They joined their father, Samuel, who was living in Mauch Chunk, PA, working as a tailor.  Sam had immigrated to the US in October, 1888. 

In August, 1894, Brother Charles was born in Pennsylvania.  By 1897, the family had moved to New York City, and Rose was born, followed by Louis in 1899, Anna in 1900, Nora in 1902 and Sam in 1906 (one month after father, Samuel, died).

Some time around the turn of the century, Albert brought a violin home.  Self-taught, the boys had an aptitude for music, and all learned to play the violin, cello and mandolin.  

24 April 1910, Albert (nicknamed Cully), was living with the family on East 119 St in Manhattan, working as a carpenter.

During that year, Albert played fiddle in the orchestra at a Bronx vaudeville theater where Bertha Hollander worked, selling tickets in a booth outside.  In 1910, they were married.

Bertha was born in Hungary in 1885.

Bertha’s brother, Alexander Hollander arrived at Ellis Island on 17 Oct 1904, on the SS Blucher.  He was 23 years old.  His destination in the US was to a cousin, Josef Fleisher, in New York City.

On 12 Mar 1906, Bertha (22) and her sister, Sidonia (26) arrived on the SS Patricia.  Their destination was to Alexander Hollander (brother), 317 E 59^th St, New York.

On 16 April, 1910, the census lists Sidonia and Gustave Newrath, married six months.  They were living at 761 E. 156 St in the Bronx, NY.  Living with them, was Bertha Hollander, 25, a dressmaker.

On 05 Jan 1920, Sidonia and Gustave Newrath were living on Davin St, in the Bronx, NY.  Living with them was: A son, Walter, and a daughter, Vivian.  Also living with the Newrath’s were Sedonia’s mother, Leonara Hollander (arrived 1912 at Ellis Island), and Milton, Bennie and Yunka Hollander, brothers and sister of Sidonia and Bertha.

On 05 April, 1930, Sidonia and Gustave Newrath were living on E 163 St in the Bronx, NY.  Walter and Vivian were still living at home, as well as Leonara Hollander and Johanna Hollander, 28, another sister of Sidonia and Bertha.  

12 Sept 1918, Albert registered for WWI draft, listing his address as 335 E. 32 St in New York. He was listed as an unemployed musician. 

17 January 1920, Albert and Bertha were living at 1373 Mc Bride St, in Far Rockaway, Queens, NY.  He was working as a musician.

Lucille Freed was born 23 June 1920.

13 Jan 1924, Albert worked as a musician on the SS Vauban cruise ship, sailing round trip from NY to Buenos Aires.  His brother, Sam was the bandmaster.  His brother, Lou, also is listed on the manifest of this trip as a bandsman. 

04 April 1930, Albert, Bertha and Lucille were living at 102 E 156 St, Bronx, NY. Albert was working as a carpenter.

17 June 1930 Albert died of a cerebral thrombosis at Morissania Hospital in the Bronx, NY, and was buried at Mt. Hebron Cemetery in Queens, NY.  He was 43 years old. 

After Albert’s death, Bertha and Lucille moved to Washington, DC, where she worked as a cashier at a cafeteria owned by a relative, Joseph and his wife, Blanche (who was reputed to be a great Hungarian beauty).  Joseph could have been the cousin, Joseph Fleisher, that sponsored Bertha’s brother, Alexander , when he arrived at Ellis Island.

In 1931, Nora Freed’s husband, Max died.  Sometime after Max’s death, Nora, and her daughter, Gaygy (Fannie Helen), also left New York City to work as a hostess in Joe’s cafeteria.  

For Joe to provide this opportunity was life-saving for both the young widows and their daughters, who had no other means of support during the Depression. 

During the summer heat of DC, both Lucille and Gaygy were sent to Coney Island to spend time with my Grandparents, Rube and Gussie.  I’m sure it was a welcome relief to see the family again and enjoy the beach with their cousins. 

At this writing, the number of years spent in DC is unclear. Gaygy attended High School in DC, but quit at 16 years old, about 1941-2.  I have been told that they returned to NYC soon after Gaygy quit school.   

When Bertha returned to NY, she and Lucille lived in a boarding house owned by an uncle.  Jeannie remembers this house in the 14^th Street area. 

Lucille attended, but did not graduate from, Washington Irving High School on East 16th St near Gramercy Park. The school started out as a branch of Wadleigh High School, then was known as Girls’ Technical High School, the first school for girls in the city.  In 1913,the name changed to Washington Irving, and many years later it became co-ed.

Later, Lucille worked as a telephone operator in NYC, and then moved to Florida, where she was briefly married and divorced.

Bertha died in April of 1945, and is buried at Mt. Hebron Cemetery in Queens, NY.

Shortly after the funeral, Lucille moved to California, where two of her cousins on the Hollander side lived.  She worked for a time at a Beverly Hills law office as a switchboard operator.

In 1948, Lucille Freed married Sol Garber, and they had three children, Ronald (b.1948), Denise (b.1951), and Lance (b.1954).  Sol died in Dec 1986, and Lucille still lives in Los Angeles.

Oddly, Sam and Albert Freed’s families were in Los Angeles, but no connection was made between the two.

Notes: 

Bertha’s Strudel:

Bertha taught Ralph’s wife, Nelly how to make strudel.  She also taught my Grandpa, Rube the secret, and I remember how delicious that strudel was.

Bertha’s Sewing Machine:

Bertha taught many of her dressmaking techniques to the family, and her big, black singer sewing machine was passed to Ralph’s daughter, Jeannie, when Bertha left for Washington, DC.  In the mid and late 1940’s, that machine was used by my grandpa, Rube, who made many of my clothes when I was a child. He taught me how to use it when I was 7 or 8 years old.  In the 1950’s, Rube gave the machine to my brother, Dickie.  I sewed many, many curtains during my early married years on that machine.  When Dickie died, in 2001, I brought the machine to my home, where it is today. 

Cully’s Cello: 

Cully gave Ralph his cello when Ralph’s cello fell apart.  When Ralph died, Rube, my grandfather, had the cello for a few years.  Rose’s son, Woody was touring in a play, and Rube gave him the cello to travel with.  At one point, Lou’s son, Stephen Paul went to see Woody in a play at the Barter Theater in Virginia, and remembers Woody playing Cully’s cello!  Finally, Woody returned the cello to Lucille…and now it is back in New York City with Lucille’s granddaughter, Amy!  

It was during the six years since Sam’s death that Albert earned his nickname “Cully, The Colonel”, as the head of the family.

In 1910, Cully married Bertha Hollander, and a daughter, Lucille, was born in 1921. Cully earned his living as a musician and a carpenter. He was a WWI veteran. He died in 1930 at age 44, in the Bronx, NY, of a cerebral hemorrhage.

RALPH

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

My grandfather, Rudolf (called Rube), was a sickly child, and couldn’t pass the physical examination for entry into the NYC public school system in 1898.

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!

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-Maytze (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 another story I’ve been told is that Fannie sent Rube to live with a family in Tarrytown, New York, a city on the Hudson River.

The family with whom he lived 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, whittle in wood, sculpt in clay, and create kites that dazzled the neighborhood, to be completely self-educated.  It just doesn’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 even 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. On the 1900 census, Rube is listed as a student. 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 musician and a carpenter.

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, and Sally. Rube worked as a proof reader all his adult life. He died in 1961.

CHARLES

I have been told by several relatives that he looked nothing like the rest of Sam’s sons; he had no musical talent, was not their intellectual equal, and was treated as a “stepchild” by his brothers. Several relatives speculated that Charles was not Sam’s son; but I have not been able to find any evidence that that is true. He served in World War I and as a result of mustard gas bombings, Charlie suffered with lung ailments for the rest of his life.

He married Regina Schwartz, a Hungarian immigrant, in 1919. Charlie and “Reggie” lived for a while in apartment in Coney Island, Brooklyn, NY, and in 1923, they resided on East 77^th Street, in Manhattan. Charles died in 1927, age 33, in the Bronx, NY. In the 1930 census, widowed Reggie is living with her family in the Bronx, NY.

ROSE

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.

LOUIS

My grandfather told me that Lou was always “critical” of others, and was difficult to get along with.

In defense of his “un-Freed like” dourness and argumentative nature, his childhood experience would have contributed to those personality traits. He was only five years old when his father died, and the household situation was dire. He was sent to the orphanage, and even there, he was separated from his sister, Nora. The isolation and trauma of that experience must have molded his world view and his personality.

I cannot find documentation to clarify how long Lou was institutionalized, or if he was abused there. Returning home when he was 11, it seems reasonable to assume that it could have been difficult to resolve the fact that he had been abandoned by his family. He did not share his experiences with them, at least not with his older brothers.

Although warm and loving, Fannie and the brothers were working to support the family, possibly with little time to nurture Lou on his return. Also, the brothers were older by a decade, and were, most likely, busy living 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 Samuel and 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.

In 1923, Louis worked as an assistant collection manager for a store on East 96^th Street in NYC. In 1925, Lou joined the Typographers Union, one of the most powerful Unions in the country. In spite of having had only a second grade education, Lou passed all three tests necessary to join the union: Typesetting, Composition, and Proofreading. Lou worked as a substitute proofreader at the New York Times for a while, and then was hired at the Herald Tribune, where he worked for 35 years.

Lou and Mary Belle Ehrlich, a school teacher, were married in 1927, and their son, Stephen Paul, was born in January, 1932. Lou and Mary B moved to Miami Beach, Florida in the 1950’s. In 1962, while vacationing in Portland, Maine, Lou died of a massive coronary. Mary died in Florida ten years later.

NORA

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

The story passed down, is that when Nora brought her intended husband to meet the family, Fannie predicted that Max would not live a long life, because did not exhibit a robust and hearty appetite for the food she prepared. Fannie’s talent in the kitchen always drew rave comments, 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.

Nora received fifteen hundred dollars from Max’s life insurance policy, and decided to make an investment, putting the money to work in a pari-mutuel “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, and 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 Florida 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 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

In 1921, Sam, 17 years old, was already earning money as a violinist. He took a job on a cruise ship that left New York and sailed to South America, where he met and married Myrtle, a manicurist working on the ship. When they returned to New York, they were divorced. Sam worked at the Loews Vaudeville Theater on Fordham Road in the Bronx, where he met Mary Feinstein, who sold tickets in a booth outside the theater. They were married in 1922. Sam left for Los Angeles to find work, and Mary followed. The children, Norman, Helen Fannie, and Willa Ann were raised in California. Mary died in 1973, and Sam moved to New York, marrying a childhood sweetheart, Laura, in 1974. Laura had never married, always 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, at 87 years of age.

FANNIE

In 1920, Fannie lived with Lou, Nora and Sam on 32nd Street in New York. Five years later, while living with Rose and Joe Romoff, she died of pneumonia at age 60. 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 amazingly strong woman, withstanding 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, coping with eviction and poverty. Through it all, she passed on an optimistic worldview to her children.

To Fannie, the world was a grand place, her family “charming” people. She relished good conversation, a house full of 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.

15 Feb 2009/28 June 2009

Albert/Cully, worked once with Sam as a musician on the passenger ship to Buenos Aires in 1923, and on other occasions throughout his life, but he made his living as a carpenter.  Interestingly, on his death certificate, his occupation is listed as “Musician”.   

Ralph made his living as a professional Cellist, playing in music halls, hotels, passenger ship salons, and Broadway orchestra pits. 

Rube played cello and mandolin, but did not do so professionally, except for one trip with Sam on the USS Vauban, to Buenos Aires from New York in 1923.  His creativity manifested itself in various art forms:  dressmaking, painting, sculpting, whittling, kite-making, tatting and crochet. 

I have found no evidence that Rose was musical or showed an interest in any art form. 

Lou played Clarinet, and did work as a professional musician at least one time.    I have found documents listing Lou as a member of the cruise ship’s orchestra on one of Sam’s Buenos Aires’ engagements.

Nora was said to have the perfect “ear”, and the brother’s would often 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 the next night!

Sam became a professional violinist, playing on passenger ships as a young man, and later 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 bandmaster, composer, arranger, and concertmaster of the Opera of South America. 

Music, art and literature were an integral part of the household dynamic.  Attending films, concerts and talent shows when they could scrape up the money, playing music for their own enjoyment, and reading and discussing contemporary and classic literature borrowed from the New York Public Library, provided the intellectual stimulation and the capacity of the Freeds to embrace the joy of living.

Even though the family struggled daily to survive, the 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 Hungarians.

So, until I finally research the European side of our family, and find evidence to prove one or the other, both cities are in play as the original birthplace of our family.

Jews had lived in Hungary since the 11^th Century, but most fled or were killed during the Turkish occupation in the 16^th-17^th Century. The Hapsburgs began to retake the country in the late 1600’s, and in the 18^th century, Jewish immigrants arrived. They were mostly urbanized, German-speaking people who settled in western and central Hungary. The Yiddish-speaking, Orthodox immigrants from rural parts of Galicia (today eastern Poland and Ukraine) settled primarily in eastern and northeastern Hungary.

In the first half of the 19^th century, the Jews in Pest and other large cities, were influenced by the progressive Berlin Haskalah movement, and began petitioning the government for emancipation and modest religious reforms. Shortly after, the Hapsburgs granted Hungary equal footing in the new Austro-Hungarian Monarchy in 1867, and the liberal government approved the emancipation of the Jews. The Jewish Congress, convened in 1868-1869, was meant to clarify the relationship between Jewish organizations and the state, but it ended in disunity. The Jewish community split into three groups: the Neológs promoted modest reforms and assimilation, the Orthodox adhered strictly to traditions; and the Status Quo Ante group wished to preserve pre-congress conditions

The new Monarchy brought on rapid economic development and industrialization. The Jews contributed to the changes, and the Hapsburgs even bestowed noble titles on nearly 350 Hungarian Jewish families.

Between 1867 and 1914, anti-Semitic movements in Hungary were fairly short-lived and not state-supported. The founders of modern Zionism, Herzl and Nordau, were Budapest natives, but attracted much less of a following in Hungary than in Poland or Russia, possibly due to the relative weakness of anti-Semitic pressure.

Samuel Freed, born in 1859, was nourished from the beginning by the influences of the extraordinary progressive, secular environment existing in Hungary at that time.

Sam Freed was charming, creative, quick-witted, and had finished elementary school.  While he attended classes, he learned to speak English. Sam began his life’s work as a tailor.

The butcher, Samuel Bruder, who was considered “wealthy”, had a daughter, Fannie, with whom Samuel Freed, the tailor, had fallen in love. But, Sam Freed was not welcomed by the Bruder family as a suitable husband for Fannie.

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.  Impressed by the compassion shown by the tailor, Samuel Bruder accepted Sam Freed as a suitor for his daughter.  Fannie later told her children that his attentions were selfish.  She maintained that Sam believed that disturbing the healing process would produce greater scarring; and her ravaged face would diminish his competition for Fannie’s hand.  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 Dec 25, 1859, and Fannie on April 01, 1862.  They were married sometime in 1883 or 1884, and their first son, Aladar, was born on July 24, 1885. Max followed on May 06, 1887.

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

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

It was common to have a family member, or friend, welcome and sponsor a new immigrant to America. It is difficult to believe that Samuel left his young family and came to America all alone. In spite of the fact that he spoke English, he faced trying to make a living in an alien culture.

There is a young man from Hungary listed on the ship’s manifest who might have traveled with Sam, but I have no proof that they knew one another. As I research the European roots, perhaps I will find some clue to this aspect of the journey.

Pennsylvania

The story told is that while waiting for release from 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. 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.

It wasn’t until the 12th of Aug 1893, five years after Sam left Hungary, that Fannie, Aladar, Max and Rudolph disembarked the SS Maasdam (departed Rotterdam) at Ellis Island, New York.


Samuel, 1893

Fannie, Aladar, Rudolph, Max, 1893
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!

Charles Freed was born in Mauch Chunk, PA, on Aug 13, 1894, one year almost to the day, after Fannie’s arrival in America.

After researching the 1890 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 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 optimistic about the future with Sam in a new world.

New York City

The family left Pennsylvania and moved to New York City where Rose was born in 1897, Louis was born in 1899, and Anna in May, 1900.

Samuel, Fannie, Adolph, Morris, Rudolph, Charles, Rose, Louis and Anna were listed as residing on East 13th Street in Manhattan, in the 1900 Census. Sam’s widowed sister-in-law, Rose Freed, also lived with the family.

Nora was born in 1902, after the death of baby Anna, who fell from a bed, breaking her neck.
Fannie was so grief-stricken she visited the grave every day. Finally, Sam brought her back to reality, pointing out that she was neglecting the living children.

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, providing enough light to minister to his needs.

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

On August 14th, 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 August 18th, 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.

Fannie was 42 years old, and was now solely responsible for the welfare of her eight children

Our family shared understanding, support and unconditional love with our Bumba. She taught us many, many things, but never preached. Her philosophies were succinctly verbalized, always delivered with humor, and born of experience. These were lessons of love and life, never demanding or insistent; simply offered. She valued our abilities, intelligence, and uniqueness. She assumed we were capable of good judgment, would make rational decisions, and be responsible for our actions.

I was loved by her, even adored, and was empowered by that love. She was awed by the children she produced, and my brother Dickie and I were uplifted for it, and sustained by it.

Her grandchildren and their spouses, Eric & Mary, Cheryl & Rob, Adam & Anna, and Jo-Ellen & Peter, loved her for her wit, intelligence, kindness, the way she valued their individuality, and the steady, guiltless presence and love that she provided them for more than four decades.

She was a force in the lives of her great-grandchildren, Ben, Nate, Ted, Dana, Faye, and Griffin. Gail and Peter, too young to have developed lasting memories of her, will learn how they hit the genetic jackpot with  their Great-Grandmother, Bumba. She was a model of quiet dignity and strength of character, which will provide dimension to their world view as they mature.

Her son-in-law, my husband Sy, enjoyed a close, loving and respectful relationship with her for more than 50 years, partly because she never meddled in our marriage, or demanded attention.

Rube and Gussie Freed passed on their loving, intelligent, gregarious and non-judgmental traits to their first born daughter, Thelma.

Thelma and her sister, Leonore, enjoyed a beautiful relationship, the kind of non-competitive, purely loving experience all sisters hope to share, but few realize.

Her nieces and nephews loved her, each knowing they held a special place in her heart.

Best of all, she was always upbeat and optimistic, attributes also inherited from the Freed family. It was not in her nature to complain or carp about circumstance.

She accepted life as a positive force, embracing the world’s promise, congeniality, hospitality, and sensuality.

She loved to say that the Hungarians were the most charming people on earth, and being one of them was her only prideful declaration.

But, she was charming, and people were drawn to her. She developed many life-long friendships, and when, after a 54 year marriage to my father, she was widowed, she embarked on an 18 year love affair with another man, Sy Birnbaum. Loving, and being loved, was her raison d’être.

She was never sick. Even at 93, she took no prescription drugs. Her diet was a source of wonder; small amounts of food, often. She loved chocolate, her sweet tooth still active until she finally refused all food, last week.

Aunt Leonore nicknamed Thelma “The Ostrich”.

When sickness, handicap, or crisis presented during the course of her lifetime, my mother withdrew. She was unable to accept responsibility during emergency or times of peril.

She rarely offered, or asked for, advice or opinion, so stress was kept at bay. She made no apology for this quirk in her personality.

“The Ostrich” was a family joke, but the chiding was loving, not accusatory. This was simply accepted as a part of Thelma, just as she accepted all the parts of all of us.

Perhaps that was the key to her longevity, a simple diet to sustain her, very little stress, and keeping love in her center.

Thank you, Mama, for giving us life.  We honor and praise you for all you shared with us so fully and honestly. Goodbye, and rest well surrounded by our love, as you so deserve.

A year ago, his quest to win the Republican primary was dead in the water.  Desperate to win, and forgiving all the sleazy tactics they had used to destroy his campaign only four years ago, he employed George W. Bush’s operatives to direct his campaign. 

John McCain abandoned both his Senatorial reputation and the broad based support he might have garnered by pandering to the religious right-wing base of the Republican party.  If McCain had remained true to his ideals, his conscience, and his honor, Sarah Palin never would have been on his ticket.  He would have chosen a running mate with a much wider, more moderate appeal.

It is sad that a great American war hero, a man who endured years of torture, could not find the strength of character to stand on his own history of leadership.  He could not marry the Republican party with one hand, and divorce himself from supporting President Bush’s record on the other.  In so doing, he sealed his fate.

Bush and Cheney widened Executive branch power so that checks and balances became stagnant.  

The inability to focus on Al Qaeda and bring Osama Bin Laden to justice was bewildering.  

The tax breaks for America’s wealthiest segment were self-serving. 

The absence of leadership in fixing the broken health care delivery system showed a lack of both compassion and of intellect.  

The crash of the financial/banking/lending sectors, brought on by the dismantling of regulation and oversight was preventable.  

The appointment of extreme right-wing Supreme Court justices created the illusion that these ideologies would endure and overturn civil rights advances. 

The lack of response from the federal government to Hurricane Katrina’s disaster in New Orleans was criminal and racist. 

The passage of the “Patriot Act”, allowing the federal government to spy on our citizens without cause or warrant was autocratic and un-American.  

The secret service agent exposed because her spouse had criticized the regime, proved that Bush would destroy any “enemy”, even those serving our country in the war on terror.  

The shameless support of Big Oil and other lobbied industries that reaped enormous profits during this period, and paid millions in tribute to the Washington insiders was arrogant. 

The embrace of torture, secret prisons and the willful disregard of the Geneva Conventions diminished our Democracy. 

The decision to boycott the Kyoto Protocol, maintaining that global warming is not influenced by greenhouse gases produced by our gluttonous consumption of oil, served to further isolate us from the world community.  

The disregard of due process, denying legal counsel for alleged combatants, whether foreign or American citizens, dismissed the basic assumption of innocence guaranteed in our culture. 

The intimidating propaganda that anyone who is not “with us is against us” pitted region against region, population centers against rural communities, religious against secular, and ruined relationships with countries who were once our allies. 

Full of hubris and pride, this administration became the bully of the world and of our own people. 

This is the legacy the Republicans leave behind, and John McCain could not extricate himself from these travesties.  When he embraced George W. Bush, McCain became his handmaiden.

They held Democracy hostage with a cynical, repetitive litany that almost convinced us it was un-American to question the decisions of our President.  We almost believed we were simply too stupid to understand the complexities of his policies.

The American people will not be lead as sheep. In the end, the people cannot all be fooled all of the time. 

We are a diverse culture, bound together by common expectations, and the responsibilities we gladly assume, to live America’s promise of individual freedom. 

After the debacles of George W. Bush and John McCain’s campaign, we will heal and rebuild. 

We are, after all, still a free country.
 

There was a record turnout in this little Republican stronghold.

In my district alone,  there was an increase of 200 voters, bringing the total to about 700. And guess what…more than 600 of them got to the polls yesterday.

I don’t have the numbers, and I don’t think Barack Obama carried our little town, but we were different yesterday.   A choice was being made.  A real choice was offered, and the American electorate, weary of division and anxiety came to make their declaration for new leadership.

From the opening of the polls, this was different. This vote would not prove to repeat the straight-line Republican exercise of past decades.

The turnout was huge here.  By 6:00 AM, there were 15 people (two in wheelchairs) lined up to vote.  I would estimate that more that 90% of Montague voted yesterday.  Everything was quiet and orderly.

In a town where the Democrats and Independents sometimes don’t even bother to show up, everyone came.

There actually were a few times that voters had to wait for up to 10 minutes.

This is very rare in Montague, but none complained. It was a very, very serious ritual being performed yesterday.

At one point, the teacher of an after-school day care program came in with a group of small children. They observed the important event taking place, and were impressed with the sense of purpose the grown-ups were transmitting. They went back to their school to hold their own election…”which breed makes the best pet, cats or dogs”?

I loved working for the Board of Elections yesterday. To be at a place where I saw the America I remember was powerful and moving. As in the 1940’s, children came to watch the voting process and helped their parents “pull the lever” for Democracy. A first-hand civics lesson, experiencing what is feels like to be counted among the millions.

As soon as the polls closed, I went to Milford, PA, to be with the Obama campaign people I worked with everyday for the last six weeks.

It was an indescribable release of tension, and vindication of our tirelessness and dedication to this extraordinary man.

At 9:01, when the west coast came online with California delivering its Electoral votes, Barack Obama was declared the president-elect.

We all cried and hugged and screamed and cheered. We were truly part of an army. And we won the war unconditionally. And we felt as one with the 61 million people that had finally expressed the true spirit of this country.

The world is watching, and once again, is hopeful about America.

My grandchildren live in a different country today, one of promise and optimism.

I am reminded of my childhood, when I believed with all my heart that the United States of America stood for Democracy and fairness. Today, America feels like that, but even better…more inclusive.

A brilliant, thoughtful black man is my President.

I helped make that happen, and I’m proud of myself today. And of my fellow-Americans.

My breath caught in my throat when I saw his face.  Even our slightest touch produced a shock, bridging the gap between us.  We needed to see each other every day, and I gave myself completely to the moment, the chemistry; there was no choice, really.

He invited me to dinner at his parent’s home.  His mother was a wonderful, traditional cook, a real Jewish mama.  His father kind and soft-spoken.

I invited him to meet my family in Sea Gate.  He was entralled with the easy atmosphere, my parents and my mother’s intelligent and interesting cousins.

My father was concerned, asking, “What does that older man want from you?”, but he never expected an answer.  It was apparent that I was in love with Sy.  My mother never asked any questions.  She was a private person, and never presumed to interfere with other people’s decisions, even those of her teenage daughter.

There was no parental discussion about where it was all going.  No ultimatum about remaining in school.  No warning or education about premarital sex.  I was clearly on my own.  They did not object to, nor did they guide my direction.

After  a few weeks, we were seeing one another exclusively.  Today, I remember the summer as a rapid collage of movies, dinner, dancing, evenings in conversation, stolen moments in hospital hallways and late night visits to the obstetrical floor physician’s lounge.  Our ardent embraces, all sweaty, breathless and urgent, did not transition to intimate sexual pleasure, not in the repressive 1950’s culture.

We abstained until August, making love for the first time as Tchaikovsky’s Romeo and Juliet played on the stereo.

In September, we decided that we would marry immediately, because we simply could not wait.  I would quit school, supporting us with a clerical job; he would finish his residency, and then begin a practice in Brooklyn.  I predicted a houseful of kids, “Maybe five”.  He said, “Maybe two”.  It was all great fun and oh, so romantic.  We would live happily every after, a perfect plan for a perfect life.

We announced our intention to our families, and planned for a wedding on March 29, 1959

The next few months are a blur in my memory, with wedding plans pretty much in my mother’s hands. In November, I celebrated my eighteenth birthday working as the administrative assistant to the Publicity and Public Relations Director at Roulette Records. My old bosses at Patricia-Kahl Music Publishing had bought the company, and of course there was a job for “the kid

In those days, unmarried people did not live together, so it was almost impossible to find time for intimacy.  But, oh we managed it.  Making love was our obsession.  It just wouldn’t be denied, this driving force

Christmas and New Year’s passed, and we were so in love, relishing our hunger and passion. We never missed an opportunity to make love

In February, something was missed.  My period.  A “Joan Doe” urine sample was brought to the hospital lab.

I arrived at the Wiener apartment in Flatbush for dinner after work, to find Sy sitting in a darkened living room.  The test was positive.  What will we do?  This jeopardizes all our plans.  We couldn’t afford to have a baby.  It would be two years until he completed his residency, and then it would take a while for a practice to grow.  It is possible that I would have to support us for three or four years.  This was a crisis of major proportion, changing everything.   He was in despair, lost.

I wasn’t lost, though.  There would be no baby, not yet.  I suggested that he induce an abortion.  After all, he was an obstetrician, he knew all about that.  He looked at me as if I were insane.  There was no way that he would take that chance professionally, and it was too dangerous.  What if something went wrong?

I was on my own, and I would figure this out.   I was not going to have a baby now.  This is not the way I saw my life unfolding.  This was the result of carelessness and stupidity.  Yes, he should have known better….but, it was always my body at risk for pregnancy.  A teenager’s sense of invulnerability brought me to this reality. 

The next day, I confided in one of my friends at the office.  Shirley was secretary to the Office Manager/Bookkeeper.  A married woman, she knew how to keep a secret, and she had lots of street smarts.  She lived in the Bronx, and would ask around the neighborhood.  Desperate women will always find an abortionist. 

In a few days, she told me she had a friend that could arrange the whole thing.  For a fee of $250 in cash, an Italian doctor, unlicensed in this courntry, performed abortions.  I earned $70 a week, and was repaying the Nursing School scholarship I had reneged on.  Sy earned $125 a month as a second year resident physician.  We simply didn’t have the money for this procedure. 

During the week, Sy and I went to visit his cousin Anita and her husband, Howard.  We asked for a loan, and told them what it was for.  They gave us the money.  Our wedding was only three weeks away.  This whole thing had to be over by then. 

My parents would be visiting my father’s sister, Hannah, in Maryland the follwoing weekend, so that would be the best time. 

Friday night, March 6th, I went home with Sirley.  At 9PM, in an cy cold, slanting rainstrom that lasted all weekend, a woman came for me and we took a taxi to a complex of apartments.  I had never been in the Bronx before, and had no idea where I was. 

We rode the elevator to an upper floor.  A 50-something blond woman opened the door to a well-furnished apartment.  The dining room table was covered with a clean, white sheet. She asked me for the money.  A tall man emerged from the kitchen and introduced himself as “The Doctor”, no name.  He asked me if I was sure I was pregnant.  I said “Yes, I had a test at the hospital”.  He explained about the procedure and what to expect for the next 48 hours.  I took off my panties and climbed onto the dining room table.  He examined me, confirming that I was pregnant.  He inserted a metal probe into my uterus, packing the vagina with gauze to keep the probe immobile.  He injected me with an antibiotic. 

He told me that during the next 24 hours, I would begin to abort.  I did not have to stay in bed, walking was actually recommended to stimulate the abortion.  On Saturday, around noon, I was to return, and he would remove the probe and curettage the uterus. 

I would probably experience cramping, but if I encountered severe pain or bleeding, I was not to got to a hospital or doctor.  I was to call the blond woman’s answering service, and wait for a return call; I was not to return to the apartment without their prior knowledge. 

Leaving the apartment, it was still raining, and impossible to find a taxi.  After what seemed hours, we finally arrived at Shirley’s apartment.  I undressed and went to bed, cramping already. 

I was terrified, and spent the night agonizing over the possible outcome of this dire episode.  While a Nursing student, I had seen at least a dozen young girls die of septicemia following illegal abortions.  They were brought to the hospital by ambulance or their shamed family, hemorrhaging and running a high fever.  Placed in isolation to protect other patients from their virulent infection, and perhaps their tainted virtue.  In a few days they died, with no super antibiotics to save them. 

And here I was, in isolation too, thinking about the events leading up to the enormous risk I had taken.  Sy was on call that weekend, he couldn’t leave the hospital. Everything needed to appear “normal” in our lives.  Abortion was illegal.  If discovered, abortionists were imprisoned, and “fallen” women stigmatized. 

Truth be told, almost every woman in my family had had at least one abortion, including my grandma Gussie and my mother.  It was part of the life experience of millions of women during those eras with unreliable birth control.  Looking back, I was a fool not to have gone immediately to my mother or Aunt Leonore. 

In all my angst, I did not dwell on thoughts about the baby I was aborting; it was the wrong time for this child to be born.  This was about my life, my choice.  What a farce our wedding would seem, if everyone found out that our “perfect” life plan had gone awry. 

It was the 1950’s after all, and the prevailing sexual mores were stifling and hypocritical.  Sex was dirty and bad for “good girls”, and becoming pregnant before marriage was the ultimate sin a girl could commit.  Would this change our relationship?  Would we still have our “happily every after”?  Would I be able to have other babies?  Would this shameful mistake be found out?  Would I live through this? 

The night passed slowly, full of pain and dread.  Shirley and her husbnad tried to comfort me, and Sy called a few times.  But, I was on my own.   More alone than I every imagined possible. 

The morning was gray, rainy and cold.  Finally, Shirley’s friend came for me, with a cab waiting downstairs.  We arrived at the apartment complex, and I walked slowly to the front door and into the elevator. 

I positioned myself on the dining room table, and “The Doctor” began removing the packing and probe.  He cautioned me to stay very still while he inserted a curette into my uterus and began the scraping.  I can still see myself, as if detached and watching from the ceiling.  I did not move.  I knew enough about anatomy to know that a perforated uterus was a very real danger, and the cause of many botched abortion deaths.  I held my breath and it was over in a few minutes.  My knees were shaking, but I held them apart.  He gave me another injection of antibiotic, and told me to get dressed in the bathroom. 

I was exhausted, and relieved to be alive, but I knew that complications were still possible.  We made our way back to Shirley’s, and I lied down in her bedroom. 

That evening, Sy came to see me.  He was able to leave the hospital for a few hours.  I remember thinking that he had no idea how I was feeling, had little appreciation for what I had just done for us.  I was annoyed at his detachment, but in retrospect, perhaps it was my detachment.  I was still in stoic, “on my own” mode.  I needed to feel in control of this situation. 

He left close to midnight, and would return on the next afternoon to bring me back to Brooklyn. 

I had no fever; I was not hemorrhaging, and had only mild cramps. 

I was whole again, and although a dangerous reality had awakened me to the possibility that teenage romance was fantasy and lust, there was still the promise of a future together, that our love had survived.

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