Happy Veteran's Day - My Family Gallery

This is my paternal grandfather William Shone Williams, Private US Army in World War One. He arrived here in the US from Wales in 1906 when he was about 3 years old. Here he is during basic training at Spartanburg in 1918. He was just in time for the last push and was wounded sometime after the action  at the tunnels of St. Quentin just parallel to the Hindenburg Line. He was a "stringer" which is the guy who runs the lines fro the communications they were using back then. He was wounded shortly after that, suffering a head wound requiring a metal plate which plagued him until his premature death at age 43. He was a New York City Police Officer at the time of his passing.

This is my maternal grandfather Pincus Max Marcus who arrived in America in 1911 and left to fight in the Allenby Brigade in Palestine on the Ottoman front in 1916, even before the Americans  officially joined the war in 1917. He served with Distinction in the Kings Fusiliers, 38th through 42nd Regiments and, along with his brother Jack, was awarded the French Medal of Legion with Palms. When the war was over he had to re-enter the United States through Canada via Scotland. He went on to make and lose several fortunes before his death in the 1970's. 

World War Two came and my father's brother,Uncle Roy, served in the Navy as a Machinist Mate. He was awarded a Navy Cross for action in the  North Atlantic. After the war he went on to become a Captain and commanded his own ship.

On my mother's side her brother Walter Marcus was training for the infantry in Alabama when the war came to an end. He was always very candid about being glad he didn't have to go. But he was ready. He went on to a career as a professional gambler and lived in Las Vegas, Nevada. 

Here's my Dad who had already done time in the Naval Reserve, diving on the submarine USS Torsk out of Connecticut in the late 1940's. He felt very put upon when the Korean War broke out and he was called back up for active service in the Army! This explains the unhappy expression he wears in the photograph.

And here I am in the late 1970's, doing my bit taking bearings on the USS Milwaukee in Panama. You can tell that I was facing danger at every turn just by the expression on my face. 

The point is that, in war or peace, the veteran has always been there. Even when they may not have agreed with the policies with which they were tasked; they were there. And that willingness to serve, in itself, is a testament to our system.

Aunt Minnie - Little Woman, Big Secret

When I was a kid my favorite Aunt, on my mother’s side, was Minnie Marcus. She was a tiny woman, as you can see in the photo above. At the age of eleven I was already just about as tall as she was. But this little woman held a big secret, which was never revealed until she told the story to her daughters on her deathbed several years ago.

The story came to me through my second cousin, Jana, with whom I share a grandfather. He was married to my grandmother and after a bitter divorce, remarried and had kids with his second wife as well. Jana is one of those grandkids, and has been kind enough to share the family story, from her side, on several occasions, each time shedding more light on a family history that was in many ways vague.

Dear Marcus Clan,

Greetings all.  It has been a long time since we connected.  I hope everyone Is doing well and had a great summer. Boy, do I have a story for you!!

Back in 2007, Marion and Ginny shared a story with me:

When William Marcus's daughter, Minnie Marcus Newman, was on her death bed she was living with her daughter-in-law, Marion Newman and grandchildren, and told them that when she was a young girl she heard that her father William was facing a court trial in Boston, and she traveled on her own, to see what it was all about. Supposedly she sat in the back, and when a woman came before the judge and claimed William was the father of her child, Minnie ran from the courthouse crying, and never spoke of it again (and never heard the rest of the paternity suit either). Stanley Rothstein recalled being told there were cousins in Boston, when William first came to America.  Additionally, several years ago Alan and I found William's death certificate and it states his parents’ names: Louis Marcus and Hester Schonfeld.

Last night I found an historic archive of Boston newspapers online and decided to investigate. Wow---front page news in 1913!!

Here is the truth behind the remarkable story that Minnie Marcus told on her death bed about a Marcus paternity suit in Boston.

Seems as though William Marcus went to Boston in 1913 in search of his father, who had been missing for many years.  At the same time William discovers a half-sister, Rosie Marcus Burnstein, who is also looking for her father, Louis Marcus.  Rose's mother, Jennie (or Bessie) Marcus identifies a Boston Jeweler named Victor Schonfeld as really being Louis Marcus, whom shesays she married in Russia 45 years earlier, and he had abandoned his family.

Victor Schonfeld denies that he is Louis Marcus, and sues Rosie Marcus Burnstein, and her husband Joseph Burnstein, for slanderous bigamy charges. The case goes to court, and our William is there and testifies that Schonfeld is indeed his father, Louis Marcus.

Schonfeld brings witnesses to the trial that testify he is not Louis Marcus, and ultimately the case is closed and Schonfeld is awarded 1 cent in damages from the Burnstein's.

Obviously the Burnstein's are the Boston cousins that we had heard about. The four articles from the Boston Journal are attached.  Here's where the story gets really curious:

1. Schonfeld was Louis Marcus's first wife's maiden name.  Is it a coincidence that Victor Schonfeld would use his first wife's maiden name as an alias?

2. How did William know about this case?  He must have tracked down his father or something, because according to the newspaper article he did not know Rose Marcus Burnstein, his half-sister, until they met in court.

3.  If Schonfeld was really Louis Marcus, his traits of abandoning his children were definitely repeated in Max Marcus's behavior.

Any thoughts on this?  Write back...this is fascinating

Love to all,

Cousin Jana

Happy Birthday Uncle Irving

This is reprinted from last year's post; although I have changed my Uncle’s age, in keeping with the occasion; but the story is the same as it has always been. My Uncle Irving is simply the only person whom I have ever known that gave his love without any conditions attached. He was mercurial, and in many ways odd. But he was my rock as a kid. He was the quintessential New Yorker from the days of the Lower East Side of the 1900’s; as well as the Damon Runyonesque fellow you might find hanging about Times Square; and I loved him very much. So, each year, I write something for his birthday. Only this year, I have nothing new to write about him! So, I suppose I have arrived at the point where each year I will just add to the beginning of the post, until that becomes; as it probably already has; superfluous.  Uncle I; this one’s for you. (2012)

Today would have been my Uncle Irving's 116th birthday. Maybe. But, then again it might be only his 115th birthday. We'll never know for sure. The Henkins’ were rather secretive about most such things, and so we don't know a whole lot about them. The following has been presented here before, but just in case you haven't read, or heard about my Uncle, I have reprinted his story here, beginning with the story of how his parents, my great grandparents Max and Rebecca, came to America, and how that move eventually affected me through my relationship with this magical man whom I knew as Uncle "I". To leave out the story of his parents would leave his own story incomplete. (2011)

The Henkins’ never were sticklers for the truth- there was no doubt about that. If it was ten men they’d seen, they told it as a hundred; a 20 car freight train was 200 cars long; a five dollar win at the track was fifty. You know the type; they may have been full of it; but they were colorful and fun to be around.

Well, it all started with a horse….

This story had been around for years and then died out for a while- and since I may be the only one left to tell it, here goes;

Max “Pops” Henkin (we think that’s the last name- no proof) had a livery stable in the “old" country. It was a very vague place - somewhere near Kiev in the Ukraine region - Some small shetl that, no doubt that has long been gone. But it would’ve been nice to know the name. It was there that “Pops”; everyone called him that; met and married Rebecca, and it was there that he operated his livery stable.

One day a man came in with a wonderful looking horse, well bred, fed and easily led. This was a mighty steed - 14 hands high, and with a spirited manner. “Pops” could not afford him and so he turned the man away. But this man was persistent, and made Max an offer he could not refuse, and in short order Max became the owner of this prized animal. Accordingly, and expecting a great profit, he put the horse up for sale, advertising it everywhere within a day’s journey of his shetl outside Kiev.

All hell broke loose soon after when he was charged with being in possession of a horse belonging to the Czar. He was released pending a trial in which he would have surely been convicted, and so he took his family out of Russia, through Italy and then to Spain and on to probably Canada, although no records seem to exist to support that. But they don’t show up as entering America either, but nevertheless, they were here.

“Pops” had 3 children in America with Rebecca. They were Nathan, Isaac and Dora. Isaac was my Grand Uncle through my mom. He and “Pops” had lived with my Mom's family through the World War II years while she was growing up in Brooklyn, NY. He was like a Grandfather to me and no words can express the love I had, and still have, for this man.

Isaac was later known as Irving - due to the tall tales he told we sometimes called him Uncle “Lie”- but he was always Uncle “I” as far as I was concerned.

He was born, alternately, depending upon whom you asked, in Vineland New Jersey, Philadelphia, or New York City. Everyone agrees that it was on Aug 15th- but the year varies- 1893, 1895 or 1898 - take your pick. He was old enough to collect Social Security when I was 5 but worked until a year before he died in 1975. And he was too young to serve in World War I- registering in August of 1918, just 3 months before the Armistice. He probably was trying to avoid detection as an illegal for fear of being sent back to the "old" country. His father had crossed the ocean to escape Europe and Irving had no desire to retrace “Pops” steps – he didn’t want to go back - as a deportee or a soldier.

He apparently worked for the American Railway Express Co and later went into the Garment Industry as a buyer of furs. He used to bring me samples and to this day I can tell real from fake chinchilla, mink, sable, rabbit and even lamb. We had raccoon tails by the armload and attached them to the handlebars of our bikes and the backs of our hats, and even flew one from the antenna of the old Plymouth.

When I was younger, he would take me, and later, when I was older, I would meet him at the furriers where he worked on 7th Ave in the Garment District. The cutters, the tailors and sewing operators all treated me royally and I was fascinated by this aspect of my Uncles life.

Although he was already 60 when I was born, for 20 years he took me every Sunday to the beach in the summer, movies in the winter, and ice cream sodas and walks on Friday nights. He always regaled me with the stories of all the people he had met in his business as a furrier and how everyone knew him all over the city.

The Friday night walks were the most special times I spent with Uncle “I”. In spite of his age he never failed to make that 1 hour trip each way to watch the news, eat dinner and "talk" a walk with me. By "talk" a walk- I mean that we would talk and walk. We would go to the candy store on Kings Hwy and 15th Street and he would buy me an ice cream soda and afterwards give me a Standing Liberty or Benjamin Franklin half dollar. And when "magic time" was done I would walk him around the corner to the Quentin Road entrance of the BMT for his 1 hour train ride back to Manhattan. They said that he had nowhere to go, but I know better- he came to see me.

He took me to baseball games at the Polo Grounds, Shea Stadium, Yankee Stadium, to the circus at the Old Madison Square Garden, and to Radio City Music Hall for the Christmas Show. He was Jewish to the core, but the blue lit Nativity scene, complete with real Camels on stage - made him weep from the majesty of it. He knew every doorman, every usher, and every cabbie. We would go to the Stage Delicatessen on 7th Avenue and he knew all the comedians, actors and characters there, including the owner, Max.

We would miss parts of first acts trying to get to our seats as he stopped to acknowledge greeting after greeting, mostly from the people that worked in the places we visited, but sometimes people in the audience would call out to him, as if they desired his recognition, as well as to just say hello. He was a shy and gentle man, yet he seemed well liked and commanded some degree of affection and respect wherever we went.

He would go to Las Vegas every year to feed the slots and bring home the old solid silver Morgan Dollars from the 1880’s and the Peace Dollars from the early 1930’s. He never won, but he’d save those last 2 dollars for my brother and I.

Occasionally, he would stay over, especially if a game had gone into extra innings or overtime, depending on the season. He would sleep in my bed and I would take a folding cot in between my bed and my brothers. I would cover it with blankets and sheets and get underneath, pretending that this was my submarine. When I emerged I was always confronted by the sight of his teeth in a glass on my desk.

I still recall how, at least once every summer at Rockaway Beach, he would duck into a bar for a beer to catch the game and a peek at the baseball score. He didn’t smoke or drink but he would order a beer and bum a cigarette. He’d smoke it without inhaling, enjoying a moment of male camaraderie. It always seemed so mysterious to me, this bachelor world he lived in- hotels and restaurants. It was glamorous on the one hand, and lonely on the other.

If I characterize this part of Irving’s’ life as mysterious, it is probably because I never once went up to his hotel room. I suppose he considered it improper or ill advised to take a child up to his room with him. But he gave the most important gift of all to me; his time.