Uncle "I" - Talking a Walk

Somewhere there is a photo taken of Uncle “I” and me in front of 3619 Bedford Avenue in Brooklyn during the fall of 1958 or '59. He was teaching me to box. I was just about  4 years old at the time. The second Sputnik had recently been launched and he’d taken to calling me “Little Sputnik” as a way of showing his affection. I don’t know why; but I loved it from the moment he dubbed me with that strange sobriquet.

Now, fast forward almost exactly 10 years to my Bar Mitzvah in November 1967. That’s Uncle “I” and me in the photo above. I recently acquired the photos from my Bar Mitzvah along with some others, but this is my favorite one of them.

The Bar Mitzvah itself never really meant anything to me at the time. It wasn't until much later in life that I began to realize the richness of my own heritage and beliefs. But there was something which happened on that day which I never really fully grasped until I saw this picture; along with a few others; of my Uncle Irving with me on that special occasion.

Now, if you are at all close to me; or maybe even if you are not; you have heard me speak of Uncle “I”; which is how we addressed him; and know how important he was to me, and still is. I have never been to his grave. I was close to it when I visited my father’s grave in 2002, and it was even strongly suggested that I “pay my respects” while there. I couldn't do it.

You see, if I had seen the grave that day it would have been an affirmation that Uncle “I” had passed away. I’d seen him in the nursing home; a sad sight to be sure. I watched him waste away emotionally after he was betrayed by his sister; who was my grandmother at the time, a position she “lost” after the fact; so I knew he was dying. I was not present for his funeral because I was not told of it until afterward. I was running a bit too “wild” for my family at the time and so I was excluded from it. Inadvertently though, they had done me a favor, since; as a result of that exclusion; to me he has really never died. We still speak; quite often.

Now, let’s get back to the photograph. It was taken on Saturday November 5^th, 1967 in the foyer of my family’s apartment at 1310 Avenue R in Brooklyn just prior to my Bar Mitzvah ceremony. The weather was rainy and a bit raw, typical for Brooklyn in November. Everyone was getting ready to leave for the temple, which was located 2 blocks over and 3 blocks up from our place on Avenue R. I was supposed to ride with my parents, my brother and Uncle in the Pontiac Catalina we owned at the time. But, Irving wanted to walk. Moreover, he wanted me to walk with him. I eagerly acquiesced, as there was nothing I enjoyed more than being in his company.

We walked as Uncle “I” always walked; not fast; not slow. It was just the right speed for talking and I have often described these times with him as “talking a walk.”  And this one was one of the best ever. Uncle “I” told lots of stories; some true, others not so much. This was the reason behind the slightly derisive Uncle “I”; which sounded just like Uncle “Lie”. He knew we took his stories with a grain of non-truth, but he also knew that I loved them all the more, regardless.

But this “talk a walk” was different. Uncle “I” was very moved that evening of my Bar Mitzvah. He had no children of his own to deposit his memories with, and I was the depository that night, and it was a wonderful treat which I have held close for 46 years. He told me about his own Bar Mitzvah in 1908.

Now Uncle “I” rarely spoke of his childhood. His stories were mostly confined to his “glory days” playing ball on the school team, and various other heroics which could never be verified. But this was different. This was real. And there was no need to even stretch the truth slightly, as I was in rapt attention, struggling to hear every word against the sound of the wind as we walked, bent into it.

I was afraid of losing his words as they were carried away on the stiff breeze, and so I watched him as he formed each sentence, fumbling a bit for the words before he began each sentence. He was reaching back in time to a place only he could see but wanted to share and I was intent on capturing this moment.

His Bar Mitzvah was, as he told me, somewhat different than mine would be. His family; a brother named Nathan and a sister named Dorothy; who was my maternal grandmother; were raised by his parents; Max and Rebecca on the lower East Side, where they had settled early in the 1900’s after having lived in Vineland, New Jersey for a while. Originally they had lived in Philadelphia for a short spell after they arrived from the old country.

By 1907 my great grandfather owned his own livery stable and there was enough money for a modest celebration of my Uncle’s entry into manhood. He was ushered into the faith at the old temple, which I believe was on Rivington Street, and afterward the family repaired; with a few friends; back to their apartment for a “nosh” in celebration. He received a $1 watch and a fountain pen as gifts to mark his transition from childhood. That’s it; a watch and a pen. The watch would keep him punctual, and the pen was the first of the many which would be instrumental in his making a living in the garment industry for the rest of his life.

Arriving at the shul, Uncle “I” turned to me and said, “So now I don’t get to call you Little Sputnik anymore, do I?” And then he did something he never did before; or after; that night. He said, “I love you, Robert” and looked away. I looked directly at him and replied, “I love you, too Uncle “I”. We hugged, and then we entered the shul, where people were already waiting.

The Rabbi did his thing; and I did mine; at which point he pronounced me a “man”. That poor misguided creature. Even with all of his wisdom he could not have known that Uncle “I” had performed that function not 15 minutes earlier; right outside of the shul.

"Daddy Doesn't Sleep Here Anymore" by Ruth Marcus Williams

Daddy Doesn’t Sleep Here Anymore.
by Ruth Marcus Williams

Thursday was our maids’ night off. My brother and I then played a game we called “sneak.” It consisted of sneaking out of bed, running wild, and generally harassing our mother. As my brother was 5 years older than I, he got the brunt of my mothers wrath.

One Thursday night, at age 6, I said to my brother, “Let’s play sneak.” 

“Not tonight,” my brother said.

“Why not?” I whined.

“Because Mommy’s crying,” he replied.

It was then that I saw my mother pacing up and down the long foyer of our apartment, crying.

“Mommy and Daddy got divorced today and Daddy got married to a Gold digger,” continued my brother.

“What’s a Gold digger?” I asked.

“Someone who marries someone for their money,” he said.

“Oh,” I said, not comprehending. “What does divorced mean?”

“It means 2 people are no longer married.”

“What does Married mean?”

“That’s when…oh forget it. Just go to sleep.”

And so, still not understanding a word he had said, I went to bed.

Afterward, the only thing strange to me was when I would visit other peoples homes and see one enormous bed! I couldn’t figure out why they had one and we didn’t. Finally I asked my brother and he explained that those were called double beds and were for married people. I thought it peculiar that a man and a woman had to sleep in the same bed when they got married. I thought it would be nice to have such an enormous bed just for myself.

One day when I was 10, friends came to the house to play. Upon seeing our 2 bedrooms one friend became vitally interested in who slept where. After my explanation she said, “But where do your mother and father sleep?”

“Oh, my mother and father are divorced,” I said with a casualness I didn’t feel. Instead, I felt ashamed. In the 1930’s divorce wasn’t as common as today. In fact, I didn’t know anyone whose parents were divorced. Thereafter, unless I was pinned down, as I was that day, I never told anyone that my parents were divorced.

During my teens, I became more and more curious about this man I now called “Father.” For reasons that were never explained to me, I could only visit him at his office where getting to see him was as unpredictable as playing Russian Roulette. Everytime I’d approach his secretary and ask to see him she’d say, “I don’t know if he’s in- let me check.”

I knew damn well he was there- it was just a question of whether he was in the mood to see me. More often than not she would come back saying, “I’m sorry, he left.” Then I’d leave feeling good for nothing. Other times when I’d been told he wasn’t in, my father would come flying out of his office just as I was about to enter the elevator.

“Look, I’m busy,” he’d say, “but do you need any money?”

Fighting back tears I’d say, “ I could always use some.” Then he would give me fifty or a hundred dollars. Damn it, I’d think, I don’t want his money; I want his love. If my own father doesn’t love me, who will?

Sometimes though, after checking, the secretary would say, “ Your father will see you now.” As I would enter his office, shaking from nervousness, he’d inevitably be on the phone and wave me to a seat. While he continued his conversation I’d study him- this enigma of a man who by blood was my father. Did I look like him? Did we have any traits in common? What would it be like to live with him? Question after question spun through my head.

Between calls he would scrutinize me , and at one time or another he would say, “Your hair is messy.” Or “ Your voice is too high pitched.” Or You’re wearing too much lipstick.” Or “ You’re too skinny.” Or “You’re too sensitive.” No matter what- I would leave that office feeling worthless.

During the ensuing years I saw less and less of my father, and he never got in touch with me. Until he died, 5 years ago, he had remained a stranger. I wish it had been otherwise…

Ruth Marcus Williams
Sunday, August 17, 1980

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

Sue Pensinger Williams - DAR

My wife, Sue Pensinger Williams, has just this week received her membership certificate for the Daughters of the American Revolution. This organization is comprised of women who have a blood relative in the family that fought, or died, in the American Revolution.

Sue's great grandfather, five times removed, was Henry Pensinger. He was a member of the Pennsylvania Militia when the Revolution broke out. He traveled across 2 mountain ranges to fight at the 2nd Battle of Ticonderoga, in upstate New York. This was no easy task. Just getting there took months of humping everything they would need over the mountains. Think of it, cannon, ammunition, guns, horses and food, all had to be carried to the scene of battle. It was this fight in which Henry Pensinger was injured, incurred frostbite and lost his leg. Then he first had to go home, over those same two mountain ranges. That he would have been in great pain the entire way goes without saying.

The Daughters of the American Revolution have had some darker moments in their history, most notably when they denied Marian Anderson permission to sing in front of an integrated audience at Constitution Hall in 1939. President Roosevelts wife, Eleanor, herself a member of the DAR, actually resigned over this and on Easter Sunday, Marian Anderson did sing, on the steps of the new Lincoln Memorial.

Since that time, the mission of the DAR has largely been one as the caretaker of the nations monuments, providing scholarships, and keeping track of all the descendants of the veterans of the American Revolution. The best part of this is that as people have intermarried over the years, the face of the DAR has become multi-cultural. And now my daughter, Sarah, is a member as well. I wonder what Pincus Max Marcus, my grandfather, who arrived here from Poland in 1911, would think of that!

The First World War

April is a uniquely historical month. There is a reason for this. Prior to the modern era, and before the age of automobiles, it was simply too hard to get around during the winter. Valley Forge is a good example. So are the disasters of Napoleon and Hitler, both of whom tried to go too far, too late in the year.

This is a photo of my paternal Grandfather, William Shone Williams. The photgraph was taken by a freind in boot camp prior to shipping overseas in the summer of 1918. He would make it just in time for the Second Battle of Verdun. He laid wire for communications behind enemy lines. He came home and became a Police Officer in New York City, though the War changed him forever. He died in 1946 at the age of 43.

Today marks the beginning of the First World War, at least for the United States. Hostilities had been raging since Archduke Ferdinand had been killed in August of 1914, plunging the rest of the World into War. We waited it out for a bit as the country debated what to do. Eventually we joined in and turned the tide.

This is my maternal Grandfather, Pincus Max Marcus. He was an early entrant into the War, having entered the United States in 1911 and then enlisting for service prior to 1917. From there he shipped off to England where he would join the Allenby Brigade and fight the Turkish Ottomans to victory in Damascus. This was a multi-national Pro-Zionist force. When the war was through, he had to fight his way back into the United States, entering through Canada.

I know this only through my Cousin Jana Marcus, and she only discovered it recently while researching some family history. "Max", as he was known, came home to make a fortune in the lingerie industry three times. And lose it each time on horses and women. He lived to be about 75 and drove a taxi until the day he took his own life. Was it the War or the loss of his fortunes that drove him to it? We'll never know.

Next to the Civil War, the First World War is one of the most savage wars ever raged. With the advent of new weapons the battlefields became killing fields and set the stage for World War Two and all that followed, leading even up until today.

It is interesting to note that the map of Europe prior to the First World War looks remarkably similar to a map of Europe today. With the fall of the Soviet Empire many of the countries that once existed returned to the world stage.

Sometimes a song says it best. In this case Country Joe and the Fish come to mind. What are we fighting for?