William Jose's 1871 162 Stanton Street

photograph by Carole Teller

William Jose was born in Prussia around 1843 and was first listed as an architect in New York City directories in 1869.  In his short career he would design numerous buildings, mostly in the Bowery neighborhood, before his death in 1885.  In November 1870, he filed plans for a five-story "brick store and tenement" at 158 Stanton Street for developer G. Bohm.  That project quickly expanded with two more abutting buildings at Nos. 160 and 162.

The 25-foot-wide structures were completed in 1871.  Like its identical neighbors, 162 Stanton Street was faced in red brick above a cast iron storefront.  Jose's Italianate design included molded lintels above the elliptically arched windows.  The ambitious cast metal cornice lined with foliate brackets was upheld by elaborately scrolled corbels.  Delicate akroteria perched on its corners.  The arched pediment with its half-round panel was a trademark William Jose touch.  Similar pediments can be seen in his 1873 5 Spring Street and the Conrad Stein brewery building, completed in 1883.  

photograph by Carole Teller

Two stores flanked the residential entrance.  The initial occupants were Sigmund Blum's "segar" store and Adamina Kuyper's candy and soda shop.  (Adamina was the widow of Joseph Kuyper.)

Adamina Kuyper closed her store in 1876.  An auction of the contents gives a hint of her Victorian shop.  The auctioneer listed:

Contents of a Candy Store: counters and shelving, showcases, jars, tables, chairs, stoves &c; also one large marble Soda Water Fountain.

Frederick Hausmann purchased the lot and continued to operate the candy and soda shop.  By then, George Bergen was running the cigar store.  The tenants upstairs were, for the most part, working class.  Living here in 1876 were Christopher Bingenheimer, a barber; "spinner" John Harer; and the Hefner and Niglutsch families.  John Hefner did not list a profession in directories, possibly because he was retired.  Frederick Hefner, likely his son, was a clerk.  John C. Niglutsch was a physician and Anthony Niglutsch worked as a tailor.

Kate Stern left 162 Stanton Street on the morning of November 12, 1893.  She had not gotten far when two crooks grabbed her pocketbook and ran.  A policeman overtook them on Stanton Street.  The youthful perpetrators--Morris Wilbur was nine years old and Burnett Ernstein was eleven--were held at the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Children until appearing before a magistrate in Essex Market Court.

Samuel Michaelson's tailor shop occupied one of the storefronts at the turn of the century.  On the night of November 9, 1900, the clothing store of Max Stumpf on Attorney Street was "ransacked," as worded by The New York Times.  The burglars essentially emptied the shop, taking "101 ladies' finished capes, 21 ladies' unfinished capes, 22 men's coats, 1 vest, 36 boys' caps, 10 flannel shirts, 1 roll chinchilla cloth, 1 roll black cloth, 1 roll brown cloth, 1 roll velvet cloth, 5 pieces trouserings, and 1 bag fur edging," according to Stumpf's detailed inventory.

Two days later, Max Stumpf rushed up to two police officers and excitedly said that he saw some of his goods in an express wagon.  The officers followed it to 139 Attorney Street where the driver delivered the goods to Harris Needle in a second floor room.  He and the driver, Samuel Pepper, were arrested.  At the station house they said that they were paid "to deliver the goods by Samuel Michaelson."  Michaelson was also subsequently arrested.  The New York Times reported, "He denied that he knew anything about the goods.  He also denied that he had ever seen Needle or Pepper."

The Rappaport family lived in a top floor apartment around the same time.  In the hot summer months, tenement dwellers often slept on the fire escapes.  On the night of August 23, 1901, Mrs. Rappaport put two of her children, Bessie and Israel, to bed on the fire escape.  Her six-year-old son, Samuel (known as Sammy), slept with her that night.  Samuel woke up around 6:00 the next morning and told his mother, "I'm going to wake Bessie."

The Evening World reported that the three children began playing on the fire escape and "Sammy climbed up a board leaning against the railing.  He lost his balance, tumbled over the railing and fell the entire six [sic] stories to the street."

When Bessie screamed, her mother rushed to the window.  Looking down, she saw Sammy "lying in a broken, lifeless heap on the pavement, far below, with two men over him."  Frantic, Mrs. Rappaport ran down to the street just as the boy was being carried into a drugstore.  "His back was broken and his skull crushed from striking against the iron rails as he fell," said the article.  Adding to the tragedy, the boy's plunge was witnessed by dozens of children.  "Most of them knew him and wept at the shocking death of their little playmate," said The Evening World.

John M. Robbins, who lived here in 1906, worked as a  "telegrapher."  On the night of August 26 that year, he sat down at a table in the restaurant in Pennsylvania Railroad terminal in Jersey City.  For whatever reason, the 55-year-old started a near panic.  The New York Herald reported, "a stifled scream from one of forty women dining in the restaurant" was heard at about 8:00.  "The cause of the scream was an elderly man calmly removing his underclothing," said the article, which added, "After one look the women concealed their faces behind fans and handkerchiefs."

A group of men surrounded Robbins and helped him get dressed.  The New York Herald said, "He was profuse in his apologies and was allowed to remain and finish his meal."  But only ten minutes later, he "cunningly removed his shoes and coat, and was divesting himself of his trousers when another woman raised an alarm."  This time two railroad detectives covered him with a tablecloth and escorted him to an anteroom where he was dressed and arrested.

In 1916, New York City suffered a terrifying epidemic--poliomyelitis.  More than 9,000 cases were reported in the city that year and more than 2,000 victims died.  On August 20, the New York Herald headlined an article, "Keep Children Out of City Is Warning."  In it, Dr. John S. Billings cautioned New Yorkers to keep their children at their country homes rather then returning to the city.  That was not an option for tenement families.  Listed among the hundreds of new cases in the article were Izzie and Abe Schivalatt of 162 Stanton Street.

The Hyman Richmond family lived here at the time.  They invited eight guests to a Shabbat meal on March 3.  The evening would not end well.  The New-York Tribune reported, "the eight guests fell from their chairs suffering from ptomaine poisoning, too ill to be moved to their homes."  An ambulance arrived and the victims "were all put to bed in corners of Richmond's apartment except Frank Ruhlau."  He was seriously ill and taken to Gouverneur Hospital.  Tragically, the next day the New-York Tribune reported, "The seven other guests were still under care of physicians at the scene of the kosher dinner, when news was brought to them early this morning that Ruhlau had died."

At the time of the tragedy, the stores were occupied by Louis Kravitz's clothing shop and Morris H. Schlesinger's hardware store.

On the evening of September 12, 1922, 70-year-old resident Henry Lawrence left 162 Stanton Street "to visit friends in Rivington Street," as reported by The Evening World three days later, adding, "He has not returned home."  That friend was Solomon Sternberg.  He told a reporter from the New York Herald that Lawrence had $200 when he left his apartment.  The Evening World was pointed, saying, "There is a suspicion of murder in the case of Henry Lawrence."  (Newspapers did not follow up with the story, so Lawrence's fate is unclear.)

image via the NYC Dept of Records & Information Services

On October 1, 1958, Nelson A. Rockefeller took his campaign for Governor to the Lower East Side.  He stopped into Jack Levy's Famous, a hot dog and pizza stand, chatted in Spanish to Puerto Rican locals, and shook hands and greeted pedestrians.  One of those was Mila Litbach, who lived at 162 Stanton Street.  The New York Times described her as "an elderly woman with a kerchief on her head."  Rockefeller greeted, "Hello!"

Unimpressed, Mila Litbach responded, "Can I put 'hello' in the bank?"

She told him she could not find a suitable apartment at a rent she could afford.  Rockefeller said "That is a very serious problem," and told her about a bond issue.  "If we can get that passed, it will help relieve the shortage of apartments for elderly people who live alone like you."

"I should live so long," said Mila Litbach with a shrug as she walked away.

The building was renovated in 1985, resulting in a total of 11 apartments.  In the alterations, the brick was painted and the storefront removed to accommodate apartments.  Surviving at the otherwise featureless ground floor are two narrow cast iron pilasters and a delicate rope detail around the entrance way.

photograph by Carole Teller

many thanks to artist Carole Teller for suggesting this post

William Jose's 1873 Re-do of 167 Rivington Street

 

photograph by Carole Teller

United States Customs inspector William H. Randall and his family lived at 167 Rivington Street as early as 1836.  They suffered grief on the morning of December 27, 1837 when four-month-old Ann Rebecca Randall died.  The Randall home was, likely, a recently-built Federal-style structure.  

Just before the outbreak of civil war, the house was replaced with Benedict Kraus's three-story hotel.  The enterprising Kraus also operated a meat business in the Essex Market.  The war affected at least one of Kraus's tenants.  On August 28, 1863, S. Adler was drafted into the Union Army.

Edward Gottlieb took over the hotel by 1865.  Like Kraus, he had a second job and operated his real estate business from the building.  The barroom here was the venue of political meetings, and on November 21, 1865 an announcement in the New York Herald reported that the 13th Ward Gunther Club "will hold regular meetings every Wednesday and Saturday night at Gottlieb's Hotel, 167 Rivington street."

On December 14, 1866, the New-York Tribune reported, "Shortly after 4 o'clock yesterday morning a fire was discovered in the premises No. 167 Rivington-st., occupied as a German hotel."  The article said, "the building and furniture were considerably damaged by fire and water."

Following repairs, 167 Rivington Street emerged as Urania Hall, a combination "concert saloon" and hotel.  (Concert saloons were the American version of English music halls and provided live entertainment.)  On January 4, 1867, an advertisement read, "Wanted--Some young waiter girls, for a concert saloon.  Apply at Urania Hall, 167 Rivington street."  And an announcement in the New York Herald on January 13 touted: "Concert every night; handsome girls attending, with choice wines, beer, &c."

The venture did not survive.  Only six months later, on June 28, 1867, an auction was held of "the entire Furniture of Urania Hotel," as well as the remaining three years' lease on the property.

The lease was taken by David Gans and Henry Schwartz, who opened the Schwartz & Gans beer saloon in the ground floor.  It, too, was a meeting spot for German political groups.  On June 26, 1872, The New York Times reported, "The German Republican Organization of the Thirteenth Ward held a meeting at No. 167 Rivington-street last night, indorsing the nomination of Gen. Grant and Senator Wilson for the Presidency and Vice-Presidency."

Change came the following year when owner Paul Hoffman hired architect William Jose to remodel and enlarge the building.  The renovations, which included an additional story, cost Hoffman the equivalent of $208,000 in 2026.

William Jose was best known for designing tenement buildings in the Bowery neighborhood.  He transformed 167 Rivington Street to a four-story-and-basement, store-and-tenement building faced in red brick above the storefronts.  A centered stoop lead to the first floor where two shops flanked the residential entrance.  Jose's neo-Grec design included molded cast metal sills supported by decorated brackets, and paneled lintels topped by molded cornices with a decorative ornament.

photograph by Carole Teller

The complex cornice was comprised of a paneled and dentiled fascia, ornate paired corbels and matching smaller brackets.

The new apartments filled with middle class tenants.  Among those living here in 1879 were two real estate agents, a lithographer, a tailor, one "merchant," and a porter.  That year Jacob Grossmann's shirt business occupied one of the stores.

By the turn of the century, the residents were more working class.  Caroline Rosenthal lived here by the early 1890s with her two grandsons.  George W. and Ernest Schultze were two of the three sons of Dr. Reinbold Schultze who died in 1890.  The boys were eight and six years old at the time.  Their mother "soon afterward went to live with one Courtney, alias Harrison," reported the New York Herald.  Courtney had a wife and three children in Brooklyn.  The couple disappeared, taking the four-year-old Reinbold with them and leaving George and Ernest with their grandmother.

Unfortunately, the care of two young boys was too much for Caroline Rosenthal, and around 1892 she placed them in St. John's Home for Boys in Brooklyn.  Then, a remarkable turn of events occurred.  A Frau Krummhauer died in Magdeburg, Prussia in 1892.  She was the aunt of the three Schultze boys and left them a fortune of $375,000, equal to about $13.7 million today.  William Schwickardi began looking for the three young heirs in December 1892.  He was unable to track down the boys' mother, young Reinbold, or Courtney.  (Mrs. Courtney told him she had not heard from her husband and had no idea where he was.)  

He was more successful in finding George and Ernest.  Caroline Rosenthal appeared in Brooklyn Supreme Court with her grandsons on April 11, 1893.  The boys--who one day earlier were living as orphans in a less-than-comfortable institution--were suddenly wealthy.  Selflessly, Caroline Rosenthal requested the court to appoint Julia Schwickardi, William's wife, the boys' legal guardian.

Living in the building at the time of the boys' windfall were junk dealer Saul Deutsch and Dr. Simon Rappaport.  Max Marks ran a dry goods business in one of the stores.

In April 1893, a large quantity of cloth began disappearing from the clothing manufacturer Marks & Co. on Broadway.  On May 5, police officers witnessed two employees, Nathan Schnapper and Solomon Tischler, lowering a bag of rags to Saul Deutsch.  Suspicious, they investigated the bundle.  "Among the rags the detectives found a roll of cloth valued at $27," reported The Evening Post.  Deutsch was arrested and held at $1,000 bail.

Dr. Simon Rappaport faced an even more serious charge two years later.  On December 3, 1895, the New York Herald reported that he and Joseph Stern had been arrested for an "operation performed upon Mrs. Jennie Fourgang, who is very ill in Bellevue Hospital."  The newspaper delicately danced around naming the offense--an abortion.

The charges were elevated three weeks later.  On December 24, The Evening Post reported that Rappaport and Stern had been charged "in connection with the death of Mrs. Jennie Fortgang, of No. 5 Norfolk Street."  The article said she had died "from malpractice," and had named the two men from her deathbed.

Paul Hoffman made improvements to the building again in 1898.  He hired the architectural firm of Kurtzer & Rohl to install a "new fireproof vent shaft [and] new skylight," as described in the plans.  The alterations cost Hoffman the equivalent of $48,000 today.

Austrian-born Leon Stand (known familiarly as Leo) and his family lived here as early as 1901.  He operated his real estate office from one of the commercial spaces.  In 1901 he rallied other businessmen on the block to protest about the garbage and resultant odors that littered the street.  On August 8, The New York Times reported that he had initiated a petition to the Commissioner of Street Cleaning.  "Unable to endure the stench from the streets, they have [been] buying snuff-snuff by the half-pound which the women as well as the men have been using," said the article.  Stand and his neighbors charged that they were being discriminated against.  The petition said in part:

We...protest against the unjust discrimination and partiality shown to the lower east side in the matter of removing garbage and cleaning streets of our neighborhood.  The garbage and filth have been lying in front of the tenements for the past three days, and the drivers and employes [sic] of your department have absolutely refused to remove it.

Leon Stand told a reporter, "We simply can't stand it here any longer.  I took a walk up Fifth Avenue on purpose on Saturday.  Do you think I saw any ash cans or ill-smelling garbage cans there?  Not on your life."

A substantial renovation came in March 1904 when architect Max Muller redesigned the lower floors.  The Real Estate Record & Builders' Guide explained that he "rearranged front wall," installed new store fronts and a cast iron staircase.

Max Muller's 1904 storefronts and iron steps can be seen in this 1940 tax photograph.  via the NYC Dept of Records & Information Services.

Leon Stand and his family would remain here for years.  In August 1911, he arranged a testimonial dinner for Charles F. Hartman, the 71-year-old principal of Public School 106 at Rivington and Suffolk Streets.  On the night of September 12, 250 former pupils gathered at the Café Boulevard to celebrate his retirement and honor his half-century of "pedagogy," as worded by The New York Times.

The following year, Leon's son, Murray, made news on his own.  On September 19, 1912, The New York Times said he "has won prizes for oratory at the De Witt Clinton High School, and is President of the Young Boys Democratic Club."  An admirer of Mayor William Jay Gaynor, Murray Stand was offended when he read the speech delivered by Rabbi Wise at Carnegie Hall, "in which the Rabbi suggested that the Mayor had better resign."  The teen wrote to the mayor, saying in part, "Keep up your good work, dear Mr. Mayor, and when your term as Mayor shall expire, 'one good term shall then deserve another.'"

Mayor Gaynor responded to Murray Stand's letter, writing that he had no ill feelings for Rabbi Wise, however he said he "seems to be without charity or truthfulness."  He went on, "He is a mere rhetorician, and you know what rhetoricians from the beginning of time have been designated as persons 'with the crooked mouth.'"  Murray Stand declined to be interviewed, although he said that "he believed politics should be kept out of religion and the public schools" and deemed Rabbi Wise's attack "in bad taste."

Murray Stand's name was again in newsprint the following year on November 17, 1913 when The New York Times reported on the upcoming testimonial dinner for Justice Aaron J. Levy.  "Murray W. Stand, Secretary of the Neighborhood Dinner Committee, 167 Rivington Street, is in charge of the arrangements," said the article.

By 1917, Murray W. Stand was an Internal Revenue Service collector and alderman.  He would go on to serve in the Army in World War I, be elected alderman 14 successive times, and appointed New York City Commissioner to the World's Fair, and Inspector General of Defense for New York City and City Clerk in 1946.  

His brother, Bert Stand, would become secretary of the New York State Athletic Commission in 1925 and Tammany Hall's first Jewish secretary, according to the Jewish Telegraphic Agency, on July 29, 1934.  

Leon Stand, in the meantime, founded the Lemberger Congregation, a synagogue on East Fourth Street, in 1925.

Among the tenants of 167 Rivington Street in the 1920s was Sam Kirschner.  He and his family occupied an apartment while he ran his dressmaking store downstairs.  Attorney I. Schleider's office was here at least from 1922 through 1925.

The vintage building suffered significant neglect by the third quarter of the century.  On March 7, 1973, 13 tenants lived here, but not for long.  Around 5 a.m., police rushed into the building and roused them "when the walls and roof of the brick structure began to sag," as reported by The New York Times.  Moments later, a partial collapse occurred.  

A blurry 1980 tax photograph shows the building boarded up.  via the NYC Dept of Records & Information Services.

The building appears to have sat vacant until a "gut rehabilitation" by Harden-Van Arnam Architects completed in 1993 resulted in stores in the basement and first floor and apartments above.

photograph by Carole Teller

many thanks to artist Carole Teller for suggesting this post

Max Muller's 1905 169 Rivington Street

photograph by Carole Teller

As early as 1904, Dr. Moses Duckman and his family shared their home at 169 Rivington Street with Professor Abraham Hochman.  Born in 1868, Duckman and his wife, Rebecca, had four daughters, Miriam, Naomi, Ethel and Grace, and two sons, Simon and Bert.

Abraham Hochman was a local celebrity of sorts.  His "professor" title did not come from his teaching, but his purported extraordinary powers.  He was a clairvoyant.  On May 3, 1904, for instance, he appeared in the Essex Market police court to give bail for one of seven men arrested for burglary.  The magistrate asked, "What is your business?"

Hochman replied, "I am a mind reader.  I am Professor Abram Hochman of 169 Rivington Street."  He explained to the magistrate that he had read the accused's mind and knew that, while he was in the room at the time of the crime, he was not a part of it.  He added:

"I can also read your mind.  You will discharge him when the case comes up before you tomorrow.  Therefore, I have no hesitation on going on his bond.  If he were guilty, I would know it and I would not bail him.

The Duckmans and Hochman would have to find temporary accommodations soon after that encounter.  Moses Duckman acquired the property next door at 171 Rivington Street, demolished both structures, and hired architect Max Muller to design a store-and-tenement building on the site. 

Completed in 1905, the 40-foot-wide building rose five stories above a basement.  The basement's notable height accommodated two commercial spaces that flanked the stone stoop.  Muller faced the upper floors with variegated beige brick and cream-colored terra cotta.  Molded intermediate cornices divided the facade into three sections.  Terra cotta was molded into elaborate Italian Renaissance-style ornamentation including Scamozzi columns with intricate bases on either side of the entrance, paneled Corinthian piers that framed the first floor windows, elaborate faux balconies with triangular pediments at the second floor, and arched pediments embellished with ornate cartouches at the fourth.

Among Duckman's first tenants was, perhaps not surprisingly, Professor Abram Hochman.  He had barely settled into his new home when he appeared in newsprint again.  On May 23 the stable of Abraham Baumwald, a peddler, was broken into and his horse and wagon were stolen.  The theft put Baumwald out of business.  On June 1, The Sun reported, "On Tuesday night a man with long hair, who announced himself as Prof. Hochman of 169 Rivington street, went to the station house and said to the sergeant in charge: 'I know where Baumwald's horse is.'"

Upon questioning, Hochman explained, "I read it by my mind."  Police did not scoff at the revelation.  Hochman's reputation was well established.  They went to 136 Hester Street, as Hochman directed, and found Baumwald's stolen horse.

Hochman's talents were more often used for finding husbands than for stolen horses.  In her 2024 Mortimer and the Witches, Marie Carter writes that Hochman was referred to as "The Richest Man on Rivington Street" and explains, "Thanks to Hochman's affordable fees and high success rates, the press often reported he was trailed by 'wildly gesticulating women.'"

Professor Abraham Hochman, The Jewish Calendar 1910 (copyright expired)

Professor Abraham Hochman's visions and predictions ran the gambit.  He accurately predicted the winners of upcoming horse races for members of his club, the Florrie Sullivan Association; foretold Theodore Roosevelt's victory over Alton B. Parker in the 1904 Presidential election; and predicted the Japanese victory over Russia in the 1904 Russo-Japanese War.

On February 24, 1906, the New-York Tribune reported, "Dr. Moses Duckman transferred title as a gift yesterday to Nos. 169 and 171 Rivington-st...to Rebecca Duckman his wife."  It was around the same time that the Duckman family moved to Brooklyn.

Elaborate terra cotta Renaissance Revival details embellish the building.  photograph by Carole Teller

Nathan Flauman's saloon occupied one of the basement spaces as early as 1909, and he and his family lived in one of the upstairs apartments.  At the same time, Abraham Goldman and his son, Louis, ran a clothing business in Brooklyn.  According to Assistant District Attorney Wasservogel later, "the two were hard pressed for money and in some way ascertained that Nathan Flauman, a wealthy saloon keeper, at No. 169 Rivington street, was seeking a husband for his only daughter, Mary."  The younger Goldman, who was married with three children, posed as an eligible bachelor and "ingratiated himself into Father Flauman's good graces and offered himself as a husband for his daughter," as reported by The Evening World.

The couple became engaged and Flauman held an engagement party on July 13, 1909.  Before Nathan Flauman and the heart-broken Mary discovered the scheme, he had given Louis Goldman $1,500--nearly $55,000 in 2026 money.  Flauman had him arrested for grand larceny.  While the jury acquitted Abraham Goldman, Louis was convicted.

The incident was not the last time that the trusting saloon keeper was bamboozled.  On March 31, 1910, Jacob Bellis, aka Max Blumfield, entered the saloon carrying a machine.  He told Nathan Flauman that the contraption would produce money.  To prove it, Bellis placed a blank piece of paper into the machine, poured in some chemicals, and turned the crank.  The New York Times reported, "In a few minutes a crisp $10 bill came out."  He repeated the demonstration and Flauman became interested.  Bellis then set his hook.  He took out a $100 bill, placed it into the machine with a sheet of paper, turned the crank and the original rolled out along with a new bill.

The New York Times reported, "As Flouman [sic] was suspicious; Bellis took him to a bank, where he changed the two $100 bills."  The Evening World said, "So Flauman beat it to the Fourteenth Street Bank and reduced the deposits of that institution by $4,780, his entire balance.  Then Miss Mary dug into her own lisle thread safe deposit vault and came to the front with $200 more."  That evening Bellis and his partner arrived at the Flaumans' apartment.  As the accomplice dickered over the machine, he held up the sponge soaked with chemicals and said to the family, "Just smell this; hasn't it a sweet odor?"

The Evening World reported, "It had.  It was chloroform, and straightway the family went into its golden dream.  When it awoke both the money and men were gone.  Adding insult to injury, they even took along the furniture."

Mary Flauman went to the police, but got no results.  Then, a year later, she saw Bellis and a woman on Third Avenue near 14th Street.  "He took to his heels down Second Avenue," reported The New York Times.  Mary chased after him, shouting.  A crowd caught him, reported The Evening World on April 6, 1911, noting, "If he is convicted he may get twenty years."

Two months earlier, Abram Hochman had again faced a judge, but this time in his own defense.  On February 22, 1911, Detective Szerlip told Magistrate Breen "that Hochman had told him that we would be the recipient of a large sum of money from the estate of his deceased uncle and that this money would come to him quicker if [he] would throw a match over his shoulder and think of his father," as reported by the New York Herald.  Hochman was accused by the detective of being a fortune teller.

This time, Hochman did not profess extrasensory powers.  The New York Herald recounted, "Hochman said that his business was publishing rather than fortune telling and that he was the publisher of a book entitled 'The Jewish Almanac,' which was in the libraries of the New York University, Yale and other institutions."  He denied ever telling Szerlip about his upcoming windfall.  Hochman's sister, Eugenia, corroborated his testimony.  Magistrate Appleton dismissed the case for insufficient evidence.

image via the NYC Dept of Records & Information Services.

Insurance broker Maylich Breihart and his wife, Bertha, moved into 169 Rivington Street around 1918.  They had two sons, Bernard and Charles, and two daughters, Pauline and Sadie.  The enterprising couple filed bankruptcy separately on December 18, that year, but they were not defeated.  On January 8, 1920, Maylich was one of three partners who incorporated the Clibart Realty Corporation.  He was highly involved in Jewish charities and organizations, with memberships in a dozen groups including the Burshtiner Sick and Benevolent Society, the Home of the Sons and Daughters of Israel, and the Independent Kalischer Sick and Benevolent Society.

Bertha Briethard died at the age of 64 on January 18, 1921.  Her funeral was held in their apartment the following day.  Maylich survived her by a year, dying of pneumonia at the age of 65 in Mt. Sinai Hospital on May 21, 1922.  His funeral, too, was held in the apartment.

As early as 1923, the office of attorney Eugene Moss occupied one of the commercial spaces.  He was admitted to the bar in 1921 and would practice here at least through 1931.

At midcentury, Samuel Braun was the landlord of 169 Rivington Street.  He owned three other buildings in the Lower East Side.  On March 29, 1960, he was fined $400 "for permitting a defective gas range and for failure to provide proper heat" at 169 Rivington Street, as reported by The New York Times.  This was not the first time that Braun had been in trouble.  The article said that the previous year he had been cited for "fraudulently applying for rent increases" and "has had thirteen previous convictions for Health Code violations."

photograph by Carole Teller

There are 12 residential units in 169 Rivington Street today.  Max Muller's dignified treatment of a tenement building survives essentially intact, all the while masking the astonishing history that has played out inside.

many thanks to artist Carole Teller for suggesting this post

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

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