Robert Meeropol

I heard Robert Meeropol on BBC World News today. He was speaking about the comparisons between the McCarthy era and today in regard to civil liberty restrictions. I took the audio and combined it with images of Robert and his brother as well as images of his parents. Robert founded the Rosenberg Fund for Children, a non-profit foundation which provides support for children whose parents are left-wing activists involved in court cases as well as for targeted activist youth. Michael is the Economics Department chair at Western New England College

KV Landmarks: 51 Market Street

A landmark building in KV's shadow. Federal Style. Up close the building is in need of maintenance. Some additional information on the structure and other neighboring landmarks

Christmas Shopping In Brooklyn At The Turn Of The 1900's

At H. (Henry) Batterman's in Williamsburg. The ad says it is accessible from anywhere in the city

Before There Was Tanahey Park

Cherry and Catherine Streets looking SE in 1934. The two story buildings with the pitched roofs to the left of the big tenement on the corner have an architectural style (Federal?) that dates back to the 1820's.

Who's Who Of Grandparents Of Former KVer's

My other grandmother Anna Bellel with my Aunt Rose

Who's Who Of Grandparents Of Former KVer's

That's my Bobbi, Dora Ferman

Who's Who Of Grandparents Of Former KVer's

Sarah and Joseph Hellman featured in yet another category for Knickerbocker Village

Christmas Eve

Fiction by Neal Hellman. Neal moved from Knickerbocker to Brooklyn in the late 1950's. He worked as a cab driver there in the mid 1970's. That's not really Neal in the cab, it's Abbie Hoffman in a "photoshopped" faux 1970 Brooklyn photo. The background is really in the 1940's taken on Nostrand and Parkside showing the Linden Theater on the left

Oh, how I wish the powers that be had never changed name for New York City’s largest airport from Idlewild to JFK. Just the name itself— Idlewild, sounds like a place where great birds would come to touch down.
However, on this evening this Christmas Eve at 10:00 there are no birds landing and there’s a wind chill factor of -20. I sit alone in my cab hoping to escape from JFK with a living-breathing passenger and avoid a forty-minute “dead head” trip back to the city.
I always drove a cab on holidays, business was great, tips were generous and folks were really happy to see me. You’d hear lines like “gosh you could be home with your family but here you are rolling around the streets of New York helping others to spread their holiday cheer.”
Yes that’s me, motoring around in a checkered yellow vehicle, escorting various citizens of the big apple to their desired holiday location. The mother on her way to see her new grandson, the lover on his way to meet his sweetheart, the poor fool who has to work night shift, the actor on his or her way to theater will all climb in and out my vehicle sometime during this holiday eve.
It was always best to work midtown on holidays and stay away from the airports. In Manhattan on Christmas Eve people would fight over you. Folks would see you pulling over to let someone out and the race would be on. I was a key man about town and with a little luck this workingman could return home to Brooklyn with $250. In cash in his pocket, a tidy sum for 1975.
The day had started so promising. As I was departing the cab company garage on Nostrand and Flatbush Avenues I immediately picked up a fare going out to JFK. I could get from Flatbush Avenue to JFK in less than twenty-five minutes. This always amazed my customers. To them I was indeed like a great Sherpa from Tibet that would guide travelers through the Himalayas. Instead of snow capped mountains pointing their roofs towards the heavens there was Linden Boulevard, Bushwick Avenue and my knowledge of a back entrance to JFK that only a few of the cabbie illuminate were aware of.
I looked at my watch 3:10, I’ll drop him off at United at 3:15 and then zip over to American and catch the 3:20 coming in from Houston. I had a little book of my favorite arrivals. The most important part is where they arrived from and at what day and time.
The 3:20 arriving from Houston on a Wednesday afternoon will have some mid level executives going into midtown Manhattan. Probably to the Hyatt or the Sheraton on 57th street. On a latter flight you might get a higher-level executive going to the more upscale hotels such as the Pierre or The Royalton.
By 3:20 it was already down to 10 degrees and the wind was whipping, it was hold on to your hat time out at JFK. To my good fortune the airport was “stripped and working” meaning very few cabs and a great deal of frozen life forms all desiring in no uncertain terms a warm cab to midtown as soon as possible. I pulled up and before anyone could get in my cab I yelled out “I can take a few parties to midtown”.
So two or perhaps if I was really lucky three folks who never met before would get in my cab. At that time it was a $15 to $17 tab into the city. “Ok I’d say it’s, $20.00 each tip included”.
This statement would be met with some resistance at first. “Oh no can’t we just split the clock and give you a bigger tip”? “Not on the day of Christmas Eve” I replied, it’s 10 degrees and getting colder so if you’d like to wait for another cab be my guest” I’d then start to open my door to let them out and they’d say “ok, fine just get us to our hotel”. I’d then turn around and collect my twenty's before engaging the gas pedal.
They would also notice that I didn’t throw the flag down and the meter showed all zeros.
If they would be so bold as to ask why I didn’t throw the clock I’d simply say that I was putting all the money in my pocket and that was that. Needless to say it would be a quiet ride into the city. I’d try to crack a few jokes but my audience was somewhat subdued. I’d got to the city by 4:10 and continue to roll, from the Sheraton to the village and then up to 86 St. and down around again. It’s one in one out and everyone wants to ride with me.
I am sailing, by 7:30 I have over $120. On the clock and $70.00 in my pocket. The cabbies and the company split the clock 50/50 so I’m on my way to at least a $250 night.
I’m staying away from the hotels, as a trip to the airport now would not be in my best interest. There’s an ice situation happening, flights are being canceled, JFK would be a tomb and dead heading back for a half hour when the city is working would not be the right choice. I also knew that during an ice storm some of the roads around JKF become impossible and slipping around the wilds of Queens was simply not on my dance card.
Traveling north on Park Avenue I’m hailed by a doorman. It’s 7:30 probably some well to do’s out for a night at the theater rushing to make an 8:00 curtain. “Open the trunk please”, ah words of doom, I could feel it, oh God a late night airport call. Before I could make an excuse two elderly women amble into the back seat. As they slide in the one with the big hat says “we need to make a 9:00 at Air France, were taking the red eye to Paris, get us there in time and well give you a $10.00 tip.
I then ponder my current situation. I could get them to JFK by 8:20 and grab the 9:00 United flight coming in from Miami. A 9:00 from Miami would probably insure me of taking a nice little Jewish man with great tan to an apartment in Brooklyn, that’s ok, it would take me out of the airport and then I could work the disco’s in Bay Ridge and pocket some more dough and hopefully catch a fare back into midtown.
I had it wired, I delivered my Park Avenue fare to Air France in plenty of time and they indeed gave me a ten spot. The wind is really picking and it’s starting to hail. The 9:00 from Miami can’t land, planes are now being diverted up to Connecticut, it’s either dead head it back to the city or take my chances at another terminal. There are cabs everywhere all the lines are sucked up, little yellow vehicles as far as my cabbies eyes can see.
It’s time to cut my losses, I’ll work the shortly line, meaning a short call usually $6 to $8 to Forest Hills or Brooklyn, and then maybe I can luck out and catch fare back to midtown. I’ve been fortunate all night why should it stop now? My little radio told me that many streets in Queens were becoming caked with ice.
I noticed there were at least seven cabs on the shorty line. When there's a short call the dispatcher comes out, blows a whistle, and holds up his hand over his head about a foot apart. However on this night he keeps blowing his whistle, no one seems to want the fare, and as each cab pulls up the driver take one good look, shakes his head and takes off. How bad could it be? As I desperately needed to move out of this frozen tundra known as an airport. I made the move and pulled up to the dispatcher.
I pulled my sock hat down over my ears, threw on my gloves and pop myself in front of the man with the whistle. “They’re going to Belmont Long Island”, he said, “you got to help these people out, they’ve been waiting for a half an hour and they’re about to freeze to death.”
Belmont Long Island, the worse possible address from the airport. Belmont was east of JFK, in other words away from the city, to make it worse it was not an O.T. An O.T. means out of town and you could double the clock but Belmont was the last town within the city limits, an $8.00 fare at best and a 55 minute drive back to the city with no chance of picking up a fare. I knew the area and was aware of the fact that the streets would be frozen solid. He looks at me with a death stare and yells, “for God’s sake it’s Christmas Eve and there both crippled, look there in wheel chairs. The terminal is going to shut down in ten minutes, you have heart beating in their pal?” He says as he poked his frozen finger into my wet and icy pea coat. “Sure I’ve have heart but on nights like this I just like give it a little time off” I thought. The dispatcher looks dragon like with all the foggy breath coming out of his mouth as he says, “you want theses poor cripples to sit here all night and freeze to death”?
I looked at the couple, their helpless and frozen faces looked back at me, theses two frozen bodies are looking at the same pair of eyes that recently hustled three businessmen from Houston Texas. However, they didn’t see that part of me, they saw deliverance, they saw home. It might have been Christmas Eve but to them I was Moses about to take them to the Promised Land.
“Ok fine, I’ll do it, can you help with the wheel chairs” I asked? “Sorry pal I gotta job to do here, it’s your gig now” and he walked away into the frozen night. I wheeled the women to the cab, I helped her up and into the back seat, the man was really large, at least 260 pounds, I wrapped my arms around his shoulder and literally dumped him beside his wife. I opened the trunk and just managed to stuff the two wheel chairs in. I had to remove my gloves to worth the catch and I as I did I could feel my flesh starting to stick to the metal.
Seven dollars and fifty cents latter I pulled in front of Dave and Blanche’s house, the roads were slippery, the street was dark but with a little luck I could help these folks into their home, jump back into the cab hop on to the Long Island Expressway and be back in action.
As I shut the clock off Dave handed me the keys and asked if I could unlock the door first to minimize the time the spent in -20 degree weather. Sounded reasonable to me, however as I approached their gate I realized that my sojourn in Belmont Long Island was just beginning.
The walk to their door was a good fifty feet and it was covered in at least two feet of snow with a least six inches of frozen sleet on top.
I jumped back in the cab, “how long have you been away”? My quivering blue lips asked?
“Oh at least two weeks, we were down in the Virgin Island, we had a great time” and as Blanche was about to give me a blow by blow of her wonderful tropical vacation I held up my hands and said “why didn’t you hire a neighborhood kid to shovel your walk when you were away?” Dave smiled as he replied, “well it wasn't snowing when we left” he said with what could only be described as puppy dog grin.
“Is there a shovel around”? I asked, “Yes there’s one in the house” Dave replied.
I had already shut the clock off; this was my time we were working on. I could be in the city raking in the cash and now I’m stuck in Belmont Long Island in a cab with two people and two wheel chairs and three feet of snow on a forty-foot walk.
I closed my eyes and tried to conjure all the available spirituality that one could muster in a cab in the middle of Belmont Long Island on Christmas Eve. I then asked Dave ” How well do you know your neighbors”? “Perhaps one of them might have a shovel and help us out.”
“Folks on this block are really not to friendly” Dave replied. It’s pushing 10:30 all I need is one friendly neighbor with an available shovel. I left the cab running with the heat on as I started on my journey of frozen compassion.
“Knock, knock”, a suspicious face pears through a glass window, I smile and say “look I’ve got two folks in my cab and they are in wheel chairs, there crippled you know and I need to borrow a shovel so I can get them inside, can you help us out?” He shook his head and said “no go away, I don’t know you or those people down the street, it’s late and hey it’s your problem, not mine, go away or I’ll call the police,” Hum that was not the response I was seeking. I try one more house, “please I said I’m in a desperate situation here I’ve got to help Dave and Blanche get into their house.” I said with the most humble expression I could muster. He looked me over and replied—
“Ok I’ve got a shovel but I want a $20.00 deposit,” “ok fine” I said. As I walked back to the house I wondered what would have been the future of Christianity if Joseph and Mary had tried to find a place to bring baby Jesus into the world in Belmont Long Island.
I took well over an hour to shovel my way to their door, and long before I finished there was frost inside my nose and all my fingertips and earlobes were numb. As I was chipping away I thought that this indeed was what we of the chosen would call a “mitzvah” meaning an incredible good deed that surly God would reward me for.
I got to the front door the key worked but there was a 3-inch sheet of ice and I couldn’t open it. How am I ever going top find an ice pick, it’s now 11:30.
I go back to the cab; Dave and Blanch are looking through the frosty windows with hope and they smile and I smile back. Ah yes I thought I can use the lug wrench from my car jack. To get to my car jack I had to remove wheel chairs. I haul the two wheel chairs out of the trunk, the metal is so cold that it sent a shiver up my arm and down through my already frozen body.
Hallelujah, I find the jack, I proceed toward the door, as I’m passing the cab in what can only be described as a hunched over frozen stagger, Dave rolls down the window. “Hey your not going to leave our wheel chairs out in the snow, just like that are you?” I blink my eyes; I must have looked like an enchanted fairy as all my facial hair was glistening with ice. Dave’s statement was duly ignored.
I proceeded to start banging the sharp part of my lug wrench on the doorstep.
A small epiphany thought came into my frozen cortex. Is this how psychology majors end up? Banging a lug wrench on Christmas Eve on some frozen non-descript doorstep in Belmont Long Island? Or perhaps just perhaps the powers above have chosen me because for some odd reason they want me to save Dave and Blanche from freezing to death at JFK? My decision was suspended as I broke away through the last of the ice. I returned to the cab, I shut off the engine, I lift Blanche into her chair, I wheel her in the door. I open the door and wheel her into the living room. I return to the cab, I lift Dave and wheel him home as well. I find the thermostat and in a few minutes glorious heat is pouring through the home of Dave and Blanche.
Dave opened some scotch and mixed it with hot water and we all defrosted together.
I explained about the deposit on the shovel, “no problem” Dave replied here’s the $20 for that and we’ll return it tomorrow.
“Oh and this is for you” he said as he handed me a fifty. Both the impact of the large tip and the Scotch hit at the same time. Yes I thought I’m back on it! I looked at the clock it was midnight, I could return to the city by 12:30 work until 2:00 and make my $250.00 night.
I said my farewell to Dave and Blanche, “Oh please” they said “take a load off, and have another Scotch”. I then conjured up my inner Mr. Frost and told them “I have promises to keep and miles to go before I sleep”.
I stepped back out into the chill; walked down the now accessible path to their home, hopped back into my cab, skidded down a few side streets and then happily entered the Long island Expressway. As New York's illuminating skyline came into view I turned up the radio, laid into that gas pedal and into the breech one more time I did go.

Radio Row

The last post made me remember this recording. It was done as part of Lost and Found Sound's Sonic Memorial Archive of the lower Manhattan before its demolition. This was a prelude to the World Trade Center's construction in 1966. I recall making a few trips down to the area as a kid to get tubes to repair our DuMont television set. from the site

June 3, 2002 -- When City Radio opened on New York City's Cortlandt Street in 1921, radio was a novelty. Over the next few decades, hundreds of stores popped up in the neighborhood: Metro Radio, Blan the Radio Man, Leotone Radio, Cantor the Cabinet King. The six-square-block area in lower Manhattan became a bazaar of tubes, knobs, hi-fi equipment and antenna kits. It was the largest collection of radio and electronics stores in the world. Then in 1966, the stores were condemned and bulldozed to make way for the new World Trade Center. As part of Lost & Found Sound's Sonic Memorial Project (in collaboration with NPR and WNYC), we take a look back at the people and stories of Radio Row.
When City Radio opened on Cortlandt Street in 1921, radio was a novelty. Over the next few decades, hundreds of stores popped up. Metro Radio, Leotone Radio, Blan the Radio Man, Cantor the Cabinet King. The six-square-block area in Lower Manhattan became a bazaar of radio tubes, knobs, hi-fi equipment, and antenna kits. It was the largest collection of radio and electronics stores in the world. Then in 1966 the stores were condemned and bulldozed, to make way for the new World Trade Center. A look back at the people and stories of Radio Row.
Just north of the Syrian district was Radio Row, a block of stores selling radios and related electrical equipment. The row was dominated by Heins and Bolet, the oldest and most reliable of radio stores, open since 1920. As its competitors came and went, Heins and Bolet endured, maintaining a huge inventory, soundproof booths large enough to demonstrate five console radios at a time, an efficient repair service, and a willingness to give customers a "break." The business did not close until the neighborhood was razed in the late 1960s for the construction of the World Trade Center. In the background of Abbott's photograph is a whimsical "Swiss chalet" style elevated train station, built in the 1870s and typical of early stations on the Ninth Avenue El--the first built, and torn down four years after Abbott's photograph.

Washed Balls

A unique and inexpensive Christmas gift: rewashed golf balls at Davega's on Cortlandt Street. This was in the the Radio Row section of downtown Manhattan. It would become part of the World Trade Center site

Who's (Almost) Who In Knickerbocker Village History: Irving Berlin

Even those of us of the Hebrew faith (as Myron Cohen used to say) love this. After all, a "landsmen" wrote it. BTW Irving Berlin lived supposedly at 330 Cherry Street, off of Monroe Street and he played in burlesque houses near Chinatown on the Bowery
from an Irving Berlin biography site:
"Irving Berlin: A Daughter's Memoir," by his daughter Mary Ellin Barrett, reveals that his family came from Tolochin in Mogilev guberniya (province of Russian Empire). Her account coincides with a number of records from his brothers and sisters. That's why Irving's draft registration and several other records give his birthplace as Mogilev. Several of Irving's siblings were born in Tolochin but family left town after their house was burned down, possibly torched, according to Edward Jablonski (a biographer of Irving Berlin, George Gershwin and Harold Arlen) in his book "Irving Berlin: American Troubadour" Vol. 1.

But Irving, who was the youngest child in the family, is frequently said to have been born in Temun, usually identified as Tyumen in Siberia. Some family members believe his father, Moses, a cantor, had taken a temporary position there, but there are no records found. Tymen, located far from the Pale of Settlement, was not much easier a place of destination for a Jewish family than a foreign country. Being a cantor or shochet wasn't a cause for Russian administration to let his family move out of the Pale.

There are several possibilities concerning his birth city. It could be Tyumen or Tumen, any one of several villages in Belarus or Ukraine but not the city in Siberia. However Siberian Tyumen will come first if somebody searches for the location with such name. It also sounds more interesting than a village nobody knows about.

The Beilin family moved to America in 1893 leaving behind in Tolochin the eldest son and married daughter (who later joined them in NY). The father was then forty-one or so (all dates in the story of the Beilins are approximate and suspect) and his mother about thirty-nine. The eldest of children who moved with their parents was 19-year-old Sarah.

In America their passenger arrival list shows the family name was originally BEILIN . It was altered to BALINE in the United States, and eventually Americanized to BERLIN by some, but not all, branches. In Belarus, BEILIN was a common name in the city of Minsk, but not in Mogilev Gubernia. Possibly family roots from Irving's father spanned back to that region. Belarus Jewish genealogy researcher David Fox suggested that Tyumen could be misspelled Igumen, the town located halfway between Tolochin and Minsk.

The Beilins, with six children ranging in age from five to nineteen, and six pieces of luggage (including a featherbed and a samovar), boarded a train and crossed stealthily into Brody near the Austrian border of Galicia. They passed scrutiny in Brody, where Moses judiciously stated as his occupation "shomer " (i.e., "overseer" in a kosher butcher shop). From there, the train would proceed to Poland, then crossing Germany and arrive at their destination, Antwerp, Belgium to board the Rhynland for the 11-day journey to America where they arrived on September 13, 1893.

Having survived to face the ordeal at Ellis Island (where the name Beilin became Baline) they were led by a relative of Leah's, to an address on the Lower East Side on Monroe Street. Somehow, there was a three-room basement apartment waiting for them. When income permitted the family they moved to a slightly airier tenement around the corner on 330 Cherry Street. The Balines' exodus of several weeks or more was at last ended, and a new chapter in their lives was about to begin. From this point the life of Irving Berlin is better known.

At the age of eight, he took to the streets of the Lower East Side of New York City to help support his mother and family after his father had died. In the early 1900s he worked as a singing waiter in many restaurants and started writing songs. In 1907 he published his first song, Marie From Sunny Italy and by 1911 he had his first major international hit, Alexander's Ragtime Band.

One More Time

I love this song. Here's the Count's version. Eric Dixon and Sal Nistico I believe are the tenor sax soloists. Sonny Payne on drums. Freddie Green, of course, on guitar.
This has very little to do with Knickerbocker except the link to Bobby Darin, which is a suspicious link in itself. Well, also it's a very 1950's-60's era piece.