Clarence Darrow Writes About A Publisher And Prohibition

by Stephen J. Gertz

On October 24, 1931, legendary American lawyer and social reformer Clarence Darrow (1857-1938) wrote to American attorney, civil rights pioneer and president of the National Association for the Advancement of Colored People (NAACP) Arthur Spingarn, about his as yet to be published autobiography.

"The book will be finished this month. As I have said, no contract has been made with any one, but several publishers seem anxious to get it. I do not feel like giving it to Liveright & Co. I have said that I will show it to them, which I will do; still, that is superfluous, if they are not in the running. I presume I could ask each publisher to make an offer, and I could safely give it to the one that makes the best offer; still there are other things to consider. Had I better send a copy of manuscript to you to deliver to them when I send out any others? Have you any idea of the best way to handle the situation? I do not like to make any pretense that I feel is not true, but I think I should put it where I want to, and, of course, since I have given them $1,000.00 and you got me a clean release, I have the right to do it. One of these days I will be in New York, but on account of the other fellow rushing his book out in a hurry – after promising to wait! – I felt that I had better get mine done. With thanks, and best wishes, [signed] Clarence Darrow."

A postscript in holograph reads: "I have a story in this coming Nov. number of Vanity Fair on what one can and can not do to get rid of prohibition. We can not repeal the 18th Amendment. I think my plan has never been published."

Clarence Darrow, the son of pro-suffrage and abolitionist parents, began his celebrated law career in Ohio. He soon found himself defending anarchists, union leaders and murderers. His slow, shambling demeanor belied a brilliant mind, evident in his spectacular defense in the 1924 Leopold-Loeb murder trial and the famous Scopes trial of 1925, the latter upholding the right to teach the theory of evolution. Among Darrow’s high-profile defenses were such racially charged cases as the Sweet Case, in which a black family used deadly force to defend itself against an attack while attempting to move into an all-white Detroit neighborhood. The NAACP (with the support of Spingarn, the letter’s recipient) also offered Darrow’s services to the Scottsboro Boys, nine black teenagers accused of raping a white woman in Alabama in 1931 and convicted by an all-white jury. A pacifist and civil libertarian, Darrow was knowledgeable, shrewd and deeply committed to justice.

After the 1919 passage of the 18th Amendment, which banned the production and sale of alcohol in the United States, Darrow became an outspoken opponent. He published such articles as “The Ordeal of Prohibition” in the August 1924 issue of American Mercury, and the same year he debated the issue with prominent Unitarian minister John Haynes Holmes. He co-authored a book entitled The Prohibition Mania (1927), and he published several articles in Vanity Fair including “Why the 18th Amendment Cannot Be Repealed” in the November 1931 issue, referred to in this letter. Darrow lived to see the repeal of prohibition with the passage of the 21st Amendment in 1933.

The letter also discusses Darrow’s autobiography, The Story of My Life, which Charles Scribner’s Sons published in 1932. Darrow had defended New York publisher Liveright & Co. against charges of obscenity alleged by the New York Society for the Suppression of Vice and Boston's Watch and Ward Society, but he apparently did not want to use the publisher for his own work.

Arthur Spingarn (1878-1971), the son of an affluent Jewish family, earned a law degree at Columbia and, along with his brother Joel, dedicated his life to racial justice for blacks. He headed the legal committee of the NAACP and, in 1940, succeeded his brother as president of the civil rights organization, holding the position until 1965. He also became known for his vast collection of books, manuscripts and ephemera related to American blacks, most of which are now at Howard University.

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Image courtesy of Lion Heart Autographs, with our thanks, and a tip o' the hat to its cataloger.
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Eliot Ness and The Female Untouchables: A Booktryst Golden Oldie

by Stephen J. Gertz

In a recent post, I discussed ephemera in general and a certain piece that elicited memories of my family's involvement in the liquor business during Prohibition in Chicago.

My all-time favorite piece of ephemera also concerns the liquor business in Chicago during Prohibition - sort of. As with all ephemera, it, too, tells quite a tale.

What About Girls? was published in 1943 by the YMCA's Armed Services Department warning of the dangers of venereal disease. It was written by Eliot Ness. Yes, that Eliot Ness.

Eliot Ness, special agent of the Justice Department's Prohibition Bureau. Nemesis of Al Capone. All-American hero. Eliot Ness, legendary gangbuster.

Eliot Ness, Germbuster?

How Ness, the famed Federal agent went from gangbuster to germbuster is a sad story indeed.

Ness's dream job, to join the F.B.I. after Repeal, was thwarted by J. Edgar Hoover, who disdained Ness' shameless publicity seeking and gross exaggerations of his at best marginal contribution to bringing down Al Capone. There was room for only one prima donna publicity-hound in the F.B.I. and Hoover filled the position; there could only be one public face of the F.B.I. and it would not be Ness's matinee-idol mug.

Reality check: Eliot Ness joined the Justice Department in 1928 in the waning years of Prohibition; he caught the tail end of the Noble Experiment, he was never in the thick of it. His job, in essence: play whack-a-mole with Capone's organization. Take down a small brewery, bottling plant tonight, it's open again tomorrow. But he made certain the local reporters wrote about him and inventively played up his exploits. Yet "nothing he did contributed to the government's case against Al Capone" (Bergreen, p. 344). He was merely an annoying flea to Chicago's top dog.

After his rejection by Hoover, Ness began a slow, pathetic slide downward fueled (ironically) by alcoholism and womanizing.

He took a job as Cleveland Public Safety Director, his mandate: clean up the town; the Mayfield Road gang, led by Moe Dalitz, was running amok. It continued to do so under his watch. His success in Cleveland was mixed, like scotch and soda. By 1938, Ness, once Cleveland's golden boy, was now understood to be strictly fool's gold. He divorced his wife; that didn't go over well with the Catholic citizenry. He began to haunt posh booze troughs. Made time with the babes. By 1941, his reputation was in tatters. His involvement in a hit and run accident (he hit, he ran) while drunk shredded it, and he was forced to resign in disgrace in 1942.

At age 39, his movie star looks fading, his rep sunk, he moved to Washington D.C. and, hat in hand, he begged and got a job as Director, Social Protection Division, Office of Community War Services, Federal Security Agency where he helped coordinate the government's struggle to cope with what he called, "Military Saboteur Number 1."

Thus, What About Girls? with Ness's immortal call to arms: "The idea is to keep diseased women away from you. Is it too much to ask that you keep away from them?"

Uh, yes Sir, it is: unless "diseased women" wear a sign around their necks, we can't tell the pure specimens from the impure ones. How 'bout a War Department memo to all ladies: Please present full blood work results to your local Selective Service board.

The "diseased women" were, of course, pay-to-play gals but the word prostitute is not to be found within the pamphlet's pages.

Ness had a personal bug about syphilis. Bergreen, who gives much attention to Ness in his definitive biography of Capone, states that Ness' crusade against syphilis was precipitated by his former nemesis' battle with the malady. Ness, who spent his last days a forgotten figure and broken man, insolvent, deeply in debt, and regaling indulgent barflies with grandiose tales of former glory, died of a heart attack in 1957 at age 54, the consequence of his alcoholism, on the eve of the publication of his self-aggrandizing memoir, The Untouchables, which led to the famous television series.

This pamphlet, an important view of the government's actions against V.D. during the war years, presents a marked contrast to the government's actions forty years later when a new, deadly venereal disease emerged to threaten America, and is a sad reminder of a man who was ultimately Fitzgeraldian in his initial (sham) success, unfulfilled promise, and alcoholic disintegration. It is a fascinating slice of 20th-century Americana.

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NESS, Eliot. WHAT ABOUT GIRLS? New York: Public Affairs Committee (YMCA), 1947 [1948]. Reprint of the 1943 first issue. 16mo, 31pp. Red printed wrappers. 

 

Reference:

 

BERGREEN, Laurence. Capone: The Man and the Era (NY, 1994). Cf. Bullough et al., Bibiography of Prostitution 3377. 

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Originally appeared on July 17, 2009.

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A Peek at the U.S. Rare Book Trade in 1933

by Stephen J. Gertz

By November of 1933 the financial crisis that swept the country in 1929 had wrenched the U.S.  into a profound economic depression that was deepening into a miasma with no end in sight. The rare book trade saw prices decline, credit dry up, and client bases contract. Many firms went under.

Goodspeed's, in Boston, established by Charles E. Goodspeed in 1898, had grown dramatically during the Roaring Twenties; by the end of the decade it had three shops and sixty employees.

"With us, as with many others, the late 'twenties were years of great expansion both of staff and premises," George T. Goodspeed, C.E.'s son, who joined the firm in 1925, remembered. The Williams Book Store had gone bankrupt in 1929; Goodspeed's bought its stock and took over its lease.

But just two years later economic circumstances had worsened and now even Goodspeed's - one of the most successful rare book firms in the country -  was feeling the Depression's effects.

"1931, which I think of as the first of the Depression years, found us dangerously overstaffed and but for an extraordinary windfall we should have operated at a loss for the first time in many years," George T. Goodspeed recalled.

By 1933, however, Goodspeed's had, by necessity, slimmed down. It was time to retrench and, significantly, reach out. Studies show that in difficult times, rather than cut back, it is crucial to continue to advertise and market to remain visible, competitive, and viable; spending money to make money is never more important.

And so, amongst other tactics, Goodspeed's placed an ad, 11 x 2 inches, in the November 1933 issue of Fortune magazine. While advertising space rates had declined, this was still an expensive ad to run.

Why that magazine and that issue?

In 1933 only one industry in the United States was booming, indeed, bursting its barrel hoops: The alcoholic beverage trade. The huge sums of illegal money generated by the business during Prohibition had, with Repeal (implemented in 1933) been diverted to legal commerce. The November 1933 issue of Fortune featured a twenty-page in-depth report on the whiskey business, which couldn't distill and age spirits fast enough to satisfy demand. The magazine would, of course, be read by all in the liquor industry, who were doing quite well, thank you, in addition to the moneyed class that Fortune was aimed at; the rich were still, for the most part, rich, even if a polo pony or two had to be sold to help make ends meet and pay the chauffeur. 

Goodspeed's was simply trying to attract the attention and business of the demographic that it depended upon and seek new clients. Fortune was an over-sized periodical that was still using expensive, coated paper stock, though at this time the total number of pages so had declined, with uncoated stock used for approximately 50% of its bulk. It was priced at $1, which, adjusted for inflation, is $16.50 in today's dollars; a very pricey magazine.

The advertisement is quite revealing:

Fortune, November 1933, p. 126.

 Here, Goodspeed's is offering prints from the first edition of Audubon's Birds of America (1833) from $5 to $100 ($82 - $1640 in 2009 money). First edition prints in fine condition now sell for $25,000 - $80,000.

"Audubon Never Drew a Dodo" is certainly a headline for the ages.

They offer Robert B. McAfee's History of the Late War in the Western Country (1816) for $250 ($4,100 adjusted for inflation). A rebound copy now sells for $925, which may be pushing it; it has not fared so well at auction over the last thirty-five years, though, admittedly, it is usually found in poor condition. Fine copies are  near impossible to find.

I can find no auction records for the Coolidge piece offered for $95 ($1560). My guess is that the price, adjusted for inflation, would be around the same were it offered today; at the time Coolidge was fondly remembered for presiding over the 'Twenties speculative boom. "Silent" Cal has not fared  so well in Presidential Americana (or in U.S. history) since then.

Of special note is Goodspeed's promotional publication, The Month, an illustrated overview of books, prints and autographs in general and those in Goodspeed's stock in particular. In bad times, the show must always go on. It is offered to as a "gift" to Fortune readers, a nice  if somewhat misleading pitch - it was free to anybody who subscribed. Goodspeed's simply used the ploy as an attractive, personalized come-on to a readership whose attention, names, mailing addresses, and money it was trying to capture.

Goodspeed's, alas, closed in 1993, just five years shy of its centennial, a victim of rising rents and a lagging economy, an object lesson that, if at all possible, book shop owners should own the buildings they are located in to turn a  short-term fixed/long-term (and potentially disastrous) variable expense (rent)  into a permanently short- and long-term fixed and predictable one, and gain a growth investment at the same time.

"It's hard to talk about it," George Goodspeed, ninety at the time, told the Boston Globe. He wanted to continue the tradition but keeping the bookstore open, he said, became "just too expensive."

No amount of advertising could save it. Fortune no longer smiled.

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Reference: GOODSPEED, George T. The Bookseller's Apprentice (Oak Knoll Press, 1996). Excerpted in The Professional Rare Bookseller, Journal of the Antiquarian Booksellers Association of America, 1983, No. 5.

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Fortune magazine, November 1933, and advertisement therein a happy discovery courtesy of Kenneth G. Gertz, the author's beloved father, with my deep thanks.
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I have a personal interest in advertising for the rare book trade 1900 - 1960. Readers with knowledge and/or in possession of such are encouraged to contact me, with my thanks in advance.

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The Biggest Jew In Chicago Part 5

Older, more relaxed, and with no need to exert authority, Poppy's affection for his grandchildren was enormous. The rind peeled, his sweetness emerged.

My father never tasted it.

Prior to the War, Dad studied at Wharton School of Business at University of Pennsylvania, his thesis covering the liquor industry but his heart wasn’t in it. When the War ended, Dad had ambitions to get into the air cargo business with another officer he’d met in Japan during the occupation. This was an emerging industry with exciting prospects for a young man. When he wrote Grandma of his plans, she shot his air cargo career out of the sky with a surface-to-air missive: “You’ll break your father’s heart.” After hearing that, telling Poppy of his dream was unthinkable, the prospect of confrontation unbearable.

The Oxford sales team, 1949. My father is 3d from right; my grandfather at far right.

He went to work for Poppy at Oxford as a street salesman. In Brooklyn. Tough territory. Poppy was tougher on him than any of his other salesmen, just to prove he wasn’t playing favorites. Dad was forbidden to enter his office but for anybody else at Oxford, secretaries to sales, the door was always open. Poppy was not a hard businessman; at heart a softy, the prospect of firing someone kept him up for nights beforehand.

When I was a kid, Dad would sometimes take me with him on his rounds. It seemed to me that Brooklyn liquor store owners were animals. They didn’t merely have rough edges, they were all rough, edges to the bone. Dad was not a natural salesman like Poppy. It was a square-peg gig for him. Worse, Poppy was a giant in the business, all these guys knew him, his reputation, were in awe, and respected him; they ate out of his hand.

They ate my father’s hand. Though he was 6’ 2”, 220lbs, and oh so far from a milquetoast, he felt like a midget, the weak son, an interloper in the dominion of his father, the king. He was well into his twenties before Poppy acknowledged that he was a man, and this is what earned his blessing: One day, Poppy - a sensitive, situationally volatile person behind the wheel never hesitating to mete out a good dressing down or worse to offending drivers who he felt slighted by - and Dad were in the Caddie in Manhattan when a truck cut them off as they approached a red light.

“Ken, get out of the car, go get him!” he exhorted. An obedient son, my father carried out his commanding officer’s orders. It was one of only a few bonding experiences they shared.

It used to drive my father crazy when Poppy leaned on him for being too tough with me; it was like Poppy had been abducted by aliens and returned a different man.

Poppy, Dad, and I. My Bar Mitzvah, 1964.

In the summer of 1964, on the cusp of thirteen, I visited Weatherford, the small town in Texas where my mother’s family hailed, home of my other grandfather, who died nine years before I was born, beatified, it seemed, by my mother and maternal grandmother after his death, was the polar opposite of Poppy, and, to me, an oppressive angel. He was the sky, Poppy the earth. My mother's brother-in-law, my Uncle Bill, taught me how to drive, each afternoon taking me out on an old rural delivery route outside of town where the only thing I risked crashing into was a cow, an unlikely prospect in the extreme. I was physically ready; tall, I could reach the pedals and see over the steering wheel at the same time, and reasonably coordinated for the task. It was a heady experience.

A headier experience was yet to come. Chicago was the next stop on what had become an annual summer tour, and Poppy, upon learning of my new-found skill, decided that next class in the driver’s ed. syllabus would, naturally, be Urban Navigation, a relaxing motor along the tranquil streets, avenues and boulevards of a pedestrian-choked, traffic-packed metropolis.

No dummy, he didn’t tell Grandma of his plan for my higher education; he loved her dearly, why trigger a conniption fit leading to a massive stroke? And so two fools, one old enough to be my grandfather – wait, he was – the other old enough to know better but too young to care, embarked on a Disneyland attraction the Chicago Way, Mister and Master Toad’s Wild Ride Through The Loop – but, of course, without a Disney employee to panic-wrench the stop lever down at first scent of danger.

Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, alas, prevents me from recounting the adventure in detail. Suffice it to say, though I projected an air of insouciant confidence throughout l’affaire insanité, I’m quite sure that the grip indents on the steering wheel present at its conclusion were not so at its onset. I do, however, remember the car, a 1957 white Cadillac Coupe de Ville with two-tone gray interior kept in immaculate condition, though not through any manual effort by Poppy.

1957 Cadillac Coupe de Ville.

Occupants survived the ordeal intact, as did the car, pedestrians, and surrounding traffic and inanimate objects but it’s my understanding that afterward the poor Caddie exhibited strange tics, increased compression and resting rpm, tremors throughout the Body by Fisher, spasmodic air-intake to the manifolds, and distress in the lower tract, all of unknown origin. Had Poppy’s mechanic been a strict Freudian, I’m sure he would have recognized a classic case of GVAS, Generalized Vehicular Anxiety Syndrome. It’s in the American Automotive Psychological Association’s Diagnostic and Statistical Manual; you could look it up.


Upon our return home, Poppy exulted to Grandma about our escapade, her characteristic rubbing of lower lip against upper when distressed accelerating into overdrive with each emerging detail. Silent throughout, at tale’s end she turned and walked into their bedroom, returning moments later with object in hand. She shook it in his face.

“Your wallet! You didn’t have your wallet! No driver’s license, no identification, no money, no nothing! What if -"

"- Aw, Molly, you should have seen him. The kid’s a pistol!”

Oh yes, he was my god.

By late adolescence, I realized that if I wanted to be a man in this family I'd have to transform the tall, skinny bookworm with zero physical confidence, who squirmed out of physical confrontations throughout childhood and teens due to cowardice and lived in chronic shame, into some semblance of Gertz. I went from one extreme to the other.

After Oxford Distribution shut-down in the mid-1950s, Poppy again worked for other men as a sales executive. In 1966, Grandma and Poppy moved to Florida, living in a small apartment in a new building on Collins Avenue in Bal Harbour, just north of Miami Beach. Poppy retired.

While still vigorous, he had health issues; he’d suffered a heart attack a few years back and had slowed down. He took long walks on the beach for exercise, and I’d walk along side and listen to him share his experiences. I ate them up, enraptured. But I couldn’t help noticing that the flesh on his torso was atrophying, his legs – always thin in comparison to his upper body, had become pencil-thin.

Grandma, her life with Poppy one of love and admiration and martyrdom punctuated with a liberal dose of tsks and resigned head shaking at his behavior, now had to cope with having him underfoot 24/7/365 as he tried to exert his authority over their domestic life, her turf. He was doomed: Grandma, in her way, was tougher than he was and treated him as an indulged, overgrown son that needed to be watched over and cared for but she had the gift of allowing him to feel that he was the king while she ran the kingdom; she was wife-mommy. His world had dramatically shrunk. He became Keeper of the Carpet, rigorously inspecting the bare feet of all who’d been on the beach before they entered the apartment, making sure the white wall-to-wall wasn’t stained by tar from the sand.

11/18/68

Dear Steve -

We were so pleased to receive your letter altho it reflected the mood that you were in, which is a perfectly natural thing for one to be moody at times - when young one may call them growing pains, you begin to look, take stock of yourself and your outlook on life begins to take on different views.

Before I write another word I want you to know that I am not writing a lecturing letter, for I too am like you. I will not do anything that I don't wish to do. I know that I am a stubborn guy & just can't be false to myself. If I don't care for someone I keep my distance, I speak out as I please when I feel that I am right, altho many times I wish that I kept my big mouth shut...

One should always be a gentleman...

...All of us go thru certain stages of life with mixed feelings & I know that you will have your up & down charts, not because you are my grandson you are a pretty good thinking young man & will find yourself...

Talk about friend problems, as you know I know so many people, however I only had one real close friend in all my life one who I could discuss problems, women, etc.

Your letter so expressed my young feelings, when you say you feel like you're living from the outside in. You are a part of life. Get over it Steve, this whole wide world is yours.

I want you to know that your Poppy is behind you 100%.

By the way, after reading your letter you sure know how to express your thoughts & feelings & you can become a writer (now don't laugh).

Grandma & I are just fine - enjoying life & in a way each other, when she doesn't pester me too much.

Affectionately,

Poppy

I sure write lousy

Only if penmanship trumps content.

Early one morning, from my foldout bed in their living room, I saw something that I never thought would occur. Through their slightly ajar bedroom door, I watched in amazement as Poppy wrapped phylacteries around his forearm and forehead and davened. My God bowed before another in submission.
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Tomorrow: Part 6.

Part [1]  [2] [3] [4] [5] [6]

The Biggest Jew In Chicago Part 4

The Depression was not a disaster for the family at all. But though Poppy was working, money was tight. He helped support some in the rest of the family and was assisting with tuition for two of his brothers' college and post-grad education. And maintaining image in his world was important, losing status could be construed as weakness – devastating to his standing amongst his peers and to business and, admittedly, his ego.

1931 Buick 4-door sedan, in red.

In 1931, he bought a top-of-the-line dark green Buick 4-door sedan with wire wheels, white sidewalls, running boards and a chrome trunk rack. The fine clothes had to continue, the generous tips, the handouts to the less fortunate. There were times when Grandma had to ask her mother for a few dollars here, a few dollars there, to help ends meet. Poppy was also borrowing money from the company. On the cusp of Repeal, he owed $6K, a major sum in those days, and he hated having that hang over his head.

Great-Grandpa Abe Degrafsky/Bernstein had retired early as a very successful horse-trader and had become an equally successful day-trader in the stock market, spending his days at a brokerage house watching the ticker. By never buying on margin and selling at the slightest downturn, he survived the Crash of 1929 and thrived, picking up stocks at their nadir when they had no place to go but up. Grandma’s brothers, Leo and Joe Bernstein, were looking for opportunities, Poppy was seeking help. Great-Grandpa Bernstein stepped in with a solution. He loaned Leo and Joe $10K to buy out Poppy’s share in National Brokerage, taking care of his debt and putting an extra $4K in his pocket, a sweet short-term return for Poppy but a major long-term disappointment, a fortune slipping through his fingers.

Prohibition had devastated the distillery business. Most had shut down completely, putting their equipment into storage. But by the early 1930s, the handwriting was on the wall for the Noble Experiment. In Kentucky, a small family business with a great name and established brand recognition decided it was time to prepare for the future but cash-poor, they needed a serious transfusion of capital. What had been National Brokerage Company had now morphed into Philip Blum Co. controlled by Great-Uncle Harry Blum, his father, Phillip, and Great-Uncles Leo and Joe Bernstein, in partnership with two others. They bought the Kentucky family’s business outright from its patriarch for $100,000, leaving the family to practice their art while they provided marketing and sales savvy.

The patriarch’s name was Jim Beam.

And so, while it then rained money in torrents and drenched the Blums and Bernsteins, Poppy was left holding an umbrella.

No longer a partner in a business, he became an employee, working for Isaac Bernheim’s Bernheim Distillery with the established brands, I.W. Harper, Old Charter, and Belmont. Prohibition was over, and in spite – or because - of the Depression, the liquor business boomed. Money was coming in and times were very good. Poppy was Western Sales Manager for Bernheim. All of the country’s wine and spirits distributors were Jewish. Well, not all. Missouri’s notoriously corrupt political boss, Tom Pendergast, owned a whiskey wholesale house that Poppy did business with. Poppy, of course, knew Pendergast, and one his political underlings, a then-hack named Harry Truman.

The children of Maurice and Grace Gertz, c. 1939.
Front row, from left: George, the youngest; Bob.
At rear, from left: Elmer, the runt of the litter,
who would become one of the nation's most
respected 1st Amendment lawyers; Bernice; Sol; Ed.

Grandma and Poppy moved to 5240 Sheridan Road, a major step up. In the mid thirties, Poppy started to go to New York on business, staying at the Park Central Hotel where ball players and fighters parked their carcasses while in town. That's where he met Max Baer, Tony Canzoneri, and most of the other contending and champion fighters of the era.

Max Baer (L) and his pal, Edward M. Gertz, 1935.

He met Baer in the hotel’s elevator. Impressed with Poppy's size and demeanor, Baer initiated a conversation; they became fast friends. In 1940, Poppy took my father to Trafton’s Gym, Chicago's boxing-mecca, to watch Max train for his fight with “Two-Ton” Tony Galento. To Baer and the star fighters he was “Eddie;” to the up and comers, “Mr. Gertz.” After kibitzing with Max et al, Poppy took Dad upstairs to Babe Barron’s betting parlor. Charlie "Babe" Barron was Chicago’s gambling kingpin, his bookie joint action central. Though he was never a problem gambler, Poppy did like to bet on the fights and baseball games, and to a lesser extent, the ponies but, as with his card-playing, he was conservative, never a high-stakes player. Poppy walked into Barron’s, Dad in tow. “Hiya, Eddie!” Barron big hellos. “Hi, Babe,” Poppy returns. Barron turns away, and Poppy leans over to Dad and whispers that Barron was tried and found not guilty for killing a guy in self-defense. My father is goggle-eyed.

On March 20, 1941, Max Baer wrote my father a letter written on the letterhead of the 20th Century Sporting Club, which controlled all boxing in New York and, by extension, the nation. He promised Dad, who he had become close to, a special 21st birthday present.

Dear Ken:

 Your dandy letter here and tickled me pink. I got quite a giggle out of your reference to my having written your Dad requesting that you come here to act as a spar mate for me in my preparatory work for the unraveling of Lou Nova, April 4, Madison Square Garden, N.Y. City.

I let you down the last time I met Nova. Not only you but many others. It was you I worried about, as I know all the boosting you did for me and any wagering you did was from the heart. I am going to give you a birthday present, Nova getting an assist, April 4. I trust it will be a happy crossing of another year in life’s journey. Sitting by the radio you will hear me give you the wishes for the happiness of the day, when I step to the ‘mike’ after tucking Nova away in sweet slumber. Maybe ‘sweet’ is not the word from the Nova viewpoint, but t is perfect from my angle. And yours, I know.

We are in a great spot up here. Cool, crisp, pine laden air that is so invigorating. Peps one up and makes him a glutton for work. It is the spur and oldster like me needs. I am right now in the best physical condition I have ever been in since I bowled over Max Schmeling. I have my [mind] set on putting Nova away, to be followed by (I hope) by a crack at Billy Conn, the winning over bother of them placing me in direct line for my coveted return bout with Joe Louis. Oh! Boy, if it just works out that way. Then my ring days will be complete. The first man to regain the heavyweight championship.

I want to tell you, Ken, that we do not work out on Saturdays. Every other day at 2 PM. Do try to come up some Sunday. YOU ASK ME ARE LADIES ADMITTED. You know me, Ken, they are invited and welcome. Bring along the fair one who has you entranced, this day & age. Will be looking forward to your coming. Best personal good wishes, Sincerely Max Baer. P.S. What lousy typing Forgive me please pal. - M.”

Baer v. Nova, The Birthday Bout, April 4, 1941.

Max lost to Lou Nova by TKO in the eighth round. Some birthday gifts are best presented in a box rather than a boxing ring.


He was good friends with Joe. E. Lewis, the speakeasy singer who had his throat slashed when his Mob employer became offended when another Mob-owned club offered him a higher paying gig which Lewis had the nuts to accept. Lewis’ biography later became a star-vehicle movie for Sinatra, The Joker Is Wild. His vocal cords mangled and singing career over, Lewis became a popular nightclub comic. A notorious drinker and horse-player, he’d customarily punctuate his comedy routines with a shot of whiskey, exclaiming “Post-Time!” They met one night while the two were at an illegal gambling club. Lewis was, typically, losing at a craps table, Poppy next to him. Disgusted, Poppy grabbed the dice from him, rolled, and won. Lewis bet with Poppy that night, and for the rest of their friendship called him “Gertzie!,” the only person on the planet able to get away with that way too breezily familiar, irreverent moniker.

Things were sweet. Grandma and Poppy went to the Kentucky Derby every year, enjoying the high life.

In 1937, Bernheim sold out to Lewis S. Rosenstiel, who, during Prohibition, had been furiously buying up distilleries with large warehouse inventories holding permits from the federal government. When Repeal arrived, Rosenstiel, under his Schenley Brands umbrella, was poised to assume primacy of the liquor business in the United States, consolidating his position during the 1930s by buying every distillery he hadn’t already bought and making deals to import all the scotch, wine, and cordials he could.

Suffice it to say, gentiles may have been making all the whiskey in Kentucky and Tennessee, but Jews owned it, sold it, and dominated the business.

1938 Buick Roadmaster sedan.

With Bernheim now owned by Rosenstiel, Big Ed – now driving a 1938 Buick Roadmaster sedan that would last through the War - became Rosenstiel’s top man for the West; they had known each other during Prohibition, doing business and socializing together. Decades later, when Poppy was retired and living in Miami Beach, he told me, age 14, in a sudden flash of memory apropos of nothing, about their first meeting as employer-employee. Rosenstiel declared “Ed, you’ll wear the finest suits, stay in the finest hotels, eat the finest food – but I won’t pay for schtupping!” Poppy chuckled in the telling and it remains unclear whether Rosenstiel was routinely laying down the law for potential behavior, or whether he was making a point based upon knowledge of my grandfather's habits. Poppy attracted women like static electricity attracts lint but it’s a mystery whether any of them stuck, had the hair on their arms stand up, and felt his current run through them. (But I have my suspicions).

In 1942, Rosenstiel, dissatisfied with his distributor in New York, asked Poppy to move there and establish a wholesale house to exclusively handle Schenley’s goods. An opportunity to become his own man again was thrown in his lap. Irresistible. But Poppy didn’t have the scratch, so Rosenstiel hooked him up with a mutual friend, Joe Davis, a gentleman from Newark who had previously owned the company that imported White Horse scotch and produced a couple of whiskey brands that were popular in the East. Poppy owned 33% of the business; Davis 67% for putting up the money, but management was equally held by contract. Poppy, who yearned to be a macher and have a business of his own, was now in the roses.

And it was roses for my father. Enlisting in the Army, he was now far away from home – and Poppy. World War II couldn’t possibly be tougher than being Ed Gertz’s son.

The author's father, Kenneth G. Gertz, in 1941, age 21.

He was a critical, judgmental and intimidating father. As a young boy, Dad once knocked a window out while playing baseball and spent the rest of the day in abject fear of Poppy’s wrath. Fortunately, when Poppy learned how the window had been broken, it was aces; he lived out his baseball fantasies through my father. But he constantly criticized Dad’s performance on the field. Home was where never was heard an encouraging word and the skies were all cloudy all day. Poppy was fearsome Chief Black Cloud, a figure of awe, respect and terror, though the prospect of punishment was far greater than the actual penalty.

Poppy seemed to be omniscient, the All-Seeing Eye, every citizen of Chicago his minion. Once, while in high school, Dad cut football practice and went to a burlesque show. That night, Poppy asked how football practice went. Dad told him oh, it was tough, a real workout, whew! Poppy gave him the Death Ray, declaring how would you know, you weren’t there! Dad protested but Poppy had him on the grill, demanding to know what he was doing on the corner of Van Buren and State Street. Dad cringed, grew pale, his chest tightened into a knot, his soul withered to a wisp. He stammered out the truth.

Poppy didn’t talk to him for three weeks. It would have been easier to bear a beating, which, fortunately, Poppy never delivered, not once. But an occasional sharp punctuation mark, oh yeah. One night, Uncle Sol’s at the house. He and Poppy get into it, trading punches. Next day, while Poppy’s driving Dad somewhere, my father commented that Uncle Sol was a mean man, he hit you. Poppy's reaction was instantaneous primal instinct. “Don’t you ever say anything against your Uncle Sol!” Whack!

But Dad had his moments of triumph. Getting into a fight one Friday afternoon after school, he came home with a broken hand. Grandma feared for my father’s life. Not to worry. When Poppy came home and learned the circumstances, Dad’s stock went up into the stratosphere. Next day, Poppy schlepped Dad around to his accounts. Swollen with pride, he showed off Dad’s swollen fist to all, declaring “the kid’s a regular Dempsey!” Dad was in seventh heaven. A bit short-lived. The following Monday, Poppy accompanied Dad to school to check out the boy who had been on the other side of Dad’s fist, needing to know that the kid got the worst of it. Fortunately – but not for the kid – his left peeper was blackened, his lower lip split.

Other people would tell Dad that Poppy said good things about him but Dad never heard them to his face. Poppy traveled a lot, often being away for three week stretches. During those interludes, Dad was king of the house with no one on top of him all the time with criticism. He was happy to see Poppy when he returned but after few days was glad to see Poppy leave again.

Cowardice was a mortal sin. One night, there was a big storm. The power went out and Dad started to cry. Poppy yelled at him for being a sissy. Dad was seven years old. At age nine, he went to a summer camp run like a military institution. He was terribly homesick, and he cried in Grandma’s arms when she came to visit – Poppy was, as usual, away on business - begging to be allowed to come home. Grandma told him Poppy would think he had a yellow streak down his back, the worst crime imaginable. Dad sucked it up.

Poppy’s job was embarrassing during Prohibition; Dad would tell his friends that Poppy was a broker rather than in the whiskey business. Poppy tried to be circumspect about the family field of employment. He had to visit Uncle Sol one night at Sol’s job. Which was managing a bottling plant for Capone. Taking him along for the ride, Poppy told Dad that Uncle Sol ran a soda factory. Whoopee for my father, who immediately upon arrival asked for a strawberry pop. Oy. Minions are sent scurrying to find an open grocer and fetch the kid a soda.

Grandma shielded Dad from Poppy. He thought my father had it too easy, was spoiled, as if it was Dad's fault that he wasn't born on Halsted Street. To the outside world, he was a hail fellow well met. At home, different story. He put a high premium on being manly; expressing emotion was not easy for him; it was at best a difficult task. There was a gruffness to him, tough to penetrate; he just couldn’t open up. He wrote expressive letters that were incongruous with his persona and the only evidence of his affection. Eye to eye, his tongue was stone or bristles. Though he yearned to have his daughter, my Aunt Marilyn, sit in his lap to be dandled and have affection returned, it didn’t happen. She was intimidated by him, too. He wanted to be gentle. He didn't know how. There are no photographs of Poppy playing with his children.

Physical affection and emotional warmth
with children would skip a generation:
Poppy and my sister, 1949.

___________

Part [1] [2] [3] [4]  [5] [6]

The Biggest Jew In Chicago Part 3

According to its press book, a movie was loosely based upon Terry Druggan, his partner Frankie Lake, and their activities.



William Wellman’s The Public Enemy (1931), starred James Cagney as Tommy Powers/Terry Druggan and featured Edward Woods as Matt Doyle/Frankie Lake. The 1923 tragi-comic death of Sam “Nails” Morton was depicted in the movie: An avid horseman, Nails (in the film, “Nails Nathan”) was riding in Lincoln Park one morning, a stirrup broke, the horse reared, Nails was thrown, the horse kicked him in the head and killed him. So upset and grief stricken were his Irish boon companions and partners that a hit squad was sent to the stable. They aerated the horse’s head. In the film, Cagney/Tommy/Terry is the equine’s assassin. In reality, it was Louis “Two-Gun”Alterie, an ex-gunsel for Druggan and member of O’Banion’s gang, along with a couple of other equestrian executioners in the employ of O’Banion.

In A Little Piece of History: The Village of Kildeer [a small community northwest of Chicago], Clayton W. Brown recounts that:

During Prohibition a gentleman named Terrance Druggan purchased about 215 acres of land on both sides of Long Grove in what is now Kildeer's Farmington Subdivision. Mr. Druggan had a nickname, ‘Terrible Terry.’ because he was a Chicago gangster, head of the Druggan-Lake Gang (or Valley Gang) prominent in the 1920's. His partner was Frankie Lake, an ex-Chicago fireman...They were both trigger-happy bootleggers who controlled a territory on Chicago's west side, between Cicero and Chicago's Little Italy, as lieutenants of Al Capone [they were not lieutenants of Capone; their gang was part of Capone’s syndicate]. Both Druggan and Lake, as young teenagers, joined the Valley Gang then controlled by...Paddy ‘The Bear’ Ryan and Heinrich ‘Big Heinie’ Miller. When they reached maturity they took it over.

Druggan was a dwarf-like character who lisped when excited, especially when shooting down an opponent or hijacking a liquor truck. Both men wore expensive fedoras, tailor-made suits and horned-rimmed glasses, which gave them the appearance of mild-mannered businessmen. Druggan was very religious, a devout Catholic, in spite of the his criminal activities. Druggan and Lake both became millionaires during Prohibition and rode in limousines driven by chauffeurs. They owned a private railroad car, but used it only once after it's windows were shot out by rival gangsters.

Most of their fortune came from Joseph Stenson who gave them 50 percent of five large breweries so they would stop hijacking his shipments and he could continue to operate. By 1925, Capone was taking more than 40 percent of the profits from their breweries, but provided Druggan and Lake with an army of gunmen to protect their territory. Both were imprisoned once for operating illegal breweries. Terry Druggan built a stucco-sided house on Long Grove Road, near Middleton…There formerly was a flagpole in front that could be seen from Rand Road. He had a handy man who's job it was to raise and lower the flag. If the flag was at the top of the pole it was O.K. for Druggan to come home, at half-mast it meant someone was there looking for him and he should keep going. Whenever Druggan heard a noise outside the house he would look out the windows carrying a machine gun. Having once been shot through one of the windows caused him to move into a rear bedroom. A subsequent owner of the house claimed there were bullet holes in the gutters and siding.

Of Druggan and Lake, Herbert Asbury, in Gangs of Chicago, wrote:

In 1924, for refusing to answer questions put to them by Judge James Wilkerson of the United States District Court, Druggan and Lake were sentenced to a year's imprisonment for contempt of court. Several months later a newspaper reporter called at the county jail to see Druggan, but when he asked for the gangster he was told: ’Mr. Druggan is not in today.’

’Then I'll talk to Frankie Lake,’ said the reporter.

‘Mr. Lake also had an appointment downtown,’ the jailer said. 'They will be back after dinner.’

The dazed newspaper man returned to his office, and an investigation disclosed that both Druggan and Lake, in return for twenty thousand dollars in bribes, as they testified later, had been given extraordinary privileges. Supposedly incarcerated and treated the same as other prisoners, they had actually spent much more time in Loop restaurants and in their own luxurious apartments than in jail; they had been permitted to come and go as they pleased, and the death cell of the jail had been turned into a private office where they received their gangsters and issued their orders.

James Cagney as Terry Druggan in The Public Enemy.

Poppy and Druggan loved cards, and Terry would occasionally come over to the house to play a few hands of poker or pinochle with him, continuing to do so, presumably, during his extra-joint jaunts into town.

The legal and illegal trade in liquor co-existed on an incestuous, go-along to get-along basis in an unspoken truce; there were family members on both sides. After Capone organized the various gangs and ended, for the most part, the constant hijacking of each others' trucks, some rogue mobsters would try to hijack legitimate whiskey but if they knew you and liked you they’d leave your stuff alone. Particularly if your name was Gertz. Poppy, because of his size, reputation, where he was brought up and the people he knew, was given wide- very wide - berth. Sometimes, though, things got a bit confusing on the streets.

One night, Poppy got a call and immediately phoned Great-Grandpa Bernstein: One of National Brokerage’s trucks was being followed by mob guys and Poppy needed help; Abe Bernstein né Degrafsky was no shrinking violet. Yet another Livak from Vilna, and, like Aaron Gershowetz, a horse trader but with bear in his heart and a hard-flint disposition borne of a childhood evading capture by Cossaks for 20-year enslavement into the Russian army, he and his were not be trifled with. Armed and dangerous, the two of them chased off the would-be hijackers.

Next morning, Poppy went for his regular haircut at the College Inn Barbershop in the Sherman House, the big hotel across from City Hall where all of Chicago’s politicians, gangsters and sports crowd congregated, and ran into Terry in the lobby. Druggan comically related the previous night’s incident, excitingly commenting upon the crazy Indian pumping shot at him from the truck ahead and the wild men spraying him from behind. (Both Poppy and Uncle Sol, because of their broad, thick, high cheekbones, somewhat resembled Native-American chieftains). Poppy didn’t know Druggan was the guy following his truck, and Druggan didn’t know it was Poppy’s truck or that Crazy Sollie was literally riding shotgun in it. Poppy set him straight. “Gee, Eddie, I had no idea.” No harm, no foul.

There were a couple of occasions when Poppy and Uncle Sol were pulled over by other Capone associates while delivering a shipment.

Bad idea followed by hard swallows and awkward salutations: “Uh. Hi, Eddie.” The other opens the back of the truck and is greeted by Sol with a shotgun. “Uh. Hi, Sollie.” End of incident.

Druggan was a good guy to know if you had a special problem. A few years before, Grandma was robbed on the street. When she told Poppy about it, he immediately knew what to do. He called Druggan, Terry got hold of guys who did it and retrieved Grandma’s jewelry. No word on the fate of the thieves.

Boxing was Poppy’s favorite sport. He spent a lot of time at Davey Miller’s gym getting to know the young guys who would later become well known fighters. He took my father to all the Friday night amateur fights that Miller ran at his gym. By the mid-Twenties, Miller had become the outstanding boxing referee in Illinois.

Come 1927 and Dempsey and Tunney are set to fight their rematch in Chicago. Davey was the appointed ref for the fight but Miller had a brother, Herschie, who was a member of Capone’s gang. Capone idolized Dempsey and Davey Miller was considered to be in Capone's pocket because of Herschie and Davey’s gambling operation. (Miller, a paragon of character and completely unintimidated by Alphonso, many years later admitted that Capone had approached him but that he had politely and firmly turned down Capone’s pre-fight bribe to make sure things went right. He didn’t report the Capone offer; having refused, it was of moot importance). Before the fight, Poppy took my father, seven years old, to Dempsey's training camp. It seemed that everyone in the fight crowd knew Big Ed; he was a star amongst them. Poppy and Grandma had ringside seats at Soldier Field at the then extravagant price of $40 each.

In an unusual example of backbone, at the last minute the Illinois boxing commission nixed Miller, Dave Barry was substituted as referee, and the result was infamous "long count." My father, listening to the fight on the radio at home, cried when Dempsey lost. Jack was Poppy’s friend and his as well.

Just a few weeks before that fight, Poppy went to see the Cubs play the Reds at Wrigley Field. As usual, he was in his box seat right behind the visiting team’s dugout. At the close of the ninth inning, a few men behind him gave Reds’ pitcher Pete Donohue the razz as he walked to the dugout. Donohue, assuming Poppy was the ringleader, “took him to task,” and spit-balled “Jew Bastard” at him.

Bad idea.

Poppy jumps out his seat, leaps over the railing onto the field and decks Donohue. The entire Reds team comes to Donohue’s rescue and a few others take the horizontal express before “hostilities” are officially ended by the erstwhile cop, Officer Hunt. Poppy is unscathed. A few of his upstanding and lowstanding friends in attendance then whip up the Jews in the crowd to Poppy’s defense as he’s taken away. Post-game anarchy ensues. Enter the Riot Squad. True to form, however, Poppy made a new friend. Though Donohue – his topography and ego seriously bruised - never stood up to the plate, Reds’ manager Jack Hendricks and Big Ed became buddies.

Contrary to the newspaper accounts, Poppy was taken to Summerdale Station and held uncharged and unbooked for a few hours. The police called Grandma at home and told her he would be home shortly. Grandma was relieved. Until receiving the call, she was supremely angry, assuming that Poppy was late for dinner because he was out playing cards. Starting a riot and getting arrested were the lesser of evils, as far as she was concerned; after all, he was defending Jewish honor.

Poppy also defended hers. One day, the two are strolling along State Street, Grandma walking ahead with a friend. On the corner, a wise-acre begins to wolf-whistle and catcall the ladies as they pass by.

Bad idea.

Said wise-acre was Harry, b. Hershel, Krakow, aka “Kingfish" or "King Levinsky,” a tall, husky, popular, somewhat buffoonish Jewish heavyweight contender with a crushing overhand right who fought Max Baer and defeated Dempsey, ending the ex-champ’s comeback. Kingfish was renowned for his colorful post-fight commentary - “I hitted him where it hoit da most. Da King ain’t no sucker, ya know,” he reportedly declared after his fight with Jimmy Slattery – and his unorthodox defense methods in the ring: An early conservationist, rather than waste valuable energy moving out of the way he blocked punches with his face.

Kingfish, aka King Levinsky.

Poppy laid him out cold on the sidewalk.

Levinsky’s post-fight commentary for this quick business is lost to history. But though his manager at the time was Davey and Herschie Miller’s brother, Al, there were no repercussions for Poppy. After all, Davey and Herschie were his friends, and Kingfish was seriously out of line; any man would have done the same. Suffice it to say, after Poppy hitted him where it hoit da most, King Levinsky became his friend: Da King wasn’t no sucker, y’know.

Later on, when there was a big fight in New York, the 20th Century Limited would run from Chicago and all the politicians, gangsters and sporting crowd would be on the train, including Poppy, so his circle of friends and acquaintances grew larger. He was the biggest, toughest Jew in Chicago and in the liquor business, a magnet for friendship and respect.

_________

Part [1]  [2]  [3] [4] [5] [6]

The Biggest Jew In Chicago Part 2

Julius Rosenwald wasn’t the only one keeping an eye on Ed Gertz.

Concurrently, Chicago was in the midst of bitter Taxi Wars. The taxi business was still developing, wholly unregulated, and competition amongst growing cab companies and independents was fierce, endangering drivers, riders and pedestrians who had to dodge the pack of cabs that would descend upon potential fares en mass with contesting drivers invariably getting into fights. Poppy supplemented his income working as a schtarker – muscle - for John D. Hertz, whose Yellow Cab company was asserting dominance.

In his youth, Hertz (b. Sandor Herz, Slovakian Jew) hung out in boxing gyms and became a reasonably skilled pugilist, fighting under the name "Dan Donnelly." Now, establishing himself as a entrepreneur who would become a leader in the transportation industry, Hertz put Poppy in the driver’s seat, making him his top street troubleshooter/negotiator. Living in the upscale German-Jew part of the Southside, he’d no doubt heard of Big Ed Gershowetz, perhaps from Rosenwald himself, another Southside resident. Here was a good kid but tough, who could keep his head while asserting strength but if necessary deliver the hard knocks. Poppy’d get a distress call from the street, race to the scene and either part the combatants without incident, knock heads together, or end the fight decisively in Yellow Cab’s favor. Yellow Cab won the war.

As respected and successful Jewish businessmen, Rosenwald and Hertz were his early influences and role models. It is not unreasonable to conclude that it was while working for Hertz that Poppy changed the family surname.

In July of 1919, an angry Polish-American mob swept through the Southside, looking for Jews. Riotous, they’d been whipped up into an anti-Semetic frenzy by the rumor that one H. Kahn, a local Jewish merchant, had murdered a Christian child as part of a mythical, occultish Jewish blood-letting ritual – a decent piece of matzo traditionally impossible without a dash of gentile red-cells in the mix. Southside Jews were being terrorized and beaten. To the rescue, Davey Miller and his gang of tough Westside Jews poured into the Southside. And while there is no direct evidence, I’m quite certain that Poppy was right there, next to Miller; Uncle Sol was nearby, for sure. This was Poppy’s kind of scrap, and Uncle Sol lived for this sort of action.

At age 16 Uncle Sol lied and enlisted in the army, anxious to get into WWI. His platoon sergeant was guy from Chicago, born in 1893 and eight years older than Sol. He was another Jewish tough who feared nothing – nothing - and from the Westside. Why he’s practically meshpucah, family! They’d probably heard of one another. After all, Samuel Morton né Markowitz aka “Nails” Morton was a popular Chicago anti-Semite basher who protected harassed Westside Jewish merchants and school kids; before the war, Morton organized a Jewish defense club to keep Jew-baiting Polish gangs out of “Jewtown.” It’s likely that Uncle Sol and Poppy were part of Morton’s proto-Jewish Defense League. Sam became a war hero, won the Croix de Guerre for bravery (he captured a German machine gun nest despite severe wounds) and was awarded a battlefield commission to first lieutenant. Sol was promoted to platoon First Sergeant, “Nails” old job. After the war, Sam received a hero’s welcome from the Westside Jews. Then he got down to business.

He ran an automobile garage that fronted for his extra-curricular activities – car theft, gambling and, after the Volstead Act became law, distributing booze and beer via his fleet of trucks. Because the Jewish gangs were too small to compete, leaders had to align themselves with either the Italians or Irish. Nails allied himself with Dion O’Banion, the gangland florist, distributing O’Banion’s booze. After the war, Nails Morton gave Uncle Sol his first job, as an armed driver. Sol would hopscotch between the legal and illegal trade until finally settling on the good foot.

Given his background, Poppy could have easily strayed from the straight and narrow as so many of his friends from the neighborhood had done. And a few in the family.

One of his first cousins was Louis “Sleep-Out Louie” Levinson, the son of Maurice’s sister, Poppy’s Aunt Mary. Sleep-Out earned early fame as a second-story man, a gifted burglar, and, later, a well-connected gambler of renown, casino owner in Newport, KY, and person of interest to a couple of Congressional Sub-Committees. Sleep-Out died prematurely, not by natural means.

Sleep-Out's brother, Eddie Levinson, was more fortunate. At a young age he discovered that paradise was a pair of dice, and, before and after WWII, he and his friends had the bookie concession at fourteen Miami Beach hotels, courtesy of his New York friend and associate, Meyer Lansky. In 1946, Uncle Eddie arranged for my parents to honeymoon in Miami, first-class. Soon afterward, he managed the Riviera in Havana and the Fremont in Las Vegas, and later was partner and casino manager at the Sands, each job as Meyer’s man. In the mid-1950s, mom and dad went to Vegas. Uncle Eddie put them up, deluxe accommodations, and made arrangements for them to have dinner and see the shows at the other hotels in town – all seven of them; Las Vegas was a small town then - everything on him, with one condition: they were forbidden to gamble, or, rather, he was so breezily dismissive of amateurs, i.e. those other than The House, to wit: losers, that they were too ashamed to do so. When I was a kid, Uncle Eddie came to our house for dinner a few times. Nice guy. Last time I saw him was at my sister’s wedding. He lived long and died peacefully.

One of Uncle Louie and Uncle Eddie’s sisters married a mob-connected accountant. After they divorced, he was bumped off. I’m assured the two events were unrelated.

Why Poppy and Uncle Sol didn’t take a bad turn remains unclear but perhaps their father had something to do with it. Though Maurice – a dedicated anarchist (until becoming a small business owner) whose method of fitting a suit entailed having the client lie on the floor while he precisely outlined the supine figure in chalk, ultimately creating a garment of surprisingly accurate fit - was Orthodox, and, until early adulthood, so was Poppy, a sense of right and wrong was instilled not by religious training alone. When Poppy or Uncle Sol disobeyed or got in trouble, Maurice - a solid six-feet and a tough customer in his own right – would grab them by the ankles, upend them, and bounce their heads on the floor. Though as crude as his suit-fittings, paradoxically, over time, this disciplinary ritual had a salutary effect upon the pre-frontal cortex.

c. 1919.

In 1919, Poppy married Mildred, “Molly,” one of the eight children of Abe and Celia Degrafsky. She attended her first day of school with her best friend, whose last name was Bernstein. And so, courtesy of a school enrollment clerk, when she returned home that day she was Mildred Bernstein. A popular accident, apparently: the entire family joined in.

The author's grandmother, Mildred Gertz, c. 1921.

After finishing his studies, Poppy went to work for his maternal uncle, Dave Belson, as a draftsman at his manufacturing plant. But a sit down job for a stand-up guy was no life; he was restless and hated it. One night in 1920, at dinner at Great-Grandpa Abe Degrafsky-Bernstein’s, his brother-in-law, Harry Blum, married to one of Grandma’s sisters, told Poppy that the State of Wisconsin was ripe for the sale of medicinal whiskey and liquor for food processing and suggested that Poppy go up there and see what he could do. Next day, Poppy went up to Milwaukee. He opened up some drug store accounts and two bakeries for Blum, discovering that he had a gift for sales. The following day, he saw Uncle Dave and turned in his T-square and protractor. That was the end of his engineering career and the beginning of forty-five years in the liquor business.


It is around this time that Poppy developed a taste for sartorial splendor, which would last all his life. In an early photograph he’s dressed for success, starched collar, tie with stickpin, camel’s-hair coat, fedora, and walking stick. He’s twenty-two years old. Custom-made (they had to be – nothing fit off the rack) suits, shirts, and sport jackets became de rigueur. He cut quite a figure: huge, ramrod-straight posture, manicured nails, elegantly dressed, neatly groomed, he radiated power and authority and would do so for the rest of his life, long after power and authority had faded.

To implement the Eighteenth Amendment to the Constitution, on October 28, 1919, Congress passed the Volstead Act, which legislated the prohibition of alcohol in the United States effective January 16, 1920. Under Title II, sections 3, 6, and 7, alcoholic beverages were legal but strictly regulated for sacramental, medicinal, and industrial purposes. And so, parallel to the fast-growing illicit trade in the sale and distribution of booze for strictly recreational use, a legal business grew selling alcoholic beverages to drug stores, churches, synagogues, and bakers (without rum cake, the nation crumbles).

After a year working for Blum, Poppy went out on his own. He partnered with two older, more experienced men and formed the Royal Drug Company. After a few months, he noticed that the inventory in the warehouse was less than what was on the books. So, one night, he staked-out the warehouse from his car, parked across the street. Soon, a truck pulled up, his two partners got out and started taking goods out of the warehouse, apparently for diversion into the illegal trade, which paid a premium for the real McCoy. Poppy jumped out of his car, raced across the street, and beat the shit out of his partners. End of the Royal Drug Co.

Edward M. Gertz, 1923.

He then formed Retail Druggist Supply Co., a partnership with an honest guy that amicably dissolved after a year. Now, Poppy rejoined brother-in-law Harry Blum as a partner in National Brokerage Company which, in addition to selling legal alcohol, traded in warehouse receipts for pre-Volstead Act-manufactured whiskey that the government stored in bonded warehouses for release to receipt holders only. Control the receipts, you controlled the legal flow of booze. The other partners in the business were Moe Rieger, married to Blum’s sister; Joe Levy, who was married to Great-Aunt Eva Bernstein; and Joe Guzik, brother of Jake “Greasy Thumb” Guzik, Al Capone’s loyal business advisor and financial wizard. Aunt Bernice, Poppy’s sister, kept the books.

1925 Cadillac V-6 4-door sedan.

These were good times. Upwardly mobile, Grandma and Poppy moved to the North Side and in 1925 traded up from a Hudson Super-6 to a Cadillac V-6 4-door sedan, a monster car but Cadillacs had not yet become the standard for luxury in America.

In 1928, Poppy bought a light green Buick Brougham, Buicks at the time the hottest, most reliable, well-engineered mass-produced cars in the world, the Brougham the top of the line and more prestigious than a Caddie. Money was coming in, oh yes, though not in the fabulous sums that many who Poppy knew were raking in. His old friends since youth, Terry Druggan and Frankie Lake, for instance, were becoming extravagantly wealthy.

And who were Druggan and Lake?
_______


Part [1] [2] [3] [4] [5] [6]

The Biggest Jew In Chicago

The following six-part series is excerpted and adapted from The God and the Ghost: Two Grandfathers, a work in progress.

***

 The author's grandfather, Edward M. Gertz, c. 1949.

My father dreams about his father. Dad’s ninety. Poppy’s been dead for thirty-four years.

In these dreams, Dad and Poppy, both adults, have a great, feel-good father-son relationship, man to man, as equals. Things were not, in reality, quite that way. Poppy’s shadow fell over my father like a sheet of lead. A long sheet, too: I’ve spent most of my life wearing it as a suit that felt great to have on but when seen in a mirror with clear eyes was obviously way too big for me. Too big for Dad, too. Poppy was too big for both of us.

CUB FANS BALK ARREST, RIOT

One hundred policemen from three North Side stations late yesterday answered a riot call to break up a crowd of several thousand baseball fans that had gathered about a policeman and a prisoner outside the Cubs’ ball park.

The clash began toward the close of the game when pitcher Pete Donohue and other members of the Cincinnati team engaged in an argument with Edward Gertz, 28, of 1436 Pratt Blvd., a manufacturer, who was sitting in a box above the dugout. The players charged Gertz had gone to extremes in reviling them throughout the game. As the last inning was being played the Cincinnati management summoned Policeman G.A. Hunt, who arrested Gertz.

Supporters of Gertz, the officer said, incited the crowd to anger and threats were made to free the prisoner. Hunt then put in the riot call and the reserves dispersed the crowd with difficulty. Taken to the Town Hall station, Gertz was charged with disorderly conduct. He was later released.”

Chicago Herald and Examiner
July 6. 1927.

CUBS WIN 7TH IN ROW; BEAT REDS, 8 TO 5

A couple of big innings yesterday and McCarthy's Cubs were in possession of their seventh straight win…

Small Riot Develops

At the close of the game a row was precipitated when Pete Donohue, Reds' pitcher, took a Cubs fan, Edward Gertz, 1434 Pratt Boulevard, to task for remarks he had made concerning the Cincinnati team. Policeman G.A. Hunt separated the pair as hostilities commenced. Some one turned in a call to the Town Hall station which brought several squad cars to Wrigley field but no arrests were made."

Chicago Tribune July 6, 1927

The reporters were being polite. “Manufacturer” was a misnomer off by a mile and “hostilities” an understatement. He was 6’4”, 240lbs – rare stature in his era - with an intimidating physique and glare that could scare the stripes off a tiger. But though he looked like one and was in the liquor business in Chicago during Prohibition, he wasn’t a mobster.

He was the god of my youth.

On Sundays, when they lived in New York, we would go to Manhattan from our home in Queens to visit Grandma and Poppy. They lived in an apartment at 240 Central Park South that seemed larger than it actually was and modestly swank. Poppy drove a Cadillac, Grandma wore mink. It seemed he was the King of New York. Long lines at restaurants? Ignored. No reservations, no problem. Poppy would steer us to the front door, the doorman would breeze us in, the maitre’d would give him a warm greeting – “Mr. Gertz, so good to see you, right this way” – and we’d be immediately seated.

He was a regular at Lindy’s, the renowned Broadway restaurant immortalized in Damon Runyon stories as Mindy’s, where show business personalities, the sports crowd, gamblers, underworld types and solid citizens congregated over lox and bagels; we got the red carpet routine when we’d go there. He and Leo "Lindy" Lindermann were pals. He was friends with Lou Walters, owner of New York’s famed nightclub, the Latin Quarter, and father to Barbara; with Jules Podell, owner of the Copacabana; with Toots Shor, who’s eatery was where the elite of show business and the sports world hung out (though he thought Toots a loud-mouth). Ex-champ Jack Dempsey’s restaurant on Broadway was a second home; they were old friends from way back.

No matter where we went, Poppy was treated as a potentate with deference shown by all. His friends, countless; he knew everybody, it seemed: the sunny, the shady and the dark, trading smiles and firm handshakes. He was never awestruck by celebrities; if anything, it was the other way around. Heads turning when we’d walk down the street and whispers were a matter of course. People naturally assumed he was a big shot of some sort. When he walked into a room, all eyes fixed upon him; he possessed a personal force that was palpable.

He was a gentleman of the old school, courtly and polite. He always gave my sister and me expensive gifts; we had carte-blanche at F.A.O. Schwartz. He’d have bought us the world if we asked. I’d watch him shave in the morning; his whiskers were tough, like him. He took my side when my father was angry with me. “Everything copacetic? he’d ask. I’d make what passed for a clever remark and he’d exclaim to all, “the kid’s a pistol!” with earnest pride. The words warmed me; I was okay in his book. His scent of cigars fused with Aqua Velva after-shave remains with me, as do the size and thickness of his fingers: I’d slip his massive diamond-studded Masonic ring on my thumb and have room for another thumb and a pinkie, too. Hell, I could have slipped the ring onto my wrist. He would tease me with displays of mock toughness: towering over me in fighting stance, his fists the size of cannon shot, his eyes narrowed, he’d feint punches, mock-menace growl, make me hesitate before I’d laugh, then he’d widen his eyes, open himself and corral me into a hug that stayed with me for hours afterward. He inspired awe in strangers. He certainly inspired awe in me.

Though it means nothing in the grand scheme of things and even less to my cousins, I am the son of the son of the first son of the first son of Aaron Gershowetz, horse-trader, born 1826 in Vilna, Lithuania, land of Litvaks and giant, bohunk Jew-boys. First-born, Morris, (b.1865), at the behest of Aaron, sold horses to the Russian army, took the money and ran, landed in England, met Grace Grossman, Galitzianer, married her, and in 1896 journeyed to Chicago where they settled on Halsted Street in the 20th Ward on the Near West Side.

The “Bloody 20th” was a feral slum where poor immigrant Italians and poor immigrant Irish and poor immigrant Poles clashed with one other but most of all battled with the poverty-stricken Russian Jews who were flooding into the squalid area crowded with fire-trap rickety wood houses built on top of one another, airless brick tenements, streets teeming with pushcarts, horse manure, sweatshops, rag dealers, junk dealers, small merchants and tradesmen, vice, crime, vivid life and desperate humanity. There goes the neighborhood, a patchwork of highly segregated ethnic enclaves locked in a Darwinian dynamic. Mayberry it wasn’t: It was known as "the Darkest Corner of Chicago." The family residence, at 383 S. Halsted, was just a few blocks down the street from Jane Adams' Hull House.


He was born Milton Gershowetz, the first of Morris-anglicized-Maurice's and Grace’s six children, in 1899. Known in the family throughout his childhood as Edmilt, he appears to have exited the womb at full, mammoth size; there are no pictures of him as a little boy. The Edmilt handle went fast. He changed his name to Edward M. In late adolescence, he changed surnames. He was first-generation American, not a Litvak. So Maurice, who’d imported his younger brother and five sisters – the instantly anglicized-upon-landing Marvin, Fanny, Mary, Esther, Bessie, Sarah and Annie – followed suit. And then the entire family. The Gershowetz’s of Lithuania became the Gertz’s of Chicago, a name a little more American with a little more class – Maurice Gershowetz became Maurice Gertz, Fine (impoverished) Tailor – and a little less ethnic with a little less baggage. But not much. (A Gershowetz for ninety-one years by the time he arrived in 1917, Aaron saw no point in becoming Gertz).

The Gertz's of Chicago c. 1925.

At center is the patriarch, Aaron Gershowetz, age 99;

my father, Kenneth G. Gertz, age 5, sits upon his lap.

Maurice Gertz is 3d from left, back row.

My grandfather is right of center, back row.

Sol is 5th from left, back row. Maurice's sister's,

my great-great aunts - aka the defensive line of

the Chicago Russian Bears - occupy the second row.

Big Ed had to defend himself. A Jewish boy on these streets had to be tough and good with his fists or know someone who was. Traveling from the West Side Jewish-dominated Maxwell/Halsted Street district to school, temple or anywhere just a couple of blocks away meant going through “injun territory,” competing ethnic blocks where you might be ambushed. For safety, you traveled in convoys, and Big Ed was a leader. Exceedingly nice and likable, all his Jewish peers idolized him, literally and figuratively looked up to him. He was a protector. And so was his younger brother by a year, Sol, who, just slightly smaller than Ed, was the second biggest Jew in Chicago. Big Ed and “Crazy Sollie” Gertz, a little less reasonable than his older brother and a bit impulsive, were the dynamic Jew duo. Don’t fuck with the Gertz brothers or their brethren.

There is a street code amongst certain boys of this milieu. Threatened, you don’t back down. You tough it out. You fight, and even if you lose, you gain something. Your conqueror will respect you for standing up and taking it, giving as good as you got. You may even, and usually if you are Ed Gertz, afterward become friends with your opponent. On the street, both victor and vanquished gain a reputation, hard currency in the Bloody 20th and psychic armor. Because of his essential good nature Ed Gertz would fight and then become friends with many Italian, Irish and Polish kids. This is, presumably, how he met and became friends with many who would grow up to see their names in the papers, though rarely, if ever, in flattering light.

In the mid-late 1910s, the family moved to the Southside, to the neighborhood known as “the Bush,” a step up; sunlight could actually be seen penetrating between the houses. It was an area dominated by Polish Catholics, and anti-Semitism ran high. One day, Big Ed and Crazy Sollie walked into the wrong poolroom. They soon exited, leaving eight bloodied Polish punks laid out on the floor; kosher cue sticks and knuckle sandwiches had been served to the aggressors. But though sated, a little dessert was routinely offered to the formerly vertical, courtesy Sol. “When you knock a man down, always give ‘em a little leather!” was his motto, scuffed shoes a reasonable price to assure that the recently horizontal remained so, thus facilitating a peaceful parting of ways. Like most kids of the era, Ed loved baseball and wished to be a ball player. He also, unsurprisingly, loved boxing and avidly followed the fights and fighters.

Any Jewish kid of his size and street rep was bound to attract the attention and interest of the older Jewish toughs in the area. One such was the West Side’s Davey Miller, 6-7 years older than Ed, a young man who had already gained a fierce reputation as a protector of West Side Jews against Irish and Polish predators and was idolized by younger Jewish kids. Davey - not to be confused with South Side Davey “Yiddles” Miller, a mean-tempered murderer - owned a pool hall with a gambling club and boxing gym, the Edmille Health Club, above his restaurant on the West Side, both major hangouts. Ed spent a lot of time there, checking out the young boxers. He and Miller became fast friends. In 1923, Miller was shot by gangster Dion O'Banion and survived.

Great-grandmother Grace Gershowetz aka Gertz née Grossman , died in 1917, leaving Maurice with two strapping teenagers with minds of their own, three younger sons and a daughter. Maurice was unassimilated, worked long hours, made a living but not much of one and couldn’t handle all the kinder. Ed became the man of the house, a paterfamilias, his brothers – excepting Sol – and sister, Bernice, treated as children rather than siblings. As far as he was concerned, he was the boss. This did not endear him to them yet their resentment was tempered by love, awe and respect.

Ed attended junior college, studying to become an engineer. To help with the bills he got a job working as chauffeur and bodyguard for Julius Rosenwald, the German-American Jew who turned Sears, Roebuck’s nice mail-order business into a retailing behemoth. That Rosenwald required the services of a bodyguard tells us something about how difficult it was for Jews, despite their wealth (or because of it), to get on with their lives in Chicago in those years. No doubt Rosenwald had been tipped to Ed’s engaging personality, ambition, and physical reputation. Only 19, he was an up and comer, a Jewish kid to keep an eye on.

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