The Mittelstaedt House -- No. 86 University Place

The modest middle-class home sheltered a family of seven in the 1870s -- photo by Alice Lum

The wave of German immigrants that began settling in New York City in the 1840s swelled to over 800,000 in the 1850s and by the middle of the decade only Vienna and Berlin boasted a larger German population than New York.  By the end of the Civil War the streets of the Lower East Side of Manhattan rang with German songs and music; and German newspapers, social halls and restaurants flourished.  The neighborhood earned the nickname Little Germany, or Kleindeutschland.

Among those seeking a new life in America was Bernhard Mittelstaedt.   Unlike so many of his immigrant neighbors who crowded into tenement buildings, Mittelstaedt purchased the former home of a real estate dealer named Searls at No. 86 University Place.  Here in the modest red brick house he would provide a home for his family and begin his rather interesting business:  the importing and wholesaling of human hair.

Nearly a century before synthetic wigs would become commonplace there was a fertile market for clean, quality human hair.  Victorian women commonly wore hairpieces—referred to a “head-dresses”—pre-styled in the latest fashions.  Before long Mittelstaedt’s business was a success.  His American dream was coming true.

Victorian women selected pre-styled hair pieces.

Here in the middle-class house on University Place above an English basement Mittelstaedt and his wife Emma Amelie reared five children; two daughters and three sons.  Bernard honored his wife by naming the business E. Mittelstaedt.  As the boys grew, two entered the family business (son Charles chose, instead, to become a doctor).   Mittelstaedt’s pride in his success was reflected in the handsome and elaborate cornice he affixed to the house around 1880, which announced “E. MITTELSTAEDT – ESTABLISHED 1867.”

The company was named after Emma Mittelstaedt, Bernard's wife -- photo by Alice Lum

As the century progressed, the business diversified as it out-grew the family’s house.   Mittelstaedt moved the operation into newly erected commercial loft building next door at No. 84.  Here he established his own workshops to manufacture hairpieces.  Related products, such as hair nets, were now offered as the company adapted to meet changing styles and growing demand.    The firm shared the new building with apparel firms like Julius Klugman, wholesale furriers; Hirsch & Smith, manufacturers of skirts; and Sol A. Unger & Co., makers of cloaks and suits.

By 1910 the company was selling a variety of items -- Notions & Fancy Goods, August 1910 (copyright expired)

The house was the scene of Emma Mittelstaedt’s funeral on Wednesday evening, April 22, 1908.   Bernhard lived on in the house with his sons Bernard and Charles, and daughters Emma and Harriet.  Son Edward was now living in Ridgewood, New Jersey.

Nine years later, on January 16, 1917, Bernard Mittelstaedt died of pneumonia in the house on University Place at the age of 80.   Despite the sizable wealth amassed from the business, the family members continued to live conservatively here.   And while the brothers ran the firm, daughter Harriet turned her attention to music.

To further the training she had already received in the city, she traveled to Europe to study voice at the Fontainbleau School of Music in France and at a conservatory in Leipzig, Germany.  In the 1920s, now a professional soprano, Harriet gave recitals at Steinway Hall.

The Mittelstaedt boys, while upstanding in the community, were perhaps a bit biased in their religious views.  An advertisement placed in the New York Tribune on August 24, 1922 read “Help Wanted Female.  Bookkeeper’s Assistant, knowledge of typewriting; Christian; salary $16.”

An advertisement from The Dry Goods Economist, November 19, 1921 (copyright expired)

Harriet’s brother, Charles, died in July 1941, followed by Bernard in 1945.  The unmarried Harriet was now the last of the family in the house at No. 86 University Place.   As the once-German neighborhood around her changed drastically, the aging woman stayed on in her family home filled with furniture, silver and paintings of another century.

By now the English basement had been converted to the Royalist Restaurant, owned by Barney Gallant.   1945 was not a particularly good year for the restaurateur.    On September 13 he was held for trial on the charge of “simple assault” of patron Agnes Broadland.   Mrs. Broadland conceded that she had been “drinking heavily” before entering the restaurant.  Gallant instructed the waiters not to serve drinks to her “because she had had enough elsewhere.”

Agnes Broadland alleged to police that he went further than that—he had struck her.  The New York Times reported that “Mr. Gallant denied that he had mistreated Mrs. Broadland, asserting that she had slipped on a rubber mat as he escorted her from the place.”

Two weeks later Gallant’s troubles continued when Magistrate Charles E. Ramsgate in the War Emergency Court imposed a fine of $160 for sixteen violations of ceiling prices.  Gallant’s attorney entered a guilty plea of overcharging patrons.

In the meantime, the 63-year old Harriet Mittelstaedt devoted her time to music, charities and her love of Greenwich Village.  She was active in the Little Gardens Club of New York, which gave annual tours of the gardens of the Village.  In 1956 she sponsored a Washington Square concert series at Judson Memorial Church in memory of her parents.

Among her much loved causes was the New York University School of Medicine, where her brother Charles had graduated in 1896.  She gave about $15,000 to the school in the 1950s.  Then, alone and aging, she donated her family home to the University in 1958, with the proviso that she be allowed to live out her life there.

On March 13, 1964, at the age of 82, Harriet died in St. Vincent’s Hospital after a short illness.  The house on University Place was without a Mittelstaedt resident for the first time in nearly a century.

In the 1970s the downstairs restaurant space had become the Dardanelles Armenian Restaurant, which The Times called a “bright, cheerful, attractively decorated place with excellent authentic fare.”

New York University renovated the house in 1991, expanding the restaurant space into the former parlor floor and creating two apartments on the second floor and one each on the third and fourth floor.  El Cantinero Mexican Restaurant moved in.  In 1995 New York Magazine was not impressed.

“…The almost willfully ugly surroundings, the dispirited staff—the strange Twilight Zone karma—brought me down again in short order.  This is not a happy place.”

photo by Alice Lum

Whether the magazine critic had a good experience at El Cantinero or not, University students flock there.  The brick addition that was slapped onto the front of No. 86 University Place is unfortunate; however a look upwards reveals the intact house where Harriet Mittelstaedt lived out her last years and the proud cornice her father had installed to prove that he had made it in America.

The Lost Arion Society --- Park Avenue and 59th Street

The building in 1889 -- The American Architect & Building News (copyright expired)

Ground was broken in March 1886 and an appropriate musical ceremony marked the laying of the cornerstone on June 12.  Although the original cost of the building was estimated at $200,000, that figure quickly grew.  Amendments were made to make the structure fireproof throughout and unforeseen problems in sinking the foundations brought the final cost to around $350,000. 

Bronze sculptural groupings perch atop the stone balustrade -- photo NYPL Collection

The building, completed in September of the next year, was sumptuous.   Clad in buff brick and terra cotta, it sat upon a rusticated base of Berea sandstone.    Called by the architects “early Italian renaissance,” it featured stone balconies on hefty scrolled brackets, arched windows and, above the stone balustrade along the roofline, two sculptural groupings.   Above the Park Avenue façade sat Arion on the back of a dolphin—plucked from the mythical story of his being rescued from pirates by a group of dolphins—designed by Aloys Loher.  The grouping above 59^th Street depicted Prince Carnival dancing with two female figures; this sculpture designed by Henry Baerer.   The two sculptures cost the society $18,000.

The Review of the New York Musical Season said “The general appearance of the building is chaste and elegant, the facades being relieved by handsome balconies, and the ornamental designs in terra cotta being consistent in style with the architectural forms.”

The Cafe showcased a heavy wooden bar and stained glass windows -- photograph Library of Congress

Inside  Guastavino-tiled arches created vast spaces.  The Review of the New York Musical Season noted that “A unique feature in the construction of the building is the use of the so-called Spanish arch in the floors, the span being sometimes twenty feet. The arch was never before used in a large public building in America.”  Guastavino’s tiled construction was guaranteed fireproof, as were the iron and marble staircases and the French flint tiles that paved the hallways.

The Entrance Hall -- photo The New York Tribune 1902, copyright expired

The impressive first floor with its heavy, fluted columns and staircase contained the reading room, two family dining rooms, card rooms and the committee room.   On this level, as well, were the billiard room with six tables and a bar, a wine room, and the library which adjoined a private dining room.

The Music Room -- photo New York Tribune 1902 copyright expired

Below street level was the drinking room, or Kneipe, that imitated a medieval German beer hall.  Heavy oak furniture and wainscoting, stained glass windows and wrought iron lighting added to the old German atmosphere.  Also in the basement were two bowling alleys, hat rooms, and “toilet rooms.”



The Rathskeller -- photo New York Tribune 1902 copyright expired

On the second floor was a 51 by 95-foot banquet hall capable of seating 500, along with the kitchen and pantries.  The ladies’ parlors and toilet rooms were situated on a mezzanine and were, according to The New York Times, “sumptuously decorated and furnished.”   Above, on the third floor, was the immense concert hall and ballroom.  By using iron roof trusses, the architects were able to avoid using columns in the 120-foot long hall which would obstruct both dancing and views of the stage.   “Three large chandeliers hang from the ceiling, adding greatly to its striking appearance," said the newspaper.
 

No expense was spared in outfitting the building with the latest in technology and conveniences.  An electric elevator ran from the basement to the top floor; there were electric lights throughout (although given the unreliability of electric lighting in 1887, gas lamps were also at the ready), and over $14,000 was spent on an up-to-the-minute ventilation system.

On September 17, 1887 the clubhouse was formally opened.    The New York Times, in exuberant prose, reported.  “At an early hour in the evening the exercises opened with a procession and illumination, and from then on the joys of celebration were sustained with that overflowing goodness of heart and unflagging energy which characterizes an assemblage of German citizens alive to the fact that the occasion is worthy of all possible honor.”

At 7:30 the procession began, marching through several streets and consisting of representatives from many of the German social clubs; all wearing uniforms and carrying banners.  The parade arrived at the new clubhouse which was brilliantly illuminated by a dozen calcium lamps.  On the roof, pitch fires burned from braziers, fireworks were exploded and in the empty lot next door a cannon was fired.

Walking along in the procession was “a handsome page,” said The Times, who bore the key to the new building.   The boy presented the key to the John O. Hundt, chairman of the building committee who declared the building “open to harmony, music, and many other good things which are dear to the German heart.”    The Times reported “Then clubhouse was then invaded.  In an instant its many rooms were occupied by swarms of delighted sightseers who exchanged freely expressions of surprise and pleasure at the succession of fair scenes which opened to their view as they passed from floor to floor of the building.”

As would be expected, the main events of the evening took place in the concert hall.   The Arion Society’s conductor, Franz van der Stucken (who had been lured from Germany specifically for the position) had composed a march for the occasion.  Singers entertained the large group and President Richard Katzenmayer addressed the crowd, saying he would like to see the words “Here German is spoken” written “in letters of fire over the entrances.”  After his speech, four great barrels of beer were tapped.

The Arion Society continued to prosper and by 1893 had a membership of over 2,000.  The society’s ball at Madison Square Garden in 1895 was nearly a financial disaster.   The events were elaborate affairs and the staging of this one cost the society $19,500.  Tickets were sold at the extraordinary price of $10 each, which should have netted the club between $8,000 and $9,000.   But ticket counterfeiters showed up on the evening of the ball, boldly selling the fakes in front of the Garden.

By the time the ruse was discovered 400 people had been admitted with counterfeit tickets, a gate loss of $4,000.  Three hundred additional patrons showed up with fake tickets and were turned away, adding another $3,000 to the lost revenue.  In the end the Arion Society’s grand ball netted the club only about $2,000.

In September 1895 The Arion Society was invited to sing at the White House and the Capitol Building.  Although singing for the President in the East Room was memorable, club members were most impressed by the acoustics of the Capitol Rotunda.  The Times reported that “Members of the society say that the echoes heard in the rotunda were second only to those of the Luray Caverns, which they visited yesterday.”

Tragedy struck on March 11, 1901 when the assistant engineer, Anton Zier, accidentally turned a stop cock on a boiler around 4 a.m., releasing a burst of steam and boiling water.  The force of the steam was enough to blow apart the large coal pile across the room.  Zier was hit with the stream of boiling water and he inhaled the scalding steam.  The severely injured man, concerned that the boilers would explode, made his way up the ladder to street level, then crawled three blocks to the Liederkranz Club.  He begged the engineer there, Charles Ziebig, to hurry to the Arion Society to repair the damage.

Policeman Carolan rushed Zier to the German Hospital while Ziebig went to the Arion.  The boiler room was filled with steam, but he was able to shut down the boilers before any severe damage resulted.

Sadly, Zier, who had a wife and five children, did not survive the serious burns.

A year later the club had, perhaps, its most memorable moment.  On February 26 Prince Henry of Germany was the guest of a reception here.  Accompanying the Prince, who was the brother of the Emperor,  were high-level figures like German ambassador Baron von Holleben, Vice Admiral von Tirpitz, Admiral von Baudissin, Admiral Evans, Adjutant General Corbin, Colonel Bingham, Commander Cowles, and Assistant Secretary of State David J. Hill.

The Prince’s counsel to the Arion members would be hauntingly remembered only a few years later.  “If I were to give any advice to you, which I know is not necessary, I could give non better than this, that every German that has become a citizen of the United States should be as loyal and good a citizen as he would be had he remained in Germany.”

The clubhouse was heavily decorated for the Prince’s visit.  The New York Tribune said “The lower floor of the clubhouse and the stairways looked like an immense greenhouse, with their multitude of rare plants, ferns and palm trees, while evergreens covered the walls.  Upstairs the main hall was decorated with evergreens, smilax, and American Beauty roses, and the walls and ceiling were covered with small electric lights.”  The Times agreed, saying “The interior of the Arion Clubhouse…was a veritable conservatory.”

In preparation for the Prince's visit, the building was festooned with the U.S. and German flags, bunting, pennants and other decorations -- New York Tribune February 27, 1902 (copyright expired)

Through the first decade of the century the Arion Society became as much identified with billiards as with singing its Interstate Challenge Cup, valued at $250, was highly sought in annual amateur billiards tournaments.

But things were about to change for the Arion Society.

With Germany embroiled in the horrific war that darkened Europe, German American representatives crowded into the Arion clubhouse on February 4, 1917.  The purpose of the meeting was to assure the world that, despite their German origins, they were solidly American.  A telegram was sent to the President saying that, while no one wanted war, if war should come “we of fighting age, our sons and brothers, will be loyal.”

New York newspapers hailed the move.  But within a month or so public opinion would shift.  In March The Mayor’s Committee on National Defense circulated a “pledge of loyalty to President Wilson” among the German societies.   Members of the Arion Society refused to sign the pledge saying “we regard the invitation to sign as a doubt of our loyalty and therefore an insult.”  The blank pledges were removed from the club’s foyer.

Public sentiment worsened when a month later the conductor of the Brooklyn branch of the Arion Society refused to play “The Star-Spangled Banner” during a concert of classical music.   In response to the uproar that resulted, he said “I am an American and have no desire to cast aspersions on our national anthem, but as a musical composition I contend that it is decidedly unclassical and did not fit in with the programme we were presenting.”

It was the end of the line for the Arion Society.   Within weeks the beautiful clubhouse was sold to brewer George Ehret who began discussions with the Anderson Galleries to convert it to an art gallery.  On June 22, 1917 The New York Times reported that “All of the interior furnishings and properties, including books, pictures, statuary, furniture, hangings and even chandeliers, of the clubhouse of the Arion Society…will be sold at public auction next Tuesday.  The rooms will be completely dismantled.

“Among the articles to be sold is a large oil painting by A. Liezer-Mayer representing Philippine Welser before Kaiser Ferdinand I, which, it was said yesterday, originally cost $35,000.  It will be offered at an upset price of $5,000.  A collection of handsomely bound books by standard German authors will also be disposed of.”

The next month the Anderson Galleries announced their planned changes.  New elevators and stairways were installed.  Exhibition rooms replaced the billiards and dining rooms.  The German beer hall in the basement became a catalogue department.  “The new property will be the largest in the United States devoted to the public sale of art and literary collections,” saidThe Times.

The Gallery opened on December 10, 1917.  On opening day a rare first edition of Shelley’s “Refutation of Deism” with corrections in the poet’s own hand sold for $3,450.   The same day collectors purchased a copy of Boccaccio’s “Decameron” printed in 1620, Ben Jonson’s “Selanus His Fall,” and Christopher Marlowe’s “Massacre of Paris,” among other extremely rare pieces.

In an ironic twist of fate, on May 23, 1920, the Anderson Galleries sold 65 lots of royal furniture and artwork once owned by the Kaiser.  Irreplaceable items of German history—silver cigarette cases, the Kaiser’s favorite drinking jug, and ivory miniatures—were sold to Americans in the former billiard room of a once very German society.

A dispute over rent resulted in the Anderson Galleries being evicted in December 1931 and the building sat essentially empty for over a decade.    Then a surprising announcement was made in September 1945.  Walter Reade purchased the building from the Central Savings Bank for around $600,000.  His intention, he said, was to transform it in a “unique and artistic movie house designed to meet the needs of a subscription clientele.”

Saying that the former Arios clubhouse had been “a dead cat” for fifteen years, he described an intimate theater of about 600 seats for high-end members only.  Instead of the expected movie house seating, he said there would be “two love seats together with an aisle separating every pair of seats.”  There would be no lobby displays or exterior electric signs.

“Patrons will use an old-fashioned door-knocker and will be admitted by a doorman in livery,” he said.  “There will be no change in the exterior walls of the old art gallery building—we’ll just clean up the dirty Indiana limestone and marble, put flowers in the balconnades and flood light the outside.  It will seem as if one is entering Thomas Jefferson’s home.  I have dreams for this theatre.”

Reade spent between $400,000 and $600,000 on renovating the interiors.  The Park Avenue Theatre opened in 1946 for wealthy movie-goers who purchased yearly subscriptions.  The cheapest subscription was $62.40 for a once-a-week 7 p.m. showing.  A seat in the 9 p.m. show cost $93.20.

The theater opened in October 1951 with Alec Guinness starring in “The Lavender Hill Mob.”  Films that premiered here included “Room at the Top,” “The Red Balloon,” and “They Shoot Horses, Don’t They?”

Despite amenities like not having to wait in line, being greeted by a liveried doorman and sitting on cushy loveseats, the plan did not work.  Soon Universal Pictures leased the Park Avenue Theatre and used it to screen the British films of J. Arthur Rank that it distributed in the U.S.

By 1957 the theater was no more and the building housed a bank, an auto salesroom and a dance studio.   That year the Roman Catholic Archdiocese of New York purchased the property from Walter Reade for over $2 million.   In another astounding reincarnation, the Arion Society clubhouse was now to become a chapel.  The Archdiocese announced on April 3 that it would be used as an annex to St. Patrick’s Cathedral.  “Designated as a ‘Chapel of Ease,’ it will conduct religious services for office workers, but normally will not hold baptism or marriage ceremonies,” reported The New York Times.

The Chapel of Saints Faith, Hope and Charity opened late in 1958.  In the structure that had been built by all-male singers, the music here was now performed solely by women.  In yet one more ironic twist, The Chapel Chorale was an all-volunteer, all female choir.

For two decades, in addition to regular worship services, the Chapel would be the scene of funerals for many of New York’s most respected and well-known figures.  Then, in 1978, saying that necessary repairs to the building were “prohibitive in cost,” the Archdiocese relocated the Chapel to the south end of the block.  Real estate developer George Klein told The New York Times “he had decided to acquire the five-story chapel’s site to construct an office building.”

And so he did.   The lovely building with a most remarkable history was razed.  Its four incarnations had supplied New Yorkers with nearly a century of totally separate but equally impressive social experiences.

Today a sleek glass tower soars above the former site of the Arion Society building -- photo by Alice Lum

The German Odd Fellows' Hall -- No. 69 St. Mark's Place

photo by Alice Lum

While the Independent Order of Odd Fellows enjoyed its comfortable clubhouse that spanned the block of Grand Street between Baxter and Centre streets in the middle of the 19^th century, the neighborhood just a few blocks to the north  was filling with German immigrants.   Throughout the Lower East Side area known as Kleindeutschland, or Little Germany, ethnic social halls quickly rose—often architecturally showy structures where weddings, dances, political meetings and other gatherings were held.   Within their festive rooms food, drink and song offered temporary relief from stifling tenements.

Around the time that the Order of Odd Fellows abandoned their 1848 headquarters to move uptown, the German population planned their own version.   On a single day, Saturday November 28, 1889 reporters scrambled to cover the cornerstone laying of four significant structures: the Jewish Orthodox synagogue at 67^th Street between Lexington and Third Avenues; the Evangelical Lutheran Church of St. James at 73^rdStreet and Madison Avenue; the New York Presbyterian Church at Seventh Avenue and 128^th Street; and the German Odd Fellow’s Hall at No. 69 St. Mark’s Place.

The German Odd Fellows had been using Eckstein’s Hotel as its headquarters and by the time of the cornerstone laying its new structure was halfway completed.   Around 500 members met at the hotel and marched to the construction site.  The semi-completed building was decorated with flags and flowers and The Mozart Society provided music during the ceremony.  Following the laying of the cornerstone, the 500 men marched back to Eckstein’s for lunch.

The building was completed within the year; a robust pile of yellow brick and stone that sat on a base of rough-cut blocks below a steep stone stoop.  Two elegant cast iron gas lamps lit the steps leading to the arched, double-doored entrance.  The German stone carver’s art was put on full display—spandrel panels, pilaster capitals, circular medallions, and exquisite carved shells above the top floor windows were deftly executed.  An intricate pseudo-balcony with an iron railing at the fourth floor, carved from a single massive chunk of stone, was a masterwork of swirling foliage surrounding a feminine face.

Female faces are incorporated into the pilaster capitals.  An iron railing originally adorned the stone balcony. -- photo by Alice Lum

Above it all an ambitious cornice supported a tiara-like parapet—a balustraded fantasy of pointy finials, ornate volutes, and a central pedimented section displaying the club’s monogram.

Inside were bowling alleys, meeting rooms, and a large ballroom.  The club building was available to private parties and any number of groups—at least 40 “benevolent societies” used it at the time of its opening.  One of the first events in the new structure was the ball of the Russian American National League on December 26, 1890.

The Hall was capped by a fantastic parapet.  Imposing gas lights flank the entrance stairs -- King's Handbook of New York 1892 (copyright expired)

But not everyone was enthusiastic about the new venue.  Next door at No. 67 lived Peter Lyding.   Lyding had been approached by Frederick Hilderbrandt and Richard Zastrow, proprietors of the Hall, when a site was being scouted.   The Sun reported that the men “refused to buy his property at his own price.”

Having priced himself out of the market, a disgruntled Lyding now had to coexist with the social hall next door.   So shortly after the Hall’s opening, he marched off to Judge Patterson.  Lyding's complaint alleged that “the place is a nuisance, because the bowling alleys are kept going late at night, and that music, dancing, and loud and boisterous singing deprive the plaintiff of the enjoyment of his life and property.”

The suit compelled The Sun to run a headline that read “Strong-lunged Singing and Boisterous Bowling in the German Odd Fellows’ Hall.”  Hilderbrandt and Zastrow appeared before the court, insisting that “the alleys were closed at midnight and that the place was respectable.  The ballroom is used solely by private parties and for weddings.”

A week later, on January 20, 1891, the judge reached a decision.  The New York Times reported that “Judge Patterson found the affidavits so conflicting that he was unable to reach the merits of the case.”  He therefore dismissed Lyding’s complaint.  The Times’ own headline was unsympathetic to the frustrated neighbor:  “Lyding Must Stand the Noise.”

Life in the tenements in the 1890s was hard.  Summer heat took its toll on the sick, aged and very young.  The summer of 1894 was especially brutal and as August neared The Evening World passionately encouraged readers to support a seven-year old fund drive to help infants, called the Sick Babies’ Fund.

On August 1, the newspaper reported that “Notwithstanding the sweet north wind that cooled the town, there were 211 deaths yesterday—all children of the tenement-house poor but thirty-seven.”  The newspaper noted that in the past two months 1,000 babies a week were delivered in New York City; 1,111 in the past week.

“A small percentage of these wee lambs arrived via the charity hospitals.  The rest have lodgings in the cheerless, healthless, crowded neighborhoods along the river edge…The poor tots have nothing to live for, and about two hundred of them go back to heaven every week.  It costs just $52 a year to give a baby a living.”

Three little girls of the neighborhood heard about the good work resultant from the Sick Babies’ Fund and resolved to help.  Eleanor Huffensack, Rebecca Kauffman and Minnie Ruff set about to stage a fair to raise money.  They approached the owner of the German Odd Fellows Hall, who donated the space and helped the little girls put on their fair.

Having confirmed the hall, the girls set off to stock it with goods to sell.  “They besieged storekeepers for donations of various things, principally in the edible line,” reported The Evening World, “although there was quite a stock of fancy articles for sale when the doors were opened.

“Lemonade, cake and candy were in great demand, and after the fair closed dancing was indulged in.  Volunteers from the ranks of customers took turns at the piano, and Arthur Perls contributed selections on the violin to aid in the merry-making.”

When the three little girls tallied up their take, they had amassed $18 for the Sick Babies’ Fund—a considerable $450 in today’s money for the youngsters’ efforts.   The Evening World said “Altogether the fair was a great success, socially and financially and those who took part in it are entitled to the thanks of many suffering babies."

A wedding that took place in the Hall a month later was more remarkable than most.   On September 24, 1894 24-year old Samuel J. Reichmann married 22-year old Flora Butzel.  The newlyweds received less attention than their rabbi, however.    Rev. D. Loewenthal, rabbi of the Congregation Banee Scholom, not only married Samuel and Flora that day, but four other couples.

At 4:00 he performed the wedding of Louis Baum and Bertha Lippmann at No. 13 Avenue D.   At 4:45 he was at Lyric Hall on Sixth Avenue and 42^nd Street where he married Meyer Rosenberg and Rosa Waxel.  He was then off to the German Odd Fellows Hall for Samuel and Flora’s wedding at 5:30.  The pair had barely said “I do” before the rabbi rushed out the door.   At 6:30 he was at another German social club, Vienna Hall on Lexington Avenue and 58^th Street where he married Herman Levy and Minnie Feiber.  Having congratulated the happy couple, he was off to No. 408 East 131^st Street where he performed the wedding ceremony of Sigmund Eichholz and Hannah Ormstein.

In the space of three and a half hours Rabbi Loewenthal had officiated in five weddings and, no doubt, went to bed an exhausted man.

A blank slab marks the site of the lost cornice and parapet -- photo by Alice Lum

As the turn of the century came and went, more and more political groups established their homes in the Hall.   The Marine Trades Council met here, as did the Navy Yard Union (which was formed in the Hall), and the Glass Workers Protective Association, another union organization.

Yet social clubs held their own as well.  The German singing group, the Kreutzer Quartet Club, was headquartered here when it vied for the coveted silver statuette of the Minnesinger.  The award was presented by the German Emperor in 1900 “with his compliments to the Northeastern Sangerbund of America,” as reported in the New-York Tribune.  Every year thereafter the bund held a competition of German singing groups for the right to hold the statuette for one year.

The Kreutzer Quarter Club was somewhat disappointed that year.  The judging ended in a tie for first place with the Junger Mannerchor.   The Kreutzer Quarter Club, therefore, could display the silver statue in the German Odd Fellows Hall for only six months.

Henry Huner was employed in the Hall as a porter around that time, but by October 1914, he had moved on—although perhaps not far enough.    On Wednesday morning October 21 the manager opened the Odd Fellows Hall and received a shock.

The New York Times reported “he saw evidence of a feast in the main dining room, empty champagne bottles were on the table which was strewn with soiled napkins, unwashed dishes and remnants of food.  In a chair sat a large skeleton, with a glass of wine in one hand and a napkin spread over the knees.  Near the skeleton was a sign which read: ‘Mr. Bones did it.’”

If Henry Huner and his friend, John Kortlucker, thought the prank would be a great joke, they soon found out differently.  The manager was not amused in the least and both Huner and Kortlucker were arrested and held with $1000 bail on a burglary charge.

In the early years of the 1920s union meetings were regularly held here, such as those of the Riggers and Machinery Movers who met twice every month; and the Sons of Italy took the entire top floor.  On January 5, 1921 around 9:20 p.m. President Rosarero Casero, Fortunato Pallizi, and Frank Cassatti were going over the minutes of a previous meeting in preparation for that night’s meeting scheduled for about 45 minutes later.  Their quiet discussion was interrupted by armed robbers.

“Suddenly the door was thrust open and the three officials looked up from their work and faced the bandits.  ‘Stick up your hands!’ was the command, given in Italian,” reported The Evening World.

The men were herded into a corner and forced to give up their money and jewelry.  The thieves got away with $1,500 in money and jewelry and a revolver that “one of the victims had a permit to carry, but not time to use,” said the newspaper.  The World noted “The visit of the bandits was ill-timed, as half an hour later, when members assembled for the meeting, they would have had fifty or seventy-five victims, many of them wealthy Italians.  One of the pieces of jewelry taken was a diamond ring valued at $700.”

By 1927 the wonderful parapet had been removed and the grisly addition added at street level -- NYPL collection

Around the time of the robbery the aging German Odd Fellows Hall was renovated.  The exuberant parapet was removed and the stoop removed.  At street level and grotesque bunker-like addition extended to the property line—a featureless box that provided additional interior space and obliterated the architectural integrity of the first floor.

The old Odd Fellows Hall became the Emergency Shelter in 1938—a rehabilitation center for men and boys.  The Shelter had been formed in 1929 at No. 259 Greene Street.   The interior spaces were renovated to provide dormitories on the top three floors, a chapel and office on the second, and a kitchen, dining room and office on street level.

As if the street level addition were not unsightly enough, today it is painted purple -- photo by Alice Lum

In 1991 the venerable building was converted to expansive apartments—just one per floor—with a duplex penthouse on taking up the top two stories.   In creating the residential spaces, no attempt was made to improve the unsightly scar left by the lost cornice, nor to remedy the gruesome street level addition.

In between, however, four stories of handsome 1890 façade survive; a relic of a time when the German language was more prevalent than English on the block.

photo by Alice Lum

The 1835 Thomas E. Davis House -- No. 68 East 7th Street

photo by Alice Lum

In 1835 attorney and banker Thomas E. Davis constructed his upscale brick home at No. 68 East 7^th Street, just blocks from the ultra-fashionable Bond Street neighborhood.  The three-story home sat above a brownstone English basement.  Its comfortable 25-foot width was a reflection of the wealth of its owner.  The unpretentious Greek Revival elements were the latest in architectural fashion; just beginning to nudge out the Federal style.

Davis and his wife, Anne, would have five daughters and a son.  Six years after erecting the 7^thStreet house, Davis built a luxurious country home on Staten Island’s fashionable Richmond Terrace.  The New-York Tribune described it on November 17, 1841.  "The elegant country seat, with about four acres of land adjoining, recently finished by Thomas E. Davis, Esq. at a cost exceeding $60,000…is unrivaled for beauty of situation.”  The home cost the attorney a little over $1.5 million by today’s standards.

Despite their six children and Davis’s substantial fortune—about $2 million by 1870—things apparently were not working out between him and Anne.  When daughter Lizzie married the Marquis Angelo Gavotti Verospi of Rome on October 10, 1861, the ceremony took place in the Church of St. Roch in Paris.  It was an indication of things to come.

By time the of Davis’s death on March 16 1878 only he and his son, Thomas E. Davis, Jr., remained in New York.  Anne lived in Paris as did three daughters; while Lizzie and Matilda lived in Italy.  Davis himself seems to have left 7^th Street to live on Staten Island.  While Anne received “all his horses, carriages, harness, diamonds, jewelry, bijouterie silver, furniture, ornaments, bedding, paintings, articles of vertu, clothing, wines, liquors, and all goods and chattels stores at his banker’s or elsewhere;” the only real-estate mentioned in the will was the house and land on Richmond Terrace (which was left to his son).

That the millionaire attorney would have abandoned the neighborhood is not surprising.  By the second half of the 19^th century the neighborhood was called Kleindeutchland, or little Germany.  Fine Federal and Greek Revival homes were quickly being replaced by tenement houses and German social clubs.  With the German Lutherans and Catholics came the German Jews, as well.

The year prior to Davis’s death there were 250,000 Jewish immigrants in the United States, more than one-third of whom lived in New York.  In 1877 J. J. Reynolds wrote, “A growing interest in missions to the Jews has resulted in the formation at New York of a ‘Church Society for Promoting Christianity among the Jews,’ under the presidency of the bishop of the diocese, and with the countenance of eight other bishops and several other eminent men.”

The Episcopal Church, concerned that Jews should be saved through conversion, purchased the house at No. 68 East 7^th Street as the Society’s headquarters.  Two years later, on March 8, 1884, The Real Estate Record noted that the society had taken out a $9,000 mortgage on the property.  The money was no doubt necessary for renovating the house into school rooms and a chapel.  It is possible that some of it went to the exterior remodeling as well.  The façade got a stylish makeover with up-to-date Italianate details—including handsome pediments above the windows and a pretty pressed metal frieze below the cornice.

The architecturally out-of-date building got stylish new clothes -- photo by Alice Lum

The Church Society for Promoting Christianity Amongst the Jews explained its technique of reaching its audience in the Board of Missions’ 1893 The Spirit of Missions.  It listed “paid Missionaries” (in actuality, there was only one) and the “maintenance of Missionary Schools and Industrial Schools for the Christian education of Jewish children.”  The pamphlet stressed “The work is purely spiritual.  The Society does not give temporal aid.”

The Society House served as school and home to the missionary, Mr. Lerman, who happened to be a converted Jew, a chapel, and school.  The Society published what it called “Messianic and Missionary literature,” which was in the form of an oddly-named periodical The Gospel of the Circumcision.”

The aggressive work of the Church Society for Promoting Christianity Amongst the Jews did not go unnoticed by the city’s rabbis.  On April 21, 1893 The New York Times ran a headline reading “Jewish Ministers Aroused” and wrote “They think the eyes of the Jewish people ought to be opened to the serious inroads of the mission in order that this influence may be checked by counteracting agencies.”

Rabbi Silverman dismissed the idea of “conversion” and preferred to think of it as mutiny.  “A Jew cannot become a Christian.  It is against his grain.  If he says he is a Christian, he is really an infidel.”

The Church Society relied on donations to operate; but it would appear that the group had regular financial strains.  In 1891 another mortgage had been taken out, this time for $10,000; and in 1901 the Citizens’ Savings Bank approved a $11,500 mortgage.  Finally on March 26, 1904 The Real Estate Record & Builders’ Guide reported that the Church Society for Promoting Christianity Amongst the Jews had sold the East 7^th Street house to Samuel Grossman for $17,250. 

In an act of supreme irony, six days later Grossman transferred title to Machizke Talmud Torah School.  The yeshiva had been founded only a few years earlier when a movement towards replacing Yiddish with English as the language of instruction among Jewish youths began.  A focus on traditional Hebrew, rather than Yiddish, and religious doctrine was stressed as well.

The school gave as its object “to instruct poor children gratis in the Hebrew language and literature, and to give them a religious education.  In addition, poor children were given shoes and clothing.  The school opened on January 22, 1905 with a generous $25,000 financial boost from Jacob H. Schiff.

Machizke Talmud Torah School remained in the converted home at least until 1916.  Afterward the building was used as a synagogue.  By the end of World War I the German population had moved northward to the Yorkville area; but the Lower East Side remained the stronghold of the Jewish community well into the second half of the 20^th century.

Scars in the brick reveal restoration of former in-wall air conditioner damage -- photo by Alice Lum

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Change eventually came, however.  The East Village saw much of the Jewish population displaced by the city’s avante guard artists, writers, musicians, and political and social activists during the 1960s and 1970s.  The Davis house was returned to a single family home in 1960; then in 1989 was converted to one spacious apartment per floor.  Three decades later the remarkably preserved façade is lovingly maintained.