Jobst Hoffman's 1880 29 East 7th Street

 

German-born architect Jobst Hoffmann filed plans for a "five-story brick apartment house" at 29 East 7th Street in February 1880 for developer Isaak Horchster.  Hoffmann's plans projected the cost of construction at $11,000, or about $357,000 in 2026 terms.  Seven months later, the Real Estate Record & Builders' Guide's "Watch The Records" column noted that liens had been filed against the owners of 25 and 27 East 7th Street.  The new owner of that property, Z. H. Miller, hired Hoffman to design two apartment buildings that would exactly match 29 East 7th Street, already under construction.

Hoffman's design was a blend of Queen Anne and neo-Grec styles.  And he introduced a splash of the Esthetic style in the whimsical cast iron fencing and stoop railings, composed of stylized sunflowers.

The stylized sunflowers were echoed in the incised carving of the stone stoop newels.

The paired ground floor openings shared a lintel decorated with a small rosette.  The centered entrance was crowned with an earred cornice inspired by ancient Greece.  The four upper stories were clad in red brick and trimmed in sandstone.  Hooded lintels decorated the second and fourth floor openings and between the third and fourth, Hoffmann added colorful encaustic, quilt-like tiles.

Colorful Queen Anne tiles and a fanciful cast iron ornament (the left half of which has been lost) decorate the facade.

The brick piers of the top floor wore cast metal capitals decorated with bosses.  They upheld the corbels of the elaborate pressed metal cornice.

No. 29 East 7th Street was known as a "double flat," meaning there were two apartments per floor.  Among the initial tenants was Auguste Schelcher.  He was on his way with friends to the ball of the Société Culinaire Philanthropique on the evening of April 30, 1883, when his night of gaiety turned to horror.  The New York Times reported that the group "were in a pleasant mood."  As they passed 404 Sixth Avenue, Désiré L. Houvet, a French chef and another member of the Société Culinaire Philanthropique, exited the building.  The New York Times reported:

Two or three were in a convivial condition, and they made jocose remarks when Houvet ran out...placing his hands on the shoulders of H. Barbier, of No. 49 West Twenty-seventh-street, and Auguste Schelcher, of No. 29 East Seventh-street, [and] sank to the pavement.  But their merriment changed to fear when they saw Houvet gasping and unable to speak.

The "elegantly dressed" Houvet had just been stabbed in the back by Elizabeth Quinquinet.  The New York Times would later explain, "Houvet, who was single, had led Mrs. Quinquinet astray and they had quarreled."  The 33-year-old Houvet died on the scene and, presumably, the evening that Auguste Schelcher's had looked forward to came to an end.

Josephine Frank, who lived here with her 10-year-old daughter in 1885, was in financial straits.  She was married to Lippman Frank on April 17, 1876, and "lived together for one year and a half.  Then they separated by mutual consent," according to the New-York Tribune.  In January 1886, she sued her husband for support, charging him with abandonment.

In court on January 19, Josephine presented a letter from the Commissioners of Charities and Correction, "stating that it was likely that she would become a burden on the taxpayers, unless her husband was compelled to support her," reported the New-York Tribune.  She, however, had to explain to the court what she had done with the money her husband had provided for.  When they separated, he gave her two houses on East 11th Street.  Josephine claimed that they were "in a bad condition and were torn down soon afterward."  She lost the properties in foreclosure.

Josephine had also neglected to mention that she and Lippman were not separated, they were divorced.  Lippman Frank presented a decree of divorced dated 1878 and Justice Power, "said that Mrs. Frank's claims fell to the ground."  He told the disappointed woman that she could, however, initiate a new suit for the support of the child.

image via the NYC Dept of Records & Information Services

The Hessler family occupied an apartment here in 1896 when their 15-year-old son, Charles, became a hero of sorts.  At 2:00 on the afternoon of July 7, Charles was on the Bowery near Catharine Street.  He saw 68-year-old John M. Sweitzer, who  was inebriated and lived in Utica, staggering along the sidewalk.  Suddenly three men rushed up and robbed him of $40.  The New-York Tribune explained that Sweitzer, "was unable, owing to his condition, to furnish any description of the robbers." 

Young Hessler, however, was quite able to describe them.  He told police that two had boarded a Second Avenue street car and the other went away on foot.  The article said, "With the boy, Detective Cahill entered a corner saloon, and Hessler pointed out [John] Long as the man whom he had seen standing to one side while the robbery was committed."  Charles Hessler countered Long's testimony that he "knew nothing of the affair."  On the weight of teen's affidavit, Long was committed to the Tombs Prison for further investigation.

Pauline Zelba lived here in 1913.  She and two friends, Emma Stern and Celia Shubert partnered in running two cider stubes on East 4th and East 5th Streets.  (Cider stubes were taverns, patronized mostly by German Americans, that sold light food and cider made from fermented apples.)  The women were offering more than cider and sausages, as it turned out.  On April 16, 1913, the New-York Tribune reported that all three were arrested and "charged with keeping disorderly houses in cider stubes."  (A "disorderly house" was the polite term for a brothel.)

By 1924, the basement level of 29 East 7th Street had been converted to two commercial spaces.  Operating from one of them that year was George Withers Music Co.

Music Supervisors' Journal, December 1924 (copyright expired)

There are still just two apartments per floor in 29 East 7th Street.  Because Z. H. Miller wisely decided to have Hoffmann recreate his design at Nos. 25 and 27, the trio has an enhanced presence.

photographs by the author

The 1880 St. Nicholas - 10 St. Mark's Place

 

photograph by Anthony Bellov

Beginning in 1831, the three-block section of East 8th Street known as St. Mark's Place, saw the rise of refined Federal-style mansions.  Within two decades, the tenor of the neighborhood would change as over a million and a half German immigrants poured into the district.  By 1879, the vintage house at 10 St. Mark's Place between Second and Third Avenues sat within what was known as Kleindeutchland, or “Little Germany.”  One-by-one, private homes were replaced with tenement buildings.

On November 14, 1879, developer Michael Schultz hired German-born architect Jobst Hoffman to design a "five-story Nova Scotia stone tenement" on the 25-foot-wide lot.  Overall Queen Anne in style, Hoffman added neo-Grec touches to his design--particularly in the incised foliate decorations in the side piers and the lintels.  The complex pressed metal cornice included miniature columns at the sides, full-relief flowers along the top and the building's name, "St. Nicholas," within the fascia.  Construction cost Schultz $22,000, or about $714,000 in 2026 terms.

Close inspection reveals the monogram SN within the incised carvings within the tympanum of central arch.  photograph by Anthony Bellov

There were two spacious apartments per floor.  One of the second floor tenants in 1883 rented unused space, offering: "Handsomely furnished parlor and bedroom for one or two gentlemen, with gas and bath.  Second flat east side of 10 St. Mark's place."

Among the initial residents was Gottlieb Schmidt, a wine merchant whose shop was on Pearl Street.  He was already acquainted with another resident, Jane H. Lewis, when they moved in.  Jane explained that she was the widow of multi-millionaire Joseph L. Lewis, who died on March 5, 1877.  He left the bulk of his massive estate "to be applied toward the payment of the national debt," as reported by the New York Herald.  Jane Lewis almost immediately started proceedings to overturn the will.

Gottlieb Schmidt would be called into court to testify about what he knew about Jane Lewis who was, in fact, Jennie Holbrook, an "adventuress," as described by the New York Herald.  Calling her a "tall, lady-like person," on April 18, 1880 the newspaper explained that she had successfully passed herself off as Mrs. Lewis and assembled a "score of persons" to help her obtain part of the estate.  As Holbrook's hearing played out, the newspaper said, "it is at once an illustration of what mischief an unscrupulous and intelligent woman can work."

The Bauer family lived here in 1892 when The Evening World initiated the Sick Babies' Fund to help care for children of indigent families.  In reaction, a letter to the editor appeared on May 31 that read:

We are two little girls, Elsie and Margaret Bauer.  We have heard that there are a great many babies that are sick, and, as we love babies, especially the poor and sick ones, we saved 25 cents, and we will try to send double next time.

                Elsie and Margaret Bauer, 10 St. Mark's place.

Two years later, more children of the St. Nicholas helped the cause.  On September 7, 1894, The Evening World reported, "A sidewalk fair held by Doretta, Lillie and Abraham Freeman and Emma Myerhoff and Vira Squigle, at 10 St. Mark's place, yielded $4., but they gave $2 to a family that was in urgent need."

In the meantime, a respected resident was Dr. Frederick Louis Fuchs.  Well-known in the neighborhood, he was summoned to a wide variety of cases over the years.  In July 1892, for instance, he was called to the home of Robert Elder who lived across the street at 9 St. Mark's Place.  A bachelor, Elder went to a manicurist early that month who removed a corn from his toe.  A few days later, a "massage operator" noticed that the toe was swollen and Dr. Fuchs was called in.  "He said the swelling was gangrenous," said the New York Herald.  

Fuchs lanced the swelling, but it soon became necessary to amputate the toe.  And then the foot.  Six days after the second operation, the 57-year-old died.  Fuchs and the surgeon stressed that the corn was not the cause of his death, but diabetes.

As early as 1896, Dr. Fuchs served as assistant surgeon with the New York State National Guard with the rank of lieutenant.  He would remain in his St. Nicholas apartment at least through 1902.

A celebrated resident at the time was Andrew John Hughes, known to vaudeville audiences as Banjo Andy.  Born in Ireland in 1847, Hughes was working as a butcher's boy in Philadelphia when he learned to juggle.  He debuted on stage at the Walnut Street Theatre there.  When the Civil War broke out, he joined the Union Navy.  After the war, according to The New York Clipper, "he won fame as an Indian club swinger, and his name was known in Europe as well as America."  He married a "toe dancer," named Annie and they created a well-known song and dance team.  Following Annie Hughes's death in 1892, Andy "deserted the footlights to become a manager," according to The Sun.

Additionally, Andy Hughes became close friends with Tammany Hall bigwigs, most notably "Big Tim" Sullivan.  The relationship resulted in Hughes's being appointed a court officer in the Second Avenue Municipal Court.

On March 18, 1907, Andy Hughes "was taken with pneumonia," as reported by The Sun.  Among his visitors was District Attorney William Travers Jerome, whom the newspaper said "was an old friend."  At midnight on March 20, Hughes died at the age of 60.  His funeral was held at St. Ann's Church, which was filled with Tammany Hall and theatrical figures.

Among the residents here in 1915 was the Lesser familly.  The couple had six children, the eldest of whom was Jacob, who was 23.  Jacob Lesser worked as a "clothes presser," but lost his job in February that year.  Week after week, he unsuccessfully sought employment.  On June 5, the Evening World reported that his father "went to awaken him to go out and look for a job, as he had been doing regularly for the past five months."  He found Jacob dead.  The article said he, "hanged himself this morning from a curtain pole with a clothesline while despondent."

Also living here that year was the family of Elias Mohr, a "garment fitter."  Their 15-year-old daughter, Sophia, disappeared that year, sparking a multi-state search.  On December 6, The Evening World reported that the chief of police of Hartford, Connecticut notified New York City Police Headquarters that the teen had been found.  "Sophia's parents were notified to go for her at once."

While the article said, "Chief Farrell did not give the circumstances under which the girl was found," her brother, Dr. Frank Mohr had a theory.  He told a reporter "she might have been lured away by some one who had encouraged her love of dancing as she was anxious to go on the stage."

A renovation in 1936 divided the apartments in half, resulting in four units per floor.  By then, the German community had been mostly gone from the Lower East Side for several decades.

In 1941, Colonial Revival inspired multi-paned windows graced the first floor apartments.  via the NYC Dept of Records & Information Services.

Among the tenants in 1951 was 23-year-old Arthur Riccardi, a dockworker.  He was arrested on August 22 that year for "possessing heroin for the purpose of selling it," according to The New York Times.

It was not the last time Riccardi's name would appear in newsprint.  On the night of February 15, 1957, he was drinking

at the Club Chantilly on West 4th Street.  At around 1:00 a.m., he got into a "brawl over money," as reported by The New York Times, with Daniel J. Sgobbo, alias Don Terry.  The article said, "Eighteen patrons fled when the fight began."  In the clash, Riccardi suffered "severe head injuries and a fractured left wrist."  He pulled out a handgun and killed the 30-year-old Sgobbo.  The article noted, "Both men were said to have long police records."

Sculptor Jacob Lipkin and his family lived in a basement apartment by 1960.  Born in the neighborhood in 1909, he studied art at the Art Students League, the Cooper Union, Leonardo da Vinci Art School and the Educational Alliance.  He and his wife, the former Dorothy Keogan, had two children, Carl and Laura, who were 14 and 17 years old respectively in 1960.  Although his work was exhibited regularly, it was an incident that year that caught the attention of readers nationwide.

Jacob Lipkin working in his apartment-studio at 10 St. Mark's Place around 1959.  photo by Img43vr

On January 7, The New York Times reported that Lipkin was threatened with a marshal's sale "to satisfy a $153.33 debt."  Within two days, hundreds of letters including donations had arrived from strangers--totaling more than $8,300.  But Lipkin would not accept the money, instead returning all of it.  The Times said, "The family is supported by his wife's salary of $70 a week as a secretary and the sculptor's fees of $30 for two art classes a week."  Asked if he did not owe it to his family to accept the help, Lipkin replied, "No; they would lose all respect for me."

Lipkin's sculptures would earn him awards, including the Antoinette Scudder Prize for Sculpture and the Ceceile Award for Sculpture (awarded by the Ceceile Gallery which staged a one-man show of his work).

The first floor stone has been painted a minty green and metal security entrance doors installed.  Nevertheless, the St. Nicholas survives in remarkable condition--other than desperately needing a careful cleaning.

many thanks to historian Anthony Bellov for suggesting this post.

Jobst Hoffman's 1888 253 East 10th Street

 

On February 2, 1886, Ernest Von Au purchased the three-story brick house at 253 East 10th Street from Philip Krieger for $16,000.  The old residence was a vestige of a time when refined homes filled the East Village neighborhood that was now seeing the rise of flat houses.  It may have been the several tenement buildings in the Lower East Side that Von Au was currently erecting that prompted him to wait until the spring of 1888 to commission architect Jobst Hoffman to design a flat building on the site.

Like Von Au, Hoffman specialized in tenement buildings.  His plans, filed in May, called for a "five-story brick, stone and terra cotta flat" to cost $18,000.  The construction costs brought Von Au's total outlay to $1.14 million in 2024 terms.

Construction was completed within seven months.  Hoffman's Renaissance Revival design was faced in brick and trimmed in brownstone.  Profuse renaissance style carvings decorated the pilasters and spandrels of the entrance way.  Similarly, upper floor panels and tympana were filled with medieval faces and swirling leaves and vines.  The complex cast metal cornice included a half-bowl, a triangular pediment, and a multi-leveled tower.

Von Au sold his new building on December 1, 1888 to Conrad Schmidt for $38,500, turning a tidy profit.  Schmidt's working class tenants would, for the most part, be immigrants.

In 1893, George Griffith, a traveling salesman for a New Jersey lithographing firm, and his young wife Frances, moved in.  About a year later, around 5:00 on the afternoon of January 12, the janitor noticed a strong smell of gas.  The Evening World reported, "He burst open the doors" and found Frances "dead upon the floor with the end of a gas tube in her mouth."

The New York Times said, "From an album on the centre [sic] table the woman had torn out all the portraits and had destroyed them.  The stove in the front room was half filled with the ashes of papers and photographs which the woman had burned."  Saying she was about 25 years old, the article described her as "a brunette of the Jewish type," adding, "she did not cultivate the acquaintance of her neighbors, and the people in the house knew very little about her or her husband."

The mystery was cleared up the following day.  The Evening World began an article saying, "The beautiful young suicide at 253 East Tenth street, was not Mrs. Frances Griffith.  She was Miss Frances Simon, a wayward girl who deserted her home and family two and one-half years ago."  About an hour after Frances's body was discovered, "a young, richly dressed and pretty young woman called at the flat," said the article.  She was Frances's sister, Mattie, who came from the family's home in Brooklyn where their father, Michael Simon, was described as "wealthy."

Mattie identified the body as Frances Simon.  Her family members refused to come, but Mattie "spent the night by the dead body of her erring sister."  After George Griffith was notified of Frances's death, the reasons for her suicide became clear.

Suspecting that Frances was being unfaithful, on January 10, he sent her a telegram saying he would be home late the following night.  Instead, he arrived a few hours later and, confirming his suspicions, he "found a strange man in Frances's company," according to The Evening World.  "A quarrel followed, and that night Griffith left the flat vowing that he would never return."  The "strange man" returned the next day, according to neighbors, and stayed until around 4:00.  An hour later the janitor discovered Frances's body.  In her pocketbook, said the article, was $8.81, "of which $8.40, she wrote, was to pay a doctor's bill."

The Byrnes family lived here at the time.  Thirty-five-year-old Joseph Brynes was a truck driver for the wholesale grocers Austin, Nichols & Co.  Nine months after Frances's suicide, he experienced a horrible tragedy.  Byrnes was driving along East 44th Street on September 14 as a group of little children exited a candy store.  According to the New York Herald, "The horses were walking leisurely toward Third avenue."

Among the group of children was four-year-old Gertrude Coyle, who lived directly across the street.  The newspaper reported, "Gertrude, hugging her package of sweetmeats, started for home.  She did not see the heavily ladened truck and ran directly between the front wheels."  Joseph Byrne had not seen the little girl and, "in a moment she had been knocked down and the hind wheel passed over her head and the upper portion of her body, killing her instantly."  The newspaper rather callously added, "Her head was literally cleft in twain."

Byrne stopped the team and walked to the back of the truck.  Frozen by shock, the article said he was "apparently unable to remove his eyes from it, until Policeman Hilbert tapped him on the shoulder and placed him under arrest."  Byrne tearfully pleaded that he "knew nothing of the accident until it was over."  He was held on a charge of homicide.

The working conditions of the factory workers who lived here was evidenced in a letter published in the New York Journal and Advertiser on February 26, 1899.  Chris Ferman, who was 32 years old, wrote in part:

I work in a large leather factory, where I am shut up indoors all day long, and fresh air is very scarce, which makes me feel drowsy, so when I get home at night I generally have one of those sick headaches and have no appetite, and my supper would have to be thrown away.

Although Abraham Greenberg, who lived here by 1902, listed no occupation, he owned a tenement building at 189 Rivington Street.  It provided him enough income to provide bail to Lena Todenberg that year.  Lena ostensibly ran a cigar store, however she was arrested on  February 17, 1902 on charges of "keeping a disorderly house."  (The term "disorderly house" referred to a brothel.)  Greenberg supplied her $5,000 bail, a hefty $183,000 today.

Not all the residents of 253 East 10th Street were hard working and respectable.  On January 28, 1911, The Evening Telegram reported that 16-year-old Isidor Hammer had been arrested "upon the charges of larceny of money from passengers upon the platform of the Forty-second street subway during the rush hour."  A motor inspector, George M. Morton, witnessed Hammer removing the a woman's pocketbook from her coat.  Morton rushed forward and grabbed Hammer's hand holding the purse.  The teen's theft was not worth the price he paid.  When he faced Magistrate O'Connor in the Yorkville Police Court, it was revealed that the stolen purse contained one cent.

More industrious was young David M. Goldberg, who was hired on November 1, 1915 as a page for the New York State Industrial Commission.  His starting salary was $360 a year--about $11,300 today.  Within three years, he had been promoted to junior clerk and his salary had exactly doubled.

The brick and brownstone have been painted, and an industrial type door installed, defacing Jobst Hoffman's 1888 design.

The Smilex and Famulara families occupied apartments in 1922.  One afternoon that November, the two Smilex children were playing on the sidewalk in front of the building.  Saro Famulara, who was 12 years old, went to the roof and poured water down on them.  Their mother, Catherine Smilex, did not think the prank was at all funny.  Outraged, she stormed upstairs and pushed the Famulara boy off the roof to his death.  Police originally thought his death was accidental, but neighbors "asserted that the boy had been deliberately pushed off the roof."  An investigation led to Catherine's arrest on November 6.

Because of the high concentration of working class residents, the East Village was a hot spot for Communism and Socialism in the early 20th century.  In 1940, residents Frank Maskiewicz and John Morov were listed by the Government as voters for the Communist Party.  Things had not greatly changed three decades later when, in October 1974,  resident Samuel W. Manuel ran for State Comptroller on the Socialist Worker Party ticket.

Although a bit beleaguered today, Jobst Hoffman's striking building still draws attention.

photographs by the author

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The 1885 Nos. 928 and 930 Second Avenue

 

photograph by Ted Leather

In May 1867 New York City passed the nation's first housing reform code, the New York Tenement House Act.  In response to the often deplorable conditions suffered by impoverished tenants, the city now regulated sanitation, ventilation and room size.  And so, when plans were filed for two flat buildings at 928 and 930 Second Avenue in April 1884, The Board on Plans for Light and Ventilation of New Tenement-Houses carefully reviewed them.  On May 7 the "plumbing and drainage for the new buildings" passed muster.

Designed by Jobst Hoffmann for Ernest Von Au, they were completed in 1885.  Each of the identical structures was 25-feet-wide and five stories tall.  Above the ground floor commercial spaces, they were clad in red brick and trimmed in sandstone.  Stone band courses above the second and fourth floors visually divided the upper floors into three sections.  The handsome neo-Grec design included incised carvings in the lintels of the second and fourth floors, and gracefully scalloped lintels at the third.  Most impressive, however, were the ambitious pressed metal cornices, their mid-sections adorned with swags and large fans, and topped by decorative hoods.

John Kuhlenan opened a saloon in 928 Second Avenue.  It was taken over by 1893 by the Blau & Co. wine saloon, run by Julius G. and Moritz Blau.  At the time, the apartments were rented to a variety of middle-class occupants, including Dederick Goebelsmann and Edward Muller, both of whom were bakers; Henry Silverman, a harness maker; and engineer Thomas F. Hennessey.

The tenants of 930 Second Avenue in 1893 held similar positions.  Levi Singerman and Lawrence McCann were clerks; Edward Sann worked as a guard; John Edelstein was a barber; William T. Keyes was a clerk; and John J. McEvoy was a mason.  The store was home to Gertrude Schlosser's millinery shop.

Leo Reiss, who drove a wagon for George Ringler's brewery, lived at 928 Second Avenue when he was arrested on October 1, 1895.  He drove his wagon along the tracks of the Third Avenue Cable Car directly in front of a cable car.  The Sun reported he "continued on the track, walking his team slowly, despite the remonstrances of the conductor and gripman."  In addition to inconveniencing the passengers, the cable car was pulling a mail car.  

The 30-year-old was arrested for "having blockaded the United States mail service."  The prosecutor wanted to have him held for a Federal grand jury, but the magistrate was sympathetic.  According to The Evening Post, he "denied the motion, on the ground that Reiss was drunk, and also that he was ignorant that a mail-car was attached to the passenger car."  He got off with a $5 fine.

The saloon at 928 Second Avenue was taken over by Nadel & Feit in 1901.  The excise, or liquor, license was in Joseph  Feit's name.  In the meantime, Gertrude Schlosser's hat shop next door had become John D. Ahlf's "butter, cheese and eggs store" by 1898.

A tragic story played out in 930 Second Avenue in 1899.  Fannie Mickelbank caught a cold that developed into pneumonia, and on November 28 she was transported to Roosevelt Hospital.  The Evening Post reported that her condition "made her so delirious and violent that she had to be strapped to her cot."  A nurse was "in constant attendance" by her bed.

But around midnight on November 30 the nurse "had occasion to leave the room for a few moments," according to The Morning Telegraph.  Fannie somehow broke free of the leather straps.  The nurse returned just in time to see her patient rushing to the window.  "It took her but a moment to open it and leap out," said the article.  Fannie plummeted four floors to the ground and died two hours later.

Another tragic story was that of Benjamin Langfritz, who lived at 928 Second Avenue in 1912.  Langfritz worked at the Independent Ice Company and, according to the New York Herald, "was in the habit of spending his Sundays fishing in [Jamaica] bay."  At 10:00 on the morning of March 24, he rented a boat at Hoob's Hotel and went fishing.  But around 2:30 a violent storm swept over Jamaica Bay.  When Langfritz failed to return, Christian Hoob and two employees searched for him.  The New York Herald reported, "They found his overturned boat in Hasset Creek, but after returning to the spot with grappling hooks and dragging the channel, they were unable to find the body."

More than three weeks later, on April 15, oysterman Henry Reinhardt was "tonging" the bay for shellfish.  The Daily Long Island Farmer reported that Benjamin Langfritz's body "was brought up by the tongs."

Charles Mundy, who lived at 928 Second Avenue in 1913, worked on a "diving scow."  He was in the cabin on the morning of December 14 when two men came on deck, identifying themselves as detectives.  They demanded to know where certain stolen goods were that had been taken from the pier the night before.

Mundy said he knew nothing about the stolen cargo, and invited them inside to investigate.  The Evening Telegram reported, "As soon as the men were well inside the cabin, one of them struck Mundy on the jaw, sending him with a crash against the wall."  Before he could recover, the second man hit him with the butt of his revolver, knocking him out.  When Mundy regained consciousness, he was bound to a chair, gagged and blindfolded.  The thieves went through his pockets, removing $150 in cash, a gold watch and chain, two gold penknives, and his key ring.  The newspaper added, "They did not overlook even his gold sleeve links."

After the crooks left, it took Mundy nearly an hour to chew through his handkerchief gag.  His cries alerted Roger Collins, who was working in another part of the barge.  At the Fourth Avenue station house, he gave a detailed description of the fake detectives.

In the first years of the 20th century New York City businessmen were terrorized by the Black Hand, an Italian-American extortion group also known as La Mano Nera.  By 1915 Frank Razza operated a barber shop in 930 Second Avenue.  On the morning of March 7 that year, Joe Pitia and Paul Sanszoni arrived at the shop to open up.  The New-York Tribune reported, "they found a bomb leaning against the door.  The fuse had been lighted, but the machine failed to explode."

The bomb was about ten inches long encased in a sheet iron box bound with wire.  When Razza arrived, he carefully placed the device in water and took it to the Second Branch Detective Bureau.  Razza and, indeed, the upstairs residents had narrowly escaped disaster.  Owen Eagen, the Inspector of Combustibles, announced that the bomb "was more powerful than either of the bombs found in St. Patrick's Cathedral."

Following the enactment of Prohibition, saloon owners like Nadel & Feit were tasked with legally disposing of its stock.  On July 22, 1920, Joe Mancuso arrived at the saloon and presented a permit to remove five barrels of alcohol.  Coincidentally, just as he finished loading them onto his truck, two Prohibition agents arrived on the scene.  They examined the permit and declared it a forgery.  Mancuso bolted across the street, got in a waiting automobile and escaped.

Prohibition, of course, ended the long tradition of a tavern at 928 Second Avenue.  At mid-century it was home to a restaurant, Annette Le Petit Veau.

The two buildings were sold and resold over the decades, but always remained under a single owner.  The second half of the 20th century saw the What Not Bargain Shop in 930, described by New York on $5 & $10 A Day in 1969 as one of the "rock-bottom-priced places which both buy, sell and exchange used furniture."  By the early 1970s, Samuel Narefsky Antiques occupied the space.  The store specialized in vintage hardware like "handles, hinges, pulls, knobs, key-plates, sconces" and such, according to New York Magazine on September 25, 1972.

By then, the ground floor of 928 was home to Knickers restaurant and bar.  One of the bartenders there in 1972 was somewhat unusual.  Dale R. Lind was an ordained Lutheran clergyman.  The New York Times reported on August 16 that year, "Acting with approval of local authorities of the Lutheran Church in America, Mr. Lind has forsaken traditional parish duties for what he likes to call a 'ministry of presence.'  From his post behind the bar he helps people through their lover's quarrels and vocational problems, shares their joys and lets some lonely New Yorkers know that someone cares about them."

The buildings as they appeared in 2014.  image via Google Streetview

Knickers was replaced by Sip Sak, a Thai restaurant in the early 2000s.  When it opened, the two vintage apartment buildings showed their age.  A 20th century coat of white paint was dirty and peeling, and one of the striking cornice hoods was tagged with graffiti.  A renovation of the buildings in 2017 repaired the facade, and removed the old paint from the stonework.

many thanks to reader Ted Leather for requesting this post.

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The 1883 Clark Building - 332 Canal Street

There was, no doubt, originally an eye-catching Queen Anne pediment above the cornice.

In 1883 John J. Clark was on the top of the world.  He was a partner with his brother, Joseph, in Clark Bros., which ran several restaurants throughout the city, including a well-known oyster bar on Fulton Street.   John personally owned and operated the popular Bijou Restaurant at No. 504 Sixth Avenue, as well.  His tremendous success allowed Clark to invest heavily on Wall Street.  The Evening World said he was "known as a successful and daring operator."

Clark commissioned architect Jobst Hoffman to design a six-story loft and store building at No. 332 Canal Street, running through the block to 39-41 Lispenard Street.   Drawing mostly from the popular Queen Anne style, Hoffman embellished the brick and stone piers with Renaissance Revival panels and included neo-Classical swags in the decorations.   Cast iron elements allowed for vast openings which poured natural light into the factory spaces.

Hoffman's attention to detail included faces--one male and one female--within the second story capitals.  The sunbursts directly above were common Queen Anne motifs.

Clark used the ground floor for his Oyster & Chop House.  Like all his restaurants, it catered to middle-class diners and businessmen.  It offered "a quick business lunch" from 11 to 2:00, and dinner from 5:00 to 8:00.

The upper floors were leased to Plock & Hoffstadt, "manufacturers of lace, muslin and embroidery caps, infants' cloaks, etc." according to New York's Great Industries in 1884.   The firm, which employed between 100 and 150 workers, had been located nearby at No. 359 Canal.  New York's Great Industries called the new location "very eligible and central premises."

The principal of Plock & Hoffstadt was, somewhat surprisingly for the period, a woman.  Charlotte Plock was termed "an amiable and talented business lady, possessed of vast practical experience in her line, and recognized as producing the finest quality of goods in the market."  Her partner, William Hoffstadt, focused on the books and was described as being "noted in financial circles for his honorable methods and sterling integrity."

The rear of the structure, on Lispendard Street, is double the wide of the Canal Street side.  

Only four years after moving in Plock & Hoffstadt was gone.  On November 1, 1888 Fur Trade Review reported "Messrs. Freedman Brothers, the well-known cloak manufacturers, now occupy the entire building at 332 Canal street."   The Lispenard Street storefront was renovated as its showroom.  The magazine said "The firm has fitted up the store floor, their increased room, in grand style, and are showing an enlarged stock of goods to meet the requirements of their many customers."

A clerk was surprised to see a man preparing to load a truck in front of the store in January 1893.  When he shouted to the John Lover to stop, the culprit drove off, leaving the goods on the sidewalk.  But Lispenard street was crowded with other horse-drawn drays, so Lover abandoned his truck and ran.  He was caught and arrested by a policeman.

The case he had abandoned contained $460 worth of worsted fabrics.  Lover's trial was held on January 9, and its outcome enraged the judge.  After deliberating four hours, the jury arrived at a verdict of not guilty.  Judge Martine told them "I want to say, gentlemen, that your verdict of not guilty in this case is of the kind that does much to encourage crime.  The verdict is not in accordance with the evidence."

At the time, Freedman Bros. was battling the labor movement, which sought to improve working conditions and salaries through unionizing.  The Consolidated Board of Cloak-Cutters and Operators alleged in August 1891 that the firm underpaid its approximate 150 workers.

Union delegate Dion W. Burke, told an Evening World reporter on August 13 that year "The firm of Friedman [sic] Brothers have been paying lower wages than any other firm, and they have consequently been able to undersell other houses.  We have been trying to make terms with the Friedmans [sic] for some time, but failed."

The New York Times added that not only did the firm pay "much lower wages than did other firms...the Superintendents deducted a percentage from their wages.  The tailors were made to pay $2 a week to the pressers, which was not done i any other shop."

When representatives tried to meet with Freedman on August 13, he tossed them out.  His entire workforce followed.  Almost unbelievably, it would not be until May 27, 1897 that the garment firm and the union came to a final agreement.

In the meantime, Clark Brothers had sold No. 332 to Herman Wronkow in December 1893 for "about $100,000," according to The New York Times (about $2.8 million today).   John J. Clark would soon need the cash, as it turned out.

Less than two months later, on Friday night, February 2, 1894, he was arrested in the Bijou Restaurant with his manager and two waiters.  The New-York Tribune reported the shocking news.  He was "charged with keeping a disorderly house."  It was a polite term for a brothel.

Clark's trouble continued when his only daughter, Annie, committed suicide by throwing herself under a Sixth Avenue elevated train after a failed romance.  In January 1895 Clark lost his liquor license and by the turn of the century the man who erected No. 332 Canal Street was earning $15 a week as a waiter in a small Broadway restaurant.

Wronkow leased the Oyster & Chop House space to Hugo E. Hertel in 1894.  Hertel, it seems, focused more on alcohol than food here.  He had gone into business with F. G. Roebling on January 6, 1892, opening a sumptuous saloon on Third Avenue.  A Souvenir of New York's Liquor Interests had described that location a year earlier saying "The decorations are elegant and costly, comprising a highly ornamental ceiling--which alone cost $1000--cherry and mahogany fittings, fine plate mirrors, tiled floors, sporting ticker, and every modern improvement incidental to a high-class establishment."

A few months before Freedman Brothers signed the contract with the union in 1897, it had left No. 332 Canal Street (the firm would dissolve in 1901).  For the first time since its completion, the building had more than one tenant in the upper floors.

L. Kerster & Son's clothing factory shared the building with a somewhat surprising tenant, "Bornstein," who dealt in scrap.  How long Bornstein remained at the address is unclear.

The sun, June 6, 1897 (copyright expired)

On January 17, 1897 14-year old Max Cohen left No. 25 Allen Street where he lived with his mother to look for a job.  On Canal Street a man approached him and said "I saw you were in a store around the corner looking for a job.  I'll give you work if you come with me."

The gullible teen followed him to L. Kerster & Son's factory.  According to The Sun "The boy was ordered to tie some clothing up in bundles and the man who employed him went away saying he was going after an express wagon."  Because it was the end of the day, most of the workers had already left.

While Max worked diligently at his task, Bernard Kerster closed the shop.  To his great surprise, he came across the boy, still working hard.  "He caused the boy's arrest, charging him with burglary," reported The Sun.

Five days later Max was sentenced to the Elmira Reformatory.  The fate of most boys convicted of such a crime in the 1890's would have been sealed.  Surprisingly, though, District Attorney Olcott looked closer into the facts and was convinced that Max had been hoodwinked by a clever professional criminal.

He sent his private secretary, Colonel Swords, to "lay the matter before the Governor" and request the boy's release.   Ten months after he was sent away, on November 12, he was pardoned by Governor Frank S. Black.

At the turn of the century No. 332 was filled mostly with garment manufacturers.  The Net Spot Cash Pants Co. employed 26 men and 5 women in 1901.  Stuetz & Mink, clothing makers, were in the building, as were the Bargain Knee Pants Co., and Cooper & Lambert, skirt makers.  Employees in each of the factories worked 54 hours per week.

One tenant not involved in the apparel trade was P. H. Gross & Sons, manufacturers' representatives.  Among its clients was the American Safe Co.  The firm would remain in the building from 1900 through 1902.

New-York Tribune, December 27, 1900 (copyright expired)

The first years of the 20th century brought problems to several of the tenants of No. 332.  Maisel Brothers & Drusin, cloak manufacturers, had moved in by 1902 when Charles Maisel was arrested and held in $100 bail.  The New-York Tribune reported he "was charged with employing a fourteen-year-old girl, Sarah Lipkind, without a permit."

Charles Maisel did not learn his lesson from the arrest.  In 1904 he and his partners were fined again for "employing children under 16 without board of health certificates."

And in March that year Maisel Brothers & Druisin was hit with a violation from the Board of Health because of the filthy conditions of the bathrooms.  They were not the only tenant who failed the inspection.  Inspectors found Sam and Max Hirsch guilty of three violations--"Failure to provide suitable and separate water-closets," "failure to lime wash walls and ceilings," and "failure to clean and keep clean water-closets."

While the two firms scrubbed their toilets and painted their walls, another was facing a financial crisis.  The owners solved the problem by sneaking out and disappearing.  On August 11, 1904 The New York Times reported "The place of business of Brody & Eisenberg, manufacturers of cloaks and suits at 332 Canal Street, has been closed up since Saturday last, and it is said that everything has been removed from the place."

Herman Wronkow lost No. 332 to foreclosure in 1908.  It was purchased at auction by Anna Woerishoffer on January 6 for the $75,000--about $2 million in today's dollars.   She still owned the building on May 18, 1920 when disaster struck.

At around 2:00 in the morning fire broke out in No. 326 Canal Street.  Before a second alarm could be sent in, the building was "a furnace," as described by a witness; and the blaze had spread to No. 332.   The New York Times reported "The building at 332 Canal Street was occupied by three dry goods firms, and within twenty minutes after the fire spread to the premises it was a mass of flames."

Anna Woerishoffer sold the burned out structure to Charles Laue four months later.  But rather than renovate, he resold it in March the following year to Cross Siclare Special Paper Cutting Company.  The New-York Tribune reported "extensive alterations are to be made to the premises by the purchaser for occupancy."

Cross Siclare leased space to Malis Powers Supply Co. in 1922  The Evening World, February 10, 1922 (copyright expired)

Cross Siclare and his brother, Nathan Siclare, used all of the building for their extensive paper cutting operation except the top floor, which was leased to Malis-Powers Supply Co.  In 1923, however, they took over that floor for a side business which quite possibly made even more money for the pair.

On Tuesday afternoon, December 4, 1923 John Kerrigan met with Cross Siclare regarding the prospective purchase of paper stock.  Saying he was in a hurry to finish things up, Kerrigan confided to Siclare that he had an appointment to meet a man who could sell him alcohol.  Siclare's attention was sparked and he pressed Kerrigan for more information.  It turned out that Kerrigan was not interested in buying a bottle of scotch or gin for his own consumption, but wanted 500 gallons.

Siclare dropped a bombshell.  He could provide that amount of good alcohol, he said.  Kerrigan wavered, then "he agreed to consider the offer if Siclare would furnish a 5-gallon sample," according to The New York Times two days later.

Cross Siclare provided the sample and Kerrigan left.  But when he returned the following day he was not alone.  John Kerrigan was an undercover Prohibition Agent who had originally come to No. 332 Canal Street on a tip.  What the raid uncovered was staggering.  The Times reported on the "seizure of fifteen stills and $50,000 worth of alcohol."  Both of the Siclare brothers and their shipping clerk, Edward A. Dorney, were arrested.  The article revealed that the entire top floor was set aside "for distilling the denatured alcohol."

Canal Street was a bit seedier by mid-century as hardware and plastics companies filled the street level shops.  In the mid 1950's No. 322 was home to Hercules Chemical Co., dealers in supplies like pipe threading cutting oil and liquid solder.

Popular Mechanics magazine, October 1955

But change came to the Tribeca and Soho neighborhoods in the last quarter of the century.  In 1978 The City Dump opened in the space where John J. Clark's Oyster & Chop House had been nearly a century earlier.   The store sold new goods at bargain prices ranging from tools to hair dryers, and from wok sets to camping gear.  It was a destination for shoppers for more than a decade.

The capitals of all but one of the engaged columns on the three upper floors have sadly been lost.

Then in 2000 a renovation by architect Jung Wor Chin resulted in two apartments per floor above the second floor.  The project restored the facade, but fell short of replacing lost elements like cast iron capitals or of simulating the decorative parapet.  Nevertheless, the integrity of Jobst Hoffman's handsome Queen Anne design mostly survives.

photographs by the author

Jobst Hoffman's 1880 No. 105 Christopher Street

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 19^th 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 20^th 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 20^th 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