a long time, it wasn’t until I became a father myself that I realized the hell I had put my own father through. As for those who were cruel to us, I can only surmise that those poor souls were only repeating what their families and cultures had taught them. WHAT IS HAPPENING TO ME? In less than two years, I had lived in five different places. I was considered to be “disturbed and troubled.” Constantly moving from place to place and the lack of a permanent home creates not only a physical instability but a psychological one as well, impeding any possible childhood development. Feeling like a yo-yo, the child says to the world, “I just don’t give a shit anymore.” He does not relate and he does not trust anyone anymore. He tries to fight back with any tools that are available to him, as I did, or he withdraws into a hard shell. Either way, problems multiply and multiply for him, as well as for those who are responsible for him. Life for me in those early years was one continuous fog. Space and time were a vast void. I don’t remember clearly dates or names; all I remember are feelings. Could it be that my mind did not wish to remember? It was a dark, confusing period of my young life. I cannot seem to tie together a meaningful continuity of those years. There was no order during that period. Many nights I would stay awake though my eyes were closed, and just wonder, “What is happening to me?” Once I thought I was a tiny sparrow, desperately flapping my wings, struggling to stay aloft, as I was being buffeted by an angry storm. After the countless spankings and beatings received at the hands of so many different people, I have come to realize there is quite a difference between the two. The dictionary tells us that “spanking” is a series of smacks with an open hand upon the buttocks in punishment; whereas, a “beating” is the hitting or

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striking repeatedly with the hand, fist, feet, or implement, or a continuous, indiscriminate rain of damaging blows. Continuous beatings, especially upon a child, or for that matter any human being, could result in brainwashing or brain damage. Eventually, the beaten person becomes terrified and consumed by fear. Fear is perhaps the worst of all illnesses, a dangerous intruder. It is a medical fact that extreme fear can cause excessive amounts of adrenaline to enter the bloodstream, causing shock, heart attack, or even death. A child subjected to continuous beatings may become possessed with feelings of paranoia and assume there is no possible opportunity for him to experience a peaceful life. Avoiding reality, he creates his own fantasy world, perhaps playing the selfhypnotic games for his own satisfaction. And always, always dreaming of his own special safe world.

THE BEATEN BOY AND HUGS There was a boy in this home who was repeatedly beaten, mostly on his face, by the adults in charge. It seemed he may have confused or irritated the supervisors because of his peculiar behavior. When he left HNOH, he had a very difficult time adjusting to everyday demands and could not function well because of his inability to think properly. His face carried the marks of beatings. For the rest of his life, he earned his living performing simple chores. What a terrible waste. I remember something that might be considered quite peculiar to some. There were times, especially in the cold winter nights, some of us, including me, would creep into a friendly bed just to cuddle. I suppose to our conscious mind it was to keep warm, but subconsciously it was really more. We held on to each other. There are all kinds of hugs. There is the hug when two people are slowdancing; a loving hug you get from your parents, especially from your mom; a hug from your teacher or a dear friend; and a “hello” or a “good-bye” hug. There are those of professional athletes hugging each other in celebration of a great score or victory, and, at the other extreme, two people locked in a loving embrace. But to a lost and lonely child who feels he does not belong to anyone—just doesn’t belong anywhere—a hug is something really special. It is what has been missing for such a long, long time. When this child is hugged, it is as if he has just been touched by the Grace of Acceptance. The relationship that exists between “Alumni brothers” is something very special. In all these years—I would say between 1920 and today—whenever I meet any of my HNOH “brothers” whether by surprise or reunion, especially after a long lapse of time, I hug and kiss him. Whether in a restaurant, an airport, a train station, or in the middle of Madison Avenue, no matter where, I hug and kiss him. I just don’t give a damn what some poor soul might be thinking. This man is my brother.

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UNDERSTANDING MY FATHER I was about 25 when I stopped hating my father for not having protected me, for “shipping me off.” I was awakened to the fact that he carried a much greater burden than I. He didn’t know how to cope with my behavior or understand why I was behaving in such a way. About that time, I became aware of the possible cause of my childhood problems that had created so much misery for my father and, for that matter, for all those people who at one time or another tried to be of some help. The body, mind, and emotions are not things that can be modified by pushing a button or turning a switch. I was very fortunate there were some people who really cared. Sister Mary, for instance, is always on my mind. Regardless of how skeptical some may be, I know in my heart there is someone up there who was looking after me. How fortunate and grateful I am. There are some who for some unknown reason believe children are young and can overcome any and all obstacles or hardships. Even professionals from time to time have said something along the lines of, “Don’t worry, they’ll outgrow it.” What is there to substantiate such a statement? Children are not Swiss watches, guaranteed against destructive influences. It was explained to me recently that I suffered in those early years what can be called combat fatigue, or posttraumatic stress disorder.

18 Manny, Marty, Alex, Simon, and George Ira A. Greenberg

Happy and not so happy memories of life in The Home are expressed by “boys” whose respective stay extended from 1923 into the 1950s. They are Manny Bergman, Marty Miller, Alex Brewis, Simon Growick, and George Glass. Their careers have ranged from interesting and successful to rich and rewarding to fantastic. MANNY BERGMAN Manny, born in September 1914, entered HNOH in 1923 when Mr. Goldenberg served as superintendent, and left “carrying with me many happy memories.” One of these is the gala celebration he and his 1927 Bar Mitzvah classmates enjoyed at New York City’s Hotel Commodore, where each received gifts of a pocketknife, a fountain pen, and a $2.50 gold piece which he still owns and values. A favorite activity was working closely with 30 other boys in the model airplane club and flying the rubberband-powered balsa-wood planes they’d made. Another fond memory is of Mrs. Christine Stebbins, his eighth-grade teacher, and another is of Miss Clara Pulsifer, his seventh-grade teacher; they respectively taught him good writing and meaningful mathematics, and both served as role models in regard to his own teaching career in automobile mechanics while earning bachelor’s and master’s degrees in education at New York University. Later, he served as a supervisor and director on the New York City Board of Education after serving in the Navy during World War II.

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MARTY MILLER Martin P. Miller, Esq., entered The Home in the summer of 1929 at the age of five and left in 1940 at the age of 16 after graduating from Roosevelt High School. Though he had made many friends in The Home and had a brilliant career there as an athlete, leader, and scholar, he felt the physical surroundings were “very bad,” the food was below “reasonable standards,” and felt he had lacked an adequate identity, especially at Roosevelt High where teachers and students viewed him as “an orphan boy from The Home.” He felt their pity and their assigning him the stigma of an “untouchable orphan boy.” Marty found the identity and the acceptance he had sought in the Army where he was dressed like everyone else and was not looked down upon because of cheap orphanage clothing. He earned a commission as an infantry lieutenant, was severely wounded in Germany, and while recovering earned his bachelor’s and law degrees at the University of Denver, and went on to a brilliant career as a Colorado district judge, a district attorney in the Denver area, and a candidate for United States senator. Two of his four children are attorneys, and when his daughter Katie won a difficult case, the judge told his clerk: “That’s Marty Miller’s daughter,” to which the clerk replied, “I should have known.” That’s identity, Marty feels. He has 13 grandchildren, and they and their parents all have a sense of who they are; they have identity. ALEX BREWIS Alex Brewis, who like Marty Miller, also has had a fabulous career, was born in May 1927. At one year of age, he entered the Israel Orphan Asylum and transferred to HNOH at the age of nine, leaving in 1945 after graduating from Roosevelt High. He entered the Army some five years later during the Korean War. Following a number of minor jobs and a fulfilling job in photography, he went to Los Angeles to become an actor but became a highly successful talent agent instead. Among those whose career he helped develop are actors Tom Skerritt, Ed Harris, Gavin MacLeod, Leonard Nimoy, A. Martinez, Eric Braden (Hans Gudegart), Al Freeman Jr., Paul Winfield, John McLiam, and Michael Lerner; writer D. C. Fontana; and actor and director Cory Allen. At The Home, Alex enjoyed sports, photography, work on the farm, playing trumpet in the band, and having many friends, including Sy Growick, Herman Horowitz, Mickey Nathanson, Ross Green, Bill Weinstein, and Sherman and Hy Gross. At Roosevelt High he was a member of the cheering squad and as such experienced a defining moment in his life. “We were being driven home one night after a squad pizza party in Yonkers and the driver was letting people off near where they lived,” Alex recalled. “While driving on Tuckahoe Road toward the school, the driver asked me where I lived, and I said, ‘You can drop me off anywhere here,’ meaning on Tuckahoe

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Road, but he and the other cheerleaders were insistent, and finally I said, ‘Here,’ which was right in front of The Home. I quickly got out of the car and, without looking at anyone, hurried toward the entrance. As I was crossing the road, one of the people in the car yelled, ‘Three cheers for Alex,’ and the rest responded with enthusiastic ‘Hip, hip, hooray!’ three times. I felt a sudden surge of warmth spreading from my heart. I felt kind of choked up. After that, I don’t think I was ever afraid to admit I came from The Home, but I was always reluctant to do it.” SIMON GROWICK Simon Growick entered The Home in 1932 at the age of six, and on leaving in 1944 went straight to Navy boot camp at the Sampson Naval Station in New York state, thus, on one day a phase in his life ended and a new one began. His best experiences in The Home were in the infirmary where he worked under his favorite staff person, Augusta Rose Flanagan, R.N., known affectionately as “Flanny.” Thus, his natural progression after boot camp was training to become a Navy hospital corpsman, and this he did during World War II. He graduated from P.S. 404, Manhattan, in 1940, and his favorite teachers were Mr. Henry (Science) and Mrs. Perrin (English). Along with working in the infirmary, a favorite involvement was in the Boy Scout troop, and he remembers with pleasure the troop’s marching at the 1939 World’s Fair in Flushing, New York. Simon came to The Home from the Israel Orphan Asylum, where he had spent three years and was painfully shy at first, but in time he outgrew it. Among his best friends were Ross Green, Mickey Nathanson, Alex Brewis, Lloyd and George Plafker, the four Moritz brothers, Jimmy Zeisler, Morris Shapiro, and Sherman and Hyman Gross. Simon became a radiologic technician and later developed an academic career teaching this subject and others at Junior College in Miami, Florida. He identifies as a Conservative Jew and never felt there was any stigma attached to his having been in The Home and talked freely about it to friends, coworkers, his wife, and children. GEORGE GLASS George Glass’s most vivid memory of The Home was the day he arrived in 1945 at the age of nine and crying his head off without really knowing why. “But once it sunk in that this was going to be my home, I began to realize how fortunate I was to be there.” Besides taking care of creature needs, George felt The Home gave him a sense of security and a “sense of belonging” that he needed. Like most of the “boys,” he appreciated the teaching staff, and his favorites were Mrs. Perrine, Mrs. Gollogly, Mr. Henry, and Mrs. Segal. His dislikes included unpleasant interactions with some of the boys and supervisors.

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Best friends were Dickey Friedman, Ed Hajim, Ronald Ruby, Henry Firstenberg, Ed Solny, Charles (?) Waldman, and Charles Levine. One of George’s regrets is the sense of being underprivileged while at Roosevelt High School and comparing himself, his clothing, and residence with those of the rich students he encountered. Through Mr. Koftoff’s help, he graduated from the Massachusetts Institute of Technology. He worked in the fields of science and research, and in later years in nontechnical areas. “As to religion, I am a Conservative Jew with a strong respect for Orthodox Judaism, but at the same time I am a very liberal Jew, especially since I am married to a Christian.”

19 Seymour, Spike, and Henry Ira A. Greenberg1

Three of the most popular boys during my stay in the Hebrew National Orphan Home (The Home; HNOH; the “H”) were killed in action in the European Theater of Operations (ETO) during World War II. Several others were lost in the Pacific theater, but they were not that well-known to those in my class. Our ETO dead were Seymour Kasonsky, born in January 1922; he was a baseball player and a basketball hero, a trumpeter, and captain of the band. Arthur “Spike” Schiller, born in July 1920 was a baseball and a basketball player and band clarinetist. Henry Josephberg, born in January 1924, was the best athlete in my Bar Mitzvah class but a year ahead of me academically. SEYMOUR KASONSKY Seymour, whose ambition was to become a professional crooner and musician, was born in Brooklyn, entered The Home in June 1929, participated enthusiastically in Gilbert and Sullivan’s H.M.S. Pinafore in 1935 and Pirates of Penzance in 1936, both produced at The Home by teachers of P.S. 403, Manhattan. He also played in The Home’s small orchestra, the Star Dusters. He was on the 1935–36 Public School Athletic League (PSAL) Westchester County championship team, coached by Charles “Chick” Baker. His teammates included Albert Fleishman, Ted Greenberg, Sid Kotlick, Pinky and Benjie Liebowitz, Marty Miller, Morris Padover, and Jack Shapiro. (As an Air Corps captain, Jack Shapiro flew combat missions in the Pacific.) Seymour graduated from Roosevelt High School in June 1940, along with Sam Arcus, Hy Chartove,

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Harry Mendelkern, Marty Miller, Jack Passin, Sam Prince, Irving Rosenbloom, Jack Ross, Abe Roth, Paul Schrenzel, Sol Sklar, and Jerry Tobias. Enlisting in the Army after high school, Seymour survived the D-Day invasion of Normandy, but died in combat a few days later. Coach Chick Baker knew him as a hero several years earlier during the 1935–36 basketball playoff game in which he took a beating. The opposing team had a player so good that Baker believed the only way The Home team could win the championship was to get this star out of the game. Baker instructed Kasonsky to keep in the way of this player so that the star could not help but foul him in evasion attempts. Seymour did as instructed, and the outstanding player was benched for personal fouls and replaced by a lessgifted player. Our team won the championship. Afterward, in the dressing room, Baker noted Seymour wincing in pain as he slowly removed his uniform to shower, and Baker further noted that Seymour was covered with black-and-blue marks. “It was then I realized how much courage Seymour had shown in carrying out my instructions,” Baker said. SPIKE SCHILLER Arthur “Spike” Schiller, tall, thin, and with a perpetual grin, was born in Marboro, New Jersey, entered The Home in the fall of 1929 after his parents died in an automobile accident. His older brother Harry was reared by an aunt and uncle. Spike liked being in The Home although he was upset by some supervisors harshly beating the boys. His closest friends were three sets of brothers, Edward and Mel Greenberg, Nat and Mort Sternlicht, and Harry and Max Laub. He began Army life in the Signal Corps, became an aviation cadet, and then an infantryman after the cadet program and the Army Specialized Training Program were cut drastically to meet an urgent need for ground troops overseas. He married one month before shipping out with the 66th Division and drowned in the English Channel on Christmas Eve 1944, after a submarine torpedoed his ship en route to France. E.M. Nathanson, who visited Spike’s gravestone (in the American Cemetery above Utah Beach) in 1966 while touring Europe with his family, had some bitter things to say about incompetence shown by command personnel after the ship was attacked, as reported in The Night Before Christmas.2 HENRY JOSEPHBERG Henry Josephberg was among the best athletes in our junior and senior dormitories, second only to Marty Miller, according to Chick Baker, and like Marty was liked and respected by all of us. He was most appreciated by younger and weaker boys because he protected them from bullies. I know of one boy, a year

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older than me, who wouldn’t fight back, being constantly harassed by a tough boy his own age, and then it ceased after Henry politely told the bully to stop. Henry was killed in the Battle of the Bulge, and although we never learned what unit he was in, it is likely that because of his athletic ability, personality, intelligence, and leadership qualities that he was an infantry squad leader or platoon sergeant. Henry, like Seymour and Spike, was among the best of us, and he is sorely missed. NOTES 1. Information furnished by Sam George Arcus, Charles Vladimer, Charles “Chick” Baker, and Marilyn Schiller, Ph.D., New York City clinical psychologist, daughter of Harry Schiller and Spike Schiller’s niece. 2. Jacquin Sanders, A Night Before Christmas (New York: G.P. Putnam’s Sons, 1963).

20 Adoptions Ira A. Greenberg

When one thinks of orphanages, an accompanying word often is “adoptions,” but such was not the case at the HNOH. Most of us never thought along those lines, as most of us had family members living in New York City or New Jersey. We lived in The Home and identified with The Home, where lived our figurative family. But most of us had real family members, and they also were our points of reference. The situation was different for some of the boys who had no family or who were disconnected from their real relatives, boys who never received visitors, and some of these boys may have thought along the lines of being adopted by a loving family. But these thoughts were never voiced. In my nine years in The Home I never once heard a boy talking about hoping to be adopted, although as an adult one of my peers told me he had hopes as a boy of being adopted by a loving family. In any case that could not have happened as The Home had never been licensed by the state of New York as an agency for adoptions. We did not know this at the time and we did not wonder why we had no “adoption days” in which kids dressed in their best to be looked over by couples seeking children, as we understood happened elsewhere. We just didn’t talk about it and most of us never thought about it. On a personal note, I did have such an opportunity. I had just been discharged from the Army in the spring of 1946 and was visiting with Mr. Koftoff when he told me of an opportunity he thought might be good for me. It was about being the personal assistant to a man who owned a shoe factory in New England who had no children and who was looking for some young man to train to operate the factory when he retired.

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This was a form of adoption, but I wasn’t interested and recommended another alumnus for this opportunity. I welcomed it but I didn’t feel I was ready for it. I needed to find myself. Like Marty Miller, as stated previously, I had a strong need to develop an identity, and I felt the road to this lay in college. I first needed to know who I was in a fuller sense than I had then before being ready to commit myself to any long-range program. So, though a figurative adoption was available to me, I was not ready for it. We just had not thought along those lines as boys in The Home.

21 Foreigners: Tom Bondy, the Furmans, Obshatco, and Others Ira A. Greenberg

Although the parents of most of us in The Home came to the United States as immigrants, there were comparatively few foreigners among the boys of the HNOH. Most of us either were born in this country or entered at a very early age, and so English was our first language. Also, the foreign boys were conspicuous among their peers and seniors, and this brought them special and often unwanted attention. Thomas J. Bondy, who was born in May 1934 and whose stay in The Home was from January 1940 to June 1952, states: It was a different time, a different world. We came from Europe, not speaking English— can you imagine how I as a five-year-old, not speaking English and put in a Home with 300 other kids that only spoke English—children are the cruelest animals, so you can imagine what happened.

Al Furman, born almost a generation earlier in September 1919, entered The Home in 1930 (shortly after his mother died in childbirth) with his brother Hyman, four years younger, after arriving in this country from Rumania the year before. The brothers knew no English, having spoken Yiddish with their family, but they learned quickly. “ ‘Leave me alone!’ were the first English words I remember saying,” Al recalled recently. The only other recent immigrant in The Home when the Furmans came was Max Obshatco, who came to this country from Russia. He was happily referred to as “The Mad Russian” by his contemporaries. Interestingly enough, when I entered The Home in the spring of 1933 when

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Max was a monitor in the freshman dormitory, neither I nor my fellow freshmen thought of Max or Al as foreigners. It never occurred to us that they were foreigners; we simply thought of them as “older guys,” and it was only while working on this book that I became aware of their foreign status. But their peers and their seniors were well aware of it, just as we were aware a few years later when a new batch of foreigners, including Tom Bondy, entered The Home after escaping Nazi Germany or Nazi-dominated Europe. Life was more difficult for them than we could imagine, and the cultural shock had to have been tremendous. One incident comes to mind. There were three brothers from Germany, the oldest of whom was named “Heinze” (for Henry). For some reason one of the boys, Charles Small (born in 1923) took to hazing them, especially the two smaller ones. Heinze said he was going to fight Charlie on behalf of his brothers, and many of the boys advised him against this. Heinze knew nothing about fighting, and Charlie was not only bigger and stronger but also an experienced fighter. Still there was the thought that “right must make might,” and Heinze courageously challenged Charlie to a fight. Charlie accepted the challenge, and to Heinze’s amazement and without working up a sweat Charlie proceeded to beat the hell out of him. That was Heinze’s “Welcome to America” and introduction to reality. However, most of the boys were friendly and accepted the foreigners with compassion and helpful information and advice. And the foreigners quickly adjusted, made friends, and found their places in this very large family. Max Obshatco, known by his peers as the boy who had complained about having “worked all day in the laundry from 3 to 5 P.M.,” had assumed a number of leadership responsibilities before earning the distinctive responsibility of becoming a dormitory monitor. Al and Hy Furman quickly learned English, gained new friends, and adjusted easily to the routines of daily living at HNOH. The brothers became involved in various clubs and activities in their respective age groups, and Al went into business with his best friend, Aaron Fruchtman, known later as George Frederics. They would rise early in the morning and on even the coldest days walk to the village of Tuckahoe, a mile east of The Home, buy newspapers for staff members and some seniors, and buy candy and other items for younger boys. On each purchase they made, they took a small commission, which is how many of us learned the meaning of this word. Furman and Fruchtman were fondly referred to as “Chisel and Gyp” or “Chisel and Gyp, Inc.,” but they took no objection to this as they both were scrupulously honest and everyone knew this. In later years they often bragged about it at Alumni Association gatherings, where both, after having served in the Army during World War II, were actively involved in helping keep the HNOH organization alive and thriving. Tom Bondy, who left The Home in June 1952, after a 12-year stay, believes he may have set some sort of longevity record, as most of the boys stayed about

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eight to ten years. He made many friends, including Don Nathanson, Aaron Luttinger, Harry Herz, and Lou Amber; and as a youngster, besides the friendships, he enjoyed such things at The Home as campfires, milk and cake each night, the woodworking shop, basketball, and baseball. “The talks I had with Reuben Koftoff, however, were the most important things for me,” he stated. “I did not realize at that time how this one person affected my life. “The religious part of our early training was a joke,” Bondy continued. “We were more interested in when the daily prayers and services would end, rather than in what they meant. This was so we could get out and play ball.” Tom reports having “very warm” feelings toward the teachers at P.S. 404, Manhattan, specifically Charles Henry, the science teacher and basketball coach, and Mrs. Perron, the English and social studies teacher. “They and others taught me about life and about how to get along with people and how to judge people, and they were instrumental in the success that I have had,” Tom continued. “They have taught me never to forget my roots, and the three children that I have are beneficiaries of this.” Tom’s statements came in response to the questionnaire the coeditors sent to all alumni, and though he was not religious in The Home, he practices Conservative Judaism today, and further states: “From the day I left The Home, I have never denied that I was brought up in a Home. My mother at that time did the very best she could for her children. . . . I am 63 years young [in 1997] and live every day with gusto, happiness, and a feeling that I too have done the very best for my children. . . . My best friends today are the same friends that I had in The Home. I have been Best Man at the weddings of Harry Herz, Aaron Luttinger, and if Lou Amber ever gets married, I’m sure I will be his Best Man too.” Tom concluded with a critical comment: “I find the questionnaire to be very negative; it should have been more positive, with going forward and not with dwelling on the past. We can improve the future of our organization, but we can never change the past.” Tom Bondy and the two other “foreigners”—Al Furman, who sells an automotive cleaning compound he helped create, and Max Obshatco, who has been in the jewelry business throughout most of his adult life—also have positive feelings about their experiences in The Home and participate enthusiastically in Alumni Association affairs.

22 From City Streets to Forest Trails Bill Weinstein

One hot summer day, without fanfare, I left our Brooklyn home in Williamsburg with my father for the two-hour subway and bus trip to Yonkers. I was nine years old, born two years after my brother Irving died in 1926 at the age of two by falling from a fifth-floor window. My mother had recently died and arrangements had been made to place my three-year-old sister Grace in the Shield of David, a home for young girls in the East Bronx. My brother Albert, 16, was too old to be sent to an institution, and so he remained with my ailing and unemployed father. We arrived at the Hebrew National Orphan Home in 1937, a few weeks after mother’s death, and I remained there until my high school graduation in June 1945. Reassurances of my care were given father by the admissions lady as he signed papers. He drew me close to him, squeezed me tight, told me to be a good boy, and promised to visit me. He kissed me good-bye and with a quick step walked to the large glass exit doors; he stopped, turned, and called out, “Villy, remember, be a good boy.” I watched, tears dampening my cheeks, as he strode down the gravel driveway and through the opening of the chain-link gate, leaving The Home. I was taken to the junior dormitory, where I would stay until it was divided into bedroom-size rooms a few years later. We were 300 boys separated into three dormitories—freshmen, juniors, and seniors. Mostly we came from New York City. Among us were a few refugee boys rescued from the pre–war-torn Europe. Poverty, abandonment, disability, or death of one or both parents had brought us to this home for destitute children.

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OBSERVATIONS Below my window two boys sitting on a side stoop were playing checkers, while another tossed baseball cards on the gravel play area nearby. A ball bounced off the steps, reminding me of stoopball I played with my Brooklyn friends. Before dinner we assembled in the junior dormitory and and after forming two lines marched down the flight of stairs to the dining room. We sat at white, porcelain-top tables set for eight. Ceiling fans whirled above. When the head supervisor walked to the center of the large room, chairs scraped the terrazzo floor as we pushed back to stand erect. When there was silence, a prayer followed announcements and we slid into our seats waiting for the three-decker cart to be rolled out by two kitchen attendants. Food, served family-style, was good. My plate was eaten clean. On rare occasions when strawberry shortcake or other special desserts were wheeled out, our excited noisy reactions were cause for the cart’s return to the kitchen. A long “shhhh” would fill the dining room, and when followed by silence the cart returned. Sterner discipline, meted out for minor infractions, was as routine as going to the bathroom. The report of the theft of an orange from a boy’s Sunday visitor’s package was cause for group punishment. Standing in front of our beds, Leo Youdelman, the supervisor, with arms folded behind his back and with a smirk on his face in anticipation of the game he had mastered, would walk up and down the center aisle and announce the theft and then state that there would be a five-minute break for its return and for the thief to own up. We remained silent and motionless in front of our beds. DETENTION Ordered to form two lines between the stanchions in the large center aisle, we measured an arm’s length between us, front and sides. After only ten minutes with arms stretched above our heads, my sagging arms felt weighted by barbells. My fatigue and boredom surrendered to wandering thoughts. How long would we stand at detention? Would the next position be a squat with arms extended, and after a while would be told, as we sometimes were, to place a pillow across our extended arms? “You’re going to stay here until I find out who took the orange,” the supervisor threatened, his voice echoing in the large junior dormitory. He paced slowly back and forth between the two lines. I could not hear his footsteps when he moved from behind. I knew he was there when the shifting of tired bodyweight restlessness of those behind me stopped as they straightened out. “Arms up!” Youdelman shouted, following this with a firm cuff to the back of the head of the boy to my front left. With measured and deliberate slow steps, now facing us and, alternating left and right to the end of the lines, his dark

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eyes conveyed power and satisfaction as he momentarily searched each face for a guilty expression. He entered his private quarters at the front end of the dormitory. When the door closed behind him, aching arms dropped to our sides, and amidst sighs of relief, angry voices demanded, “Whose orange was stolen?” suggesting there would be a price to be paid. The brief unauthorized break from detention ended when the supervisor’s door pushed open a crack. As he emerged, arms bolted upward. Silence resumed. Like most causes for group punishment, the stolen orange incident was never resolved. VISITORS Father kept his promise, alternating Sunday visits to Grace and me. After lunch I waited on the top step of the main entrance with other boys, watching for visitors walking the half mile from the bus stop near Roosevelt High School. Above our heads, in foot-high lettering, a long rectangular sign affixed to the building read “Hebrew National Orphan Home.” His walk was distinctive. At a distance I could make out the quick steps of a former military posture. I would run to greet him as he entered the gate. Setting the brown paper bag he carried on the gravel driveway, he embraced and kissed me. He pressed me so hard I could feel the fine stubble of his shaven face. As we walked together I answered his questions as to my care and guided him to a quiet, tree-shaded bench at the edge of the gravel play area. We sat there through the afternoon eating the fruit and cookies he brought and listened to the crickets and birds. I learned that Albert had bought an old car with a rumble seat, and Grace was a good rollerskater and could even dance while skating. My Aunt Anna had offered an extended visit at Passover. I liked that as she had three sons about my age. Bessie, mother’s friend, had asked about me. Boys without visitors moped listlessly near benches in the grove, waiting for visiting single moms to summon them for sweets. Tearful freshmen, disappointed after waiting for a visit that never happened, went back to their dormitory when dinner was announced. Following a round of hugs, kisses, and good-byes, Visitors’ Day ended. SUMMER ROUTINES Summer days at The Home began with a salute to the flag. Assembled on the large lawn in front of the main building, we came to attention as a trumpet signaled the slow raising of the American flag up the tall white pole. After breakfast, assigned chores occupied most of the morning. Sweepers pushed brooms over dormitory and dining-room floors; gravel playgrounds were raked clean; the big lawn was mowed with a pull mower; our chicken coop and barn were shoveled clean; chickens were fed and eggs collected; and Blackey

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and Whitey, our two work horses that pulled the plows and garbage wagon, were groomed. I worked on our two-acre farm weeding rows of tomatoes, corn, kohlrabi, peas, pole beans, and carrots. I was paid five cents when a full bushel of beans was brought to our resident farmer. “B.A.” was nature’s gift to The Home boys. Unimproved, it was a mudhole. Improved, it was our Coney Island. In May or June, I would join my friends Harry “Fatty” Cohen and Abe Abrevaya in a short hike along a stream on a trail overgrown with smelly skunk cabbage for the improvement project. Mud dredging by bucket brigade and the rebuilding of last year’s dam with carefully arranged saplings, logs, and rocks brought the water depth to five feet. This was good enough for diving and for a hasty bare-assed retreat when a stray golf ball brought a searching Grassy Sprain golfer into view. Poor Abe couldn’t avoid poison ivy. He attracted the plant where Harry and I managed to avoid it. For weeks his face, arms, and legs would be puffed from the poison and stained pinkish white with calamine lotion. The annual trip to Playland at Rye Beach was our premier summer event. When the chartered buses arrived, I ran to find my best friend Harry, and we joined a single line, our bathing suits folded into a neatly rolled towel, and boarded the bus designated for juniors. A supervisor reminded us that we were responsible for one another. We were to follow the rule of the buddy system: Never lose sight of your buddy. The engines revved. Shouts of joy and laughter filled the bus as we waved goodbye to staff standing on the front-entrance steps. We received script tickets for the amusement park and pool after we enjoyed a brown-bag lunch at the pavilion. Freshmen were chaperoned; juniors and seniors were on their own. There was an understanding among us that we would continue the tradition of good behavior that was expected of us away from home, and we took pride in this. CHANGES We did not believe Reuben Koftoff, the new executive director, when he addressed us at lunch in the dining room one day, describing the big changes he intended to make at The Home. There had been promises before: the swimming pool that never came because “the water had leaked off the truck.” He said that workmen would remake the large dorms into six-boy rooms. Brothers and friends would be together in rooms. There would be a closet with hangers and each boy would have space in chests of drawers. Pictures and drapes would decorate each room. The Old Gym where we practiced our musical instruments after school and later skated around the stanchions on the oak floor would be divided into clubrooms and vocational training rooms for photography, arts and crafts, printing, woodwork, metalwork with power tools, and radio and electronics. They would be fully equipped and staffed with experienced teachers.

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I attended seventh grade on the fourth floor and at three o’clock each day I would make a beeline to the junior dormitory area to examine the day’s progress. One day cinder-block walls were plastered smooth and painted. Then doors to rooms could swing shut. Later, new wooden beds and matching chests of drawers were in place. Excitement peaked when Mr. Koftoff read the names of roommates. I would share a room with the four Moritz brothers and Frank “Squeaky” Goldwitz. BAR MITZVAH We were an Orthodox Jewish institution. There were dinner dishes for meat and dairy. Chickens were slaughtered in accordance with Kosher law. We attended Hebrew classes after public school. We prayed in our synagogue Friday nights and Saturday mornings and on every Jewish holiday.1 I was among 12 boys to be Bar Mitzvahed at the Waldorf Astoria’s Grand Ballroom in the spring of 1941. Dressed in new suits and shoes, we arrived at the Park Avenue hotel in black limousines. The room was filled with men in tuxedos escorting ladies in evening gowns. They had paid $25 a ticket and were expected to pledge contributions for our support. We sat on the dais as speakers who flanked us rose to dramatize the work already done on our behalf and presented plans for the future. Our parents were invited to witness the ceremonies from a balcony above the ballroom. My father stood out in the small group of parents at the far end of the ballroom; his silver hair and dark blue suit made him easy to spot. He returned my wave. What were his thoughts? SYNAGOGUE SERVICES We would go the day without eating. Only water was permitted us until the Yom Kippur fast ended with a festive dinner. I removed my prayer book from the back of the bench before me and rose with the congregation, following the rabbi’s instructions and turned to the designated page. In unison, slow and reverent, with the rabbi’s voice raised slightly above ours, we recited the Hebrew prayer. I had no understanding of the words I was reading and was uncomfortable sitting on the hard wooden bench. The congregation faced the gold-braided, red velvet curtain on a raised bima (platform). Opening the curtain the rabbi lifted the Torah from its niche in the ark and carefully lowered it to the scroll table. Holding the Torah by its wooden handles, he rolled it on the table until the appropriate section of prayer appeared and then began his sing-song rendition of it. During Saturday services older boys assisted the rabbi on the platform. It was an honor for the senior who was asked to lift and lower the scroll and, with the rabbi’s help, read part of the weekly portion. Would I have the strength to lift the Torah when I would be asked? I was Bar-Mitzvahed in May, and I had not yet reached the five-foot height of my friends.

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My talis, a white silken prayer shawl, hung loosely over my shoulders. I flicked the long stringed tassels sending them separating between my legs as the rabbi’s mellifluous voice floated above. I fidgeted with my belt buckle. Walking slowly to a front row, a supervisor tapped the shoulder of a dozing boy whose chin rested on his chest, muttered a few words in his ear,2 and then returned to the rear of the synagogue. A bluish horsefly whirring past my ear landed on top of the book stall before me. I cupped my right hand and slowly slid it across the top of the smooth bench for a swift capture. I was within inches of the fly when he lifted off and away. I twirled a tassel, separating its fine threads and with my incisors bit free two six-inch, hair-thin threads. Stretching the threads on my lap, I prepared a slipknot noose and waited for the fly’s return. The rabbi’s chanting slipped to the background of my awareness. All my energy focused on my ambush. I squared my skullcap, moved to the edge of my seat, and waited. The horsefly returned, landing on the bench top in front of me. My cupped hand slid toward the fly like a cat stalking its winged prey. I swept my hand forward and in one swift movement captured the fly in my closed hand. When the desperate flailing wings subsided I felt the tickle of the fly’s feet. With great care I gently moved one wing and then the other and with the index finger of my left hand, slipped the noose around the fly’s torso, drawing it secure, and then let the fly go. Heads moved as at a tennis match tracking the fly and its trailing thread as it crisscrossed in erratic patterns throughout the synagogue. Within minutes a second threaded fly was aloft. Performing loops and dives that would simulate the soon-to-be-shown movie newsreels of aerial dogfights over the Pacific Ocean in our war with Japan. The two aerial acrobats soon flew off, disappearing through an open window or door. The morning services ended and as we filed out of the synagogue for a freshair break, the head supervisor, a square-shouldered athletic man of middle age, called out, “Weinstein, come here. Did you let the fly go?” “Yes.” “Report to me after breakfast.” This supervisor was known to have a violent temper, and I feared he would slap my face until I cried. A bully, he was quick to beat up on the junior boys and was never seen to discipline older, teenaged seniors. P.S. 404, MANHATTAN We attended classes through the ninth grade on the fourth floor of the large brick building where we played, ate, prayed, and slept. Classes were small with rarely more than ten students during my last years in P.S. 404, Manhattan, a New York City special school. Our teachers were dedicated and sympathetic to the conditions that brought us to The Home and were an important link to the normal life I had left behind in Williamsburg. Geography and health education were taught by Mrs. Perron. One spring af-

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ternoon she announced that we would play softball. I raised my hand and, standing tall with a half-grin, suggested, “We’ll need a bat and two balls.” Giggles and suppressed laughter froze to silence when she angrily ordered, “William, sit down!” A large mural of a scene from Ivanhoe, painted by a recent graduate, covered one wall of her classroom. The youngest teacher, Mrs. Mollie Apter Cahn, was often frustrated by our misbehaving. She had taught mathematics earlier and literature, grammar, and composition when I reached her class. I must have impressed her in what way I do not know, but the 25 cents she paid me weekly to wash the windows of her Plymouth each day was well received. THE BAND World War II was in its second year. It was a time for air-raid drills, blackouts, and rationing. Our monthly newspaper, The Homelite, published by the boys, reported accounts of alumni fighting overseas. Seymour Kasonsky, the trumpeter at summer flag-raising ceremonies, was killed shortly after the D-Day landings at Normandy; Arthur “Spike” Schiller, the cheerful basketball player, died in the English Channel when his ship was torpedoed; and Henry Josephberg, a very popular all-around athlete, was killed in the Battle of the Bulge. Marty Miller, the personable athlete and saxophone player, was severely wounded in the Bulge battle. Alumni in uniform decorated with colorful ribbons and overseas bars on their sleeves visited on Sundays. We crowded around them, straining to hear their stories, proud that they were of us—our brothers. I played the mellophone in The Home band. We practiced Sousa marches for hours and, dressed in our new blue uniforms, marched in the big downtown Yonkers war-bond rally. When we passed the speakers’ platform amidst waving flags and applause I thought of my brother Albert, a soldier in training. Father and I had seen him off the month before at Grand Central Station. His duffel bag slung over his shoulder, we hugged and kissed Albert good-bye. That night I dreamt German soldiers invaded The Home. I was positioned in the center of the playground firing my machine gun from a glass, bullet-proof revolving telephone booth. TRIAL BY FIRE I was 14 when my friend Abe Abrevaya gave me a small bottle of highoctane gasoline. I had complained to Abe that getting a cooking fire started when camping was difficult. We were standing on the back porch of the “White House,” the three-story wooden structure near the main building. Mr. Koftoff and his family and other staff lived there. Curious to test the rationed gasoline, I unscrewed the cap, lit a match, and threw it near the open bottle. A five-foot flame spiraled upward from the neck. Fearing an explosion of the flaming gasoline and glass and the burning of the

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“White House,” I kicked the bottle down the wooden steps onto a gravel driveway. A sheet of liquid fire sprayed Abe’s ankles and lower legs. Jumping up and down he screamed for help as the flames seared his flesh. I leaped onto Abe, throwing both of us down the four steps to the gravel. Pressing my body on his, we rolled on the ground. His pants were on fire. Grabbing his belt with both hands, I ripped it free from the buckle and removed the charred pants. A crowd of staff and boys gathered. Abe was rushed to Yonkers General Hospital where he received transfusions of blood and skin grafts during his six-month hospitalization. I was treated for hand burns at our dispensary by resident nurse Mrs. Flanagan, and I was not disciplined after I described the cause of the accident to Mr. Koftoff. My friendship with Abe continued during my Saturday visits throughout his hospital stay. On his discharge from the hospital his father took him out of The Home to live with him in New York City. I never saw Abe again. Some years later I learned that he was married and ran a hardware business in Providence, Rhode Island. JUMPING THE FENCE Sunday mornings I walked past Roosevelt High School on my way to Tuckahoe to buy newspapers for the staff. The brick castle-like building, its wooden doors recessed in an arched niche, recalled the entrance to the church that had been converted to a synagogue in my Williamsburg neighborhood. In September I would make my first entrance in this imposing structure as a sophomore. It would also be my first coed experience. During the previous football seasons, to avoid the 50-cent admission charge, I had climbed the chain-link fence behind the school with other Home boys. We jumped the fence when the posted guards were distracted and raced to the safety of people lined up at Oolala’s hot dog and ice cream wagon or the safety of the milling crowds at the grandstands. I was able to evade the guards but not the easy-mannered, frolicking laughter of students as they ate their hot dogs and drank their sodas. The boys and girls holding hands attracted me. I tried not to stare, but my eyes returned to them as if transfixed. I remember with clarity the boys wore loafers displaying a shiny copper penny on each shoe, tweed and camel-hair sports jackets. Long blond hair draped over the backs of girls dressed in colorful sweaters and skirts revealing shapely legs. How would I be received when I entered Roosevelt High? STARTING HIGH SCHOOL I sat quietly in the back of the room on that first September day listening to the boys and girls, now in their second year at Roosevelt High, talking of friends in common and summer happenings. I scanned the faces around me searching for a friendly welcome and an opportunity to speak. I found none.

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As the roll call began, my fingers interlocked under my desk—“Mapes, Miller, Moore.” I squeezed my fingers tighter as the mostly one syllable names and replies repeated themselves in my head. More air pumped through my lungs than my nostrils could expel. Signaled by an inner switch, my mouth opened, offering a sigh of relief. My breathing deepened as the reading of names continued with “Wallach, Walters, Weinstein.” “Here!” shot forth as though propelled by bellows. “Is that ‘een’ or ‘ine’?” Mr. Wheelock asked. In moments I regained possession of my body. Unable to overcome my shyness and the differences which I perceived separated me from my classmates, I found it difficult to participate in school functions after class. I made no lasting friendships and, to my considerable frustration, rarely spoke to girls. This mind-cloud in which I found myself thinking persisted throughout my three years at Roosevelt and ended only when I returned each afternoon to the sanctuary I enjoyed at The Home. ABSORBING NATURE With permission to stay overnight alone in the forest and to return Sunday for supper, I packed my army knapsack with personal items, candy bars, pocketknife, flashlight, and a canteen of water. The two woolen blankets from my bed were folded into a makeshift sleeping bag, fastened together with oversized safety pins and tied securely to the khaki-canvas backpack. Hiking through the tall grass, I pulled the long stems from their sheaths and sucked the soft sweet ends for their juice. I stopped at the apple trees near the stone wall marking The Home boundary to gather fallen apples that had not yet been worm-eaten or turned brown with rot. A waist-high stone wall laced with briars and vines and worn by winter frost separated the grassy playing fields of The Home from woods that belonged to the Wadley Smythe Nursery. Summoned by its solitude and magical powers I climbed the wall and entered the forest. With reverent silence, which today I walk through the New York Public Library’s main reading room, I moved amongst the tall evergreens and through meadows, listening to the hidden secrets of the forest. As I took the driest possible path across the muddy banks and stepping stones of a brook, my eyes searched for scat and burrows. All thoughts of The Home and school retreated. I was free and in another world, confident that I had the skills to survive. I was explorer, hunter, and trapper. . . . Returning to The Home with a string of bullfrogs dangling over my shoulder on a spear shaft, I attracted Howard Caulkins and Stanley Levine and other young admirers, as well as older curiosity seekers. I sought and welcomed the attention. Unlike Pinocchio there was no telltale sign of my adventure, and I regaled my audience with tales of copperhead encounters and a narrow escape from a fast-running reservoir guard. I turned the frogs’ legs in the cast-iron pan, splattering Crisco on the small

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portable electric stove pan in my club room. The narrow windowless Rod and Gun Club tucked under a staircase between the Old and New Gyms had been the daily hangout for three particular seniors. These three boys were recent high school graduates and some four and more years older than me. The day after their June 1941 graduation, Walter Kuperinsky, Seymour “Iggy” Wallenstein, and James “Bull” Schneider packed their old Model T Ford with shotguns, rifles, steel traps, fishing gear, snowshoes, axes, saws, and such survival equipment as would be needed for their adventure, and they headed 350 miles north to the Adirondacks in upstate New York. They were wild and rough boys releasing their anger on weaker boys and with sadistic knife and ax mutilations of the animals they trapped. Without the wilderness outlet for their hostility, who knows in what antisocial activities they would have been involved. TRAPPING With savings from my early Sunday morning walks for newspapers for the staff and from the 25 cents that Mollie Apter Cahn, my English teacher, paid me weekly to keep her car windows clean, I bought a dozen Blake and Lamb steel traps through the Sears Roebuck catalog. After stewing them for an afternoon in large metal containers with a mix of oak leaves, acorns, and horse chestnuts, the traps blackened and without their metallic odor, were ready to be set. Staked to the ground near holes free of cobwebs or in muskrat slides in the banks of a stream, the traps were checked each afternoon when school let out. Liberated from restraints of school and The Home, I would bound over the stone wall and into the forest. Exhilarated, I approached each trap cautiously, anticipating a catch. Hidden under leaves, the traps were often difficult to find. If they were undisturbed, they remained in place until the weekend when I had more time to relocate them. When I had been outsmarted by a weasel or a fox and the bait was gone I staked fresh bait closer to the trap and was more careful not to leave my human scent. Sometimes a week or even two weeks would pass without success. I was doing what the early pioneers had done. I wanted to learn how to provide for myself and survive in the wild. I was 14 and headed the Rod and Gun Club. Younger boys aspiring to learn the ways of the forest looked to me as their mentor, much as I had looked to others a few years earlier. I enjoyed having prote´ge´s. They were quick to please, responding to my “do this” or “get that.” I don’t think I was excessive or abusive, because my mentor relationship continued until I left The Home and they were 14 and old enough to have broken away from me. Success or failure was measured daily by the younger club members who would run to meet me as I made my way across the fields, shouting, “Did you catch anything?” or “How did you make out?” Lowering my pack I would reach in and lift a large muskrat by its tail. The dark brown coat glistening in the late

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afternoon sun, we brought our faces close to smell its sweet perfumed aroma. Most boys were not interested in trapping, but when word spread that I had a catch, there was sure to be a small gathering of my peers, older seniors, and even staff. Reuben Koftoff would stop at the Rod and Gun Club during his daily rounds, and seeing the walls decorated with dried pelts hanging on nails, he offered to drive me to the wholesale fur district in New York City. The skins, wrapped in newspaper, and a Sears Roebuck fur price list were stuffed into a large brown paper bag. We rode in his Pontiac sedan down the West Side Highway along the Hudson River to Seventh Avenue and West 28th Street, where he wished me success and continued on his way. I lost sight of his car in the heavy traffic. With the bag tucked under my arm, I entered stores with street-front windows displaying similar furs. “Not interested,” or “We buy in large quantities,” or “The buyer is not in” ended when one man asked to see my furs. Unwrapping the newspaper. I spread the rabbit, skunk, opossum, and muskrat pelts on the counter. I held the price list, rolled into a hollow tube, and waited for a response from the man who examined my collection. He asked my name, how I had acquired the furs, and where I lived. He smiled, excused himself, entered his office and closed the door. That evening, after my two-hour subway and bus trip back to Yonkers, Reuben Koftoff told me of the telephone call the office had received from the furrier. He was a member of the Big Brothers, an organization of businessmen giving their time and money to The Home. When the furrier asked how much I wanted for all the pelts, I referred to the price list, identifying each fur by size with the values listed. He wrote a check for the full price asked. What began as a boy’s search for adventure in a secluded wilderness playground has continued to this day; always nourishing me still as it did many years ago. NOTES 1. Editors Note: Prior to Mr. Koftoff’s second or third year as HNOH executive director, all the boys, from the youngest to the oldest, attended daily synagogue services in the morning and in the evening; Saturday mornings and on holy days services ran from two hours to all day. 2. Editor’s Note: A dozing boy in the “old days” would have been swatted hard on the head and warned of future punishment to come.

PART 4 PRECIPITATING FACTORS AND THE DARK SIDE

23 Traumas Samuel Prince

In my opinion, all, or at least most of us, myself included, suffered a grievous trauma simply by being eligible for admittance to The Home. Too many of us were admitted without any psychological preparation, without being accompanied by an understanding guardian or by a loving family member. Entrance to the “H” was only the beginning of many other traumas. To be eligible for admission, one’s parents or guardian had to have died, been divorced, had a mental or physical disability, suffered an accident, been a drug addict, or been impoverished, abused, or abandoned. These accidents of fate lead me to believe that if psychological profiles had been taken when we entered the “H” one might justifiably predict that many of us would be misfits, uneducable, mentally unbalanced, or even criminals. For example, I entered the Israel Orphan Home in 1924 at three years of age and remained there until 1928. Between then and 1931, I lived with my father, stepmother, sister Sylvia (ten years older than me), and brothers Nathan and Harry, eight and four years my senior, respectively. In that period my stepmother’s baby died and she ceased taking care of us. One day she yelled to my father, “Why didn’t one of your four children die instead of my one?” When she tried to hit my sister and brothers, they struck back at her. So she would wait until she had me alone and then she would thrash me, using whatever pretext she could think of as an excuse. Finally, I ignored her threats and warnings against telling my father about being abused by her. My father divorced her in 1931 in a Rabbinical Court and Sylvia went to live with an uncle; my brother Harry and I entered HNOH in

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December 1931, where I was to remain until June 1940. Nathan stayed with our father. Thus, it is astonishing that the vast majority of us in my generation graduated from high school, served honorably in the armed forces during World War II, supported our families, and raised our children to be good citizens. My own family is the most important part of my life. I married Jane Emelie Frazer in 1952. My three sons, each married and themselves parents, are [in 1997] David Samuel Prince, M.D., 45; Jack Frazer Prince, 42, optometrist; and Master Sergeant William Matthew Prince, 39, now retiring from the United States Air Force.

24 One Small Stone Sam George Arcus

It was April and 1929 had so far been a good year for some people on Wall Street—a sharp contrast with Willett Street on New York’s Lower East Side where our tenement flat was filled with much activity, bewildering for a sevenyear-old just returned from school along with his eight-year-old brother, Alex. Neighbors and strangers were milling about babbling in Yiddish and English, but mostly “Yinglish.” I looked at Alex. “What’s going on, Alec?” He shrugged his shoulders. “I dunno. Let’s ask Mamma,” and he disappeared into the milling mob. But Mamma was nowhere in sight. I thought I caught a glimpse of Pappa and Tante Sonia. What was Pappa doing home at 3:30 P.M.? And why was Tante Sonia here? I tried to follow Alex but being small I couldn’t push through the jungle of legs and thighs. So, I scrunched up against the nearest wall and waited, and listened. “What a terrible tragedy. Did she really jump or did she fall? God will never forgive her if she jumped,” said Mrs. Stein, our fat upstairs neighbor. “Who knows if she jumped or fell. But does it make a difference?” was the reply. Somebody fell or jumped off something, that much I gathered. I listened intently. “Such a young woman. How old was she—thirty-eight?” another neighbor asked. Mrs. Stein shook her head. “Nein. She was thirty-four, only a year younger than me. And she didn’t have any family. At least I never met anyone from her side. Ach, terrible, terrible.”

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Who was she talking about? I edged closer to hear better and they suddenly became aware of my presence. “Sha . . . shtill! Sholem is listening to every word we’re saying,” Mrs. Stein said. Which was true; and it didn’t matter whether they spoke English, Yiddish, or Yinglish since I was fluent in all. My smile vanished, however, as they began speaking in Russian, which I did not understand. I returned to my wall and slunk to the floor. Finally, Pappa and Tante Sonia—yes, they were there—cleared the apartment. I rushed to hug him but he put me off with a curt, “Later, Sholem.” His blue eyes were red and he kept biting his lower lip. I clutched his hand. “Pappa, what’s happening? Where’s Mamma, Pappa?” Pappa shook his head. “You stay here in the parlor with Tante Sonia.” He went into his bedroom with Alex, where I spotted my two-year-old sister Henrietta, miraculously still asleep. The door closed and I was alone with Tante Sonia. She sat down near me, took my hand in hers, but said nothing. Her blue eyes were tearful, her reddish hair in disarray. “Where’s Mamma?” I implored. She bit her lower lip (just like Pappa) but didn’t answer. I repeated my question, “Where’s Mamma?” She blinked back the tears. “Mamma went away—far away.” I felt my hand being squeezed. “Why? Where? When will she come back?” The tears streamed down her pretty face. Choking, she rasped, “She is not coming back.” I persisted. “But where did she go? Why did she go away? And why isn’t she coming back?” “Sha!” she exploded. “So many questions!” She darted into the bedroom where Pappa was with Alex, and I was very alone. My fears mounted. Mamma must be very sick. Lately, she had been behaving as if in great pain. I remembered coming home from school one day. Mamma was sitting in a dark corner with a faraway look in her eyes. She had not even greeted me or asked about Alex (who had gone directly to Hebrew School). Henny was sitting on the floor in the opposite corner, fearfully quiet. “What’s the matter, Mamma?” I asked. Mamma peered at the two of us. Suddenly she scooped Henny into her lap and clutched me to her bosom, squeezing me. “Oh, my darlings, my little ones,” she sobbed. “Why must I suffer so?” I managed to pull away. “Mamma, what’s the matter?” “Memories, my darling,” she replied. “God is punishing me.” “Why? What did you do?” She started to speak, paused and said: “No, you wouldn’t understand. You shouldn’t know anyway. Come, have some milk. It’s time for Yenta to have her

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nap.” When I heard her refer to Henny as “Yenta” I knew my mother was back with us. Tante Sonia, Pappa, and Alex emerged from the bedroom. Pappa said that he had to do something, put on his coat, and left. Tante Sonia went into the kitchen to prepare supper and for the first time in hours I was alone with Alex in the parlor. “Alec, where’s Mamma?” “Mamma is dead,” he replied somberly. “What do you mean, dead?” I persisted. He looked at me, not certain what to make of the question, then replied, “Dead is dead! Finished!” I looked at my brother. He was only a little over a year older than me, and while we got along most of the time, we quarreled a good deal. I didn’t like his answer, probably because I didn’t understand. Many times while playing Cowboys and Indians we would shout: “Bang, bang, you’re dead!” And Alex would fall down “dead.” Or I would fall “dead.” And yet, we would always get up and continue to play or otherwise go about the business of living. He stared back at me, exasperated, and repeated: “Mamma won’t be coming back, never. Because, when you’re dead, you’re dead a long, long time.” He did not cry or otherwise betray any feeling, so how could I believe him? “How did she get dead? Did someone shoot her?” “Naw,” he replied matter-of-factly, “she fell outta a window. Pappa said she was sick and fell outta a high window.” Sick? I knew it! Mamma was sick! But falling out of a window? Hey, the neighbors had been talking about my mother. “How did she fall outta a high window?” I asked. Tante Sonia suddenly interjected, “Nein! Not so! Your Mamma didn’t fall out of a window. She threw herself off the roof!” “Pappa said she fell,” Alex retorted. “Pappa is not a liar!” He glared at her. I glared also. “Oy, your poor Pappa,” Tante Sonia exclaimed. “Look what your Mamma did to him. She threw herself off a roof. She didn’t care about her children. She didn’t care about my poor brother. She killed herself!” Alex looked like he was going to explode, but then Henny emerged crying and rubbing her eyes. Tante Sonia tried to comfort her but Henny looked around and called: “Mamma? I want Mamma!” Tante Sonia burst into tears, dashed into my parents’ bedroom, and slammed the door. We three sat silently looking at each other, and then Pappa finally came home. We rushed to him, bombarding him with questions: “Why did Mamma throw herself off a roof? Why—huh, why?” “Who says this!” Pappa shouted. “Tante Sonia,” we replied in unison and pointed to the bedroom his sister had retreated into. He stormed into the bedroom and we heard shouting. Then quiet, and the two emerged, red-eyed, clutching each other. “All right,” Pappa said. “I finished all the arrangements for tomorrow’s funeral. So, let’s eat and go to sleep.”

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We ate a light supper and went to our tiny bedroom. But Alex and I, lying in the same bed, couldn’t sleep. I pestered him for whatever information he had, and he whispered the following: “Mamma left Henny with Mrs. Stein and walked over to Orchard Street supposedly to do shopping. For some reason she walked up the four flights of the Orchard Street tenement and either fell or jumped from the hallway window or the roof. An ambulance took her to the hospital where, with her last breath, she identified herself. The police got the address where Pappa worked and brought him home.” “Stop talking in there and go to sleep!” Pappa shouted. The walls separating our bedroom from the kitchen were paper-thin. “Yes, Pappa; good night, Pappa,” we said. But still we could not sleep and we could hear Pappa talking with Tante Sonia. “It’s not only that our firstborn Solly died so horribly swallowing pieces of glass,” he said. “It was an accident,” Tante Sonia answered. “As a mother, I can understand how terrible it was, especially for Mollie. But normal people pull themselves together and go on living. Not Mollie. Nathan, you must admit she was becoming more and more peculiar, always so moody and depressed. You told me yourself the arguments were getting worse.” “That’s true. But now I realize she couldn’t help herself. It wasn’t just Solly’s death that was eating at her.” “You mean finding out about Bashya and the other children?” Sonia asked. “Yes,” Pappa replied. “How would you feel to suddenly discover that your husband’s first wife and two children were still alive in Poland? And, that in your mind at least, you were living in sin?” “Nathan, that’s nonsense! Everyone believed Bashya and the children were killed in the pogrom in Odessa. Who could know that a year later they would show up in Nesvizh, Poland—over 500 miles away! Besides, the rabbi absolved you and Mollie and granted you the divorce from Bashya. Nathan, those things had absolutely nothing to do with Mollie throwing herself off a roof without a thought for her husband and children!” “Wow! Did ya hear all that?” Alex whispered, poking me in the ribs. “Yeah,” I whispered back. “But what’s a pogrom, Alec? And where’s Odessa?” “I dunno. But I know Tante Sonia’s a big liar,” Alex said, his voice rising above a whisper. “Yeah, she is,” I agreed, also above a whisper. “Aren’t you two asleep yet?” Pappa shouted. “Go to sleep, now!” Evidently Pappa and Tante Sonia realized they better stop their own talking. The kitchen light went out and we heard fading footsteps. The sliver of light under the kitchen door disappeared, and Alex and I lay in total darkness listening to each other’s breathing. After a while I asked, “Alec, you sleeping?” For an answer, only the deep breathing of one asleep. But I couldn’t sleep. My mind churned. Suddenly, I understood an experience

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about a year before involving Mamma, me, and glass. We had gone to the roof to hang the laundry. Henny was asleep with Alex as baby-sitter. It had rained and there were glistening puddles galore all over the pitted roof. The sun raced from puddle to puddle and I raced the sun across the slippery tar. I slipped and fell, my arms outstretched to brace myself against the fall. My right hand crunched into something jagged and sharp, a broken bottle. Blood gushed forth. I was more frightened than hurt at first, but quickly a dull, aching pain coursed from my hand through my arm to the shoulder. And all the while the blood continued spurting. “Mamma, Mamma!” I yelled. “I fell on glass. My hands hurts!” Mamma, eyes and mouth agape, stood frozen for a moment and then wailed: “No! No! God—no! Not again!” She scooped me up and raced down the four flights to Dr. Friedman’s office. Fortunately, he was in to administer the necessary first aid, a half-dozen stitches in the right hand opposite the thumb. I had never seen Mamma look so white and wide-eyed. She wrung her hands, moaning and rocking herself. “Now Mollie, relax,” Dr. Friedman said. “Sholem is very lucky. Another inch higher and he would have cut his wrist and that would have been very bad. But everything is all right now. Mollie?” Mamma moaned and rocked. “God is reminding me. He is punishing me. He will never let me forget.” “Don’t be foolish,” Dr. Friedman replied. “Be grateful to God for sparing this child.” Mamma shook her head and we returned to our flat. I was delighted with Alex’s attention to my heavily bandaged hand and with his interest in my detailed account of what had happened. Mamma settled herself into what was now her favorite corner and swayed back and forth moaning, “Why don’t you leave me alone—please stop; please leave me alone.” Alex and I stared at each other but said nothing. I lay in bed troubled by the recollection. Alex began to snore, but I hesitated to poke him as I usually did. I wasn’t in the mood to start a fight. The things Tante Sonia said about Mamma also troubled me: about Mamma becoming more and more peculiar. And yet, Tante Sonia wasn’t the only one who felt that way. I recalled another incident not long before. Mamma and I were down in the candy store on the street level of our tenement, the social center of the block. Mamma was very deliberate dealing with the proprietor. “Max, what can you do for us today?” “How about a nice egg cream, Mollie?” Max replied. Some older boys in the candy store whispered, giggled, and pointed to Mamma. “Hey, Mollie!” one blurted out. “How are you today?” Max cautioned the boys. “Behave yourselves or get out!” But they persisted. “Hear any voices lately, Mollie?” one asked. “Is the bogeyman after you, Mollie?” a second boy followed up. Mamma looked pained. “Stop it. Why don’t you leave me alone?”

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“Ha, ha—meshuganah Mollie. . . . Ya, ya, crazy Mollie!” “That’s enough!” Max said. “Out—get out! From Jewish boys yet! Disgusting! I’m very sorry, Mollie.” Mamma and I returned to the apartment without refreshments. She was upset and troubled. She went to her corner to moan and rock, and I went to my bedroom bewildered. I lay in the dark very confused. I must have dozed off after all, for the next thing I knew Alex was shaking me. “Get up! Today is Mamma’s funeral.” “Mamma’s funeral?” I repeated. Funerals are for dead people. Oh, yeah, Mamma is dead; she’s not coming back, I remembered. Clara Stein, our upstairs neighbor’s 15-year-old daughter came to baby-sit Henny. The funeral parlor was located on our block on the opposite side of the street at the corner. It filled rapidly with friends, neighbors, and a few relatives. “You notice that the relatives are all from Nathan’s side of the family?” one of the neighbors whispered. “Nobody’s here from Mollie’s side.” I wondered: was it really possible that Mamma was all alone in America except for Pappa? Didn’t every “greeneh” have to have a sponsor? Who was Mamma’s sponsor? Why wasn’t he here? I turned to my brother, “Alec, is the whole family here?” “I dunno. Let’s ask Cousin Harry.” To get to Harry, Tante Sonia’s 12-yearold son, at the opposite end of the funeral parlor, we pushed through milling adults and passed a narrow, six-foot long wooden box placed inconveniently in the room’s middle. “Hesh, is the whole family here?” Alex asked. Cousin Harry, short, brownhaired and blue-eyed, replied: “Well, the family in America is here. Those in Russia ain’t here.” “Russia? Who’s in Russia?” I asked. Harry explained that grandparents, two uncles and 13 aunts were back in Russia. He added that his mother was the youngest girl, but whether any were still alive after the World War, the Russian Revolution, and the Civil War and all the pogroms, he wasn’t sure. “I’ll ask my mother,” he said. He started toward Tante Sonia who suddenly let out a shriek and hurled herself upon the long, narrow box. “Mollie! Mollie! What have you done? Why, Mollie? Why?” Cousin Harry stopped short, open-mouthed. Alex and I stared too. I asked Harry: “Why is she doing that, Hesh? What’s in the big box?” He stared at me in disbelief. “That’s the coffin your mother is in, you dope,” he answered. I shook my head. No, it couldn’t be. Pappa, eyes red and puffed, tried to console his sister and to pry her loose from the coffin. But Tante Sonia continued screaming: “Mollie, why did you do this to my brother? To your children? To me? Mollie, Mollie! Why?” Her shrieking started a chorus of wails, moans, and screams, a pulling of hair, and a beating of breasts. Frightened, I clutched Alex’s arm and noted tears streaming down his cheeks. Everyone was in tears except me. Mrs. Stein’s fat, hulking frame suddenly towered reproachfully over me. “Sholem, why aren’t you cry-

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ing? Your poor Mamma lies in that coffin and you just stand there. For shame! What kind of son are you?” Filled with fear and now shame, I burst into tears. Mrs. Stein walked off satisfied. Alex put his arm around me. “Aw, don’t listen to that fat dope.” Cousin Esther Gold, here from Philadelphia for the funeral, came toward us. She smiled, sat on a nearby chair and gathered the two of us around her. “Boys, do you know what has happened? Do you understand what is happening now?” Alex nodded, so I started to nod too, but caught myself. “No!” I blurted. “Why did Mamma hafta die?” Esther blinked back the tears. “Your Mamma’s gone to heaven to be with her parents, her Uncle Moishe, and your little brother Solly.” “Who’s Uncle Moishe?” Alex asked. “He was your mamma’s sponsor,” she replied. “He died shortly after she married your pappa.” I asked again, giving Alex a dirty look, “Why did Mamma hafta die?” Esther cleared her throat and pulled us closer. “Your Mamma became very sick because of so many bad things happening.” I stared at her. “Like Solly swallowing glass and dying?” I asked. Esther nodded. “Yes, that amongst other things.” Alex then asked Esther if she knew about Pappa’s first wife and children. Her eyes widened. She looked at her husband Ben, standing behind her, and then back at us. “So you know about that, too? Well, you might as well hear the whole story.” She cleared her throat and continued: “You know, there was this poet, Robert Burns, who once wrote that the best plans often go astray— they don’t work out. And I’m afraid that’s what happened to your pappa. He came to America from Odessa—that’s in Ukrainia, a part of Russia, alone without his wife Bashya and their two children, Manya and Herschel. Manya was two-and-a-half years old and Herschel was only six weeks old when Nathan left.” “Why didn’t he take them with him?” I interjected. Alex elbowed me and said, “Why don’t you stop interrupting and let Cousin Esther tell the story!” “It’s a good question,” Esther said. “Most immigrants couldn’t afford to take their families. So, like Nathan, they came alone, worked very hard and saved every penny to bring over their families. But, in the two years that Nathan worked and saved in America another problem developed in Odessa with Nathan’s youngest sister, Sonia. She was beautiful, unmarried, and running around with non-Jewish soldiers. The family pressured Nathan to have Sonia go to America on Bashya’s visa and passport. Naturally, the children wouldn’t go without their mother, so Sonia came alone to Nathan in America. Everybody thought this would only be a temporary delay, but—and here’s where Robert Burns was so right—nobody expected the Great War to break out, and then the Russian Revolution and Civil War and all the pogroms.” Cousin Esther sighed. “Oh, yes, the pogroms: the one in Kharkov wiped out

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Mollie’s entire family. She was lucky to have gone to America before the war broke out. And the pogrom in Odessa killed most of the Jews there. Your pappa was notified that his whole family, including Bashya and the children were killed. And when Nathan went to a memorial service, that’s where he met your mother, Mollie. And they married—maybe too quickly, because about a year later Nathan heard from Bashya’s hometown in Poland that she and the children showed up there.” “How come they weren’t killed in the pogrom?” Alex asked. “Yeah, and how come it took so long to find out?” I chimed in. Cousin Esther fidgeted in her chair. “Well, I don’t know everything. But we were told that Bashya and her children were put into the secret celler that the family in Odessa had built, and they hid there for more than a day and night before coming out. The whole house was burned to the ground. It was very dangerous, so Bashya and the children traveled only by night—a few miles each night—and hid during the day. And even though Nesvizh, her hometown in Poland, was only 500 miles away, it took all that time for her to get home.” The wailing and weeping subsided as Esther finished her story. “The services are about to begin,” she said. The story of Bashya and her children was sad. But it also bolstered my hopes. See—everyone thought she and her children were dead—and they weren’t after all. The same was probably true of Mamma. I went with Alex to join Pappa sitting up front beside the casket. Behind us sat our small American family; neighbors and friends filled the other chairs. The cantor sang the “Song of the Dead,” and the weeping began again, but more subdued. The rabbi, a short man with a long white beard, large square skullcap, and long black coat covered by a full prayer shawl, spoke softly in Yiddish and Hebrew: “What is man? In the morning he ariseth—only to be cut down at night.” I didn’t understand. Mamma was not a man. And who cuts down? And why? “Pappa, Pappa, what is he saying?” I asked. “Sha—shtill!” Pappa admonished. The rabbi continued: “Such a young woman—in her prime—what are we to believe? We are created in God’s image. To destroy oneself is to destroy God! I want to believe that Mollie would not want to destroy God. . . .” What is he talking about? I knew my mother would never want to destroy anyone, least of all God. All these words. The voice droned on. “And so dear bereaved family. . . .” I looked at Alex. He was looking at the long, narrow box, the coffin. Hesh said my mother was in there. She couldn’t be. It was so narrow and looked so very uncomfortable. The rabbi’s voice boomed: “But there remains a bereaved husband and three helpless children—who will care for them?” Tante Sonia screamed: “I will care for them! Yes—I will look after all of

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them, my brother and his children. Your children, Mollie! I will care for all of them!” The rabbi looked surprised. He had not expected a direct reply to his rhetorical question. “Of course, my dear Sonia, of course.” Pappa comforted his sister. The rabbi adjusted his prayer shawl and continued. “Who is to say what God has in mind? Who is to question his ways? The Almighty is merciful; He will forgive. We will go to the synagogue to ask his understanding.” The Rabbi stepped down. The coffin was wheeled out and placed inside a black hearse and the hearse moved ever so slowly down Willett Street and around the corner toward the large synagogue on Orchard Street. We walked sadly behind the hearse which now stopped in front of the synagogue. The casket was not brought inside but left in the hearse, its rear double doors open. The rabbi mounted the steps and turned to the throng to explain that because there was some question about suicide, the casket could not be brought into the sanctuary itself. Angrily Pappa protested: “Nein! It was an accident! It is not right what you are saying and doing!” Cousin Esther calmed Pappa and the rabbi continued. “The Almighty is compassionate. He understands. He forgives. We will now recite the Kaddish.” He recited the Mourner’s Prayer and Pappa, Sonia, Esther, and all the others joined in. Even though we did not know the prayer, Alex and I mouthed the sounds. The doors of the hearse were closed and from around the corner, several large black limousines arrived to take us to the cemetery. I had never been inside a cemetery. It was not a pretty sight. Row upon row of headstones, some large, but most pitifully small, close together, crowding upon each other just like the East side ghetto tenements. Was it deliberately designed so that those coming to their final resting place could be in familiar congested surroundings? We left the limousines and walked past a few rows of monuments to a freshly dug hole, on one side of which rested the coffin. I scanned the circle of faces, red eyes, and tear-stained cheeks. Pappa bit his lower quivering lip. His right hand clutched Alex, who in turn held my hand. Tante Sonia, her husband Chaim, and their three sons stood stone-faced. And rounding out the family were cousins Esther and Ben. Behind them were the Steins and some neighbors. It began to rain and I thought the sky was crying for my mother. The men with the shovels shifted impatiently. Someone from Pappa’s Landsmanshaft Fraternal and Burial Society stepped forward and made some remarks. I felt Alex poking me in the ribs and saw him pointing to the casket being lowered into the hole in the ground. It was then that I felt the full impact of my mother’s death and a panic seized me as I burst into tears. Lower and lower went the coffin. My mother was in that coffin! “Mamma! Mamma! Come back, Mamma,” I shouted in Yiddish and lunged toward the open grave.

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Pappa grabbed me. “Sha mein kind,” he whispered hoarsely. “Be strong— and happy. Mamma now goes to heaven.” “I want Mamma!” I wailed. But the casket rested on the bottom and Pappa, to my horror, stepped forward, took a shovel, loaded it with dirt, and cast it into the hole. The thud of the soil and pebbles hitting the casket sent shivers through me. Uncle Chaim followed Pappa’s action. Ben and Esther took their turns. Tante Sonia scooped up a handful of soil and threw it in. Then Alex threw in his handful. Now it was my turn. “Sholem, you must do this.” Pappa commanded. “I don’t want to!” I cried. “You must!” everyone chorused. Frightened, I relented. I picked up one small stone and dropped it gently into my mother’s grave. It hit the casket with a dull thud, and Mollie, my mother, found her eternal rest.

25 My Dear Aunts Told Me Ira A. Greenberg

It was nighttime and it was all very confusing. I was five years old and standing in my crib in the living room. What was a five-year-old doing in a crib? Well, the crib had been brought out of storage because my bedroom in this small apartment in the Bronx had been taken over by two of my aunts: Rose Kerner, the eldest of four daughters and two sons, and Ethel Gottlober, the third sister. My mother was the second oldest sister. Aunt Rose lived in Jersey City, New Jersey, and Aunt Ethel lived in mid-Manhattan. My Aunt Ina, the youngest daughter and unmarried, lived a few blocks away with my grandparents and, thus, did not need a place to sleep in our apartment. I knew my mother was sick but even with the constant presence of my aunts and their caring activities I could not believe it was so serious. It was a very confusing time for me as I stood there in my crib puzzled about all the activity and aware that when passing by my corner of the room my aunts would look at me with concern. I could not understand these compassionate looks and at times I giggled in embarrassment or in not knowing what was expected of me. And then it all changed. Instead of the constant moving about, the hurrying through the living room from the kitchen to my parents’ bedroom, and the various conferences and side conversations among the confusing number of adults, everything ceased. There was a sudden silence. And then the sobs broke out among the women and teary-eyed they kept looking at me. I felt uncomfortable with this piercing attention. I remember smiling at them and then looking away. I wanted to hide, but there was nowhere to hide, and so I stood in the crib, confused and uncertain. I felt that there was something I should do, but I didn’t know what. Then they told me. My dear aunts told me that my mother had died of double pneumonia that developed out of a cold she had caught from me.

26 “Chick” Baker, Battered but Unbeaten Richard G. Safran

It has been said by one of his HNOH contemporaries that Charles “Chick” Baker was beaten by every supervisor in The Home who was inclined to cause damage to kids. That is true, and it was no accident. It has to do with the remarkable things Chick did for the boys and young men who were his responsibility in the world of coaching and athletics. These are stories worth telling, but what is most remarkable is that the supervisors who went after Chick did so because they recognized that his was the kind of spirit that breeds resistance to injustice. Chick was the incarnation of youth outraged—outraged by the physical abuse he witnessed and by authority misused. It was not a position he sought. No one enjoys being a lightning rod for authority’s anger, but there are points many of us reach—many but not all—where the existential issues demand, as Albert Camus, French writer and World War II Resistance leader, put it: “Rebellion, Resistance or Death.” We have our own traditions and our own heroes. Oscar Horowitz, Lou Resnick, and Manny Cohen led the “Great Potato Rebellion” against unjust HNOH authority—and won. In this act, instead of coming in for evening prayers and supper in the late 20s or early 30s, all of the boys remained in the potato field where they had been harvesting, and when the staff came after them the boys held them at bay by throwing potatoes at them. The supervisors eventually gave in and agreed to make some changes in their unjust rules and acts. Those young rebels joined the ranks of the Maccabees. During the 20s and 30s, a number of untrained drifters found jobs in our orphanage. They knew no other way of maintaining control except by physically punishing those boys who defied authority. These men, threatened by a direct

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look or a question, viewed such boys as “smart-ass,” even by the body language explicit in erect posture, a posture which bespoke a spirit unbroken and uncowed. These men responded with violence to a boy who “had to be taught a lesson.” Many of us witnessed similar behavior by boys who stood up to bullies and we know that, unlike movie solutions, the good guys kept resistance and morale up by paying a price in pain, harassment, and special attention by the bad guys. Chick talks about his championship athletic teams, which have been spotlighted earlier,1 but Chick Baker, the 17-year-old who stood up to that sadistic bully known as “The Colonel,” did more than anyone to shelter his mates and the younger kids from harm by his quiet refusal to accept injustice without some gesture of resistance. Each time he paid for that resistance. By deflecting the attention from others to himself, he provided a sheltering umbrella for the orphan brothers he loved so unashamedly and without reservation. We are grateful. While Chick acknowledges that some bad things happened during his HNOH years, he never viewed his HNOH life as a bad thing. Men like Harry Lucacher not only made a positive difference in his life, they taught him how to do the same for others. And Chick himself became a teacher even to my generation of HNOH kids. NOTE 1. See Chapter 11.

27 Sex at and in HNOH Sam George Arcus

Being the only all-boy Jewish orphanage in the metropolitan New York City area undoubtedly influenced the subject (and practice) of sex at HNOH. It is strange—yet understandable—that publicly not much was said about the subject and its private manifestations, but privately it was a favorite subject, particularly among the pubescent and adolescent boys—a very natural and normal thing. To my knowledge, and memory, no one ever spoke to us about the subject. We had numerous lectures on personal hygiene, dental care, and similar topics, but never about sex, or the bodily, emotional, and psychological changes that were afflicting pubescent and adolescent boys. In thinking about the issue, I tried to organize it in some logical way—with difficulty. For example, I thought I’d deal with it as follows: 1. Exploratory and Experimental Sex 2. Consensual Sex 3. Predatory Sex I (Older Boy with Younger Boy) 4. Predatory Sex II (Supervisor with Boy)

EXPLORATORY AND EXPERIMENTAL SEX This was probably the most natural and common of the sexual experiences in The Home. Natural and common because they were the same experiences encountered by boys outside as well as inside an institution’s gates. They were the products of developing hormones and awakening mental/emotional stimuli,

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often assisted by illicit “sexy” or “girlie” magazines making the rounds through the junior and senior dorms. The giggling whispers would ultimately give way to comparisons of respective genitals, which in turn would give way to mutual touching, stimulation, and finally “jerk-off” contests to see who could ejaculate the fastest or farthest. Or conversely, who could hold off the longest. And while these contests were accompanied with some degree of guilt about doing something “bad,” still there was also a feeling of it being something natural. But nobody was there to help us sort out these dilemmas. Monthly Socials The Home made some efforts to ameliorate the consequences of the all-male environment by instituting a series of monthly “socials.” With the assistance of the White Plains Ladies Auxiliary, about 15 to 20 girls were brought to The Home one Saturday evening a month to dance and otherwise socialize with The Home boys. A Social Club was organized from amongst members of the senior dorm, whose main function was to organize dance classes for the boys along with lessons in social etiquette. And many, though not all, boys took advantage of those opportunities. But to what extent the monthly socials helped to ameliorate the problems of being an all-boys institution is difficult to assess. Some boys boasted of “going all the way” with some of the girls, although this was probably highly unlikely, given the extreme measures taken to assure that no couple could wander off to any of the building’s dark and hidden recesses. Between the supervisors, monitors, and ladies from the White Plains Auxiliary, all serving as chaperones, any boy or girl was lucky to be able to make it to a bathroom and back without being shadowed. So how helpful were the monthly socials? Probably like chicken soup, they didn’t hurt. Maybe! Or did they aggravate the situation for the rest of the month? Did they further stimulate desires that could not be fulfilled? Which brings us to the incident in the Infirmary, involving myself and (let’s call him) Dan. One might argue that this incident more properly belongs in the Predator I category. And yet I’m inclined to include it in this section. I was once again a patient in the Infirmary from another bout with my osteomyelitis. It was about 9 P.M. when 17-year-old Dan,* a senior assigned to assist Nurse Flanagan, came to talk to me about his crush on one of his female teachers at Roosevelt High School. In the process of describing his feelings, he fondled his crotch and then took out his expanding penis, stroking it all the while. It was the first time I had seen an erection of a nearly adult male and certainly the first time witnessing an ejaculation. Throughout the exercise, Dan extolled the virtues of his crush—her breasts, buttocks, hair, lips. And all the while explaining that he simply had to “get rid of some energy.” At no point did he involve me physically in his actions. When finished, he simply said: “Sammy, that’s what’s called jerking off—or mastur-

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bation, in fancy language.” And I inquired whether it hurt, considering that there had been so much pulling and tugging. And he assured me, to the contrary. I think you can see why I chose to include this incident in this section. CONSENSUAL SEX It was but a small step from the exploratory and experimental to the engaging, in one form or another, of consensual sex. By this I mean where two boys (usually of the same age, give or take a year) would pleasure themselves and ultimately each other. I recall one incident in which Jerry* and Harry* (both 14) in the junior dorm, aroused each other to the point that Jerry lay behind Harry—on Harry’s bed—and engaged in anal sex. They were surrounded by about ten of us, observing the scene and at the same time providing a protective screen as well as a warning system of the approach of any monitor or supervisor. Both boys were evidently enjoying the experience, yet again I wondered about the pain, if any, involved in the exercise. Jerry denied any pain; Harry admitted to some “in the begining.” I don’t know if the two boys repeated the exercise, either with each other, or with others. It was something we didn’t pursue, regarding it strictly as a private matter. I don’t remember ever again witnessing such a public display, but it was common knowledge that such things went on, and some speculation was indulged in as to who was doing what to whom, or when or where. As long as it was “consensual,” it was nobody’s business but the “consensees.” What did concern us more was the predatory activity. PREDATORY I (OLDER BOYS WITH YOUNGER BOYS) Shortly after my arrival at HNOH, at age seven and a half, an older boy of about 15 or 16 involved me in an incident, about which I wrote in a “Deja View” column called “Wanna Make a Nickel?” In it I described how Chester (not necessarily his real name) approached me, asking that question, and how innocently I followed him to behind The Home’s apple orchard, where he lowered my pants and underwear, had me turn around, and proceeded to sodomize me. Although I felt some discomfort, I had no idea what he was doing, thinking only of what I would buy with the nickel he was to give me. It lasted only a few uncomfortable minutes and when he told me to pick up my underwear and pants, I did so and asked for my nickel. He told me he didn’t have it with him and that he’d give it to me later. At least a day passed and when I next saw him and asked him for my nickel, he led me to a toilet in The Home’s basement, saying he’d now give me two nickels, and once again proceeded to sodomize me—at which point an older boy stumbled in and demanded to know what the hell Chester thought he was *Not their real names.

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doing! I blithely informed Sid that Chester was going to give me two nickels. And Sid said he sure was, but the next time he caught Chester doing such a thing he’d “beat the shit” out of him. And I now knew, for certain, that what I had been involved in was a “bad thing.” But Sid made certain that I got my dime. “The Rape of Barry Kaye” Years later, as an adult out of The Home, I wrote a short story, “The Rape of Barry Kaye,” based on some incidents involving two different boys victimized by a monitor of the junior dorm. However, I melded the two incidents into one expanded, fictionalized story. Leo, the monitor of the junior dorm, is sexually preying on his charges and selects as his next sexual target, Barry Kaye, recently turned 13. I describe Leo using a variety of sexual advances including “gooses,” probing hands, and suggestive remarks. And that night as Barry is drifting off to sleep Leo climbs into his bed and begins to sexually abuse the boy. Despite Barry’s resistance, including shouting loudly in the hope that other boys in the dormitory would come to his assistance, Leo persists in his advances and after slapping Barry warns the few boys who dare to express disapproval to shut up, mind their own business, and go to sleep. And Leo then proceeds to satisfy himself with the hapless boy, leaving him with the message that the next time would be better for both of them. The sodomized boy had wrestled with the options of “if you can’t lick ’em, join ’em,” or of resisting, and he had tried to resist but to no avail. His dorm mates had done nothing to come to his assistance; his shouting was to no avail. And so sobbing, he fell into a fitful sleep. The next morning Barry Kaye ran away from the orphanage, to his widowed and ailing mother in a tiny tenement flat in New York City’s Lower East Side. But he could not explain to his mother exactly what had happened to him, she speaking and understanding only Yiddish. And for her part, his mother could not conceive any reason for a boy to run away from the orphanage, which was providing him with the care she could not. She tried to convey to him that there was no way that she could care for him. And he assured her that it was the reverse that would be true—that he would care for her. They could not resolve the question that night and so agreed to sleep on it and face it anew in the morning. And the next morning, quite early there was a knocking at the door as they were partaking of a meager breakfast. When the door opened, Leo framed the doorway, smiling and explaining that The Home had sent him to retrieve Barry; that if Barry refused to return with him, he would never again be allowed back at the institution. This message was enough to convince Mrs. Kaye that Barry had to return with Leo. Barry remonstrated that his mother did not realize what she was doing, and angrily left with Leo for the three-hour trip back to the institution. On the train Barry threatened to tell the supervisor upon their return

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of Leo’s “fucking me.” Leo warned against this, threatening to “beat the shit outta ya for as long as I hafta—and I don’t want to do that because I really like ya.” Back at The Home, in the supervisor’s office, Barry tries to explain his running away, but with Leo at his shoulder constantly interjecting his interpretation, and the supervisor’s hearing problem, “fucking me” is distorted by Leo to: “He doesn’t like the plucking of chickens.” And the supervisor, of course, dismisses this excuse impatiently with the observation that if Barry wants to eat chicken he has to pluck chicken. Leo leads the totally frustrated Barry out of the office, telling him how really smart he was in there and alerting him to be ready for him at bedtime. Barry’s dorm mates surround him as he returns to his dorm, plying him with many questions about his running away. And he laments the fact that his dorm mates do not care, or help; that The Home does not protect its charges; that his own mother turned him away. He’s exhausted all his efforts at resistance and now is seriously considering the adage: “If you can’t lick ’em—join ’em.” In bed, with the lights out and most of the kids snoring, Barry again becomes aware of Leo’s presence and his again climbing under Barry’s covers to repeat his assault. And Barry overcomes his inclination to surrender and with the loudest shout he could muster, he yells “Dammit! Leave me alone!” And at that moment the dorm lights blaze on and Barry and Leo see the supervisor and many dorm mates at the foot of Barry’s bed. And I conclude the story with the words: “At last his nightmare was over.” “The Rape of Barry Kaye” and also “Wanna Make a Nickel?” are both included in my book Deja Views of an Aging Orphan. I gave the “Rape” story a happy ending, when, in fact it never ended that way. In most instances younger and weaker boys had to decide “to join ’em” since there was no way they could lick their predators. Sometimes older boys (like Sidney in “Wanna Make a Nickel?”) did intervene to curb the most excessive abuses. PREDATORY II (SUPERVISORS WITH BOYS) I cannot say with any certainty that this activity was rampant or even a frequent occurrence. Nor to my knowledge, can anyone else. Thus, to put it more positively, considering the almost 50-year history of the HNOH and the numbers of boys (totalling 1,500–1,800 over the years) and the many supervisors, the number of incidents of Predatory II category were minimal! I know of just two “allegations,” one told to me by one of my close friends while at The Home, and one told to me just a few years ago by a fellow alumnus at one of our minireunions. The incident, while still in The Home, involved a junior dorm supervisor who was at the HNOH only a very short time. My friend described being called into (let’s call him) Bob’s room and made to completely undress and stand naked in front of the supervisor, who was sitting on his bed. Bob asked my friend

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(let’s call him Dave) a bunch of questions and intermittently slapped Dave, although not too hard. After some time with this inexplicable exercise, Bob ordered Dave to turn around, face the wall, and remain absolutely still—while still naked. And after a short time of this, Dave was told to get dressed, warned not to tell anyone of the experience, and ushered out of the room. Dave and I spent considerable time trying to analyze and understand the man’s behavior. At the time we didn’t know about voyeurism or sadism as being aspects of sexuality. The incident related to me at our mini-reunion involved a senior dorm supervisor—whom we shall call Henry—who was quite popular particularly because of his athletic prowess. Jerry, our fellow alumnus, told me that there were rumors about Henry being involved with some of the boys, but he never really believed any of it—until one day “Henry came on to me!” Jerry explained that he was flustered at first and unsure how to handle the situation. Maybe he was misconstruing all the signs, but as Henry’s intent was made clearer, Jerry rebuffed the overtures as gently as he could, because he truly liked the guy. But finally Jerry had to make himself clearly understood as he walked away from Henry. Although Henry never bothered him again, Jerry was now more sensitized to Henry’s relationship to other boys in the dorm and his opinion of the man dropped sharply. Henry left The Home shortly thereafter. CONCLUSION I make no pretense that my descriptions herein are in any way a scholarly study of the subject. Merely one boy’s experience with the topic. And then, one man’s opinions about those experiences. Did the fact of HNOH’s being the only all-boys institution in the New York City metropolitan area have any lasting negative impact on its 1,500–1,800 charges over a nearly 50-year period? A good question, but one I’m afraid can never have any definitive answer since there were no psychological studies made of the 1,500–1,800 boys. Other studies of similar environments (e.g., Army life, prep schools, and others) have shown no significant lasting impact of the exposure over an extended period to only one sex. During the period of prison incarceration people do resort to homosexuality as a way of fulfilling the compelling sexual urges or of expressing dominance, but once the “restrictions” are gone, they revert to their “natural inclinations.” Empirically, this appears to be true for the alumni of the Hebrew National Orphan Home.

28 “Little Ox,” a Wild and Crazy Guy Ira A. Greenberg

I was 14 when I went hunting with a rifle for the first and last time of my life. I owned a .22 caliber, seven-shot, semiautomatic rifle that I had fired at the rifle range at Roosevelt High School and at a range in the Nepperhan Avenue area of Yonkers. I considered myself a fair shot. I wasn’t a member of The Home’s Hunting and Fishing Club, but I would occasionally drop into the club’s quarters. It was a small room near the north end of the Old Gym that had been built into the stairwell of the staircase that led to the Library and the game room on the second floor, the junior dorm on the third floor, and the senior dorm on the fourth floor. The place had a gamey smell with an overlay odor of skunk. Once I brought a large frog that I had killed with a spear that consisted of a thin tree limb at the head of which I had attached a fork. The key members of the club, then Walter Kuperinsky, Charlie Small, Seymour “Iggy” Wallenstein, and James “Bull” Schneider quickly cut off the legs, cleaned and fried them, and we each ate a very small portion. Mine tasted like chicken, and I enjoyed it. As I’d stated, I wasn’t a member of the club, but I was accepted as a visitor. One day, one of the members, who we’ll refer to as “Little Ox” (because of his great strength), as opposed to “Big Ox” (one of the 18-year-olds who was much bigger and stronger), suggested that the two of us go hunting. This, I happily agreed to. “Little Ox” was 16 at the time, a blond, burly boy a couple of inches taller than me and about 40 pounds heavier. I had always thought of him as a good-natured person. We decided to hunt for small game in a sparsely wooded area across Tuckahoe Road from The Home and just west of the Grassy Sprain Golf Course and our own “B.A.” Creek. When we entered the wooded area, I put my seven-round magazine into the rifle so that it was loaded but

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without a round in the chamber. “Little Ox” inserted a shell into his 12-gauge shotgun, and we proceeded forward. I was in the lead on the narrow path and happily chattering about whatever came to mind. After a while I was aware of a silence. I turned, and there was “Little Ox” about a dozen feet away with his shotgun raised to his shoulder and aimed straight at me. The muzzle looked immense. It looked like a 16-inch Navy gun aimed at me, though I’d never seen one. I could feel a warmth rising in my chest and entering the lower part of my throat. There was nothing I could do in that situation. I finally said, “All right, cut it out, Ox, quit fooling around.” And then he lowered the shotgun, and as he did I could feel the warmth slowly receding from my throat into my chest and down to where it had started from, my upper stomach. We then proceeded on our way, both silent, and I thoroughly frightened. Eventually, we returned home without having shot at anything. I would never again let myself be alone with “Little Ox.” About six months later, “Little Ox” left The Home and found work as a bellhop at a well-known cheap 42nd Street Hotel in New York City, and on a visit to The Home he kept a bunch of us spellbound as he recounted several of the wild sexual events he had experienced or witnessed at the hotel. I felt comfortable listening to these stories because there were more than a half dozen of us present, but I knew that “Little Ox” was a wild and crazy guy and somebody I had better keep my distance from.

29 The Good, the Bad, and the Very Bad Ernest Levinson1

I had been shuttled between foundling homes since early in my first year of birth and placed in a permanent orphanage at or near the age of four in 1927. This orphanage, referred to as the HNOH contained at times nearly 400 boys from around four to 18 years of age in a large, four-story, red-brick, U-shaped building. The Home had formerly been a mental institution of sorts (German Odd Fellows Home). There were staff cottages, a large garage, four divisions of farmland, a large barn with three horses, a long chicken coop, a goat pen, apple and pear orchards, large and small gravel-covered play areas, two sports fields, an outdoor shower area, a dump, and a graveyard. The entire area of over 20 acres was enclosed within thick wire fences on three sides and a stone wall at the rear or north end of the property. The building contained five dormitories when I was admitted, the boys’ and staff dining rooms and kitchens, administrative offices, a medical dispensary, a chapel, classrooms, a library, and single rooms for staff personnel. On the ground floor was a long, low-ceilinged room with pillar supports and benches along each of the long walls. This was known as the Old Gym and was used mainly as a play area on rainy days and in the evenings for roller skating and basketball games. One end, which was at the front of the building beneath the administrative offices and the boys’ dining room, led to a small, PX-type store where candy and other items were sold, and a hallway leading to the maintenance shops, arts and crafts rooms and other club rooms, and the laundry. The opposite end led to the band room, where the instruments, music stands, and folding chairs were stored and beyond that the large New Gym. In the basement

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was a large boiler room, and above the boiler room was a small, enclosed tarroofed structure. Boys, ages four to six, were housed in the “lower dorm,” a long room on the third floor in the east wing that contained about 60 beds. The freshman and intermediate dorms were in the west wing on the third floor, and the junior and senior dorms were on the fourth floor in 1927, just above the freshmen and intermediates. The dormitories in the west wing were wide and long L-shaped rooms with with middle walkways lined with supporting pillars. On both sides of these center walkways were two long parallel rows of beds, set about a foot from each other. Placement in the respective dorms usually depended on age, although size and availability of beds also could be factors in dorm designation. BAD MEMORIES The Home provided clean and warm shelter, good food, clothing, schooling, medical services, sports, monthly dances with girls invited in, movies, trips, a library, and good country farm living during the worst years of a long and severe Depression, which at the time was the best of the possible alternatives to the loss of family living. Yet, after nearly 14 years there, I left The Home with strong negative feelings due to events experienced and witnessed that have not easily sunk into forgetfulness, and they linger to this day. Thus, I have never revisited nor desired to have any contact and association with The Home. This disassociation does not reflect any hatred toward The Home, nor does it show contradictory ambivalence in appreciating what The Home provided. I reject it for the nature of the kinds of unpleasantness experienced and/or witnessed. At my present advanced age, I am prone to forget many things in the past and present. Yet, I can remember much about The Home: good times and bad, including events that tend to lead to unpleasant thoughts and dreams. To this day, I can better recall the faces and names of the bastards in the bad memories, than the many good people in the better ones. From discussions with a psychologist at an Army hospital I came to better understand this seeming contradiction of a Home which was a good place, yet, where bad things happened, and for some boys happened much too often. These discussions brought to light negative attitudes toward The Home shown to relate more to witnessing bad things happening to other boys than with what I was experiencing, although both might be occurring at the same time, such as in group disciplines, as will be related. As unpleasant as the group disciplines were, they were endured and somewhat shared collectively. Whereas, to watch or hear the cries of boys singled out for physical abuse incurred greater feelings of helplessness, anger, and resentment. What is related below might well be difficult to believe. If so, that is not my concern, nor is it my intention to mislead or exaggerate. I touch upon the more general dorm disciplines first since they strongly relate with negative attitudes

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formed then and held now. Without intending to sound melodramatic or cynical, I prefer to leave any association with The Home in the past. Once I have submitted this recollecting overview, as requested, I care not to have my name associated with it in any manner, nor to respond to further requests or references about The Home. I trust this decision will be honored. SUPERVISION AND/OR DISCIPLINE To provide supervision for nearly 400 boys aged four to 18 years within a large orphanage should of necessity require more than rules and discipline. A reasonable balance of competency, mediated by intelligence, understanding, and compassion must also be required. Thus, the overt limitations in these essential qualities among certain dormitory personnel were the main source of problems for many boys. Perhaps this might be unavoidable when employment of such persons was apparently based mainly on accepting low pay, with room and board, during the severe prevailing Depression. The reader might wonder how what is related here could have happened, let alone be tolerated or unreported, in an orphanage purposed to have been otherwise in all its other functions. The Home superintendent, Harry Lucacher, was a good man and a good administrator who would not have tolerated such abusive disciplines, but unfortunately he was not kept apprised of the internal matters relating to dormitory discipline, despite complaints of some of the boys to dorm and other supervisory personnel. One hard lesson learned early was the devious nature of the harassment invoked upon boys for attempting to report. My negative attitude centers not only on the dorm monitors’ use of “big brothers,” older senior-dorm boys, as proxies with the free hand to impose harassment. I know of more than one boy after having complained becoming “prone to accidents” and being badly hurt falling down stairs or slipping in the shower or reported to have been hurt fighting. It is true that while the majority of the supervisory personnel did not effect harassment or subject boys to cruel disciplines their silence in its presence tended to sustain the harsh disciplines. The Saturday morning discipline sessions, instituted by the head supervisor of dormitories, a former Army colonel and purported grandson of the beloved Hans Christian Andersen, were held at 10 A.M. in the Old Gym. The boys were marched in by dorms and held in ranks the entire session. The gym’s pommel horse was set in the middle of the gym, and the session began with the dorm supervisors reading the names and number of demerits for the boys to be disciplined. The boys called were required to walk to the pommel horse, pull down their pants, and bend over the horse and grab the pommels to receive two blows per demerit with The Colonel’s cane. Awaiting one’s turn could be as disturbing as the blows themselves. Some boys had the misfortune to irritate their dorm su-

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pervisors and monitors more than others and tended to earn demerits with unfortunate regularity. It was well into my junior years in The Home when the ex-colonel departed and these sessions were stopped. DETENTION There were, however, other more punitive and less open disciplines that did not stop and that were applied with regularity to the entire dorm. These group punishments could range from loss of sports or playground activities to withholding radio and movie privileges and extra work duties to “assuming positions.” Otherwise known as “detention,” assuming positions was administered mainly within the intermediate and junior dorms and was comprised of three positions: bed-sitting, standing, and deep knee-bending. These group punishments required boys to remain rigidly at attention in any of these positions, often for more than an hour at a time, with the slightest movement by a boy inviting a severe slap to the face, ear, or head by a monitor or supervisor sneaking up from behind; sometimes boys were hit with fists. The “positions” are described below. Bed-sitting. Usually held afternoons on weekends or holidays, it meant loss of free-time activities (mainly sports). We could be required to sit erect in the middle of our beds directly in line with the boy in front of us with arms stretched forward, sideways, or over the head, or with hands folded in front. Standing. This might be given afternoons or in early evenings and required the boys to stand erect and totally immobile in files in the center aisle, with arms stretched forward, sideward, above the head, or, the easiest position, folded tightly behind the back. Sometimes boys would be required to hold a shoe in each hand. Deep Knee-bending. This was the most difficult and painful position. The boys had to be in a knee-bend squat, usually with arms held forward and in some cases boys were required to hold a shoe or pillow in the outstretched hands while seeking to balance themselves on their toes in the typical knee-bend squat. If a boy fell over, he was hit and made to resume the position. This extreme form of punishment was employed with boys who moved while in the standing position or was used after boys were in bed and making noise or moving about after the lights were out; when this occurred boys asleep would be woken up and every boy did the detention.

The basic rules for each position were similar: no movements permitted for any reason for periods, depending on the mood of the monitor or supervisor, ranging from half an hour to well over one or more hours. The boys would all be facing the same direction; this enabled the monitors or supervisors to come up from behind and hit boys they deemed to be moving. Sometimes they walked heavily and at other times so quietly we could only wonder where they were; we would know only when they passed by or from the sounds and cries behind us of boys being hit or kicked. When a nearly unconscious boy would fall, he would lay there until permission was given to help him to his bed. If it happened

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near any of us, we might (we hoped) be told to help. This offered a welcome relief from aching muscles before returning to the line to resume the position. These detention positions were also favored when seeking to identify boys charged with stealing, destructive acts, or talking when the group was supposed to be silent. Sometimes the monitors would have us stand in front of our beds and allow several minutes for the guilty boy to come forward or for us to identify him. Yet, I know of several occasions when the monitors knew the boy(s) responsible but expected us to turn him/them in or be disciplined. In all the years in The Home I know of no occasion when any of us turned in anyone else, although some boys took to punishing the guilty afterward. Physical abuse could range from “flinching” to various levels of beatings. Flinching called for boys scheduled for punishment to stand at attention to receive one to three slaps in the face without flinching or moving one’s head or body. A flinch by a boy anticipating a slap would earn him another slap. Flinching was punishment for a boy’s breaking silence, inattentiveness, lateness, fooling around, being out of ranks, having a poorly made bed, or other minor infractions. It could be administered immediately or be delayed, at the whim of the punisher. The various levels of physical abuse could range from being butt-caned to a visit to the shower or supply room. Being taken to the supply room would usually occur after bedtime. We would sometimes know when a boy was being taken, and feigning sleep, we could hear the hushed warnings for the boy returning not to cry. Harassment, as noted above, can take many unpleasant direct and subtle forms against which there is little protection. These can include being given demerits to constant and more punitive and harmful acts by bully boys assigned as “big brothers” doing the dirty work of the monitors or supervisors, who then can feign innocent concern. I knew, as did others, of occasions in which items said to have been stolen had been “planted” under a boy’s mattress but “found” after a group punishment, thus, incurring the anger of the other boys against the boy who was set up. While the supply room on each of the two upper floors served for the linen, blankets, towels, clothing, and general items for the dorms, they also served other purposes. They were social hangouts for the monitors, “big brothers,” and favored boyfriends, where they would listen to the radio, play cards, and partake of food and drink, even beer. There was also a pile of mattresses with a pillow and blanket for monitors on night watch. At night, the supply room was used to bring boys to for sexual purposes. Some were willing, some were forced, and some resisted but were threatened if they complained to higher authorities. Harassment by the bullying “big brothers” was also more commonly used by some of them, as well as by some of the monitors, than most boys were aware as a ploy to frighten boys and then offer them personal protection and favors as a means toward inducing them to

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grant sexual favors. As experienced, boys who refused were threatened into silence, while boys reporting on these abusers were “fair game” for harassment. SCHOOL Despite the above, I had many good experiences within The Home, and attending school was among the best. The elementary grades were taught in classrooms within the main building. The primary (kindergarten), first, and second grades were held in the mornings on the second floor to provide easy access to the playground. These classrooms also were used in the afternoons for the upper grades. The trade shops (woodworking and maintenance) were on the first floor. All other classrooms were on the fourth floor. There were morning classes for some boys and afternoon classes for others. Different subjects were taught on alternate days, with classes 45 minutes long. We were marched to and from classes, and permission slips were required if a boy needed to be out of a classroom. The boys attending high school were bused to schools in Yonkers or to nearby towns for summer school or walked to Roosevelt High School, a very short distance from The Home. Our teachers were competent, and I liked them. Each Monday chairs were set up in the gym for a music appreciation hour, held at 9:30 A.M. for the morning classes and 1 P.M. for those in the afternoon. We listened to classical music. I liked these music sessions very much; I also liked Mrs. Lipschitz, a nice-looking teacher. Some of the music selections were quite dream-stirring and restful, and perhaps too much so since boys tending to fall asleep could get a rap behind the head; we would try to awaken the dozing boys, especially when they snored. The teachers treated us fairly, although we could get rapped on the knuckles with a ruler for misdemeanors. This was preferable to having a “discipline report” sent to your dorm supervisor, who could take it quite personally. The teachers preferring to give raps generally avoided sending names to supervisors. Mr. Henry (math, science, and gym) and Mrs. Laudenbacher (history, geography, and civics) gave raps as if they were free tickets to a circus, but they were never as painful as we would make them seem. Mr. Henry never tired of telling and showing how he had pitched minor league baseball. He was very tall and well built and might suddenly hurl a chalk eraser at a boy or in giant strides be hovering over him like a dark cloud with ruler in hand. I liked him for his interest in us and for his desire for us to learn. He would often say, “Look, boy, if you don’t learn it now, what will you be on the outside?” Mrs. Laudenbacher, a robust woman, went bananas upon finding dead mice, frogs, or cockroaches in or on her desk or chair or seeing a weird sketch or comment relating to her on the blackboard. She believed we always knew who did it, and usually we did. Thus, when no one confessed, we had to march past

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her desk with our right hand extended, knuckles up. She rapped our knuckles once as we walked past, while often expressing her dislike for having to do so, but it was for our own good, she would say. Yet, she was generous regarding our faults. I never heard of her sending in a disciplinary report on anyone. Mrs. Stebbins, a nice buxom woman, taught literature and had an inordinate love for poetry, as well as for the classics, a love she tried to instill in us. My lasting impressions are of her reading poetry, which we usually encouraged because she tended to become so moved by certain passages she would cry. Mrs. Sutherland, the school principal, was a big, heavy, robust woman, who moved about like an army tank and could berate you like a first sergeant. Despite her being a firm disciplinarian and sounding very intense and serious, she was never unduly harsh and could be gentle and understanding. The quality of the teaching was very good. All classes above the third grade had daily homework. There was a good library in The Home with many interesting books, including large, old historical volumes with many lithographic prints, which I favored. Grade reports were sent to the dorm supervisors at the middle and end of each term. I believe the teachers were not aware that if you obtained less than expected by the supervisors you could expect to be called into their room for “counseling” and usually loss of privileges or be assigned extra hard work. The positive side of this was I developed good study habits, which stayed with me through a doctoral degree. Major Gregory Zundel, the band director, seemed to flourish as a “lothario” (despite his short stature) on Sundays among the mothers and other women visitors. However, during the week, he managed with persistence to get good music out of a boisterous group of boys—and even a few good notes into my tin ears from the French horn. THE “DELI SYSTEM” At the age of 11, on being transferred to the intermediate dorm,2 I was introduced to the “deli system.” We sat ten to each table, and after prayer recitation, the food was served family-style in large bowls or platters to be passed around to each boy. To initiate the deli system, a spoon or fork was bent and then spun. The boy at whom it pointed thereupon decided the direction, right or left, in which the food would be passed. Being two seats at the wrong end from the starter at this first evening meal in the new dorm, my initiation was completed. The bowls and platters passed on to me were empty, except for a little left to be smeared on my plate so as to show food had been eaten. The supervisors knew of this system but usually ignored it. Occasionally, when a table of players was caught the group had to stand behind their chairs and miss the meal. Actually, over the years it averaged out and nobody starved. Although The Home food lacked variety, it was generally good, but somewhat as shown in Oliver Twist, second helpings were rare. Nevertheless, I more often

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than not enjoyed the gambling experience, especially when able to determine the direction of the food, which the Army psychologist regarded as the “need to assert myself within an authoritarian and regimented mileu.” Whatever! KITCHEN DUTIES Boys in the intermediate and junior dorms were assigned a week of kitchen duty about every four weeks. We would rise at 5:30 A.M., wash, dress, make our beds, and report to the dining room at 6 A.M. for early breakfast. Work duties were assigned that included setting tables, serving platters of food and pitchers of milk, clearing and cleaning the tables, sweeping and mopping the dining room floor, washing pots and dishes, and cleaning the kitchen. Also, we prepared the jam, jelly and peanut butter, bologna, and chopped-liver sandwiches, which would be lunch for the boys going to high school. After kitchen and dining room inspection, we would peel hills of potatoes, strip bushels of pea pods, and do other chores in preparation for coming meals. It was busy but not hard work, with good compensation, since we could clean out the leftovers in the big pots and swipe extra food. FARM AND GROUNDS CHORES The farm areas were relatively flat with long gentle swells of rich loam mounds. There were four sections, and at least two crops of vegetables were planted in each. The chores performed by the freshman and intermediate dorms involved picking weeds and stones on the farm, keeping the ground areas clean, raking leaves, sweeping the outside steps, and whitewashing the picket fences around the cottages and around the big front lawn. These chores were easy yet boring, except for raking leaves, which we would form into big piles and often dive into from trees above. Boys from the junior dorm weeded, picked, and loaded the vegetables and fruit onto wagons, which then were taken to be boxed by senior boys. Also we cleaned and maintained the large chicken coop (collecting, cleaning, and boxing the eggs) and goat pens and shoveled snow and debris under the guidance of senior “big brothers,” some of whom, given a little authority over younger boys, could be terrible bully–bastards with moronic senses of humor. If they felt the boys weren’t working hard enough, or simply for their own amusement, they would, for example, put an egg in a boy’s pocket and smash it; trip boys onto the slimy, shitty floor; or toss a cackling, clawing chicken at them. The farm produced a plentiful variety of vegetables and fruits, the latter including watermelons, apples, and pears. The Home also received monthly shipments of government surplus food from the Department of Agriculture that consisted mainly of potatoes, flour, rice, corn, condensed milk, powdered eggs, and beef. After leaving The Home and running into other HNOH boys, I would hear

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news of The Home being investigated by federal and state agencies who charged that farm products, eggs, and surplus grants of food had been sold. These charges were denied with the claim that the meals for the staff and the boys came from the same pots. I never did hear of the outcome, but having at times helped load trucks with farm produce and containers marked “surplus food,” plus having worked in the faculty dining room and kitchen gave me reasons for doubt. Also, when on barn duty, we delivered weekly food shipments to the staff cottages. BARN DUTY In the spring of my first year in the junior dorm, I struck a monitor quite hard with a baseball bat after he kicked me hard in the butt for striking out and losing the game. Apparently he had lost a wager with another monitor. This was possibly one of the best things I could have done, since it deemed me to be seen as a social misfit with apparent maniacal tendencies; therefore, I was assigned to work barn duty, as well as being kept busy working in the fields and doing other chores. There were three large dray horses for plowing and pulling the wagons to carry in the farm produce and hay, hauling the garbage and boiler ashes to the dump, and doing other moving and delivery jobs. (The farm had two old tractors that often were in disrepair.) Barn duty meant getting up at 5 A.M. to bring in the horses when they were pastured on the aqueduct (immediately east of The Home), feed the horses, clean the stalls, and prepare the horses to be harnessed to wagons or plows for use by the senior boys. Having been somewhat of a loner, I felt lucky to have the solitude of barn duty. It could be hard and dirty work at times, but the plus was that I was left alone and had little supervision. One evening shortly after I had begun barn duty, I had inadvertently encountered two monitors with two younger boys (one of whom was crying) in a compromising situation. I was accused of spying and threatened with dire consequences. I denied this, saying I had not suspected anything like this and that I would not report them and have only disclosed this information for the first time in this chapter. I soon learned that the barn was often used for such exploits, especially in the early evenings on weekends. Two of the horses, Blacky and Whitey, could be cantankerous and unpredictable and had tendencies to suddenly kick or bite. Blacky was really big and the more aggressive of the two. He had kicked and bitten several boys, one of whom I had replaced at the barn. Watchful and fearful of sudden movements, I took to feeding him hay or sugar cubes, and I talked to him as I carefully brushed him down and harnessed him. Using this approach, it was not long before I could brush him all over and move freely around and under him. I had no problems also adjusting to Whitey and the other horse, Sally, and took over the caring of them and often spent my free time with them. The first time I attempted to ride the horses, I took them behind the barn. I

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began with Sally and, with the aid of a wooden box, climbed carefully on her; but she was gentle and no problem. This was my first time on a horse, and I felt like Tom Mix. Then I tried Whitey. He bucked a bit but I hung on, and we were soon moving slowly around the barn. Blacky, however, was a problem. He would move away as I tried to mount, and when I finally managed it he bucked me off. Strangely, after several tries, however, he let me on easily and did not buck again. With practice I managed to ride bareback quite well. I took particular pride in Blacky’s allowing no one else to easily mount or ride him. Before school, we hitched the wagons and drove them to fulfill general chores. In winter they included filling the cottage coal bins, dragging the snowplow to clear the roads, and hauling ashes from the boiler room to spread on the roads. Before supper we usually collected garbage and hauled it to the dump and did whatever other chores awaited. Then we unharnessed the horses, brushed them down, and fed them. After supper two other boys and I would ride the horses bareback to the pasture on the aqueduct. In the morning the horses were usually waiting for us at the lower aqueduct gate to be brought in. On some Saturdays during the summers, we loaded the wagons with younger boys and would drive to the reservoir, north of The Home, where they romped and splashed in the water and chased after the ducks. Sally, unfortunately, had died during the winter of the first year after I began barn duty. On some weekends the three of us barn-duty boys would walk up the aqueduct carrying bridles and then ride and race the horses through the forest and around the reservoir. More often I came alone, especially on Sundays, family visiting days. Sometimes I would ride in the warm summer rain stripped to the waist and shoeless. I would in turn ride both horses, my face high and my arms stretched wide into the rain. Sometimes there would be lightning and thunder. Never since have I felt as free as then. On clear days and between stints of riding I would sit under a tree reading a book while the horses grazed nearby. It was the best of times for me, and I felt a yearning for such days to last forever. SPORTS Baseball was and continues to be my favorite sport. There were two baseball fields at The Home, one for hardball and the other for softball. Games were played as part of dormitory leagues or between dormitories, as well as sometimes played against outside teams. My favorite position was catcher since it meant my being involved in every pitch, rather than to have to wait for a ball to come my way, as is the case with fielders. We had some very good players and could hold our own against outside teams. With the large Roosevelt High School nearby, we would sneak out of The Home on Saturdays and, watchful for the school guards, climb over the fence at the stadium to see the local football games. The gatecrasher had to run to the stands and mix with the spectators to avoid getting caught. If caught, one was

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ejected from the grounds and had to try again or see what could be seen from outside the fence. The New Gym at The Home was fine and large, and I enjoyed playing basketball there. We played it differently than today, and I believe we played with more speed and finesse than seems to be played today. Boys like Seymour Kasonsky could dribble down the sidelines, suddenly jump high, and arch the ball to ricochet off the backboard into the basket or else make deft hookshots, which were beautiful to watch and seldom, if ever, seen today. It was a real thrill for me to manage to make such shots every now and then. Seymour would have been a hell of a college and possibly pro ballplayer had he not been killed in World War II. We often played and beat teams from local high schools and nearby towns. Boxing was another sport that held much interest, and we had some scrappy fighters. I personally never went much into boxing, but as a senior was somehow conned into entering a tournament and somehow won the championship for my division. I’m not sure it was worth the price since it is not an easy sport and I ached all over long afterward. Perhaps the worst of it was that on the back of the medal signifying this triumph my last name was misspelled. Yet, I held it long enough to give to my son John.

DANCES AND RECREATION As senior-level boys, we had dances held in the gym or the second-floor game room with “real” girls from local towns. We would decorate either place, and, full of expectations, check our faces for pimples, and then get dressed in our best clothes. Some of the girls were real knockouts. I had a fanciful crush on one but kept it secret. She looked like a twin sister to Vivian Leigh stepping out of Gone With the Wind. The girls were all very nice, but nothing serious developed between most of them and the boys who danced with them, although the bragging later by some of the boys could get tiresome. Generally, these were pleasant affairs at which I seemed to dance with two wooden legs. To this day, I can remember the faces and names of some of the girls. Movies were shown in the New Gym each Wednesday night. There were serial films depicting never-ending adventures of Buck Rogers, Flash Gordon, Fu Manchu, Tom Mix, Tarzan of the Apes, Trader Horn, and Our Gang, among others, and a seemingly endless supply of saccharine Shirley Temple films. Also, there were trips to the circus, major league baseball games, and the amusement park at Far Rockaway Beach, and walking a mile or so to the movie houses in Tuckahoe and Bronxville. Many of us older boys earned the money to pay for the movies and other treats through caddying at the Grassy Sprain Golf Course on Tuckahoe Road just across the street from The Home. There was a small swimming hole on the golf course grounds where we would swim bare-ass on warm summer days.

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RELIGIOUS TRAINING Judaism, as taught and practiced within The Home, was for me just a nominal adjective denoting a dull cultist ideology (rather than a practical and desirable faith and a preparation for life) consisting mainly of required weekend and holiday synagogue attendance, listening to meaningless rituals accompanied by unintelligible incantations, and biblical readings performed with habituated emotionalism and verbosity. God was, as I could only later put my thoughts and feelings at the time into proper words and perspective, an unperceivable, unapproachable, demanding abstraction, who seemed to desire only that His Chosen, without His intervention, be submitted to generations of terrible horrors just to prove their unstinting faith in Him. Thus, unable to accept and yet very respectful of Judaism, but needful of a less self-serving and demanding, as well as a more forgiving God, I adopted, rather than converted to, Catholicism. Yet I have been content with limited regard for the overly ornate and superfluous dressing of its organizational hierarchy. NOTES 1. A pseudonym. 2. Editor’s Note: Ernest Levinson’s memory is remarkable, but I was ten at this time and only remember three dorms on entering The Home a year earlier in 1933: freshmen, juniors, and seniors.

PART 5 SECULAR EDUCATION AND RELIGIOUS ORTHODOXY

30 Grade School and Junior High at the “H” Samuel Prince

For me, school was a haven from the rigid discipline and the sometimes mindless, boring routine of our daily lives. I believe that most of us did well in school and received a good education for a number of reasons ranging from classroom homogeneity to learning receptivity to well motivated teachers as well as to the general ethos of The Home where the importance of education was appreciated by almost all the staff members, including some of the most disliked supervisors and Hebrew teachers. To begin with we were alike in religion and pretty much alike in ethnic, cultural, and socioeconomic background. Class sizes were small, with usually less than 20 pupils per class; failure to attend class was not tolerated by any of the adults. Absences occurred only if a child was seriously ill; no one played hookey, ever. Serious disciplinary problems were rare, though the teachers did have to spend time dealing with minor disturbances by restless boys. Most of us also admired good grades and generally respected those who had earned them. Looking at our situation from another angle, our teachers were not hounded by administrators, supervisors, or members of the PTA (which, for obvious reasons, did not exist for us). The only checks the teachers were subjected to were by the principal, by their consciences, and by our scores on the annual New York City Achievement Examinations. Our principal, Annie Sutherland, only entered the classroom if a teacher was absent or late or through invitation from the teacher. Our teachers demanded the best from us, and most of us understood that education was the key to a better life. Since learning by rote was a procedure generally followed throughout the school system, we went through almost every chapter of our textbooks and were

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required to answer questions at the end of each chapter through “pop” quizzes or written assignments. These citywide exams kept us and the teachers on our toes by setting minimum standards of material to be covered, as well as quality of learning. My personal experiences in P.S. 403, Manhattan, were of course unique to me and yet they were shared in many ways and to varying degrees by the other boys. OPPORTUNITY CLASS Mrs. Sutherland placed me in the Opportunity Class (a special education class for misfits and slow learners) only five minutes after I was escorted to her office following my entering the “H.” I had disobeyed her order to stop tapping my feet, and so when she whacked me with her ruler I became angry and tried to take it from her. She hit me a few more times and then she sent me to Julia Lichtenstadter’s class. I was only ten then, and I didn’t realize that I was too traumatized by my family life and too deeply upset by again being placed in an orphanage to be able to fit into a regular class at that time. Luckily for me, Mrs. Lichtenstadter was a warm, understanding, and wise person. She made no attempt to convince me to participate in any of the class assignments. However, I did join the class during music and gym periods. She encouraged me to read the graded encyclopedias, which I later learned she had paid for herself. She tolerated my lack of participation because I neither disrupted the class nor misbehaved in any other way. She understood that I needed time to adjust before being able to join the others in class activities. I was put in a regular class at the end of the term because I had scored two years ahead of my chronological age in reading comprehension, and I was up to snuff on the standard arithmetic test. From that time on I became an active and caring pupil. As a matter of fact, when I graduated from the ninth grade I was awarded history, science, and geography prizes. Our ninth grade class, in the order listed on the graduation program, consisted of Marvin Mirsky, Israel “Tom” Brown, Jack Passin, Samuel Prince (I was in the Infirmary that day with a broken ankle), Philip Agree, Irving Pincus, Bernard Volkman, Sidney Kotlick, Robert Weedon, Leonard Pirak, Harry Mendelkern (The Home’s best drummer), Isidore Passy, Max Kotch, Sidney Wasserman, Albert Meyer, and Max Schnitzer. The program was as follows: Salute to the Flag; singing the “Star Spangled Banner”; Reading of the Scriptures; Hymn by the School; Declamation Contest; Song by the School (“Old Man River”); Play, “Robin Hood” (By the Graduates); Glee Club Selection (“The Aviator”); Dance by the Graduates; Graduates’ Oath; Address to the Graduates; Distribution of Prizes and Diplomas; and Song (“America”). To this day, I can visualize myself in various school situations in The Home. For example, I can hear Mrs. Sutherland clapping her hands as we were marched up and down the stairs, “Step, step, or you won’t graduate.” Never did she stop this refrain unless we had visitors. Mrs. Stebbins, our English teacher, inspired

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me to read poetry. She also drilled us unmercifully in spelling and grammar, for which I have always been grateful. STRICT BUT FAIR Charles Henry, our science, civics, and history teacher, was strict but fair. He was a good role model for me, and his presentation of material and accompanying comments made his classes always interesting. Also, he coached our hardball baseball team on his own time. Walter Vom Lehn, our woodshop teacher, was a martinet. Before and after class he made us stand at attention in front of the work benches, and I always felt he begrudged us the use of “his” tools. Mary MacCrostie, our fourth- and fifth-grade history teacher, was a motherly soul. She often strayed off the subject at hand to tell us about her children, and she created a warm and friendly atmosphere in her classroom. Mrs. Mollie Apter Cahn, newly-married and very efficient, taught upper grade arithmetic and English. Though she knew her subjects well and put them over well, she struck me as a cold person. Miss Gleason, fourth-grade teacher, taught arithmetic, geography, and drawing, and like many old maids, she was prim and proper. To her credit, she was driven to make us learn, and I enjoyed her arithmetic and geography classes. But her idea of how to teach art turned me off; we had our choice of drawing a house, an animal, or a vase full of flowers, and nothing else. I enjoyed our school assemblies. Very often the Glee Club, of which I was a long-standing member, sang a few songs. At other times we listened to classical and semiclassical records, and sometimes students were asked to recite a poem or deliver parts of famous speeches. I thoroughly enjoyed going to P.S. 403, Manhattan, Tuckahoe Road branch. The teachers were kind, thoughtful, and dedicated. Standards were high, and there was an atmosphere that made learning important. And the good student was looked up to. My two favorite role models were Mr. Henry and Mrs. Lichtenstadter; both were decent, competent, fair, and endearing people. SCHOOL WAS A REFUGE There was one other thing that made P.S. 403 such a valued place for me; it was a refuge from our supervisors and monitors. It was a place where we were doing something important, where good effort was rewarded, and where we didn’t have to fear being singled out for unjust punishment. It was a place where we were free of all extraneous pressures, except that of applying ourselves to learn, and most of us—not all, by any means—thrived in this atmosphere. After the ninth grade we left P.S. 403—which about this time had become designated as P.S. 404, Manhattan, though nothing else had changed—and transferred to one of three high schools. Roosevelt High School, just a few minutes walk from The Home, was for college preparation; Saunders Trade–Technical

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School was for the learning of trades; and Commerce High School was for business. I chose Roosevelt, from which I graduated in 1940. While at Roosevelt I was uncomfortable because I wore ill-fitting and unstylish clothes, had no money for lunches, and felt awkward being Jewish in a school that was 99 percent Christian, and I was too well aware of my lack of social poise. It being obvious to others that I was from the “H” made me feel ostracized. As a result I made no friends and did not participate in extracurricular activities. All of my teachers there were kind and helpful, and after I got out of the Army Air Corps in 1946, Henry Richards, our high school principal, gave me an excellent recommendation for teacher training. I subsequently earned a B.S. in education at New York University, with majors in English and education and minors in science and history. While in the Air Corps, I instructed pilots, copilots, and flight engineers in the operation, maintenance, and repair of propellers and landing gear on B-17 and B-29 bombers, and I expected to make a career in teaching. After getting my bachelor’s degree, I taught ninth- and tenth-grade English for three years and worked one summer at Bethlehem Steel Company in Baltimore, after which I accepted Bethlehem’s offer of a full-time job as a technical trainee in the Industrial Water Pollution Department at a substantial pay increase. Later, I went through the company’s technical and foreman training program, and then the company paid for my taking engineering courses at Johns Hopkins University. I retired from Bethlehem in December 1982, after 30 years of service, mostly involving water-pollution investigation. My wife and I continue taking courses in culture, history, and philosophy, and yet, somehow I feel that I have not fulfilled my potential.

31 Mrs. Skinner Gave Me a Life Ira A. Greenberg

Mrs. Skinner was a petite woman with coppery red hair whose voice was quietly authoritative when teaching the second and third grades at P.S. 403, Manhattan, but when we boys were unruly in class the fiery temper often associated with redheads flared forth and then we paid for our misbehaviors. We referred to her behind her back as “Baldy,” because in the heat of her anger as she sought to restore order, she would pull our hair and often we would lose small clumps of hair at her hands. When the class had quieted down and was ready to learn, she would resume her lessons in her clear but somewhat soft voice, and good learning took place. When an individual misbehaved, he would be called forth to extend his hand, palm up. Out would come her ruler for several sound thwacks, the number depending on the nature of the deed. We never really minded this punishment, since, as has been stated, she was a small woman, and so was not able to hit hard. For serious deportment problems, the miscreant was sent to the principal’s office, and this was not a matter to be taken lightly. Our principal then was Annie Sutherland, a large and strong woman, and when she hit our open hand with a ruler, the pain was enough to bring tears to our eyes, despite manly efforts to keep from crying. Mick Nathanson recalled during a discussion of early school days that often a boy would pull his hand out of Mrs. Sutherland’s grasp just as the ruler was descending, and thus she wound up hitting herself. This was considered funny as the boys talked about it afterward, but the punishment for this dire infraction was additional smacks with the ruler. So after a while only the most foolhardy would seek to play this game.

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AN ILLITERATE Mrs. Skinner was my first teacher after I entered The Home shortly before my ninth birthday. I was enrolled in Class 3-B, joining other boys of my age who were close to finishing their term in the third grade. For the two months I was a member of this class, I found myself floundering in many of the subjects that required reading or writing, as I could do neither. I had come to The Home from the very permissive environment of Manument Boarding School at Poughkeepsie, New York, where I had quit attending classes through lack of interest. And so, while the other boys and girls were learning to read and write and do simple arithmetic, I was off on my own having the many adventures that can befall an eight-year-old. But I would never dare play hookey at The Home, something not even the bravest of boys would do—or could do—because we were so closely supervised in this respect. Therefore, when the school term ended in June and my classmates were to be promoted to 4-A, Mrs. Skinner took me aside and very gently told me that she was keeping me back so that I could make up the learning I had missed. She told me that I would remain in the third grade but at the beginning of the fall term I would spend part of my time in the first and second grades where she would teach me to read and to write and that by the end of the school year I would have learned enough to be able to rejoin my original classmates. She made this promise in a determined voice, and I recall listening to her in a state of shock. I knew that she was right in what she planned for me, but I was sad at being separated from my age group and somewhat ashamed at being “left back.” When school began in the fall of that year, 1933, Mrs. Skinner remained true to her promise, and by late winter or early spring I could read fairly well and could write in a crude form of penmanship. I’d had no problems with arithmetic and other subjects, and when the spring term ended I was promoted from 3-B to 4-B, and a year later I skipped 5-A and was back with my original class, sitting in the same order as when I’d first joined the class. David Horn, the smartest boy, sat in the first seat of the file of desks near the doorside of the classroom; Murray Feierberg, the second smartest boy in the class and the best athlete, sat immediately behind him; and I sat immediately behind Murray. It was good to be home again. THE GREAT GIFT But as nice as it was for me to be back where I belonged, the great gift that Mrs. Skinner gave me was a solid educational foundation and above all the gift of reading. I still can recall those days in the second grade when letters on a page became words and words combined in their mysterious way to become thoughts. Suddenly, a world of wonderment opened before me, and I could not get enough of it. I immediately became an avid reader, absorbing at first any

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printed material that came my way and soon becoming more discerning, zeroing in on the many boys’ adventure books that filled a good part of The Home’s great library, which also contained novels, plays, histories, biographies, and scientific studies suited to young adults and adults of any age. I could not get enough of reading, and in the course of a few years devoured almost all of the Tarzan books and others by Edgar Rice Burroughs, the Hardy Boys series, the Rover Boys, the Tom Swift books, and the two World War I series about British Navy ensign twins and about young British Army subaltern twins. Of course there were the Edgar Wallace detective stories and the 10-cent pulp detective, Western, and mystery magazines. Whatever I could get hold of I read; I just could not get enough of reading. This gift of reading was the great gift that Mrs. Skinner gave to me, a gift that has been a part of me all of my years. It carried me to a B.A degree in journalism from the University of Oklahoma in 1949; an M.A. in English from the University of Southern California in 1962, while working as a newspaperman; an M.S. in counseling from California State University, Los Angeles, in 1963; and a Ph.D. in psychology from Claremont Graduate School in Southern California in 1967. It brought me ten interesting and exciting years as a newspaper copyeditor and reporter at the Columbus (Georgia) Enquirer (1951–55); as a reporter for the Louisville Courier-Journal (1955–56), and the Los Angeles Times (1956–62); plus 30 years as a clinical psychologist at Camarillo (California) State Hospital and in private practice of hypnotherapy, counseling, and management consulting in Los Angeles. What it all comes down to is that Mrs. Skinner, who seemed old to me at the time but was probably in her mid or late 20s, gave me much more than the gift of learning or the gift of reading. In the final analysis, looking back over these many years, I can state humbly and gratefully that Mrs. Skinner gave me a life.

32 Brief Recollections of Some of Our Favorites Ira A. Greenberg

As has been stated by many of this volume’s coauthors, we were truly blessed in the quality, caring, and dedication of our elementary and junior high school teachers, and each of us has our favorites. As more than 60 years have passed since many of us attended P.S. 403/404, Manhattan, memory has dimmed and for some of us only a few tidbits of schoolday recollections remain. WALTER VOM LEHN Despite my great appreciation for all that she had given me, Mrs. Skinner was not my favorite teacher. That designation went to our woodshop teacher, Walter Vom Lehn, a stern-speaking man whose voice carried the underlay of a smile. We must have been about ten when we marched into our first carpentry class, and though I was behind my classmates academically, I was ahead of them in the area of woodwork. Before entering The Home, I had had a number of opportunities to work with hand tools, and so I immediately hit it off with Mr. Vom Lehn. The first thing he taught us was the importance of working with good tools, and the tools he had selected when organizing the shop were Stanley tools, considered among the best then and now. The second thing he taught us was the phrase, “smooth, straight, and square,” as strict rules to abide by in planing the edge of a board. Planing should bring smoothness to a surface and no light should be seen when a tri-square was held along the length of a board’s edge (straight) and across the edge (square). Smooth, straight, and square was a simple concept to learn but not easily achieved.

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Mr. Vom Lehn had a dry sense of humor that most of us appreciated. I remember that when I was about 14 I came into the shop one afternoon and spent half an hour diligently pounding the cut-out top of a can with a ball-peen hammer to fashion an ashtray, something he had taught us several years before. Mr. Vom Lehn walked over to where I was working just about the time I’d finished, eyed the ashtray critically, flicked his cigarette ash into it, and exclaimed with great excitement, “Ira, it works!” One disappointment many of us had in regard to Mr. Vom Lehn was that he did not talk about his personal life. We knew that he had served aboard a submarine during World War I and were eager to hear of his experiences in this dangerous work and about the German ships he and his mates had sunk. But he did not talk about this, and we, having heard of shell-shocked soldiers traumatized by combat, were too concerned about asking what might be a very personal and touchy subject. Mr. Vom Lehn, who was right in so many things, wrote in my junior high school graduation book, “May your life be a well planned piece of work.” How wrong he was. CHARLES HENRY Charles Henry was a tall man, towering over most of the boys and over most of the faculty members, and this served him well in breaking up fights among the boys and in general maintaining good order and discipline in his classroom. We often sang the toreador song from Bizet’s Carmen behind his back, which went something like this: Toreador, don’t spit on the floor; Mr. Henry will get sore And kick you out the door. . . .

Mr. Henry taught science in the upper grades of P.S. 404, and, as Mick Nathanson recalls, he made this popular subject even more involving by assigning students to various baseball leagues, depending on how they answered questions in class. A correct answer placed a boy in the major league and he moved to a seat at the front of the class. An incorrect answer placed a boy in the minor leagues, and he moved to a seat in the middle of the classroom, while a second incorrect response would move him down into the bush leagues and at the rear of the classroom. Thus, throughout the class period boys would be moving to seats in different parts of the room, depending on the correctness of their answers. As Mick noted, this procedure kept interest high. Mr. Henry had his own way of taking roll call. He would go down the file of desks at his left, which was closest to the door, and then proceed to the second, third, and fourth files. It went something like this: “Horn,” and David would reply with “here” or “present,” and then “Feierberg, Greenberg, Weinberg, and all the other bergs”; and Murray, sitting behind Horn, and I, sitting

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behind Murray, would respond with “Here,” and Willie Weinberg, the class cutup, would answer from the back of the room, and then Mr. Henry would call all the other names. One afternoon while our principal, Mr. Burkhardt, who had succeeded Mrs. Sutherland, was sitting in the back of the room. Willie Weinberg came in just after roll call had been completed, and Mr. Henry stood up and angrily declared: “Mr. Burkhardt, this is just what I’ve been telling you about, and it’s got to stop! Ira Greenberg, stand up.” I did, noticing Willie slipping unobtrusively into his seat. Mr. Henry continued: “Mr. Burkhardt, this boy,” pointing an accusing finger at me, “comes late to class at least four times a week, and I want this stopped; we cannot have him interrupting the class the way he’s been doing.” He turned to me, “Be seated,” he ordered, and I quickly sat down. After class, I promised to try to do better, and I’ve been trying ever since. ACTING AND SWEET MOLLIE APTER I believe it was in the fourth or fifth grade that I had my first acting experience. The class put on the play Ali Baba and the 40 Thieves, and I had second lead as the robber chief to Murray Feierberg who played Ali Baba. I forget which teacher was responsible for our acting debut, but it was an enjoyable experience, and I still remember the opening lines. Murray’s were, “I am Ali, Ali Baba, I’m the hero of this tale, and though my pantaloons are baggy and my jacket wiggly-waggy, and my turban somewhat saggy, do not quail, for I hail from the Orient; ’tis the way they dress a gent in the Orient.” I immediately followed with, “I am chief, robber chief, I’m the villain as you see; I’m a thief to be brief and as bad as bad can be.” After such memorable lines, we had reason to consider, and quickly reject, a career in acting. The youngest teacher when I attended P.S. 404, was Miss Mollie Apter, who later became Mrs. Cahn, and as is to be expected, many of the boys developed crushes on her, but two of the boys took their crushes literally. Miss Apter, who was teaching seventh grade arithmetic to us, as well as English, later that year broke our hearts by becoming Mrs. Cahn. Like her peers, she taught well, and we enjoyed listening to her and looking at her and generally hated to leave her class at the end of the period. But two of the boys, class clown Willie Weinberg and Jerry “Yippy” Pincus, our most popular boy and social leader, expressed their feelings differently. When the class ended, we would line up as usual to march to the next class, and invariably either Willie or Jerry would be at the head of the line, pushing up against Miss Apter and yelling back angrily, “Quit shoving, you guys, quit shoving!” MRS. MACCROSTIE A final memory. Mrs. MacCrostie, our fourth- and fifth-grade history teacher, took a number of us to a museum in White Plains, New York. On arriving her

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car was struck from the rear. She immediately got out of the car, confronted the man whose car had hit hers, and voiced worried concern about the “poor, frightened children” in her car. She could not have been more wrong. To a bunch of ten-year-old boys, this was an exciting experience. Fortunately, there was little damage to the car.

33 The Neither-Nor of Religious Education Samuel Prince

For me, our religious education was neither religious nor educational. It was not religious because corporal punishment was used as a goad to motivate our interest. It was not educational because we were never taught the meaning of the prayers. The use of coercion instead of love made me irreligious after I left The Home. We went to synagogue twice a day and to Hebrew school four times a week in the afternoon. No sermons, no explanations, and no discussions took place before or after the worship service. In time I grew to despise going to synagogue and to Hebrew school. In fact, I made a mockery of our prayer services by frequently volunteering to be the chasun (prayer leader) so that I could rush through the prayers as fast as I could. I enjoyed singing the Hebrew melodies, even though their meaning was a cipher to me. I also enjoyed the special meals served on the Jewish holidays. The festive mood engendered during the holiday celebration was sometimes dissipated by an insensitive zealot or monitor who couldn’t refrain from chastising anyone who broke even a minor rule. One day, Nat Sternlicht, a bodybuilder and one of the strongest boys or young men in The Home, gruffly told me of my father’s death in early 1933; my mother had died about ten years earlier. Sternlicht, who then was one of the two junior dormitory monitors, said, “Your father died today, so do a good job washing yourself because you are going to your uncle’s to sit shiva.” To this day, I feel guilty that despite my sorrow, I looked forward to leaving the “H” for a week of mourning. Reb Kaufman, who under my breath I referred to as “Goofy,” “Mocky,”

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“Dizzy,” or worse, prohibited my brother Harry and me from going to the movies for the entire year after my father’s death. Six months into this prohibition, Rabbi Morris Sandhaus, who headed the religious program at The Home and was well liked and respected, found out about this injunction and promptly rescinded Kaufman’s decree. One morning Kaufman, our ignorant and fanatic Hebrew teacher, had my 16year-old brother and me report to his room after services for having talked during the lengthy Saturday morning worship period. His room was on the second floor just behind the rear of the synagogue, which was also where the entrance to this house of prayer was located. His room in the east wing wasn’t too far above the ground (the second floor of the west wing was much higher) and as we entered we saw Reb Eisenstadt, a corpulent and effeminate-looking person, posted behind the door. Kaufman glared at me and shouted, “I’ll teach you to talk during prayers,” and then slapped me so hard I nearly fell down. My brother shouted, “Sammy, jump out of the window,” and then he tackled Kaufman. Eisenstadt made no move toward me, so I jumped out the window and landed safely on the ground, only a few feet below the window. Later, “K” cornered me in the Old Gym and soundly thrashed me. But he never again tried to punish my brother Harry. I want to state that despite the fact that I never joined a synagogue or attended synagogue services, I have never denied being Jewish, and I take pride in my background. I read Jewish literature and philosophy, and I consider myself a fair student of the Old and New Testaments. I believe that I am a religious person. I say this in spite of my not having followed any of the Jewish rituals since leaving The Home. My most profound thoughts on religion come from the biblical Book of Ecclesiastes and from exchanging ideas with my wife, Jane. Not only do I not attend synagogue, but my wife and I do not go to church any more. We were married in the United Universalist Church, and if a label must be put on me, then I am a United Universalist. We raised our three sons in the Universalist faith, and, ironically, one converted to Reform Judaism and another to Conservative Judaism; our third son converted to Methodism.

34 Religious Regimen: What Went Wrong? Ira A. Greenberg

One of the most important mandates laid down by the founders of the Hebrew National Orphan Home was that it provide a fully Orthodox Jewish environment. Its purpose was to enable the boys to grow up as Orthodox Jews and good citizens. In carrying out these stipulations, The Home was designed with a synagogue that could accommodate some 300 boys and the HNOH staff, plus two kosher kitchens where meat and dairy meals could be prepared separately, a Hebrew school, and a religious staff to teach and conduct services. The Home’s physical isolation from nearby communities and geographical isolation from New York City, where most of the boys’ relatives lived, should have furthered the religious goals. But that did not happen. Most of us grew up to be good, honest, and ethical citizens, but very few of us continued our Orthodox ways after leaving The Home. The great majority of us remained Jews who support Jewish causes and other causes, but only a comparatively few of us remained religious, much less practicing Orthodox Jews. An examination of religious life in The Home, as best I can recall it, may lead to some hypotheses as to why this religious mandate was not fulfilled and how it might have been. As noted in earlier chapters, life in this large institution was, as it had to be, highly regimented. We marched in groups according to classes or dormitories from one major activity to another throughout the day and into the night. And so it was as far as our religious upbringing was concerned. We, as freshmen and juniors, and in some cases as seniors, marched to and from the synagogue and Hebrew classes, and to and from the dining room, even on important Jewish holidays. The marching was not onerous; it was a part of our daily routine.

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However, the marching may have had something to do with making synagogue attendance simply an impersonal part of a busy schedule of varied activities. A WELL PLANNED PLACE OF WORSHIP Our synagogue was located at the northern end of The Home’s east wing on the second floor, which was considered the main floor, on which also were the executive offices, dining room, library, infirmary, staff lounge, staff dining room, and some staff quarters. The synagogue was of modern construction and furnishing and had good lighting. Though not immense, it was large enough to accommodate all of the boys, the supervisory and religious staffs, and visitors. Entrance was at the south end of the synagogue, with the Ark in which the Torahs were kept being at the north end. The raised and carpeted bima (platform) contained the velvet-covered table for the reading of the Torah, plus two austere but thronelike chairs, and a podium. On either side of the raised area, but on the floor level, were some three rows of brown-stained oak benches or pews, curved for body comfort, and facing each other with the bima being between them. The main area of the sanctuary consisted of a dozen or so rows of pews, facing north toward the Ark. A center aisle divided the north-facing pews, and there were aisles on each side of the synagogue to facilitate fairly easy entrance and egress of large groups, as well as easy access to seating in the pews. The bright lighting gave the synagogue a somewhat cheerful atomsphere, and the Ark was suitably covered by red velvet cloths embroidered in gold. Prayer books were in the rack at the back of each pew. All boys, from the youngest six-year-old to the formidable 18-year-olds, were required to attend all religious services,1 and only illness or injury in which the boy was in the infirmary or in a quarantined dormitory or on weekend or holiday leave excused an absence. The daily shachris (morning), minha (afternoon), and mariv (evening) services lasted from 15 to 30 minutes, while the Saturday morning service or religious holiday services lasted at least two hours. Of course, Yom Kippur called for all-day prayer attendance by every boy, as did the first two days of Rosh Hashanah, and the final day, with juniors and seniors fasting on the former, the Day of Atonement. Religious holidays were special occasions filled with prayer, enthusiastic singing in the dining room, and special and muchenjoyed holiday meals. Thus, the Sabbath and holiday services kept us confined at prayer most of the morning and sometimes all day. Saturday, the day of rest, meant sports events in the afternoon and other play activities that did not entail what fell under the religious rubric of work. For this reason, Saturday was not considered a day for model-airplane building, drawing, photography, radio assembly, or leather crafts, and these bans were accepted cheerfully, though some of the boys would violate the Sabbath and risk punishment if caught. Chess and checkers were permitted but not cardplaying. Saturday afternoon also was a time for

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group punishment, usually dentention, otherwise known as “standing on line,” in the dormitory, should a supervisor choose to impose it. PRACTICES AT PRAYER Where children are required to be seated for long periods of time, restlessness is to be expected, and so it was in our synagogue. Boys became transgressors by talking when they should have been praying or by sneaking pulp detective magazines under the siddur (prayer book) and reading when they should have been praying, or by thumb-wrestling with each other or by playing the paper– scissors–rock game, or even by playing cards, the last a heinous violation of this holy setting. Many of the boys were caught violating the decorum of the synagogue by sharp-eyed Hebrew teachers or overeager supervisors and monitors, with the usual penalty being a sharp slap on the head or face and confiscation of the contraband material. The cardplayers of course could expect, in addition to what they received in the synagogue, much more severe punishment afterward, often being joined by lesser violators at the whim of the authority figure involved. Thus was order and a prayerlike atmosphere maintained in the synagogue. The only ones above suspicion were the staff and those older boys on the bima who were involved in the reading of that week’s Torah portion. THE RELIGIOUS STAFF The Home had a staff of about a half dozen Hebrew teachers, but only three of them during my years there come vividly to mind. They are Rabbi Morris Sandhaus, a short, slim, and, appropriately, sandy-haired man, well liked and widely respected; Abe Lyman, the cantor, strong-featured but with a ready smile and pleasant word for all; and Isadore Kaufman, a Hebrew teacher, tall, thin, pockmarked, and seemingly perpetually angry. Rabbi Sandhaus and Mr. Lyman, unlike most of the religious teaching staff, had lives off The Home grounds, though serving The Home full time. Rabbi Sandhaus consulted with Jewish groups in nearby towns and was well respected throughout the Yonkers area, while Mr. Lyman, an attorney, maintained a small law practice. Nevertheless, they spent most Sabbaths and holidays with us and served as excellent examples of how one could live a full and rich life as an Orthodox Jew. Rabbi Sandhaus, the final arbiter at The Home of all religious questions or disputes, had one weakness we all were aware of, and that was cigarettes. He was a smoking fiend, going through four packs (80 cigarettes, unfiltered) each day, except when it came to the Sabbath or religious holidays. When the sun went down at the start of a religious day, he would simply and comfortably put away his cigarettes and not even think of them during the period that religious law forbade smoking or the handling of fire. Rabbi Sandhaus responded to our questions about this by explaining that he

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did not experience any withdrawal pangs because he knew smoking was not permitted on certain days and he also knew that he would never violate his religious principles; thus, he not only did not want to smoke, but also he never felt the need to smoke during these periods. However, at the end of the 24-hour Sabbath period, as soon as the sun went down to herald a new day, out would come his pack of cigarettes, and Rabbi Sandhaus happily and needfully returned to his addiction. After I became a clinical psychologist and used hypnosis to help people quit smoking, I found that telling the story of Rabbi Sandhaus’s short periods of smoking cessation as a part of my procedure helped give confidence to the many who were able to overcome this habit. Rabbi Sandhaus entered the Army after the outbreak of World War II, and, as at The Home and in the Yonkers area, he became highly respected wherever he served and rose to the rank of lieutenant colonel. Mr. Lyman also was much appreciated by the boys at The Home. Witty, personable, and with a ready smile that did not conceal the seriousness of his nature and his religious orthodoxy, Mr. Lyman was admired by all of us for a number of reasons. First, he was an excellent cantor whose voice, somewhere between a baritone and a tenor, thrilled us, whether he sang prayers in the synagogue or popular songs elsewhere. In addition to being a lawyer, a cantor, and an advanced Hebrew teacher, he also was an ordained rabbi, and, most impressive of all to us boys, an amateur boxer. Although some of the things we did that violated Orthodox law may have angered him, he never lost his temper, never talked down to any of us, and never struck any of the boys. The same might be said of Rabbi Sandhaus but with one exception. When he caught a group of older boys cooking a potato on Yom Kippur, he lost control and, small as he was, thrashed all of them. None of us uninvolved in the event could find it within ourselves to criticize the rabbi for this response to such a dire violation. We could not, however, be so understanding and forgiving of Mr. Kaufman. Although we thought of him at the time as being much older, he probably may have been in his late 20s or early 30s, while both Rabbi Sandhaus and Mr. Lyman may have been in their mid or late 30s. I never once recall having seen Mr. Kaufman smile. When angered by something a boy or some boys may have done or said, his face became red as the muscles of his jaws tightened and the flesh at the corners of his mouth whitened from the tightness of his lips. Mr. Kaufman’s anger came quickly and lasted for a long period of time. He could be frightening. For reasons I do not quite understand, just about all of my age group’s Hebrew instruction came from Mr. Kaufman. I do not recall at any time having been in a class taught by Rabbi Sandhaus or Mr. Lyman, though both knew all of the boys in The Home by name and knew many of us as individuals. It may have been that the other teachers taught other classes and that Rabbi Sandhaus and

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Mr. Lyman taught advanced classes for boys gifted in Hebrew; I simply do not remember. But I do remember clearly, as do others of my age, classes taught by Mr. Kaufman and synagogue behavior supervised by him. He was quick to swat a miscreant boy in class or during prayer services, and we took this as a part of the natural order of things and did not dwell too much on these actions. It was just a part of who he was and his behavior fit into the general ethos of The Home and we did not think twice about it. We would get the same from some of the dormitory supervisors or monitors; it simply was one of the things a boy tried to avoid while doing what he needed to do to fight the restlessness of long periods at prayer or in dull classroom sessions. Although we tended to take these things in stride, such did not seem the case with Mr. Kaufman. At each of our transgressions his anger became that of an avenger and often his wrath erupted in fierce slaps and angry threats of later punishment. Naturally, we became used to this. But today’s youngsters might possibly exclaim, “What’s his problem!?” However, we didn’t dwell too much on this behavior, as there were too many other things good and bad going on in our lives. Yet, we often found ourselves disagreeing with some of his teaching methods and with some of the conclusions he came to in the lessons we were taught. Much of our instruction from Mr. Kaufman, aside from basic Hebrew lessons, concerned the anti-Semitism that has followed the Jewish people from the time of the Babylonian Captivity to the period of our Hebrew classes. This, of course, was of extreme importance for us to know, but there also were many joyous stories in Jewish history that also were to be taught, but I do not recall any of them from Mr. Kaufman. He may well have told them to us but no impression of them remains. Important as detailed descriptions of torture during the Spanish Inquisition and in other eras, as well as in the then recent reports of pogroms in Russia, it was also important for us to know the happy stories from Jewish periods of acceptance and achievement, but no recollection of them remains. We used such terms as “fanatic” and “zealot” to describe Mr. Kaufman, and one incident supporting this depiction comes to mind. We may have been 13 or 14 at this time, because the incident occurred after our Bar Mitzvahs. One day in class Mr. Kaufman told us of a recent news report in which a New England synagogue burned down and the pastor and congregation of a nearby Christian church offered their facility for use by the Jewish group so they could hold religious services until the synagogue was rebuilt. We all responded with how we thought this was a wonderful gesture of brotherhood by the Christian worshipers. As we were saying this, Mr. Kaufman’s long frame straightened, his teeth clenched, and his face took on his usual color as he angrily charged that this was blasphemy on our parts and that the New England Jews had betrayed their faith by worshiping in a Christian church. From the viewpoint of Jewish orthodoxy, Mr. Kaufman may have been right,

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but we felt his reaction was wrong. Had Rabbi Sandhaus or Mr. Lyman told the story to make a religious point either would have told it differently. Each would have stated the facts, gotten our reactions to them, and then, while praising the good intentions of the Christian churchgoers, would have given a Talmudic explanation as to how the Jewish congregation might have responded to this generous offer by those of another faith. Rabbi Sandhaus and Mr. Lyman would have respected the reactions and comments of the boys, and each would have explained the Jewish law as it applied in this situation. Each would have done it in a kind, caring, and logical manner. But we did not have the benefit of either of these strong men teaching our class. On another occasion, a newly hired senior supervisor became the subject of a lesson for all of us. Some time in the 1938–40 period The Home brought in an Abraham Lincoln Brigade veteran of the Spanish Civil War to supervise the older boys. During one of the holiday synagogue services, Mr. Lyman offered the newcomer the honor of carrying the Torah. The reaction was surprising. The invitee, a trim, tight-lipped man who had rarely conversed with anyone, looked startled at first, like a deer caught in the glare of a headlight, and then his faced turned a brighter red than Mr. Kaufman’s ever had, and without a word he stormed angrily out of the synagogue and was never seen again. “All I’d wanted to do was to make him feel welcome,” Mr. Lyman said mildly. We boys were bemused at first and then amused by it all, while Mr. Kaufman stood in speechless rage that someone who had been born a Jew could act this way. We discussed the incident among ourselves and concluded that he may have been a communist who bitterly hated religion of any type. Mr. Kaufman and other Hebrew teachers, who to a lesser extent may have been like him, are not to be seen as the cause for the lack of a religious feeling on the part of many of us. They were simply an element of an institutional culture that though religiously oriented seemed secularly controlled. Synagogue services and Hebrew lessons were merely parts of our lives that included public school attendance, athletics, band practice, work assignments, hobbies, movies, radio programs, storytelling by older boys, and the various clubs we belonged to. We functioned on tight schedules that had to be adhered to, and synagogue attendance and Hebrew lessons merely were parts of this very busy life we led. A few stories might be useful in revealing some of our attitudes at that time. One Saturday morning when I was 15 or 16, I slipped out of the synagogue just as services ended to make a phone call in the pay booth located in the main corridor and just outside the executive offices. I had felt safe in making this call, assuming none of the staff would leave the synagogue early enough to catch me. But I was wrong. Just as I began dialing, I saw Mr. Lyman walking toward me, and I quickly hung up, came out of the booth, and guiltily tried to explain, saying, “The phone rang, and I answered it,” which of course was a violation of Jewish law but not as serious as my having initiated the call. Just then there came the thunk of the nickel dropping, and Mr. Lyman said, “What

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was that, your heart!” as he walked away in disgust. I would rather have taken a beating from Mr. Kaufman. A year before the phone-call incident, while I was in junior high school at The Home, our teachers presented us with some nondenominational hymns to be sung in Assembly. We knew they sincerely sought to help us by bringing this added element of reverence to our lives, but we felt this was not Jewish, and we resisted. We knew the teachers’ intentions were good, but we felt that in singing these hymns, even though there was nothing specifically Christian in them, we would be betraying our Jewish faith, and we were stubborn in our resistance. Only after Mr. Henry, our science teacher, and others explained that Rabbi Sandhaus had sanctioned these particular hymns, did we reluctantly begin to sing them, and for quite a while there was little enthusiasm in this singing. Thus, an example that we did feel a strong sense of Jewish loyalty, even though some of us were not behaving as fully Orthodox Jews. ORTHODOXY MOST BEAUTIFUL Another event that occurred when I was 15 also may be worth reporting. As a result of my having given the English speech at the age of 12 during our Bar Mitzvah celebration in 1937 at the Astor Hotel in New York City—two other boys gave the Hebrew and Yiddish speeches—I had been called upon to represent The Home by giving short speeches at fund-raising events. At these luncheon or dinner gatherings, Mr. Lucacher, The Home’s superintendent, and later Samuel Field, The Home’s president when Mr. Koftoff took over, gave the principal addresses. On this particular occasion, which took place late one Friday afternoon in mid-Manhattan, arrangements were made for me to attend evening services at an East Side synagogue, and then I was to walk the dozen or so blocks to my aunt’s apartment where I was to spend the weekend. This plan enabled everyone involved to avoid the risk of my being caught traveling when the Sabbath began at sundown. On entering this small synagogue in one of the poorer sections of the city, I was immediately impressed by the joyous reverence manifesting itself from every person I saw. I did not see the women who were praying elsewhere in the synagogue, but the men, many of whom worked as laborers during the week, stood tall and proud, their faces shining with happiness in anticipation of welcoming the Sabbath and of being in communion with the Divine during their periods of prayer. I admired the men and marveled at the loving reverence that seemed to illuminate their faces, and the joy in their eyes seemed to bounce back and forth among them. I admired them, I appreciated the feelings they were experiencing and expressing through their erect and proud stances and, for the moment, regretted that I could not share in this joy. This joy was foreign to me. It was

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something to be appreciated, as one would a great work of art, but it was not something that was a part of me. I was an outsider who could appreciate and intellectualize what I had witnessed, but it went no further. I later told my aunt and uncle, who were not religious, and their two daughters, who were about my age, of what I had observed. They all were equally admiring of the men in this little synagogue, and that was the end of it. The world of those Sabbath celebrants was considerably different from my world at The Home or from my Manhattan relatives’ world of culture, intellectuality, and political liberalism. WHAT BECAME OF US Although the laws of Orthodox Judaism were strictly observed in the administration and functioning of the Hebrew National Orphan Home, the general atmosphere there was more secular than religious, and most of the religious involvement we experienced was more something to be endured than to joyously partake of. Our two best Orthodox Jewish role models, Rabbi Sandhaus and Mr. Lyman, were there on a “part-time” basis in that our involvement with them at its best was only part time, as interacting with them was merely one or two of the many different interactions that filled our days. Also, most of us were not involved with these two impressive men in formal learning situations. Had people like them been our Hebrew teachers and dormitory supervisors, we without question would have turned out differently. But during those days when institutions were run by nonprofessionals in the helping fields, and especially when money was difficult to come by for the operation of The Home, both in the heady days of the Roaring Twenties and in the dismal days of the Great Depression of the 30s, The Home hired people it could afford as Hebrew teachers, as supervisors, and as general workers with special skills, such as cooks, a tailor, a cobbler, a dietician, and others. We were, however, most fortunate that so many good people became important parts of our lives. They included our pal, Eddie Williams, the night watchman, Mrs. Flanagan, the nurse, and young senior dorm supervisors like Bob and Bert Ludwig, both graduate students, one succeeding the other, who stayed only for short periods before entering the armed services at the start of World War II. There were many other good supervisors, and a few bad ones. It should be noted at this point that over the years at The Home, the two best-liked staff members by all of the boys were Eddie Williams and Mrs. Flanagan, two good Catholics. And woe betide any boy Eddie the nightwatchman caught violating Orthodox Jewish law as he would smite them verbally, but he never reported the matter to the supervisors, because harsher punishment might follow. So what has become of us in terms of who we are religiously? For many years I knew of only one of the boys who remained an Orthodox Jew. He is Max Obshatco of Brooklyn, one of my first monitors when I entered The Home at the age of eight. Max, a short, trim, kindly man, is justifiably proud of having

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reared his children as Orthodox Jews and of his involvement in Orthodox Jewish programs in his community. But there are very few like him. In an informal survey among the friends from The Home I have been in touch with, only two other names came up, Rabbi Morris Feldman, who graduated from The Home a number of years ahead of me, and Charles Vogel, who gave the Yiddish speech during my class Bar Mitzvah (Walter Kuperinsky gave the Hebrew speech), but who I do not count as an HNOH graduate because he left The Home at 16 to enter a yeshivah; the yeshivah should get credit for his orthodoxy. However, at the annual HNOH Alumni Association reunion held in April 1999 in New York City, I took another informal survey among the 30 to 40 alumni there, and we concluded that there may be six from among those we knew who remained Orthodox, 30 who identified as Conservative Jews, and the remainder were either Reformed Jews or non–synagogue-affiliated Jews. We also concluded that about 30 to 40 percent married outside the faith, and that two or three of our number had converted to another religion. “DELICATESSEN” JEWS A good number of us, myself included, may be described as “delicatessen” Jews, considered by some a term of opprobrium and considered by many of us a term of self-acceptance. We remain Jews culturally, we support Jewish causes, are enthusiastic in behalf of the State of Israel, are members of B’nai B’rith, the Zionist Organization of America, United Jewish Appeal, and other Jewish groups. However, too many of us do not attend religious services regularly and some do not attend them at all; we do not have the feeling for it. Once again, a digression. When I was 42 and working on my Ph.D. dissertation at Claremont Graduate School in southern California, one of my classmates, Alvin Abrams, then a Navy scientist who was also finishing his Ph.D. program, invited a number of his Jewish and non-Jewish friends to join him, his wife, and their five children in a Passover seder, the evening meal and ceremony that begins the eight-day (seven in Israel) event. Alvin’s seder was festive and thoroughly enjoyable, but while the “adults” were carrying out some of the religious traditions during this special supper, I found myself playing paper–scissors–stone under the table with Alvin’s then nine-year-old daughter. One might hypothesize that the semireligious dining services were the stimuli that brought on a regression to an immaturity I was not then free of. Nevertheless, most of us who graduated from The Home have a philosophy of life obtained from our HNOH experience, our reading, our studies, and the influences of those who subsequently touched our lives. Most of us also have a personal sense of religion and the belief in a Divine Being.2 Most of the boys who graduated from The Home departed with the strong foundations of character, a firm sense of personal integrity, a compulsion to keep our word once given, and a built-in capacity to respect the worth of others, all of which may be considered gifts and responsibilities we took with us from The Home.

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Yet for most of us, the religious efforts at The Home, made with the best of intentions, failed in the task of rearing us to become devout, Deity-adoring, Orthodox Jews. NOTES 1. This was modified by Mr. Koftoff a few years after becoming The Home’s executive director so that the younger boys were excused from lengthy religious services. 2. Editor’s Note: One of the lessons inculcated in us was that the Supreme Being’s name should not be spelled in its entirety, and to this day when I write the word, G-d, it is done in this incomplete manner, a part of The Home’s influence I have carried with me all of these years.

35 Religious Reverence: What Might Have Worked Ira A. Greenberg

Though with the best of intentions, the men who formulated the HNOH religious program made what I see as some serious errors. These included using themselves and their own religious upbringing as their guide to what would be best for the boys in this particular environment. And that was a major mistake. One may presume that these early planners of The Home’s religious program grew up in families that were close-knit, loving, and enthusiastically Yiddish in atmosphere and culture. Orthodox Judaism would have been the core of the families’ identification and around which everything else, including earning a living, rearing the children, and participating in family and Jewish community activities, revolved as planets around the sun. Orthodox Judaism to these HNOH planners was the center of their lives and this they intended as a gift to the boys in The Home. It may be presumed that they grew up in an environment where the Talmud was the law they could not conceive of disobeying and the love they felt for home and family added to the reverent fervor of their prayers. The siddurs (prayer books) they used were treasured and kissed as parts of the rituals that identified who they were, where they came from, and their special relationship with the Deity. It was this love of G-d and appreciation of self and family that it is presumed they sought to pass on to the orphaned youngsters they chose to provide for. However well intentioned these men were, the reality of their lives and convictions were not a part of the ethos of the orphanage they had established. To begin with, where there are large numbers of people involved in any endeavor, such as seeking to establish and carry out a political platform, the conducting

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of a large athletic event, or the processing of many children in an educational system, the individual is apt to be neglected or diminished in favor of the group needs. Such was life in The Home for the very best of reasons, the providing for as many children as possible within the limits of time frames, physical structures, and financial resources; thus, the individual is diminished in the best service to the group. By necessity, The Home had a secular orientation that included synagogue worship and dietary restrictions. The children were required to pray in the synagogue and before and after meals in the dining room. In the eyes of the planners, this was not too much to expect from those whose lives were being sustained, even saved, through the divinely ordered charity of others. Yet, the religious aspect of The Home did not fit as well as it might have in The Home’s secular atmosphere. Let us examine the two aspects for whatever understandings and conclusions might be drawn. SECULAR ENVIRONMENT The language of The Home was English, not Yiddish. In daily life with its many involvements and activities, everyone, including the religious staff, addressed each other, and especially the boys, in English, and those who came from foreign lands soon learned and used English. Also, those who came from Yiddish-speaking families quickly adjusted to the English-speaking atmosphere, and many of the boys who did not have close contact with their families quickly lost the language of their earlier upbringing. With the exception of Hebrew prayers and the afternoon Hebrew classes, everything was in English. As to the loving atmosphere of the Yiddish families many of the boys came from, that was lost immediately on entering The Home. A boy, who was an important part of the small unit that was his earlier family, became merely one boy in a large body of boys who had to be wakened, bathed, led to prayers and other activities, fed, and educated in a public school. The necessity of meeting the basic needs of the boys—food, shelter, clothing, health, and education, all within limited periods of time—meant that large groups of boys had to be moved from one activity to another, quickly. Thus, in these requirements and actions, the individual boy’s importance in the overall scheme of things in an institution became merely that of a unit along with other units that made up the group, and it was the group that had to be tended to first. Individuals got what specific care they required as an afterthought in the priority of serving the group and meeting tight time schedules. This is not a complaint; it is merely a statement of fact. Thus, the loving and caring warmth found in most families for each of the members is not found or even expected in a large institution. Friendships developed among the boys and between some individual staff members and boys, and that’s just what it was, friendship, rather than a loving and caring relationship, as can be found in families. The larger the family, the less important an

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individual member is, and The Home was a very large family indeed. To repeat, The Home atmosphere was secular in all respects outside the religious program, and often the boys’ attitude toward this program also was secular. RELIGIOUS COMPONENT The religious aspects of HNOH life were merely components that, along with those of meeting the physical, educational, and recreational needs of the boys made up the complex entity that was The Home. As noted in earlier chapters, from the boys’ viewpoints there were many onerous aspects of the religious component. They included twice daily synagogue attendance, at least two hours of attendance on Saturday mornings, and all day on a number of Jewish holidays. For most of the boys, Hebrew was an unknown language, which they were able to read but which only a very few understood. The daily meal prayers were said by rote, but as they were short and simple their meanings were known. A third problem that detracted from the religious atmosphere of The Home and the religious attitude of most of the boys was the quality of the Hebrew staff. With the exception of Rabbi Sandhaus and Mr. Lyman and perhaps one or two others, most of the efforts of the Hebrew teachers in the 20s and 30s were seen by the boys as inept, intrusive, and hostile. Because of their positions as authority figures, they were seen not so much as learned and pious individuals who should be respected, if not revered (as is often the case in most Orthodox Jewish communities), but instead as people to fear and avoid (much like some of the supervisors). And like some of the supervisors, some of the Hebrew teachers became the “enemy.” However, applying some of the things we know today in terms of human behavior, teaching styles, and learning expectations to the situation of the past, things might have been different, had we been reared under more ideal religious circumstances. POSSIBLE ANSWERS TO WHAT MIGHT HAVE BEEN I have vague recollections from the age of four or five of attending an Orthodox shul (synagogue or temple) with my father, sitting in the pew for a short time and then being taken out to play with other children my age while my father returned to daven (pray). On other occasions my father would take me out of the shul to walk around the block or to stand beside him while he talked to other men from this or a nearby shul or while he watched some of the older boys, those about seven or eight, playing more complex games than we played. I remember being awed by the grandeur within the temple, the mysterious beauty of the Ark in which special things were kept, and the reverence of the men who swayed forward and back or even side to side as they prayed, seemingly oblivious to all that may have been happening around them. The women I knew were upstairs in their own special place. Going to the temple was not

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onerous for me then, but an accepted and interesting thing to do; and there was a sense of marvel and mystery to it all. Such was not the case for me or for most of the boys at the Hebrew National Orphan Home. We were bored, restless, mischievous, hostile, and sometimes outraged at what was perceived as unjust punishment. The anger was not against the Torah or the concept of reverence for the teachings and the traditions of the Jewish people, or even against the concept of worship of a Divine Being; nevertheless, all were diminished in our thoughts and feelings through our having been forced to endure something that had not been made meaningful to us or for which we had not been adequately prepared. There are, of course, better ways to introduce children to prayer and ceremonies and rituals so that they become meaningful parts of the children’s lives. Here are some thoughts as to how things might have been better for the children concerned of the 20s and 30s, some of which were put into effect by Mr. Koftoff after he became HNOH executive director in 1939. In the “old days,” before the advent of Mr. Koftoff, every boy in The Home was required to attend, pray, and be well behaved every minute he was in the synagogue whether it was for the twice-daily weekday prayers or the two-hour Sabbath sessions or the much lengthier sessions during the various Jewish holiday services. Children by nature, especially the very young, do not have the capacity to sit still or even pray for long periods of time. This was understood in most Orthodox Jewish communities and allowances were made for children’s restlessness. No such allowance was made for the small children in The Home, and as a result there was restless moving in their seats, giggling, and pushing each other, with no thought to what was going on at the bima (platform from which services were led). In the course of a lengthy synagogue period, older boys attached threads to flies during services to observe the aerial acrobatics, as reported by Bill Weinstein (Chapter 29) or read pulp-detective magazines or played games (Chapter 41), always seeking to escape the wrath of the Hebrew teachers as they “endured” the services. A DIFFERENT WAY Many more of us might well have been reared in The Home with a sense of reverence for Orthodox Jewish religion had we been given the opportunities found today in many Orthodox Jewish synagogues, Christian or other denominations’ places of worship. One idea that might have been helpful in our religious upbringing is progressive age services. There should have been services appropriate to the varying ages of the children. The youngest children should have attended very short services, perhaps outside if weather permitted, involving brief prayers and stories about the meaning of the prayers, plus brief stories from the Bible, and then be led to playing group games. All the while being promised that when they were old enough they would be offered the opportunity to say longer prayers, just like the bigger boys.

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When the children entered the nine- and ten-year-old group, the prayers and the lessons should have been a little more elaborate, including visits to the synagogue and occasionally praying in the synagogue, and then permitted to play more sophisticated games with an appropriate religious theme, while the older boys in other age groups were actually in the Synagogue at prayer. The 11- and 12-year-old group would have been preparing for the Bar Mitzvah ceremony, would have spent a good portion of time in the synagogue during prayer services, and then would have spent time in religious activities before they got restless in the synagogue. Much would have been made of their pending Bar Mitzvahs, and they would be prepared to read their respective passages from the Torah and do it well, being taught the various meanings of all parts of the ceremony. Much attention would have been given to their coming status as Jewish men who on the day of their Bar Mitzvah, a group event at The Home, would have been given their own talis (prayer shawl) and tefillin (prayer boxes affixed to the forehead and forearm) in as impressive a ceremony as possible. After this they would have been expected to attend the full services as adult males in the religious sense, and, having been brought to this stage gradually and enjoyably, would have been expected to take their religious duties seriously and even enthusiastically. They would have been made as they were growing up to think of worship as something beautiful to look forward to, rather than as something that must be endured and avoided when the opportunity permitted. During the 20s and especially in the Depression 30s, HNOH had few funds to spare for The Home’s religious programs, and could only hire people who were willing to work for room and board and a small salary. In some cases we were lucky and very good people were hired, while in many other cases the talent for teaching and inspiring children was mediocre. How could The Home have attracted quality teachers in those long ago days? One answer is that contact could have been made with officials of Orthodox Hebrew yeshivahs (schools of learning) where some of the bright and very personable advanced students could have been selected for teaching internships at HNOH or for cultural offerings, such as leading or advising an entity that might be called the Hebrew Club, where Hebrew would be taught and spoken or even having boys taking sides on debate teams in Hebrew. This type of club could have been geared to the learning and discussing of various aspects of Hebrew culture, Jewish history, and the learning and practicing of various Jewish religious rituals. With a personable and charismatic yeshivah intern as a leader or advisor, this type of club could have been highly rewarding in many diverse ways for those participating. These are simply a few ideas from today as to how an Orthodox Jewish religious reverence might have been developed among a good portion of the HNOH boys. Then, in addition to the secular gains they graduated from The Home with they also would have been rich in Hebrew culture and religious orthodoxy.

PART 6 HUMANITARIAN GIANTS

36 Harry Lucacher, My Hero Charles “Chick” Baker

I first met Harry Lucacher in July 1933. Claire Fiance, the social worker for the Hebrew National Orphan Home, introduced me to him during a previously arranged job interview. At that time, he was The Home superintendent. I was going through a rough time and needed a job. Although he welcomed me in a cordial manner, he never smiled and had a very solemn expression. I assumed him to be about five feet eight inches tall and weighing about 180 pounds. His complexion was slightly dark, which led me to assume he was of Sephardic heritage. He had a receding hairline and deep furrows on his brow. He seemed to be in good health and he spoke with a soft, gentle voice. I didn’t know at the time that there were two other alumni brothers staying at The Home, namely, Dan Lovett and Donny Soloff. Dan had a job there. Later, I learned Donny was there to recuperate, from what, I didn’t know. With all the stressing financial problems facing him, Mr. Lucacher still took on the three of us. What a man! Right from the start, his directness and honesty were quite evident. As he was spelling out my job description, which was to supervise the junior dorm and coach the elementary school’s varsity basketball team, he said, “You will receive room and board, plus $30 a month—IF I have it.” There were a few times when he actually did not have the money, but it never bothered me. Having a job and feeling like a somebody and having a home was sufficient. I was at home. According to my recollections, from 1920 when I entered The Home until 1933, there were six administrators or superintendents: Mr. Pushkoff, Dr. Mintz, Mr. Ferber, Mr. Goldenberg, Mr. Lucacher, and Mr. Koftoff. Some may have been more effective than others, but all were good men. However, none suffered

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the financial and social embarrassment of poverty as did Mr. Lucacher. He had a Sisyphean responsibility in his unending struggle to fill the coffers and cupboards, which soon became bare again. The wind of the Great Depression swept repeatedly through the halls of the orphanage during his watch. But this man did not falter. He did not whine. He met his adversary head-on, face-to-face, and fought it out. There is no doubt that poverty can destroy the personality of an individual. An extreme feeling of dependency and its stress can raise havoc with the mind. There is no question but that the constant struggle with that demon—the Depression—left its mark on this wonderful person. Yet, no one, except those who knew him well, was aware that the grave and grim expression on his face was not anger but the symbol of his cross. Never did I hear him yell at anyone. Never did I ever hear him speak disrespectfully to a child. Never did I hear him express rage at his fate, at his daily struggles. He contained it all within himself. A long time ago I heard “character” described as how a person behaves when no one is watching. Much of the greatness of this man, Lucacher, was very rarely seen, perhaps because he was a solitary person. Rarely did I ever see him smile. Except for those children’s institutions that were financially endowed by philanthropic foundations, such as by Carnegie and a few others, most children’s agencies were in deep financial despair. “DID YOU DAVIN TODAY?” One day, while I was with Mr. Lucacher in his office, I was about to question him on the possibility of getting new uniforms for the elementary school’s varsity team. With me was one of the team members. Unexpectedly, the vice president of The Home’s board of directors came into the office. Mr. Lewin was also chairman of the board’s religious department. He approached with a “goodday” greeting. As he came closer, he gently patted the head of the boy with me and asked him, “Did you davin today?” In Hebrew, davin means “pray.” In reaction to this, Mr. Lucacher turned to Mr. Lewin and said, “Why don’t you ask him, ‘Did you eat today?’ ” I was flabbergasted. It took a great deal chutzpah to talk to the vice president, perhaps the most powerful member of the board, in this manner. Mr. Lewin closed his eyes, tightened his lips and nodded, saying only, “Touche´!” By the way, we did get the uniforms, and that year we captured the Yonkers Public School Athletic League Championship. The baby of the team, weighing 85 pounds soaking wet, later became the youngest state district judge (in Colorado) throughout the nation. He is known today as the Honorable Martin P. Miller, who assumed the judgeship at the age of 31 and later became a candidate for the office of United States senator. Mr. Lucacher’s superintendency at the HNOH was from 1932 to 1938. Manny Bergman, one of the alumni boys, once expressed how grateful he had always been to Mr. Lucacher for creating the direction of his life. When Manny was

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16, Mr. Lucacher asked his son to teach Manny to drive a car. These lessons went on for some time, and eventually Manny obtained his driver’s license and later became the official driver for The Home, picking up food donations from all over New York City, especially days-old bread and cakes. Many years later, Manny blossomed into a certified automotive instructor and had a happy career as a teacher. I recall one evening while in conference with Mr. Lucacher that he read something that I think was written by Aesop. I was so impressed with the words that to this day it remains a guideline for me. In fact, in 1964 when I was with the Protestant Home for Children in Buffalo, New York, I had a plaque made for my office so children could not miss reading it. The simple words are: “I cried because I had no shoes to wear, Until I met a man with no feet.” As it did for me for many years, this functioned as an educational tool for all the children who entered my office. It motivated me to rid myself of whatever selfpity might have been lingering within me. Some people mistakenly assumed that Mr. Lucacher seemed to be frowning or angry, so they avoided him. They didn’t realize that he was in deep thought and constantly under the pressure of keeping The Home alive and functioning. Being exposed to this man and having the good fortune of having had him as my mentor is very precious to me. Because of him, my life turned around. Because of him, I stopped thinking in selfish terms. Because of him, I eased into the field of institutional child care and teaching. I feel that I am indebted to him, for if it had not been for him and Miss Fiance, who knows what would have happened to me. He will always have a special place in my heart, serving as a reminder that goodness in people is not always interred with their bones. BITTERSWEET EXPERIENCE Perhaps the best and most truthful way for me to describe my experience at the HNOH is that all in all, it was a bittersweet experience. From all of my suffering, all of my anger and hatred, something beautiful and wonderful and exciting happened to me. I inherited a “brotherhood,” a relationship for which many would give much of themselves, perhaps even their lives. I came to the realization I had to stop feeling sorry for myself, stop hiding behind the protective shield of self-pity, that I must eventually take responsibility for my own actions. Naturally, I had help coming to this awakening. How fortunate I was. We must remember behavior is only the surface manifestation of who we are. It is only a symptom. What is essentially us is not visible to the eye. There is a reason for all behavior, especially that which is impulsive and inappropriate. We need people not only with technical skills but also with understanding hearts to help others find their way, as did Mr. Lucacher with me.

37 Samuel Field, a Man for the Age Richard G. Safran

It was 1937. The Depression had become a way of life. The average New Yorker had accepted as part of everyday living large-scale unemployment, rising personal debts, and a chronic shortage of cash. Most people were uneasy and fearful about their families’ fiscal future. They didn’t describe the situation in fancy economic terms. They simply worried and tried to set aside a growing sense of menace and despair. For the 300 boys in the Hebrew National Orphan Home, conditions were unusually grim. The leadership of the orphanage had left in disgrace. The financial situation was a mess. No one knew from where would come needed money to cover dollars already owed to food suppliers and others. While there were those in the Jewish community willing to give some time and energy to the crisis-ridden boys’ home, there seemed to be no one available to offer the management resources necessary to stabilize the situation. The HNOH was like a leaky rowboat with a large number of people frantically bailing out the water with cups. Samuel Field was approached. The 45-year-old successful executive—immersed in his own business, civic, and family affairs—considered the orphans’ needs. A former East Side boy himself, he knew that many of the boys in The Home came from the Lower East Side of New York. Mr. Field accepted the leadership role. His wife, Helen, was a partner in his decision. She was a gifted singer who would sing at civic group luncheons at which her husband might give a fund-raising speech. The story got out that once she spoke eloquently and long at a civic affair, so long and so eloquently that when she finished, Sam told the assemblage with mock exasperation that he would appreciate it if his

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wife kept to singing and left the speeches to him. We remember her usually being present with him at HNOH affairs. Not too long after he assumed the HNOH presidency, Sam Field made what was probably his single most important decision concerning The Home. He chose Reuben Koftoff as the HNOH executive director. Mr. Field believed that the man he selected would not only successfully deal with day-to-day administrative problems, but would also be effective concerning long-range needs. The two men developed into an unusually effective, intimate team as they made and implemented policies to meet the current and changing needs of their boys. Those of us who grew up during the years of Samuel Field’s pervasive influence were often aware of discussion about special needs where funding was involved. “Let’s take that to Mr. Field,” would be the signal to the boys that Reuben Koftoff intended personally to enlist Mr. Field’s support—and we knew that if it could be done, Sam Field would do it. Over the years, as we grew older—and, in some cases, wiser, about what had gone on about us in the HNOH—our appreciation of the role Samuel Field played in our lives grew exponentially.

38 Reuben Koftoff, the Kind-Hearted Revolutionary Richard G. Safran

Reuben Koftoff (RK) began his career, one of the boys told me, as a prison guard. Or, as RK himself put it, “I had to choose between the correctional field or, as I finally chose, the preventative field.” It truly does say much that the entry requirements—and by implication, the recruitment practice of the time— made little distinction between the two areas. It may also be that many people during that period thought there was only a slight difference between the two. Many of the boys during the 20s and 30s paid the price for that lack of perception. And from 1939 on, when RK came in as executive director, many boys became acutely and positively aware of the difference and were glad that Reuben Koftoff made the choice he did, because his decision and viewpoint certainly had a profound impact on our lives. In March 1977, Lewis Charles, then editor of the HNOH Alumni Association’s newsletter The Alumnus, interviewed RK. My account of RK’s biography is based on that interview and on my own contact with him. Reuben Koftoff was born in London, England, in 1895, one of six children of a very poor capmaker. In 1900 the family immigrated to the United States, and like many others at that time, settled on the Lower East Side’s Allen Street in New York City. His early education was through the college preparatory high school program. He told me that he would often study late at night by the dim light provided in the communal toilet on which he sat and read. Satisfied that after a period of employment that “my proper choice was made,” he joined the American Association of Social Work, forerunner of the present National Association of Social Workers, enrolling in the Academy of Certified

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Social Workers. As a social worker, his career was exclusively in the institutional child-care field. “My first post was housefather, then to superintendent, at Hawthorn Cedar Knolls School, 1915–18, when I was called for military service and assigned to a heavy artillery replacement unit. On November 11, 1918, our ship at sea was ordered to return home.” RK was discharged from the Army on New Year’s Eve 1918. After a short interval in industry, “the urge to return to child care was great,” and Reuben made the choice quoted above. In 1920, he joined the Brooklyn Hebrew Orphan Asylum (BHOA) as a supervisor, but soon assumed the duties of assistant superintendent. Six years later, at 31, he married Betty Zabenko (who died in 1943). In 1944 RK married again, a social worker colleague, Molly Hanwit, who generations of “H” kids knew simply as “Mrs. K.” In 1927 Mr. Koftoff accepted the executive directorship of the Jewish Orphanage in Rhode Island, a small institution serving 50 boys and girls. “Two years later, I left the agency with the thought that children could best be served in their own families—families needing financial aid should be helped.” The agency closed its doors three years after Mr. Koftoff left. In 1930, the BHOA, then the second largest child-care agency in the country, called him to be the administrator. The Brooklyn orphanage had 850 in-care children, 250 of whom were preschoolers in foster care; the program also included boys and girls ages six through 18. During the 20s the issue of institutional care was debated, with professional studies revealing the need to further the foster home program. Responding to that professional charge, BHOA embarked on foster-home placement, and by 1939 had emptied itself. Its name was changed to Youth Services of Brooklyn. Commissioned by the city of New York, RK wrote a set of requirements for counselors and supervisors in children’s institutions, and the requirements he had set down were used in civil service examinations, during which he served as an observer. RK served for three years as president of the Institutional Child Care Jewish Agencies, and by 1940 there were 52 such agencies in the United States and Canada. This child-care group was an arm of the National Jewish Welfare Conference, and in 1941 RK presented a paper to the conference, entitled “The Role of the Orthodox Jewish Child Care Institution.” When the Brooklyn and New York Federation agencies merged, the Jewish Child Care Council was born. Its aim was to bring about the merger of all nonfederated agencies under the direction of the Jewish Child Care Association (JCCA), with all services coordinated and administered through the JCCA offices. Later, Youth Services of Brooklyn came into the JCCA fold. In 1939, at the age of 44, RK accepted the executive directorship of the HNOH. Working closely with HNOH president Samuel Field and an enlightened board of directors, Reuben Koftoff began to implement his personal and professional agenda. His first objective was to remake this austere, impersonal or-

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phanage into a warmer, smaller, and more relaxed setting geared to the needs of the children, specifically, without the use of bugles, dated rule books, archaic and harsh punishment practices, and with less reliance on time-clock procedures. Dormitories were converted into rooms, evening hobby workshops were created or reestablished, and metal and electrical workshops were set up for vocational training and providing boys with the opportunity to work with power tools. Additionally, the professional staff was revamped. Social work trainees slowly replaced the old staff, and social work staff under the leadership of Joseph Roth redirected the in-house social work approaches to make them more effective. With the changing of the types of service to children came a change of name, voted in by the boys themselves, and the HNOH became Homecrest. The old Hebrew National Orphan Home sign disappeared, and some of us felt a sense of loss at its passing. Lou Amber (HNOH ’51) described Reub Koftoff as “resourceful,” in the sense that he came up with solutions for boys that were appropriate and that no one else seemed to think of. Reub’s belief in the importance of ongoing education—university, formal vocational, and in-service—was made clear to us very early. At my own eighth-grade graduation in June 1949, in his address to our graduating class, he stated: “I used to believe that education was preparation for living; I now believe that education is living.” Reuben Koftoff went after private donors to finance university scholarships for his boys. He hired teachers from Roosevelt High School to provide tutoring programs in our library after school, and Bruce Worthington, the Roosevelt High science teacher, also became an informal counselor to HNOH boys when they needed assistance outside the formal channels of the high school. And our own Coach Joe Seidell, hired part-time from Roosevelt High School, and who presided over the HNOH summer program, also coached our A, B, and C Jewish Community Center League tournament teams during the winter. He developed a real farm team of HNOHers in basketball and baseball for Roosevelt High School, where he remained a full-time coach. In addition to referring to Mr. Koftoff as “RK,” we also referred to him as “The Boss.” It was a term of affection and respect. He always seemed to be in charge, responding with, as Lou Amber noted, resourcefulness at the most extraordinary times, dealing with the situations himself in times of emergencies or at other stressful periods. It was he who broke the news to me of my mother’s suicide, enabling me to deal with it in a privately appropriate manner. As my fellow alumnus Bill Weinstein stated in his eulogy to RK, I also felt I was one of Reuben Koftoff’s favorite sons—he made most of us feel we were very special. RK went on to preside over the changing nature of institutional child care. In 1955, Homecrest merged with the Gustave Hartman Home for Children (formerly the Israel Orphan Asylum, from which many of us transferred to the “H”). He remained executive director, with May Hartman serving as administrator. The new institution became coeducational. Suitable quarters had to be found for

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the young girls in it and programs needed to be developed to meet their needs. Facilities for group residential settings were purchased in Howard Beach, New York, in new apartment buildings. “It is with pardonable pride that we say news of the group units became known far and wide,” RK said. “Visitors from many states and from abroad eagerly voiced interest in our methods and costs of operation. The address, 407 Tuckahoe Road, became a choice bit of land, and we had no trouble disposing of it to Western Electric in 1958. Everything was in fine running order in 1960, at which time we merged with JCCA. Mrs. Hartman then retired; I remained, supervising and setting up other units. . . . One can only gloss over and put into capsule form 45 years of service to children. It has been my pleasure in company with my contemporaries to contribute significantly in the Child Care Field.” RK retired in February 1964. On June 4, 1977, a party was held for Reuben and his wife, and I wrote in The Alumnus that year A vigorous Reuben Koftoff and his wife were surrounded throughout the evening by the men who were once their boys. . . . there were tears of joy . . . by quite a few. The reaping of the Koftoff harvest was evident to everyone present. Reuben Koftoff was the lodestone, drawing together men and their wives to meet and talk to him after 20 and more years. It was truly an exciting, unique, and emotion-packed night. . . . By honoring Reuben Koftoff, we asserted the sense of our own worth and self-respect, which is his enduring legacy.

RK died within a year of the HNOH–Koftoff celebration. His wife Molly followed him shortly afterward. His son Bob had died in a car accident in 1962.

39 Mr. Koftoff Always Got His Way— to Our Benefit Ira A. Greenberg

When Mr. Koftoff first addressed all of us at lunch in 1939, he described some of the changes he intended to make in The Home, but none of us believed him. His neat appearance in a light brown suit and his warm, authoritative voice called for respect, but the things he described were too good to be true; hence, they were not, to our way of thinking. The idea of tearing down the three dormitories and converting the space to well furnished rooms, each containing a half dozen boys, was too ridiculous for serious discussion among ourselves afterward. And his statement that there would be no more beatings or group punishments like detention, nonsense! He would be stuck in his office all day doing whatever people did in their offices, or he would be hiding out in his office, and supervisors would tell him what they wanted him to know, and things would remain the same. The only change we could see was that he would not have the title of his predecessors, superintendent, but would be known by the more modern title, executive director. He also told of such grandiloquent concepts as converting part of the Old Gym to machine shops and electrical shops, so that in addition to the public school carpentry shop, boys would learn to work with other materials and would learn to use power tools safely. And he talked of bringing in counselors and of finding ways to enable boys to go to college. There were other changes he spoke of, but at this distant date they do not come to mind. He seemed to mean well, but how could anyone believe him? And yet it all came to pass. The freshmen were place elsewhere in the building, and their dormitory was torn down, with only piles of dirt, plaster, wood,

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and wiring to remind us of what had been, and we knew these piles of scrap would remain there for years to come. But that wasn’t to be. In a short while the piles of debris were gone, and workers replaced them with stacks of lumber, bags of cement and plaster, and later paint and electrical wiring and various lighting devices. And Mr. Koftoff would be seen periodically examining the work in progress and conferring with contractors. Of course, we rarely saw the work being done as we were in school on the fourth floor or at the various high schools. But we always saw the results at the end of the school day, usually after the workers had gone, and still we couldn’t believe it was happening or that the work would ever be completed and we would be living in well furnished rooms, as Mr. Koftoff had promised. UNCONVINCED BY PROGRESS And when the freshman rooms were completed and the boys living in them, we assumed that was the end of it. Mr. Koftoff had promised changes, and changes were made, so his promise, or part of his promise, was fulfilled, and he could point to what had been accomplished and people would be impressed. During our years in The Home we had learned to be very skeptical about promises made, and our skepticism remained throughout the periods of the junior dorm being converted to rooms, and then, finally, the senior dorm’s conversion. And while this was happening, new staff members were being hired. Instead of whoever was available being brought in for minimal pay as supervisors, the staff was taking on a more professional appearance. Only two of the newly hired were child welfare careerists: Mr. and Mrs. Alex Mantinband. She supervised the freshmen, who called her “Aunt Judy,” and he supervised the seniors. Others who were hired were professionals but not necessarily in the areas of child development. After Mr. Mantinband left to pursue a master of social work degree, his replacement was Mr. Weinstein, a man I admired, not so much for any personal attribute as I did not know him well, but because he was an engineer, something I had hoped to become. Later replacements as senior supervisors were Bob Ludwig, who left to enter the Army, and his brother, Bert, who succeeded him, until he was called to enroll in the Coast Guard Officer Candidate School. Both Bob and Bert had been graduate students at Columbia University. Also, Roy Fishkin, a tall, handsome, athletic man, was a senior dorm supervisor and coach of the varsity basketball team until he departed to enter dental school. These were the types of people Mr. Koftoff hired initially to supervise the boys; later, when they became available, he hired child-care professionals. Mr. Koftoff obviously had made some very strong stipulations as to the kind of financial and other support he wanted when being interviewed for his HNOH post, and with Samuel Field, a highly successful real estate developer and new president of The Home, backing him, Mr. Koftoff got his way in the HNOH renovations and daily operations. My personal experience with Mr. Koftoff pro-

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vides another example of how he always got his way, no matter what obstacles had to be overcome, and in my case they were quite small compared to others he had won over. I TRY TO BACK AWAY During my first year as editor of The Homelite, Mr. Koftoff called me into his office and told me that because of the many clubs and other activities in The Home there was a need for a Central Council. This council would be made up of representatives from each club, dormitory group and the various other activities and would meet periodically to coordinate schedules of events and to generally bring about a better sense of organization and cooperation among them all. I felt this was a good idea and was enthusiastic about doing a front-page story about it in The Homelite. However, Mr. Koftoff wanted more from me. He wanted me to organize the Central Council and to serve as its first president. I had no problem about serving as president, though I really did not want this added duty (or burden), but I knew I wasn’t capable of organizing it, and I straight off told Mr. Koftoff this. He wouldn’t hear of it, even after I told him I was not much of a leader and that the older boys wouldn’t pay any attention to me. But he persisted and for several weeks kept pushing me about this, making suggestions as to how I should initially go about it, and so I finally gave it a try. I knew that Murray Feierberg and Jerry Pincus and other friends in my class would support this effort and would support me in it, as would Mickey Nathanson, four years younger, as well as George and Lloyd Plafker and their many friends. But the older boys would be a problem, and I had no idea how I could persuade them to cooperate. Nevertheless, I did what Mr. Koftoff had suggested, and to my surprise everything occurred just as he had said it would, and there was only a minimum of negative input from a few of the older boys, but no opposition at all. Thinking back about this, I am sure Mr. Koftoff had prepared the supervisory staff to support this effort, and the central council was organized with enthusiastic responses for most of those chosen as representatives of their particular groups or clubs. In no time at all, I was elected council president; Murray Feierberg, vice president; and Mickey Nathanson, secretary–treasurer. Our council meetings were both useful and enjoyable. After my class left The Home in June 1942, Mickey Nathanson became the editor of The Homelite and council president. I should have known earlier, Mr. Koftoff always got his way—to our benefit.

PART 7 WE KNEW THEM WELL

40 Sam and Jerry Ira A. Greenberg

Late one afternoon when I was 15, I walked into the Old Gym with a book I was reading. I saw Sam Arcus, stocky, serious, his light brown hair neatly combed, and two years older than me, sitting alone on one of the scattered chairs where the band had been rehearsing earlier. He was intently reading an impressively thick book. I took a seat nearby and dived into my own book. I’m sure Sam was aware of me as I approached, but he was engrossed in his reading, and neither of us acknowledged the other. I had positive feelings toward Sam, but for reasons of age and differing interests we weren’t close. In a little while Jerry Tobias showed up. Tall, strong, blond, and soft-spoken, he was one of Sam’s peers and obviously a close friend. As if resuming a conversation of a short while ago, Jerry asked Sam what he thought of the current German invasion of Poland, which had begun on September 1, 1939. Sam immediately began discussing some of the possible ramifications of this attack, and Jerry picked up on this, and soon both were caught up in a very detailed analysis of the situation in Europe and the possible repercussions of each course of action any of the powers might take. I sat enthralled and, without being obvious about it, paid close attention, amazed at the erudition of each and at the ability to deal so learnedly with the convoluted events of the day. I found it difficult to follow their discourses, especially since at the time my primary interest in the daily newspapers was in reading the comic strips. As were most of the boys my age, I was aware that Germany had been abusing Jews for a number of years and was causing a lot of trouble for the good countries like England and France. I was familiar with the slogan, “Peace in our

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time,” and I knew that the Germans and their “fifth column” had brought about the annexation of part of Czechoslovakia and all of Austria, and that was it. The year before, I was one of the many boys in The Home who had heard the Orson Welles’ Mercury Theater radio presentation of the H. G. Wells novel War of the Worlds, on Halloween night. On hearing the opening sounds of the show, my first thought was that the Germans were invading the United States. That is how shallow my knowledge of world events was, and so my amazement at Sam and Jerry’s sophisticated conversation was profound, especially since I also knew they were not that much older than me. I tried to understand fully what they were saying to each other, but my background was limited and their words flowed too quickly for me to follow. Instead, I recalled how surprised we all were almost a year ago when the morning after the airing of War of the Worlds we read of how hundreds of thousands of people throughout the country had believed the Martians were actually invading. We at The Home had stayed transfixed throughout the entire broadcast and of course understood from the many intermission announcements that it was all makebelieve. But the dramatic presentation was great, and we all appreciated having been a part of that historical event. ALIKE, BUT DIFFERENT Sam and Jerry were very much alike in their intellectuality in that they were both very knowledgeable and they were fully aware of the various interrelationships of the things that they knew. They also were alike ethically, both having a strong sense of justice and a righteous anger directed at those who abused others. They differed physically as well as in their areas of interests. Sam, who had suffered a medical injury to his leg, had to live a sedentary life, and he expressed his need to be active through various cultural activities. On the other hand, Jerry, one of the strongest boys in The Home, expressed himself through hard physical labors, vigorously working on the farm and wherever else he might be needed. One day I noticed Jerry loafing about at the time I knew he usually worked in the kitchen helping to prepare the evening meal. I asked him about this, and he explained that several months back he had seen where help was needed in the kitchen and began assisting there, and this kitchen work soon became a part of his routine. He happened to skip working there one day, and the woman in charge bawled him out for this, and that ended Jerry’s kitchen involvement. Jerry loved working with the soil, and one of the things he looked forward to was harnessing a horse to the plow and then ploughing furrows in the ground in preparation for planting seeds. Often I walked alongside as he ploughed a field discussing things of my interest or posing questions about life. Jerry was an understanding guy who enjoyed sharing his thoughts, and he never talked down to anybody, no matter how young or uninformed the boy might be.

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Such could not be said for Sam. It seemed that whatever Sam got involved in he always was the boss. I first became aware of this at the age of ten after I had been given an Argus collapsing camera as a birthday present, and so became interested in photography. I immediately joined the photo club and learned about working in the darkroom. I also learned that “Woe unto you!” if you ever left a mess in the darkroom or failed to wipe up spilled developing or fixing fluid, because then the wrath of Sam Arcus would descend upon you, and you dared never to let it happen again. And this insistence on doing things properly seemed to follow me wherever I turned. I guess that eventually I learned to do things correctly and to return things to their proper places. My next to last involvement with Sam was probably the best thing that could have happened to me then—my working on The Home’s monthly newspaper, The Homelite. I don’t recall how this came about, but my guess is that Sam had recruited me, since I was not interested in writing until after I came to work on the paper. I was accustomed to Sam’s being the boss and by this time I probably wasn’t making too many mistakes, and we got along well. Unlike Mickey Nathanson, who at the time lived to write, I wrote whatever was required and only did so when Sam assigned me to something. Therefore, it was quite a surprise, almost a shock, when Sam, in preparing to leave The Home in June 1940, named me as the new editor and named Murray Feierberg as the one in charge of all the technical details that went into putting out the paper; Sam had done both jobs himself, with some assistance from a few others. I was 16 when Sam made me editor, and two years later when it was my turn to prepare for leaving, I named Mickey Nathanson, 141⁄2, as my successor. One of the things I did not know until I read one of Sam’s chapters for this book is that Jerry Tobias had a violent temper. The younger boys were not aware of this because Jerry never vented his anger at them, only at boys his own age or older and adults, especially those who were mistreating others. In some instances, with Sam participating, he would take strong action. On one occasion when an older boy was throwing cats off the roof of our four-story building, Jerry, Sam, and one or two others grabbed this boy and threatened to throw him off the roof. That boy did not again harm the cats at The Home but found other ways to vent his anger. However, the younger boys were unaware of most of these things. A SURPRISING TURN When thinking of Sam and Jerry in terms of future professions, many of us assumed they would become university professors: Jerry, a professor of philosophy, and Sam, a professor of history or sociology. Therefore, many were surprised when they learned that after leaving The Home Jerry became a federal landscape gardener in Washington, D.C. We knew he had worked hard on the farm and assumed that he had done so because it was necessary, and though he seemed to thrive on strenuous physical exertion, we assumed this was his way

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of taking a break from his intellectual pursuits. Thus, my private assumption was that he had taken the landscaping job in order to have time to devote himself to reading philosophy. At the outbreak of World War II, Jerry joined the Navy, rose to the rank of petty officer, and following his discharge used his G.I. Bill benefits to earn a degree in botany from Syracuse University. He then returned to his federal employment doing landscaping work at Arlington Cemetery. When he married shortly after returning to Washington, D.C., Sam Prince, an HNOH classmate who lived in nearby Baltimore, stood up for him as Best Man. A few years later, Jerry dropped out of sight and we have not heard from or about him since. Sam Arcus, on the other hand, retained close ties to The Home and to the alumni, and he developed a career directly related to his experiences in The Home, as a resident and as an instructor. After initially holding several lesser jobs, both Sam and his best alumni friend, Charlie Vladimer, began working as supervisors in a nearby orphanage while attending college and then graduate school in New York City. Eventually, each earned a Master of Social Work degree from Columbia University. While Charlie worked in orphanages and in welfare systems, Sam’s road led him into working at Jewish community centers, serving in a half dozen cities throughout the country and becoming executive director of two of them. Sam retired in Tucson, Arizona, where his son Norman Louis Arcus is a dispensing optician. Sam continues to work part-time as an ombudsman for the elderly. His daughter, Rochelle Ting, is a homemaker after having worked as a public health specialist. Interestingly, Sam’s first job in working with people was at the HNOH, where he had returned to teach arts and crafts part-time while working elsewhere. At the time Sam returned to The Home, I had become interested in carrying breast wallets, and so on several Sunday afternoons I showed up at the arts and crafts room, where, under Sam’s guidance, I stapled some pieces of leather together to make my first wallet. Sam then showed me a better way to make this type of wallet. First, he showed me how to do an artistic stitching of the edges and then how to draw a design and impress it permanently on the front of the wallet, using water as the softener. This I did, drawing an ax, pick, and shovel to symbolize mining. My ambition then was to become a mining engineer, a career choice I dropped after serving in the Army. However, I still have and treasure the two black leather wallets made under Sam’s instruction.

41 The Honorable Marty Miller Ira A. Greenberg

I was ten and I had an undersized football, probably sent to me by my cousin Jerry Kerner, who’d graduated from the University of Georgia the year before and who had played fullback for the Bulldogs. It was mid-afternoon as I walked to the playground just west of the main building, the football tucked under my left arm. Immediately, a group of kids swarmed around me and began talking about starting a game. Team captains were chosen, and about midway through the choosing of sides, I was picked by Marty Miller, who was almost as tall as me but who I knew to be a couple of years older. At some point during the course of the game I found myself carrying the ball. Knowing that I had to cross the goal line to score, and seeing the crowd of kids in front of me who were out to tackle me, and spotting the unprotected goalposts behind me, I did what I thought was a very clever thing and gleefully ran to the unprotected posts, happy about having outwitted the other team. That’s when I first heard the term “touchback.” The kids didn’t tell me the word, they shouted it, happily and derisively by the other side and angrily and invectively by my own side. As I stood there crestfallen and confused, Marty put his arm around my shoulders and walked me to a nearby bench, suggesting in a calm and gentle manner that I learn a little more about the game by watching it for a while. Although I, of course, knew who he was, just as I knew most of the kids around my age, this was my real introduction to Marty Miller. While Jerry Pincus, Sol Klein, and Murray Feierberg were, in that order, the three most popular kids in my class, Marty Miller, with Henry Josephberg a

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close second, was the most popular kid in the entire junior dormitory. He was also the best athlete, again with Josephberg a close second. As I was to appreciate later, he was also the smartest kid in our 130-bed dormitory and among the smartest in the entire Home. When he was a junior, beginning some time between the ages of ten and 12, he played alongside 16 to 18 year olds on The Home’s varsity baseball and basketball teams. He, along with boys who towered over him, brought many athletic honors to The Home through winning citywide tournaments. SAX PLAYER Marty was also one of the best musicians in The Home, playing tenor and baritone saxophone in the band; he also helped a number of kids learn this instrument. I saw Marty as a couple of years older than me and being involved in many activities of the older boys, and consequently I appreciated how democratic he was, often eating with the kids in our class and treating us all as equals. I never hung out with Marty, as most of the things I did or activities I got involved in were with kids in my own class. Marty was two years ahead of me in school, so we were never really close. But at the same time I considered him a friend, and although I never took my problems to anyone, as was the case with most of the kids in The Home, I still knew that if I had anything I really needed to discuss with someone, he was among those I could turn to. From a very early age, as I recall it, Marty wanted to be a lawyer, and he often used the dining room as a place to hone his skills. While eating at the eight-boy tables we would discuss any number of things that had occurred during the day or at school or what we’d read or heard. If anyone took a position on anything, Marty would take the opposite position; a friendly argument would commence, and Marty always won. When I was 15, the guys in my class began learning to dance so we could join the older boys in meeting girls from nearby high schools who came to The Home for the monthly Saturday night dances and other social functions in the game room. Marty, who was also one of the best-looking guys in The Home, stated he would not learn to dance as he could meet all the girls he wanted to meet through his personality and conversational skills. And he was right. He didn’t dance at our social gatherings, and he did meet and have the most interesting girls sitting at his table talking. (Marty told me years later he eventually did learn to dance and became quite good at it. Duh, was I supposed to be surprised?) WOUNDED IN GERMANY Marty graduated from Roosevelt High School in 1940 and left The Home, which was two years before I did. I lost track of him, though I did learn through

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the HNOH Alumni Association newsletter and through correspondence with some of the guys that Marty had gone into the Army, made lieutenant, and was seriously wounded overseas. A corporal who had been traveling from post to post as a court reporter at courtmartials and officer reassessment hearings, Marty left this “cream” assignment for infantry Officer Candidate School (OCS). He graduated as a second lieutenant and was assigned as a rifle platoon leader in Company I, 271st Infantry Regiment, 69th Infantry Division. He was severely wounded in Germany, about 15 miles west of Cologne. Crossing a field while leading a night patrol to rescue some wounded Americans where they had fallen earlier that day, Marty stepped on a “Bouncing Betty” antipersonnel mine, which exploded at chest level, sending 16 pieces of shrapnel into his body. Five pieces entered the heart area, five went into one lung, one into his head, and the rest in his thighs and torso. Marty’s men carried him back to the aid station, where his wounds were quickly dressed and his arms bound to his sides to reduce movement. As he lay on a stretcher, one of his men almost killed him. With the best of intentions, the soldier lit a cigarette, placed it between Marty’s lips, and said, “Here, Lieutenant, have a smoke,” and then walked away. But Marty did not smoke, and he almost choked because he could not get rid of the cigarette. He was saved when a medical corpsman came by and removed it. There then followed years of medical treatment at some six Army hospitals, the last being Fitzsimmons General Hospital in Denver, where he eventually made a partial recovery from his wounds. He still carries pieces of shrapnel in his body. While being treated at Fitzsimmons, he entered the University of Denver, where he met his wife Edythe and from which he received his bachelor’s and then his law degree, and then he began his practice of law. YOUNGEST JUDGE In 1954, at the age of 30, Marty was elected as the then-youngest district court judge in the state of Colorado and in the nation. A district judge is equivalent to a superior court judge in California and other states and to a circuit court judge in Georgia, Alabama, and other states, and is considered a high state position. After serving from 1955 through 1959, Marty ran for the 1st Judicial District area district attorney post (Denver area), for which he was elected and reelected, serving two full terms. Following this, he declared himself a candidate for the United States Senate. He was doing well in his bid for the Democratic nomination in the 1964 race when Gary Hart entered and brought on a threeway split of the labor vote. Hart got 35 percent of the vote, Marty received 31 percent, and the third candidate, a union official, got part of the remainder. All three had strong labor support, and Hart’s entering caused a number of Marty’s labor backers to leave him. Hart went on to win the general election and joined

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the Senate, later to become a presidential contender. Marty says he now has no regrets and has very friendly feelings toward Hart. The law firm he heads in Littleton, Colorado, consists of eight attorneys—including his son Michael, who practices general law, and his daughter Kathryn “Katy” Miller, who practices employment law—plus a large support staff. Edythe is a former chair of the Colorado Public Utilities Commission and teaches the history of economics and economic policy at Denver University. Marty and Edythe have two other children: Lucy, the oldest, who does research on children with learning disorders and also teaches at the University of Colorado, and Dan, the youngest, who operates a cable supply business. Michael is the second oldest and Kathryn is the third. All four are married (the women use their maiden names professionally) and have provided Marty and Edythe with a total of 13 grandchildren. ONE OF US Because Marty was two years ahead of my class academically, I had always thought of him as being two years older than me. Even though I’d visited Marty and his wife at their home in 1975 and 1982 when I was in the area for other reasons, and even though we had talked long into the night each time, I did not learn until April 1999, when I again visited them en route to New York City, that Marty was only six months older than me. I had always assumed that when he had chosen to join one of my age group’s tables in the dining room that he was merely “slumming” and that he would again eat with his peers after he had had enough of us. That, of course, was not the case. He ate with the group he belonged in, only we didn’t know it. We had accepted the fact that he was a lot smarter than us, and we had no problems with this, but we didn’t realize that he had spent so much time with us because he felt most at home with us. He wasn’t just one of the boys of The Home, he was one of our small group of some 30 or so kids who were born in 1924; he was a part of our cohort; he was a part of us.

42 Murray Feierberg, Best Friend Ira A. Greenberg

Murray Feierberg probably was my first friend at The Home. I was eight when I entered HNOH and must have been overwhelmed by the number of boys there, especially the 60 of us in the freshman dorm. Murray and I may have first talked in the dorm or it may have been in class where I sat directly behind him, possibly because of the closeness of the first letters of our last names. At the end of the school term I was left behind because of my having played hookey before entering The Home, but we still saw each other in the dormitory. At that time I don’t know if I differentiated Murray from the other kids as most of them also were nice. But for whatever reason we seemed to have been lockstepped together at remembered points throughout our years in The Home. I have some guesses as to why we were drawn to each other, despite a major difference—athletics. Murray was the best athlete in our class, while I was merely average. Murray was an avid reader, just as I was after Mrs. Skinner taught me to read during my first year in The Home. After I had skipped a couple of grades and caught up with my class, Murray and I were the second and third best students after David Horn who was the best. Also, we both were pretty easygoing guys and had no need to push our thoughts and interests onto others; yet, that could be said about most of the boys in our class. So, for whatever reasons, we wound up being best friends in a somewhat casual way because we never really gave it much thought.

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AUDITION SABOTAGE AND HUT BUILDING Murray, who was about an inch or two shorter than me, was stocky and always dressed very casually—his necktie knotted about two inches below his neck—but even so he always seemed to be neatly dressed. He had a ready smile that seemed to shift more to one side of his face than the other and was game to go along on most ventures whether they violated Home rules or not. The first thing I specifically recall that involved Murray and me was the tryouts for the Gilbert and Sullivan operetta, The H.M.S. Pinafore, which The Home put on in 1935 under the sponsorship of the elementary school teaching staff. As younger boys we knew we would be assigned female roles, and neither of us wanted this. Therefore, when we were being auditioned by one of the women teachers, we both made an effort to sing as badly as we could, and she told us kindly that we could participate by helping out backstage. The production was put on, and it was absolutely great, and some aspect of me regretted that I had not really been a part of it. The following year the school put on The Pirates of Penzance, and that also played well without Murray and me. To this day, The H.M.S. Pinafore remains my favorite operetta. However, we had our dramatic opportunity a year later in the fifth grade when Murray had the title role in our class play, Ali Baba and the 40 Thieves. I was second lead as the villainous bandit chief. Earlier, as I now recall, Murray was among the few boys who joined with me in building our underground huts, similar to those done by the bigger boys, only freshmen and juniors built smaller ones. We would excavate the ground, leave a small entry hole and then cover the rest with logs and dirt. Afterward we would sit in a circle in the hut and tell stories. Eventually, we outgrew this, but my love for construction work did not leave me. THE ACCUSATION The most startling thing to happen to me in The Home occurred when I was 12. This came at the hands of Walter Oppenheimer, a refugee from Germany whose claim to fame among us was that he had escaped with a very expensive Zeiss camera. Mr. Oppenheimer, who was junior dorm supervisor, called me into his small office and in righteous rage accused me of having sex with Murray Feierberg, primarily because we always seemed to be together. I was so shocked at this that I didn’t even get angry. I sought to convince him that not only had this never happened but that neither of us ever thought along these lines. My statements didn’t seem to convince him, and as I was about to leave his office, he declared, “I’ve seen them lying on the ground with each other—like dogs!” He may have witnessed something like this, but in my years in The Home I had never seen anything close to what he had described. But Mr. Oppenheimer’s accusation must have been too much for me to handle, and so I quickly suppressed thoughts of it. The next time it came to mind was

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some 60 years later while working on this book. I then phoned Murray, who lives in New York City, and asked if he had been similarly accused by Mr. Oppenheimer. He replied that he had some vague recollection of it. Interestingly enough, at the time of Oppenheimer’s accusation, I had not been spending much of my free time with Murray. In the afternoons he was actively involved in baseball and basketball, and I was spending my time with Eugene Kalman, son of The Home’s librarian, a former civil engineer in Italy. Eugene was my age but much smarter and much better educated. He attended school with us, but a good part of his time was spent with his father who was tutoring him in mathematics and science. At the time the boys in my class were preparing for the next year’s introduction to algebra, Eugene was learning calculus and college-level physics and chemistry. Much of our time together was spent sitting on the stone wall at the north end of The Home property eating kaiser rolls taken from the dining room and tomatoes stolen from the nearby fields. Afterward we would make up stories in which we were the heroes or create fantasy situations we had to escape from, such as being captured by Chinese pirates. These fantasies came from everyone’s favorite comic strip then, “Terry and the Pirates.” Mr. Kalman was the librarian for about a year or so, and then he and Eugene left and we never again saw them. BAR MITZVAH The next thing I recall about Murray and me was preparing for our class Bar Mitzvah in 1937 and together studying the English speech that one of the boys would give during the celebration banquet at the Hotel Astor. Our band played there, and after three boys gave respective speeches in Hebrew, Yiddish, and English, Mr. Lucacher, The Home’s superintendent, gave impassioned speeches in each of the three languages seeking funds from the rich attendees in support of The Home. In preparing for this auspicious event a few of the boys learned the Hebrew speech and a few the Yiddish one, but most of us concentrated on the English speech, which of course was the easiest. Murray had learned his lines faster than the rest of us, and I assumed he would give the English speech. To my surprise, I was the one selected to do it. My guess as to why it happened this way is due to the influence of my cultured upper-middle-class aunt, Ethel Gottlober. Because of her, my enunciation may have been better than that of most of the boys my age. FRESHMEN MONITORS Two mutual events in our lives occurred when we were 14. At that time we both joined the newly formed Boy Scout troop at The Home and within six months we each became leaders of 12-boy patrols. But far more important, we both were selected to be freshmen dormitory monitors. Why we were chosen is

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still a mystery to me, but it may have been in part because neither of us wanted it. However, the same could be said for most of the boys our age. I don’t even know who selected us or what the process for such selection consisted of. It was commonly accepted throughout The Home population that dormitory monitors, of which there were six, two in each dorm, were like Army sergeants. They generally ran the routine business of seeing that the dorm was kept clean, seeing that those in the dorm washed themselves properly, behaved as ordered, and obeyed The Home rules. These were rules that often we monitors disobeyed along with some of the kids in our charge, such as swimming in “B.A.” or otherwise leaving the grounds without permission. Monitors were in each dorm to assist the supervisor, a hired adult, in seeing that the dormitory and the boys in it functioned as they should, and in maintaining discipline. One of the accepted perquisites for monitors was that each would have his own valet, a younger boy who would make his bed, see that his clothes were kept neatly folded or hung, and do whatever other personal chores the monitors did not have time to do themselves. Neither Murray nor I wanted a valet, and we let the kids know that we were perfectly capable of taking care of our own needs and content to do so. The upshot of this was that we each had two valets, and even though we at first tried to discourage this, the kids were insistent. Obviously the kids liked us and we both felt good about this, but we would not let this interfere with our trying to maintain order in the dorm. Murray slept at the north end of the dorm and I at the south, but we were both responsible for everything that went on in the dorm. I recall vividly that I did what many of the freshmen monitors did before me, and that is when the kids got out of line I slapped them or put them on detention. However, I never slapped too hard and I never used my fist, and during detention I would have the kids stand at attention with their arms folded behind their backs. I never made the boys stand with arms outstretched or get into squatting positions, two difficult and often painful forms of punishment all the boys my age and older had undergone. I don’t recall having seen Murray slap any of the kids. One day, it occurred to me that my two closest cousins, Laurel and Naomi, whose ages were a year and a half on either side of mine, or their parents, Ethel and Sigmund Gottlober, might be considerably shocked if they discovered that I was slapping the kids. Suddenly, I felt very guilty about this and immediately stopped, which brought about little change in the dormitory, except that some of the kids thereupon became a bit more difficult to manage. One of the boys, towheaded Joey Tobias (Jerry’s younger brother), attacked me one day as I was trying to enforce detention, and I had to wrestle him to the ground to control him. He had his older brother’s anger at what he saw as an injustice and was ready to fight for what he thought was right. The reason for the detention that day was that the kids had been making a lot of noise when they should have been napping after lunch. Looking back at this from today’s vantage point, I realize that it was ridiculous to expect a bunch of high-energy children to nap simply because it was

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part of the daily schedule. A better way might have been to set off an area of the dorm for those wanting to nap and for the the monitors to involve the remainder of the kids in storytelling or in some other not too boisterous activity. Instead, we had sought to enforce a routine that many of us did not appreciate when we were freshmen. Jerry, who was one of my heroes in The Home, never once questioned me about having to subdue his kid brother. I am quite sure that had I been a cruel person, I would have had a truly dangerous Jerry to try to deal with. But I never considered Jerry’s possible reactions, or that of the other bigger boys, when I helped run the freshmen dorm because I hadn’t been stepping outside the norm of good monitor behavior, but my cousins would have had no understanding of this. They would have been duly shocked and outraged, and for this I felt guilty. Eventually, Murray and I graduated from The Home’s junior high school, and we were relieved as freshmen monitors to make way for two of the juniors who would replace us. We, with the rest of our class, had moved to the senior dorm on turning 14, and when we were ready to become high school juniors on reaching 16 we dropped out of the Boy Scouts in order to concentrate on school work and on assuming more chores and responsibilities about The Home. OUR BIG APPOINTMENTS At this time, when we had both turned 16—Murray is five days younger than me—we received what to me was a great shock. Sam Arcus, who had been editor of The Homelite for the past two years, had graduated from Roosevelt High School in June 1940 and was about to leave The Home. He called Murray and me into his office, the monthly mimeographed newspaper office, and named me editor, responsible for all the material that went into the paper, and Murray the assistant editor (later changed to associate and managing editor) to be responsible for everything involved in the mechanics of putting out the paper. Aside from being very surprised, I found myself reluctant to take on this responsibility, but with strong encouragement from Sam, I agreed to give it a try. He then gave each of us a key to this large office, gave some final instructions and advice about putting out The Homelite, and then departed The Home. Murray and I were on our own, and we had mixed feelings about this new opportunity. However, the very good part about this new and time-consuming job was that Murray and I now had our own hangout, a place where either of us could be alone for reading or puttering, a place to do our homework, a place to keep our bikes and other prized possessions, and a place where we could meet with our friends. That part of it was great. Also, putting out the paper was an enjoyable thing for us, and the paper we put out each month was fairly good, with Murray doing all of the typing and cutting the stencils and operating the mimeograph machine. One of the things that made putting out the paper easier for us than for our successors was that we had a talented and very enthusiastic writer named E.M. “Mickey” Nathan-

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son, four years our junior, working for us and with us. We had help from such peers as Jerry Pincus, the most popular guy in our class who went by the cheerful nickname of “Yippy”; Jerry Kresch, who did good drawings for us; and Hy Furman and Sy Lippman. Among the younger boys, there were Alex Brewis, Herman Horowitz, Joey Tobias, George Plafker, Milton Noble, Dave Apfelbaum, Simon Growick, Frank Goldwitz, Bob Wolpert, Fred Greenberg, and Larry Steinberg. A boy slightly older than us, Jerry Coogan, who spent a lot of his time working on the farm, wrote our humor column. Murray had learned typing and other office skills at Commerce High School where he prepared himself for the world of work, while I went to Roosevelt High in an academic program with plans of becoming a mining engineer. Shortly after we began putting out The Homelite, Murray showed me the handsplacement position on the typewriter keyboard, told me to practice some ten or 15 minutes a day, and guaranteed in no time I would learn to type. This occurred as he foretold, and my typing ability has stood me well in college, in work as a newspaperman, in graduate school churning out term papers, and in report writing as a clinical psychologist. To this day, I am very grateful to Murray for providing me with this most necessary skill. Two events come strikingly to mind when I think of life in The Home during the time we were 17 years of age. One night, Murray and I walked the mile and a half to Bronxville to see the 1941 movie Charlie’s Aunt, starring Jack Benny, who played the aunt. It was without question the most hilarious movie either of us had ever seen, and we laughed unrestrainedly throughout. At the conclusion, when the lights came on in the theater, we realized just how devastating Jack Benny and the cast of characters were. Our eyes were tearfully wet, our jaws ached from the almost continuous laughter, and there was pain in our sides and rib cages from our having enthusiastically elbowed each other at every especially funny moment. We, of course, told all the boys in the senior dorm (rooms) about this new comedy, and of course they all found ways to see it. The other event concerned the party we threw. NEW YEAR’S EVE PARTY It was the evening of December 31, 1941, and a bunch of us seniors and some juniors were hanging around with nothing to do. “What a stupid way to be spending New Year’s Eve!” we thought, but as most of us were without dates or partying money, there was not much we could do. Then a few of the seniors said they had some beer hidden away and others had some wine. On hearing this, Leo Youdelman, senior supervisor, said he would get food and punch from the kitchen, but a place was needed to hold a party, safe from prying eyes. Then Murray and I boldly stepped forward and volunteered The Homelite office, and the party was on. We moved furniture around to make space in the office, tables and chairs were brought in, along with paper plates and cups, party food, and the aforementioned beer and wine, plus party hats that Leo also found

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for us. The great event got underway with about 30 of us seniors and juniors, and Leo as the lone adult. We ate, drank, sang songs, Leo told a great number of jokes from his inexhaustible supply, and everyone was having a fine time. Exuberance and hilarity reigned, and our spirits soared. We were enjoying a great party, and soon it burst the constraints of celebrant propriety. We needed to do more than just eat, drink, sing, and tell jokes, and before we knew it we were involved in a food fight. I cannot recall how it began, but Sy Lippman, one of our classmates, said it began when I threw a roll at one of the boys. I do not remember doing this, but Sy, who rose to the rank of lieutenant in the Miami Beach (Florida) Police Department, undoubtedly has a memory that can be trusted, and so, on blind faith, I have to accept his recollection as being true. In any event, the joyous party had deteriorated to an enthusiastic free-for-all in which some of the boys were throwing food, a few were throwing punches, and worst of all, others were throwing wine and beer at each other. The party was beginning to get out of hand, and Murray and I grew alarmed at the direction it was taking. The guys were messing up our office, our hangout, our little domain. We thereupon called a halt to everything, announced the party was over, and that everybody had to leave. With much grumbling and some laughter, the guys departed, and we were left to assess the damage. It was considerable, and we were much disconcerted by what we beheld. Parts of sandwiches, cakes, and cookies were strewn about on the tables, on the chairs, on the floor, and on our desks, but what was even worse was that the place reeked of spilled wine and beer. Three of us—Murray, me, and George (Georgie) Plafker—began the onerous job of cleaning the place up. Georgie, who was five years younger than Murray and me, was a tall kid who often hung around with us. He was very bright and quick-witted and had an excess amount of energy. And when he was bored with what Murray and I might be doing or talking about, he would harass us and dash away before either of us could do anything about it. When things would get out of hand and neither of us wanted to chase after Georgie, we would yell to his brother Lloyd, two years his senior, “Lloyd, go beat up Georgie,” and Lloyd would take off after his brother, catch him, wrestle him to the ground and pretend to beat him. This would quiet Georgie for the moment and give Murray and me some peace. In any case, George was a good kid, and we liked having him around. Years later, while we both were attending different colleges, George wrote me that in his junior year as an electrical engineer major he chanced to take the basic geology course, fell in love with the subject, changed his major, and became a geologist, later becoming internationally prominent and often consulting in Japan on earthquakes and in other parts of the world. Lloyd, after serving in the Navy, earned his bachelor’s and master’s degrees and developed a successful business in northern California, not too far from where George and his family are located. To return to the party’s aftermath, Murray, George, and I carried the tables and chairs from the office, leaving them in the hallway outside, swept up all the debris, opened the windows wide (letting in the cold and refreshing night air),

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and then mopped the place thoroughly. It still smelled awful, a and so we mopped it a second time, but the smell persisted. Somewhat discouraged, we locked the door behind us, leaving the windows wide open, feeling we just had to get away from it all. The party had begun about 8 P.M., and it was about two hours later when we left the office. It was still New Year’s Eve. We knew we should do something and also knew we couldn’t stand being anywhere near that putrid smelling office. So Murray and I checked our resources and found we had about three dollars between us, and 12-year-old George probably had a quarter, if that much. We then decided to go to New York City, to Times Square, to help ring in the New Year, and of course we would take George with us; he’d earned it helping us clean and mop the office. Mickey Nathanson also would have been involved in cleaning the office and accompanying us to Times Square, but he was on home leave with one of his aunts this particular holiday period. The trip downtown was uneventful, and by 11:45 P.M. we were happily among the closely packed throng of several hundred thousand celebrants who traditionally gathered at Times Square to welcome in the New Year. And then Murray and I went into a panic. Georgie had disappeared. This was frightening. We knew he had little if any money, and we didn’t know how he’d manage on his own. Our fears, however, were needless. Georgie was a very bright and quickthinking kid. Somehow or other he would have found his way back to The Home. But luck was with us, and we soon found him. He simply had remained where he was while Murray and I had drifted away. This was the second time I had underestimated George. Several months before in the early fall I had been swimming alone in “B.A.” when a man whom I had assumed to be predatory sat down on the bank across from where I had left my clothes and began watching me. Most of us had seen this happen before and when it did we usually left the creek, as these watchers made us feel uncomfortable. I therefore got out of the water, quickly dressed, and was about to leave when Georgie ran down to where I was, shucked off his clothes, and before I could say anything dived into the water. So I stayed there. He was happily swimming about, oblivious to the man who was staring at him, and after a while I said, “Come on, Georgie, let’s go.” And he replied, “Okay, in a little while,” and continued swimming and surface-diving. This went on for a while, and I again yelled at him to get dressed, but he continued swimming and enjoying himself in the water. Eventually, he emerged, got dressed, and we walked back to The Home grounds. On the way back, I told him about this man who seemed to have been hungrily staring at George, reminded him of the dangers of being caught alone with a predatory man, and then I told him to meet me in the library after supper. During supper I told one of my friends, a very bright senior whose ambition was to be a surgeon and who had taught himself anatomy through dissecting dead animals he found about the incident at “B.A.,” and that I wanted him to have a talk with Georgie about this. He agreed, and when Georgie met me in the library

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I told him I wanted him to listen to what this other fellow had to say, and then I left to do some work in the office. I returned about an hour later, and there was poor George sitting at the table with a glazed expression while my friend continued lecturing learnedly and pointing to various parts of the human anatomy that he had drawn. It then dawned on me that this was not the best way to teach George about homosexual predators. Of course I should have realized that George did not need this kind of instruction. He was very bright, and 12 years old; at The Home every child eight years or younger knew of these things, not necessarily from personal experience but from hearing boys of all ages talk about it. However, maybe George’s having endured this lengthy lecture by someone who relished the opportunity to profess his knowledge may have impressed upon him the folly of having ignored possible dangers in his surroundings when away from the protective environment of The Home. In any event, Murray, George, and I ate some hot dogs and got safely back to The Home after the heady experience of having been at Times Square to welcome in 1942. As to The Homelite office, the stench of the spilled beer and wine remained for several weeks, until repeated moppings and airings eventually served the purpose. MURRAY IS WOUNDED The two years in which Murray and I put out the paper went by quickly. Upon graduating from high school and from The Home, we handed Mick Nathanson, then 14, the keys to The Homelite office and went our respective ways, Murray to seek steady employment, and I to a summer busboy job to earn money to attend Michigan College of Mining and Technology, at Houghton, and soon after that we were both in the Army. Murray initially had a cushy clerical job near New York City, and I found myself a machine gunner in Company C, 309th Infantry Regiment, 78th Infantry Division at Camp Butner, North Carolina. After nine months of basic and advanced training and South Carolina maneuvers, I entered the Army Specialized Training Program (ASTP), and when that ended because of an urgent need overseas for ground forces, I found myself in the 11th Engineer Combat Battalion, then involved in explosives experimental work at the U.S. Naval Amphibious Training Base at Fort Pierce, Florida. While there I and some three dozen other 11th Engineers went through the Navy’s Amphibious Scouts and Raiders School. Murray, in the meantime, wanting a more active part in the war, volunteered for the infantry, the Army branch that along with armor does more direct fighting than any other branch. In no time at all he was out of his desk job and in Company I of my former regiment, the 309th Infantry. We met briefly at Camp Pickett, Virginia, where both the 78th Division and the 11th Engineers, along with many other large and small units, were staging before being shipped overseas. During one of our get-togethers at Camp Pickett,

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we attended Friday night religious services on the post, something Murray wanted to do much more than I did. To our surprise the services were led by our former rabbi, Major Morris Sandhaus, later to be promoted to lieutenant colonel. We did not get to talk to him, however, as he had to leave quickly to conduct another service. Murray saw some intensive combat during the Battle of the Bulge (the Germans’ Ardennes Offensive) as part of the American First Army. At his platoon’s initial attack jump-off, he was one of the some two dozen privates in the ranks, and at the end of this first engagement, Murray, as acting platoon leader, led the remaining eight soldiers (out of the original 38 to 40 in the rifle platoon) back to the Line of Departure (LOD). Before Murray could be officially promoted, he was wounded in a mortar barrage and spent three months in a hospital and then returned to his company. Murray refers to the effects of the shrapnel as his “million-dollar wound.” Being wounded probably saved his life. My unit ended up in the Seventh Army, then fighting in the Alsace region of France, and for a while our XXI Corps was attached to the First French Army in the Campaign of the Colmar Pocket. However, we (our unit) did not see much combat there, and what we did experience was not nearly as tough as what Murray went through as an infantry rifleman. After being demobilized from the Army, Murray became a newspaper photographer for Fairchild Publications in New York City; married a young woman named Austra; and fathered two sons, Michael, a computer programmer with a Ph.D. in astronomy, and Philip, a paralegal, and a daughter, Susan, a research chemist. Murray became active in the 78th Division Association, and in 1970 was elected president of this several thousand-member organization for the 1970–71 year, a considerable honor. He also served as editor of The Alumnus, the quarterly publication of the Hebrew National Orphan Home Alumni Association, from 1989 to 1995. In 1996, he turned over that publication’s editorship to Richard G. “Rick” Safran.

43 Charlie Vladimer, Best Friend Sam George Arcus

On June 7, 1998, I was privileged to be the main speaker at the celebration of Charlie Vladimer’s 80th birthday party, even though his actual birthday is July 16, 1918. The celebration was the central event of the annual picnic of the Alumni Association of the Pride of Judea Children’s Home (PJCH), where Charlie and I both worked as supervisors in 1942. Charlie was drafted into the Army after only a few months of our arrival in September of that year. Following his discharge from the service he returned to the Pride and spent several more years supervising boys at PJCH. I left the Pride in June 1944, after almost two years there. I first met Charlie in the early 30s. He had come to the HNOH a few months before my brother Al and I arrived in April 1929. Since Charlie was two and a half years older than me, our paths at HNOH didn’t exactly intersect. But one day in 1932 or 1933, a nearly 15-year-old Charlie approached me to ask: “Hey, Sammy Arcus, I hear that you can speak Yiddish.” When I confirmed that I could, he urged me to accept a part in the Dramatics Club’s upcoming program, the recitation of a poem, “The Broken-Hearted Deutscher.” I discovered that the piece was a German “dialect schtick,” so common at the time, rather than a Yiddish piece. And his retort to my complaint was typical Charlie Vladimer: “Hey, zchlub (jerk), how many guys would understand if you gave it in Yiddish?” And so, to paraphrase a future Humphrey Bogart’s memorable comment, that was the beginning of a beautiful, lifelong friendship.

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DRAMATICS CLUB I worked with Charlie and many other Home boys in the Dramatics Club for many years putting on plays such as Spirits and Spooks and The Man in the Bowler Hat, and the HNOH minstrel shows, not only as a performer but also as the stage manager, being responsible for the backdrops and scenery. Charlie served as performer, director, and chief-cook-and-bottle-washer. His devotion to the Dramatics Club was total, even to the point of almost putting his life on the line for it. One Saturday afternoon, Charlie came to the baseball field to collect cast members for a dress rehearsal of that evening’s scheduled performance. Most of the cast was involved in an important game, part of the league organized and supervised by A.K. Kersch, the junior dorm supervisor. As Charlie started to call out Marty Miller, Jack Passin, Sam Arcus, Sam Goldwitz, and others, Kersch came up and demanded to know what the hell Charlie thought he was doing! Calmly and matter-of-factly Charlie explained that the boys were needed to rehearse for that evening’s performance. Kersch looked at him unbelievingly and retorted that the boys were involved in a baseball game, “for Chrise sakes!” Charlie persisted on the need to rehearse. “To hell with your Dramatics Club performance!” Kersch exploded. To which Charlie responded, “Oh, yeah, well, to hell with your baseball game and league!” Kapow! Kersch’s roundhouse blow knocked Charlie to the ground. The boys returned to the game. Charlie got up, dusted himself off, wiped the blood from his mouth, and walked away, muttering unprintable invectives. Okay, so he wasn’t the sharpest knife in the drawer on occasion. But on other occasions he was one of the brightest bulbs. HARRY LUCACHER ALUMNI SOCIETY Harry Lucacher was the HNOH superintendent from 1931 into 1938 when he died of a massive heart attack. Charlie, who left The Home about the time of the death, and I had strong feelings for the man. In 1939, together with a dozen other recent alumni (although I was not to leave HNOH until September 1940), Charlie and I organized the Harry Lucacher Alumni Society (HLAS) in honor of the man we had admired so much. Charlie became president and I was vice president and editor of the HLAS Recorder, the newsletter. Almost immediately we came under attack by the main body of the Alumni Association, accused of fomenting disunity and undermining the main organization. We vehemently denied this and ultimately negotiated peace. But the draft and boys moving away from New York City did not bode well for HLAS and in a few years it died. Yet, in its short life it did some good work, including renovating The Home’s tennis court and sponsoring forums for HNOH boys interested in college.

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DCC, BALTIMORE, AND D.C. After I left HNOH I continued to return on Sundays as arts and crafts instructor. Charlie had landed a job with Metro Goldwyn Mayer’s New York office, appropriate for his thespian interests, but it wasn’t for long. In the spring of 1941, Reuben Koftoff put me in touch with a Mr. Goldberg of the Mt. Vernon High School who operated a summer camp, Delaware Cliffs Camp (DCC) in Delaware’s water gap region. Charlie accompanied me to the interview, and after I was hired as arts and crafts instructor, Mr. Goldberg asked Charlie if he was interested in a camp job. Impulsively, Charlie said he was and Mr. Goldberg interviewed Charlie for the nature counselor position. In listing his qualifications, Charlie told Mr. Goldberg about the outdoors nature experiences he had at The Home and bragged about his knowledge of poison “ivory.” He got the job anyway. Our DCC experiences convinced us we wanted to work in the child welfare field. For this we needed a college degree; but first we needed to earn money to go to college. Several HNOH boys were working in the Bethlehem Shipyards, so in September 1941, Charlie and I went there and applied. I was rejected at once because of having had rheumatic fever and osteomyelitis, but Charlie was hired as a plumber’s assistant, possibly because he was skinny enough to crawl into anything. I finally landed a job as a vacuum-cleaner repairman, knowing as little about it as Charlie did about plumbing. After a few months at it I went to Washington, D.C., in January 1942 to work in the Bureau of Engraving and Printing, literally making millions of dollars a day. By June 1942, we both returned to DCC for the work we really enjoyed. When camp ended, Mr. Koftoff told us about a need for supervisors at the Pride of Judea Children’s Home in the Brownsville/East New York section of Brooklyn, and there we found George Goldenberg, the superintendent, who had been HNOH superintendent from 1924 to 1931, and Sam Moreno, who had been HNOH senior supervisor in the 30s. Small world. We were hired, Charlie as senior boys supervisor and I as relief supervisor and arts and crafts instructor. Within a few months, Charlie was drafted into the Army and went west to guard German prisoners of war, pressing upon his charges that he was a Jew. I then became senior boys supervisor with the understanding I would attend classes two nights a week at City College of New York (CCNY), jokingly referred to as “Catholic College Now Yiddish.” I left the Pride in June 1942 for full-time undergraduate work at CCNY, and when Charlie was discharged from the Army a few years later, he returned to PJCH, establishing himself as one of its most memorable supervisors, after which he left also to study full-time at CCNY. It’s interesting to note that in our experiences as students at CCNY, Charlie and I both had the pleasure of having former charges as schoolmates, namely, Lou “Whitey” Kaplan in my case, and Phil Weinberg Craft in Charlie’s. Whitey delighted in devouring my bag lunches and sending back messages to my new

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wife: “Tell Adele I like egg sandwiches better.” Adele had been an older girl at the Pride, serving as a monitor of younger girls, and I met her while I was employed there. Charlie’s and my paths began diverging after I married, received my bachelor of social science degree from CCNY and my master of social work degree from Columbia University School of Social Work (CUSSW), had a son in December 1947, and moved out of New York City to begin our family’s odyssey across the country working in Jewish community centers as program director, assistant director, and finally as executive director. Following in my footsteps, Charlie graduated from CCNY and then from CUSSW, also receiving his master of social work degree and began work as a children’s caseworker and family counselor. This ultimately landed him in the California social welfare system. We kept in touch, although increasingly sporadically, as we focused our lives in our specific areas. While he dated regularly and once came close to getting married, Charlie never took the final step and has remained a bachelor. On retiring he returned to the New York metropolitan area to be closer to his older sister and her daughters and all his alumni brothers from HNOH and PJCH. In the last dozen years or so, Charlie and I have again reestablished our very close Damon-and-Pythias relationship—one spanning some 65 years. So, on June 7, 1998, as the main speaker at the PJCH Annual Alumni Day Picnic, I spoke of all these things, and we all wished Charlie a happy 80th birthday, even though, as I’d said before, his birthday actually is July 16, 1918. And one final comment on that affair: Charlie kept referring to the June 7 event as his “surprise” birthday party, although it was obvious to all that it would hardly be a surprise. The surprise was my unexpected arrival and speech at the party.

44 The Pincus Brothers and More Jerry “Yippy” Pincus

Every time I would tell a story of my childhood, Army experiences, or days in the New York City garment industry, my wife Anita, my daughter Gwen, and my son Ira would say in unison, “Why don’t you write your story?” My only recollection of my early childhood was when my brothers and I were told to stop jumping on the couch and get dressed to visit our mother in the hospital. That was in 1930. I don’t recall the funeral, but that year my mother died of pneumonia. She was 39 years old and left three small boys. I was six years old, Phil was ten, and Irving was eight. My brothers and I then spent a year in the home of my father’s friend in Coney Island. My father was once his partner in owning this Coney Island house, which was a small two-story dwelling on 35th Street. He had to sell his half. Those were very bad times during the Depression. My father, Moishe, barely made a living as a machine operator on ladies’ dresses in the Garment District, located in mid-Manhattan’s Seventh Avenue area. There was no welfare or unemployment insurance checks to help a widower with three small children. My father managed to pay the Miller family in Coney Island a few dollars a week to take care of his sons. We were very fortunate in that the Millers had room for us as they themselves had three children. We had spent one year there when our father came and took us to a place called the Hebrew National Orphan Home, where I then spent the next ten years of my life.

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MY FIRST DAY The first thing I remembered of my first day at The Home was looking through a window onto a landing that overlooked the Old Gym. There were boys playing rollerskate hockey. It sure looked like a lot of fun, and I was looking forward to playing that game soon. Those nice thoughts didn’t last long. That night I was beaten up by a few of the other kids, just for being a new kid in the freshman dormitory. The age groups were separated by three dormitories: freshmen, juniors, and seniors. Freshmen were six to ten years old; juniors, ten to 13 years old; and seniors, 13 to 18 years old. A boy would leave The Home upon graduating from high school, whatever age he happened to be. The Home existed for the purpose of raising Jewish orphan boys as Orthodox Jews. It did not receive any money from the federal or state governments. It was a private institution and money for it was raised by such groups as The Yonkers League, the Mt. Vernon League, and the Yonkers Medical and Dental League, among others. The Leagues were made up of dedicated men and women who banded together to ensure that Jewish orphan children would be reared in an Orthodox manner, and so we seemed close at times to being called a yeshiva. RELIGIOUS ASPECT The religious aspect of my youth was something I didn’t particularly like. We were raised under strict Orthodox Jewish rules, and we had to go to the synagogue every morning before breakfast and every evening before supper. We got a hard smack if caught not attending services, and of course we had twohour Saturday morning services and a 15- to 30-minute evening service in addition to the regular daily services. Every holiday was strictly observed with synagogue prayers, but for certain holidays there would be festive meals. We also had to go to Hebrew School for an hour each Monday through Thursday afternoon, and this lasted until we entered high school, about two or three years after being Bar-Mitzvahed, although a few of the boys continued on with their religious education while in high school. An orphan boy could be Bar-Mitzvahed at 12, as opposed to the two-parented boy who went through the ceremony and celebration at 13. The celebration was quite an occasion for me. All the boys who went through the March 1937 event received Bar-Mitzvah suits and attended a banquet at the Astor Hotel in New York City. It was the first time I had been to the city. All 25 of us1 were put on a bus, and it was the most exciting day of my life then. Being dressed up in new clothes—not the hand-me-downs we were used to—was quite something. At the Astor Hotel, all the officers of the leagues and auxiliaries supporting The Home attended, plus many big private donors. It was the big annual fundraising event. There was always entertainment by vaudeville stars who were currently on Broadway. My year, we were fortunate to have Danny Kaye. Other years saw such big stars as Eddie Cantor, George Jessel, Jimmy Durante, and

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Sophie Tucker. Danny Kaye became my favorite entertainer, and I wept for a long time when he passed away. I can still remember the fun we had on the bus going to New York City for my first time. I felt like a tourist as I looked at the tall buildings along the Westside Highway soon after it was built or looking across the Hudson River at New Jersey. PUNISHMENT I remember some of the bad things that happened. The dormitories were like Army barracks. All the beds were the same metal frame cots and had to be aligned perfectly for the monitors’ inspections. They also had to have diagonal hospital corners at the foot of the mattress, and if any bed was made poorly or not properly aligned the boy who slept in it was punished. Speaking of punishment, there were times when a few boys were fooling around and making noise and the whole group was punished. The usual punishment was that everyone had to stand in two, three, or four straight lines, often for hours at a time, with hands folded behind the back or extended forward or sidewards or straight up. If anyone moved even slightly, a monitor or supervisor would come up from behind and whack him in the back of the head or hit him on the ear. One boy lost his hearing because he was hit so hard. If we were exceptionally bad, we were lined up and had to assume a deep-knee-bend position and hold a pillow or shoe on outstretched arms for at least an hour. It didn’t take too long before boys were starting to move and fall or drop their pillow and get whacked. I will never forget when I became a junior and I was at last in the same dorm as my brother Irving. It was exciting for me to be there, and shortly after I moved in there was an incident in the dining room that I will never forget. The night before we had seen a movie in the new gym where the lead actor—I think it was Jerry Colonna playing an opera star—kept breaking glasses every time he hit a certain high note. Four boys sought to repeat what the actor had done and thus interrupted the quiet of supper. The junior dorm supervisor then was Mr. Kersch who had come from Finland and treated the boys as a storm trooper would. The attempted high note brought an immediate end to the hardly begun meal, and all the boys were marched to their respective dormitories. That night we’d had boiled potatoes and sour cream as our main dish, which was my favorite then, and we had to leave it hardly touched. In our dormitory, everyone had to stand in front of his bed at attention, and Mr. Kersch ordered all the boys who had made the noise to come forward. The four, who sat at the same dining room table, stepped forward. They were my brother Irving, Jerry Boison, Al Fleishman, and Marty Miller. They were then beaten with a rubber hose. Mr. Kersch did not take them into another room for the beating, as often happened, but beat them in front of the whole 130-boy

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junior dorm so that we would all get a hard lesson. Watching my brother get that beating has been in my memory all these years. I cried all that night. MY BROTHERS I loved my brothers, and today I love the memory of them. We had a special relationship. We were among the lucky boys to have brothers that weren’t separated when put in The Home. Often brothers were separated, with one placed in a home and others living with relatives who could afford to care for them. Some boys had sisters who were put in the Pride of Judea Children’s Home, a Brooklyn orphanage. I was always close to my brothers, and, as the youngest, I had their protection and guidance throughout the years they were in The Home. Phil left in 1938; Irving in 1940; and I left in 1942 upon graduating from Commerce High School. Irv was the greatest guy in the world. He was always showing concern for others and always helping others. He was liked by everyone. Following his graduation from Commerce, he went directly into the Army, and, as a dental assistant, found a career he wanted when he was discharged. But he was sidetracked by our father and ended up going into the garment industry, a sad mistake. He didn’t have the temperament for this highly competitive business with its multiple demands by unions and manufacturers, and he developed colitis. He left the business on the advice of his physician for something less stressful. Then, with my brother Phil, who had also been struggling in the ladies’ garment contracting business, Irv bought a liquor store in Newark, New Jersey. The store was destroyed during the Newark racial riots, and after restoring it they had to sell out for peanuts when threatened with their lives. During Phil’s Army physical a spot was discovered on his lung indicating tuberculosis and he regretfully spent the war years in a sanatorium and eventually was cured. He entered the ladies’ garment contracting business with our father, and I eventually took over when Phil became a blouse manufacturer. He was in and out of several garment businesses before he bought the liquor store with Irving. KEPT BUSY AT THE HOME Our upbringing was quite different from that of boys brought up in the confines of family life. We didn’t hang out in the corner candy store looking for something to do. Every moment of our time was occupied. We had two gyms, a library, a game room, baseball fields, swings and slides, and small hills to go sleighriding on, using the lids of metal garbage cans as sleds. We went across the street and used the golf course to go “belly-whopping” down the hills, our bellies serving as sleds. During the summer we had outdoor showers. There was that constant rumor that “they” were going to tear down the showers and put

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in a swimming pool, but the pool was always on the way in a truck that the water had leaked out of while the truck was “lost” in Yonkers. But we did have our own pool, which we called “B.A.,” which was located on the Grassy Sprain Golf Course. Women golfers complained to the local police because we were swimming “bare-ass” and one day the cops came and took all our clothes. When we spotted them we started to run, picking up large skunkcabbage leaves to cover ourselves. The cops never caught us, so we were never punished. However, everyone knew who was at the swimming hole that time because the next day we all came down with poison ivy. We’d all made it back to The Home safely by going through a lot of bushes and our successful evasion was paid for with a lot of scratching. There was a real pool to go to, however, and on Saturday mornings we would walk to Tibbets Park in Yonkers, get in a quick dip of about a half hour and then walk back to The Home for lunch. We had great baseball and basketball teams for intramural sports and senior or varsity teams that played local high schools and institutions such as the Brooklyn Hebrew Orphan Asylum, Leak and Watts, and even Hawthorne Reformatory. The two gyms were always in use and smaller boys became great players by learning to shoot baskets in the Old Gym with its low ceiling. Our varsity teams won most of their games, and we had plenty of trophies on display near the executive offices. There was a period that we had an ex-major league player as our baseball coach. He was Leo Youdelman, who had played with the St. Louis Browns, now defunct. He was hired as a night watchman, and he worked his way up at The Home to be the senior dormitory supervisor and baseball coach. He was quite a tough supervisor, hitting and hurting a number of boys. One of them was my brother Phil, who he beat up and made stand facing a wall with his hands behind his back for many hours until he passed out. Those days they never hired professionals; the salaries were so low they couldn’t afford to hire the best people. FRIENDSHIPS I made lifelong friendships that only someone brought up in an orphanage can understand. We all ate, slept, played, laughed, and cried under one roof. Whenever I would meet a boy from The Home, no matter how long a separation, we would pick up as if we’d only seen each other a week ago. One example is when I met E.M. “Mickey” Nathanson in California after not having seen him since I left The Home in 1942, which was 52 years earlier. We arranged a meeting in front of a Laguna Beach restaurant. Of course, I didn’t recognize Mickey. He had gotten heavier, lost a lot of hair, and had a thick mustache. We still hugged each other as if it was yesterday that we’d last seen each other. We spent a wonderful afternoon talking about our time in The Home and catching

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up on our lives. We certainly went in different directions, he a writer and I a businessman, but our lives came together again that afternoon. On the subject of writers, I am proud to say that my two children are also in the communications field. My daughter Gwen is doing very well in the public relations field in Boca Raton, Florida, and my son Ira has worked successfully as an agent for Creative Artists Agency (CAA), one of the largest agencies in Los Angeles. Ira left the agency recently, with the blessings of his bosses, to become an independent television movie producer. I am also proud of Ira for being executive director of the Los Angeles chapter of Dalmations, a “Make-aWish” foundation for terminally ill adults. Sol Klein was one of my best friends. We were in the same classes in public school and attended Commerce High School together. He played saxophone and clarinet in The Home band, where I played the saxophone, and we had our own band, The Stardusters. Lou Shapiro played the trumpet and Harry Kern (Mendelkern) played drums. We got a young lady named Irma Birnbaum to play piano whenever we got gigs outside The Home. We played at our Social Club dances, which were held in the game room on Saturday nights. I was able to invite girls from Commerce High, which had a ratio of ten girls to one boy. I took up shorthand and typing, and I was the only boy in those classes. The shorthand and typing saved my life in the Army. Getting back to Sol Klein, he had a natural talent for music, both on reed instruments and vocally, having a rich tenor voice. Sol used to go to New York City on a scholarship through the Big Brothers League of Mt. Vernon and received lessons from Simeon Belison, first clarinetist of the New York Philharmonic Orchestra. Mr. Belison only accepted exceptionally talented students. Our small band played on Friday nights at Commerce High, and as Friday night was the beginning of Shabbus [Shabbut] (Sabbath), Home employees would close the front gates on Tuckahoe Road shortly before sundown. Sol, Lou Shapiro, and I thereupon had to climb over the fence with our instruments, hop on a bus and trolley car, play at the dance, and then get back to The Home without anyone noticing our having been absent. It was always an adventure, and we were lucky never to have been caught. SID CAESAR, THE COMPETITION We also played at the Yonkers Jewish Community Center. That also was quite a story. Our competition was the Sid Caesar Band. This youth, who later gained fame as a great comedian, grew up in Yonkers. His father had a small restaurant near Getty Square and near the Otis Elevator Company factory. I never knew Sid Caesar had anything to do with The Home until I read his autobiography. I had always wondered who the strange boy was who was not in The Home and who was being given saxophone lessons by Major Gregory Zundel, our bandmaster during my time in The Home. The explanation is to be

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found in Caesar’s Where Have I Been?2 His father had a saxophone left behind by a room renter and had learned of a music teacher, Major Zundel. “He only charges 50 cents a lesson,” Sid’s father said. “Besides, the name of the place is the Hebrew National Orphan Home, so how could it be bad?” The 11-year-old Sid knew the Yonkers transportation system well, and so twice a week after school he would take the number seven trolley to Nepperhan Avenue and then a bus to The Home. “The music teacher was a nice man in his forties who taught me well,” Caesar wrote, “but who annoyed me because I always knew what he had eaten for lunch. He made me aware of that by taking my saxophone whenever I made a mistake, and putting my mouthpiece between his lips to play a passage for me the way it should have been played. Then when I had to play the passage again, I could taste his entire lunch on my mouthpiece. . . . Sometimes I didn’t like what he ate. Once I said, ‘Could you use a little less salt, please?’ He didn’t know what I was talking about, but even if he had, he wouldn’t have laughed. He was not what you would call a good audience.” The lessons ended after Caesar was struck by a delivery truck sliding on the icy road in front of The Home. He was carried to the Infirmary where Mrs. Flanagan examined him for broken bones and found only bruises. His parents then found a music teacher closer to home. He later attended the Julliard School of Music, became an accomplished saxophone player, and played it often on his popular television show, Your Show of Shows. GREAT SUMMER GIG Getting back to Sol Klein and our band, the first summer after we left The Home we played in the Catskill Mountains at the Vogel Hotel in Lake Huntington, New York. It was my first real job, and we were paid $12 a month with room and board, including all the good food we could eat, the best food in our lives. We had the time of our lives that summer, and for me it was like being let out of jail after ten years in The Home. On weekends we also played across the street at a restaurant/nightclub, beginning at 11 P.M., and we were paid $5 each night. We felt we were getting rich because that was big money then. Sol Klein joined the Marines after that summer and saw a lot of action in the Pacific. He survived without a scratch and began a singing career in New York City under the name “Randy Stewart.” He was doing all right for a while and then for some unknown reason he started to go downhill. He left New York to stay at his sister’s house in Jacksonville, Florida, and was killed on the highway while hitchhiking to Florida. The experience I had that summer helped me join an Army dance band after Germany surrendered. I was attached to General Omar Bradley’s 12th Army Group in Germany, and I played with experienced musicians who all came out of Big Bands, and playing with those great musicians was an absolutely great experience.

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DISHWASHING Getting back to my days at The Home, I want to report on earning money there. I used to volunteer for kitchen duty on weekends and was paid 50 cents working the entire weekend as a dishwasher. We had no dishwashing machines in those days. Also, everything was strictly kosher, so we had two separate kitchens and two sets of dishes and silverware, and we had to be very careful not to mix any “meat” dishes and utensils with “dairy” ones. With 300 boys and with four dishes per boy per meal, plus silverware, we’re talking about a lot of hard work for 50 cents. Of course the kitchen was like an inferno during the hot summer. Nevertheless, with all the hardships, I was still happy to earn the 50 cents. On some weekends I volunteered to work as a waiter and busboy to earn the same 50 cents. I also had the opportunity to earn one dollar as a caddy at the golf course across the street from us; now there are garden apartments where the Grassy Sprain Golf Course was. One of the wealthy donors owned apple orchards in upper White Plains, New York, so I used to go there with a group of boys to pick apples for 25 cents per bushel. I was one of the hustlers, so I made a big $1.50 for the day. I guess my first real job while living in The Home came my first year at Commerce High School. I stayed late, spending the hour in the guidance office, being paid $6 a month for 20 hours work by the New York State Board of Education. I really looked forward to that check, but when I tell my children of this, they laugh, refusing to believe me. Of course, they also don’t believe my earning 50 cents for a weekend of dishwashing. MOVIES AND GETTING RICH WITH ROOT BEER We had movies Wednesday nights in the New Gym, and the staff would take a small group of us Sunday nights to a movie in downtown Yonkers. Raymond “Ramy” Resnick, youngest brother of Lou and Eli, drove The Home’s panel truck. Only the so-called “good boys” were allowed to go. It was something to look forward to, as Sunday night was the worst night of the week for many of the boys. If you had a visitor, it was sad when the visitor left, and if you had no visitor, it was even worse. My brothers and I were fortunate to have our father visit us every two weeks. We were the envy of all the boys because he used to bring us a large shopping bag full of delicatessen sandwiches, potato salad, pickles, and soda. We used to find a nice shady spot and have a picnic. It was the best meal we had. He even managed to give each of us a few cents to buy candy or ice cream. I always tried to make some extra money. During my junior years, three of us, Jerry “Romy” Hershkowitz, Jerry Coogan, and I—known as the three Jerrys—thought we had a way to get rich. Somehow we managed to get some root-beer powder, and our plan was to make gallons of root beer and sell it by the glass to the other boys that summer. We got a dozen one-gallon bottles from

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the kitchen and filled them to the top so as to get as many glassfuls as possible from each gallon. We stored the bottles of mix in the junior dorm storeroom where we all kept whatever clothing and personal possessions we owned as we did not have dressers or dormitory shelves then. Our shock came about two weeks later at 4 A.M. when all the bottles exploded. Our greed was our undoing. We had left no airspace in the neck of each bottle, and so, when the root beer fermented the expanding gas caused the bottles to explode like fragmentation grenades, spewing glass everywhere to tear into the clothes and stain them with the vile-smelling liquid. It was a very messy sight, and I don’t remember the punishment we received for this blown business venture, but the other kids were pretty angry at us for ruining their clothes and personal possessions. LADIES’ LUNCHEONS Every once in a while the various leagues would have a card party luncheon to raise money for The Home. They would come by bus on a weekday, tour the building, be served lunch, and then play cards. For some of the ladies, it was the first time they saw any of the boys they had been raising money for. Naturally, the day they came we had to clean the grounds and dorms with extra care. We were given clean clothes to wear and were lined up in the Old Gym and given cookies and ice cream. We put on quite a show so that the ladies would see that we were being treated well and raised as Jewish Orthodox boys. Those ladies organizations were the backbone of The Home. The members volunteered their time and energy to raise money for The Home through holding card parties, theater parties, raffles, rummage sales, and soliciting donations as a part of their respective leagues’ efforts. Some would stand on street corners with pichkas, which were cans with slits on top, and ask passersby for money “for the poor Jewish orphan children.” The Yonkers League had a separate branch made up of physicians and dentists who donated their time and skills to the health needs of the boys. Our nurse, Mrs. Flanagan, R. N., was on the premises at all times and was really great with the boys. She would arrange for us to go to Yonkers for treatment or would call the physicians to The Home when a boy was in an emergency situation. “KIDS KILLED” A good part of The Home’s 20 acres was devoted to growing vegetables, and we all participated in this through seeding, weeding, and picking. We had a chicken coop and got fresh eggs daily. Keeping the chicken coop clean was a nasty job, yet it was always done. We had two or three horses at different times for plowing and other work, since The Home couldn’t afford a tractor. We didn’t have cows, but for a short time we had goats. Someone believed that goat milk

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was healthier than cow milk, but most of us couldn’t stand the taste of goat milk. The goats, or what happened to them, caused quite some excitement one evening in 1935. A gang of wild dogs attacked and killed five of them, and one of the staff members then phoned the Yonkers Police Department, saying, “A gang of dogs attacked and killed some kids at the orphan home.” All hell broke loose then, and police, firemen, and physicians rushed to The Home to help deal with this “dire” emergency. There was some muttering of disgust on learning what really happened. After that incident, we went back to drinking cow milk.3 We had plenty of fresh vegetables, including potatoes, carrots, tomatoes, lettuce, string beans, corn, and even melons. The melons were ripe around September which usually was the time of Rosh Hashana and Yom Kippur. Of course, juniors and seniors had to fast on Yom Kippur, so in between the morning and afternoon services a few of us would raid the farm. We weren’t allowed to do that and some of the boys who got caught were severely punished. We observed every Jewish holiday to the letter. The best holiday, in my opinion, was Passover. We seniors were served kosher wine during the seder, and we had very festive services, including enthusiastic singing, as a part of a really great meal with plenty of matzoh (unleavened bread). During the seders we went through the entire Haggadah (ceremonial book of Passover), word-forword, sang all the songs, and just had a great time both nights. TO BE ORTHODOX JEWS We were all raised in a very strict orthodox manner, and we observed all the Jewish holidays, along with our going to synagogue services morning and night, with the boys who had been Bar-Mitzvahed wearing tefilon (prayer shawl), as was required of adults. When I was a senior I conducted the services just like Rabbi Sandhaus and Rabbi Turk. The synagogue was all wood-paneled and had hard, wooden benches. They got even harder during High Holy Day services because we were in the synagogue most of the day. After I left The Home, I was never Orthodox. I guess that was because I resented the way it was forced on me. Now, I look back and I am grateful for the Jewish education I received in The Home. The whole idea of the existence of The Home was to raise Jewish orphan boys to be Orthodox Jews. That was the reason so many men and women of the different leagues donated their time and money. I guess we each had different thoughts on the subject of Orthodox behavior and orientation. I am sure, however, that most of the boys did not practice the Orthodox religion once they left The Home. I go to synagogue during the High Holy Days to say yiskor (prayer for the dead) for my mother, father, and brothers Irving and Phil, the last having died on December 12, 1998, at the age of 78. I look back and am grateful to Rabbi Morris Sandhaus for having had a class in conversational Yiddish, and as a result I was able to carry on a conversation

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with my father, who spoke mostly Yiddish to me and my brothers. He spoke some English, but always with a few Jewish words in each sentence. In Hebrew School, which we had to attend until we were in high school, we learned to read and write Hebrew; however, except for learning how to daven (pray) at services, Hebrew was never used in my life in and out of The Home. MR. K., THE HOMELITE, AND MICKEY When I was 15, a whirlwind in the form of soft-spoken but determined Reuben Koftoff came to The Home in 1939, and our lives changed in many ways, all for the better. He worked with The Home’s new president, Samuel Field, also president of Adams and Company, a real estate management firm, as the building was in turmoil as large dormitories were torn down and replaced with six-boy rooms, as better quality supervisors were hired, and as all beatings and group punishments ceased immediately. Under the new Koftoff regime, the staff treated the seniors and older juniors as young adults and reason replaced force. The Old Gym was turned into a group of club rooms and crafts rooms, including wood and machine shops, photography, printing, and arts and crafts, among others, both for the boys’ pleasure and vocational development. Scholarships for higher education also became a part of what The Home had to offer, but this came several years after I left in 1942. We also had a newspaper called The Homelite. Ira Greenberg was editor during my last two years, having taken over from Sam Arcus; Murray Feierberg was managing editor; and I helped with the typing. Ira became a reporter after Army service and then college, and helped break a major story in Alabama. Later, he went to graduate school and became a Ph.D. psychologist. Murray, after serving in the Army and being wounded in the Battle of the Bulge, became a photographer for Women’s Wear Daily and head of the paper’s photo lab until he retired. We had a younger fellow helping with the reporting and with putting out the monthly paper, and he eventually took over as editor when Ira, Murray, and I left The Home. He is Erwin “Mickey” Nathanson. He became our most famous alumnus after writing a best-seller novel, The Dirty Dozen. The book became a blockbuster movie and later developed into a television series. Mickey has written a half dozen other books since The Dirty Dozen, and the Alumni Association is very proud of him. SOCIAL CLUB PRESIDENT Among the many Koftoff changes was our having Saturday night dances in the game room, immediately north of the dining room. I became president of the Senior Social Club, and it was my job to provide for the music and refresh-

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ments and to invite as many girls as I could from Commerce High School. The girls-to-boys ratio at Commerce made it very nice for those of us from The Home. Once I started to play with our band, The Stardusters, at Commerce High, I overcame my shyness and began meeting a lot of girls. We soon started to have more girls than boys at The Home dances. We served refreshments and a good time was had by all. A very nice outcome of our dances was that one of our members, Charlie Rosenblatt, who after his Army service rose high in the executive ranks of the film industry, married one of the prettiest girls to attend our dances, a comely brunette by the name of Betty Demb. BIG SUCCESSES: MARTY AND CHARLES The fellow who taught me to play the saxophone was not Major Zundel, but one of the boys, Marty Miller. Gregory Zundel, a French-horn player in the Moscow Philharmonic Orchestra, was too busy teaching all the other boys, so it fell to Marty, a great friend who has quite an interesting life story. After Marty left The Home in 1940, he went into the Army, saw a lot of action as an infantry lieutenant in France and Germany. He was almost killed on the battlefield while leading a rescue party in Germany and stepping on an antipersonnel mine. He was wounded in the head, chest, arms, and thighs and was treated in a number of U.S. Army hospitals before arriving at Fitzsimmons General Hospital in Denver. While recovering from his wounds he attended college and law school at the University of Denver. He met his wife Edythe, now a noted economist, when both were students, and they settled in Littleton, just south of Denver. Marty became a state district judge in Colorado, equal to superior court judge in other states, later became district attorney for the Denver area, and in 1964 came close to winning the Democratic nomination for United States senator, but lost to Gary Hart, about whom he has good feelings. Marty then returned to private practice of law and became very successful. There are many successful boys who spent their youth in the HNOH, especially after Mr. Koftoff and Mr. Field began getting scholarships for the boys to attend colleges throughout the country. One of our boys, Charles Gelman, went on to form his own company, Gelman Sciences, with the help of members of the Mt. Vernon Big Brothers League. They also helped Charlie take his company public. He became very successful with his company, doing over $120 million-a-year gross. Charlie recently sold his company to Pall Corporation and retired in Ann Arbor, Michigan, where he has lived most of his life. His company made medical and other testing equipment. BEATEN BY MONITOR My father was a strong-minded person, and one Sunday when I was eight I told him of a freshman monitor beating me during the week. He made me point

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out the fellow to him, and he warned the monitor he had better not touch his son again or the monitor would hear from him, my father. The next time my father came to visit he, of course, asked me if the monitor had hit me since his talk with him, and I naturally said, “No,” because I knew he would again confront the monitor if I had answered “yes.” I knew the hitting would have continued for a long time afterward. My father loved me, but he couldn’t speak his feelings. He once told us of his running away from home in Lodz, Poland, after his father hit him because he didn’t pray before he finished work. He resented the hitting and ran away, but eventually he returned and earned his living as a schneider (tailor), which he continued to do all his life. The summer before graduating from The Home, Charlie Rosenblatt (a year older than me), Sid Boison (my age), and I were selected as guides at the Blind Summer Camp (for adults) at Rye Beach, Port Chester, New York. It was a wonderful experience, and I enjoyed interacting with the men and women I guided to various events or played chess and checkers with. An added bonus was that the food was great, and we got all we could eat. DONATED FOOD I put emphasis on the food because the food at The Home was not the greatest. There were many times the private donations were not coming in, so we would be served the same food often, and we knew they were leftovers. We never had fresh bread. We would get one- or two-day-old bread donated by a bakery in Mt. Vernon, and sometimes we would get stale Danish pastry, as well as jelly donuts. These also were stale and sent in burlap bags with threads mixed into the jelly. But the jelly donuts were my favorites, even though it took time to remove the burlap threads. Thinking back about my years spent at The Home (1932–42), I find our upbringing was different from that of boys living at home with their parents. As I grew older, it felt that I was in a summer camp year-round. We were kept busy from sunrise to sunset and more. THE HOME SCHOOLS Going to public school on the top floor of the building was unique. No busing or walking to school, just a couple of flights of stairs. We had great teachers, and Annie Sutherland, our principal, was outstanding. Charles Henry, Mrs. Skinner, Mollie Apter Cahn, and Mrs. Stebbins are some of the names and people I remember. Mrs. Skinner was my favorite teacher, even though she used to call me “Jerome,” a name I hated then and still do. I’ll never forget Mrs. Stebbins talking about her home and orange orchards in Vero Beach, Florida. Little did I realize that some day I would retire to

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Florida, not far from Vero Beach. P.S. 403/404, Manhattan, was part of the New York City school system, but we used the same classrooms for Hebrew School. Everyone had the opportunity to learn a musical instrument and join the band. Most of the boys just wanted to play sports in our gyms or outdoors on our baseball fields. We had great teams. I chose music, and it has been very rewarding for me. Some of the boys made it their lifelong career. Jerry Boison, two or three years my senior, played clarinet, and after Navy service attended college and became a music teacher at the prestigious Latin High School in Boston, the nation’s oldest high school. He also conducted the All-City High School Orchestra and was on television in the Boston area. We met when I was visiting and though we had not seen each other in 25 years, he was still the same terrific guy I knew in The Home. Bill Schneiderman, who had taught my brother Phil to play the drums, has been with the Pittsburgh Symphony Orchestra for many years since leaving The Home. Walter Lewis played clarinet in the orchestra pits for all the top Broadway musicals. Milt Raynor (Resnick) played trumpet with the Vincent Lopez Band and with many other Big Bands until he died in 1996. I was very friendly with Milt all the years before and after he left The Home. Harry Kern (Mendelkern) learned to play the drums after having been taught by my brother Phil, and he has been a professional drummer in New Orleans since leaving The Home a couple of years before me. MANY SPORTS, GREAT TEAMS Sports was the big activity in The Home, and outdoors it was stickball, baseball, football (without protective equipment), and occasionally softball and touch football, soccer, and always stoopball. Indoors, we played basketball, hockey on roller skates, Johnny-on-the-Pony, and competed in boxing and wrestling matches. In the game room we played Ping-Pong, checkers, chess, Monopoly, and cards. Our sports teams were great, and many of our boys played on their high school varsity teams. In my time, our sports heroes were Ross Green, a year younger than me, who played basketball for Saunders Trade–Technical School; Ted Greenberg, Commerce High basketball; Eli Resnick, Roosevelt High baseball, and H. H. Coogan, Roosevelt High long-distance track, all being two or more years older than me. Max Obshatco wrestled for Saunders. One of the outstanding boys my age was Sol Sklar, who came in second in the Yonkers Annual Schoolboy Race, losing by a few feet after losing one of his sneakers. A few years later, while in the Army in the Pacific, Sol met the winner and learned he was above the age for the race and had been put in as a ringer. Bill Weinstein received a scholarship from The Home to attend Brooklyn College, and he went on to become the New York City wrestling champion in his weight division. And in the mid and late 90s, Bill, a successful insurance

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underwriter, frequently flies to France to take part in long-distance bicycle events. MY BROTHERS DIE My brother Irving passed away on March 18, 1965, at the age of 43 and left a wife and three children. He was being treated for colitis at the Veterans Administration Hospital in South Orange, New Jersey, and required surgery for an evacuation bag. I had visited him the night after the operation and he seemed fine, and the next day at work I learned he had died during the night. I was in complete shock. The surgeon who performed the operation said my brother had a blood disease, but I didn’t believe him. I miss Irving very much. We saw each other often after HNOH days and were always close. My brother Phil and I talked about Irving all the time until Phil died in 1998 at the age of 78. I am the last of the three Pincus brothers, but I still feel their presence, so I know I’m not alone. I also miss the many Home boys who have passed away, and it saddens me to think of how our ranks have diminished. NOTES 1. Editor’s Note: The photograph of this class shows only 19 boys; some may have been elsewhere when the photo was taken. 2. Sid Caesar, with Bill Davidson, Where Have I Been? (New York: Crown Books, 1982), 29–31. 3. See chapter, “Kids Killed,” in Sam George Arcus, Deja Views of an Aging Orphan.

45 Tony, Lew, Eddie, and Abie Ira A. Greenberg

There is a joke that appeared in one of The Homelite issues that went something like this: Eddie, the night watchman, was making his rounds when he came across Morris “Tony” Bond pacing the floor in his dormitory lavoratory. Asked why he wasn’t in bed asleep, Tony replied, “I owe Lew Zedicoff three dollars, and I don’t know how I’m going to pay him.” Eddie responded: “You go to sleep; let Zedicoff pace the floor.” Of course, this incident never happened. This was a joke our humor editor stole from a book of jokes, and I simply inserted the the Bond and Zedicoff names here to make a point. Aside from the story’s being true to character, these three are people I always had good feelings toward. Tony and I and 17 others were in the same Bar Mitzvah class, and Lew reported the 1937 event in The Home’s monthly newspaper of which he was then the editor-in-chief in addition to being a leader in many cultural activities. Tony and Lew are the people I saw most often during my New York visits over the years; and I saw Eddie only once after I left The Home. Tony got his nickname, just as I got my early one, because of appearance. His swarthy complexion made him look as if he had emigrated from Sicily or southern Italy, while my fat cheeks between ages eight and ten caused my eyes to narrow, and for those years my nickname was “Chink.” We were not politically correct in those days. Tony was and is a quiet person who rarely raised his voice. He participated in most of the activities in The Home but tended to keep himself in the background. Nevertheless, he served as assistant scoutmaster of The Home’s Boy Scout troop in 1941–42. His one true passion in those days was farming, and

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he spent most of his time working at various chores in all areas of the farm. His ambition then was to be a farmer; instead, his work after Army service in World War II was to be in charge of incoming news in the teletype room of Fairchild Publications in New York City, where Murray Feierberg was a photographer. Throughout the years when I would visit with Tony and his wife Gloria, whom many of us addressed by her nickname “Kav,” from her maiden name, Kavenaugh. Tony’s place in the joke cited is because he has always been very conscientious about meeting his obligations; and his word, once given, could be counted on. He and Kav are proud of their children, Anna-Monique Mason, former NBC anchor in New York City, she earned an Emmy in the 1970s for news coverage in New York City and is now a Houston homemaker; and their son, Dennis, a Phoenix disc jockey. Lew’s place in the joke discloses that he has always been a “giving” person, whether it is helping a friend with a loan or gift or giving of his valuable time or advice. In The Home, Lew was one of the nighttime storytellers. He, Danny Lovett (also an early editor of The Home newspaper), Sam Arcus, and others would come to the freshman or junior dorms after lights were out to pace up and down the lengthy rooms and tell us stories of a movie they had seen or a novel read, and we, in our beds, would get to “visit” the exotic places they described and participate imaginatively in the exciting adventures they related. I knew that some day I also would be a storyteller and could well picture myself walking up and down the aisles as I told my tales. But Mr. Koftoff destroyed that vision by having the dormitories torn down and replaced with luxurious six-boy rooms. As was fitting, Lew became a writer for The New York Times, and as busy as he was in his newspaper career, he was always accessible to the boys from The Home and was very generous with his time and advice as he mentored many of us. Over the years I had the pleasure of visiting him numerous times, both at the newspaper and at his home, and I always knew that I was welcome, just as so many others did. One day in 1946, shortly after my discharge from the Army, Lew and I were walking in Central Park. I told him of my wanting to become a writer but that I was having trouble developing plots for short stories. Off the top of his head, Lew said: “Picture this. It is a young girl’s birthday, but she’s very sad; her daddy is not there to celebrate it with her, and her mother is having financial difficulties. The little girl knows she has to carry on and do her best. In a few hours her birthday will be over and tomorrow will be just another day without her father. Just as she has resigned herself to this, her doorbell rings, and when she opens the door she sees a group of men bearing gaily wrapped gifts. They are her daddy’s buddies who were there when he was killed in the war, and they tell her that they feel her daddy was their brother and that they will always be there for her. You might call this “The Band of Brothers,” Lew concluded. I thought this was a wonderful story and I told Lew I would try to write it. But I never did. I just didn’t have the confidence I needed to try to write such

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a great story. Later, in college, when I had first read Shakespeare’s Henry V, I was again reminded that I owed Lew this story, but I never paid off. It is still there for the taking, by a writer with the courage to try. Some months after I got out of the Army and while living in a rooming house on 8th Avenue in or near Hell’s Kitchen and working as a laborer at a small automobile seat-cover manufacturing plant, I bought a 1937 Chrysler convertible coupe, complete with rumble seat. Abie Abrevaya, then 18 and two years out of The Home, lived with his father in a plush hotel not too far from where I worked and happily went about teaching me to drive. He did a good job of it, and one of the stories he told me then was how the doorman at his hotel had pleaded with him to park the wreck of a car that he drove a block or two from the hotel. Being the good-natured guy that he was, Abie complied, but he loved telling about it. Abie had left The Home after being burned in an accident, but in the months we hung out as he taught me to drive, I found him to be a happygo-lucky, smart-cracking guy who was much brighter than he acted. Though four years younger than me, I found him fun to hang out with. The last I heard of Abie was that several years later he was operating a hardware store in New England. In any case, soon after I got my New York driver’s license, Abie, Murray Feierberg, and I drove out to The Home in my taxi-cab yellow convertible, and we joined the boys for supper in the dining room. The food was as good as I’d remembered it, and even in the midst of the Great Depression I felt the food we were served was good and well prepared. I don’t recall ever having been served sweet potatoes at The Home, which is something I never liked, and so to me the food always was good, my only complaint was that at times I didn’t get as much as I’d wanted; however, even in the Army I was known as a “chowhound.” After supper, the three of us walked about the grounds, talked to various kids who knew us, and generally we had a very pleasant time. The hours lengthened, and before we knew it night had descended and the boys were getting ready for bed. But we three were caught up in our reminiscences, and after lights were turned out we continued our talk in the junior dorm lavatory where the lights were on all night. That’s where our friend, our buddy, Eddie Williams, found us as he was making his night watchman rounds. We greeted him enthusiastically, happy to see him again and wanting to tell him of our experiences. But that was not to be. This was not the Eddie we knew, the Eddie with his cheery disposition and down-to-earth good advice, the Eddie we felt was our pal. “What are you doing here?” he demanded. “Don’t you know the boys are trying to sleep. You don’t belong here. Go where you belong, now!” And so we left, to go wherever it was we were meant to be.

PART 8 AS OTHERS SEE IT

46 Gingrich Was Right about Orphanages1 Richard B. McKenzie

Both the foster care system and returning kids to abusive homes have proved to be disastrous. Perspective on Child Welfare, December 24, 1998, p. B9.

Four years ago last month, Newt Gingrich set the tone for his contentious House speakership and probably set the stage for his resignation when he dared to suggest that some welfare children would be better off in private orphanages. In making his off-the-cuff comments, he ignited a media and policy firestorm, the general tone of which was best captured by former first lady Hillary Rodham Clinton, who dubbed the idea “unbelievable and absurd.” In early 1995, Gingrich quietly conceded the issue to his critics. However, he did not know how right he was. Over the past few years, an untold number of American children have endured Third-World living conditions and the sordid consequences of their parents’ horrific life choices. Four million cases of serious child abuse have been substantiated. More than a million children have cycled through the foster-care system. A hundred thousand or more American kids who were in foster care in late 1994 remain there today—and will be there well into the new millennium. Also, over the past few years, tens of thousands of children have been repeatedly taken from their abusive and neglectful parents only to be abused again, sometimes with greater force, by the nation’s child welfare system, which thinks

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nothing of separating brothers and sisters through a dozen or more foster-care placements. These children have become seasoned troopers in what family court judges have come to call the “plastic bag brigade”—children who repeatedly show up in court for yet another placement with only a plastic bag in which to carry their possessions. They will never understand what other Americans mean by one of the most basic of human advantages: “home,” a permanent place to call their own. Ill-prepared for a productive life outside the foster-care system, many will be turned loose at age 18 to relive the lives of their parents. Forget for a moment whether you like or hate Gingrich (he’s gone) and consider the possibility that he may have been right on this one. The nation’s child welfare system is a part of the problem, and some children’s problems could be solved, albeit imperfectly, by liberating the private charitable sector to do what it once did: care for the little ones in our midst through children’s homes. Over the past couple of years, we’ve learned much that we didn’t know in late 1994. No doubt some orphanages of yesteryear were pretty bad places. No doubt some children in children’s homes were harmed by the experience. But that could be said of families and with even greater force of foster care. Moreover, as my survey of 1,600 orphanage alumni in 1994 and 1995 found, that dismissal of the orphanage option four years ago was far too quick, related more to ingrained and outdated Dickensian images of orphanage life a century ago than to the reality of the experiences most of the children had in their children’s homes. The orphanage alumni in the survey, all of whom are now middle age and older, have done very well as a group, exceeding by a substantial margin the educational and economic accomplishments of their counterparts in the general population. The alumni have a 39 percent higher college graduation rate than other Americans in their age group, far more income and substantially lower unemployment, poverty, and incarceration rates. Moreover, the vast majority (upward of 85 percent) look back favorably on their orphanage experience and attribute much of their life’s successes to what they learned about life, morality, and work in their youths at the homes. Less than 3 percent view their experience unfavorably. Few pined for adoption. With all due respect to the policy combatants in 1994, the issue today no longer is whether orphanages will return; they never went completely away. Moreover, new children’s homes, whether in the form of residential charter schools (publicly and privately supported schools that include long-term homes for disadvantaged teens) or SOS Children’s Villages (an international organization that has two homes in Miami and Chicago and is planning one in Los Angeles) are emerging. The California Lutheran Church is one of a number of private groups across the country planning to establish homes. This past spring, Minnesota agreed to set up a dozen “residential academies.” The movement is quiet and slow but unstoppable, because the need is so great. There is much left to be done, however, to speed up the reemergence of private children’s homes. First, we must correct popular misconceptions. People

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must realize that if the orphanages of the past were all hellholes, their alumni would not continue to gather yearly in the hundreds and thousands across this country for homecomings, 40 and 50 years after their homes closed. Also, we need to work hard to deregulate much residential child care in order that modern children’s homes can become more numerous and more cost-effective. We need to free up the creative energies of American philanthropists. The Hershey children’s home in Pennsylvania, which now has 1,100 children and an endowment of more than $4 billion, stands as the late Milton Hershey’s working monument to what good deeds, not political rhetoric, can do for and through the lives of children. If anyone wants to see what private deeds can do, go to Hershey and be amazed. Or visit the SOS Children’s Village in Florida or Illinois. You will wish that more disadvantaged kids could have the same opportunity to make a break from their sordid circumstances and chart a brighter future in such places. Then ask others in your community, church, synagogue, and civic groups: “How can we make this happen?” NOTE 1. Originally appeared in Los Angeles Times, December 24, 1998. Copyright 1998, Los Angeles Times. Reprinted by permission.

47 Homes, Foster Kids, and Big-Bucks Businesses Ira A. Greenberg

There is a given that “the poor will always be with us,” and thus there will always be children requiring society’s help. The question of how best to provide this is the issue at hand, as it has been in this country for the last few hundred years. Poorhouses followed the use of indentured servants, though for different reasons. In reaction to the many abuses and health dangers children encountered in these almshouses, orphanages emerged, also with many abuses to its charges that included harsh physical punishments, sexual assaults, and the “indenturing” of children as servants and farm and factory laborers. The very specific reaction to orphanage horror stories of the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries brought on the modern welfare system that included foster-care programs. This story is fully told by Matthew Crenson1 in his book about how the modern welfare system developed as an alternative to orphanage abuse; and it is very ably abstracted by Dale Keiger in the Johns Hopkins Magazine.2 Yet, as effective as the foster-care programs throughout the nation have been in providing good care and safety for many hundreds of thousands of children, there are still far too many youngsters who have been ill-served by these programs. “Plastic-bag” children is a term that illustrates one of the problems of children removed from abusive or inadequate family residences and put “into the system,” where many are shunted from place to place as they carry their personal belongings in impersonal plastic shopping bags. Some of the inadequate foster-care residences may be good homes operated by well-meaning foster parents, but the match may be wrong. Others of these

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residences may be just plain bad. The system tries to help the hurt and destitute children but is too often overwhelmed by the great needs for aid, by the inadequate resources available, and by the shortage of social service personnel. Thus, very large caseloads often lead to inadequate help for the children and inadequate supervision of the caregivers. “AGING OUT” UNEDUCATED, UNADOPTED A simple perusal of a few examples found in the New York City press well illustrates foster-care problems throughout the nation. In a letter to the New York Post, Jeff Katz of Adoption Rhode Island in Pawtucket states that annually about 16,000 foster kids “age-out” of the local system on reaching 18, with 66 percent of them not having earned high school diplomas and 25 percent joining the homeless population.3 His answer calls for improving adoption procedures so would-be parents would not have to go abroad to adopt a child. Yet, as I see it, even if the adoption system was perfect, it would effect only a very small percentage of American children needing good homes. A grievous problem that supports figures furnished by Katz, as reported in the New York Post by Carl Campanile,4 is that City and Board of Education officials fail to ensure that foster-care children attend school regularly or that they succeed in gaining an education. This is disputed in the same article by Children’s Services Commissioner Nicholas Scoppetta who stated that a recent survey of 400 foster kids showed the school attendance rate increased from 28 to 58 percent for the “most troubled students” and that overall attendance rose from 73 to 81 percent. As good as those figures are, it should be noted that in well run orphanages elementary and junior high school attendance is at the 100 percent level for those who are not ill, as was the case for those of us in the HNOH. It should also be noted that a small percentage of HNOH high school boys, who during the day were away from institutional supervision, often skipped school in the 30s and 40s to see movies and vaudeville acts at the Paramount and other major theaters in New York City. In an article in the New York Post, by Tom Topousis,5 public advocate Mark Green claimed that low pay for attorneys resulted in children in New York state being in the foster-care system for 48 months as opposed to the national average of 33 months. Again, even if the pay for family court lawyers was increased to what Green sought, New York would still have many thousands of children in need of long-term, stable homes because of the needy population’s overwhelming available resources. EXPOSING BIG BUSINESS ABUSES In investigative reports in The New York Times, entitled “Welfare Bill Has Opened Foster Care to Big Business” (May 4, 1997) and “Orphanages, Inc.,

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The High Cost of No Intentions,”6 author Nina Bernstein cites numerous abuses of the existing orphanage system by individuals, unregulated by churches or other groups, operating their own domains, and she predicts the increase of these types of abuses when large industries move into the orphanage field. She notes: But many child welfare experts say there are good reasons to fear the impact of forprofits on an already badly regulated child welfare system. They say that for-profits have a financial duty to place the interests of their shareholders ahead of what is best for children, and that states are ill prepared to hold such companies accountable.7

Ms. Bernstein found the change in the law “was made without debate, unlike other measures in the sweeping welfare legislation signed into law last year [1996],” and that this was accomplished through surreptitious action as “a single word—‘nonprofit’—was deleted from an obscure paragraph of the 400-page bill that dismantled six decades of poverty policy.” She noted that following the bill’s passage, federal money that “historically, only foster families or nonprofit institutions, mostly charity-based, were eligible for . . .” is now available to large corporations from many industries; whereas, formerly it went to orphanages sponsored by religious and philanthropic groups. And yet there have been and still are well run orphanages, according to McKenzie’s report, cited in the previous chapter, and according to a visit by USA Today reporter George Zoroya8 to the 108-year-old Connie Maxwell Children’s Home in Greenwood, South Carolina, which he compared favorably to the 1999 film Cider House Rules. ORPHAN SUCCESSES An editorial, “Foster-Care Trap,” that appeared in the May 16, 1999, New York Post sees a change in the welfare system as a solution to problems many foster-care children face. It called for “frank discussions of how to encourage alternatives to foster care that includes faith-based homes for children,” and “though no one dares speak the word ‘orphanages,’ ” as a means of providing care for children where they “can attain a measure of stability as they grow up in one place, attend one school system and have somewhere to call home—all with their siblings.”9 A 1996 article by Richard B. McKenzie adds substance to the New York Post editorial. It appeared in the Los Angeles Times and is entitled “How Orphans Have Outpaced Other Americans.” In it he reports on a survey he took of 1,600 white middle-aged and older alumni of nine South and Midwest orphanages sponsored by Methodists, Presbyterians, Baptists, Jews, Masons, Odd Fellows, and three private foundations. He found the orphanage-reared had 10 percent higher high school graduates than a matched group of parent-reared and in their age groups had a higher percentage of advanced and professional degrees. The median income for the

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orphanage group ran one-fifth to two-thirds higher than their counterparts, depending on age category. McKenzie, who grew up in the Barium Springs Home for Children in North Carolina, also found that 60 percent of his survey group reported they were “very happy,” as compared to a 1994 University of Chicago’s National Opinion Research Center poll in which less than 29 percent so described themselves. He also found that the orphanage-reared had higher incomes and a smaller percent on welfare than their counterparts but that the divorce rate among the orphan group was slightly higher. “Indeed, most of the orphans had favorable overall assessments of their orphanages and prefer the way they grew up to foster care,” McKenzie stated. He attributed the positive findings to “religion and moral values, responsibility, work ethic, appreciation for the second chance they were given.”10 NOTES Editor’s Note: Jeff Katz was executive director of Adoption Rhode Island when he wrote to the New York Post and subsequently became a research scholar at Harvard University. In a telephone conversation, he explained that 16,000 foster-care youngsters graduate out of the program nationally each year and that the reason the figure is not higher is that more than 80 percent of the nation’s half-million children in foster care are returned to their families after varying periods of time in the program. 1. Matthew Crenson, Building the Invisible Orphanage (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1998). 2. Dale Keiger, The Rise and Demise of the American Orphanage. Johns Hopkins Magazine 48, no. 2, 1996. 3. Jeff Katz, Adopt a New Solution for the Foster Care Failure. New York Post, May 21, 1999. 4. Carl Campanile, Schools Neglect Foster-Care Kids: Activists. New York Post, July 20, 2000, 24R. 5. Tom Topousis, Green: Low Pay for Lawyers Hurts Foster Kids. New York Post, May 15, 2000. 6. Nina Bernstein, Orphanages, Inc. The High Cost of No Intentions. New York Times, May 11, 1997. 7. Nina Bernstein, Welfare Bill Has Opened Foster Care to Big Business. New York Times, May 4, 1997. 8. George Zoroya, A Loving Home for Children Who Have None. USA Today, March 22, 2000. 9. Foster-Care Trap, Editorial. New York Post, May 16, 1999. 10. Richard B. McKenzie, How Orphans Have Outpaced Other Americans. Los Angeles Times, March 18, 1996, B9.

48 No Simple Solution (A Reply to a New York Times Editorial) Nicholas Scoppetta and Philip Coltoff

We write regarding “Orphanages Are No Solution” (New York Times editorial, December 12, 1994), first because our agency (Children’s Aid Society) has been so closely identified with orphans and “orphan trains” from our early history, and second because this is a problem we are about still. Though we do not disagree with your position, we both welcome and fear the new attention on the orphanages. Part of this problem is the word “orphanage” itself—romanticized, as you say, with every reference to “Boys Town,” and dehumanized with every reference to Dickens. These references and the word itself may have outlived their usefulness—much as “almshouse” or “waif.” In the real world, where half a million children are wards of the state and thousands more will become orphans as their parents die of acquired immune deficiency syndrome, children who cannot be raised by parents need a range of options, with the choice for each to be made based on what is best for him or her. Family home, foster home, group home, extended-family care, dormitory living, independent living—no one is the single answer. We need to put imagery and politics aside and recognize what liberals and conservatives can agree on: Not every parent can provide for a child, and government must step in when that child is endangered. But just as abuse is not indigenous to one type of child care, so not every child succeeds in a family and not every group home is a warehouse. All children need permanency, love, education and to be prepared for a productive adulthood. For good or ill, there is no best way to get there. “No Simple Solution,” New York Times (Dec. 18, 1994). Reprinted with permission.

PART 9 CONCLUSION: THE NEED

49 Final Days and Later Ira A. Greenberg

That there are eight million stories in the city was both the title and theme of a popular television series some four decades ago.1 It indicated the obvious; that every individual in the metropolis could serve as the fascinating subject of a dramatic rendition of his or her particular life experience. And so it was of HNOH. Every one of the some 1,300 to 1,800 boys who passed through The Home2 (from 1914 when the doors opened in the Lower East Side of Manhattan through 1958 when the doors finally closed at the large, red-brick building at 407 Tuckahoe Road in Yonkers) could be the fascinating subject of his unique life story. So also could the parade of staff members who as well were a part of this dynamic social organism. Each of us who were a part of The Home experience could well be the subject of a tale that might inspire, thrill, sadden, or anger a reading or viewing audience. Every one of us could embody a tragedy that in Aristotelian terms would evoke pity and fear, and a proper purgation of such, just as an Aristophanes could take several of our lives or one of our lives or an aspect of one of our lives, and, from the swirl of good and bad feelings and behaviors, draw humorous events and satiric conclusions. In other words, what is represented in this volume is merely that, a representation of a very few of us and of some of our experiences, observations, and reactions. Lost to oblivion are many more interesting, exciting, heroic, callow, and cruel stories that might have been told if there had been someone there to tell them and others to hear them, read of them, or see them enacted on stage

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or screen. But all that remains is our few stories, or parts of our stories, to speak on behalf of the many others. Our stories are of small incidents and their consequences or of large events and their repercussions and the turns our lives took as a result. ANNUAL ALUMNI DAY GATHERING The annual Alumni Day is a special day for The Home and for those of us in it or who have graduated from it. This is when HNOH alumni arrive at The Home grounds for a day of celebration that fosters a re-involvement in HNOH affairs. They show off The Home to their wives, children, girlfriends, and others, but most important of all, to meet with each other and, like veterans throughout the ages, recall some of the days past and relive some of their experiences with those who also were there. And, like many high school and college reunions, it is also a time to strut their achievements or to confer about helping some of their less fortunate brothers. Alumni Day began with the arrival of some of the early birds, and many of us in The Home were on hand late in the morning to greet them. One of those I recall seeing was Connie Rosen, a big, dark-complected, good-looking guy who was powerfully built and who had been a great and fearless athlete, respected by his peers and liked by the younger kids. Connie, who was two or three years older than me, had left The Home a couple of years before and arrived on this day escorting a beautiful, willowy brunette, reported to be the daughter of a wealthy and prominent Jewish family. My most memorable recollection of Connie was of a few years before when as part of a Variety Show Night he appeared onstage outlandishly dressed and grotesquely made up as a woman and did a singing send-up of the then popular “Madame LaZonga” dance teacher song. Of course, those of us 14 or younger missed the point of it all when he sang the chorus line, “If Madame likes you, the lessons are free.” Nevertheless, we enjoyed the song and Connie’s rendition of it. After the informal small gatherings on arriving at The Home, the alumni and their guests would sit down to lunch at tables set up in the dining room, with a number of seniors serving as waiters and juniors as busboys. Afterward, they would have a short period to talk among themselves or walk about the grounds and the building, and at about 2 or 3 P.M. would gather in the New Gym for the formal organizational meeting, which also included the awarding of prizes to outstanding boys and recognition by their fellows of alumni who had given dedicated service to the organization and recognition of other alumni activities. After this, small committees would meet to deal with Alumni Association needs or problems, while most of the alumni showed their guests about the grounds and the main building, pointing out places where special incidents in their lives had occurred. The day would end with a final all-member meeting. Addresses

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and phone numbers would be exchanged and plans for individuals getting together during the year would be made. And then they would depart, some in cars but most on public transportation. FRANK GOLDWITZ RUSHES UP On this particular day early in the afternoon, I was helping set up rows of folding chairs in the New Gym when Frank Goldwitz, red-haired, freckle-faced, and always enthusiastic, rushed up to me exclaiming, “Did you hear, Pearl Harbor’s just been bombed!” I had no idea what or where Pearl Harbor was, but I was 17 and I damned well knew I’d never admit this ignorance to a 15year-old. All too soon I did know what and where Pearl Harbor was, and I was as shocked as everyone else. Frank knew more about the Hawaiian Island’s harbor than most people that day because his oldest brother had been stationed there while in the Army. I was editor of The Homelite at that time and with a few others that evening sat in while Frank was being interviewed by a reporter from the Yonkers HeraldStatesman. The reporter went about the interview in a calm and detailed manner, and I was thoroughly unimpressed. This seasoned, workman-like reporter didn’t show any of the emotionalism I was accustomed to seeing in movies about reporters in action. This was a somber day for all of us, and we hovered about the radios in each of the dorms—actually six-boy rooms—hungry for any scrap of information given. My first class at Roosevelt High School on Monday following the attack was American history, taught by Mrs. Cleverdon, a short, strong-featured woman whose brown hair was combed around the contours of her face. She addressed the class in a somber and caring manner. We listened attentively and respectfully, as we always did when she spoke. Mrs. Cleverdon walked with a limp because at an early age she had been crippled with polio, and we were shocked the first time we saw her when class began in September, as we were not used to seeing crippled people in positions of authority. At that first meeting she talked briefly about her infirmity and quickly put the class at ease. After that it was never a problem for us, and we never again thought of her as being crippled. She told us, the morning after the Pearl Harbor bombing on December 7, 1941, that this attack and its consequences would change all our lives in ways we couldn’t then imagine. We boys knew we would be in the military, but we couldn’t think much beyond that. Nevertheless, we all felt comforted by her words and her acknowledgment of our unknown futures. In our advanced algebra class later that morning, Mr. Van Anden did not harangue us in his usual manner, but, like Mrs. Cleverdon, he talked of the nation’s challenge in being at war and the directions our individual futures would take. The following day he blamed us, our parents, and our guardians for the many rationing violations he knew about, and things were back to normal

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in his class. At other times he occasionally would bring in some mathematical or scientific tidbits to whet our appetites toward abstract conceptual thinking, and on this day he discussed briefly Einstein’s general theory of relativity, stating there were few in the world who then understood the mathematics behind this theory and recommended we read Sir James Jeans’ The Mysterious Universe3 as an introduction to understanding Einstein. (As an adult, I bought this volume in a second-hand bookstore, and it holds up today, despite the great advances in astronomy and cosmology, as it did in 1930 when this series of Cambridge University lectures was published.) So it went in all of our classes that first day after Pearl Harbor, but in a few days things in high school returned to normal and for most of us the war faded into the background, consumed as we were with classes, sports, and other activities. Such also was the case for most of us in The Home. The Homelite began carrying bits and pieces about the war, inflation, and price-control, and some of the boys became more serious in their reading. I was especially impressed that Sol Klein, then mostly thought of by us as a musician and singer who was socially involved with many girls at Commerce High—not the case for most of us at aristocratic Roosevelt High—had turned serious. He was not thought of as an intellectual; however, one day I spotted him reading Pierre Van Paassen’s Days of Our Years,4 and this impressed me tremendously. I then resolved to do likewise and hopefully I will one of these days, having bought the book some years ago. But many of us, myself included, did begin to read more serious and more pertinent books than previously. The one I recall most vividly was Jan Valtin’s Out of the Night.5 Though part of our background, the war would be brought to the fore whenever we purchased U.S. Savings Stamps or when we saw some of our staff members depart for military service or as we learned of many of our alumni enlisting in the Army, Navy, Marine Corps, or being drafted into one of the services. We corresponded with them, and one of my friends, a year older and in the Army, found himself stationed near Los Angeles and described the many wonders—women—of Southern California, and that is when I resolved to get to California somehow, if only for a visit. At about that time newly created contact lenses were being advertised as things that could be worn while playing football, and not wanting to be classified as a “limited service” soldier, I resolved to get a pair in preparation for my entering the military. This I did with money earned the previous summer as a busboy at a Long Island, New York, summer resort hotel. The lenses were eyeball size and intimidating, and I didn’t work up the courage to try to wear them until I was going through basic training at Camp Butner, North Carolina, and I began to insert them one Sunday at the post’s USO6 Club. While doing this, the liquid spilled out of one of the lenses and it became stuck to my eyeball. I staggered into the director’s office, she phoned the medics and they sent a jeep to pick me up. I was placed on an operating table, and the

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medical officer with some difficulty extracted the lens. He admonished me not to try this again; I agreed, and I haven’t. This story’s purpose is to show how some of us had been thinking while in The Home. LATE AGAIN, AND I MEET THE GODDESS The day of my high school graduation my father bought me a secondhand portable typewriter, and as a result of having to take buses to and from the seller’s home, I arrived at Roosevelt High School with boxed cap and gown under my arm just as the graduates were about to begin marching into the auditorium. They were in alphabetical order, and so I had no trouble finding my place. It was immediately behind the most beautiful girl I had ever seen. A slim brunette, rosy cheeked and with deep, lustrous eyes that enhanced every feature of her face, she had been in both my advanced algebra and solid geometry classes. Like many of the girls those days, she was silent in class, but although I couldn’t take my eyes off her, I lacked the courage to ever once try to talk to her or even learn her name. And here she was standing in front of me, her name being “Green,” I then learned. While the guy behind was helping me get into my gown, she, the rare beauty, was adjusting my cap, and then the neck of my robe, speaking like an ordinary mortal as she did so. I couldn’t believe she was so friendly and nice. That for me was the most notable part of the graduation. And that was it. I worked as a busboy and children’s waiter at a resort in the Catskill Mountains, spent a few months as a mining engineer major in northern Michigan, and then I was in the Army. I never saw her again. DAD APOLOGIZES The years passed quickly: three years in the Army during World War II, four years at the University of Oklahoma and a B.A. in journalism, a year in the Army during the Korean War, and then ten years as a newspaper reporter at the Columbus (Georgia) Enquirer, the Louisville Courier-Journal, and the Los Angeles Times. One day during this newspaper period, I was having lunch with my father, Philip Greenberg, either in New York City during a visit there or in Columbus or Los Angeles during a visit by him. At that time I was either in my late 20s or early 30s, an adult holding down a job that demanded special skills and mature judgment. My father very tentatively and with deep regret underlining his words apologized to me for having put me in The Home and told me how sorry he was to have had to do this. I immediately replied and stated with absolute sincerity: “Dad, you did the very best thing you could have done for me. I liked being in The Home. Being there for me was far better than anything else that could have been done at that time. I’m glad you put me there, Dad. Even more, I’m very grateful.” I meant every word.

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POSTSCRIPT As stated, I liked being in The Home, enjoyed the friendships made there and the many that developed among the alumni afterward, and I appreciated the numerous athletic, cultural, recreational, and educational opportunities available to us there. Although I felt during my years there a sense of stigma associated with being a half-orphan and being in The Home, such was not the case afterward. But for more than 50 years, I did not mention it to others, even close friends. My reason was not concern they would think less of me but fear that they would pity me. Eventually, there came a point in my life in which this was not a concern. It was at the annual convention of the American Society of Group Psychotherapy and Psychodrama (ASGPP) in February 1997 in New York City. Having had three books on psychodrama published,7 having practiced this form of group action–psychotherapy for 30 years, and having presented papers and lecture– demonstrations at this and other national conventions, as well as at state psychological conventions, universities, hospitals, and at professional training workshops, I felt I had attained a certain status in ASGPP, my most favored professional organization. Thus, I felt there was no need to fear being pitied. In addition to my lecture–demonstration of hypnodrama at that convention, I was on a panel of senior psychodramatists to discuss current trends and future directions of this modality. In the question-and-answer period, I was asked what I presently was working on. With no hesitation because of who I was in that particular gathering, I replied that I had begun work on a book about the Hebrew National Orphan Home, where I had been reared. I should have kept my mouth shut. Immediately after the panel session ended several audience members and two of my fellow panelists came up to me and expressed their sense of pity for me. NOTES 1. This refrain came from the ABC series, The Naked City, which ran from 1958 to 1963, starring John McIntyre and James Franciscus, but, according to Brooks and Marsh, the actual star was the City of New York. See Bibliography. 2. Sam George Arcus, Deja Views of an Aging Orphan, 32–33. 3. Sir James Jeans, The Mysterious Universe (New York: Macmillan, 1930). 4. Pierre Van Passen, The Days of Our Years (New York: Hillman-Curl, 1939). 5. Jan Valtin, Out of the Night (New York: Alliance Book, 1941). 6. United Service Organization. 7. Ira A. Greenberg, ed., Group Hypnotherapy and Hypnodrama (Chicago: NelsonHall, 1977); Ira A. Greenberg, ed., Psychodrama: Theory and Therapy (New York: Behavioral Publications, 1974); Ira A. Greenberg, Psychodrama and Audience Attitude Change (Los Angeles: Behavioral Studies Press, 1968).

50 Newt and Hillary Were Each Right— and Perhaps Wrong! Ira A. Greenberg

On the matter of creating more orphanages to meet the needs of some of America’s disadvantaged children, Newt Gingrich was right, as I see it, but for possibly the wrong reasons, while Hillary Rodham Clinton was wrong in her opposition, but wrong for possibly the right reasons. When the former speaker of the House of Representatives stated in November 1994 that an answer to helping needy youngsters lay in bringing back orphanages, his words to many political liberals and to many angry child-care professionals seemed like a throwaway line. The Gingrich opponents may have interpreted his proposal to mean “Stash them away so we taxpayers are no longer bothered by their problems,” an out-of-sight, out-of-mind type solution. The former First Lady, now a United States senator from New York, immediately and furiously opposed this idea, presumably on the basis of past abuses suffered by orphans in large institutions at the hands of cruel and venal adults. She appeared to take her stand against orphan asylums based on what she thought and felt was best for today’s and tomorrow’s children. Many of us who were reared in orphanages are able to see merit in both positions; and a majority of us see merit in a return to increased orphanage use to serve many of the children living in environments of poverty and crime or in those of highly dysfunctional families. These areas of destitution may be in metropolitan ghettos, in hard-scrabble rural community outskirts, in the shifting population of the homeless, or, in terms of social destitution, in rich and poor homes where children are abused physically, sexually, and psychologically by parents, stepparents or foster parents who themselves merit treatment or incarceration.

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IT SHOULD HAVE BEEN ME As a matter of fact, at the first report of Gingrich’s proposal, my immediate reaction was, “Damn! Why didn’t I think of this!” My orphanage background and my anticrime efforts and my support of education for disadvantaged children should have led me to this conclusion. But it did not, and I only began thinking of orphanages as a good solution toward offsetting gang recruitment and meeting the nurturing needs of many thousands of children across the country only after the Georgia Republican voiced it. My efforts to combat crime came about in 1983 with the start of my public access cable television show “Crime and Public Safety,” now aired by Adelphia in various parts of Los Angeles. The show was my reaction to the robbery of seven of us at a psychotherapy group board meeting three years before by two armed young men in an unsecured office building. My first television guest after Gingrich’s orphanage statement was Los Angeles County retired probation officer Jack Taube and, to my astonishment, he vehemently rejected the Gingrich idea. Nothing I could say during the talk-show interview or afterward, even to detailing some of my own good experiences in an orphanage, would cause him to mitigate his strongly negative views or even to see the issue from another perspective. Nevertheless, most of us who grew up in orphanages believe that many of today’s disadvantaged children, particularly those who think clearly and generally function effectively, could benefit from growing up in a place they can identify with, a place where they have the emotional security of knowing they belong. This would be a place where they could grow, where they could be taught to adopt the winner’s attitude that calls for learning to get along with others, learning to respect others as well as to respect themselves, and learning to set realistic goals and developing the responsibility and determination to work toward achieving these goals. Like the HNOH, a one- or two-hour travel distance of the facility from the families’ crime-ridden neighborhoods could be beneficial. A SENSE OF BELONGING An orphanage can be likened to Mrs. Clinton’s “village,” or to a “neighborhood,” as depicted by Minnesota governor Jesse Ventura. He states: I think we’re only now beginning to see what we lost when we gave up old-fashioned neighborhoods. When I was growing up, if you lived in the neighborhood, people knew you and kept an eye on you. They were there for you if you needed help, and they kept you in line if you started getting into trouble. They had expectations. But also, when you live in a close-knit neighborhood, you enjoy a satisfying sense of belonging, which I think is sadly lacking in many people today.1 (Italics added)

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There are, of course, many disadvantaged children lacking the capacity to benefit from orphanage or residential school opportunities, and for these there are other available forms of care. They include mental hospitals and community mental health centers for the highly emotionally disturbed, care facilities for the developmentally disabled, and drug rehabilitation centers and reformatories for addicts and hardened repeat-offender juvenile delinquents. Also, the foster-care program has proved beneficial for many needy or abandoned or mistreated children. However, most of my coauthors and I feel that most children who are intellectually and emotionally capable of following well planned programs and are capable of taking care of their basic needs would benefit greatly through growing up in large orphanage-type institutions, rather than in foster-care families, a good number of which may themselves be unstable. We, meaning most of the graduates of the Hebrew National Orphan Home and alumni of other orphanages, believe that these institutions have much to offer, providing they are well run administratively and so structured that the children would be supervised by caring adults trained for this vocation. The supervisors should have state certification, such as exists for psychiatric technicians and other health workers in California and in many other states. Their training might include areas in the fields of nursing, counseling, child or developmental psychology, and social services. It could include such professions of rehabilitation therapy as recreation, music, dance, art, arts and crafts, and occupational and industrial therapy, the last of which includes assigned chores at the live-in facility. But even more important than their training backgrounds, dormitory supervisors or rooms–section supervisors should be selected through their having such qualities as giving, caring, and joyous personalities, along with the personal maturity that enables them to be open to the needs of those in their charge and the ability to be able to deal effectively with those needs. GINGRICH SUPPORTED Thus, with modern standards and safeguards in place, we orphanage graduates feel that bringing back this type of institution can play a major role in meeting the needs of many of tomorrow’s children. The foster-care program, well run and adequately supervised, also has an important role to play in the care of the needy, just as do programs of donated food, clothing, health care, and rent assistance, as answers to the needs of well functioning but poverty-stricken families, until these families can become self-supporting. Each offers much for those best-suited to particular programs. The need for orphanages as important alternatives to what is currently available is illustrated in the “As Others See It” part of this book, which is merely representative of the many child-care problems. The idea of returning to the use of orphanages as an answer to some of today’s and tomorrow’s societal problems

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concerning the rearing of hapless children is in need of legislative discussion and action. Richard McKenzie, a distinguished author, orphanage authority, and honored professor of business and economics at the University of California at Irvine, introduces the part with strong support of the Gingrich proposal. He draws upon the evidence of his own experiences growing up in a North Carolina orphanage, as well as on those of people reared there with whom he meets annually at 500person reunions. McKenzie has obtained additional evidence supporting his position through a several-state survey of thoughts and feelings of others who grew up in orphanages. His chapter is followed by a chapter that examines in brief the past faults of orphanages and present and possibly future problems in the foster-care programs and in the large, for-profit business-operated facilities. The chapter takes note of a lovingly operated orphanage in South Carolina, plus McKenzie’s report on a survey of the orphanage-reared as compared to reports by those who grew up in two-parent homes. Two child-care officials conclude the section by urging that all keep an open mind to the many solutions and types of facilities available for child care. We, specifically most of my HNOH coauthors, feel strongly that orphan homes or residential schools are the answer for the proper rearing of a large proportion of America’s disadvantaged children. These can be religiously oriented and supported institutions, as has been and currently are or could be operated by Protestant, Catholic, Moslem, Buddhist, and Jewish philanthropical groups, or they could be interdenominational groups or supported by foundations. HOMOGENEOUS VERSUS INTERDENOMINATIONAL However, based on the identity-formation needs we experienced in the HNOH as presumably others did in their institutions, I feel that facilities with homogeneous populations best serve their residents. I believe that children and teenagers who first are able to establish their own identities, and sense of self and sense of background group are better able to meet and interact with those of other backgrounds than they would have been if they had grown up in a heterogeneous population in which they might not be sure of who they were religiously or ethnically. At least such was my experience. If a boy in The Home did not like me, it was because of my personality or my behavior, or the situation of the moment or of problems of his own, but not because of my religious or ethnic background; we were all the same there. This, however, is a personal belief based on my personal experience. There may be many benefits to interdenominational institutions that I am not aware of. Properly operated by trained and caring adults, orphanage institutions would be capable of leading youngsters with precarious futures into achieving goals

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that would fulfill their vocational, social, and cultural needs. They would enable children who in their earlier environments had no positive futures to strive toward becoming upwardly mobile, useful, and fulfilled citizens, thereby meeting their individual needs and strengthening society’s fabrics. McKenzie noted that not only have most orphans done well for themselves after graduating from their respective institutions, but in many areas they have exceeded the average equivalent population of children who grew up in their family residences. As he stated (Chapter 47), the orphanage-reared did better than their familyraised peers in education, income, and life satisfaction. His survey disclosed that orphanage graduates generally had more successful lives than their family-raised peers in all areas but that of marriage stability, in which the orphan group had higher divorce rates. Looking at the results of upbringing by the institution I know best, the Hebrew National Orphan Home, I would say that McKenzie’s survey results are well borne out, although the HNOH was not among the institutions whose alumni he surveyed. From my personal knowledge, as well as from comparing notes with other HNOHers, I can think of less than a half dozen of our boys who did not achieve some modicum of success as an adult. SOME DID VERY WELL Eyeing the assessment another way, aside from most of our HNOH graduates who worked as wage-earners, salaried employees, and owners of small business, such as a stationery store or a plumbing or electrical service, our numbers include quite a few professionals in such areas as education, social work, the sciences, law, and in the artistic areas of music, writing, and talent marketing. Most of us now are retired with modest pensions after having passed successfully through our working years. A few of our “boys” have done exceptionally well financially. Offhand, I can think of three millionaires from among the some 600 boys and alumni I knew over the years, and, if I compared notes with others, I might learn of one or two more. The majority of our alumni remain married to their first wives, though our population has a good share of divorces in it, and the children of alumni are doing well in their vocations and marriages. Many of these children of orphans, as is typical of the general population, are exceeding the levels of success achieved by their parents. Some examples of successful children of HNOH alumni may be found in chapters by or about Samuel Prince, Sam George Arcus, Marty Miller, Murray Feierberg, Jerry “Yippy” Pincus, and Morris “Tony” Bond. As was the case in McKenzie’s survey and in his knowledge of the people he grew up with, most of us from the Hebrew National Orphan Home can look back with satisfaction to the start we got into adulthood through our having been

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reared in this institution, this village, this place we lovingly or angrily refer to as The Home. I therefore conclude that I agree with Newt in what some have claimed was a throwaway line, and I disagree with Hillary in her immediate and forceful rejection of the idea. However, if we could bring together their attributes, if we can get the twofisted, hard-charging Newts to organize and build the orphanages, and if we can get the caring and intellectually gifted Hillarys to operate, supervise, and regulate these institutions, what a magnificent future the beneficiaries could look forward to. And by the beneficiaries, I mean a large proportion of our disadvantaged children, and I also mean the nation itself. NOTE 1. Jesse Ventura, with Julia Mooney, Do I Stand Alone? (New York: Pocket Books, 2000).

APPENDICES

Appendix A Questionnaire for Our Village: The Home: March 4, 1997 NOTE: Please type or print your responses to the items of this questionnaire on separate sheets of paper, putting the number to the left of your responses to the questions or items.1 1. Your name. 2. Date of birth. 3. Address. 4. Phone &/or Fax number. 5-a. Describe how you entered The Home and the first few days. 5-b. Dates you entered and left The Home. Year graduated P.S. 403/404 Manhattan. 6. Year of your Bar Mitzvah. 7. Who (which boy?) gave the Hebrew, Yiddish, English speeches in your class, if you remember. 8. What you liked best about The Home and why. (Answer this and other questions as fully as you wish.) 9. What you disliked most about The Home, and why. 10. Other things you liked or disliked about the HNOH. 11. Who were your close friends? a. Why did you like them? b. What kinds of things did you do together? 12. What activities did you enjoy most at The Home? 13. What is your most vivid memory of or at The Home? 14. Other memories?

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15. What do you think you would have been like, and what kind of life might you have led if you had not been reared in The Home? 16. Please comment in as much detail as you wish about your education at P.S. 403/ 404 Manhattan (the school number was changed in the late 30s, as I recall). 17. Please comment on the religious aspects of HNOH. 18. What are your principal recollections of Hebrew School? 19. Did you participate in the band, sports, clubs, etc.? Please comment. 20. Who was your favorite staff person? Why? 21. Other favorites and why? 22. Which staff person did you dislike most? Why? Others you disliked? 23. Please comment on home visits and other off-grounds activities. 24. What are some of the good things you got from The Home? 25. What are some of the things you wish you hadn’t gotten from HNOH? 26. How would you have changed The Home, if you could have? 27. What work assignments did you have at The Home? Comment on them. 28. What high school did you attend: Roosevelt, Saunders Trade, Commerce High? 29. How did being in The Home affect your high school involvement? 30. If you went to college, what degree(s) do you have? 31. What occupations have you had since leaving The Home? 32. How did having been in The Home affect your occupations and/or career? 33. How would you define yourself in terms of religion? Jewish Orthodox? Conservative? Reform? Reconstructionist? Ethical Culture? Atheist? Agnostic? Indifferent? Other religion; if so, what? 34. Many of us were many years out of The Home before telling people where and how we grew up, reasons being (a) fear people would pity us, (b) ashamed of “stigma” of being from an orphanage, (c) other reasons. What has been your experience and feelings in this regard? 35. How do you look back at your years in The Home: nostalgia, anger, hatred, joy, loathing . . . what? 36. How do you feel about whomever it was who placed you in The Home? What might you say to that person(s) today? 37. Do you think good, well run orphan homes of the size and population of HNOH might be a solution to today’s crime and societal problems and (yes or no) why? Would smaller orphan homes be better? Why? Please respond to as many of these questions, if not all of them, as possible and answer them as fully as you wish. All of your responses are of value, as far as the book project is concerned. After doing this questionnaire, you should have come up with enough memories to be able to type out your autobiography quite easily. Please write briefly about life before you entered The Home, as fully and in as much detail as you wish as to what your life was like while you were in The Home, and then briefly what your life was like from the point of leaving The Home to today. Everything you write is important for the book

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project, and we will attempt to get as much of it—plus black-and-white photos—in the book as possible.

NOTE 1. Editor’s Note: This questionnaire was typed hurriedly and should have been studied, edited, and rewritten before being sent out. Thus, it contains many poorly worded questions and far too many redundancies, for which I take full responsibility.

Appendix B Mother’s Day Poem

MOTHER. . . . to all mothers I haven’t known you really well, though I have seen you many times; But how well do I remember when you taught me nursery rhymes. I can see your face before me as I used to long ago, And I long to hear your voice so dear, which set me all aglow. You sacrificed a lot for me, but to you it was all a joy, For that selfish, thoughtless, mischievous scamp was your darling little boy. And the tears you’d shed with bended head, as mothers have always done Would purify the day-worn sky before the set of sun. I was too young to understand, when G-d took you away, That though you weren’t here in the flesh, with me you were to stay; And thoughts of you, though far too few, I cherish very much For to reminisce is treasured bliss when I recall your gentle touch. ’Tis true that I have missed you—now as yesterday, But well you influence me still, when I do my work or play. And others who have got you, to heed your gentle call Can realize that you symbolize the dearest thing of all.

Ira Art Greenberg (Published in place of the usual editorial in the May 10, 1942, issue of The Homelite.)

Appendix C Honoring the Leagues and Auxiliaries

Through the days of the Great Depression and through the war years of World War II and Korea, and afterwards, they were with us. They cared for us, and they supported us, both through fund-raising and personal interventions. They are the 12 leagues and auxiliaries of the Hebrew National Orphan Home and Hartman–Homecrest. They were there for us in our hours of need, and we give thanks and honor to them. They are: The Brooklyn League The Far Rockaway–Long Island League The First Bronx and Noble League The Ladies League The Loving Mothers Auxiliary The May Hartman League The Medical and Dental Service of Yonkers The Ladies’ Auxiliary to The Medical and Dental Service of Yonkers The Welfare League The Westchester League The White Plains–Scarsdale Auxiliary We are the proud and happy results of their kind efforts. The Alumni Association of HNOH & Hartman–Homecrest through the coeditors and coauthors of this volume.

Bibliography

Arcus, Sam George. Deja Views of an Aging Orphan—Growing Up in the Hebrew National Orphan Home. Philadelphia: Xlibris Corporation, 2000. ———. Journeys: Sequel to Deja Views. Philadelphia: Xlibris Corporation, 2001. Baker, Charles. Remedial Recreation in a Child Care Institution. Journal of the National Recreation Association, November 1954. ———. Therapeutic Recreation for Exceptional Children. Journal of Rehabilitation, January–February, 1971. Bernard, Jacqueline. The Children You Gave Us. New York: Jewish Child Care Association and Black Publishing, 1973. Bernstein, Nina. Welfare Bill Has Opened Foster Care to Big Business. New York Times, May 4, 1997. ———. Orphanages, Inc. The High Cost of No Intentions. New York Times, May 11, 1997. Bogen, Hyman. The Luckiest Orphans, a History of the Hebrew Orphan Asylum. Chicago: University of Illinois Press, 1992. Brooks, Tim, and Earle Marsh. The Complete Directory of Prime Time Network and Cable TV, 7th ed. New York: Valentine Books, 1999. Buchwald, Art. Leaving Home—A Memoir. New York: G.P. Putnam’s Sons, 1993. Caesar, Sid, with Bill Davidson. Where Have I Been? New York: Crown Books, 1982. Campanile, Carl. Schools Neglect Foster-Care Kids: Activists. New York Post, July 20, 2000, 24R. Clinton, Hillary Rodham. It Takes a Village: And Other Lessons Children Teach Us. New York: Simon and Schuster, 1996. Cmiel, Kenneth. A Home of Another Kind: One Chicago Orphanage and the Tangle of Child Welfare. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1995. Collins, Sara. There Are No Free Lunches: Newt Gingrich’s Plan to Put Welfare Children

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in Orphanages Appears to Make Little Economic Sense. U.S. News and World Report, December 19, 1994, 55. Craft, Phil, and Stan Friedland. An Orphan Has Many Parents. Hoboken, NJ: KTAV Publishing House, 1998. Crenson, Matthew. Building the Invisible Orphanage: A Prehistory of America’s Welfare System. Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1998. Davis, Clyde Brion. The Great American Novel. Denver: Farrar and Rinehart, 1938. De Saussure, M.A. Charleston Orphan House Centennial Celebration. Charleston, SC: Walker, Evans, and Cogswell, 1991. Estrich, Susan. Newt’s Mean-Spirited Edge. USA Today, November 17, 1994, A15. First Lady Assails Orphanage Plans, New York Times, December 1, 1994, A23. Folks, Homer. The Care of Destitute, Neglected, and Delinquent Children. New York: Macmillan, 1907. Forer, Lois G. Bring Back the Orphanage: An Answer for Today’s Abused Children. The Washington Monthly magazine, April 20, 1988, 17–24. Foster-Care Trap, The. Editorial. New York Post, May 16, 1999. Friedman, Reena Sigman. These Are Our Children, Jewish Orphanages in the United States. Hanover, NH: Brandeis University/New England Press, 1994. Goldman, William. Lord of the Flies. New York: Perigee Books, 1954. Goldstein, Howard. The Home on Gorham Street and the Voices of Its Children. Tuscaloosa: University of Alabama Press, 1996. Greenberg, Ira A. Psychodrama and Audience Attitude Change. Los Angeles: Behavioral Studies Press, 1968. ———, ed. Psychodrama: Theory and Therapy. New York: Behavioral Publications, 1974. ———, ed. Group Hypnotherapy and Hypnodrama. Chicago: Nelson-Hall, 1977. Jeans, Sir James. The Mysterious Universe. New York: Macmillan, 1930. Jefferson, S. Should We Bring Back the Orphanages? Palm Beach (Florida) Post, June 19, 1994. Jehl, D. Clinton Says Orphanages Can’t Replace Strong Parents. New York Times, December 11, 1994, A6. Katz, Jeff. Adopt a New Solution for the Foster Care Failure. New York Post, May 21, 1999. Keiger, Dale. The Rise and Demise of the American Orphanage. Johns Hopkins Magazine 48, no. 2, 1996. Maxwell, J. Palmer Home for Children: A Century of Hope, a Passion to Care. Columbus, OH: Palmer House, 1995. McKenzie, Richard B. An Orphan on Orphanages. Wall Street Journal, November 29, 1994, A24. ———. How Orphans Have Outpaced Other Americans. Los Angeles Times, March 18, 1996, B9. ———. The Home: A Memoir of Growing Up in an Orphanage. New York: Basic Books, 1996. ———. Gingrich Was Right About Orphanages. Los Angeles Times, December 24, 1998, B9. ———, ed. Rethinking Orphanages for the 21st Century. Thousand Oaks, CA: Sage Publications, 1999. McMurtry, Larry. The Last Picture Show. New York: Penguin Books, 1966.

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Nathanson, E. M. The Dirty Dozen. New York: Random House, 1965. ———. A Dirty Distant War. New York: Viking, 1987. ———. The Latecomers. New York: Doubleday, 1970. ———. Lovers and Schemers. Laguna Beach, CA: Regenesis Press, 2000. ———, with Colonel Aaron Bank. Knight’s Cross. Secaucus, NJ: Birch Lane Press, 1993. ———, with Harvey Wheeler. The Rise of the Elders. A work in progress. ———, with Louise Thoresen. It Gave Everybody Something to Do. New York: M. Evans, 1974. Nimoy, Leonard. I Am Spock. New York: Hyperion, 1995. Olasky, M. American Orphanages: How We Used to Care for Children. Philanthropy, Culture, and Society, May 1996, 1–6. Rothman, D.J. The Discovery of the Asylum. Boston: Little, Brown, 1971. Sanders, Jacquin. A Night Before Christmas. New York: G.P. Putnam’s Sons, 1963. Scoppetta, Nicholas, and Philip Coltoff. No Single Solution. New York Times, December 18, 1994. Smith, Eve P. Bring Back the Orphanages: What Policy Makers of Today Can Learn from the Past. Child Welfare 74, 1995, 115–42. Spake, Amanda. Adoption Gridlock. U.S. News and World Report, June 22, 1998, 30– 37. Topousis, Tom. Green: Low Pay for Lawyers Hurts Foster Kids. New York Post, May 15, 2000. Valtin, Jan. Out of the Night. New York: Alliance Book, 1941. Van Paassen, Pierre. The Days of Our Years. New York: Hillman-Curl, 1939. Ventura, Jesse, with Julie Mooney. Do I Stand Alone? New York: Pocket Books, 2000. ———. I Ain’t Got Time to Bleed. New York: Signet, 2000. Zmora, Nurith. Orphanages Reconsidered: Child Care Institutions in a Progressive Era. Philadelphia: Temple University Press, 1994. Zoroya, George. A Loving Home for Children Who Have None. USA Today, March 22, 2000.

Index

Abrams, Alvin, 200 Abrevaya, Abe, 131, 134–135, 262 Ackerman, Harold, 83–84 Activities and clubs, 31–32, 37, 46–48 Amber, E. Louis, 9–10, 127, 216 American Society of Group Psychotherapy and Psychodrama (ASGPP), 280 Amphibious Scouts and Raiders School (Navy), 239 Andersen, Hans Christian (author), 166 Anderson, Colonel Hans Christian (“The Colonel”), 25, 29, 31–32, 40, 108 n.2, 155, 166–167 Apfelbaum, Dave, 236 Arcus, Adele, 244 Arcus, Al (Alex, Alek, Alec), 19, 22–24, 28–29, 36–39, 70, 76–77, 143–152 Arcus, Henny, 30, 38, 143–152 Arcus, Mary, 38, 143–152 Arcus (Erkus), Nathan, 22, 24, 38–39, 143–152 Arcus, Sam George, 22, 70, 143, 156, 241; athletics, 173–174; friends of, 34– 35, 39–40, 88–89; harsh beating, 33; mentoring, 37–39, 46, 223–226, 235; osteomyelitis, 29, 41, 89, 137

Baker, Charles (“Chick”), 10, 30, 32, 37, 56, 73–74, 76, 109, 120–121, 154–155, 209–211, 285 Band, 31, 35, 47, 55–57, 96, 134–135 Bare-Ass Creek (B.A.), 5, 10, 67–68, 131, 249 Barium Springs Home for Children, 271 Bergman, Manny, 116 Berman, Barry, 13–14, 16 Bernstein, Nina (New York Times), 269– 270 Boison, Jerry, 35, 247, 258 Bond, Gloria (“Kav”), 261; Emmy Awards, 261 Bond, Morris “Tony,” 46, 54, 92, 260, 285 Bondy, Thomas J., 14, 74, 126–127; friends of, 127 Braunzweig, Al (“Big Al”), 16–17 Brewis, Alex, 46, 48, 96; film and television stars helped, 117 Bronstein, Harry, 38 Brooklyn College, 258 Caesar, Sid, 250–251 Cahn, Mollie Apter, 134, 137, 181, 188, 257

300 California State University, Los Angeles, 185 Camarillo State Hospital, 185 Campanile, Carl, 268 Central Council, 86–87, 92, 220 Charles, Lewis, 214 Claremont Graduate School, 185, 200 Clinton, Hillary Rodham, 4, 10, 281–282, 286 Cleverdon, Mrs., 277 Coltoff, Philip, 272 Columbia University, 226 Columbus (GA) Enquirer, 185, 279 Connie Maxwell Children’s Home, 270 Coogen, Jerry J., 236, 252, 258 Crenson, Matthew, 268 Cunio, John, 15 “Deli system,” 170–171 Denver University, 229 Detention, 5, 32–33, 67, 129–130, 167– 168 Farber, Harry (“Heshie”), 14, 16–17 Farm, 26–27, 170–173 Feierberg, Murray: best athlete, 231; 78th Infantry Division, 54, 83, 220, 239– 241, 261–262, 285; The Homelite, 37– 38, 46, 95–96, 225, 235–236 Felder, Roy, 92 Feldman, Rabbi Morris, 92 Ferber, Mr., bandmaster, 55 Fiance, Claire, social worker, 23, 30–31, 209 Field, Samuel, 5, 105, 107, 198, 212– 213, 215, 256 Fishkin, Leroy, 40, 74, 76 Flanagan, Augusta Rose Agnes, R.N., 30, 48, 92, 135, 199 Fruchtman, Aaron (George Frederics), 35, 127 Fruchtman, Dave (Dave Frederics), 35, 40 Furman, Al, 35, 125–127 Furman, Hyman “Hy,” 35, 40, 125–127, 236 Gelman, Charles, 256 Gingrich, Newt, 10, 265–266, 281–283, 286

Index Glass, George, 118–119; friends of, 119 Goldenberg, George, 23, 27, 116, 243 Goldwitz, Frank, 46, 96–98, 236, 277 Goldwitz, Sam, 35, 46 Gollogly, Mrs., 118 Goodman, Stanley, 46 Gottlober, Ethel Seligman, 18, 153, 199, 233–234 Gottlober, Laurel, 18, 199, 234 Gottlober, Naomi, 18, 199, 234 Gottlober, Sigmund (Shulem), 18, 199, 234 “Grabby” system, 66–67 “Great Potato Rebellion,” 154 Green, Mark, 269 Green, Ross, 46, 48, 62, 79, 118, 258 Greenberg, Fred, 236 Greenberg, Ira A., 3, 18, 58, 61, 78, 83, 103, 116, 120, 123, 125, 153, 162, 183, 186, 192, 202, 218, 223, 227, 231, 260, 268, 275, 281; friends of, 68, 220, 260–262; The Homelite, 34, 46, 95–97, 220, 225, 235–236, 255 Greenberg, Philip, 279 Greenberg, Ted, 258 Gross, Hy, 118 Gross, Sherman, 118 Growick, Simon, 46, 96; friends of, 118, 236 Gustin, Mac, 50–51, 54, 98 Hart, Gary, 229–230 Hebrew Orphan Asylum (HOA), 30 Hebrew School, 6, 26, 194–197 Henry, Charles N., 46–47, 73–74, 118, 127, 169, 187–188, 198, 256–257 Hershkowitz, Jerry “Romy,” 252–253 Horn, David, 63, 231 Horowitz, Herman (Harrow), 48, 99, 236 Israel Orphan Asylum (IOA), 13–14, 22, 30–31, 36, 48, 95, 141 Jobs (including chores), 7, 52, 66, 252 Josephberg, Henry, 61, 121–122, 134, 227–228 Kalman, Eugene, 233 Kaplan, Chester (“Cheesie”), 67–68

Index Kaplan, Lou “Whitey,” 243 Kasunsky, Seymour (Kaye), 88–89, 120– 121, 134 Katz, Jeff, 269, 271 Kaufman, Isidore, 190–191, 194–198 Keiger, Dale, 268, 271 Kerner, Jerry (Jeremiah W., M.D.), 227 Kerner, Rose Seligman, 153 Kersch, Abe K. (A. K.), 31–32, 70–71, 76, 88, 92, 242, 247 “Kids Killed,” 253–254 Klein, Sol (Randy Stewart), 62, 80, 227, 250–251, 278 Koftoff, Reuben: leadership and changes, 28, 40, 60, 63, 74–75, 95, 105, 107, 131–132, 205, 219–220, 261; professionalism, 41, 119, 127, 205–206, 214– 217, 243; respected, 49, 53, 92, 99 n.1, 108 n.1, 123, 138, 198, 205, 243, 255– 256, 261 Konigsberg, Dave, 47, 49 Kresch, Jerry, 68, 96, 236 Kuperinsky, Walter, 64, 137, 162, 200 Landis, Chick, 41 Lasser, Joe Ben, 40 Laub, Mac, 76 Laudenbacher, Mrs., 169 Leagues, and ladies’ auxiliaries, 246 Levy, Justice Aaron J., 23 Levy, Lloyd, 40 Levine, Stanley, 16 Lewis, Walter, 56 Lichtenstadter, Mrs., 180–181 Liebowitz, Pincus (“Pinky”), 35 Lippman, Sy (Seymour), 236–237 Los Angeles Times, 185, 279 Louisville Courier-Journal, 185, 279 Lovett, Dan, 34, 37, 76, 96, 209 Lucacher, Harry, 27, 29, 31–32, 37, 40, 60, 108 n.2, 166–167, 198, 209–211, 242 Ludwig, Bert, 219 Ludwig, Bob, 219 Lyman, Abe, cantor and rabbi, 194–198, 204 MacCrostie, Mary, 181, 188–189 Mantinband, Alex and Judy, 219

301 McKenzie, Richard, 265–267, 270–271, 284–285 Measles epidemic, 39, 62 Mendelkern, Harry (Kern), 250 Miller, Martin P. (“Marty”): athletics, 61, 88, 120, 227; HNOH life, 83, 88, 117, 120, 124, 228, 230, 242, 247; law, 229– 230, 256, 285; military, 134, 228–229 MIT, 119 Moritz, Morris “Mersh,” 37, 89, 118 Moritz, Ralph, 37–38, 118 Moritz brothers, 37–38, 118 Nathanson, E. M. “Mick,” 45, 94; friends of, 38, 46, 96–98, 118, 121, 220, 249– 250; scouting and sports, 84, 86–87, 90; taken down, 92–93, 183; The Homelite, 37, 48, 92, 225, 235–236, 238, 255 Noble, Milton, 236 NYU, 52, 54, 182 Obshatco, Max, 125–127, 199, 258 Oklahoma University, 185, 279 Oppenheimer, Walter, 50, 86, 232–233 Passin, Hyman (“Hymie”), 63–64 Passin, Jack, 64, 68, 88, 242 Pentofsky, Sam (“Penny”), 19, 34, 39, 76 Perron, Mrs. (Perrin, Perrine), 46, 127, 133–134 Pincus, Anita, 245 Pincus, Gwen, 245, 250 Pincus, Ira, 245, 250 Pincus, Irving, 245, 247, 259 Pincus, Jerry “Yippy,” 62, 220, 227, 236, 245, 285 Pincus, Phil, 245, 259 Plafker, George, 46, 68, 96, 118, 236– 239 Plafker, Lloyd, 46, 48, 68, 90, 99, 118, 237 Pride of Judea Children’s Home, 243, 248 Prince, Harry, 69, 191 Prince, Samuel, 66, 141, 179, 190; friends of, 68, 180, 226, 285 P.S. 25, 104 P.S. 403–404, Manhattan, 6, 26, 45–46, 133–134, 169–170, 179–182, 183–185, 186–189, 257

302 Pulsifer, Clara, 116 Punishment: detention, 5, 32–33, 67, 129– 130, 167–168; harassment, 166–168; hitting, 5, 32–33, 106, 113–114, 166– 168, 247, 256–257 Religion, 49, 53, 127, 175, 190, 192, 202, 246 Resnick, Milton (Raynor), 26, 31, 35, 56, 258 Resnick brothers: Eli, 76, 252, 258; Lou, 48, 252; Raymond “Ramy,” 31, 52 Richards, Henry A., 88–91 Roosevelt High School, 5, 6, 46, 86, 135– 136 Rosen, Connie, 276 Rosenberg, Simon “Kelly,” 30 Rubenstein, Mrs., 23–25 Safran, Richard G., 13, 73, 96, 107–108, 154, 212, 214, 240 Sandhaus, Rabbi Morris, 191, 194–198, 204, 254 Schiller, Arthur “Spike,” 35, 56, 120– 121, 134 Schneider, James “Bull,” 137 Schrenzel, Paul, 35, 39, 70, 88 Scoppetta, Nicholas, 268, 272 Seidell, Coach Joe, 73 78th Infantry Division, 239–240 Sex, 156, 164; accusation, 232–233; exploitation, 156, 158–161, 168–169, 172 Shapiro, Lou, 250 Sister Mary (later, Mother Superior), 111, 115 Skinner, Mrs., 183–185, 231, 257 Sklar, Sol, 88, 258 Small, Charlie, 63–64, 126, 162 Soloff, Donny, 209

Index Sonia, Tante (aunt), 22, 25, 143–151 Stebbins, Christine, 116, 170, 257 Steinberg, Larry, 236 Sternlicht, Nat, 190 Sutherland, Annie, 39, 169–170, 179– 180, 257 Synagogue, 132–133, 193, 254–255 Syracuse University, 226 Taube, Jack, 282 Tobias, Jerry, 35, 39, 40, 68, 76, 88–89, 223–226, 234–235 Tobias, Joey, 96, 234, 236 Topousis, Tom, 269 USC, 185 Van Anden, Luther, 10–11, 277–278 Ventura, Jesse, 9, 282 Vladimer, Charles, 32, 35, 55, 241, 242– 244 Vogel, Charles, 200 Vom Lehn, Walter, 181, 186–187 Wallenstein, Seymour “Iggy,” 137, 162 Weinberg, Willie, 187–188 White Plains Ladies Auxiliary, 157 Williams, Eddie, 50, 199, 260–262 Wolpert, Bob, 236 Wolpert, Harold, 41 Youdelman, Leo, 39–40, 49–50, 73, 129– 130, 236–237, 249, 258 Zedicoff, Lew, 33, 37, 40, 68, 96, 107, 260–261 Zeisler, Jimmy, 118 Zundel, Major Gregory, 31, 35, 37, 50, 56, 58–60, 83, 96, 170, 250–251, 256 Zoroya, George, 270

About the Editors and Contributors

SAM GEORGE ARCUS is a semi-retired social worker who spent most of his career in summer camps, Jewish community centers, and is currently with the Pima Council on Aging in Arizona, monitoring nursing homes. He authored a book for ombudsman volunteers as well as Deja Views of an Aging Orphan and contributed to An Orphan Has Many Parents. He earned his B.S.S. from City College of New York while working as a supervisor and arts and crafts instructor at the Pride of Judea Children’s Home in Brooklyn, where he met his wife, Adele. He earned his M.S.W. from Columbia University and then worked in Jewish community centers in Houston, Dallas, Jacksonville, Chicago, Boston, and finally Tucson, retiring as executive director. CHARLES “CHICK” BAKER was director of basketball at the New York World’s Fair in 1939–40. He earned his B.A. in sociology at Yeshiva University and M.Ed. at New York University. He has worked as a children’s and youth counselor and athletic director at more than a half-dozen institutions, ending his career as assistant director of the Protestant Home for Children in Buffalo (1964–76). He was the only Jew in the long history of that institution to hold an administrative position. PHILIP COLTOFF is the executive director of the Children’s Aid Society of New York City. IRA A. GREENBERG was a reporter and psychologist on beginning this book. His World War II army years included serving with the 11th Engineer Combat Battalion, where with 35 other soldiers, he completed Navy Scouts and Raiders

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About the Editors and Contributors

school—thereby being among the few who can claim grandfather status to today’s elite SEALs. He served with the 11th in southern France and Germany, earned a B.A. in journalism from Oklahoma University, and was a reporter for several newspapers including the Columbus (GA) Enquirer, Louisville Courier-Journal, and Los Angeles Times. He left the Times in 1962 with an M.A. in English from the University of Southern California. Then with an M.S. in counseling from Los Angeles State University and a Ph.D. from Claremont Graduate School, he was a staff and supervising psychologist at Camarillo State Hospital. He now practices hypnotherapy and business coaching in Los Angeles. ERNEST LEVINSON is a retired university professor living abroad. RICHARD B. MCKENZIE is the Walter B. Gerken Professor of Enterprise in the Graduate School of Management at the University of California, Irvine where he teaches MBA students in various subjects. He grew up at the Barium Springs Home for Children in North Carolina. He is author of The Home: A Memoir of Growing Up in an Orphanage, and editor of Rethinking Orphanages for the 21st Century. He earned his B.S. at Pfeiffer College in 1963, his M.A. from the University of Maryland in 1967, and Ph.D. from Virginia Tech in 1972. An adjunct scholar at the Cato Institute in Washington, D.C., he has written more than 20 books and monographs. E.M. “MICK” NATHANSON is the author of six novels and one non-fiction work. He was an anthropology major at New York University and spent 15 years as a newspaper copyeditor and reporter in New York City and Virginia, with an interruption for Army service at the end of World War II, and a magazine editor and writer before turning to books and screenplays. He is the author of several books, including The Dirty Dozen (1965), The Latecomers (1970), It Gave Everybody Something to Do, with Louise Thoresen (1974), A Dirty Distant War (1987), Knight’s Cross, with Col. Aaron Bank (1993), Lovers and Schemers (2000), and The Rise of Elders, with Harvey Wheeler (forthcoming). He has written several screenplays for some of his novels. He resides in Laguna Beach, California. JERRY “YIPPY” PINCUS was an Air Corps staff sergeant assigned to General Omar N. Bradley’s headquarters in Europe during World War II, and has been a New York City garment industry contractor for the past 25 years. He also served as a production manager for several large companies. A saxophonist, he is especially proud of having played in what was known shortly after the war as General Bradley’s dance band, which was scheduled to replace the Glenn Miller Band at Eisenhower’s headquarters. He retired in 1989 and lives in Florida. SAMUEL PRINCE was an Army Air Corps mechanic and teacher in World War II, instructing pilots, co-pilots, and flight engineers in the operation and

About the Editors and Contributors

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maintenance of B-17 and B-29 propellers and landing gear. He later earned a B.S. in education and English at New York University, and then taught ninth and tenth grade English for a couple of years before being hired away by industry. He spent his working career as a water-pollution investigator in Baltimore. He died in 1999. RICHARD G. SAFRAN received his B.A. in English from Brooklyn College in 1958 and an M.A. in English from Hunter College in 1964. He also received an Advanced Certificate in Educational Administration and Supervision, which qualified him to become assistant principal and later principal at George Westinghouse Vocational and Technical High School in New York City, retiring in 1989. He has taught English and other subjects at City-as-School, John Dewey High School, Westinghouse High School, and Sands Junior High School, as well as lecturing at Brooklyn College and Pace University. He was a sergeant in the Army’s Counter Intelligence Corps (1958–61), serving about 15 months at the U.S. Army Headquarters in Heidelberg, Germany. NICHOLAS SCOPPETTA is commissioner of New York City’s Administration for Children’s Services. He also served as chairman of New York City’s Children’s Aid Society. CHARLES VLADIMER served in the army during World War II guarding German prisoners of war. Following his discharge, he earned his B.S.S. from City College of New York and went on to receive an M.S.W. from Columbia University. Before and after his army service, he worked as a supervisor at the Pride of Judea Children’s Home in Brooklyn. Later, he became a children’s counselor and family therapist in a number of cities, concluding his career in programs sponsored by the California welfare system. BILL WEINSTEIN served an army tour in the Counter Intelligence Corps during the Korean War. He earned his bachelor’s degree at Brooklyn College before beginning his career as an insurance executive and later an insurance underwriter. Ever the outdoorsman, his wide travels include annual bicycling trips throughout France, the Netherlands, and Italy.