A Boy’s Life: Inwood in the 1940’s


Meadow w Emma, Rolly, Herbie, Martha 1950In this bittersweet oral history former Inwood resident Herb Maruska describes the uptown immigrant experience in the years surrounding World War II.  A second generation German immigrant, Herb was born in an Texas internment camp.  His family, upon release, moved into a rented apartment on Vermilyea Avenue.

Take it from here Herb…

Herb in internment campI was born on July 17, 1944 in Seagoville, Texas, in an internment camp for German-Americans rounded up by the United States Government as potential threats to democracy, just as Japanese-Americans were confined to prison camps.

I was just a little new born baby, and in my opinion hardly a threat to society, but here is picture of me in the camp, apparently ready to cause mischief.

Herb Maruska's Seagoville, Texas Internment Camp birth certificate.
Herb Maruska’s Seagoville, Texas Internment Camp birth certificate.

A U.S. Department of Justice, Immigration and Naturalization Service list of Civilian Alien Enemies in Custody on December 31, 1944 at the Seagoville Internment Camp, included little me, my father and my mother (who was a United States citizen). Oh well.

After the war we were sent back to New York City.

Herb in highchair 1945Here I am in my high chair in 1945.

My parents, Paul Maximilian  and Emma Maruska, soon found themselves in apartment 2-C at 157-159 Vermilyea Avenue in the Inwood Section of Manhattan.

Inwood was pretty much divided east and west by Broadway. On the west side were generally more affluent people who lived in nicer apartment houses. Most of these people were Jewish. On the east side of Broadway the apartment houses were older and more run down. Here most of the residents were Irish.

It was certainly difficult to find an apartment in New York City in 1946 when all of the victorious American soldiers came home and married their sweethearts, and to make matters worse, my parents did not have good references, having just arrived from the internment camp in Texas. So they could not afford to be very choosy.

Herb Maruska's building, 157-159 Vermilyea Ave, in 1964
Herb Maruska’s building, 157-159 Vermilyea Ave, in 1964

157-159 Vermilyea Avenue was squarely in the Irish part of town, but it was owned by Mrs. Lichtenstein, who was Jewish. Because both my parents were Bohemian-style intellectuals, they fit in more easily with Jews than with simple working-class Catholics.

Herbie & Daddy in Inwood Park 1946So my father lived in a house owned by a Jewish lady and worked as a salesman for a dairy business owned by a Jewish man named Charles Schreiber. I think that these facts show that despite having been interned by the U.S. government on suspicion of being an “enemy alien,” Jewish people did not consider him to have been a Nazi, which of course he never was. Otherwise we would not have had so many Jewish friends.

It is impossible for me to remember the details of the first few years of my life. As best as I can figure, my father went off to work every day as a dairy food salesman and my mother stayed home with me.

Door to Apartment 2-CThe front of the apartment house faced west, and when you entered our main door from the hall, you were facing north. All of the windows of apartment 2-C were facing north. We lived on the second floor overlooking a courtyard. We never got any sunshine in this little apartment. Our building had running water, bathrooms with toilets and steam heat. They clearly represented state-of-the-art construction in 1910.

Initially, the adults shared a standard double bed in the bedroom, while I slept in a crib in the same room. I figure that the bedroom was about 9 ft by 11 ft. You entered the bedroom through a glass panel door which had a semi-transparent curtain on it. My parent’s bed had a wooden headboard which was set up against the right (east) wall. Entry Hallway in our BuildingThis wall was the rear wall of the apartment, with another unit behind it. The far (north) wall was solid brick, the exterior wall of the building. The left wall had a window in the center which looked out into the courtyard. To the left of the window were stacked a trunk, and then two suitcases, filled with clothing and other possessions. To the right of the window was a chest of drawers, with five drawers. My father had the top drawer. He was very neat, and all of his under-clothes were carefully arranged in his drawer. He also kept his wallet and other papers in this drawer. My mother was totally messy. Her drawer looked like a rat’s nest! The bottom drawer was for sheets and towels. There were two other drawers: one for myself, and eventually one for my younger brother Rolly.

Emma, Herbie, Betty at 214 St 1946My parents never made any good friends in the neighborhood. They talked with the Polish people in the basement (Harry Konopka, the Super, and his wife Julia). And they said “hello” to some people with whom they crossed paths in the Park. But my mother’s only real friends seemed to be her three sisters. My father had several German friends. Most of these friends he met in the internment camp. His best friend was Otto Burkhardt, who, like my father, was a pastry chef.

Otto had a wife named Elfriede, but they never had any children. Somehow the Burkhardts were able to scrape together enough money to set up a bakery shop in Queens, at the intersection of Broadway and 31st Street. The Burkhardts worked exceedingly hard and made a great success out of their bakeshop. Since my father was a pastry chef by trade, Otto invited him to join the business. However, my father could not see himself toiling in front of a hot oven. He suffered from “big shot” tendencies, which in the end did him no good whatsoever. During Christmas season the bakery was extremely busy, and my father would make himself a little extra money by moonlighting there.

Paul Max (center)  with Otto Burckhardt (right) & the Schillers on McCreery Meadow in 1950
Paul Maximilian Maruska (center) with Otto Burckhardt (right) & the Schillers on McCreery Meadow in 1950.

Working in the bakeshop was no joke. My father would travel to the shop on Friday evening and sleep over in the Burkhardt’s apartment. They lived in the building over the bakery. The bakers had to be up and at it by 4 AM. They had to get the oven going, and then start making the cakes. Elfriede minded the store and dealt with the customers. By 2:00 pm all of the baking was complete and the bakers went to sleep. In later years as the business prospered, Otto employed several other bakers, always Germans, to help him on a regular basis. The Burkhardts did so well that they bought the entire apartment building. Then they bought themselves a house in New Jersey, and a house back in Germany

In the early years in Inwood, my father also knew people called Schiller and people called Rohner, camp buddies. However, as the years away from the camp grew longer, these friends drifted away.

Martha Culkin, Herbie and Rolly, Emma Maruska, August 1950He had one other important German friend, a woman named Martha Culkin. Culkin was her married name, but her husband was long gone. She was originally from Alsace-Lorraine, on the border between France and Germany, but she spoke German. She had no children, and lived in one of those single-room-occupancy hotels on the West Side around 90th Street. She visited our apartment frequently, and so she became “Aunt Martha.” Through the years, my mother and Martha became good friends.

Martha was a watchmaker by trade. She worked in the Bulova Watch Factory by Queens Plaza. She smoked endless cigarettes. Martha brought lots of presents for my birthday and Christmas, so she was a dear “Aunt.” She never learned how to cook, and ate all of her meals at a diner on Columbus Avenue. She would remain friends with the family until she died many years later.

Herbie & Daddy by the Bay 1946My father pictured himself as a great political leader. Now that Hitler and his gang had been exterminated, Paul Maximilian felt that he would be especially useful back in Germany, to help the country re-establish itself after the devastation from the Second World War. He was extremely anti-Russian, and in fact referred to the cockroaches, which infested his apartment as “Russians.” Whenever he would step on a roach, he would curse and mutter, “Another Russian is dead!” He and Martha argued endlessly about the political situation in the world. My mother did not bother to listen to their ravings, and instead buried herself in the reading of history books. She was especially interested in books which confirmed her suspicion that Jesus was not really the Son of God.

Needless to say, I grew up without any positive religious convictions. Although both of my parents had been originally baptized as Catholics back in Europe, we never went to mass in Good Shepherd Church.

From December 26th-27th, 1947, there fell 26.4″ of snow in New York City. This would hold up as the largest recorded snowfall total in New York City until 2006. I believe that I can remember being taken over to Inwood Park that weekend and to my glee, the park benches were buried under the snow, and little Herbie was able to walk along the seats of the benches without having to climb up onto them.

Rolly in strollerMy brother Roland was born on February 21, 1948. There was hardly enough money in the house to support three people, and now there were four! When little Rolly was brought home from the hospital, I had a cold and had to wear a handkerchief over my face to look at the new baby. We wound up with two cribs in the apartment, one in the bedroom, and one in the living room. You would have thought that at 3½, I would have been too big to fit in a crib, but somehow we survived.

As the years went by, both Rolly and me got bigger and bigger. Obviously at some age I could no longer fit into a crib. As far as I can tell, a steel folding bed was acquired and placed in the living room along the east wall. This is where I slept, while little Rolly had his crib in the bedroom along with mom and dad. However, Rolly also got bigger, and finally he also outgrew a crib.Inwood Pk w Herbie, Rolly 1951Somewhere along the way, the whole bedroom was re-arranged. My parents threw out the old double bed and bought two new single beds. Rolly and I each got one of these new beds, which were placed in the bedroom. Rolly got the inner bed, along the north wall, while I got the outer bed, by the door.

Where did my parents sleep? This is difficult to figure out. There was a steel folding bed in the living room. There was also a standard sofa. So apparently one of them (probably my mother) slept on the sofa, and the other one slept on the bed. It seems a little strange, but I certainly remember a sofa in the living room placed along the south wall. There was also a large stuffed chair, known as the Green Chair, which sat along the west wall, next to the radiator.

Steam radiator in living roomThe building had steam heat. The furnace in the basement had a boiler attached to it to generate hot water and steam. The steam went up through the building in pipes to provide heat in the winter. There were three pipes in the apartment, each pipe being maybe three inches in diameter, and a radiator in the living room. It got very hot, and if you touched it, you got badly burned. After many years, the heat given off by the radiator caused the Green Chair to dry up and fall apart. Then we got a new chair.

One day I was sitting upon the right arm of the sofa, making believe that it was a “horse,” and trying to get the “horse” to “gallop,” when the arm broke away from the sofa. Good grief, I’m sure that I got severely punished for that maneuver!

Look at the Christmastime picture below. We are sitting in the corner of the living room. My father’s bookcase is set against the wall which has the bedroom behind it. Notice the cloth stuck to the corner of the bookcase to prevent Little Rolly from slamming his head while running around the room. The Christmas tree is set up on a table which later was used as the meal table in the kitchen. The kitchen was very small, and this table was a little bit too large for the space it needed to set in.

Maruska Family December 25, 1949
Maruska Family December 25, 1949

Rosendo and Fe Palafox came to America from the Phillipines. They lived in Apartment 1-C. They looked Oriental.  During the Second World War, the Palafoxes had to walk down the streets of Inwood wearing signs around their necks stating “We are not Japanese” so that they would not be hauled off to a Japanese Internment Camp. This sort of behavior in America makes me very uncomfortable. What a shame. I don’t know what sort of business Mr. Palafox was in, but he liked to take pictures. He took all of the nice color photographs which I have. He did well for himself, and around 1950 or so the family bought a house and moved to Queens. We never saw them again.

Inwood Park Meadow Fay Palafox, Emma, Eddie, Rolly, Herbie 1949
Inwood Park Meadow Fe Palafox, Emma, Eddie, Rolly, Herbie 1949

The Palafoxes had relatives in Apartment 1-E named Garcia. The Garcia family members also wore signs around their necks disclaiming Japanese origins.   Pino Garcia and his family moved away around 1952.

They were not the only victims of misplaced hostility.

Christmas Tree Shopping Herbie & Rolly 1954Years later, I attended PS 98, and all of my friends were Jewish. Our family name sounds Jewish (it is a Czech name). Because we never attended mass at Good Shepherd, the neighbors assumed we were Jewish. On several occasions I was over on the meadow in Inwood park with my little Jewish friends, when we were attacked by a bunch of Catholic guys. They beat us up, and I remember getting my face pushed into the mud, and all of that stuff. Also, there were times when Catholic kids chased me down the street, yelling, “Let’s get the Jew!” Ugh.

Finally, when I grew up, I joined the Catholic Church. I married a Catholic girl in a beautiful church wedding. We had our kids baptised. One day as an adult in my 20’s, I was sitting on the benches in the park, overlooking the salt marsh. The same old group of Catholic guys, who used to beat us up, came over and sat down by me. They said, “Oh, here is the Jew.” I said, “Actually, I am not a Jew, I am a Catholic just like you. Just because my parents chose not to attend mass, does not mean that you should attack me nor should you beat up my other Jewish friends. “Gosh,” said one of the guys, “We beat him up for nothing!” Then they all offered me their apologies, which I accepted.

The 157-159 Vermilyea Avenue building always had a janitor living in the basement. This person was known as the “Super,” which indicated he was the superintendent of the building. But the Super never supervised anything. The Super lived on the ground floor at the back of the building. This basement was built on the surface of the ground, which is why there were so many stairs in front up to the first floor, where rent-paying tenants lived. The basement contained all of the rooms which existed on the upper floors, but only a few of the rooms were livable. The rooms at the front of the building, by the street, were used for storage, including the storage of coal. Coal was delivered in a coal truck which pulled up on the sidewalk and dumped the chunks through a basement window. In the center of the basement there was located the furnace, which provided heat in the winter, and hot water all year around. The furnace burned the coal, which needed to be hauled back to the furnace in a wheelbarrow. Ugh! The furnace was located in the region of the basement directly below the living room of Apartment 2-C.

Front of 157-159 VermilyeaThe two rear apartments were joined together. These formed a large apartment where the Super lived. When I was a little boy, the Super was an old man from Poland called Harry Konopka. He had a wife named Julia Konopka. They had a daughter named Olga. Harry was a tall lean man with a thin white mustache, while Julia was short and round. They looked like your typical image of old time Polish peasants. My parents were friendly with the Konopka’s because they also came from north-central Europe. I called Mr. Konopka “Wujeku” (pronounce oo-yuh-koo) and I called Mrs. Konopka “Ciotka” (pronounced set-ka). These words mean uncle and aunt in Polish.

DumbwaiterA word here about the “dumbwaiters” in the building. Apparently back in 1910 when the buildings were constructed, people felt that it was too much trouble to carry their garbage down to the basement. So each apartment was outfitted with a dumbwaiter. The dumbwaiter was a box located in a shaft which ran from the basement up to the roof. There was a pulley system for each dumbwaiter located in the portion of the shaft that protruded out of the roof. Our dumbwaiter shaft was located in the kitchen, but it was no longer in use. It had been nailed shut. The dumbwaiter shaft was 2 feet, 5 inches wide, and about 2 feet deep. But the dumbwaiter in the back hallway was still in operation. It was a public dumbwaiter. When you wanted to dispose of a bag of trash, you went down the hallway to the dumbwaiter and opened the door. Typically a foul stench exuded from the shaft. You pulled on a thick rope, and with a groan, the dumbwaiter would start its squeaky ascent from the basement. The box would arrive at the door, and you put your garbage inside. Then you sent the box back down to the basement.

Back Yard w Herbie & Rolly after School 1954In the basement, the dumbwaiter box arrived in the central utility area. Wujeku had to unload each bag of garbage. Being a man from Europe who lived by the code, “Waste not, want not,” he sifted through each bag of trash. Any scraps of food were thrown to Butchy and Jacky, the basement guard dogs. I would guess that their real names were Polish, but that’s what they sounded like to me as a young boy. Butchy was dark black, with long thick fur. Butchy barked at you and seemed to be threatening. Jacky was kind of orange-brown and just slunk around in the background. Jacky was probably much more dangerous. Anyway, these ugly dogs were not allowed inside the Konopka’s apartment.

Harry Konopka gathered and collected any and all useful items that were thrown out by tenants. He maintained shelves on the side of the utility room where he stored all of these treasures. When my father’s wind-up alarm clock failed, my mother went down to the basement and selected a replacement from the Konopka treasure trove. Little Herbie wanted a fish tank? A bird cage? These things were all available in the basement. Since I was just a little boy, I don’t know what Wujeku charged my mother for these items.

Parakeet on Kitchen Windowsill in 157 Vermilyea AveIn their kitchen, the Konopka’s had a huge cage with a large parrot. The parrot was very beautiful, and it spoke fluent Polish, which I could not understand. I was warned never to put my fingers near the wires of the cage or the parrot would just bite them off. The outside door to the utility room was never locked. You could just walk right in. Of course, the sight of Butchy and Jacky snarling viciously in the utility room was enough to frighten unwelcome guests away. Once inside, we would ring the bell of the Konopka’s apartment. They were always home. Harry Konopka enjoyed drinking alcohol, but somehow he managed to keep the building in order.

Herbie and Rolly in the back yard along the garden wallThere were 46 feet of open space behind our building. Up against the structure there was concrete paving, maybe 16 feet wide, but then there was a lovely garden. I would say that the garden was 50 feet wide, and 30 feet deep. There was stone wall separating the garden from the concrete walkway. In the center of the garden was a huge cherry tree which Wujeku had planted many years before. He also had a lovely white birch tree. There was a shed along the inside of the stone wall where Ciotka kept all of her gardening supplies. She filled the back yard with flowers and vegetables when springtime arrived. She had a raft of morning-glory vines growing on clotheslines which stretched from the stone wall back to her four rear windows of the apartment. What a lovely site. You can see the garden wall and the morning-glory vines in the photo below. Ciotka even created a small flower garden for me. When my mother needed to go somewhere in daytime when my father was at work, she would leave me in the garden where she knew that I was safe. I amused myself by digging little holes in the ground. Oh what a life! But then I got to be six years old, and I had to go to school…”

A special thanks to Herb Maruska for making this post possible. If you are reading this and have stories or photos you’d like to contribute, please drop me a line.


  1. Herb: Thanks for the memories! I can relate to so much of the stuff you describe. I was born in 1943 and grew up on Isham St. between Vermilyea and Bway., so we were practically neighbors. I remember the dumbwaiters, the 1947 blizzard (vaguely) and enjoyed your pictues of the park. I still live in the neighborhood, and I don’t know when you were here last, but one of the things that is very different now in the park is that there are so many fully grown trees. In all of the pictures of Inwood Park in the 40s and 50s, it looks like a prairie. It was the reason why my mother took us up to Isham Park…it was much cooler with older trees. Do you remember your mother doing the laundry in the big tub that came with all the sinks in the kitchen and then lowering a “dryer” of sorts which was on the ceiling and which you lowered by a rope? The other thing which piqued my curiosity is your reference to McCreery meadow. I assume you mean the meadow on the top of the woods near the “overlook” to the Hudson River. I know that James McCreery of modest department store (Ladies’ Mile) fame had a house up on the hill in that area, but I’ve never been able to pinpoint exactly where. I’ve seen a picture of his house, but there’s no perspective on it…it could be in Ohio. Happy Thanksgiving.

  2. Herb: Thanks for the memories! I can relate to so much of the stuff you describe. I was born in 1943 and grew up on Isham St. between Vermilyea and Bway., so we were practically neighbors. I remember the dumbwaiters, the 1947 blizzard (vaguely) and enjoyed your pictues of the park. I still live in the neighborhood, and I don’t know when you were here last, but one of the things that is very different now in the park is that there are so many fully grown trees. In all of the pictures of Inwood Park in the 40s and 50s, it looks like a prairie. It was the reason why my mother took us up to Isham Park…it was much cooler with older trees. Do you remember your mother doing the laundry in the big tub that came with all the sinks in the kitchen and then lowering a “dryer” of sorts which was on the ceiling and which you lowered by a rope? The other thing which piqued my curiosity is your reference to McCreery meadow. I assume you mean the meadow on the top of the woods near the “overlook” to the Hudson River. I know that James McCreery of modest department store (Ladies’ Mile) fame had a house up on the hill in that area, but I’ve never been able to pinpoint exactly where. I’ve seen a picture of his house, but there’s no perspective on it…it could be in Ohio. Happy Thanksgiving.

  3. Hi Elizabeth! First of all, thanks for your comments. The James McCreery House was located off Lower Bolton Road on a gentle slope along the west side of the park. Although the house was gone by the time I came along, there was a large grassy lawn, shrubs, and some fruit trees remaining. The southbound lanes of the Henry Hudson Parkway provided a northern edge, and the bridge toll booths were in the background to the northeast. The land was just above the railroad tracks. Cole has a new map from 1879 which marks the position of the house. I also have some old photos. Where do you live now? I live near Mickey Mouse in Florida, where I have grown old and Goofy!

  4. Hi,
    Your piece brought back lots of memories. I went to PS 98 with your brother Roland. I was in several classes with him, and we usually wound up at the back of the lines in school because we were both tall for our age. I still remember him playing the harmonica during assemblies. I remember the following teachers: Miss Colgan, Mrs Eisenberg, Mrs Taft, Mrs Higgins and Miss Scanlan. My children didn’t believe me when I told them that girls weren’t allowed to run in the schoolyard-we could only skip or walk fast. I left the neighborhood in 1959 and haven’t been back. I have lived on a farm in Wisconsin for almost 40 years now, and we are more or less retired.

  5. Hi Herb,
    I came across your story while browsing for 1940’s stuff in general; I thoroughly enjoyed it!
    Your writing style has a real gentleness to it which you don’t come across very often.

    All the best,

  6. Herb, As a 57 year resident of Inwood (born in da Bronx, I became a resident of Payson Ave. where I still remain today) I truly appreciated reading your memories as they sparked those within me. I loved the images and your style- keep on wiring!

  7. Herb … love your family history on Vermilyea Avenue. But kinda sad to think about the Palofoxes and the Garcias who had to ‘prove’ their American citizenship worthiness by wearing signs stating that they were ‘not Japanese’. I’ve been returning to Inwood more and more these past few weeks although I was more of a Washington Heights guy even as I lived on Sickles Street in the early 1960’s. Many thanks for sharing, and continue to enjoy your current Orlando digs.

    • Hello Al!
      When I was born in 1961, our family lived at 95 Thayer Street. We moved away in 1976. Sickles and Thayer were, in fact, within the Inwood Section of Manhattan until the boundaries were moved to points north of Dyckman a few years later. It was only then that points south became incorporated into the Washington Heights Section. Case in point: The inscription above the doorway of 151 Nagle Avenue (between Sickles and Thayer) reads INWOOD. This building was on of the originals erected when “Inwood” began. All the best brother.

  8. Hi Herb
    I was the supers daughter, he was the first African American to be building super. I came to live there in the mid 50’s as a baby. I do remember you and your brother Roland. My mother’s name was Lois Daniels and step father was Bill. I had 2 sisters who also lived there. An uncle named Ralph did work and we had 2 dogs named Sad Sack and Daisy. I also attended PS 98 and JHS 52.
    Very difficult growing up on Vermilyea but I had a great sense of self to deal with the outright racial hatred. I remember the building as my mother moved to apt. 1B and lived there until she moved to NJ and passed away there. I go to Vermilyea with Dyckman St. is too crowded to get on the WSide Hwy, very diverse area and you should go back and take a look. I enjoyed the trip down memory land especially when I saw the photos of you and Roland in the back yard. I used to play out there all the time roller skating and bike riding, jump rope etc. Thanks for the memories.

  9. Growing up Jewish in Inwood
    by Stephen Gross

    Being a Jewish child in predominantly-Irish Inwood, which should not be confused with the incomparable misery of growing up Jewish in Poland or the Ukraine during the wrong time, had, nevertheless, its own drawbacks.
    The shabby pre-depression era Upper-Broadway six-story hosted 70 families, most with kids who were my friends. They went to Good Shepherd and I went to P.S. 98, but we frequented one another’s apartments and young though I was, I daily became more acutely aware of certain subtle and not-so-subtle differences.
    I remember visiting the Massey children, David, Norman, and Raymond, up in 5E, whose red-faced father brought home a sack of baby chicks one Christmas. With a ceremonious wave, he dumped the little peepers onto the stained felt of the pool table that dominated their small apartment.
    But even more vivid then the glittering eyes of the chicks were the twinkling lights of the Massey’s Christmas tree whose scrawny branches framed on the wall behind it a picture of Mr. Massey in full hunt regalia abroad a chestnut hunter sailing over a split rail fence in some meadow in Kilkenny.
    And I remember Johnny Fabinski who could be painfully rude at times but treated me like a little brother (possibly because I was too small to be considered any kind of threat). His folks down the hall in 3B had a beautiful tree, dripping with the effervescence of Polish crystal ornaments that had been in his family for generations.
    Upstairs in 6A lived freckled and rangy Joey O’Brien, whose asthmatic mother looked like a rolling confection. She would wheeze and squeeze herself into our building’s tiny elevator, all smiles, panting and radiant, and just take my breath away! It wasn’t her beauty that left me gasping so much as her size and her perfume: like an aromatic bowling ball pushed into a matchbox. We were forced to flatten our backs against the elevator car’s steel walls and hold our breath lest we become embalmed by her overpowering redolence. Mr. O’Brien was a policeman, and although I have no wish to sully his memory with implications that he may have accepted gifts, the O’Briens always seemed to wade through a sea of affluence around Christmastime.
    Mrs. O’Brien reeking of cologne, dragged little pug-nosed Joey to restaurants and the theater night after night and boasted the finest Christmas tree in the building. Draped with enough angel hair to knit a blanket, the mighty spruce formed a crescent at its top where it arced against the ceiling, forcing the angel at its peak to dangle upside down. Gay baubles and lights dazzling, the tree seemed to burn with an inner fire. The spruce’s base was a repository for mysterious presents dressed in candy canes, blonde angels and laughing Santas, reindeer, snowmen, and elves. What was that all about?

    Wonderstruck, I would take it all in, then run down to our apartment and demand an explanation: “Mom-m-m! Why don’t we have a tree? Why can’t we have angels and saints and Little Stars of Bethlehem?” “Well,” came the answer, “because we’re Jewish. And Jews don’t have Christmas trees and angels.” Wait a minute – now I felt I was definitely missing out on something. “No tree? No Christmas Carols? Why do we have to be Jewish?”
    Every day after school the Good Shepherd crowd – many of them friends of mine – would sneer at we Jewish P.S. 98ers. It’s bad enough when you’re eight or ten years old to be harangued for killing God, but no baked ham? No tree?
    All over New York City (and Philadelphia and Chicago) similar scenarios were being played out. Confused, left-out-feeling little Yiddles were tearfully demanding an explanation from their parents, who were hard-pressed to logic one out. It can indeed be a very tough season!
    But with an abundance of love and a lot of patience came the destigmatization: Some people are born Christians, some Moslems, some Jews. No newborns get to choose their ethnic heritage or their inherited spirituality, they are assigned it by Fate. And, no, we are not the Enemy, anymore then they (or we) are the Bad Guys. From the individual’s perspective, every way of believing has equal validity and is equally important in the eyes of God. Some folks light candles, others have decorated trees. Some worship saints, others revere prophets. They chant in Urdu or Latin, we sing in Hebrew. It’s all different and it’s all the same.
    Of course, there are too many who don’t buy into this point of view. They’re convinced there’s only One True Way and they’re on the right road.
    Personally, I feel fortunate that the roadmaps my folks hauled out when I was young, showed me that although some paths may appear more intriguing than others, they all ultimately make a great cosmic circle, and come back to bite you smartly on your butt..

  10. Hi Herb,

    My name is Jose Vargas ,I grew up on Sherman Ave between E 204 St & Academy Street in 70’s & 80’s . I read your article on Inwood and brough me down memory lane..I went to PS 98 & JHS 52 for and then transfer over to ST Jude’s ..The neighborhood change a lot there was a large influx of Dominicans in 80’s that literally transfer every block east of Briadway ..I went your building and still intact the way you describe it… Thank you for sharing your memory Herb. Good luck and stay healthy..

    Jose L. Vargas

  11. Hello all

    First, Herb, great write great read

    I’m looking into writing a story about a group of guys who played baseball every Sunday morning in Inwood park. They were called The Morning Glories. A friend told me about them and I am seeking any info regarding these fellows. I’ve heard that the games went from the mid 1940’s till mid 1960’s. I’m looking to write a fictional piece wrapped around this unique story.

    Anyone who would like to share with me can contact me at my email address. brainfreezebooks@yahoo.com

  12. Your recollection of being mistaken for Jewish reminded me of my own childhood in Co op City. I also was often mistake for Jewish and had many Jewish friends. However, this was in the 70s. In my case, it was African Americans who attacked myself and my family, not Irish Catholics… They wrote Jews are pigs near our door and harassed us until we were forced to leave after 12 years of putting up with these tensions. We left a big cheap apartment for two rooms and higher rent. Back then tensions between African Americans and Jews was bad. After we left that community, I never had an issue with African Americans again. Btw, not all Irish Catholics are uneducated anti semites. Generalizing is ignorant. My father grew up in Yorkville, and there were Nazi sympathizers. However, I would never generalize your nationality. Btw, most Irish Americans these days are educated professionals. There is intermarriage between Irish and Jews. Far more than Germans and Jews… I guess in this PC world it is acceptable to generalize about certain “safe” ethnicities.

  13. Great stuff! Bornin 1935 and lived on Park Terrace West; moving in 1940-41 to West 211th street. Attended PS 98 and PS 52. Left New York in 1951. When I visited Inwood about 10 years ago my old apartment house had become Section 8 apartments. I checked recently and now it’s expensive apartments. My mother worked at a card/book rental store on 207th street; across from a Jewish deli– down the street was a store that specialized in chicken and a German food shop that have large barrels filled with pickles.

  14. I lived at 75 Sherman Avenue from 1933 until 1952. My mother and brothers continued to live there until 1982. I remember the milk being delivered by a horse-drawn cart to the small grocery store right next to 75 Sherman. It was owned by Mr. Farber. At Farber’s you could choose your own dill pickle out of a big wooden barrel. He had ice delivered to him in huge chunks for his icebox. And he cut you a pound of butter out of a round, wooden box. Next to his grocery was a candy store owned by Mr. Newman and on the corner of Sherman and Thayer was the famous Wigwam, a tavern. I went to Our Lady Queen of Martyrs School and Church on Arden Street. My older brothers went to PS 52. I remember swimming at the Miramar with my friends We went ice-skating in winter on a frozen wading pool on Payson Avenue.


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