In the long history of human efforts to improve the various “systems” by which men have distributed the wealth of the world, the establishment of the curious project on Columbia Street in New York City, described here, may be no more than a footnote. But, as one of its sponsors pointed out at the time, it is necessary to start somewhere; and if it was finally unsuccessful, at least it could be said that it did far less harm than certain other great economic experiments. S. L. Blumenson, who here tells the story of this early effort to alleviate the injustices of capitalism, was born in Minsk, Russia, and came to this country fifty-five years ago, as a child.
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Herrick’s cafe—then situated on Division Street at the junction of Canal and East Broadway—was, in the last days of the 19th and the early years of the 20th centuries, the gathering place of the East Side “intelligentsia” and literati. There the various factions—and they were legion—and the fractions of factions, met nightly at the round tables with their red and black checkered cloths, smoked Russian cigarettes, downed oceans of Chinese tea, and consumed pounds of Hungarian strudel. With loud argument each one tried to outshout the other, and by strenuous gesticulation they strove to settle the political and economic evils of the world, each in his own way.
It was into this atmosphere of smoke and general discord that the young lawyer timidly entered. A recent graduate of night law school, and broke, he was making the rounds of landsman associations and Jewish labor unions, seeking clients. Seeing three individuals at one of the tables arguing loudly, he went over and meekly inquired if they needed a lawyer.
The three stopped arguing, and one of them said, “A lawyer? What do we need a lawyer for? We have nothing against each other.”
“All right,” said the lawyer, “so I will draw a release for you.”
He would do much better, he was told, if he would draw up a chair and join them, which offer he accepted without taking any exception. After asking his preference, they ordered a cup of coffee in a glass and a piece of strudel, and then resumed the argument.
One of the three disputants at the table was my Uncle Morris; of the other two, one was his cousin Shloimo and the other his landsman Philip Barse.
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My Uncle Morris, who had attended the Volozhiner Yeshiva in the old country, was something of a scholar. In New York he worked as a frontmaker in a shirt shop. Shirtmaking, in those days, was considered the trade for the intellectual elite, since shirts were manufactured in sections, and the work was easy to learn. He was a tall, thin man with a long drooping mustache; a freethinker all year but a devout worshipper on Rosh Hashana and Yom Kippur. He had a high forehead, pale grey eyes, and wore a pearl derby always a half size too small for his head. He was a social democrat and wore a button flaunting the bewhiskered image of Karl Marx on the lapel of his coat. On his vest he wore a button showing the face of Baron de Hirsch, the French Jewish philanthropist who had financed the Jewish colonies in the Argentine. This button implied that in addition to being a social democrat of the Bebel faction, he was also an anti-Chovevei Zionist, one who believed that the solution of the Jewish question was in settlements on the land and not in Palestine. My uncle took pride in the fact that, due to the similarity of their drooping half-crescent mustaches, he bore a strong resemblance to the Baron.
To the habitués of Herrick’s Cafe my uncle was known as Genosse Morris. All East Side intellectuals of those days addressed each other with the title of Genosse, the German word for colleague. Genosse Uncle Morris, who later in life became a well known shirt manufacturer and all his business life battled the shirt-makers union, and who left a fine business, a country house in the Catskills, and a mansion in Florida, was looked upon in those days as a leader in the coming world revolution. He died a registered Republican, and a contributor to the party’s war chest.
Shloimo had been apprenticed to a tailor in the old country and arrived in the promised land with a trade. He found work immediately in a sweat shop operated by a landsman, making men’s suits. Genosse Shloimo wore the face of Ferdinand Lassalle on the lapel of his coat, and the face of Moses Montefiore, with the inscription “think and thank,” on his vest. Moses Montefiore was the great Anglo-Jewish philanthropist who, with the Rothschilds, financed the pioneer settlements in Palestine. It was obvious, then, that Genosse Shloimo was an ardent Chovevei Zionist who believed that the salvation of the Jews was in Palestine. When he passed on to his fathers, he left a nation-wide chain of clothing stores.
Philip Barse, whom everyone called respectfully Mr. Barse, had been a prikashick, a salesman, in the old country, and took to selling in America like a duck to water. He sold sewing machines to the newly arrived immigrants and also peddled pianos as a side line; pianos were sold two dollars down and fifty cents a week. Mr. Barse was most likely responsible for half the pianos which cluttered up the “parlors” on the East Side.
Genosse Mr. Barse was of a different school altogether from his two colleagues. He was a friedlicher anarchist, a peaceful anarchist, who contributed to the support of the Freie Arbeiter Stimme, an “anarchist” weekly whose editor was the mildest, meekest and most peaceful man in the world, by the name of Yanovsky. Genosse Mr. Barse wore the picture of Count Leo Tolstoy on his lapel, and that of Mr. Jacob Schiff on his vest. From this it might have been surmised (correctly) that Genosse Mr. Barse ardently believed that the solution of the Jewish question lay in America. Although, theoretically, all anarchists are supposed to be atheists, Genosse Mr. Barse was also one of the ushers in the Henry Street Synagogue. As a prosperous businessman, he wore a frock coat with satin lapels, striped grey trousers, a brocaded white vest, patent leather shoes—the button kind, topped by white spats. On week days he wore a somber black derby; on Friday night and Saturday, a tzillinder, a shiny silk high hat.
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When my uncle, Genosse Morris, arrived in this country, he was just nineteen years old. That same night he began to tell the assembled landsleit, who had come to greet him at my father’s house, what the trouble was with the world and with America, and what ought to be done about it. My father, who was a cantor, listened to him gravely, and finally said, “Moishe, dq you want to do an older brother a favor? Fix mir nicht dus land (don’t fix the country for me).”
The following evening, under the sponsorship of Genosse Shloimo and Genosse Mr. Barse, Uncle Morris was initiated into the night life of Herrick’s Cafe, and accepted into the inner circle as a valued Genosse of great promise to the world revolution. Nightly the three gathered at the tea tables and discussed and argued the various “isms” of that day. While all agreed on basic principles, each differed with all the rest as to the “tactics” and means of bringing about the world revolution. They called each other naar, dumkopf, and meshugener; bandied about the names of Marx and Lassalle, Tolstoy, Bakunin, Kropotkin, Bebel, Singer. Of Robert Owen and John Stuart Mill they had never heard. My father used to say after listening to their arguments: “Talk, talk, talk,” and he would repeat to them an old Russian saying, “Ya kazalla, ti kazalla, meh-h-h-h-,” which means, “I am a goat, you are a goat, meh-h-h-h.”
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It was the young lawyer with the practical mind and the need of a few dollars who stirred them to action.
“What,” said he, “is the good of all your talk, and the talk of all the Genossen here, if nothing is done to bring about the new economic system? Why don’t you at least start something moving, instead of just talking and disagreeing and drinking tea?”
My uncle, Genosse Morris, looked at the young lawyer with new sight, and said, “A man after my own heart; a man of action; just what the revolution needs. A Danton, a Robespierre, a Marat. All we do night after night is repeat the same formula, the same words: ‘The social-economic revolution cannot be attained until the concentrated might of the masses of all parties be united.’ A United Front! And when can we unite them? When the Messiah will arrive. Even the three of us cannot agree.”
Genosse Mr. Barse and Genosse Shloimo nodded approval. Other Genossen drifted over to the table. My uncle rose from his chair and addressed the assembly of Genossen around him: “The time for talk is past. Action—the time for action and sacrifice has arrived. Es lebe de revelyutsye! (Long live the revolution!)”
Genosse Mr. Barse shook the young lawyer’s hand with deep emotion, and said, “God has sent you to us this night. We needed an awakening. You are quite sure you are not the Prophet Eliyahu? It is time we did start something. Why not a co-operative?”
And thus began the story of how Utopia came to Columbia Street.
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Of course it did not come all in one day. In a capitalist economy you have to have money to start anything. And will Wall Street give or lend money to an undertaking which in time would blow it to Kingdom Come? The efforts of other Genossen had to be enlisted. And when you have fifteen or twenty associates—Marxists, Bakuninites, Kropotkinites, Tolstoyans, Social Democrats of the majority and the minority, socialists of the De Leon and Debs factions, Abraham Cahanites, Louis Millerites—not to mention two vegetarians, one physical culturist, and one nudist—all mortal political enemies, you cannot expect them to agree in one evening or even in a few months.
However, the young lawyer, as everyone knew, was neutral, he himself being, for business reasons, a member of the John F. Ahearn Tammany Club. And so everyone trusted him. In fact, after wrangling for weeks over the election of a treasurer, the young lawyer was elected to that office, and had in his possession the funds for the enterprise which would set off the world revolution. They even voted him five dollars a month for his trouble. When they couldn’t agree on the type of the enterprise, one faction demanding a co-operative hat store, another a co-operative farm, and a third a co-operative clothing factory, the young lawyer reminded them that the enterprise would have to be limited to the funds on hand, namely one hundred and seventeen dollars, which was shrinking by five dollars a month while they wrangled.
Here Genosse Mr. Barse came up with a suggestion. Not only was it the duty of the members to start the holy enterprise which in time would bring about world revolution, it was also their duty to start one that would alleviate the hardships of the exploited masses. What is there of greater need to the suffering masses in the hot and damp and stuffy tenements than a cold drink? Why not start a co-operative soda fountain?
Most of the members were impressed. After all, Genosse Mr. Barse was a successful business man; not an exploiter, but one who worked for himself, and for the Cause. So, after many meetings and speeches and arguments, and the withdrawal of the hatstore faction, Genosse Mr. Barse was instructed to find a suitable corner for a sodawater stand. The young lawyer promised to obtain the necessary permits; he knew every alderman on the East Side intimately.
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There was on the comer of Columbia and Stanton Streets, in the midst of the Galician and Hungarian section of the lower East Side, a soda stand flanked by a fruit stand. The owner was a sickly young man who had a wife and two children to help him out. The stands stayed open from six AM to midnight, seven days a week. In the summer the proprietors might have eked out a poor living had it not been for the police department. As it happened this corner was the junction of two police beats, and four policemen a day helped themselves to the apples, pears, and bananas, as well as other tempting seasonal fruits.
On his doctor’s advice, the young man decided to sell his stand and get work in the Catskills waiting on tables, making beds, and doing general chores. He had a brother-in-law, a Litvak and an ardent Genosse, who tipped off Genosse Mr. Barse to the bargain. Genosse Mr. Barse, with great business acumen, pointed out that there could be no doubt of success: Galician and Hungarian housewives were notorious for their highly seasoned, spicy, and peppery foods. After some shrewd trading the deal was made.
A glass of soda water, in those days, sold for one penny. It consisted of a small amount of flavored syrup topped by highly charged cold seltzer and a final fizz. The most popular flavors were chocolate, vanilla, strawberry, raspberry, lemon, violet, and mint; all were displayed in colored bottles. Of course, for two cents one could get more syrup and a somewhat larger glass, but such prosperous customers were few and far between.
The coming of Utopia to Columbia Street raised quite a furor on the East Side. The orthodox Tageblat ridiculed the idea, and accused the founders of being nihilists; one result of this was that the editor of the Tageblat had work for glaziers the following morning. The Abendblat, the voice of the revolution, headlined the undertaking as the beginning of the end for the capitalist system. “At last,” wrote the editor in a flaming editorial, “the workers are beginning to throw off their chains; they have a world to gain, and nothing to lose. Long live the Genossen of the East Side who are setting an example to the workers of the world,” and it finished with a hope that the workers would know how to support the sacred enterprise.
The English press was totally unaware of the calamity facing the capitalist system. The East Side tipsters who kept the English language press informed of doings on the East Side looked upon the Genossen as crackpots and their doings as of no news value. And so there were no editorial denunciations, and the capitalist lords continued to live in a fool’s paradise.
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The dedication of the cooperative soda-water stand and its adjoining fruit stand was set for May first, the international workers’ holiday. Delegations came from East Side labor unions, fraternal orders, and landsman organizations, representing all factions, and all bedecked with red sashes and large gold badges stamped with the word “delegate” in red letters. A permit for the parade was obtained from the police department, and the police precinct-house assigned three special policemen to head the parade and keep the peace.
As usual, the parade formed on Rutgers Square. My uncle, Genosse Morris, acted as grand marshal, and sat astride a horse at the head of the parade, right opposite the waterless Schiff fountain. I recognized the horse as my friend Mike, who pulled the ice and coal wagon belonging to the Monroe Ice and Coal Company, I. Moskovits Prop. Mike was so broad across the beam that my uncle, Genosse Morris, fairly did a “split” in the best circus manner on Mike’s back. He wore a wide red satin sash across shoulder and chest, a large tasselled badge, and a cockade, tricornered and red-feathered, on his head. The Jewish Musicians’ Union turned out in force—brass, drums, and fifes—and they blared forth the Marseillaise (the International had not as yet been composed).
At ten am sharp, the band struck up officially. The three policemen, followed by the standard bearers, who were numerous because all organizations represented had their banners in line, headed the march. Following them were the musicians, and after them came my uncle, Genosse Morris, with feet at right angles to the back of Mike, the hardest working proletarian of them all. The parade circled and snaked through the narrow tenement-lined streets, with the windows, roofs, fire escapes, and sidewalks crowded with cheering sight-seers, until it finally came to the corner which would, in time, be a shrine to the world revolution. There a committee awaited my uncle, Genosse Morris, and greeted him. He answered in kind, quoted the manifesto, thanked the contributors, and foretold many more and larger co-operative enterprises which would spring from the profits flowing from the soda fountain. He finished with a loud, and dramatic, “Lang lebt de revelutsye!”
The fountain from which the revenues for world revolution would flow stood there in all its glory. Draped in red gingham, bedecked with red ribbon and small red, white, and blue flags; its nickel-plated gadgets agleam in the midday sun; colored bottles arranged according to the colors of the rainbow; the fruit on the adjoining stand polished and fresh (the work of the ladies auxiliary).
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When the speeches were over and the crowd began to thin, my uncle, Genosse Morris, with the help of the members of the welcoming committee, dismounted from his perch. For a time he had to be held up until the circulation in his legs returned to normal. Then he shed his marshal’s insignia, took off his coat, rolled up his sleeves, donned a white apron and a chef’s white cap, and went behind the soda counter to smile at his first customer.
She was a wrinkled old lady with a sheitel beneath a head shawl, and a practiced shopper. After all, one does not simply slap down a penny and say “Give me a drink”! Before placing her order she had to have information as to the number of flavors to select from, and she needed time to choose.
“Choklot you got?” inquired the old lady.
“And why not?” answered my uncle in his usual manner.
“Und skrawberry you got?” queried the customer.
“A question,” smiled my uncle good humoredly.
“Und rettsberry, und lemon, und violet you got?” further quizzed the old lady.
“We have all flavors,” answered my uncle less patiently. “And which would you select?”
The first customer considered a while, eyeing the syrup bottles, and then said, “Gib me for a penny mix.”
Even my uncle, Genosse Morris, famous for his calm and patience, lost his professional courtesy. “Missus, and maybe you would like a piece of sponge cake too?”
The old lady knew no chachmes (wise cracks). “If it is kosher cake,” said she, “please wrap it up and I will take it home to my grandson.”
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Throughout all his long life, my uncle, Genosse Morris, contended that the failure of the sacred enterprise was due to the two mortal enemies of world revolution: lawyers and the police. On the opening day the seven policemen, four regulars and three special, practically ate all the fruit between them, and later they became a permanent drain on the profits. And the young lawyer insisted on the payment of his fees, so that the profits which should have gone to finance world revolution went, instead, to support its strongest opponents.
Although, in time, the young lawyer handled the legal business of my uncle, Genosse Morris, and that of Genosse Shloimo and Genosse Mr. Barse (who became one of the largest distributors of pianos and radios in the country), and received fees from them, running into tens of thousands, to the end of their days they always reproached him for his greed.
But for the police my uncle had no reproaches. “In a capitalistic system,” my capitalist uncle, at heart always Genosse Morris, used to say, “where even the police are exploited and underpaid, it is understandable that they should augment their low pay with fruit from stands.”
Thus came and went, unheeded and unsung, Utopia on Columbia Street.
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