Emery Roth's 1925 Hotel Cardinal - 243 West End Avenue

At the turn of the last century the intersection West End Avenue and West 71st Street was lined with imposing homes.  Three rather brooding mansions faced the street, and directly behind on West End Avenue were five brick and terra cotta rowhouses with much cheerier personalities.

photograph from the collection of the New York Public Library

By the end of World War I apartment living was gaining favor over large private homes.  The residence hotel offered tenants the conveniences of a hotel--maid service, hallboys, and restaurants, for instance--in their leases.  In 1924  the newly-formed 243 Corporation purchased and demolished Nos. 301 through 303 West 71st Street, and Nos. 241 through 247 West End Avenue.  The prolific apartment building architect Emery Roth was commissioned to design a replacement resident hotel on the site.

Completed in 1925, the hulking structure rose 15 stories.  Roth clad the building in clinker bricks--purposely over-fired in the kiln to produce the rough, burned look of age.  He decorated his blank Renaissance Revival canvas with glorious Spanish Colonial style elements cast in colorful terra cotta.  The nearly identical West End Avenue and 71st Street elevations wore romantic pseudo-balconies, roundels with portraits in Renaissance costumes, and intricate window framing on the lower two floors.

The Hotel Cardinal would be different from most residence hotels.  While others offered sprawling suites meant to rival private homes; the Cardinal would have large, one-room apartments.  There were 12 apartments on the ground floor, with 14 each on the floors above.  An advertisement touted "the comfort of a spacious apartment in a single room, foyer, serving pantry and bath."

The single-room accommodations were perfect for couples just starting out.  Following the wedding of Hortense Kruckman and Samuel Schwartzman on May 20, 1926, the couple announced they would be "at home at Hotel Cardinal" to receive well-wishers.

And in January 1927 Florence Goodman and Philip Isaacs moved in after their elopement.  It proved to be a rocky marriage.  When her parents learned of the marriage through a letter she wrote "at her husband's dictation," according to Florence later, her father insisted they be re-married by a rabbi.  They second ceremony was held in Atlantic City.  Then Philip told his wife that because of a "legal technicality" their marriage was void.  A third marriage was conducted by Mayor Charles J. Norris of Bergen, New Jersey.

Seven months after they moved in, Florence walked out.  In her divorce filing her lawyer said "In that time [Philip] had spent her $4,000 savings and tried to get her engagement ring to pawn for money with which to pay the rent on their apartment in the Hotel Cardinal."

Terra cotta portrait roundels dot the lower floors.

Most tenants were not similarly struggling.  Although each apartment contained just one main room, they were spacious enough to attract professional tenants, like dentist Homer C. Croscup and his wife, here in 1927.   There were, as well, several residents involved in the theatrical business.

Bruce Edwards and his wive, Gertrude, lived here at the time.  He was a childhood friend of Charles Dillingham (among New York's most well-known producers, head of the Dillinger Theatre) and for 30 years was Dillingham's general manager.

The terra cotta detailing of this delicately-wrought window decoration matches portions of the pretend balconies two floors above.. 

Edward Hecht and his wife, Hattie, were also early residents.  Hecht was a cigar dealer, "reported to be wealthy," according to The New York Times.  Hattie was good friends with opera diva Madame Marie Rappold.  Before the couple moved into the one-room space, the Metropolitan Opera soprano had often been their house guest.

On Sunday evening, September 9, 1928, Edward and Hattie headed downtown for dinner.  They entered the 72nd Street and Broadway subway station, which was unusually crowded.  Hattie was dressed for the evening out, wearing a fur around her neck.  As the train pulled into the station, a scene of horror ensued.

The New York Times reported "As the train entered the station, the crowd of several hundred waiting persons, including Mr. Hecht and his wife, surged forward."  Edward fell between the moving train cars, the third car passing over his body.  In the chaos, Hattie's fur stole disappeared.  Whether Edward was pushed to provide a distraction for the theft, or if a crook simply used the accident as an opportunity is unclear.

"Mrs. Hecht became hysterical following the accident, but said that she did not remember the fur falling from her neck."  She collapsed (as did several other women in the crowd) and was later taken back to the Hotel Cardinal in an ambulance.

The episode was too much for Hattie to bear.  Madame Rappold arrived at No. 243 West End Avenue to visit Hattie not long afterward.  She was met with bad news.  Hattie had committed suicide.  She had left a note for her sister which said in part, "And so I have decided to go to my rest and am on my way to the ocean."  Her body washed up on the South Shore of Long Island.

Vaudeville and silent film comedian Harry Philmore Langdon lived here in the early 1930's.  At the height of his career Langdon was making $7,500 per week, a veritable fortune.  But his star had faded by the time he lived here; although there was briefly a glimmer of hope.

Harry Langdon.  National Vaudeville Artists, 1923 (copyright expired)

His biographers, Gabriella Oldham and Mabel Langdon, in their Harry Langdon: King of Silent Comedy, wrote "Langdon did, however, meet with the officers of Royal Pictures when he resided at the Cardinal Hotel at 243 West End Avenue in New York.  The contract even provided for a generous $12,000 salary...But like many deals that seem too good to be true, it never materialized."

When 22-year old cornetist James Dugald McPartland and his girlfriend, fledgling songwriter Dorothy Fields, discovered she was pregnant, they married in February 1930 and took an apartment in the Cardinal.  The baby, Dorothy Hannah McPartland, was born on July 13.  But it was a not a happy marriage and Dorothy filed for divorce in 1932.  McPartland went on to work with bandleaders like Tommy Dorsey, Benny Goodman and Eddie Condon.

Born in Rochester, New York in 1883, Florenz Ames started out in vaudeville but was now appearing on the legitimate stage.  On July 4 1930 The New York Times reported that Alice O'Donnell "was married to Florenz Sebastian Kolb, known professionally on the stage as Florenz Ames, yesterday afternoon in Greenwich, Conn."  The article added "The bride said last night that both she and Mr. Ames had been married previously.  They will make their home at 243 West End Avenue."

Ames was relatively well-known to New York audiences.  The Times noted "He has had prominent roles in 'Madame Pompadour,' produced here in 1924; 'The Great Temptations,' two years later, and 'Angela,' in 1928."  He was currently appearing in the cast of Who Cares.

It would not be until 1952 that Ames was seen country-wide.  That year he appeared in his first film role in Viva Zapata! and in 1953 he debuted in television on the show Robert Montgomery Presents.  Never a leading man, he was nonetheless recognizable in his many character roles.

Ames appeared with Greer Garson on September 10, 1957 in the episode "Revenge" in the television anthology series Telephone Time.  photo originally released by ABC Television

Another theatrical figure who lived in the Hotel Cardinal around the same time was music publisher Frederick Benjamin Haviland and his wife, he former Mabel Smith.  He was head of F. B. Haviland Publishing Company and, although he was not a musician, he had an uncanny ability to judge the potential popularity of a tune.  Starting his career in 1890's, he had published hits like "The Sidewalks of New York," "In the Good Old Summertime," and "Bill Bailey Won't You Please Come Home?"

Haviland contracted influenza in March 1932 and succumbed to the disease in his apartment two weeks later, on the 31st, at the age of 64.

Wesley Eddy, whose actual name was Edward Gariulo, lived here with his wife, the former Margaret DeMarco.   He was a widely-talented entertainer, The New York Times saying "A versatile performer, he sang baritone, danced and played the violin, and entertained as a 'straight man' and as a comedian."  He had started on the stage at the age of 9 in his hometown of Bridgeport, Connecticut;  played nightclubs in New York at 16, and obtained his first film role at 17-years-old.

Eddy was tremendously affected by his mother's death in 1926.  Nearly every week he called a Stratford, Connecticut florist to have flowers delivered to her grave.  His depression worsened following his father' death in December 1932.  His brother said that when Eddy came to visit, "he would always go first to the cemetery where he frequently sat for hours beside the plot, often sobbing."

Wesley Eddy was scheduled to open in a new show at the Roxy Theatre on September 20, 1934.  His brother came to New York on the 16th and had dinner with him and Margaret.  (Their 12-year-old son, Frank. was attending a military academy in  Baltimore.)

Neither Joe nor Margaret realized the depth of Wesley's despondency.  After Joe left and Margaret went to bed, Wesley left the apartment and boarded a train to Stratford.   The following day The New York Times reported that he "was found dead in a self-inflicted bullet wound this morning, lying on the grave of his parents in St. Michael's Cemetery."  He was just 31-years-old.

Pretend quoins along the lower two floors terminate in spread-winged eagles, seemingly wearing hats.

The Hotel Cardinal was the scene of a gruesome accident on April 18, 1938.  Marion Gary, a 28-year old handyman in the building, was oiling the cable wheel of the elevator at 10:15 that morning when another hotel worker started the elevator.  Gary's leg was caught between the cable wires and the drum.

The Police Emergency Squad responded to the scene and tried to free him, but could not.  The only option was to amputate.  Dr. David Wasserman of City Hospital arrived and began the process.  The Times reported that Wasserman was "balanced precariously on a narrow girder in the elevator shaft on the tenth floor of the Hotel Cardinal."  The article noted "Although a slip might have sent the ambulance surgeon hurtling down the shaft, he decided to operate at the scene to free Marion Gary."  The man was conscious throughout the surgery and "endlessly smoked cigarettes."  The newspaper reported "Dr. Wasserman removed the leg about six inches below the knee."

The political upheaval in Europe was first evidenced at the Hotel Cardinal in the fall of 1939 when nine families of Belgian and Dutch Jews fled the increasing Nazi threat.  All of them were engaged in the diamond industry.  The Apartment Renting Company, Inc. arranged housing for the refugees, one family of which moved into the Hotel Cardinal.

Although the United States would not enter World War II until after the attack on Pearl Harbor on December 7, 1941, the military was already beefing up a year earlier.  On November 23, 1940 The Times reported "Never in the history of the country have so elaborate and scientific preparations been made by the Army to receive men."  The Hotel Cardinal would soon have to find a new elevator operator.

The same article said "Peter Joseph Bonovitch, 27, a volunteer, said his girl was 'pretty sore' because he was disappearing into the Army for a year.  He is an elevator operator at the Hotel Cardinal, 243 West End Avenue. 'But I think that if war comes and I have to fight, I'd be better off if I knew how,' Bonovich said.

Also leaving No. 243 for military service was Bernard Fields, who shared an apartment with his uncle, Burt G. Hoffman.  Fields enlisted in the Navy, becoming a radio man.  Sadly, he would not return.  His name appeared on the U. S. Navy's list of war dead on May 5, 1942.

A renovation completed in 1950 resulted in rooftop penthouse with four apartments.  There were now six apartments and a doctor's office on the ground floor, 13 each on floors 9 through 12, and 12 each on the 10th to 15th floors.

Although some of the apartments were now larger, the reputations of not all of the residents were as respectable.  On January 8, 1957 Irving Gilbert was indicted by a grand jury as part of a gang of six on charges of counterfeiting auto parts.  Assistant District Attorney Joseph Stone said the ring had manufactured "up to a million parts a year and had shipped the bulk to Mexico and Central and South America."

Vincent Joseph Calise was a different type of counterfeiter.  He was sent to prison for producing fake money.  But his sentence did not change his lawless ways.  On December 12, 1964 a headline in The New York Times read "Ex Convicts Named in Scheme on Stock of Wall St. Concern."  Among those arrested in "an elaborate scheme devised by former convicts to take over and sell the stock last may of a Wall street real estate corporation" was Vincent Joseph Calise.

At the same time Patricia DeAlexandro lived here.  Described by a newspaper as a "26-year-old former Playboy Club bunny," she was arrested on July 12, 1965.  Now working as a nightclub hostess, she had became involved with mobsters.  The article explained that she was "charged with trying to bribe a member of the jury that convicted Joseph Armone, Stephen Grammauta, Vincent Pacelli and Nicholas Viscardi of conspiring to smuggle more than $25 million worth of heroin into the country."  DeAlexandro faced a possible sentence of 15 years in Federal prison and a $20,000 fine.

Things did not look good for the former Bunny when, ten days later, a Federal grand jury indicted her.  She was held in the Women's House of Detention in lieu of $25,000 bail awaiting her trial.

The last of the original row of 1890's houses, designed by Clarence F. True, stands next door at No. 249.

Following its conversion to cooperative apartments in 1989 the Hotel Cardinal was rechristened the Coliseum Plaza.  The colorful days of theatrical luminaries and mobsters had drawn to a close.

photographs by the author

The Lost Germania Theatre -- Fourth Avenue and 8th Street

The altered facade still smacked of a church building.  To the left is the 1891 Clinton Hall.  photograph from the collection of the New York Historical Society, Robert L. Bracklow Photograph Collection

In 1852 Bishop John Hughes established the Roman Catholic parish of St. Ann’s in the upscale Astor Place neighborhood.  At the corner of Fourth Avenue and Eighth Street stood the former Third Associated Reformed Presbyterian Church—an exquisite Georgian-style structure designed by John McComb, Jr. and completed in 1812.  The building originally stood on Murray Street, but was astonishingly moved uptown when the congregation relocated
.

photo by Ewing Galloway, original source unknown

Now the Presbyterian church moved uptown again, this time deciding to leave its building.  It was sold to the Catholic Church to become St. Ann’s Roman Catholic Church.  On April 23, 1852 an advertisement in The New York Herald read: “All persons desirous of securing seats in this church are invited to attend at the church, on Tuesday next, the 27^th inst., at one o’clock, P. M.”

Although the majority of Manhattan’s wealthy citizens were Episcopalian, St. Ann’s Roman Catholic Church filled with fashionable parishioners.  In April 1865 the well-dressed worshipers would listen especially intently to the words of their pastor.

The New York Times reported “Rev. Dr. Preston read the circular of Archbishop McClosky, and delivered some remarks on the untimely death of Mr. Lincoln, in which he rebuked the spirit of the assassination and wickedness which prompted the murder, and which if allowed to prevail, would destroy the Republic.”

The Rev. Thomas Scott Preston was a fiery, opinionated preacher.  On March 20, 1870 he focused his sermon on “Catholic doubters and offending journalist;” saying that they were “erring, if not positively unclean.” 

And later that year, after the Italian Army stormed Rome and stripped the Pope of his temporal powers, Father Preston had much to say on the matter.  On November 27 The New York Herald reported “Last evening St. Ann’s Catholic church, Eighth street, was crowded with an attentive and respectable congregation, who assembled for the purpose of hearing the eloquent and gifted pastor, the Rev. Thomas Preston, deliver his promised lecture on the temporal power of the Popes.  Before the doors were opened crowds had collected outside, and in five minutes after ingress into the sacred edifice had been allowed there was not a single vacant seat.”

The priest began his lengthy speech saying that all assembled were aware of “the circumstances in which the Holy Father was placed, and the fact that he had been deprived of his temporal power.”  Father Preston was convinced that a higher power would correct the situation.  “How long God would allow him to be deprived of it nobody knew; but at this time the faith, love and devotion of the entire Catholic world should rally around the standard of St. Peter.”

At the time that Father Preston was discoursing on Papal powers, the parish was busy contemplating a move to East 12^th Street.  On month earlier The New York Times commended “The old church, in Eight-street opposite Lafayette-place, has, for some time past, been much too small to accommodate the rapidly-increasing congregation which worships in it, and it was therefore decided to build a larger and more pretentious [church] in Twelfth-street, near Fourth-avenue.”

The new church was dedicated on New Year’s Day, 1871.  The previous day the Catholic Church had petitioned the Supreme Court for “an order granting leave to sell St. Ann’s Church…together with the parsonage and school-house adjoining.”  The petition pointed out that dry goods mogul Alexander Turney Stewart had agreed to buy the property—paying $75,000 in cash of the $125,000 selling price.

Alterations were made to the building and Stewart used it for the manufacture of bedding.  Nine years later the Stewart Estate leased the building to theater manager Jacob Aberle.  The once exclusive residential neighborhood had changed much and was now part of the northward moving entertainment district. 

On September 9, 1879 The New York Herald announced “The old church edifice on Eighth street, between Fourth avenue and Broadway…after having suffered many changes in the past few years, has finally been remodeled into a theatre, and under the management of Mr. Joe Aberle it was opened to the public last night, when an elaborate programme was presented.  In seating capacity, at least, this new house is a prominent rival of all the other east side variety theatres.”

To create his Tivoli Theatre, Aberle had lopped off the steeple and transformed the façade from Georgian to Spanish Colonial—a toned down version of Spanish Baroque.  The building still retained a churchy appearance, nonetheless.  Two days after opening night Aberle placed an advertisement in The New York Herald applauding the “overwhelming success of this New and Grand Theatre.  The Greatest Attractions in the World.  American’s Best Star Artists.”

For New Year’s Eve that year Aberle staged a special attraction, a “modern drama” entitled The Poor of New York.  The New York Herald wrote “It is based upon scene in New York during the financial crisis of 1837-38 and is a story of fraud and its victims, with the usual accompaniments of wealth, luxury, destitution and misery.”   Jacob Aberle was no doubt especially excited about the staging of this new play, because it would be the debut of Miss Laura Aberle as an actress.

The “story of fraud and its victims” was especially appropriate, considering that less than a week later Aberle received a restraining order which prevented his giving any further presentations of the play.  “The proceeding is taken on behalf of Francis Mayo, who claims to be the owner of the piece,” explained the New-York Tribune on January 11, 1880.

It was just the first of problems for the theater owner.  On May 13, 1880 The New York Times reported “A number of unruly boys nightly congregate in the gallery of Aberle’s Tivoli Theatre, in Eighth-street near Fourth-avenue, and render themselves a nuisance to the more respectable portion of the audience by their antics.  They are extremely disorderly, and in guying the actors use the most obscene language.”

The evening before, the boys had been especially problematic.  John Reilly, 17-years old, “made himself conspicuous in the disturbance,” and lit a cigar in the balcony.  He refused to put it out when ordered to do so by the door keeper.  It was only after considerable wrangling that Police Officer Golle got Reilly out of the theater and onto the street.  But then, “the friends of the young ruffian assaulted the officer with a shower of stones, several of which struck him.”

Reilly broke free and ran off with the officer “in hot pursuit.”  The delinquent teen quickly discovered that assaulting a policeman in 19^th century New York came with its costs.  “When the fugitive was brought back he was bleeding profusely from a wound on the right side of his head,” reported The Times.  The boy had to be taken to the station house on a stretcher.  He complained that Golle had whacked him on the side of the head with his club, knocking him down.

“The officer said that Reilly, while running across Fourth-avenue, stumbled and fell on the car-track, cutting his head.”

On New Year’s Day 1881 the theater was inspected by Fire Department Battalion Chief Bresnan.  The chief did not hold back in his assessment of the place.  The Times reported “Aberle’s Theatre…in the opinion of the Chief is a rookery that should be closed until it is so far rebuilt as to be in some measure safe.”  He called it “one of the filthiest places in the City, the galleries being, as he expressed it, ‘as dirty as the streets.’”

He was mainly concerned with the safety of the building—the number of exits, for example—and pointed out that the employees added to the problem.  “The employes about the theatre, he says, spend most of their earnings in the bar-room connected with and adjoining the theatre.  Being constantly more or less under the influence of liquor, he says, they should not be trusted in such important places, for in his opinion they would add to instead of preventing a panic in case of a fire.”

Aberle’s problems only increased when he staged The Boss; or, Waiting for Vengeance in February 1883.  One of the actresses was an eight-year old girl who went by various names including Lillie Atkins, Petite and May Atkinson.  In the audience on Tuesday night, February 6, was an officer of the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Children.

The New-York Tribune reported “He observed that the child seemed delicate, that she was poorly clad and that she was suffering.”  The girl appeared on stage three times during each performance, which did not conclude until around midnight.  The following day Aberle was informed that she must be removed from the cast.

An officer checked in on February 8 to make sure the order was being obeyed.  To his surprise (or not) the little girl took her place on stage exactly as before.  Not only was the girl’s father arrested, but so was Jacob Aberle.  He was held at $500 bail—a significant $12,000 in today’s dollars.

photograph by Byron Company from the collection of the Museum of the City of New York

Years later The New York Times recalled a humorous story which centered around a crooked ticket seller.  A patron wanted to see the play The Forty Thieves and passed a $10 bill to the cashier.  “Upon receiving $5 in return he returned the tickets, at the same time saying he did not want to go in and see the other thirty-nine thieves.”

Jacob Aberle sold the theater to actor John Thompson, deemed by The New York Times as “the eminent tragedian.”  When Thompson produced and appear in On Hand here, in what was now called the Eight-Street Theatre, the newspaper said it was “considered one of the most sublime creations ever produced.”

Thompson did not rely only on dramatic presentations to ensure success.  On October 24, 1884 the theater was the scene of the Jack Dempsey-Tom Henry boxing match.  The Times reported “Every grade of society was represented, from swell young men about town who wore evening dress, crush hats, and opera coats, down to dance hall bouncers and Bleecker-street ‘statues.’  All the evening cabs and carriages were driving up before the theatre, and men and women were crowding through the throng about the steps and taking their places in the boxes, while Bowery roughs and prize fighters from the dives were making efforts to pass in unobserved or begging admission from the doortender.”

The Eighth Street Theatre suffered scandal when actress Lillie Ellis committed suicide “in the saloon” of the theatre two weeks later.   According to testimony the following week, she was infatuated with a man named James Ryan.  On Wednesday night, November 12, 1884 the two apparently had words.  Ryan told Coroner Martin that he “was leaving the room when she shot herself.”  Another actress, Minnie Western, testified that Lillie was intoxicated and the matter was closed.

Like Jacob Aberle, John Thompson found himself on the wrong end of the law.  He was arrested for serving liquor in the theater without a license; and also for “assaults and brawls at the place.”  But things got serious in 1885.

That year all of Paris was enthralled by the Can Can.  Lines of synchronized dancers kicked their legs high, revealing stockings and petticoats; and at one point in they bent over and brushed their skirts above their pantaloons.  Paris may have been ready for the Can Can, but New York society was not.

In the early morning hours of February 22 Police Captain John J. Brogan “made a descent” on the theater where, according to The Times, he “surprised about 120 persons of both sexes, who were taking part in or spectators of a degrading exhibition of the can-can.”

The raid revealed that the respected tragedian was running more than a theater.  “There were nine rooms and apartments near the stage termed actress’s dressing rooms.  The boxes were the scenes of orgies, and liquor was served in the theatre during variety performances.  At late hours the can-can was danced in the wine room, and each woman endeavored to be more indecent that the others.”

Nineteen women and 45 men were arrested.  Police searched the theater for Thompson, who was finally found trying to hide in a heap of coal in the cellar.  He insisted he was in the engine room “bathing a sore eye with warm water.”  He was held in $1,000 bail for running a disorderly house—the polite 19^th century term for a brothel.  John Thompson’s Eighth Street Theatre was closed down.

The beleaguered theater was reopened as the New Eighth-Street Theatre by John F. Poole on August 3, 1886.  The Times noted “The first play will be ‘Shanema Lawn,' with Mr. W. J. Scanlan, a very interesting comedian, in the principal part.”

Poole faired only slightly better than his predecessors.  In 1889 the theater was raided for serving liquor without a license.  Within months it was under new management.  On April 26, 1890 The Evening World reported “The Boston Howard Athenaeum Company begin a week’s engagement at Harry Kennedy’s new Eighth Street Theatre.”

The vaudeville show format included “Little Ida Heath, a clever child artist in the lightning change line; Baggesen, the human corkscrew; Ella Wesner, the Wems Brothers and Coyne Sisters, Prof. Harry Parker and others.”

Kennedy’s managerial term, too, would be a short one.  When comedian Gus Bruno opened the season here in 1890, The Evening World tried to keep the tangled history of the theater straight.  “The Eighth Street Theatre, formerly Poole’s and Harry Kennedy’s was opened Saturday night by Gus Bruno, in a musical burlesque called 'A Queen Family.'”

And once again the notorious venue was shut down.  On June 15, 1891 The Evening World announced “The Eighth Street Theatre has been closed by order of Mayor Grant, who was notified Saturday that the theatre had been running since May 1 without a license.”

After serving as a boxing venue again for awhile, Adolf Philipp leased the theater in July 1893.  The Times reported “New-York is to have a German Harrigan’s.”  The article said that Philipp proposed “after renovating the house and making needed improvements, opening it with a German company of selected artists…The house will be known as the Germania Theatre and will be open about Sept. 16 at popular prices.”

Later the newspaper would remind its readers that the building “was at one time a church of considerable importance.  Although the exterior has been changed a little, there is still a distinct church effect noticeable in the architecture…It became a concert hall of fair reputation, then a dance hall of the Bowery type, and finally a dive of the most notorious character.  In these various roles it failed to pay, and the property was finally sold to a company of Germans who tried to make it at least a respectable place for light theatricals.”

A group of Germania Theatre stage hands pose for a photo in front of a stage set of a cut-away tenement.  photo by Byron Company from the collection of the Museum of the City of New York

Adolph Philipp, too, had some run ins with the law.  He was arrested on January 24, 1899 when he decided to resolve a problem with Gustav Amberg, who had leased the theater from him briefly, by punching him in the nose.  And a week later the theater was briefly closed when detectives felt that the “sacred concert” being staged on a Sunday night was in fact, an entertainment.

Actually, the detectives were right.  Jaegerblut was a German comedy; however Captain Cooney decided not to interfere.  “Besides,” explained The Times, “the players talked the Bavarian patois, and the detectives could not make out a word of it.”

Despite the minor problems, The New York Times noted on February 10, 1901 “the Germania Theatre has partly redeemed the building form its one-time unpleasant associations.”  But in April 1902 Adolf Philipp announced his intentions to construct a New Germania Theatre on East 14^th Street which would be “built and ready to be opened by May, 1903.”

The theater's fate was already sealed when, on October 21, 1900, the New-York Tribune published this photo of the building "and the adjoining property which will be condemned for the rapid transit system."  (copyright expired)

Shortly after the Germania moved out, the entire block where the old theater stood was demolished to make way for the new subway.  The John Wanamaker Department Store's 1906 extension rose over the site of the old theater.

From Gypsy Rose Lee to Spike Lee - 153 East 63rd Street

On June 10, 1916, The New York Times published a rumor.

The day before Mrs. John R. Drexel had sold the family’s private stables at 153 and 155 East 63rd Street for $85,000 to attorney Emory L. Ferris. “It was rumored,” reported The Times, “that while Mr. Ferris appeared as the buyer, the actual purchaser was Mrs. William K. Vanderbilt, who acquired the property as a gift for her daughter, Miss Barbara C. Rutherford, who will soon be married to Cyril Hatch.”

The rumor was true.

Mrs. Vanderbilt gave the land to the newlyweds and her daughter promptly commissioned Frederick J. Sterner to design their new home. Sterner was more well-known for his remodeling of existing townhouses for the wealthy than for designing residences from scratch; but he produced a home that stopped pedestrians in their tracks.

The site itself was a bit unusual; being a little “too far east” of Fifth and Madison Avenues and Sterner’s unconventional Spanish Revival design was startlingly modern for conventional socialites of the period. Standing in stark contrast to the brownstone row houses around it, it prompted the AIA Guide to New York City decades later to call it “a picturesque loner.”

The broad grey stucco-covered façade under a red clay tile roof is relatively undecorated, other than the exuberant doorway and window overhead. The rich, Spanish Colonial balcony and stone entablatures are hallmarks of Sterner who routinely inserted Italian gardens and other romantic, picturesque details into his work. A tall, Spanish iron fence guards the front of the building and adds additional visual appeal.

With this commission, he built the residence around a beautiful central courtyard where the newlyweds could enjoy the open air in total privacy. The quaint details were carried on inside with decorative touches such as electric ceiling fixtures of multicolored glass mimicking clusters of grapes and berries nested on a medallion of plaster grape leaves.

The Hatch’s marriage was not an ideal one and four years later it ended in divorce. The house at 153 East 63rd Street was about to see a remarkable string of memorable owners.

One of the fanciful glass ceiling fixtures in the form of grape clusters

Charles B. Dillingham purchased the home in 1921. One of the most important of Broadway agents and producers at the time, Dillingham owned the Globe Theatre, was in partnership with Florenz Ziefeld and A. L. Erlanger and oversaw the careers of stage stars like Beatrice Lily and Irene Castle. Dillingham and his second wife entertained the cream of New York’s theatre business here until their divorce in 1924.

In 1928 Dillingham sold the house to internationally acclaimed aeronautical engineer Charles Lanier Lawrance.   Lawrance, whose firm Lawrance Aero Engine Company merged with the Wright brothers’ Wright Aeronautical Corporation after World War I, invented the Wright Whirlwind Engine. It was Lawrance’s engine that powered Admiral Byrd’s exploration of the North Pole and carried Amelia Earhart on her widely-publicized flights.

In 1940, the Lawrance family having moved next door, Louise Hovick bought the Hatch House. Better known by her stage name Gypsy Rose Lee, the colorful entertainer had become a darling among the social set and was in the forefront of neighborhood causes. She flamboyantly decorated the 8292 square-foot home, adding gold monograms to all the doors and having frescoes painted on the walls. The New York Times said “Becoming fashionable, she operated a salon in a 26-room house (it had seven baths and a marble living room floor) on East 63rd Street.”

Gypsy Rose Lee in her home at 153 East 63rd Street in the 1940s

Gypsy Rose Lee died in 1970 and for a period the home was owned by Dr. Ferrucio di Cori who carefully retained the interiors intact, much to the approval of the Landmarks Preservation Commission upon designating the house a landmark in 1977.

In the 1980s famed modern artist Jasper Johns, Jr. moved in. Johns’ painting White Flag was sold to the Metropolitan Museum of Art for about $20 million and his False Start sold for $80 million (the most expensive painting by a living artist) in 2006.

Today the remarkable Hatch House is owned by filmmaker Spike Lee. One of the most distinctive townhouses in Manhattan, its list of remarkable owners is unrivaled.  In November 2013 Lee put the house on the market for an eyebrow-raising $32 million.