During the Civil War Joshua F. Hill lived in the modest
house at No. 105 Christopher Street. Hill was a cartman (what would be a truck
driver today). In the rear yard was a
two-story brick house. “Back buildings”
were nearly ubiquitous at the time. Some, like Hill’s
were houses, rented out for extra income; others were stables or business buildings, like carpenter
shops.
By the mid-1870s the property was owned by Ernst Schroeder. A widow, he was described by The New York
Times a few years later as “an old resident of the Ninth Ward, and is well off,
owning a number of houses in the ward.” Ernst
Schroeder started his career as a shoe maker, but had saved frugally and
invested in real estate.
Schroeder lived with his son in the main house, while the
rear building was leased to Robert Gillespie and his family. On September 11, 1877 Schroeder’s son,
William, witnessed a terrifying scene in the back lot.
Gillespie was a carpenter with a wife and two
children. When he came home one afternoon in September that year, he found his wife drunk. His response was far too common at the time—he
beat her. Mrs. Gillespie’s response was
less expected. She took the little boy
and girl and left her abusive husband.
Thrown into despair, Gillespie sold the household furniture
for money which he spent on liquor.
After being drunk for a week, and again finding himself without cash,
The Sun reported on September 12, “On Monday he broke up his cook stove and
sold it to a junk dealer, and kept on drinking.”
The newspaper wrote “William Schroeder, a little boy, while
passing through the [backyard] at 105 Christopher street, saw, in an open
second-story window in the rear house, a bloody hand waving up and down.”
The newspaper was rather dramatic in calling William “a
little boy.” He was a young adult at the
time. At any rate, he rushed to notify authorities who entered the house. Gillespie was found on the
floor. “His shirt was soaked with the
blood that had flowed from a long cut in the neck. No one else was in the room. It was a wretched place.”
The Sun explained “When found yesterday he seemed to have
tried to shave himself, and then in a sudden freak of delirium to have drawn
the razor across his throat.” Gillespie was removed to the City Hospital,
assumedly not to return to the Schroeder property.
By now the Christopher Street block between Bleecker and
Hudson Streets was seeing the demolition of its wooden or brick-fronted two
story houses and the erection of tenement buildings. In 1879 Schroeder joined the trend. On July 12 the Real Estate Record reported that
his architect, Jobst Hoffman, had filed plans for a four-story brick store and
tenement. The $8,000 structure was
completed within a year. Hoffman’s
design predated the overblown tenement ornamentation to come by the 1890s. The sparse embellishment of the upper floors
was reserved to sawtooth brickwork and incised Eastlake style decoration in the
brownstone trim. The cast iron base and
cast metal cornice were typical of the multi-family buildings sprouting throughout
Greenwich Village at the time.
The building filled with blue-collar residents and the
ground floor space became the saloon of a man named Ryan, who also lived upstairs with his
family.
With his home replaced by the new structure, Ernst Schroeder
brought Jobst Hoffman back to renovate the rear house. On January 9, 1880 the architect filed plans
to “enlarge the space between front and rear houses,” and to replace the façade. The renovations to his new home cost
Schroeder $300; a reasonable $7,000 in today’s terms.
In the meantime, there was substantial drama going on within
the Schroeder family. Ernst’s only other
child was a daughter. She had married,
but was now a widow. William, who had no
means of support other than his father, was in constant battle with his sister. The New York Times explained on January 31, 1880 “The son
and daughter were not on friendly terms, Schroeder charging his sister with
waywardness and improper conduct.”
William’s accusations apparently had some merit, for his
father told a reporter that he “had amassed a competence and said he had money enough
to make both his son and daughter rich, but his daughter, by her conduct, had
broken the family up.”
It all boiled over on January 29, just days after the
renovations on the back house began. The
Times reported “The brother and sister had a sharp quarrel on Thursday and
Schroeder, wearied of the controversy, determined to put an end to his
existence.”
Around 6:00 the following morning, Ryan, the saloon keeper,
notified Police Officer Webb that William Schroeder had killed himself. When the officer entered the house, he found
William unconscious lying “on a sheet carefully spread on the floor.” Next to him was an empty laudanum vial (a
popular method of suicide in the 19th century), and a knife, “which
he doubtless intended to use if the narcotic had not had the desired effect,”
opined The Times.
The scandalous news spread as far away as Pennsylvania,
where a few days later the Bradford Reporter wrote “William J. Schroeder, a
young man living at 105 Christopher Street, New York, attempted suicide Friday
by taking poison, in consequence of the misconduct of a sister.”
Schroeder was taken to St. Vincent’s Hospital where
his survival was questionable. Ernst was
dejected; partly because he did not want his daughter to inherit
everything. “The old man seemed
heart-broken at the prospect of his son’s death, and lamented the fact that in
that event all his property would go to his wayward daughter,” commented The Times.
Ernst Schroeder continued living in the rear house. In December 1883 he leased the main building
to Hugh Coman for four and a half years at $480 a year.
The Christopher Street block was the scene of commotion on
the spring morning of April 12, 1885. Despite
the early hour, a crowd of drunks spilled out of Ryan’s saloon. The Sun reported that “Early on Sunday morning
some excited citizens ran into the Charles street station and announced that
there was a riot in front of the saloon at 105 Christopher Street.” Captain Copeland responded by sending half a
dozen policemen to the scene.
Fifteen men were arrested, “found acting in a disorderly
manner,” and Ryan was arrested for selling alcohol on Sunday. Ryan contacted lawyer and former assemblyman
James B. McClelland who appeared in the Jefferson Market Court later that day.
“The saloon keeper was at once discharged on McClelland’s
eloquent plea that he was prevented from closing his saloon by the fifteen
other prisoners who refused to leave the saloon,” wrote The Sun. The lawyer then came to the defense of
drunks; telling the judge their only offense was a little too much to drink.
“I appear for these men because I know them all to be honest
men, on a ‘bit of a bat.’ I know there
are no thieves among them.”
All 16 men were released, each one approaching James B.
McClelland and heartily thanking him for his aid. After they left, court Stenographer Seltman
asked the lawyer for the time. McClelland was
proud of his “handsome hunting case watch” and bragged “The watch keeps fair
time.”
But then, according to The Sun, as he dug into his vest
pocket, a troubled look came over his face.
“His watch and chain had been stolen by one of his honest and
hard-working clients.”
Red-faced, he sheepishly admitted to a reporter “A neat
job. The next time I defend a gang of
that sort and assure the Judge of their honestly, I’ll leave my watch at home,
you bet.”
Many of the residents in the upper floors of No. 105
Christopher Street were Irish immigrants with names like McIntire and
McElroy. The McElroy family lived in the
building for years and son Frank worked to improve his lot by enrolling
mechanical classes in New York City College in 1890.
But not all of the tenants were so upstanding. In 1892 46-year old “Mart” Allen lived
here. His only occupation was
crime. When he was arrested in October that
year, Inspector McLaughlin detailed his criminal resume:
“He is one of the four famous Allen brothers, whose names
can be found oftener in the criminal records of this city than the names of any
other four men. The brothers were ‘The,’
‘Wes,’ ‘Jes,’ and ‘Mart.’ ‘Wes’ and ‘Jes’ are dead. ‘Wes’ was shot, and ‘Jes’ died in
prison. ‘The’ is the famous dive keeper
and Republican politician in the Eighth District. ‘Mart’ is a man who has served at least six
years in prisons. He too was one of the ‘Captains’
of this gang of repeaters.”
By 1894 the saloon had the impressive name of Senger’s Hall. It was used by the Independent County Organization of the Ninth Assembly District for its first campaign meeting that
election year. The men resolved to fight the
Tammany organization with vigor.
Despite the bar’s upstanding-sounding name, its proprietor,
Albert Buske, followed in Ryan’s footsteps in selling liquor on Sundays. And like Ryan, he was adept at getting out of
legal trouble.
Policeman John H. Smith was better known among his fellow
officers at the Charles Street Station as “Whiskers” and he had a reputation
for busting saloon operators on Sundays.
On February 3, 1896, the plain-clothed officer asked two men where he
could get a drink. They took him to the
Christopher Street saloon where he bought a whiskey, and then promptly arrested
Albert Buske.
The following day in court Buske admitted his guilt. But he wished to give the judge insight as to
how his arrest came about.
He produced the two men who had accompanied Smith to the
bar. They testified that Smith, “completely
disguised, with the exception of his whiskers, approached them on the street,
groaning, apparently with pain, and asked them to save his life by getting him
a drink.”
The Times reported “They believed his story, and took him
into Buske’s saloon. Here he filled the
glass twice to the brim with whisky, and, after drinking it, displayed his
shield and made the arrest.”
The judge found John Smith’s tactics to be what today would
be called entrapment. “In this case,” he
ruled, “the defendant pleads guilty, but considering the circumstances under
which the arrest was made, the Court suspends sentence.”
Six days earlier the Christopher Street building had been the
scene of a much more bizarre crime. Mrs.
George Beane returned from shopping on the afternoon of January 27. When she walked in the door she was startled
to find two strange men in her apartment, trying on her husband’s clothing.
The Sun reported “She screamed. One of the men grabbed her by the throat and
threw her to the floor. Both of them
then ran out.” The clothes-conscious
robbers were pursued by the screaming Mrs. Beane. Policeman Gayne was in the area and took up
the chase. Edward Gordon was captured
and locked up. The other would-be robber
escaped.
By the early years of the 20th century the saloon
was gone. In its place in 1911 was the
store of the Lucca Olive Importing Company.
As the century progressed, the apartments continued to be
occupied by working class tenants; not all of whom stayed on the right side of
the law. During the Depression years
Joseph Cossu lived here. He was arrested
on June 20, 1934 when he rather foolishly walked into the Charles Street
Station to report his car stolen.
The problem was that thirty minutes earlier the 26-year old
Cossu and two other men had held up the Cathedral Restaurant at No. 398 Hudson
Street. The robbers held guns on the
counterman, Benjamin Levy and his employer, Angelo Amorato, and made off with
$500 in cash. When they ran to their
get-away car, it was gone.
Joseph Cossu headed off to the police station, where he told
detectives he had stopped at a red light at Charlton and Hudson Streets. Suddenly, he said, a gunman appeared who forced him out
of the car and took off.
What he did not know was that Levy and Amorato had beaten
him to the police station. They
were in a back room giving descriptions of the robbers when Amorato glanced out
into the main area. In plain sight was
Cossu, one of the very gunmen who had held up his restaurant.
In the second half of the 20th century
Christopher Street was the center of the gay community; not only in New York
City, but, symbolically, nation-wide. The
ground floor space in No. 105 was home to the Four G’s Restaurant, owned by
Mrs. Lenore Gardella, in the 1960s. The
eatery was raided in February 1965 and Lenore lost her liquor license. Her offenses were nothing like those of Ryan
or Buske. She was accused of “allegedly
permitting homosexual solicitation on the premises.”
She was allowed to keep her restaurant open—without liquor—but
a uniformed policeman was stationed at a table just inside the door to ensure
no improper activities went on. And she
was forced to display a "Raided Premises" sign in the window.
Neighbors flocked to support Lenore and by March 1966 600 persons
had signed a petition to restore her liquor license. On March 18 the policeman was not there
when the restaurant opened. “I’m
celebrating the fact that he’s gone,” Lenore told The New York Times. “After 10 months, it’s almost unbelievable.”
In 1970 the rear building where Ernst Schroeder and his son
had lived became a one-family home again; and the main building was renovated;
resulting in three apartments per floor.
After nearly 140 years the upper floors of the common tenement building with the uncommon past survive greatly unchanged; a reminder of an often difficult period
of Greenwich Village history.
photographs by the author
many thanks to Robert Susser for requesting this post
No comments:
Post a Comment