5

Office of the Health Commissioner
City of New York
July 1883

Dr. Cyril Elson sat at his desk in lower Manhattan and began to sip the cup of hot tea that his secretary had just brought to him. A meticulous man, he believed in process and order, and he ran the Office of the Health Commissioner accordingly. He did not suffer fools lightly and drove his staff to the maximum limits of their abilities. A graduate of the Columbia University College of Physicians and Surgeons, he was an acknowledged authority on the burgeoning specialty of infectious diseases. Arriving punctually at the office every morning at 8:00 A.M., he expected his newspaper to be on the left side of his desktop and the daily field reports to be in a neat stack on the right side of the desktop. After perusing The New York Times that morning, he turned his attention to the daily field reports.

His office organized the reports by sections of Manhattan. He always started with upper Manhattan and then worked his way down to midtown. The reports showed nothing out of the ordinary, and using red ink, he marked his initials on the reports with his fountain pen. The staff knew that he considered the report acceptable if the red initials appeared and if there were no questions written at the bottom of each page.

A gentle rain began to fall, and the rhythmic beating of the raindrops against his office window provided a soothing background of sounds as the doctor pushed aside the just-read reports and turned his attention to the reports from lower Manhattan.

The report from the lower Manhattan suddenly caught his attention. A report of four new cases of typhus, all from the same address, immediately caught Elson’s eye. He had been worrying about this sort of situation ever since the large influx of immigrants to New York began over two years ago. From Elson’s perspective, there could be no greater recipe for a public health disaster that the combination of overcrowding and grinding poverty. He had warned the mayor, as well as the local congressman, who happened to be a great personal friend. He removed his eyeglasses and breathed a mist onto the lenses. After wiping the moisture off with his silk handkerchief, he placed the glasses back on his nose and looked at the address: 40 East Twelfth Street. Lower East Side, he thought to himself. The Jewish district. He took another sip of his tea and then walked out of his office to a cubicle of desks in the adjoining large room where his field investigators worked. He looked around the room for the originator of the report, Dr. Gerald Rose, who just happened to be walking into the room at that very moment.

“Dr. Rose,” said the health commissioner to his young agent. “I would like to speak with you in my office immediately.” A formal man, Elson never addressed any of the other staff by their first names. Although the entire staff, including the doctors, feared him, they also regarded their boss as a brilliant and eminently fair man.

“Yes, sir, coming right now!” answered the younger doctor. He appeared slightly winded and excited as he followed his boss into his office and closed the door behind him. He sat down in the chair facing Elson’s desk as the elder doctor had motioned him to do.

“Dr. Rose, I’ve just read your report of four cases of typhus from the same address. Is the diagnosis firm?”

“Yes, sir, but there is more.”

“Go on,” instructed the health commissioner.

“Well, as my report indicated, all four cases were from the same address, on Twelfth Street. Just as I wrote the report early this morning, we got wind of two more cases from another boarding house in the Lower East Side. They were located at 31 Monroe Street. Also in the Jewish section.”

“I assume that all the victims are Jews, yes?”

“Yes, sir. I checked the papers of all the victims from the Twelfth Street boarding house. We noticed something both curious and alarming that I was just rushing into the office to tell you.” The young doctor had an almost smug expression on his face, like a child who knows a secret and yearns to tell someone.

“Go on then. Don’t keep me in suspense. What is it?”

“All four victims, sir,” he said and then paused for dramatic effect. “All four victims — they’ve all just very recently arrived in the country, less than a week ago, and all on the same ship, the SS Corinthian!”

As the younger doctor sat back in his chair, reveling with pride in his investigatory work, Cyril Elson sat expressionless, his hands folded on his desk in front of him. His blank expression disguised his deep concern over the news that he had just heard. He picked up his teacup and took another sip, slowly placing the cup off to his right. He looked at his younger colleague with a grim expression.

“Dr Rose,” he began, “the news you’ve brought is most distressing. Four cases from a recently arrived ship! I want you to go out immediately and check the situation at 31 Monroe Street. If they, too, recently arrived on the Corinthian, we may have a burgeoning epidemic on our hands. One imported from a foreign shore. Report your findings to me immediately. If the two new cases are also from that ship, we’ll need to find every person on that ship that was in contact with these cases. Every last one. You do understand what that will mean?”

“Yes, sir, I do,” replied the young doctor. “Quarantine,” he said somberly. Quarantine, he thought to himself, of a whole lot of sorry-looking Jewish immigrants. Even as he thought this, he was almost amazed at what little pity he actually felt for them.

* * *

Dr. Rose quickly ascertained that they indeed had a problem on their hands. The landlord at 31 Monroe Street spoke little English, and none of the newly arrived sick immigrants spoke English at all. After taking their names, the landlord explained in fractured English that all of the new arrivals had come from a ship. He had a receipt for the rent, prepaid by the United Hebrew Charities, indicating that all the new arrivals at 31 Monroe Street had sailed aboard the SS Corinthian.

Dr. Rose next took a carriage to the offices of the Anchor Line near the waterfront piers on the Hudson River. After showing his City of New York Health Department credentials to the receptionist, he was escorted to the operations room that housed the ship’s scheduling and passenger archives. He asked for the ship’s manifest for the SS Corinthian and for the date when the typhus victims had arrived. Wiping his brow as he tallied the numbers, he noted that 268 of the steerage passengers were Russian Jews who had embarked in Marseilles. The documents also indicated that the bills for the transatlantic passage had been paid for by the United Hebrew Charities. The person who signed for the arriving immigrants was one Abraham Glasser. My next stop, he thought to himself.

It frustrated Dr. Rose to find the office of the United Hebrew Charities closed. He had to report to Cyril Elson by the end of the day, but he could do nothing more now. Frustrated by his inability to locate all of the contacts, he directed his carriage to the home of Cyril Elson to report his findings, as directed. Elson had told him to report to his house that evening because he had to prepare for a dinner party at a friend’s house.

The Elson’s eldest daughter greeted Dr. Rose at the door. “Father is expecting you,” she announced formally. “Please come in and have a seat in the parlor.” Rose entered as directed and sat down in a dark green chair with a velvet seat. He had only been in this home on occasions like this when the boss would insist on updates. Never had Dr. Rose or his wife been an actual guest in the Elson home. Rose, along with most of the staff at the Health Commissioner’s Office, always resented Elson’s social aloofness. Ruefully, Rose recalled that in similar visits, he had never been offered any food or drink. Elson would take his report and then dismiss him like a servant.

The sound of Dr. Elson descending the large curving staircase from the second floor of his townhouse interrupted Rose’s thoughts. “And so, Dr. Rose, what information did you obtain? Do we have a public health crisis developing?” He sat down in the identical green chair and faced his young staff physician directly.

“Well, sir,” Rose began and stopped to clear his throat. He definitely felt uncomfortable delivering the news. “We located the typhus victims, and they, too, arrived on the Corinthian along with the others. Both boarding houses had documents that indicated that these immigrants were sponsored by the United Hebrew Charities. I went to the offices of Anchor Lines, the steamship line that owns the ship, and examined the passenger manifest. Sir, they picked up 268 of these Russian Jews in France. All of them were crammed together in steerage.”

“My God!” interjected Elson. “Two-hundred sixty-eight! Where are the rest of them? Did you find out?”

“Sir, I went to the offices of the United Hebrew Charities. The official who signed for these immigrants is a man named Abraham Glasser. When I arrived at the office a short while ago, it was closed. And I’m afraid they will be closed again tomorrow. You see, it’s their Sabbath, the Jews’ Sabbath, that is. A sign in the front window said, ‘Closed for Shabbat,’ which is what I believe they call their Sabbath. Tomorrow is Saturday.”

Elson stood up, signaling that the visit would end shortly. As Rose stood, Cyril Elson gently tugged on his lapels and looked the younger man directly in the eyes with frosty distaste. “Dr. Rose,” he began, “find this Abraham Glasser tomorrow. I don’t care where you look or what you have to do to locate him. Find him and get us the locations of the remainder of the Russian Jews. I want the answers tomorrow. Am I being clear?”

“Yes, sir. Very clear indeed.”

“Good then,” Elson replied, taking the younger man by the elbow as he escorted him to the front door. “Excellent! Now you’ll excuse me. Mrs. Elson and I are due shortly at Congressman Morrison’s home. Our host likes his guests to be punctual.”

* * *

By the time the dessert was served, it was well past 9:30 P.M. As was his custom, Congressman Morrison invited his guest to his library where brandy and cigars would be served. Their wives were never part of this gentlemen’s bonding experience. As the butler lit their cigars, Cyril Elson walked over to the far wall to admire a new painting that the Morrisons had recently acquired. Although he had few hobbies or interests outside of medicine, Elson considered himself a knowledgeable art critic. He complimented his old friend on his recent purchase, and then both men settled into the plush chairs of the library. Their brandy glasses charged, they toasted each other’s health.

Morrison had noticed that his guest seemed distracted during the dinner and asked, “Is it my imagination, Cyril, or is something bothering you tonight? You seem a little detached this evening.”

“I’m sorry, Caleb. I should be more of an appreciative guest. As always, the dinner and the company were superb. A matter we’re working on has me a little anxious. I hate talking business in a social setting.”

“Well, if it involves health issues in my district, perhaps I should hear about it,” replied Morrison, shifting in his seat as he crossed his legs. He could sense the anxiety that his guest tried to conceal.

“We’ve got an outbreak of several cases of typhus in the Lower East Side. So far, I’ve got six cases at two different addresses, tenements that house immigrant Jews. We’ve determined that all six cases recently arrived on the same ship, and we’ve been able to check the passenger manifest. Over 250 of these Russian Jews were crammed together for the voyage across the Atlantic. At the moment, we don’t know where to find the others.” Elson downed his brandy and paused for a few seconds. “Caleb, we need to find these people and quarantine them.”

“You must know who brought these people over and arranged housing for them. There are records for these sorts of things.”

“Their sponsor was this United Hebrew Charities, but their office is closed for their Sabbath. My staff is attempting to track down a man named Abraham Glasser, the man who signed for the refugees. We’ve dealt with him in the past, and unfortunately, he’s been less than cooperative. I don’t wish to appear melodramatic, but we’ve got to locate the rest of the passengers before we have an epidemic here in New York. Every minute we delay increases the danger.”

Morrison sat back. Neither man spoke for a few minutes. Taking in the impact of what the Health Commissioner had just told him, Morrison knew that he had no answers for him. Then it hit him — Lev! Perhaps Lev would know where to find these people. After all, he had told them that generally he and his father, the Chief Rabbi, visited the homes of newly arrived Jews. It certainly seemed worth trying. “Cyril, let me tell you about a guest we have staying with us.” He described the episode of how the boy had saved Joseph’s life on the new bridge, how they later found the boy beaten and unconscious, and how they had brought him home with them to recover. Dr. Elson was suddenly very eager to meet this mysterious guest.

Outside the door of the guestroom, Morrison rapped on the door and they heard, “Come in, please,” from inside the room. Entering, they found Lev sitting at a desk reading. The clothing that Joseph had given him appeared to fit very well. Although recovering nicely, as he stood up, Lev still felt the bruises from the beating he had received.

“Lev,” announced Morrison, “I’d like you to meet Dr. Cyril Elson, the Health Commissioner of New York City.”

The boy walked up to Elson and firmly shook his hand. “Nice to meet you, sir,” he said, looking the doctor in the eye.

The boy’s appearance surprised Elson. He didn’t look at all like he would have expected. The boy wore his brown hair in a typical fashion and stood a bit tall for a boy of thirteen. He seemed well built and already Elson could see that he was well-spoken. He didn’t have a trace of an accent. Never would have suspected that this boy was a Jew, Elson thought to himself. With some of the bruising on his face still present, Elson had a very hard time picturing the boy in the strange garb that the Jews wore. After formally introducing himself, Elson asked the boy to sit down and he pulled up a chair opposite him. “Lev, Congressman Morrison told me all about you and how you’ve come to be here. I understand that you are the son of Rabbi Zvi Kambotchnik, correct?”

“Yes, sir, that is correct. He is a man of great respect in our community.”

Before continuing, Elson thought for a second. He could have sworn that he heard that this prominent rabbi had just died earlier this week. This must be his son. My God, he thought to himself, the boy had been unconscious at the time and probably doesn’t even know! Elson didn’t want to even bring the topic up. Not now, when he needed the boy’s total attention. “Lev, I have to ask you something very important. A ship arrived in New York over a week ago, the Corinthian, the one that had over 250 Jews from Russia aboard. The congressman said that you often visited new arrivals with your father. Did you go with him? Do you know where they live now?”

The boy said nothing, appearing hesitant to answer. Elson told him about the outbreak of typhus. He emphasized the importance of locating the other Corinthian passengers. He stressed that time was of the essence and that if Lev did know where they lived, he had an obligation to help his fellow Americans.

The word American resonated in Lev’s ear. It was the first time anyone had used that term and applied it to him. Lev felt a surge of pride and purpose. Now he, an American Jew, could help other Jews like him.

“What will happen to these people?” asked Lev earnestly.

“What will happen to them? Why young man, they will all get medical treatment so that they won’t get sick. You will really be helping them and fellow New Yorkers as well.” Elson felt only a twinge of guilt with his white lie.

“Okay then,” said Lev hesitatingly. “I’ll take you there, so that they can get help. I remember they were sent to eight or nine boarding houses. I can show you where, but I don’t remember the exact addresses.”

“Excellent, Lev, excellent! We’ll go first thing in the morning,” said an ecstatic Cyril Elson.

* * *

The following morning, Lev rode in a carriage with Cyril Elson and several other members of his staff. Several New York City policemen rode in the carriage that followed. At the first stop, 82 Norfolk Street, Lev acted as a translator for the police as they interrogated the landlord. They learned that fifteen Corinthian passengers lived there. Elson directed the policemen to have the residents brought down immediately so Elson’s staff doctors could interview them. As they assembled, Elson turned to Lev, saying, “Come, young man, we must hurry to all the homes as fast as possible.” He thanked the boy for his excellent work as they climbed back into the carriage and sped off for the next boarding house. Another carriage carrying several more police officers followed them.

When the interrogations of the Norfolk Street immigrants ended, another large police wagon pulled up in front of the tenement. Armed police officers emerged and forced the fifteen immigrants into the wagon at gunpoint. The terrified Jews had no understanding of what was happening to them. In fact, they would be taken to North Brother Island to be quarantined along with the other 253 passengers who had arrived in America with them from Russia. For weeks, they would be isolated and cut off from any contacts or social support. The New York City newspapers would soon bemoan the fact that such undesirables had been let into the country in the first place.

Among the quarantined Jews, word spread quickly about how the health authorities had been brought to their residences by a young boy who spoke perfect Russian, promising medical help for them all. Rumors began to fly that the boy, who at first glance seemed to be a goy, looked exactly like the Chief Rabbi’s son, the son who reportedly had run away before his bar mitzvah ceremony. The rumors soon mingled with accounts in the Yiddish press that, in addition to the death of the beloved rabbi, the family had also sat shiva for his son, who was now considered dead to the family.

* * *

After two more days, Lev prepared to go home to Ludlow Street. He profusely thanked the Morrisons for all they had done for him and, wearing some of Joseph’s clothing, he departed by carriage to his neighborhood. As they waved good-bye, the Morrisons agreed that, much to their initial surprise, they really enjoyed having the young boy as their guest. He and Joseph had certainly enjoyed each other’s company. But now, it was best for him to return to his own world.

Lev asked the carriage driver to drop him off a few blocks east of his neighborhood. As he began walking home, he became aware of the odd looks he was getting from the local residents — the same looks they showed to all strangers. He quickly realized that his short hair and American-style clothing gave him the appearance of an outsider. With his head uncovered, he looked like a typical goy to all of the Lower East Side residents he passed. The hostile looks gave him a surprisingly uncomfortable feeling in the pit of his stomach.

At last, he reached his home and walked up the stoop. As he entered the front door, he noticed wooden boxes on the floor of the small, dark sitting room. “Father, Aunt Sara!” he called out, but his voice only echoed slightly in the emptiness. He walked into the front rooms and, finding neither his father nor aunt present, he headed to the back hallway where he saw a very faint light flickering from under the closed door. An uneasy feeling crept over him as he slowly opened the door. Something seemed desperately wrong in the house.

As he fully opened the door, he could see his aunt sitting in a chair in the flickering candlelight. She was dressed in black and didn’t seem to notice that he had entered. “Aunt Sara?” he said as he walked up to the woman who continued to stare straight ahead. She slowly turned toward Lev and stared at him with a startled look. Then a look of recognition appeared on her lined face, and her eyes glinted with anger as Lev began to speak. She quickly interrupted him.

“You! We believed that you had run away before the day you were to celebrate your bar mitzvah. Oh, you horrible boy, you disgrace!” Stunned, Lev could only listen in shock as she continued. “And look at you. What are you now, a shaggitz? Are you one of them now? Why are you here? Haven’t you caused enough misery in this family?” Tears of anger now rolled down her cheeks, and she began sobbing.

“Aunt Sara, where is Father? I need to tell you both what has happened to me. You see-”

“Your father is dead!” his aunt interrupted, shouting the last word. “We just completed sitting shivah for him, and we also sat shivah for you, too. You killed him! You killed my brother! You are dead to us, Lev,” she said, turning her head away from him. “You are dead to me.”

For a minute, the boy could not respond. The shock of what he had just learned started to hit him. His eyes began to well with tears, and he tried to speak, but he couldn’t find the words. He had sensed that his father had not been in good health, but this news devastated him. Had the anger and heartbreak of seeing his only son miss his own bar mitzvah service, believing that his son had run away — could that have been the final strain his father’s health could not endure? That thought crushed Lev, and he, too, began sobbing. He attempted to speak, when his aunt looked up at him and said, “Your father always told me that you were the biggest disappointment of his life. Look at you now. You don’t belong in our world. You are dead to us. Go to the goyim, where you belong. Leave me; leave this place!”

Lev turned and walked down the hallway, his eyes burning. As he slowly walked out the front door, he heard his aunt cry out, “Damn your soul to hell!” The last words he ever heard in his home as he closed the door behind him would be his aunt again crying out, “Damn your soul to hell!”

* * *

The boy walked listlessly through the streets of lower Manhattan. He wandered in a daze, trying to absorb the news that his father was dead and buried and that his only living relative had disowned him, considering him figuratively, if not literally, dead. He had no idea what to do next. As tears streamed down his face, he walked aimlessly for hours. He had wanted so much to come to America, to be an American, and now it seemed to him his life was shattered and without purpose. He belonged nowhere. He was no longer part of the Russian Jewish immigrant community of the Lower East Side, and he certainly was not part of the rest of New York. I’m a person who will never fit in anywhere in this country, he thought to himself as he continued to walk, heading north.

As the afternoon blended into the early evening, he continued to walk without a purpose, or so he thought. He finally tired, his feet were aching, and he knew he had to stop. Looking up, he saw that he was on a familiar street. With amazement, he realized that he now stood in front of the Morrison residence. Subconscious instinct seemed to have brought him back to a place where he had felt safe and protected. A place where he wasn’t second class scum and wasn’t treated as a subhuman curiosity. A place where he was called an American for the first time. He sat down on the front steps of the Morrison home, placed his face in his hands, and began to cry uncontrollably.