The Lost Eldridge Street Jail - 22 Eldrige Street

22 Eldridge Street is the three-story building, second from left.  Close inspection of the single unshuttered window reveals iron bars.  from D. T. Valentine's Manual, 1860 (copyright expired)

On December 9, 1856, the New-York Daily Tribune reminisced about Eldridge Street, saying it "was not many years ago the northern limit of the city, and whilom [i.e., formerly] a quarter where many of the ancient Knickerbockers had their residences, and where, in ancient days...houses were built upon solid foundations."  The article pointed out 22 Eldridge Street, "between Division and Walker now, or soon to be called Canal."  A wealthy citizen who erected that residence, said the journalist, "probably intended [that it ] should shelter him and his children, and his children's children, even unto the third and fourth generation."  He mulled:

How little he thought that the time would come when the mansion-house would be converted, as it was, into a public school-house, instead of a dwelling for his children!

The writer was recalling the Hart & Belden school, which occupied part of the handsome, Georgian-style mansion by 1822.  The proprietors leased the building from the city, which, strangely enough, reserved the upper portion for a watch-house.  (Watch-houses were used as bases for night watchmen and for temporarily holding prisoners.)  

The privy in the rear yard, intended for a single family when erected, was sorely overused at the time.  The Minutes of the Common Council on April 29, 1822 described "the yard attached to the Watch house [is] in a filthy & offensive State and having become highly offensive to its occupants."  A resolution was passed to install a cesspool on the property.

In 1824, the building was leased to Seely & Olmstead, who continued to oversee the school.  The Minutes of the Common Council on April 26 that year reported that Seely & Olmstead "beg leave to state that there are Some Repairs absolutely necessary to be done for the preservation of the Building."  The Council allocated $25 to $30 to make repairs to the "upper part of the Watch house."

The type of temporary incarcerations in the Watch-House was exemplified in a January 29, 1839 article in The Evening Post.   The coroner was called to examine "the body of a man named Edward Norton, who was on Sunday night found drunk in the street, and brought to the Watch House by a Watchman, and died in the course of the night.  Verdict--death from intemperance."  

The bizarre symbiotic school-and-watch-house arrangement came to an end in 1841.  On May 11, the Board of Assistant Aldermen approved a resolution for " altering the Old Watching in to a Debtor's Prison."

The first debtor's prison in New York, according to Philip Klein's 1920 book Prison Methods in New York State, was opened in 1699.  The irony of the concept was that anyone could have the person who owed him money incarcerated, and that incarceration made the prisoner's ability to earn money to repay his accuser impossible.  In 1856, the New-York Tribune would remark, "Imprisonment for debt, in any form, is looked upon by us as a relic of a barbarous age," and yet the Debtor's Prison went on.

According to the newspaper on December 9, 1856, the parlor and second floors held ten cells each, "six upon one side and four on the other--seven single and three double, and of course only those next the front and rear walls are lighted, except at second hand through the cell doors opening into the hall."  The second floor was reserved for "United States prisoners."  In the basement were the kitchen and accommodations for the jailor's family.  The top floor was a single, large room outfitted with cots and could hold 35 "poor debtors."

Among the first to be jailed here was Lawrence Connelly, a recent immigrant.  Under the Federal Militia Act of 1792, all able-bodied white male citizens from 18 to 45 were required to enroll in the state militia.  Connelly and his family occupied a rear room at 59 Cross Street.  The New-York Tribune reported on January 1, 1842, "A notice to train [i.e. enroll] was left for him, in a front room, but he, residing in a back apartment, never saw or heard of it."  Connelly was arrested for "the non-performance of Militia duty, though he is an alien," reported the article.

The enraged newspaper titled its article "Military Despotism" and said, "He is without a dollar, while his family are without the necessaries of life, and suffering from sickness."  Mrs. Connelly went to "the Colonel" who told her "her husband may be let off upon the payment of the jail expenses."  The $5 fee--equal to $200 in 2026--"is utterly beyond their means," said the New-York Tribune.  The newspaper pleaded, "Will someone who has an extra five dollar bill see that this poor man is liberated this morning?"

The "jail expenses" that the Connellys faced was yet another ironic element of the debtor's prison.  The jailer was given the discretion of fixing "the price of board" for the prisoners.  And unlike other civic institutions, which were governed by the city, the jailer was not salaried.  Instead "this is a fee-office," explained the New-York Daily Tribune.  The newspaper noted, "It is an office where the incumbent must be strongly tempted to peculate upon the prisoners."  (In 1856, there was a fee of $1.50 "for receiving and discharging a prisoner," and a weekly "boarding fee.")

Not all prisoners were debtors.  A young woman arrived in New York City from France in 1843.  The National Anti-Slavery Standard reported on September 21 that she "was betrayed by a fellow in this city, under promise of marriage."  The woman told her friends of "the outrageous means to which he had forced her to resort to conceal the crime."  [Translated to 21st century terms: he had forced her to abort the pregnancy.]  Because the story spread, her former lover sued her for slander and she was locked up in the Eldridge Street Prison.  

The Eldridge Street Prison quickly earned a gruesome reputation.  On December 17, 1845, The Evening Post described it as "that loathsome abode" where "inhumanity and rascality are practised upon the unfortunate."

Perhaps the first instance of slaves being held here came in 1847.  The slave ship Lembranca was seized and the slaves brought to the Eldridge Street prison for holding.  Although slavery had been outlawed in New York for years, New York City's sympathies were, for the most part, with the South and those industries (like cotton) that were so important to New York City's finances.  On August 12, 1847, the National Anti-Slavery Standard reported that Judge Edwards had remanded the custody of the slaves to the Lembranca's captain.  

In response to the abolitionists who feared for the slaves' fates, the captain, "generously consented to take $300 each for them, affirming that they would be worth $500 each in Brazil," reported the newspaper.  The abolitionists took matters in their own hands.  When the captain arrived on August 9 to retrieve the slaves, they were gone.  The National Anti-Slavery Standard reported, "On Sunday night they were safe in their cells when the keeper retired to rest.  In the morning they were not to be found, though the keys of the keeper remained where he had put them the night before, on his table."

An article in the February 1856 issue of The Prisoners' Friend described the conditions here.  It said "the Jail in Eldridge street is a place of suffering, and a standing monument of public injustice."  If the prisoners "behave well," they were allowed to walk around in the corridor between cells.  "If noisy, or disobedient, they are sometimes confined for days in the cells."  At the end of the corridor was a single water closet "and this too is the place for washing."  The article continued:

Thither male and female, white and black, without any screen of decency other than the closet door, are forced to repair, and in the gradual loss of delicacy, moral and physical, stone for the crime of debt.

Charles Carpentier committed what newspapers termed The Great French Railway Fraud in 1856.  A cashier of the North Railway Company, he and his accomplices, Eugene and Louis Grelet, embezzled $1 million--nearly 40 times that much today--and fled to the United States.  

The Grelet brothers were captured and imprisoned in the Eldridge Street Jail.  Eugene Grelet would never leave.  On May 22, 1857, the New-York Daily Tribune reported, "A fortnight since his health began to decline, and the disease soon took the form of an inflammation of the brain."  Eugene Grelet died in the jail on May 21.  Many wondered what actually precipitated the young man's death.

On July 23, 1860, the slave brig William R. Kirby was captured by a United States steamer.  The crew had fled, "leaving their breakfast uneaten upon the table," said The New York Times.  The William R. Kirby arrived in New York City on August 13.  In searching the vessel, three young boys were discovered hiding in the hold.  About 12 or 14 years old, they were naked other than "trinkets of brass and copper" hung around their necks.  The boys were taken to the Eldridge Street Prison "where they will be comfortably quartered until they are wanted as witnesses against the vessel," said the article.  (How they were expected to testify is unclear, since, of course, the African youths did not speak English.)

After visiting the Eldridge Street Jail in the fall of 1860 and seeing the boys fed, a writer wrote to the editor of the New-York Dispatch.  His racist recount said in part:

If you will call about the time rations are served...you will see them served to the prisoners, worse than any decent man would feed his hogs.  You will see wild African boys from the coast of Africa, captured from a slaver, rushing foremost for their supplies, half naked, and with unwashed hands, howling their gibberish, while respectable gentlemen, who are retained here merely on ex parte and malicious affidavits, charging debt and fraud, but totally unsupported, are compelled to stand back until these semi-savages are served.

In 1862, the new Ludlow Street Jail opened and replaced the Eldridge Street facility.  No. 22 Eldridge Street was leased to John Connelly in March 1864 "at $490 per annum," according to the New-York Tribune.  (The annual rent would translate to about $10,400 in 2026 terms.)   He converted it to a rooming house.

The city sold the property to Connelly in April 1867 for $9,900.  In reporting the sale, the New-York Tribune described it as being "formerly the 'Eldridge-st. Jail.'  The building is of brick, about 25 feet front and 55 feet in depth.  It is rather old and somewhat dilapidated."

Connelly demolished the vintage structure later that year.  It was replaced by a four-story Italianate-style brick building that survives.

photograph by Secret Egypt

G. Fred. Pelham's 1891 110 Eighth Avenue

Real estate developers Weil & Mayer embarked on an astonishingly ambitious project in 1891, demolishing all the vintage structures on the east side of Eighth Avenue between 15th and 16th Street and hiring architect G. Fred. Pelham to design a sprawling complex of store-and-flat buildings on the site.  Pelham designed the structures, eight on the avenue and one each on the side streets, in the Romanesque Revival style.  Above the storefronts, the openings altered from arched to square-headed floor-by-floor.  Faced in light-colored brick and trimmed in terra cotta and brownstone, their design strayed from pure Romanesque with Renaissance Revival terra cotta plaques on the side streets and occasional Queen Anne sunburst parapets atop the Eighth Avenue cornices.  Most strikingly, perhaps, (and a commission that kept stone carvers busy for months), were the portrait keystones above the arched openings--exactly 100 of them.  Each one carved with its own personality, some grimacing, some smiling, others seemingly crying out.

Painted today, these three keystone exemplify the stone carvers' craft and the variety of their work.

Typical of the buildings was 110 Eighth Avenue, one of the two middle structures.  It, like the others, filled with working class families.  

Among its early tenants was Joseph Garity, born in Ireland in 1858.  On May 21, 1893, he went to Isaac Frankel's second-hand clothing store on Seventh Avenue to buy a coat.  He attempted to haggle with Dora Frankel, who was tending the store, about the price of a coat.  The New York Herald recounted their discussion:

"That's $9," said Mrs. Frankel.

"I'll give you six.  It's only worth five," said Garity.

"It's worth fifteen, but you can have it for nine," returned the proprietress.

Garity put his hand in his pocket and produced $6.50 and a razor.  He opened the razor.

"Now, will you take $6.50, or won't you?" he demanded.

"Get out of my place," ordered Mrs. Frankel.

The Evening World reported that he "slashed at Mrs. Frankel."  Dora Frankel jumped back, and screamed, and ran behind the counter.  Her scream caught the attention of a policeman who was passing by.  The New York Herald said said he, "ran in to find Mrs. Frankel and Garity doing a turn around the counter, the woman being well in the lead."  Rather than buying a coat, Garity ended his day in jail.  The New York Herald commented, "He is a tough character and has done time."

The stupefying row as it appears today.  No. 110 Eighth Avenue is behind the black car.

A tenant named Livingston and his wife, Alice, lived at 110 Eighth Avenue in the mid-1890s.  Livingston was a traveling salesman and the couple took in a boarder, Edith Reed.  Livingston was on the road in upstate New York in June 1896.  

Early on the morning of June 13, Policemen Lane and Culhane were walking their rounds when Alice and Edith hollered at them from the apartment window.  The policemen arrived to find the two women holding a pair of young men hostage.  The incredible story they recounted was a bit hard to believe.

According to Alice Livingston, at 2:30 a.m. she and Edith were "startled by a knock on the door."  Alice opened it and two men, Martin Maroney and David Rosenheim, 27 and 28 years old respectively, pushed their way in.  Alice said she had never seen them before and ordered them out, but they laughed at her.  Rosenheim went into Alice's bedroom.  The New York Times reported, "She followed to eject him, but Maroney, without any warning, threw her down and held her, and with the help of Rosenheim took $50 in five-dollar bills from her clothing."  The men attempted to flee, but Edith locked the door, trapping them inside.  The women then screamed for help from the window.  (Ten five-dollar bills were found in Rosenheim's pocket.)

In the Jefferson Market the next day, Maroney and Rosenheim told a much different story.  They told the magistrate that they frequently called on the women when Livingston was away on business.  The New York Times reported that they testified, "on this occasion earlier in the evening they had displayed the money, and the women had fixed up this story so as to get possession of it."  The men were held in $1,000 bail each awaiting trial.

At the time of the incident, the store in 110 Eighth Avenue was home to William Baum's grocery.

Like the buildings' keystones, the carved faces above the entrance to 110 Eighth Avenue were different.  Their distinctly disparate styles suggest they were carved by different artisans.

A horrific tragedy occurred here on June 4, 1899.  The New York Journal and Advertiser reported, "Kizia Chapman, one year old, fell to the sidewalk from a window on the second floor of No. 110 Eighth avenue, yesterday afternoon, while playing there with her mother."  The little girl's skull was fractured and she died in the New York Hospital shortly afterward.

Tenant Madge Corcoran was 30-years-old and unmarried in 1904.  She was one of the party of five couples who went on what The New York Times termed an "automobile party" on the night of October 6 that year.  Albert Noyes drove the group in his "big Panhard touring automobile," reported The Evening World.

Another member of the party, Thomas Murphy, told investigators later, "We went to Mount Vernon and we stopped at every roadhouse on the way."  The party's revelry turned to tragedy in an instant just past midnight.  The Evening World reported that Noyes drove his car, "in which was a gay party of five women and four men," over the 30-foot embankment at Jerome Avenue and 161st Street.  The big automobile landed on the tracks of the New York Central Railroad.  The article said it, "was struck by a swiftly moving train and reduced to fragments in a twinkling."  Madge Corcoran was one of the passengers who were instantly killed.

William Baum still operated his grocery store on the ground floor on July 21, 1913 when a fire broke out in packing cases in the cellar early that morning.  It was discovered by Patrolman Thomas J. Eagan who, "ran through the house and warned the tenants," as reported by The Evening Post, which said he "led nearly one hundred and fifty tenants to the roof...while fire raged in the basement."  The article said:

Those rescued were Mrs. Bridget Flynn, eighty-six years old, an invalid, and Miss Rose Sazoretti, sixteen years old.  Mrs. Flynn was partly overcome by smoke, and was revived by the other tenants.  Miss Sazoretti, who was in her apartment on the fourth floor, was revived on reaching the roof.

The rescue of Bridget Flynn was more dramatic than the report initially made it sound.  Officer Egan discovered, after he thought everyone was safe, that James Bernie, his wife Edna, and Bridget Flynn (Edna Bernie's aunt) were missing.  He went back into the building to find Egan trying valiantly to carry Bridget Flynn up the stairs.  With the help of the Bernies, he carried the invalid woman to the roof.

William Baum's grocery store was taken over by Ginsberg Brothers, operated by I. Ginsberg, by 1918.  Ginsberg got into trouble with the Federal Government because of World War I price controls.  On January 26, 1918, The New York Times reported that the Federal Food Board heard a case "against a retail grocer who frankly admitted that he had overcharged for sugar."  The New-York Tribune said, "After five hours' examination Ginsberg admitted his offence and turned over to the board his $186.94 excess profit."  

Tenant John Garland, a truck driver, went to the Marlborough Grill on Broadway and 36th Street on Saturday night, October 7, 1922.  Prohibition had been in effect for two years and, unfortunately for him, a plain clothes detective was on duty there, too.  The 22-year-old was caught with a pint bottle of liquor and arrested.  

Garland worked for Denzer & Nathan, which dealt in silk.  Two years after his regrettable encounter with the agent, he was in the news again.  On the night of October 6, 1924, he got behind the wheel of a Denzer & Nathan truck, loaded with $25,000 worth of silk.  (The figure would translate to about $471,000 in 2026.)  His assistant, James McCarthy was in the passenger seat.  They made it as far as West 28th Street near Tenth Avenue when the truck was forced to the curb by six armed men.

Garland and McCarthy were loaded into the crooks' automobile and taken to First Avenue and 81st Street where they were released.  The following day, the New York Evening Post reported, "Police had to little to work on today in their hunt for six armed bandits who held up and escaped" with the trunk.

image via the NYC Dept of Records & Information Services.

Andrew Ventroff lived in 110 Eighth Avenue in 1933.  A registered Communist, he was part of an enormous throng who assembled at a Brooklyn pier on May 25 that year to confront Hass Weidemann.  The New York Times explained that Weidemann was the "representative of Chancellor Hitler" at the Chicag0 Century of Progress Exposition.  German artist, Gotthold Schneider, accompanied him on the voyage.

When the more than 1,000 Communists, carrying placards and banners, mobbed the pier, the two Nazis were spirited away in a tugboat.  The New York Times said, "The disturbance began, when on learning that they had been balked of the object of their attack, the Communists started several fights with persons whose sympathies appeared to be on the side of Hitler."  A melee between 100 policemen and the mass of Communists erupted.  In the end, 43 of the protestors were arrested (including Andrew Ventroff), and four policemen and three Communists were injured.

The storefront was remodeled during the Depression years with a faux stone front.  In the 1970s, it was home to Gilbert's Army & Navy Store.  

image via the NYC Dept of Records & Information Services

The complex of buildings was intact in 1940 (above).  The misguided painting of the masonry and removal of the cornice in the late 20th century greatly impaired the buildings' architectural integrity.

By then, the cornice had been removed from all the buildings and the masonry painted.  Sadly, those modernizations significantly diluted G. Fred. Pelham's personable 1891 design.

photographs by the author 

The 1929 240 East 79th Street

Frederick Godwin's upper floor design was created, mostly, by strategically placed small, medium and large-sized windows.

The Great Depression was one year away in 1928.  Raymond B. Fenner was the president of the newly formed 240 East 79th Street Corporation and that year the syndicate hired Godwin, Thompson & Patterson to design a 16-story-and-penthouse apartment building on the south side of East 79th Street between Second and Third Avenues.  Reportedly Frederick Godwin was the lead architect on the project.  The plans, filed on December 10, 1928, projected the costs at $300,000, or about $5.6 million in 2026 terms.

For the most part, Godwin's Art Deco design was unexciting.  Faced in rough-faced variegated brown brick, its scheme relied greatly on the placement of fenestration and thin vertical lines of darker brick.  But the single-story base was another story altogether.

Godwin faced it with orange-hued tiles set off with vibrant mossy-green terra cotta.  At the corners were fluted pilasters topped with curved volutes that suggest that another half is hidden in the adjoining wall.  Similar pilasters flank two narrow windows, their caps fully formed and embracing an octagonal plaque of veined gray stone.  The tour-de-force is the entranceway.  Reeded gray stone pilasters on either side are topped with Empire State Building-like silhouettes.  Above the entrance, the address is announced in Art Deco lettering.  A sinuous hood, like a cresting wave or calla lily petal, sits above a large octagonal gray stone plaque.

On August 25, 1929 The New York Times reported that artist Ruth Carroll had been hired "to paint murals for the entrance hall of the new sixteen-story apartment house."  The article said, "Her paintings will depict the skyline, bridges and vistas of modern New York."  Two weeks earlier, the newspaper had reported that 240 East 79th Street "is rapidly nearing completion and is nearly 50 per cent leased."

An advertisement in Town & Country on September 15, 1929 offered three- or four-room apartments with one or two baths and "large living rooms, outside dining rooms."  Rents started at $1,350 a year, or about $2,100 a month in today's terms.  There were two "sky maisonettes" on the penthouse level.  An advertisement in The New Yorker noted that they included, "real kitchens."

Among those who signed leases during construction were Percy O'Gorman, advertising manager of Durham Duplex Razor Company; Dr. Claude E. Heaton; Dr. Anthony Fugassi; and Charles E. Gautier, secretary of J. H. Gautier Company, a crucibles firm.  

Taking one of the penthouses was he 24-year-old Charles Cavendish.  Upon his moving in, The New York Sun remarked on June 17, 1930, "Lord Charles, who is the second son of the Duke of Devonshire, is engaged in the banking business in New York."  Cavendish worked for J. P. Morgan & Co. and was romantically involved with Adele Astaire, the sister of Fred Astaire and his dancing partner.  The two had met in London in 1927.  Cavendish's residency here would be relatively short.  On October 23, 1931, Reuters reported that Adele "confirmed her engagement to Lord Charles Cavendish."  The couple was married in Chatsworth House, Cavendish's ancestral home near Chesterfield, England, in 1932 and they remained there.

Newlyweds Gardner Hale and Dorothy A. Donovan were also initial residents.  Hale was born in Chicago in 1894 and educated at Yale.  He studied art in Rome and Paris and at the Art Students League in New York.  Hale was well-known as a muralist and, according to The New York Sun, was "generally credited with the revival in this country of fresco painting."  Gardner and Dorothy were married in 1929.  She was his second wife.  His first wife was author Marie Louise Gibson, who used the pseudonym Maryse Rutledge.  They were divorced in 1926.

In November 1931, Gardner and Dorothy Hale went to Long Beach, California for a six-month stay.  On December 28, Hale headed for San Francisco alone.  The next day, The New York Sun reported, "The body of Gardner Hale, young painter of murals and frescoes, was found yesterday at the bottom of a 500-foot precipice, forty miles from Santa Maris, where his automobile had plunged from a highway."  Hale was 37 years old.

Azel Farnsworth Hatch and Dorothy Doane were married in August 1932 and moved into one of the penthouses.  Hatch, who had served in World War I and decorated with the Croix de Guerre, was president of A. F. Hatch & Co., bankers.  

Four months later, on December 10, the Times Union reported that Dorothy "was found in their penthouse apartment...early today with a bullet wound over her heart.  The shot was fired from a Luger pistol, war souvenir of her husband."

Police found Dorothy in a negligee on the living room floor.  According to the Times Union, Dorothy muttered, "I did it myself," then lapsed into a coma.  Hatch told the police that Dorothy had discovered the firearm while "cleaning out a closet."  She "asked her husband what she was to do with it," recounted The New York Times.  "It was discharged and a bullet entered her chest."  The incident was deemed an accident, however Hatch was charged with a violation of the Sullivan Law, an early gun control statute.

The boyish-looking Azel F. Hatch earned $100,000 a year, according to his wife (a comfortable $2.3 million today).  The Daily News, December 19, 1936.

The Hatches' marriage did not last and when Dorothy filed for separation on December 18, 1936, she told the court the truth of the incident four years earlier.  The Daily News reported, "It was attempted murder, and not an accident, she told the Manhattan Supreme Court."  The New York Post said in part:

Telling the Supreme Court about it, she said she was sitting on her husband's lap, weeping and pleading with him about something or other on the night of December 9, 1932.  Without warning, she said, her husband picked up a German Luger pistol, a little trinket he had taken from some German prisoner, and shot her.

Azel Hatch, not surprisingly, gave a different version of the incident (although this one, too, differed from the couple's original story).  He said that Dorothy had "snatched up the gun and fired it herself."  He added that he "didn't stop her when she grabbed the gun because he was amused.  Besides, he was sure the gun wasn't loaded."  Dorothy obtained her divorce and Azel was never charged with attempted murder.

Another titled resident, Josef Franz, Archduke of Austria and Prince of Hungary, and his wife, Princess Anna of Saxony, moved into 240 East 79th Street in 1937.  The couple was married in October 1924 and had five children.  (Three more would come later.)  Archduke Josef Franz was born in 1895 to the last Palatine of Hungary.

Archduke Joseph Franz and Princess Anna Monika Pia.  (original source unknown)

The Nazi annexation of Austria had made staying in Europe dangerous for the family.  The members of the imperial family discovered that they would quickly need to adapt to American rules and customs.  The same applied to the family's staff.  On January 7, 1938, The New York Times reported, "Archduke Franz Josef of Austria was fined a dollar for overtime parking."  The Archduke's chauffeur explained in traffic court, "the Archduke is unfamiliar with traffic regulations here," said the article.

America's entry to World War II resulted in several residents of 240 West 79th Street going off to the front.  Dr. Emil E. Napp, who lived here with his wife, the former Ruth Marschalk, was on the staff of the Flower-Fifth Avenue Hospital.  He became a commander with the Navy Medical Corps in the South Pacific.  Napp received the Navy and Marine Corps medal for his work on Guadalcanal in 1942, and was awarded the Silver Star on May 19, 1944.

Another resident doctor was Gurney Taylor.  He rose to the rank of lieutenant colonel with the American Seventh Army in France.  He was attached to the Ninth Evacuation Hospital in the Vosges Forest, which was, somewhat astonishingly, "manned by the veteran Roosevelt Hospital Unit from New York," as reported by The New York Times on October 29, 1944.

240 East 79th Street soared above the neighboring buildings in 1940.  via the NYC Dept of Records & Information Services.

Two other residents returned from the war in 1945.  One was Captain Carel Van Heukelom, and the other Barbara Murphy, one of 280 volunteer workers of the American Red Cross who served in the European theatre of operations.  Barbara told a reporter that "she had drive a clubmobile during her eighteen months overseas," adding, "Oh, I made the Grand Tour."

A fascinating resident was Marjorie T. Bellows, here at midcentury.  Born in 1906, she earned her masters degree in statics at the Columbia School of Public Heath.  From 1928 to 1929 she was senior statistician at the New York State Health Department.  She joined the American Heart Association in 1946 and became its senior staff member.  While there she directed investigations into the statistical aspects of cardiovascular issues, like rheumatic fever.  Bellows, who never married, developed the technique of "case registers," that analyzed the nature and uses of recording systems in public health administration.

Among Marjorie Bellows's neighbors in the building at the time was actress Lili Darvas.  Born in Hungary in 1902, she made a name on the Budapest stage as a young woman, debuting in 1921 as the female lead in Romeo and Juliet.  She married playwright Ferenc Molnar in 1926.  Lili was appearing in Vienna in 1938 when the Nazi troops invaded.  She said later that "she simply packed her things, walked onto a train to Switzerland and departed" with her Hungarian passport.  

The couple arrived in New York and Lili Darvas first appeared on stage here in 1941 in The Criminals.  Molnar died in 1952, and Lili continued acting, appearing in roles that most often portrayed characters fitting her European background.  Such was the case when she played the domineering mother of Sigmund Freud in the Henry Denker drama A Far Country.

Lili Darvas and Billy Mumy in a 1961 Twilight Zone episode, "Long Distance Call."  CBS Television publicity shot.

The indefatigable actress did not restrict herself to the stage, film or television.  On June 13, 1963, The New York Times interviewed her regarding her upcoming catering stint.  She had been asked by another actress to prepare an after-theater dinner party for 50 guests.

Lili Darvas died in her apartment here on August 22, 1974 at the age of 72.  

In September 1984, The New York Times reported that 240 East 79th Street was undergoing a cooperative conversion.   Among the new apartment owners in 1989 was bond trader Jeffrey M. Stambovsky, who placed a down payment on a country house that August.  He got buyer's remorse when he picked up a 1977 Readers' Digest article titled, "Our Haunted House on the Hudson."  In it, Helen V. Ackley, from whom he was buying the 18-room Victorian residence in Nyack, wrote about its ghosts.  The New York Times reported on March 16, 1990, "She described one as a 'cheerful apple-cheeked man' who looked more like Santa Claus than Rex Harrison in 'The Ghost and Mrs. Muir.'"

Stambovsky sued to get his money back.  He claimed in court that publicity of the ghost stories "threatened the house's property value" and that Mrs. Ackley "never told him about the ghosts."  Unfortunately for Stambovsky, while the judge agreed that the stories might affect the property values, he said that Ackerly "was not required to tell Mr. Stambovsky of any ghosts."

Thankfully, little has changed outwardly to 290 East 79th Street in its nearly 100 years of existence.  And, although Ruth Carroll's Art Deco lobby murals have been painted over, outside Godwin, Thompson and Patterson's bold and striking ground floor elements are showstoppers to this day.

photographs by the author

The Gluck-Zimbalist House - 225-227 East 49th Street

 

image via streeteasy.com

Alma Gluck was born Reba Feinsohn in Romania in 1884.  Her marriage to insurance agent Bernard Glick produced a daughter, Marcia.  By 1912, when Alma divorced Glick, she was an internationally-renowned operatic soprano.  That year she took a sabbatical from the stage to study in Europe.

In the meantime, Efrem Zimbalist, too, had earned fame in classical music.  Born in Russia in 1889, he was a violin prodigy.  He was first violin in his father's orchestra at the age of nine, and entered the Saint Petersburg Conservatory at the age of 12.  By 1910 he ranked as one of the world's greatest violinists.  He was, as well, a composer and conductor.

The two stars collided shortly after Alma's divorce and in 1914 they were married in London.  They would have two children, Maria Virginia and Efrem Jr. 

In 1926, Alma and Efrem purchased the two high-stooped brownstones at 225 and 227 East 49th Street.  They hired architect Grosvenor Atterbury to design a double mansion on the site--one residence for the Zimbalist family and the other as rental income.  

Completed in 1927, the charming neo-Tudor-style structure appeared outwardly as a single home.  Inside the main entrance, slightly below grade, occupants entered left or right into their respective homes.  The facade's irregular brick, which gave the appearance of age, was enhanced with Tudor-style half-timbering.  Within the intricately carved tympanum of the entrance, plaques directed visitors to the correct doorway inside.  Above the entrance is a slate-shingled hood crowned by a heraldic shield with a violin against a sheet of music.  Below it, Tudor-style lettering announces, "Erected In The Year 1926."

The Gluck-Zimbalist mansion replaced two houses similar to the existing homes on either side in this photo.  image via the NYC Dept of Records & Information Services. 

The vast grouping of multi-paned windows on the second and third floors carried on the Tudor motif, as did the three picturesque gables that pierced the slate shingled roof.

The Zimbalist family moved into 227 East 49th Street and rented No. 229 to Marie Corcoran Eustis Hofmann and her daughter, Josefa.  Alma and Efrem were well acquainted with Marie and they were keeping a well-kept secret.  Marie married the famous pianist Josef Hofmann in 1905.  The bride was ten years older than the groom.  Hofmann met 15-year-old piano student Betty Short in 1922.  Two years later the Hofmanns were secretly divorced.  Hofmann and Short had a child the following year.

According to Elizabeth Carr in her Josef Hofmann, The Piano's Forgotten Giant, the split was costly for Hofmann.  He was compelled to deposit $100,000 in trust for Josefa until she reached the age of 21.  "Marie Hofmann was awarded an annual sum of $12,500 dollars, payable in monthly installments for life or until her remarriage."  (Marie's annual alimony would equal about $236,000 in 2026.)

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

The secret was finally made public in 1928 when Josef Hofmann and Betty Short were married.  The New York Times reported on April 3, "The first Mrs. Hofmann, who lives at 225 East Forty-ninth Street with the pianist's 21-year-old daughter, Josefa, refused to discuss stories of the divorce and remarriage."

Four months later, in August, Marie sublet the house to Henry Luce and his wife, the former Lila Ross Hotz.  Born in 1898, Luce was a co-founder and editor-in-chief of Time magazine.  The couple were married in 1923.  Luce would go on to found Life, Fortune and Sports Illustrated.  The 1930 census shows the couple living here with their five-year-old son, Henry Jr., 10-month-old son Peter, and six French-born servants.

Henry Luce, from the collection of the Library of Congress

Next door, the Zimbalist family started out in their new mansion with drama.  In July 1927, Alma visited famed diva Dame Nellie Melba in Melbourne, Australia.  Melba gave Alma a bulldog puppy named So-So.  (The New York Times later said it "got the name because it just about described his size.")  Alma had to sweet talk the captain of the S. S. Maruka to get her puppy home.  The New York Times explained, "under no circumstances were dogs allowed on board."

Alma confessed that when she returned to 227 East 49th Street, much of the welcome she expected from her children "was lavished on So-So."  The children were broken hearted on October 3, 1927 when someone left a door ajar and So-So ran away.  The crisis was reported by newspapers city-wide.

Happily, two days later The New York Sun reported, "So-so, the wander, So-so, the poor little rich dog has been returned to his house."  The article said he had made it "no father than the corner of Lexington avenue and Forty-ninth street."  It was no doubt the newspaper coverage that led the finder to the Zimbalists.  The New York Sun said that with So-So's adventure having been cut short, he had "resigned himself to the cushioned existence he seems fated to lead."

Marcia Gluck Clarke had moved into 225 East 49th Street with her mother and step-father.  She and Frank Delmas Clarke had divorced in 1926 and she was now on the editorial staff of The New Yorker.  The mansion was the scene of her wedding to author Russell Wheeler Davenport on May 13, 1929.  

Efrem and Alva Gluck Zimbalist.  from the collection of the Library of Congress

The Zimbalists had highly-visible houseguests in 1929 in architect Alfred Henry Bossom and his wife, the former Emily Bayne.  On November 10, The New York Times reported that the Bossoms "will give a musicale tonight at the home of Mr. and Mrs. Efrem Zimbalist."  And, indeed, they did.  The following day, the newspaper listed the names of the 108 guests.  Efrem Zimbalist was the principal performer that evening.  Among socially elite surnames on the guestlist like Brokaw, Bache, Guggenheim and Blumenthal were titled invitees like Count and Countess de Zellombrosa, Sir Harry and Lady Armstrong, and the Countess of Crawbrook.

Another glittering social event held here was the 20th anniversary celebration of Efrem's American debut on October 12, 1931.  Conductor and composer Walter Damrosch acted as master of ceremonies.  The New York Times reported, "Among those present were Josef Hofmann, Josef Lhevinne, Mischa Levitzki, John Erskine, Hermann Irion, Mme. Olga Samaroff, Yolanda Mëro, Reinald Werrenrath, Paul Kochanski and George Engles."

In 1932, Efrem made a concert tour of the Far East.  He was scheduled to appear in Manchuria, which was currently embroiled in a war with Japan.  According to The New York Times on November 26, "The two trains that preceded his were blown up, and he decided finally that the residents perhaps could get along without his musical contributions to happiness."  The violinist continued to tour and on April 5, 1934 The New York Times reported that he had "accepted an invitation of the Soviet Government to give recitals in all the large cities in Russia during the month of May."

Henry and Lila Luce were divorced in 1935 and Henry married author, politician playwright Ann Clare Boothe, who went by her middle name.  Henry gave up the lease on 225 East 49th Street.  The Zimbalists next tenant was William Morris Jr., president of the William Morris Agency, a talent agency founded by his father in 1898.

Maria Virginia Zimbalist was married to Ogden Goelet in the mansion on April 19, 1938.  The New York Sun reported, "Because of the illness of Mrs. Zimbalist, who is known on the concert stage as Alma Gluck, only members of the two families are witnessing the ceremony."

Six months later, on October 28, The Omaha World-Herald titled an article, "Alma Gluck Who Sacrificed Career for Family Dies After Long Illness."  It was one of hundreds of newspapers world-wide that reported on Alma's death.  The article said, "Millions who have never seen the interior of the Metropolitan opera house knew and loved Alma Gluck's voice, which reached homes throughout the world on phonograph records."

Efrem Zimbalist did not remain at 227 East 49th Street especially long.  In 1940, he leased it to Max Palm and the following year to Irving Wayland Bonbright Jr.  In 1941, Nathalia Collver signed "a long lease," according to The New York Times.  The educator was the wife of Clinton Collver, economist and author.  She converted 227 West 49th Street to the private Scudder-Collver School.

Music returned to 227 West 49th Street in the summer of 1943.  On June 26, 1943, The New York Post reported on the upcoming benefit concert of Elmo Russ.  The article said it "will be held at the Scudder-Collver School, 227 East 40th Street."

The school occupied the house until 1944, when it was relocated into the former Goodridge mansion at 122 East 78th Street.

Wurts Bros. took this photograph in 1927, the year the Zimbalists moved in.  from the collection of the Museum of the City of New York.

A drastic change came in 1957.  On February 31, The New York Times reported that the New York City Police Department had rented Nos. 225-227.  "The twenty-room structure, which has thirteen bathrooms, is actually two houses with one entrance," said the article.  Both sides were unoccupied at the time, however The New York Times said, "Twenty-five detectives and 194 uniformed policemen" would soon "move into the former Ease Side home of Efrem Zimbalist, the violinist, and his first wife, the late Alma Gluck."  The 17th Precinct station was slated for demolition.  The residences would serve as a temporary precinct house until the new building was completed.  The certificate of occupancy noted that despite alterations, "there shell be no detention rooms in the building."

Following the Department's removal, in 1965 the building was converted to apartments--four each on the first through third floors and two on the fourth.  Happily, despite the renovations, Grosvenor Atterbury's charming neo-Tudor exterior has survived.

The Rosenmiller Drugstore Building - 172 Eighth Avenue

 

In 1843, John Hoey and his family lived above his grocery store at 172 Eighth Avenue.  The three-story, brick-faced building was a near match to several Greek Revival-style store-and-house structures recently built on the avenue.  The residential entrance, flanked by narrow sidelights, sat above two steps.  Typical of the style, the upper floors included unassuming brownstone lintels and a modest wooden cornice. 

The Greek Revival entrance to the upper floors was relatively intact as late as 1940.  via the NYC Dept of Records & Information Services.

As early as 1848, Lewis Adolphus Rosenmiller's pharmacy shared the ground floor with Hoey's grocery.  Rosenmiller's family moved into the upper floors and the Hoey family relocated to 187 West 20th Street.

Born on February 14, 1807, Rosenmiller married Ann Grier Barnitz on November 26, 1844.  The couple had five children: Mary K., Charles Louis, Adolphus, Jane, and Mary Cope.

Early 19th century pharmacists were called chemists because they mixed the prescriptions they filled.  But ready-made cures were also available at the Rosenmiller drugstore, like Dr. Caywood's Preparation.  An advertisement on August 26, 1848, touted it as "A never-failing remedy for hard or soft Corns."  And in January 1853, Jones' Italian Chemical Soap and Coral Hair Restorative were offered here.  "One cures every skin disease, chapped or sore flesh, eruptions, scurvy, &c.; the other dresses the hair finely, stops it falling, makes it grow, &c.," said an advertisement.

By the time of the latter ad, John Hoey had moved his grocery slightly northward, to 195 Eighth Avenue.  Lewis Rosenmiller's drugstore had become an important fixture in the Chelsea community, and Rosenmiller was a trustee of the 16th Ward's public schools.

Around 1857, Rosenmiller took in a partner, Alexander Menzies and the new partner moved into the upper floors with the Rosenmiller family for about a year.

The store and two others on Eighth Avenue were the victims of a con artist on March 25, 1857.  That day, Charles Macomber entered each of the drugstores and "asked for a bottle of Kellinger's liniment, and offered in payment at each place, a five dollar bank note on the Buffalo City Bank," explained the New-York Tribune.  He then left with his liniment and $4.50 in change.  The proprietors would later discover that the $5 notes were worthless.  The scam cost the druggists about $200 in today's money.

Rosenmiller's partnership with Menzies was short-lived.  By the early 1860s, the store was again being run solely by Rosenmiller.  It was, as well, a gathering place.  The New York Herald would later recall:

His office was the resort of the literati and medical practitioners of the locality, and it was the scene of many a learned discussion on medical science, politics and questions of the day.

Margaret Rebecca Rosenmiller, obviously a relative, was suffering from consumption in 1866, the mid-19th century term for tuberculosis.  Even Rosenmiller's medical knowledge could not save the 20-year-old and she died on the evening of May 9.  Her funeral was held in the family's parlor the following evening.

At the time, the Rosenmillers' landlady was Janet S. Pound.  She sold the building to Andrew R. Leggat on February 23, 1871 and he continued to rent the property to Rosenmiller.

On his 68th birthday, February 14, 1875, Lewis Adolphus Rosenmiller suffered a fatal stroke.  In reporting his death, the New York Herald praised:

He was one of the original pioneers of the Sixteenth ward, when that locality was known as Chelsea village and all of Manhattan Island above Bleecker street was looked upon as being in the country.

Calling Rosenmiller "a man of irreproachable character," the article said, "on the west side no one was more widely known and respected."  

Eight months later, on October 26, 1875, a succinct advertisement appeared in the New York Herald:  "Drug store for sale--To close an estate.  172 Eighth avenue."

The drugstore was converted to Isaac Westervelt's butcher store.  Widow Ann Burns now operated the upper two floors as a boarding house.  Her residents in 1876 were James Cullan, who was in the furniture business; real estate agent James Gallagher; John McDade, a drover; and engineer John Sims.

Isaac Westervelt got into trouble with Sanitary Inspector Brennan.  On July 10, 1878 he was charged for the second time "in violation of the Sanitary Code."  He was charged with "housing a large number of chickens."

The butcher store soon changed hands.  Max Meyer ran it in 1879, followed by Leon Winkler by the early 1890s.  Winkler moved his business to New Jersey in 1894.  Four years later, his name was involved in a mysterious case.

On July 1, 1898, the New York Herald reported that a young man had stumbled across a metal safety deposit box while "crossing the Hackensack meadows in North Bergen."  Police opened it and found "Italian and French bonds to the face value of $5,000.  There was also a bill of exchange for 100 gulden, payable to Leon Winkler, and a policy of insurance for $1,000, made out in the same name with the address, 172 Eighth avenue, New York."

Presumably, the safety deposit box had been stolen from Winkler, but no report had been filed.  Police went to 172 Eighth Avenue and found that Franz Amb was running his delicatessen in the shop.  The landlady, Mrs. Langtree, told them, according to the New York Herald, that "she remembered Mr. Winkler as a man who had kept a butcher shop there for about three years, but had moved away...She had never heard him speak of having been robbed."  Whether the mystery was ever solved is unclear.

On June 12, 1899, Andrew Leggat transferred title to the building to Jennie Z. Leggat.  Occupying the store at the time was Henry Beck's butcher shop.

Among the tenants of 172 Eighth Avenue in 1920 was Joseph B. Franklin Jr.  On the night of April 23 that year, just three months after Prohibition was enacted, he drove to Brooklyn and met two men who had whisky in their truck.  Unfortunately for all three, Patrolman Harry Cohen had the day off in recognition of his being awarded a medal for bravery.  Cohen celebrated by taking his wife to the theater.

The New-York Tribune reported that as Cohen was purchasing the tickets, "he saw a man take a case of whisky from the tail of a truck, put it into an auto runabout and start away."  The article said that Cohen, "forgetting all about his day off," sprang into action.  He overtook Franklin, then ordered him to follow the truck.  All three men were arrested and the truck, containing $7,000 worth of whisky, was confiscated.

After having been owned by her family for half a century, Eliza Leggat sold 172 Eighth Avenue in August 1921.  The following year, the Great Atlantic & Pacific Tea Co. opened a branch of its grocery store chain here.  It was replaced by 1940 by the Eigen Supply Co., a plumbing and heating supply store.

In the meantime, Edward Falzey, who lived here in 1934, had a shady background.  When a friend was charged with a crime that year, he accompanied him to the Tombs Courthouse on November 28 "to lend him moral support," as reported by The New York Sun.  His friendly deed landed him behind bars, however.

Other than the storefront, in 1940 the building's 1840s architectural elements survived.  via the NYC Dept of Records & Information Services.

Also in the courtroom was Sol Drapkin, the owner of a Ninth Avenue pawnshop.  The Sun reported, "He caught sight of Falzey sitting among the spectators and pointed him out to detectives as one of the men who held him up last March 26 and robbed him of $23,000 worth of jewelry."  Falzey was charged not only with the robbery, but with violating the Sullivan law (an early gun control statute), and felonious assault.

Living here in 1979 was William Alicia, who worked as a taxi driver.  On May 11 that year, the 37-year-old picked up an inebriated customer who refused to pay the $13 fare.  Alicia took him to the 17th Precinct station.  At around 7:45 p.m., while they were talking to Sgt. Harry Fagan at the front desk, a frustrated Alicia "hit the passenger with his hand once in the back of the neck," as reported by The New York Times.  The man fell to the floor unconscious.  He was taken to Bellevue Hospital where he died a short while later.  William Alicia was taken into custody, charged with manslaughter.

A laundromat occupied the store in the newly-remodeled building in 1980.  via the NYC Dept of Records & Information Services. 

A renovation completed in 1973 removed the 1840s Greek Revival entryway and lowered the replacement to grade.  Brick lintels replaced the brownstone, and a faux corbel table of brick substituted the wooden cornice.

Easily ignored today, the diminutive structure belies its rich history of more than 180 years.

photographs by the author