The Lost Prisco State Bank - 73 Mulberry Street

 

photograph by Wurts Bros. from the collection of the Museum of the City of New York

Born in Italy in 1876, Raffaele Prisco arrived in New York City in 1901, "a penniless immigrant," as recalled by The New York Times decades later.  He and his wife had three sons, Henry, George W., and Joseph.

Prisco found success in his new homeland and on July 13, 1914 he founded the Prisco Bank, a private institution.  His work within the Italian immigrant community had led the Government of Italy to make him a Chevalier of the Crown of Italy and he proudly signed the state's paperwork, "C. R. Prisco," or Chevalier Raffaele Prisco.  George W. and Joseph W. Prisco became vice-presidents of the Prisco Bank, while Henry pursued a law career.

Prisco gained additional popularity within the community by conspicuous acts.  That was the case on November 4, 1926 when he "created a small riot in Mulberry Street by throwing handfuls of new dimes to hundreds of children who had gathered in the street outside his bank," reported The New York Times.  The article said it was Prisco's way of celebrating Alfred E. Smith's re-election as Governor.

In the meantime, in their private lives Prisco and his sons exhibited much less attractive attributes.  Raffaele was closely allied to Tammany Hall and became a close ally of Benito Mussolini.  It was George, however, who first showed a dark side.  In 1918 he was tried twice for assaulting a 16-year-old girl and acquitted both times.  Her mother, Elizabeth Schroeder, won a $5,132.10 decision in a civil suit two years later.  (It was a major win for the girl, equal to more than $82,000 today.)

George married his wife, Grace, on June 2, 1920.  The bride quickly discovered that she was in an abusive relationship.  Charging "cruel and inhuman treatment," she filed for separation  seven months later, on January 25, 1921.  She told the judge in part:

I was compelled to wear two old skirts previously worn by my mother-in-law.  I had to wear my husband's socks.  I had no coat, so I wore one given to me by my mother-in-law.  It was thirteen years old.

My husband left me alone at night to take other girls on motor trips.  He refused to take me with him to Cuba when he went on November 20, 1920.  He ordered me not to laugh.  He refused to speak English in my presence.  

George, additionally, told Grace that he had a girlfriend and once woke her up simply to tell her that he was in love with that woman.

Joseph Prisco was in the news three months later.  He and his chauffeur, James Whitcroft, offered a ride to two school teachers, Marjorie Foster and Leonore Nornelle.  The women testified that Whitcroft drove them "to a lonely neighborhood in Flatlands" and the two men made physical advances.  "The young women jumped out of the auto," reported The Evening World on April 27, 1921.  Prisco and Whitcroft were arrested.  "Prisco put up bail for himself and the chauffeur," said the article.

In 1923, Raffaele Prisco commissioned the architectural firm of Koch & Wagner to design an impressive bank building at 73 Mulberry Street.  Costing $40,000 to erect (about $753,000 in 2026 terms), the marble-faced, neo-Classical-style edifice  was completed in 1924.  It featured a bronze entranceway within a column-flanked arch that echoed Classical Roman triumphal arches.  (The building was strikingly similar to C. P. H. Gilbert's Italian Savings Bank on East 116th Street, erected the previous year.)

Koch & Wagner's design was remarkably similar to C.P.H. Gilbert's Italian Savings Bank (above), erected a year earlier.  photograph by Wurts Bros. from the collection of the Museum of the City of New York

On February 20, 1924, The New York Times reported on the bank's formal opening.  "Raffaele Prisco escorted [Police] Commissioner Richard E. Enright and the other newly elected directors through the premises," said the article.

Suspiciously, the day after the Prisco Bank building opened, "a rumor whispered over the telephone," as reported by The New York Times, caused a run on the Italian Savings Bank on East 116th Street.  "Throughout the afternoon the bank officials were kept busy explaining that the bank was solvent and that there was no reason for the report of failure," said the article.  The panicked depositors withdrew their savings and rushed downtown to 73 Mulberry Street.

The New York Times reported on February 22, "police of the Oak Street Station were called to restrain would-be depositors who wanted to put their money in the Prisco Bank...About 2,000 depositors were added to the bank's clients yesterday.  Many were peddlers.  The deposits ranged from $50 to $1,000."  

The article noted, "The bank is soon to be organized as a State bank."  That took place in August 1924 and bronze letters announcing "Prisco State Bank" were installed under the "Prisco Bank" name carved into the marble parapet.

On June 14, 1925, Raffaele Prisco sailed to Italy, "to establish a branch bank  in Naples," said The New York Times.  His wife and son George accompanied him on the voyage.  Standing on the pier to send them off was a group of officials that included Richard Enright, Congressman Fiorello La Guardia, and at least two judges, Rueben Haskell and John P. Cohalan.

The article mentioned, "Mr. Prisco expects to meet Premier Mussolini, whom he has known for many years," adding, "He plans to erect a monument at Giuseppe, his native village, near Naples, to the soldiers who died in the war."

Workers clean Mulberry Street in front of the bank in 1927.  from the collection of the New York Public Library

George Prisco's disturbing treatment of his first wife paled in comparison to the abuse his second wife, Marie, suffered.  George married the 20-year-old in October 1925.  Three months later, at 2:00 on the morning of November 10, Prisco telephoned the night clerk of the Hotel St. George in Brooklyn, "asking him to send a physician to Room 593, where his wife had been injured in an accident."  The house physician rushed up to find Marie bleeding from a gunshot in the abdomen.

A terrified Marie told police that George had been in the bathroom and his pistol was on the dresser.  She said, "in moving it to one side it had slipped to the floor and gone off."  It was not long before officials debunked the couple's story.  Three weeks later, District Attorney Charles J. Dodd asserted that medical examinations proved that the injury "could not have been self-inflicted and that Mrs. Prisco's dress was scorched, indicating that the pistol must have been fired at close range."

George Prisco had disappeared and the family "professed ignorance" as to his whereabouts, reported The New York Times on November 17.  Marie Prisco told reporters, "I'm so sorry I made the mistake of marrying him.  He's not worth talking about."

On August 28, 1931, Superintendent of Banks Joseph A. Broderick closed the Prisco State Bank upon the discovery of "embezzlements totaling about $130,000," reported The New York Times.  The defalcation would turn out to be slightly more.

Joseph W. Prisco fled Manhattan.  He was arrested in Ocean Grove, New Jersey on August 7.  The New York Times reported that he faced "three indictments [that] accuse him of taking $133,000."  Raffaele Prisco had already been arrested for the embezzlement and "in connection with the disappearance of $17,000 in Italian Government bonds placed in the bank for safe-keeping."  Little by little, additional fraudulent dealings and missing funds were discovered by investigators.

Push cart vendors lined the curb in front of the bank.  from the collection of the New York Public Library

On August 3, 1931, a reader of the Daily Worker vented his wrath in a letter to the editor.  It started saying, "Just a few lines to expose the capitalist crooks."  He noted, "The majority of the poorest Italian people had money in this bank" and went on to say, in part:

Three months ago a friend of mine sent $29 to his sick father in Tauroso, Italy, through this bank, but no money has been received as yet.  A month after the depositing of this money in the Prisco Bank, my friend went to the bank to protest against the money not being forwarded.  The officials of the bank told my friend that a mistake had been made, but that the money would be sent at once by telegram.  Three months have passed now and no money has been received by the sick father.  How many people have lost their money in the same way would be hard to say, but we can safely say that there have been many.

On February 17, 1932, Raffaele Prisco was sentenced to no less than three years in the penitentiary and Joseph W. Prisco to up to five years.  Henry Prisco was in the courtroom during the sentencing.  He stood up, pointed toward a group of lawyers standing near the judge and blurted, "I'll get you fellows!"  As Henry was being hustled out of the courtroom, he turned to his brother's and father's attorney, Caesar B. F. Barra, and shouted, "I'll get you, too, Barra!"

The marble bank building sat vacant for another eight years.  It was demolished in 1940--just 16 years after opening--to be replaced by a two-story brick store-and-apartment building.

photograph via traveladvisor.com

The 1890 The Lincoln - 84 Madison Street

 

Alexandre I. Finkle was born in New Orleans, the son of Polish immigrants.  He studied painting and architecture in Paris at the National and Imperial Academy of Fine Arts.  His background in architecture and art was reflected in the many Lower East Side tenement buildings he designed.  His dramatic style incorporated effusive decorations. 

Real estate developer Albert Stake, who lived on Staten Island, was also busy in the tenement district.  On November 20, 1889, he purchased the two 25-foot-wide buildings at 84 and 86 Madison Street from Samuel Weil.  The Real Estate Record & Guide remarked, "new tenements projected."

Stake commissioned Finkle to design the replacement buildings.  The plans described two "five-story and basement brick and stone flats," each to cost $19,000 (about $650,000 in 2025).  Finkle's design for 84 Madison Street, called the Lincoln, was a splashy blend of Queen Anne and Renaissance Revival styles.

The centered stoop separated two stores at the basement level.  The entrance sat within a portico upheld by polished granite columns.  Finke decorated the top half of the first floor with a checkerboard of Queen Anne tiles above a foliate terra cotta band.  The upper four floors, overall Renaissance Revival in style, were clad in red brick and trimmed in limestone and pressed metal.  

Embossed metal panels filled the tympana of the arched openings of the second floor.  They were separated by paired Corinthian pilasters supported by rather clumsily carved winged heads.  Terra cotta tiles reappeared at this level.

Three-story piers at the third through fifth floors sat upon intricately carved bases and terminated in Corinthian capitals.  Foliate, pressed metal spandrel panels eliminated the cost of carved stone.  Finke's vigorous cornice incorporated a swan's neck pediment and a banner announcing the building's name under a crest of stars and stripes.

The building was completed in 1890 and Albert Stake was obviously pleased with the results.  He immediately hired Finke to reproduce the design at the Garfield at 104 Forsyth Street, merely replacing the name of one assassinated President with another.

Among the initial residents was Dr. A. T. Joyce, who described the neighborhood in dark terms in The World on August 21, 1890.  In urging for a playground, he said in part,

In treating children in this locality, the first thing that I am compelled to do is send them away from the fearful atmosphere.  Those who are unable to go often die in consequence.

Children in the crowded neighborhood were threatened not only by the unhealthful conditions that concerned Dr. Joyce, but by violence and crime.  On May 13, 1895, The Press reported on four 17-year-old boys that were caught in the act of burglarizing 202 South Street.  As two teens were ransacking inside, William Coleman, who lived here, and another boy stood as lookouts.  They called out when police neared.  All four perpetrators were arrested.

Coleman would be arrested again just eight months later.  On January 24, 1896, The World titled an article, "Police At Fever Heat" and reported about a crackdown on gang activities.  Among the targets was the Pelican Club, "a political and social organization of great importance," said the article.  The club was, more accurately, a criminal gang.  A search of the clubrooms found stolen items.  Among those arrested, in addition to Coleman, was James Murphy, who also lived in the Lincoln.  

Tenement residents lived dismal existences and many found respite in the Lower East Side opium dens.  One nearly took the life of 32-year-old Mary Bergen on November 26, 1896.  The Sun said she was removed from 25 Hamilton Street shortly before midnight, "suffering from poisoning caused by smoking opium."

John Nolan, a laborer, lived in the Lincoln at the time.  On the night of July 18, 1897, Officer Keefe witnessed him kick a stray cat at Catherine and South Streets.  He appeared before a judge on August 19 and declared, "the animal was mad and had attacked him, and that he kicked it in self-defense," according to The Sun.  Keefe, on the other hand, said Nolan "was drunk and had kicked the cat in a spirit of wantonness."  The judge found the officer's story more believable.  Nolan was fined, but The New York Herald reported that he "could not pay a $25 fine and will spend ten days in the Tombs."

Like William Coleman, Morris Pope was involved in criminal activities at an early age.  On the night of August 20, 1897, the 16-year-old entered the vacant house at 521 Pearl Street.  It had been condemned by the city to make way for the widening of Elm Street (which subsequently became Lafayette Street).  Pope stole "all the lead pipe on three floors," reported The Sun.  The water had not been turned off in the building, and "the house was flooded."  As Pope lugged the heavy piping out of the building, he was arrested.

Louis Glassen and his parents appeared in the Essex Market Court on February 26, 1898 to answer for the 12-year-old's charge of disorderly conduct.  The previous afternoon, Policeman Lues was on the block when a group of boys got into a fight, throwing stones at one another.  Glassen approached the cop and said, "Officer, go over there and stop those boys."

Lues told him, "I'm watching them."

The feisty and, perhaps, impertinent boy replied, "Say, you big stuff, is that what you are paid for?"  When he called Lues a name, the policeman arrested him.

It may have been Louis Glassen's tears in the courtroom that softened Magistrate Meade's heart.  The Sun reported that the judge declared, "Little boy, you must not bother the police force.  You are too young yet, beside you might get hurt.  I will discharge you this time."

Not all residents, of course, appeared in newsprint because of  their crimes.  Frank Thomas was hard working and respectable.  The 32-year-old worked for the Brooklyn Warehouse and Transfer Company.  On November 29, 1898, he and five co-workers were struggling to replace a derailed freight car onto the tracks.  Tragically, the jack they were using suddenly slipped, crashing the car onto Thomas and fatally crushing him.

As late as the 1940s, the portico and original stoop ironwork survived.  via the NYC Dept. of Records & Information Services.

Kate Mellen went to Coney Island on the hot afternoon of July 24, 1910.  The 28-year-old was frolicking in the ocean when about 5:30 she was "carried out by the undertow," according to The New York Times.  David Stark heard her cries.  The firefighter was on his day off and had gone to Coney Island with friends "for a dip in the surf."  

Stark looked around for a lifeguard, but there was none in sight.  He plunged into the water and towards the arm he had seen flailing above the surface.  About 100 yards from the shore, he dived, but did not find her.  He gasped a breath and went down again.  This time he felt Mellen's unconscious body and pulled her to the surface by her hair.  The firefighter struggled with "a dead weight" towards the shore.  The article said, "Battling against the tide, the fireman finally reached the beach with his burden, where he collapsed from exhaustion."

Harry Smith, who lived here in the early 1920s, worked as a truck driver for the trucking firm of Jacob Lipschitz.  On June 7, 1922, the 21-year-old picked up a shipment of army trousers at a Hudson River pier consigned to the Triad Corporation on Lafayette Street.  The New York Herald reported, "After the goods had been loaded on the truck both Smith and the truck disappeared."  The trousers were valued at $10,000, or about $182,000 today.  The empty truck was later found abandoned in Jersey City.  On June 30, detectives from the West 13th Street station recognized Smith on the street and arrested him.

A bizarre and horrifying accident befell resident Jean Manghise on July 14, 1946.  The 28-year-old was riding in the car of Joseph Casaro on Hylan Boulevard in Staten Island that night.  Her two-year-old son, Andrew, was in the rear seat.  The Staten Island Advance reported that around 8:00, "in some undetermined manner, the rear door suddenly opened."  In a instance, Jean's maternal reflex vaulted her over the seat to save her son.  She and Andrew flew out of the moving automobile.  The toddler landed on his mother's body, saving him from injury.  Jean, however, was taken to St. Vincent's Hospital with "what might be a fractured skull," said the article.

The basement and first floor of the 135-year-old building have been abused.  The portico was removed and the 1890 ironwork replaced.  A covering of gray paint obscures the brownstone and the polychromed tiles, and a jail-worthy security gate replaces the door.  Above, however, Alexandre I. Finkle's showstopping design remains intact.

photographs by the author

The Abused 1894 Bilger Stable - 49 Market Street

Market Street was lined with handsome, brick-faced homes by the late 1820s.  The family of Irish-born Thomas Dunphy occupied 49 Market Street in 1865.  Living in the house with Dunphy and his wife, Julia, were their daughter, Annie, and her husband, Charles Henry Hawkins.

A tragic and bizarre incident happened on December 13, 1865.  The New York Times reported that the 50-year-old Dunphy, "attempted to turn a summersault in his hallway, but fell heavily to the ground instead, fracturing his spinal column, and causing death to ensue."

Charles Hawkins was a butcher at 55 Market Street.  He and Annie continued to reside with Julia.  The couple would have five children, William, Sarah, Anna, Thomas and Richard.  

Following Julia Dunphy's death, the title to the house passed to Annie.  At the time of Annie's death in 1893, the neighborhood of her childhood had severely changed.  Private homes were being razed and replaced with tenement buildings.  In 1894, Charles H. Hawkins hired architect M. Muller to design a three-story stable building on the site of the former Dunphy house.  The structure would cost $10,000 to erect (about $365,000 in 2025).

image via the NYC Dept of Records & Information Services

Above the expected configuration of the ground floor--a centered carriage bay flanked by a door and a window--Muller flexed his architectural skills.  Incised vertical lines in the brickwork below two bandcourses created the impression of double-height, fluted pilasters.  The cornice was a tour-de-force of the bricklayer's art.  Mimicking an ornate cast metal example, the brackets, dentils, paneled parapet and triangular pediment were all executed in brick.  Identifying the building as a livery stable was a carved horse's head.

Hawkins leased the property to James Bilger.  The lessee, most likely, had little or nothing to do with the business.  He was an established attorney and almost assuredly rented the stable to a proprietor.  In 1902, Thomas Hawkins sold the building to Lowenfeld & Prager.  (Interestingly, James Bilger acted as Hawkins's attorney for the transaction.)

Although in 1920 motorized vehicles had greatly replaced horses in New York City, when Lowenfeld & Prager sold 49 Market Street to Nicosia Bros. Company in August that year, it was described as a "modern stable."  Nicosia Bros. Company dealt in dairy products.  The building housed its delivery vehicles, horses, and its office.

Substantial change came in 1949.  With Prohibition in the rear view mirror, 49 Market Street was converted to a "restaurant, bar and grille" on the ground floor and an American Legion "clubroom" on the second.  In a slipshod attempt at a Mid-Century modernization, a red brick veneer obliterated M. Mullen's 1894 design.  Glass blocks filled the upper portions of the ground-floor openings, a brick diamond-patterned band separated the first and second floors, and the masterful cornice was removed.  The architect was apparently unwilling to destroy the sculpted horse's head, which now poked through the brick veneer.

image via the NYC Dept of Records & Information Services

In the 1980s and '90s, the former bar space was home to a surprising tenant, Manhattan Custom Tackle.  Here anglers could purchase equipment for fly fishing.

In the early years of the 21st century, the 2,400-square-foot former American Legion space become home to the studio of multimedia artist Spencer Sweeney.  In the summer of 2017, Sweeney moved his studio to West 18th Street with a year left on his lease.  On November 12, 2018, The New York Times journalist Ben Detrick, reported that to make use of the now vacant space, Sweeney and artists Brendan Dugan and Urs Fischer "began inviting friends to the studio to make illustrations of human heads."  Detrick said the "Sunday night salon called Headz resurrected the spirit of Andy Warhol's Factory, the art club area and creative gatherings of yore in a gentrifying downtown where such avant-garde pockets are on the precipice of extinction."

Headz spread by word of mouth.  Nine months after the first gathering, it was "populated by contemporary artists including Kembra Pfahler, Joe Bradley and Alex Bag, improvisational jazz legends, night-life lurkers, skateboarders and Lower East Side teenagers."  At the end of the lease, the art parties ended on July 22, 2018, closing a colorful chapter in the many lives of 49 Market Street.

Today Happy Medium, an "arts club for casual artists," occupies the building.  And after more than 130 years, the stone horse above it all continues to survey the street.

photographs by the author

The Methodist Mission Building - 209 Madison Street

 

photograph via apartments.com

When Joseph C. Skaden's three-story brick house at 209 Madison Street was offered for sale shortly after his death in 1853, it was described as having "all the latest improvements, cold and hot water baths, gas, &c."  The advertisement noted, "The location [is] one of the most desirable in the seventh Ward."  And an inventory of the furnishings testified to the high-end status of the neighborhood.  It included a "rosewood parlor suite in crimson plush, with covers; mahogany marble-top chamber furniture" as well as "fine oil-paintings [and] marble mantel ornaments."

By the mid-1870s, 209 Madison Street was home to the family of Reverend M. F. Compton.  His son, George N. Compton, would become a Methodist minister as well.  

On June 25, 1885, a trio of purchasers acquired the house for $15,000--or about $435,000 in 2023 money.  In the three decades since Joseph Skaden's death, the neighborhood had greatly changed.  Most of the once-refined homes had been converted to rooming houses, or demolished to make way for tenements for the waves of immigrants flooding the Lower East Side.  

The group had purchased 209 Madison Street for the New York City Church Extension and Missionary Society of the Methodist Episcopal Church.  Rev. George N. Compton, who had previously lived in the house, was no doubt highly involved in the transaction--he was the pastor of the Madison Street Mission, founded around 1856.

The trustees hired the architectural firm of D. & J. Jardine to make massive renovations.  Their plans, filed in June 1886, called for the "front [wall] taken down and rebuilt and rear wall in basement and first story taken out and iron beams furnished, height of building increased 4 feet."  The plans further noted that the top floors were "to be occupied as a mission chapel."  

The new home for the Madison Street Mission (better known as the Methodist Mission), left little trace of the building's domestic beginnings.  D. & J. Jardine's design was an ecclesiastical take on Romanesque Revival.  The three arched openings of the first floor shared a continuous, terra cotta triple eyebrow.  The architects saved the Mission Society funds by placing a flat terra cotta pediment over the entrance, rather than a hood or portico.  The double-height chapel in what had been the second and third floors was illuminated by two tall stained glass panels that flanked a rose window.

Rev. George N. Compton, who also served as the superintendent of the Sunday School, had a considerable commute.  He lived far north at 223 East 124th Street.  Only the sexton, John R. Hayes, lived in the mission building.

The Methodist Mission administered to the impoverished residents of the neighborhood by supplying medical aid as well as religious services.  Physician William James Hall was in charge of the mission's dispensary and tended to the sick locals.  The Gospel in All Lands would later say (rather self-righteously), that the Methodist doctor worked "among Roman Catholics and Jews, drunkards and thieves, in the Madison Street Mission...rejoicing in the work of relieving distress, and leading the sinful to the Physician of souls."

On August 12, 1890, Dr. Hall addressed an open-air meeting of the Seventh Ward, demanding that Rutgers Slip be made into a park.  The World commented that the neighborhood housed "one of the densest tenement populations in the city."  Hall said in part, "Some years ago, the people of the neighborhood could get a breath of pure air along the river front, but the demands of commerce have driven them back, and now they have only narrow and ill-smelling streets, confined by tall tenement houses."  He predicted victory for the locals, saying "This place that is now a disease-breeding scar on the face of New York will become a health-giving ornament and a joy to all the children."

A week later, The World reported that children were flocking to the Methodist Street Mission to join the fight.  The article said the mission "has become the recruiting place during the past week of the little people of the Seventh Ward who have set their heads on having Rutgers slip as a playground."  (An open space for children was, indeed, needed.  Of the 75,000 people living in the ward, 35,000 of them were children.  Dr. J. Coughlin of the Anti-Poverty Society told a reporter from The World that on hot days, "They have nothing left them but to sit in the windows and on the doorsteps and shrivel up in the sun.")

An example of the plight of the tenement dwellers was Norbert Pfannerer, an unemployed shoemaker who was referred to the mission in January 1894 by Police Headquarters.  He had gone there in desperation, begging "for some work that he might earn bread for his loved ones," according to The Evening World on January 23.  

"We are starving," he pleaded, "but I don't want charity.  I only want to work and earn bread."

Pfannerer and his family lived on the top floor of a tenement building.  His eldest child was 6 years old and the youngest not yet a year.  When his wife gave birth to the last child, according to The World, "her husband was too poor to furnish her with the necessaries of life which her condition required, and consumption [i.e. tuberculosis] rapidly seized upon her."  For the past few days the family had eaten only "a soup made from stale bread."

In 1895 the Methodist Mission Society moved the Hope of Israel Mission into the building.  Founded in 1893, it continued the dispensary work, under Dr. A. C. Grimm, who treated from 50 to 80 patients a week that year.  

In his first report to the Missionary Society of the Methodist Episcopal Church, Rev. A. C. Gaebelein said:

Our new quarters at 209 Madison Street are admirably fitted for our mission work.  By the help of kind friends, we have been enabled to refurnish the whole house, and also to make very necessary repairs in the plumbing roof painting, etc., amounting in all to about four hundred dollars.  Here we have our offices and the headquarters of our publication department.

A reading room in the basement contained Bibles in English, German, Hebrew and Russian, along with newspapers in those languages.  

The goal of this group, however, was notably different from the Madison Street Mission.  As the 20th century neared, the Lower East Side was increasingly filling with Jewish immigrants.  The Hope of Israel Mission set out to convert them.  

Rev. Gaebelein insisted there were no strong-armed tactics involved.  He said the neighborhood Jews "understand now that we are not doing this work from any selfish motive or trying to proselyte them, but that we have a higher aim...No effort is made to induce passers-by to enter the church, though a few signs in jargon bidding everyone welcome hang in the windows."

Ironically, in June 1897 the Mission Society sold the building for $24,000 to congregation Chevra Etz Chaim Anshe Walosin.  Now a synagogue, the basement of the building where the Hope of Israel Mission attempted to convert Jews to Christianity was transformed into a mikveh (a ritual bath) in 1907.  Architect David Stone's renovations included, "toilets, tubs and vault" at a cost of more than $445,000 by today's conversion.

In 1915 the congregation hired architect Fred Horowitz to make exterior alterations.  It was possibly at this time that the a Magen David, or Star of David, was imposed upon the rose window and onion dome-like pinnacles crowned with Magen Davids were placed upon the parapet.

image via the NYC Dept of Records & Information Services.

At some point following World War I the building became home to Congregation Agudath Achim Anshei Barisoff, organized in 1891.  The synagogue continued to serve the neighborhood until the structure was converted to residential purposes in 1993.  The double-height worship space was floored over, creating two internal stories.  

The stoop and stained glass windows were removed, and the rose window bricked up.  Shop spaces were installed in the basement and former first floor.  There were now three apartments per floor in the upper portion.

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The Lost Essex Market-Eastern Dispensary Building - Essex and Broome Streets

 

Valentine's Manual of the Corporation of the City of New York, 1870 (copyright expired)

A petition was presented to the Board of Aldermen on June 29, 1818, requesting a market-place in the neighborhood of Ludlow and Essex Streets.  It said in part, "A large proportion of the inhabitants of this section are mechanics and laboring men, who reside from half a mile to one mile and a half from any of the markets now established."  The Board approved a new market, completed in September 1818.

The quickly erected structure, on the southwest corner of Essex and Broome Street, lasted only until 1824, when it was replaced by another.  The environment of the Lower East Side neighborhood at the time was reflected an article in The Press in November 1825 about the "hog catchers" enlisted to round up the animals running freely in the streets.

We are glad to learn--and the reader will be both surprised and gratified at the information--that the hog-cart, so long a desideratum here, is making a tour of sequestration through the city, and collecting the unsightly and ferocious quadrupeds which have hitherto enjoyed free commons on our streets.

By 1849 the police department had taken over the second floor of the building.  Here the Essex Market prisons and the Essex Market Court were established.  

On December 30, 1851 The New York Times reported that the Board of Aldermen had approved $53,229 for the rebuilding of the Essex Market.  Architect Benjamin G. Wells produced what Thomas F. De Voe, in his 1862 The Market Book, called "a large, handsome brick building."  The exterior was completed in December 1852, and the structure opened on March 23, 1853.

The rather severe three-story edifice smacked of Norman fortress architecture, with a crenellated corner tower.  A tall fire watch tower rose above it.  Again, while the ground floor housed fish, produce and butcher stalls, the upper floors were occupied by the police station, prison and Essex Courthouse.

Despite its recent renovation, within two years the market operations had moved to more modern quarters and

the condition of the building was woeful.  On August 17, 1855, The New York Times wrote, "Of all the rascally old rookeries that disgrace the town--considering the uses to which it it put--perhaps the Essex Market Police Court-room is the most wretched."  The article said, "Old and dilapidated, filthy, buggy, it has become a receptacle not only unsafe for the health of the officials necessarily attached to it, but absolutely perilous to the lives of its prisoners."  Happily, it noted, a proposition for a new Police Court and County Jail had just pass the Board of Councilmen.

At the time, the Eastern Dispensary was operating from a small building at 79 Ludlow Street, where it had been since 1836.  Incorporated four years earlier, it provided the only medical care available to the impoverished inhabitants of the neighborhood.  Medications were dispensed, vaccinations administered, and physicians treated patients either here, or in the squalid rooms in which they lived.  A letter to the editor of The New York Times in 1854 said the doctors, "are daily and continually administering to the wants of the afflicted poor, who, were it not for the timely assistance thus rendered, would be left to languish in secret helplessness and unattended through the time of sickness, and many of them to sink, through neglect, into a premature grave."

The old Essex Market building was again renovated, and in August 1860 the Eastern Dispensary moved in.  The World noted its occupation of the building was "at the pleasure of the municipal authorities."

The renovated first floor.  The dispensary proper took up most of the second.   Annual Report of the Eastern Dispensary of the City of New York, 1861 (copyright expired)

The considerable challenge faced by the doctors was evidenced in the 1861, which it required three pages to list the various conditions treated the previous year.  Among the most frightening were typhoid fever, gun shot wounds, cholera, botched abortions, and small pox.  More curious conditions on the list, by today's perspective at least, were idiocy, old age and masturbation.

The 1861 Report stressed that the wretched living conditions of the immigrant population, and heavy drinking among some, contributed greatly to their illnesses.  "Obviously the presence of intemperance greatly obscures the prospects of the poor, destroys their self-respect, absorbs their means and makes the descent to pauperism the more sure and rapid."  In 1860, 17 cases of Delirium Tremens (alcohol withdrawal) had been treated, with one death.

On July 14, 1861 The New York Times began an article about the rise in small pox saying, "Now that this dreaded disease is skulking on our byways and secretly holding sway in higher places, vaccination becomes a serious duty, to be overlooked only by those who would nurse a pestilence."  New Yorkers lined up outside police station houses and dispensaries to receive their shots.  The writer wrote with an elitist bent, "The class who form the majority of applicants at the Eastern Dispensary are descendants of generation upon generation of low intelligence."

The following year, on May 28, the newspaper reported on the annual spring "rush for vaccination at the Eastern Dispensary."  The article said it was the "busy season" for the dispensary, "as the annual period for mothers to convey their young infants, and make a general turn-out of the family to share in the privileges of vaccination, or such other blessings of prevention and cure as are to be had for the asking."  Once again, the newspaper descended into elitism at best and racism at worst.  It said the district was fortunate in that those seeking vaccines were "mainly among a robust and cleanly class of Germans and Swedes, whose infants are brought early to be operated upon while they possess a pure and wholesome vitality.  A perfectly healthy Irish baby, though more rarely produced, is thought very highly of by the physicians."

The challenges to the doctors were expressed to a visiting reporter from The Daily Observer in March 1875.  He described, "A very thin old man and a very plump little girl sat side by side.  Germans and Italians, Irish and native Americans, discussed their respective ailments and bragged of their great sufferings."  But when he spoke to a physician, the frustration became apparent.

We find that very many of the diseases are the result of the patient's own imprudence or wickedness.  Drunkenness is at the root of most of them.  And it is also very discouraging to have so much harm done by the people's not complying with the physician's orders.  They can't half the time.  They can't get nourishing food, but they might keep a little cleaner.  Fresh air is free, but often I have visited a small-pox patient or a case of scarlet fever, and found the windows all nailed down.  It's a wonder how a person strong and well could live in such an atmosphere.  Yes, it is rather unsatisfactory work.

In 1883 the Eastern Dispensary treated 21,948 cases.  The New York Times, on April 2, 1884, commented, "This total comprises all ages, colors, and conditions of persons who received relief."  The article noted that financial help from donors was needed.  "State aid to the dispensary has been discontinued, and its aid from the city is small."

The "pleasure of the city authorities" mentioned by The World in 1860 ran out in 1889.  The New England Journal of Medicine explained “The Trustees are compelled, now, however, to appeal to the public, because the city authorities have offered the Essex Market building for sale, and the dispensary officers are hence forced to provide a permanent home for the dispensary.  They have purchased a plot of ground on the corner of Broome and Essex Streets.”

The cornerstone of the new building at 57 Essex Street was laid on January 29, 1890 and the Eastern Dispensary was relocated in May 1891.  

The entire block where the Essex Market building stood was vacant in 1928.  To the left can be seen the 1891 Eastern Dispensary.  from the collection of the New York Public Library

The block where the former Essex Market-Eastern Dispensary building stood was demolished in 1928 as the site of the Seward Park High School.  

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The 1891 Garfield Flats - 104 Forsyth Street

A coat of chocolate-colored paint covered the checkerboard terra cotta tiles and polished stone columns of the first floor.

A North Carolinian, Lt. Colonel Benjamin Forsyth was based in New York State during the War of 1812.  He was killed in action in June 1814 and became a hero in both his native state and in New York.  North Carolina named Forsyth County after him and in 1817 New York City changed the name of East 2nd Street to Forsyth Street.

At the time, the block of Forsyth Street between Broome and Grand Streets was lined with prim brick-faced Federal style homes.  No. 104 was a 25-foot-wide, two-and-a-half story home with a wooden dwelling behind.  (In the rear yards of nearly each house on the block was be a small building--either a second house, a stable or a shop.)

The quiet residential block began to change in the years before the Civil War as thousands of immigrants poured into the Lower East Side.  Between 1859 and 1880, the number of Jews who settled in New York City had doubled--from 40,000 to 80,000.  Forsyth Street saw the construction of several synagogues, and private houses were demolished to be replaced by tenements or were converted to shops.

Albert Stake purchased the property in January 1890.  While he lived on Staten Island, he made his livelihood in Manhattan, buying and selling real estate as well as insurance.

Stake wasted no time in setting his plans for the Forsyth Street property in motion.  Twelve days after the purchase architect Alexandre I. Finkle filed plans for a five-story "brick and stone flat" to cost $17,000, or about $475,000 today.  (Finkle did not have to spend time designing the building, instead recycling the plan of the Lincoln, a tenement he designed a year earlier at 84 Madison Street.)

Mostly forgotten today, Finkle was busy in the 1880's and '90's designing tenement buildings.  Aimed at low income families, the buildings offered little in amenities.  But Finkle often lavished on the outside with overblown ornamentation.  His design for 104 Forsyth Street included a heavy splash of patriotism and sentiment.

Nearly a decade had elapsed since the assassination of President James A. Garfield, but public emotions were still strong.  Stake dubbed his building the Garfield and Finkle announced its name in a flowing banner in the pressed metal cornice, along with a patriotic shield.

A centered stone stoop let to the entrance under a portico upheld by polished stone columns.  A quilt of Queen Anne-style terra cotta tiles graced the upper portion of the first floor facade.  Finkle did not hold back on the succeeding levels.  A burst of colors and materials graced the second floor--brownstone, limestone, terra cotta, and brick.  Winged faces upheld floating pairs of Corinthian pilasters, the pressed metal tympana above the windows were decorated with delicate vines, and the spandrels were filled with multicolored tiles.  Carved Renaissance Revival panels formed the bases of the three-story piers above, which terminated in terra cotta Corinthian capitals.

Albert Stark was an operator, not a landlord, and as soon as the building was completed he sold it, in February 1891, to Frederick J. Seelig for $45,500--a hefty $1.25 million today.

The basement level contained two stores, one on either side of the stoop, with living space behind.  H. S. Eisler opened his "household furniture" store in 1891; and Victor Cohen moved his family and shoe shop into the other.

Colorful tiles and carved angel heads on the outside could not change the fact that life on the inside of tenements was often miserable.  Apartments were either drafty and cold in the winter or stiflingly hot in the summer.  There was no hot water (if there was running water at all), and sanitary conditions were poor.  And landlords were notoriously cold-hearted.

Among the initial tenants were Charles Borach and his wife, the former Rose Stern.  Saloon owners, they had two children, Phillip and Carrie, and Rose was pregnant when they moved in.  Fania was born on October 29 that year.  She would go on to be known to American audiences as comedian, actress and singer Fanny Brice.

The Garfield's landlady in 1895 was Sarah Davis.  She grew impatient when Victor Cohen fell behind on his rent.  Cohen and his wife had five children, the youngest just a year-and-a-half old.  After running his shoe store here for nearly four years, business had dropped off.  Sarah David ordered the family out.

She hung a "To Let" sign on the storefront and rented the space to another tenant.  Cohen was told he had to be out by February 1.  But his youngest child was seriously ill and a doctor warned against moving him.  When the family was still there on the first of February, Sarah was enraged.

What happened next prompted The Evening World to run the headline, "DYING CHILD EVICTED / Sad Case of Victor Cohen, a Poor Cobbler."  The article explained that Sarah Davis got a dispossession notice from the court giving the Cohens five days to move out.  Fearful of moving the boy and with nowhere to go, they stayed.  Sarah took her next move.

"The next day Marshal Hirschfield evicted him, although Dr. Shenkman said it would be dangerous to take the child out of doors," reported the article.  Neighbors took the family in until Cohen was able to find rooms nearby on Hester Street.

In 1899, Bennett & G signed a lease for one of the stores.  The firm ran a string of soda fountains around the city.  The Bennett & G soda fountain would remain for several years.

In the meantime, things had not improved for tenants who were paying about $13 a month rent (around $390 in today's dollars) for three rooms.  On May 4, 1900, the Tenement House Commission made an "inspection tour" of Lower East Side buildings.  The inspectors found that there were no hallway lights in 104 Forsyth Street, in violation of city law.  "Tenants have to grope along it and stumble as best they may up the staircase," reported The New York Times.

Among those who groped along the hallways was John Sullivan.  While others in the building made their living as blue collar laborers and such, Sullivan preferred an easier method--robbery.  Around 1:00 in the morning on November 13, 1901 he and two cronies, John Shea and Frank Lynch, saw a lone sailor at the corner of New Chambers and Oak Streets.  They attacked, knocking him to the ground.  While two held him down the other went through his pockets and took all the money he had--25 cents.  The New-York Tribune reported, "They then gave him several kicks and went on their way."

The sailor, Swan C. Carlsen, did not call for a policeman (despite being only steps from the 5th Precinct Station House).  Instead, he following the Irish toughs from a safe distance.  Just as they reached Catherine and Cherry Streets, Henry Moore walked out of Andy Horn's saloon.  He became their second victim.

"They knocked him down and were going through his pockets when his yells reached the ears of Detective Hahn and Patrolman Frank Sheridan," who were around the corner.  The officers ran to the scene where "a desperate struggle ensued."  The Tribune happily reported, "The highwaymen were subdued."  Swan Carlsen went to the station house both as a complainant and a victim.  John Sullivan and his cohorts were charged with highway robbery.

G. Sucher moved his barber shop into one of the basement stores in 1903 and, like the soda fountain, would remain for years.

The dismal conditions upstairs continued.  In 1907, the owner was ordered to correct conditions which made the building a "public nuisance."  The catch-all phrase often referred to foul odors, garbage, rats and vermin, or other conditions that made the property a problem to the neighborhood.

Directly behind the Garfield was the Eldridge Street Police Station.  On the afternoon of Friday, March 12, 1910, officers were playing handball in the yard of the station house when a fire in Minnie Brennsilber's kitchen on the second floor erupted.  The men looked up to see flames licking out of the apartment window and jumped the fence.

Patrolman Martin Owen was the first to enter the burning building.  The New York Times reported, "Owen rushed to the second-floor hall, and, bursting into the apartment of Mrs. Minnie Brennsilber, found her and her two young children cowed with fright."  The way down was blocked by flames, so Owen headed up.  He grabbed the youngsters and directed their mother to follow to the roof.  There he took them to the roof of the building next door.

In the meantime, Officer August Schimp had brought 60-year-old Rose Flitzer to the roof.  The two policemen went back into No. 104.   On the third floor, the heat burst a window and the resulting back draft overtook the men.  With their uniform coats ablaze they managed to scramble back to the roof where they fell unconscious.  They were found by other policemen who carried them to the street.

At the same time, a firefighter from Truck 6 was "found staggering through a lower hallway, almost overcome by smoke, but was revived by an ambulance surgeon," according to the newspaper.  Another responder, policeman John Stanford, dodged serious injury when a blazing mattress thrown from an upper window landed on him.  Another policeman managed to push the mattress aside before it could burn Stanford.

Both Officer Schimp and Owen were honored for their bravery the following year by the mayor and police commissioner.

Close inspection reveals the once colorful tiles, now significantly damaged, and the quirky winged faces.

Hyman Grossman moved his grocery store into the basement of the repaired building.  He found himself in trouble in November 1911 when health food inspectors fined him $100 for violating the pure food laws.  The New York Times reported the fine was "for having bad milk."

World War I had a personal effect on at least one family in the Garfield.  Six residents of Forsyth Street were drafted on the same day in March 1918, including Samuel Wasserman who lived here.  The men were ordered to leave "for Camp" on April 3.

One tenant of the Garfield was not enthusiastic about his military service.  On June 9, 1921 the War Department published its list of "draft deserters."  Included was Leib Merkin of 104 Forsyth Street.

A grisly discovery was found in front of the Garfield on July 28, 1956.  Police had been looking for Frances DiZinno's 1955 Buick sedan since it was reported stolen the night before.  At around 8:30 Detectives Edgar Brennan and Joseph Byrnes spotted the car parked in front of No. 104.

"When the detectives opened the door of the car they were assailed by an unpleasant odor," reported The New York Times.  "On the floor of the rear seat was an unwieldy tarpaulin bundle tied with heavy cord in a way that indicated to them that it contained a human body.  When they opened the trunk compartment they found an even larger bundle, wedged against the spare tire."

Before long the street was filled with Homicide Squad detectives, the Police Department mobile laboratory truck, and officials from the Medical Examiner's office.  "Meanwhile crowds of excited residents of the densely populated area made Forsyth Street impassable," said the article.

The bodies were identified by fingerprints as two of the three men wanted by the FBI for jumping bail in a fur hijacking case.   James Joseph Roberto was a former prizefighter known as Jimmy Russo, and the other was Richard Michael Langone.  Both had been killed by ax blows to the head and had been dead for as long as three days.

As the search intensified for the third defendant, Louis Joseph Musto, a shocking twist in the case came to the surface.   James T. Ryan had joined the New York Police Department on February 1, 1947 and was promoted to detective in January 1949.  Then, in November 1955, he was demoted to patrolman "for the good of the service."  Now, three days after the bodies were discovered, he was pulled off his post and arrested for receiving stolen property in connection with the fur heists.

By the last quarter of the 20th century the Forsyth Street neighborhood, once filled with German Jews, then Italians, was increasingly becoming engulfed by New York's Chinatown. 

Nevertheless, Seymour Anczelowitz operated his store, Sy's New and Used Clothing, at No. 104 here as late as 1982.  Just before 1:00 on the afternoon of January 31, that year a man and a woman came into the store and told the 47-year-old he was being held up.  Whether Anczelowitz fought back or not is unclear, but the crooks shot him in the head.  They escaped with as much as $2,000 in cash.  Anczelowitz was taken to Bellevue Hospital in critical condition, where he later died.

Despite its often dark history, the suffering of its early tenants, and the unfortunate coat of brown paint on the stone and tile of the first floor, Alexandre I. Finkle's patriotic and exuberant Garfield is still an attention grabber.

photographs by the author