A Brooklyn Heights Boy Remembers

Copyright © 2012 by Howard B. Moshman.

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CONTENTS

Preface

1

A Brooklyn Heights Memoir

2

Mostly South Of State Street—A Brooklyn Heights Boyhood

3

A Father’s ‘Wards’ Gave Life In Tailor Shop More Interest

4

Before Air-Conditioning, The Heights Was To Escape From, If You Could

5

A (Somewhat) Fond Glance Back At Colder, More-Polluted Winters

6

Illnesses, Hospitalization Were Scary Experiences In The 1920S

7

The Joys And Pains Of P.S. 78 That Was On Pacific Street

8

Fond Memories Of That Wondrous Hotel St. George Swimming Pool

9

Living In The Atlantic Avenue Neighborhood In The 1930S

10

Recapturing The Past: When 15 Cents Got You Into Local Movie Houses

11

A Nation Of Immigrants And Immigrants’ Children

12

Junior High: Moving Up To Fountain Pens

13

Teachers, Good And Not So, At The Old Boys High

14

Teenager Working In Relative’s Drugstore

15

A Nebraska Symposium Arouses Memories Of Libraries That Were

16

Early Telephones And College Days

17

From Brooklyn Heights To Ccny—And Some Famous Professors

18

Music, And Some Fudging, Enhanced Time At Ccny

19

Coming To Grips With Labels, Roaches And Tiny Creatures

20

Learning To Cope With Hazards Of Medical Laboratory Work

21

Getting A Liberal Education From Some Early Feminists

22

A Budding Photographer Joins The Navy And Sees The Pacific

23

Getting Out Of The Navy Didn’t Happen So Fast

24

Some Cushy Final Navy Days Spent In Hawaiian Comfort

25

Pacific Naval Duty: Mumps And Enemas As Enemies

26

Enjoying Hawaiian Bachelorhood

27

Dress Whites And Pre-Christmas Revelries In Postwar Hawaii

28

Out West Without Car Or Ability To Drive

29

Getting A Sore Throat, Plus A Car, And More

30

An Arthritic 1932 Chrysler Becomes Vehicle For Learning

31

Proud (?) Co-Owner Of A ‘Yellow Streak’

32

At Home On Land And Sea, But The Sky’s Another Story

33

A Trouble-Prone Pilot Almost Sets Off Dangerous Incident

34

Serving Under A Captain Whose Name Fit Him

35

A Navy Dentist Is Assigned As A Prosecuting Attorney

36

Trials Of A Tough Customer And A Hapless Young Sailor

37

Playing Fireman In The Navy: On 9/11 Anniversary Eve, Appreciating Others’ Bravery

38

On Getting Out Of The Navy And Acquiring A Hot Car

39

Homeward, On Replaced Tires, Through Vastness Of The U.S.

40

Post-Navy: Getting A Chance To See The National Parks

41

Pushing The Old Crate To Chicago, Then On Home In A New Car

42

Adjusting To Civilian Life, Studying, Dating, Going To Work, Marrying

43

The Tribulations Of A Backyard Gardener From Then ’Til Now

44

My Chinese Colleague

45

Reflections On Dentistry After 60 Years Of Practice

46

Looking To End Tooth Decay And The Discovery Of Fluoridation

47

In Search Of The Best Filling Material

Preface

I MUST THANK HENRIK KROGIUS, Editor of the Brooklyn Heights Press. On learning that I was born and raised in Brooklyn Heights, he urged me to write some memoirs, which he published. I was surprised to learn that they number more than forty and thank the Brooklyn Heights Press for permission to republish them.

My son, David, and his wife Sara suggested that I put them into book form. It was their initiative and technical know-how that made it a reality.

Henrik’s journalistic background provided titles that were superior to mine, and they provide the heading for each chapter. I rearranged some chapters to create a more logical sequence. However, the date next to each title is the actual date it appeared in the Heights Press. This is important because frequently a chapter coincided with a news event that made it topical. Also, Brooklyn is a dynamic borough. There is constant construction, and many businesses and buildings have changed from the time they were mentioned in the memoir.

Also a special thank you to my wife, Ruth. She checked each article for all types of errors, and provided unbiased constructive criticism.

Howard B. Moshman

July 2012

1

A BROOKLYN HEIGHTS MEMOIR

June 30, 1998

IN 1930 OR 1931, I was old enough to read and understand signs that I found secreted away in deep drawers in my father’s tailor shop. The signs were actually framed glass-covered prints of stylishly dressed men and women in fashions that even I at that immature age recognized as out of date. There were prices on these signs and that is what amazed me. Men’s Suits Pressed—$4.00. Cleaned And Pressed—$5.00.

The amazing thing about this was that there were current signs in the window, handwritten on cardboard, that said. Men’s Suits Pressed—$.25. Cleaned And Pressed—$.35.

Thus the meaning of the Great Depression was made clear to me since I was never aware of how booming the economy had been in the twenties. I was also unaware that I had been born in and was living in Brooklyn Heights, a very special section of New York City.

My father, Abraham Moshman, was born in 1884 in Sochochov, a small town in Poland 45 miles east of Warsaw. At age ten he was apprenticed to a tailor and learned every nuance of the trade. He was a very intelligent man who read voraciously, had an inquisitive mind and extremely dexterous fingers. He had good spatial sense, was creative and excelled at problem solving. Born under more favorable circumstances he would have entered a profession or some scientific field. Having started his life in what was then part of Russia, he made the most of the limited vocations open to him.

Abraham Moshman arrived in the United States in one of the immigration waves of 1904-5. Among his possessions was a Hebrew Prayerbook containing an obligatory prayer for the health of the Czar. He settled in the Lower East Side of New York City. A custom clothing factory snapped him up and he quickly rose from running a sewing machine to cutting patterns and then to designing and drawing patterns.

A. Moshman in front of tailor shop, 302 Henry Street, 1928

Through the immigrant grapevine he learned that a young woman from his hometown named Jennie Laifer was living in Newark with her aunt, spending her days at a sewing machine in a sweatshop there. He courted her on Sundays, their mutual day off.

On one of his trips to New Jersey, while crossing on the Hudson River ferry, he recognized another young man from Sochochov. The other young fellow had learned of a young lady from their hometown who was living in Newark, and he was headed there to meet her. When my father realized the coincidence, he discouraged the other man by telling him that Jennie Laifer was a sickly girl with bad lungs, probably consumption. The other fellow never got off the ferry, but rode it straight back to Manhattan. My father continued by train to Newark for his date.

They were married in 1909 and moved into a honeymoon apartment in the Williamsburg section of Brooklyn.

Abraham and Jennie Moshman wedding photo, 1909

Out of Work

In 1912, with a two-year-old daughter and my mother pregnant with her second child, my father was fired. The clothing factory had decided to cut costs by eliminating its more highly paid employees and moving up those with lower salaries. My father had also joined the union and was negotiating for an increase in salary from fourteen to sixteen dollars a week.

By this time Abraham Moshman had mastered his new language orally, and was constantly improving at reading and writing it. He decided that he would no longer be beholden to anyone for a job. He searched the newspaper ads and located a tailor shop for sale at 302 Henry Street in Brooklyn Heights.

He found his way by elevated train and trolley car to the tiny one-story building, and negotiated a buyout for almost his total savings—$400. This included a sewing machine, a pressing machine, several large tables that would accommodate large bolts of cloth, and some chairs.

His landlord’s name was Friedman. Mr. Friedman was a pharmacist whose store occupied the ground floor of the adjacent apartment building on the corner of Henry Street and Atlantic Avenue. This store has most recently been occupied by an optician. The small locksmith shop sandwiched in there now at 304A Henry Street was then connected to the drugstore as its prescription department.

Cold Drafts and Hazards

My father found a small apartment on Amity Street and that is where my second sister was born. Meanwhile he discovered that the Henry Street store had some serious drawbacks. It was unheated and required gas heaters to make it tolerable in the winter. The floor consisted of wide planks with open joints that allowed frigid drafts to rise from a dirt-floored basement below. In the basement was a toilet that could be approached only by raising a trap door and descending a ladder. Each of my siblings and I fell through the trap door at least once, fortunately without serious injuries.

Through hard work, careful saving and planning Abraham Moshman purchased a dwelling at 309 Henry Street. The family moved into the second floor apartment, which is where my brother, my third sister and I were born. The building had no central heating. Water was heated in a gas-fueled tank for each floor separately. Gas heaters warmed the rooms and electric lights coexisted with rarely used but still functioning gas lines.

In 1932 the building was propped up so a cellar could be excavated. Central heating was installed, powered by coal. The street-level store, which had been a laundry, was converted to a tailor shop. Our store moved across the street from 302 Henry. It remained there until my father retired in 1965 and has been an antique shop ever since. 302 Henry Street, 300 Henry (which had been a Chinese hand laundry) and 298 Henry (which was a Roulston grocery) have all become private dwellings.

Family photo, 1930. From left, Celia, Howard, Jennie, Mildred, Abraham, Frances, Jerome

Public Schools

My oldest sister, Celia, grew up speaking Yiddish and became English-speaking when she went to elementary school at P.S. 29 on Henry Street at Kane Street. The rest of my siblings, two sisters, one brother and I went to P.S. 78 on Pacific Street between Clinton and Court Streets.

The numbers are carved into the brownstone over the front door. The school looks in fine repair, probably because it is now co-op apartments. I occasionally walk out of my way to stand in front and ponder whether the original stone staircases are still there with deep hollows created by the attrition of thousands of little feet.

Upon reaching an age when I was deemed capable of crossing streets and carrying bundles, I started delivering clothing for the tailor shop. This familiarized me with some of the distinguished people who lived in Brooklyn Heights in the nineteen thirties.

Prominent Customers

Judge McDermott lived at 295 Henry Street, in a conservative, handsome brownstone that was resurfaced in recent years and retains all its elegance. The butler lived in the garden level. He would bring the clothing to my father’s shop, and I would deliver back the serviced suits, etc. A. Moshman had earned a reputation as a full service tailor. Some clients brought in bolts of cloth and had suits made from scratch. Others brought in pictures from magazines and had clothing remodeled to suit the current fashions.

Preferred customers knew that loose buttons, torn pockets and linings would be sought out and repaired.

There were no disposable wire hangers. Clothing was folded inside wrapping paper that was pinned closed on the ends to keep items from slipping out. In warm weather my arm was first draped with paper to shield garments from my perspiration.

At 46 Sidney Place Dr. Tasker Howard resided on the upper levels and practiced internal medicine on the parlor floor. He shared office space with Dr. George Roberts, a cardiologist. Both were on the faculty of the Long Island College of Medicine, which occupied the Polhemus Building, now a satellite of Long Island College Hospital. Dr. Howard was related to John Tasker Howard who wrote a book on American music.

Rev. John Haynes Holmes lived at 26 Sidney Place. He was the minister at the Unitarian Church in Manhattan. Tall, distinguished looking, always impeccably dressed in striped trousers and dark jackets, he would often visit the tailor shop to have a conversation with my father. He would peer at me through his pince-nez glasses, remark on how cute and chubby I was and poke his cane in my belly. Dr. Holmes was famous as a civil libertarian and was among the founders of the American Civil Liberties Union.

Across from 26 Sidney Place is the Church of St. Charles Borromeo. The Catholic priests brought their cassocks and black suits to Moshman’s tailor shop for cleaning and maintenance. I would deliver them back to the rectory, which is across Aitken Place from the church. I remember Fathers Donehue and Redmond and particularly Father Dunnigan, who was the senior spiritual leader. He was thickset, heavy jowled, spectacled, jocular and very popular.

At that time there was no Aitken Place. That short street is actually an extension of Livingston Street. In 1947 when I came back from service in the Navy, I found that Father Dunnigan had died and the short street had been renamed Dunnigan Place to memorialize him. I don`t know when it became Aitken Place, but I must assume that this can change again as memories fade and new heroes appear.

129 Joralemon Street is a building that looks like a small castle. It was the home of the Jonas family. Ralph Jonas was a successful lawyer. Whenever I delivered clothing, while waiting in the vestibule for a maid to answer my ring, I would surreptitiously push a small panel next to the door. The panel would swing in. It was probably just a mail drop but I was intrigued by it as I thought such a hidden feature existed only in the movies.

123 Joralemon Street was an empty lot owned by the Jonas family. They kept it as a well-manicured lawn concealed behind a thick privet hedge for privacy, but not thick enough to keep me from peering through in the summer to see members of the family playing croquet. In the nineteen fifties the Jonases had moved. The lot at 123 Joralemon Street had been purchased separately. A one-story podiatrist’s office was built with a driveway extending to Hunts Lane. More recently this has been converted into a two-story building with a built-in garage.

There had also been two clay tennis courts on Henry Street between Hunts Lane and Remsen Street. I had watched Robert Jonas, son of Ralph, playing there in long white trousers and white tennis shirt. Immediately post World War II this lot was too costly to waste on a tennis court, and the present apartment building was put up.

Music Lessons

Abraham and Jennie Moshman believed music lessons to be part of a proper education. To them it seemed natural that girls studied piano and boys took violin. I studied violin at the Columbia House Music School. This was housed in a tiny two-story home at 44 Joralemon Street, owned by Mrs. Campbell and Miss Walker, who respectively taught violin and piano. The pupils were given individual lessons once a week and a group lesson in theory at regular intervals.

There were recitals about four times a year at the Chapel of the First Unitarian Church on Pierrepont Street at the corner of Monroe Place. The violin students formed a string orchestra bolstered by two cellist friends of the instructors, and a pianist who accompanied the orchestra and filled out the sound. Between selections there were piano and violin solos starting with beginners early in the evening and moving up to more advanced pupils at the end. We knew where we stood in the estimation of our teachers by our position on the program. When one of the newer violinists performed after me at a concert, I knew I had reached a plateau.

The depression years kept grinding along. Music lessons became a luxury we could no longer afford. I was not an especially promising violinist, but Mrs. Campbell hated to see me lose this wonderful entree to classical music, especially since I really loved it. She made a barter arrangement with my father, tailoring for music lessons. After that I carried clothing as well as my violin to 44 Joralemon St.

In 1937 Mrs. Campbell died of pneumonia. She was much loved, and her loss affected us all. Miss Walker married one of the cellists, and the school disbanded. The building is still there and a wave of nostalgia hits me whenever I walk past.

Howard’s music school certificate

B. Meredith Langstaff

On Garden Place was the home of B. Meredith Langstaff, who practiced law until his nineties, and passed away at 95 about ten years ago. Mr. Langstaff was an ardent fan of Brooklyn Heights. In 1937 he published the first pamphlet about the Heights under the auspices of the Brooklyn Heights Association, detailing its history, boundaries, original occupants and the names of all the merchants, shops, churches and facilities. A. Moshman appears under Valets, a group that includes tailoring, cleaning, etc.

John Langstaff, Meredith’s oldest son, is a renowned folk singer. He originated the yearly Christmas Revels. I remain in contact with another son, Kennedy Langstaff. We frequently reminisce about our parents and how they worked at imparting an appreciation of family, education, integrity and responsibility.

2

MOSTLY SOUTH OF STATE STREET—A BROOKLYN HEIGHTS BOYHOOD

May 6, 1999

IN JUNE 1945 I WAS on a night train to Sampson Naval Training Center near Geneva, New York. I was coping with butterflies in my stomach and insomnia. I was leaving my family in Brooklyn for the first time. Even though I was with friends in the same situation, and wasn’t even leaving New York State, there was a nervous excitement and a queasy anticipation of the unknown before me.

I dipped into my duffle bag for a book and started reading some essays by Clarence Day, whose main claim to fame was Life With Father. He made some observations that were eye opening and changed my thinking forever.

Clarence Day commented on the people who immigrated to the United States. He praised their courage in leaving their loved ones and familiar surroundings and setting out for the unknown. They endured long ocean trips in the steerage of unstabilized ships, and landed almost penniless in a foreign country with a completely different language.

These immigrants had a dream of freedom. They were prepared to work hard and make a better life for themselves and particularly for their children, with opportunities for education and advancement.

Author in Midshipmen uniform during US Navy V-12 program in dental school, 1944

I must admit that until that revelatory moment I had been embarrassed by my parents’ accented English and their frequent mispronunciations or grammatical errors. I envied the few children I knew whose parents, in my mother’s words, spoke English like Yenkees. When I reflect on my school days at P.S. 78 and the neighbors and friends I played with, I realize that Brooklyn Heights was to a large extent a two-tiered society in the 1920s and 1930s. North of State Street and particularly north of Joralemon Street the inhabitants were from well-established families with several generations in the United States. They tended to have higher educations and were professionals and administrators.

South of State Street and continuing into what is now called Cobble Hill, the children were first generation Americans and the parents spoke English as a second language or sometimes not at all. They were trades people or unskilled laborers.

Middle Easterners

Most numerous were people from the Middle East, whom we called Syrians. Later on I learned that many were also from Lebanon and Egypt. On my own block, Henry Street between State and Atlantic, there were the Naders who started a Middle Eastern restaurant on Atlantic Avenue near Court Street.

Mr. Zahr had a candy store at 311 Henry now occupied by Fatoosh Restaurant. Zahr was a short man of considerable girth with a substantial nose and a bushy mustache. He developed decision-making skills in small children. They stood in his store, clutching a penny, trying to settle on one of the myriad sweet temptations on display.

In hot weather Mr. Zahr had lemon ices, which he scooped into 1, 2, 3 and 5-cent pleated paper cups. The ices were eaten by licking the edges, lipping the part protruding from the cup, then compressing the cup to squeeze out the remainder. Finally the cup was carefully pried open like an accordion and the melted remnant licked out of the creases.

The clothes cleaners returned garments to my father’s tailor shop at 309 Henry Street in bundles that had to be sorted out and pressed. On those days Joe Jabbour would come to the store and operate the pressing machine. Joe was a tall, good-looking man from what is now Jordan. He felt at home with our family and brought us gifts on special occasions. Syrian bread from the Damascus Bakery was a treat. It came in only one size, like a dinner plate. It had to be eaten promptly before it staled. The name pita or pocket bread is a recent innovation, as are the varieties like whole wheat, fat free, salt-free and mini-size. A variation of it was totally impregnated with sesame seeds. This retained its freshness much longer.

Sweet ‘Shoe Leather’

Joe sometimes brought us a confection we called shoe leather. This was made of dried apricots, pressed into squares the thickness and consistency of sheets of extra coarse sandpaper. It was oxidized to a dark brown with orange undertones. It took time to chew it and it was delicious. A modern version of it is now made, a thinned-down anemic substitute with preservative to retain the apricot color. For body it is stuck to clear plastic and rolled up—a far cry from the original.

The Mardineys lived at 305 Henry Street. The parents spoke little English. There were five children the approximate ages of my siblings. The youngest, Raymond Mardiney, was slightly younger than I. He was a small, darling boy with whom I often played. On cold winter afternoons I recall playing at his house as his mother prepared dinner. Tantalizing odors of meat being sautéed with onions, vegetables and Middle Eastern spices would pervade the house.

When the family arrived for dinner, and I was leaving for home, I could see Mrs. Mardiney cutting Syrian breads in half and filling them with the products of her culinary skills.

Ray Mardiney continued to live in Brooklyn Heights on State Street until he fought and lost a courageous battle with cancer. I frequently see his wife Joan in the neighborhood. His sister Sarah McNeil is known to many who have seen her at her post at the polling booths on primary and election days.

The corner store at 303 Henry Street was another tailor shop run by Chalie (sic) Behette. Chalie was a very thin, baldheaded man who demonstrated his tailoring skills by creating the neat outfits his children wore as each of them in succession reached school age.

The oldest, Charlie (spelt with an r) was about my age. The second son, George, became a New York City policeman. He was an outgoing, gregarious person with many friends. I recently heard that his son, also named George, works in the pharmacy at LICH.

The next largest group of immigrants was from Spain, with Italians and Portuguese not far behind. Alice Arizozo was the prettiest girl in first grade. All the six-year-old boys said they would marry her when they grew up.

The Solis family lived in one of the brownstones on State Street where the Board of Education now provides a house for the chancellor. Tony Solis was my main competition for top of the class.

Joey Arrien lived across Henry Street from us. He was a very physical youngster who never walked if he could run. He constantly engaged his friends in hand wrestles, arm wrestles and Indian wrestles, which he invariably won. He jumped railings that we climbed over. If there was a convenient bar extending from a fire escape he would do endless pull-ups. He could broad jump from the curb to the middle of the street.

In the 1930s there were no special posts for traffic signs. Directions for parking were on mobile stanchions with a heavy round base. The traffic police would roll them across the street depending on the regulation for the day. The children tested their strength by trying to budge them. Joey Arrien would lift the stanchion to shoulder height, then press it over his head.

Joey was not a scholar. He dropped out of high school and sailed off in the Merchant Marine, which took many unemployed, unskilled men when it became the lifeline for the beleaguered Allies early in World War II. I saw Joey once more in the late 1940s. His teeth were chipped and his features roughened by boozing and brawling on shore leaves. I regretted that some coach had not discovered his unusual athletic abilities and turned him into a star of track and field, or a decathlon champion with his face on a Wheaties box.

Caroline Pisano was in my sister Mildred’s classes. Caroline is a volunteer lady in the LICH gift shop. Her sister Philomena was in my classes at P.S. 78. I met her recently after a lapse of three generations. We searched each other`s face for a semblance of the child that had once been behind the aging facade.

Theresa Zinghini lived around the corner at 126 State Street. She was a sweet little girl who participated in co-ed games. Her father, Joe, had a green thumb. In his miniscule back yard he had a prolific fig tree, and a large box turtle that stayed concealed most of the time but would occasionally surface for a free meal. Joe managed to accumulate real estate during the depression. He was a previous owner of my house on State Street, and was my neighbor for a short while until he moved to be closer to his daughter.

The DaSilvas owned the house on the northwest corner of Henry and State. The daughter, Elsie, very bright and very pretty, was a little younger than I. She sometimes put together a show, like Judy Garland and Mickey Rooney, in the basement of her house and entertained the local children. She married a physician and had a large family.

Arthur Rick Sr. was of German birth. For many years he ran the grocery on the southwest corner of Henry and State. A blunt pencil always rested over his ear. He would tease cereal boxes off high shelves, gather fruits and vegetables on the counter, then use a paper bag like a cash register tape and total up the column. His son Arthur Jr. served in the Merchant Marine in World War II. The younger son, Roy, ran the grocery after his father died. When he sold it, it evolved into the Brooklyn Heights Deli.

Abe Chortek came to the United States from the region near Kiev in Russia. He emigrated to avoid service in the Czar’s army, where all men were drafted but anti-Semitism in the ranks made the army a nightmare for Jews. He opened a laundry at 311 Henry next to Zahr’s candy store. His store later was incorporated into the corner store and became the kitchen area of a Spanish restaurant.

Abe Chortek could be seen continuously working. He sorted laundry, darned socks on a special sewing machine and fed flat articles through a mangle. This machine intrigued me, and Abe would let me try my hand with handkerchiefs but not with sheets.

Large lacy items like curtains were stretched wet on a frame with sharp pins along the edges. When dry they were detached and folded neatly. It looked inviting to snap the fabric off the pins. I managed to bloody my fingers and the curtains, and thereafter the frames were off limits.

Through thrift and industry Abe was able to purchase 303 Henry Street and move his store there. Chalie Behette was forced to move to Hicks Street where he continued for several years. The building he occupied has since been razed.

Ed Chortek, Abe’s son, ran the laundry for a while. During that time it was the only neighborhood establishment with a high fidelity set and a classical music background. The store has changed hands several times but continues to be a combination laundry and dry cleaning outlet. Ed is well known in the neighborhood. He can always be counted on to chat for a