for my Great-Grandchildren….

My mother and Grandpa Rube stood talking at the water’s edge on the Sea Gate beach.  I played at their feet, and gradually slid onto my belly.  Lost in conversation, they didn’t notice I had submerged.  I was two years old, and unafraid in that vast, salty element, the ocean a part of my soul.

Immersed in seawater or bathwater, I lived a mermaid fantasy.  I out-swam sharks, avoided fishing nets, and found sanctuary among the rocks, escaping the sea captain who would sell me to a circus.

Awed by the privacy, silence, and weightlessness, I danced with the tides and rode the waves. 

On hot summer nights, diving through colonies of phosphorescent jellyfish was other-worldly. And returning home, I slept on our front porch, my security blanket the soft, sea-soaked air. 

In autumn, the beaches were deserted; and on weekends, my brother and I shuffled through the surf zone, discovering how warm the water remained, even into November.

We watched the winter snow melt instantly as it fell onto the icy grayness of the water, and we made sculptures of snow and sand.

In early spring, in spite of mother’s reprimand and the sore throat that would follow, I simply could wait no longer; and jumped off the jetty into the sea. 

In all seasons, the beach and ocean were part of me; and for all my life, if I were near water, anywhere….I needed to be in it.

During the summer of 1949, I enrolled in a New York City swim program at Abraham Lincoln High School.

Carrying a banana and peanut butter sandwich in a brown paper bag, I set off on the twenty minute bus trip from Sea Gate to Brighton Beach.

A pair of steel doors led to the school’s athletic complex.  Opaque, chicken-wired windows allowed little sunlight to enter, and fluorescent bulbs stabbed cold shadows between the rows of lockers. 

A  skinny nine year old, I felt unwelcome and out-of-place in this big kid’s school.

My life’s journey had brought me to this strange new space, but it was all about water, and that was not out-of-place for me.

Issued a locker key and towel, I was told to take a shower, put on a grey wool bathing suit, and join the others. 

At the end of the locker room, a short flight of stairs and a disinfectant footbath led to a door clearly marked, “Pool”.  Following the smell of chlorine and the sound of whistle toots, I entered the enormous, white tiled room.

As if smoothed and scooped by a mighty hand, the floor of the magnificent pool stretched and dropped to a diving well.  The opaque windows covered the wall at the shallow end, my gray suit dulled by the filtered light.  On the pool’s long axis, facing me, the empty bleachers waited for a crowd.  Rooted in the floor at the deep end, were three diving boards.  The scene was serious, professional…no babies here.  The undisturbed surface left me breathless, and I yearned to dive in.

Strong and confident, the head coach introduced herself as Lil.  No title, simply, Lil.  With this gesture, she gifted me with equality; I was empowered, receptive, motivated.

During those weeks, Lil taught me the Australian crawl, breast stroke, back stroke, coordinated breathing, and praised my “secret weapon”.  The mermaid kick I used since I was little, had developed and toned my legs; the other girls couldn’t keep up.

I don’t remember a friend or a teammate; only Lil’s instruction, and my own swimming.

All at once, the day came for the season’s final races, the medal events.

My Mother watched, nervously, from the crowded bleachers.  The giggles of sixty anxious little girls bounced against the hard surfaces, raining down insecurity, apprehension, nervous energy.

We sat on the tile floor and waited, there were no warm-up exercises.  Judges were positioned along the perimeter of the pool, and standing atop the center diving board at the finish line, was Lil.

“75 pounds and under”

“Swimmers, to your marks”…I stood to the left of the diving board, encouraged by Lil’s presence.

“Swimmers, at the ready”

Toes gripped the pool’s edge, knees slightly bent, torso at a forward tilt, arms stretched behind my hips, my swim-capped head above my feet, eyes on the water.

My eyes left the pool and found my Mother’s face…look at me, Ma…are you watching me, Ma? I’m the greatest, Ma………

BANG!!!

Startled by the splashing, my eyes left my Mother and returned to where I stood, alone.  In the pool, the others were surfacing from their entry dives.    

Why had I lost my concentration? Why had I needed to connect with my “Mommy“?  Humiliation paralyzed me, but only for an instant.  I dove into the water and faced the kicking feet. 

Weeks of training would not be denied.  I could do this, I was born for this.  I found my mermaid kick and started to swim; I was no baby, not here.

Focusing on the feet in front of me, the gap began to close.

Reaching the shallow end of the pool, the turn, I took one giant breath; there would be no other.  Now the finish line was in sight, the sharks falling behind.

Deep inside, my resolve strengthened, adrenalin delivered a final push to my legs.  Swallowing hard, I touched the edge of the pool and looked up at Lil.

I had taken the bronze.

Epilogue:  The following week, Lil visited my parents.  She wanted me to enter a training program  preparing qualifiers for the 1952 Olympics in Helsinki, Finland.    She would be my sponsor and coach, my concentration, breast-stroke.  I would have to attend school in Manhattan, and train at least four hours a day.  My parents declined the offer, they wanted me to live a “normal” life.

Somewhere during my childhood, I lost the medal.    

Posted Nov 4th, 2007 12:18am 

Today, I received a copy of her death certificate, the child my grandparents lost.

Pearl was born 22 April 1923 and died of Diphtheria on June 15, 1927.   At that time, Rube and Gussie and their daughters, Thelma (my mother), 8, and Leonore, 5, lived in the Bronx.

Grandma Gussie’s grief was inconsolable.   The action she took to fill the void became the epicenter from which emotional shockwaves reverberated and changed the course of our family’s history.

Pearl’s replacement, Sally, was born in 1930. A beautiful, blonde girl with warm brown eyes, she was a fearful child pursued by phantoms and fairies. In her teens, she was diagnosed with Schizophrenia.

Unlike Pearl’s two day illness and its resolution, Gussie knew this was to be a lifelong siege. She knew because her sister, Nettie, was schizophrenic. So, Grandma had lost Sally, too.

Aunt Nettie and Uncle Jack had no children, and Nettie’s mental illness was a problem with which her husband coped. The family clucked their tongues and pitied Jack, but they had their own lives to live, their own struggles.

At 19, Sally and Len were married and she became pregnant. Seeking protection from the “voices” and her bottomless dread, she moved in with Grandma. Unrelenting nausea and vomiting debilitated her, and, twice, she was admitted to the hospital for fluid replacement and sedation.

When Steven was born, I was only ten years old, but for three months, I cared for him every weekend so Grandma could spend time with Grandpa.

The family’s income qualified them for a rent-subsidized apartment in Canarsie, where Mark was born in 1954. I went to care for Steven and the baby, this time for two weeks, while Sally lay on the sofa, deep in a post-partum depression. Grandma made the two hour bus and subway trip from Coney Island several times a week for the next six years, comforting Sally, shopping and preparing meals.

In 1960, the family moved to Coney Island to make things easier for Grandma, whose health was failing. In 1963, Grandma died, and in December, 1966, Sally’s gentle-natured, 41 year old husband, Len died of a heart attack.

In less than two weeks, Sally’s world disintegrated.

On the night the police were alerted to the disturbance, the wind blew a damp, salty and chilling breeze across the Coney Island boardwalk, battering the project buildings. Desperate to escape the suffocating embrace of her demons, Sally stood naked at her open window, in her hand a carving knife. Spewing vitriol upon the spectators below, her words were undecipherable, overpowered by the blaring sound of her television.

As Sally’s next of kin, the police called my mother, and to be supportive, I went along.

There was no food in the kitchen; and garbage was strewn around the living room, where she had gouged out the walls with a hammer. Terrified, the boys had locked themselves in their bedroom.

The police reassured, calmed and disarmed Sally, and by the time we arrived, she was docile, quietly sitting on a chair in the living room.

My mother signed the commitment papers, and a police ambulance took Sally to Central Islip State Hospital. There was no alternative. What else could be done? No infectious process or surgical symptomatology presented itself. Her subjective pain, and the behavior it instigated, determined the course of treatment….medication and electro-shock therapy. “It’s best for her children and for herself”, my mother said.

And what of Sally’s sons, parentless, though not orphaned?

Len’s mother, Faye, took the boys into her home, providing a caring and stable environment. As adults, Steven and Mark supported themselves at various anonymous jobs; taxi drivers and Stock Exchange runners among them. They live together still, in a Brooklyn apartment.

Discussions about Sally were rare and judgmental, the sisters blaming Grandma. “How could she have allowed Sally to marry, to have children?” They said Grandma was convinced they were cursed when she replaced the lost Pearl with another baby; payment for the transgression was Sally’s unending torment, and Grandma’s lifelong guilt, servitude and sorrow. The sisters told me it was best to forget about Sally, she would be well taken care of in the asylum.

No family member visited Aunt Sally.

In 1971, following a newspaper exposé of abuse, neglect and exploitation, the asylums were closed by the State. Patients were dumped in NYC, my Aunt Sally among them. There were few shelters and minimal social services available to care for these unfortunates dwelling in the shadows…..20th Century lepers.
Sally lived on the streets and in the subways, often sleeping in public shelters for the next 15 years. Occasionally, she phoned my mother or Aunt Leonore to say she was OK, still alive.

Sally died, obese and diabetic, of coronary artery disease, at age 56. She is buried next to Grandma Gussie in New Jersey.

During all those decades, my mother never once initiated contact with Sally or Nettie. The rare phone calls they made to her were unwelcome, and she offered neither invitation to visit, nor a sympathetic ear to their ramblings. Was this callousness simply passed on within the family dynamic, to protect against, and deny, the dark knowledge that the insanity gene “was within me, too”? Or was our lack of charity shaped by a larger, cultural taboo? These are convenient crutches upon which to lean for absolution. In the final analysis, it is difficult to accept that there was not one soul in the family who responded with active intervention or an expression of love to these castaways. Generations of ignorance, denial and fear cannot be changed, only noted.

The story that began with Pearl is told. Her history, and her legacy, has been reconstructed in all its human, painful truth. Maybe just in the telling, our collective sin articulated, we will act with compassion next time.

It all began with the loss of one little girl, Pearl…..And she is found.

By 1910, all the Freed’s were living together in the Bronx, with the exception of Ralph, who was sending money home to help the family.  It was during the six years since Sam’s death that Albert earned his nickname “Cully, The Colonel”.  He was the head of the family.

In 1910, Cully married Bertha Hollander, and a daughter, Lucille, was born in 1921.  Briefly employed as a musician, he earned his living as a carpenter.  He was a WWI veteran.

Ralph played cello in a band on a Cruise ship that left New York and sailed to Buenos Aires.  Then, he worked in an Atlantic City, New Jersey, hotel band.  While there, he fell in love with a beautiful Irish hotel maid, Ellen (Nelly) Carney. They returned to New York City, and in 1914, their first child, Robert (Bobby) Samuel Freed was born.  Virginia (Jeannie) was born in 1917. Nelly died in 1937 at age 51.  Ralph supported his family as a musician, dying in 1957. 

Rube and Gussie Freed were married in 1913, and their first child, Thelma (my mother) was born in 1915.They had three more daughters, Leonore, Pearl (who died in 1927), and Sally. Rube worked as a proof reader all his adult life.  He died in 1961. 

Charlie married Regina, but I have not been able to find any further information about him.

Rose married Joseph Romoff, a monotype operator in the printing industry.  In 1916, Albert was born, and by 1924, they had three more sons, Dick, Woody, and Colin.  Joe died in 1948, and Rose in 1973.

Lou married Mary Lou Ehrlich in 1927, and they had a son, Stephen Paul, born in 1932.  I don’t have much information about Lou. He was never close with his siblings.  My grandfather told me that Lou was always “critical” of others, and was difficult to get along with.  

In defense of his “un-Freedlike” dourness and argumentative nature, it should be noted that in the traumatic period following the death of his father (he was only five years old), he was sent to live in the Hebrew Orphan Asylum, on Amsterdam Avenue in the Bronx. We can only imagine the pain and isolation of that experience, the negative influence on his self-esteem and self-worth.  

During those years, the immigrant population of New York City had swollen to a high of 1.9 million souls, and many did not find the streets paved with gold.  Tens of thousands survived in worse conditions than those from which they had fled.  Public health problems were rife, with Tuberculosis, Dysentery, Flu and Pneumonia claiming lives everyday.    The Jewish philantropists who created the HOA, which was an institutional model for the country, admitted orphans, half-orphans (like Lou), and the children of families with both parents living, but simply too destitute to care for them.  The City of New York began to establish the concept of foster homes at that time, simply to accomodate the enormous numbers of children that were in desparate straits.  There were social welfare arguments for and against the foster home and the institutional approach to child care.  There was no in-between.  The concept of Aid to Dependent Children was far off in the future, so these children could not remain at home with their families.   The administration of the asylum, at that particular time reaching it’s highest census, 1,100 children, was structured on a quasi-military model.  The system was run by a group of  “monitors”/guards (older boys in residence)  who were given full responsibility for discipline, with little oversight.  The children slept on straw mattresses, which could be cleaned easily, as bed-wetting was common, and was severely punished.  One set of clothes, a nightshirt, and what the boys called “Canal Boats”, shoes that were not necessarily the right size.  At one point, the clothing had no pockets, because the children were not permitted to have anything of their own.  There were benefits:  they received an education in the institution’s classrooms, attended an in-house synagogue, there were opportunities for learning musical instruments and joining the famous Hebrew Orphan’s Band, there was an in-house hospital, and they engaged in sports at daily recess.  Years later, it became known that abuses of all kinds (corporal punishment, sexual predation, verbal and emotional bullying) were perpetrated against the younger boys.  Oddly, none were ever reported on the girl’s side.

I do not know how many years Lou spent there, or if he was, in fact, abused, but returning home when he was 11, it appears he could not resolve the fact that he had been abandoned by his family, and he did not share his experiences with them. Although  warm and loving, Fannie and the older brothers were working to support the family, with little time to nurture Lou on his return.  Also, the brothers were older by a decade, and were, most likely, busy enjoying their lives as young men.

This is, without doubt, the saddest life story in the Hungarian Freed line.  But to be fair to Fannie, it must have been an excruciatingly painful decision for her to make.  Only a short time after her husband and child (Anna) died, she delivered two of her youngest children into the arms of strangers.  She had to have felt there was absolutely no other alternative.

As an adult, Lou worked for the New York Herald Tribune as a printer; Aunt Mary Lou a schoolteacher.  Lou died in 1986.

Nora also was sent to live at the Hebrew Orphan Asylum after Sam died, and she returned to the family in 1910, so she could have spent up to 6 years there.  She told her daughter that those were “the happiest years of her childhood”.

She married Max Kaminsky (later changed to Kamins) in June, 1925. 

The story passed down by Grandma Gussie, is that when Nora brought her intended husband to meet the family, Fannie predicted that Max would not live a long life, because he was not a robust and enthusiastic eater! Fannie’s talent in the kitchen always drew rave comments and satisfied hearty appetites, but Max did not share a love of food with the Freed’s, a mortal sin. 

Nora and Max’ daughter, Fannie Helen, (nicknamed Gaygy), was born in December, 1927.  Fannie Freed’s dire prediction proved correct, when Max, who owned a cigar store, died of Pneumonia in 1932, at age 33.  Nora suffered a miscarriage brought on by the tragedy of Max’ sudden death, the lost child, a boy. 

She received a few thousand dollars from a life insurance policy settlement, and decided to make an investment, putting the legacy money to work in a parimutuel “system” she had developed, one that would help her nest egg grow.  She packed a suitcase, and with little Gaygy and my mother Thelma (recently graduated from high school) serving as her Nanny, they embarked on a cruise ship to Florida.  All her horse-playing brothers heartily approved the impractical plan.  

The “Bon Voyage” party at the New York Pier the day of the sailing was boisterous and optimistic. My mother related what a grand time they had on the ship, and how much fun it was to stay in a hotel in the beautiful Floridian sunshine. After a few months, the money was gone, and they returned to New York.  Nora was destitute. 

Cully’s wife, Bertha, had family in Washington, D.C., and they offered Nora a job as a hostess in their restaurant.  Given an opportunity to begin life anew, Nora and Gaygy moved to a one room apartment (with an electric stove in the bathroom) in Washington, in 1934.  They remained there until 1943, when at 16, Gaygy left school at Central High and worked for a short time as a cashier in a cafeteria.  The two women decided it was time to return to New York, and moved in with Rube and Gus in Coney Island. 

Nora had several opportunities to remarry, one in particular, a dramatic and tragic affair.  Daniel Shubert left to serve in the “Abraham Lincoln Brigade” in the Spanish Civil War and was killed in action. 

Nora was hired on as a proofreader at the print shop where Rube worked.   Gaygy made a job connection through Rose’s eldest son, Albert, who worked as a linotype operator.  She worked as a copy-holder, reading manuscripts aloud to the proofreader.  After several years. she worked her way up to proofreader, eventually continuing as a  free-lance reader for the rest of her working life.  They moved to Greenwich Village, in Manhattan, where Nora lived for decades, becoming reclusive. 

I loved visiting Aunt Nora, although I would not gain entry if I gave any warning.  Showing up at her door, she would always let me in, and enjoyed the visit.  She was so like my grandfather, Rube.  Intelligent and witty, with an enormous laugh.  Ironically, she had been the family member with the perfect ear for music, and became almost completely deaf over the course of her life!  Nora died in 1980, at 77 years of age.

Sam followed in Ralph’s footsteps for a while, working as a musician on a cruise ship that left New York and traveled to South America.  During one voyage, he met and married Myrtle in 1921, but they divorced after one year.  He married Mary Feinstein in 1928, and they had Willa, Norman and Helen Fannie.  Sam was widowed, but I don’t have any information about when that took place.  His last marriage, in 1974, was to Laura.  Sam’s childhood sweetheart, she had never married, hoping to be reunited with him.   Sam was a violinist, composer, and musical director during his working life.  He died in 1991 in New York City.  He was 87 years old.

In 1920, Fannie lived with Lou, Nora and Sam on 32nd. Street in New York.   Five years later, she died of Pneumonia at 60 years old,  in the home of Rose and Joe Romoff.  She is buried in Mt. Hebron Cemetery in New York City. 

It seems impossible that Fannie lived only 60 years, given the rich history and drama of her saga.  She was an amazing and strong woman, conquering the challenges of her era with dignity, optimism and a sense of humor. She triumphed over years of separation from her husband, leaving her native culture, language and family; bringing three small children safely across a continent and an ocean, living in a backwater mining town, birthing nine children, surviving the death of her spouse and a child. 

To Fannie, the world was a grand place, as long as she was surrounded by “Charming” people, good conversation, music, food, laughter and love. 

World War I, the full flower of the Industrial Revolution, Prohibition and the Roaring Twenties, the birth of American Jazz, motion pictures, and New York City’s rich tapestry of art, music and culture, provided the dramatic and exciting climate in which Fannie and the generation of Freeds she produced, thrived.    

During my research, I have found the US Census to be an invaluable tool, but I can’t find the family in the 1900 Census. 

I believe that the Freeds moved from Pennsylvania to a tenement in Hell’s Kitchen, in New York City in 1895.

My grandfather, Rudolf (now called Rube), was a sickly child, and couldn’t pass the physical examination for entry into the NYC public school system.  

The doctor told Fannie that Rube’s heart was very weak, and he would probably not live to adulthood.  What’s more, it was recommended that Rube move to a milder climate, perhaps near the seashore!  Well, Fannie sent Rube to the Hudson River docks, and his education began.  His brothers taught him to read and write, and he picked up odd jobs on the docks.  Charming, and not a complainer, he was befriended by longshoremen from all over the world, men who taught him their languages, and about their cultures. Apparently, the doctor was right, sea air was beneficial to Rube, and by the time he was 15, he was ferrying passengers across the Hudson River in a rowboat!   This was the Bubbe-Maitze (Grandmother’s Tale) told to me by Grandpa Rube and Grandma Gussie!

It is true that Rube was denied admission to school because of ill health, but Fannie sent Rube to live with a family in Tarrytown, New York, not to the docks of New York.  The family ran a ferry service across the Hudson River, and Rube must have loved to ride, and speak, with the commuters. As for him ferrying people across the Hudson in a rowboat…well, that was unbelievable, even to a small child, but Grandpa Rube was a character larger than life, so I believed it all.  More importantly, it could not have been possible for my grandfather, who could read, speak and write in several languages, quote great literature, play several instruments, paint in oils, fix all manner of engines, produce exquisitely tailored clothing, tat fine doilies, crochet a bedspread that was a work of art, cook and bake delicious meals and pastries, whittle in wood, sculpt in clay, and create kites that dazzled the neighborhood, to be completely self-educated.  It just didn’t make sense on any level.  It would seem logical that Rube was sent away so he could gain access to a school district, since he could not be admitted to the one in Hell’s Kitchen.  He could have been five or six years old, at most, because school attendance was compulsory in New York City at the time.  And Fannie would have insisted he have an education.  From Jeannie Freed’s recollection, Rube spent several years with this unidentified Tarrytown family, and grew healthy.  He returned to New York City and finished elementary school, probably attending until 6th, possibly 8th grade.  He did  work on the docks, to earn pocket money, and he and Ralph hawked papers on the streets of New York, Albert worked as a carpenter.

The family continued to grow, with Fannie giving birth to Rose in 1897, Anna in 1898, and Louis in 1899!   Nora was born in 1902, after the death of infant Anna, who fell from a bed, breaking her neck. Fannie was so grief-stricken she spent every day at the gravesite.  Finally, Sam brought her back to reality, pointing out that she was neglecting the living children.One evening, in the summer of 1904, Sam walked home from the movies in the rain.  A few days later, he developed flu-like symptoms, fever and cough, called “la grippe” in those days. The symptoms grew worse, and Sam was diagnosed with Tuberculosis. It was feared that Fannie (who was pregnant again) and the children were at risk of contagion, so they accepted the landlord’s offer to use a vacant top floor apartment to quarantine Sam.  The boys carried a bed upstairs, but there was no extra furniture, not even a lamp.  There was a light fixture on the wall at the top of the stairs outside the apartment door, and it was summer, so there was enough light to minister to his needs.

Sam’s condition quickly deteriorated. Too weak to eat, starvation hastened the course of the disease.

On 14 August, Sam began drifting in and out of consciousness, and it was evident that the end was near. The boys comforted him as best they could..

During the night of 18 August, Aladar (now called Albert) and Max (now called Ralph) sat on the steps, talking.  Sam appeared in the doorway and turned out the hall light.  He said “You can go to bed now, boys.  I’ll be leaving in a little while”.  He returned to bed, and died at 4:30AM, he was 44 years old.

Named to honor his dead father, Samuel Freed was born on 24 September 1904. Fannie was 42.

The eldest boys had already been working for several years, supplementing the family income, but now Fannie had to reorganize her life in order to make up the income lost with Sam’s death.  

I am not sure how long Fannie was able to stay at home after Sam’s birth, but eventually she found work at Brooks Brothers, a fine clothing store on Fifth Avenue.  She worked as a seamstress, hand sewing the lining of Men’s overcoats..

It is possible that she worked evenings, and the older boys cared for the little ones, or perhaps she had a friend or neighbor that helped out.

When Samuel died, Charles, 10 and Rose, 7, were attending school, and didn’t need full time attention.At some point, the littlest ones, Lou and Nora, were sent to live at the Hebrew Orphan Asylum on Amsterdam Avenue, in the Bronx, NY.  I’m not sure how long they remained there, but although Aunt Nora told her daughter that she was very happy there, Lou did not share the enthusiasm.

This time frame is still not clear, and I’ll revise the story as I clarify the facts.  I do know that by the 1910 Census, the family was back together, living on East 119 St in the Bronx.

During those years, there was always enough to eat and the mood of the family was happy.  Fannie’s Hungarian cooking was remarkable, and she taught all the children to cook and bake.  And, of course they learned tailoring.  They were a boisterous bunch that viewed life with vigor and optimism. 

Albert brought a violin home, and it was discovered that the boys, with the exception of Louis, had an aptitude for music.  For a time, Albert was employed as a musician, but he became a carpenter.  Ralph worked as a professional Cellist, playing in music halls, hotels, and Broadway orchestra pits.   Rube played mandolin.  Nora was said to have the perfect “ear”, and it was common to pawn Ralph’s cello to pay for a single opera or musical revue ticket for Nora.  She would return and entertain the family, singing all the music she had heard.  They had to scramble to get the cello out of the pawn shop before Ralph had to go to work!

Later in life, Sam became a professional violinist, playing in Hollywood’s orchestras.  He served as the supervisor of music for the RKO Theater Corporations Symphony Orchestra in Denver, Co in 1932.  He was a composer, arranger and concertmaster of the Opera of South America.  Rose’s four sons all played instruments.  Dick was a professional bassist, and Colin a reknowned composer, arranger, voice coach and orchestra director.  Woody was an actor on the legitimate stage all his life.  But…this gets me ahead of the story. 

The Freed’s house was full of music, good food and conversation. They loved card games, crap games and they were all horseplayers! Young people from the neighborhood found their way to this apartment full of interesting and charming people.  My mother told me that they believed the Hungarians were the most charming people on earth, and they proved it!

Grandpa Rube said Budapest.  Dickie said Debrecen. The ship’s manifest said Doleswa, or is it Solesvia?

To date, my research cannot find proof positive of the city of origin of my ancestors.  That they were Hungarians…well, of that much I am sure. 

Until further evidence is uncovered, this journey’s point of origin is not geographic; it is at the point of Cupid’s arrow…falling in love. 

Once upon a time, long ago in Hungary, a handsome young tailor fell in love with the butcher’s daughter.

Sam Freed was charming, creative, quick-witted, and had finished elementary school.  While he attended classes, he boarded with a family in the city. There was another boarder/student who taught Sam to speak English.  Jews were not permitted entrance into the University, so he began his life’s work as a tailor.

Samuel Bruder, the butcher, was considered “wealthy”.  Samuel Freed, the tailor, had little money and few prospects, but he dreamed of a bright future life with the girl he loved, Fannie Bruder. 

Fannie contracted Smallpox, and while in her delirium, Sam visited and gently cleansed the scabs from her face.  His attention was appreciated by the family, especially Fannie, who fell in love with him.  The Bruder family was very impressed with the compassion shown by the tailor, and this respect gained him legitimacy as a suitor.  Fannie later told her children that his attentions were selfish.  He believed that if the healing process was disturbed, the scarring would be increased, reasoning that the competition for Fannie’s hand would thin out considerably if she had a pox-marked face.  It’s interesting how the two sides of this story passed down the generations…Samuel’s side related by Max to his children, and Fannie’s side related by Rose and Nora to their children.

Sam was born on 25 Dec 1859, and Fannie on 01 April 1862.  They were married sometime in 1883 or 1884, and their first son, Aladar, was born on 24 July 1885.  Then, Max followed on 06 May 1887.

Sam emigrated from Hungary, leaving Hamburg, Germany on the SS Hammonia.  He stepped onto Ellis Island, New York, on 19 October 1888. 

It’s possible that Sam didn’t know that he left something behind when he began his journey to America.  Nine months later, on 12 July 1889, Fannie gave birth to Rudolf, my grandfather.

While on Ellis Island, Samuel was recruited for employment in Mauch Chunk (Leni-Lenape Indian name for “Bear Mountain”), PA, in Carbon County.  This city was renamed Jim Thorpe, PA, in 1953, to honor a famous Native American Olympic Athlete.   It was a center for railroading, canal trade and coal shipping, a popular summer resort area, and the home of one of America’s wealthiest tycoons, Asa Packer, the founder of Lehigh University.

  Samuel      Fannie, Aladar, Rudolf, Max 

It wasn’t until 12 Aug 1893, five years after Sam left Hungary, that Fannie and the three little boys disembarked the SS Maasdam (departed Rotterdam).

Soon after they arrived in Mauch Chunk, the local priest came to call.  He spoke with Sam about the three boys playing ball on Sunday.  “All the other children are in church”, the priest said, “It sets a poor example”.  Sam sent his sons to church on the following Sunday, and every Sunday after that.

I always wondered about the religious conviction of my family, and now I see that there was none.  They did what was necessary for the children to survive, to be accepted into America.  I feel the same way more a hundred years later!

After researching the 1900 Mauch Chunk census, I find very few immigrants, and most of them from Germany.  I can only assume that there were very few Jews settling there in the mountains of Pennsylvania, and the Freeds apparently did not identify strongly with Jewish dogma, so it was not a problem.

I can only imagine the culture shock Fannie must have endured leaving a major European city for this backwater.  But, she had waited five years for the passage money to be saved, chose to leave her family and all familiar things behind, made the journey across a continent and an ocean, and was ready to make a life with Sam in a new world.

A year later, in 1894, Fannie gave birth to Charles, the first child born in America.  In 1895, the family left the backwater for the big city…..New York!