The Lost William E. Finn House - 1994 Madison Avenue

 

from the collection of the New York Public Library

In 1885, the Harlem neighborhood above 125th Street, once dotted with sprawling farms and country estates, was seeing rampant construction as homes, stores, and churches transformed the landscape.  On December 18 that year, architect A. I. Finkle filed plans for six upscale residences on Madison Avenue starting at the northwest corner of West 127th Street for developer George Kuhn.

Overall Romanesque Revival in style, Finkle sprinkled the row with other historical elements--a stepped Flemish gable in once instance, for example.  As was common, the corner house at 1994 Madison Avenue would be the showpiece.  At 35-feet wide, it comfortably fell into the category of a "mansion."  Finkle distinguished it with a chateauesque corner turret that rose to a witch's hat cap.

A moat protected by handsome iron railings provided natural light to the basement.  The parlor level, above a sideways stoop, was clad in undressed granite, while the second and third floors were faced in yellow Roman brick and trimmed in brownstone.  The mansard level exploded into a riot of shapes and angles; one of the two chimneys erupting from the center of a peaked gable.  

The row was completed in 1886 and the houses were leased for a decade.  Then, in 1896, real estate operator and builder William E. Finn and his wife, the former Flora Frank, purchased 1994 Madison Avenue.  The couple, who were 27 and 23 years old at the time, moved in in May and their first child, Myra, was born a month later, on June 26, 1896.  A son, Frank Mortimer, would arrive in 1898.

Despite his relative youth, Finn was successful, well-to-do, and an aggressive businessman.  As early as 1900, he added "investments" to his resume.

At the same time, Finn was turning his attention to the increasing commercialization of Lower Fifth Avenue, buying up former mansions as the site of commercial buildings.  In November 1900, for instance, he purchased the residence at 10 West 18th Street, just off the avenue, from millionaire August Belmont.  And on January 28, 1903, the New York Herald reported, "William E. Finn took title yesterday to the old Waterbury residence at the northeast corner of Fifth avenue and Eleventh street."  The article said he would replace it with a ten-story apartment building.

from the collection of the New York Public Library

Finn's operations were, perhaps, too aggressive.  On July 17, 1908, the New-York Tribune reported that he had filed for bankruptcy.  The article said that among his assets was "No. 1,994 Madison avenue, valued at $920,000."  (If that valuation was accurate, it would translate to an astounding $32.4 million in 2026.)

Finn dug himself out of the financial hole and before long his business was restored.  Nevertheless, in the meantime, the family left 1994 Madison Avenue.  With their financial and social status restored, they would be living at 450 West End Avenue by August 17, 1917 when the New York Herald reported that Myra Finn was engaged to Oscar Hammerstein.  The article was quick to add, "The Oscar in question, however, is not the Oscar of opera fame, but a grandson."

Myra Finn Hammerstein and Oscar Hammerstein, from the collection of the Library of Congress

In the meantime, the Finn mansion was sold to David M. MacLetchen.  It was now operated as a boarding house and in 1911, Dr. Abraham Caspe converted the basement level to his uptown office.  An announcement in the New York Evening Call on August 9 gave his office hours as: "Daily up to 10 a.m. and from 5 to 7 p.m.  Sunday up to 10 a.m. only."  The announcement noted, "His downtown office will remain at 210 East Broadway."

Dr. Abraham Caspe was described by the New York Herald as "a prominent East Side physician."  He began his medical practice in 1898.  In stark contrast to traditional Edwardian mores, he was shockingly open-minded in respect to casual sexual encounters.  Not sharing his attitudes was his wife, Mary.

On October 28, 1914, the New York Herald reported that Mary had filed for a separation and alimony.  Her complaint said that "her husband believes in soul mates and has them."  The article said succinctly that Caspe "advocates lax marital views."

Max Johnson boarded in the house at the time.  Affluent enough to own an automobile, he seems to have had what today might be deemed a "lead foot."  In October 1914, he was fined $25 for speeding.  The next month he was ticketed and fined $100, and in February 1915, he was caught again and fined $25.  On May 21, he faced Magistrate John A. Leach "for speeding his automobile on Hillside Avenue, Jamaica," as reported by The New York Times.  The Brooklyn Eagle noted that he was clocked at "the excessive rate of thirty-five miles an hour."  After looking over Johnson's record, the magistrate announced, "Ten days in City Prison."

from the collection of the New York Public Library

A cavalier Johnson pulled out "a large roll of bills" and asked, "How much does that mean in money?"

"It means ten days in prison, no fine," replied the magistrate.  The New York Times reported, "Johnson, stunned by the sentence, went to a cell and his car was sent to a garage."

Ten days in jail did not teach Johnson his lesson, however.  On May 7, 1916, the New York Herald reported that he struck sisters Angelina and Mary Barbace at 21st Street and Fourth Avenue.  The girls were 18 and 17 years old respectively.  The New York Sun added, 

Both girls are in Bellevue Hospital and yesterday it was not known whether they would recover.  Mary, the younger sister, is suffering from internal injuries from being whirled thirty feet along the pavement when her dress caught in the wheel, and Angelina is still unconscious from a fractured skull, caused by being thrown headlong into the curb.

The New York Herald reported that Johnson was held without bail "on a charge of felonious assault."

Albert and Mary Anderson were married in October 1916 and moved into rooms here.  The 24-year-old Anderson worked as a carpenter.  Six months later, he was part of a crew demolishing an old building in Brooklyn.  On March 2, 1917, The Brooklyn Daily Times reported that he "fell twenty feet from a building at the foot of Commercial street, Greenpoint."  Anderson, who had fallen through a skylight, died in the ambulance on the way to the hospital.

image via the NYC Dept of Records & Information Services

By the Depression years, 1994 Madison Avenue was, as described by The New York Age, "a remodeled private house which has been turned into a rooming house."  In the summer of 1938, Jemos Natson and his wife, Emily "took a small apartment here," said the newspaper.  The couple were 32 and 25 years old, respectively.  

Natson came home on the evening of August 8 that year to discover Emily "entertaining some other young man," as reported by The New York Age.  The man fled and Jemos's rage turned to Emily.  He pulled out a penknife and stabbed her "in the neck, arms and about the hands," said the article, which added, "She lost a considerable amount of blood before an ambulance arrived."  Five days later, police were still looking for Jemos and Emily's condition was still listed as serious.

The Finn mansion survived until 1982.  If the owners intended to replace it, they did not.  A fenced vacant lot still occupies the site today.

image by durififliapaname

The 1890 The Lincoln - 84 Madison Street

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

photographs by the author

The 1891 Garfield Flats - 104 Forsyth Street

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

photographs by the author