John William Tuohy lives in Washington DC

Jean Marzollo, 75, Dies;

Her ‘I Spy’ Books Challenged Children

By Neil Genzlinger
April 13, 2018

Jean Marzollo, who sent millions of young children searching through elaborate photo collages for an eclectic collection of objects in her “I Spy” rhyming picture books, died on Tuesday at her home in Cold Spring, N.Y. She was 75.
Her family announced her death. The cause was not given.
Ms. Marzollo wrote more than 150 children’s books, some factual, some fanciful, all imparting skills and information to young — often very young — readers.
There was “I’m a Seed” (1996, illustrated by Judith Moffatt), in which two seeds have a conversation and, over time, learn that they are different — one grows into a marigold, the other into a pumpkin plant.
There was “Ten Little Christmas Presents” (2008), in which 10 animals open gifts, one at a time — a counting lesson that also turns into a memory test when, on the last page, it asks readers to try to match each gift with the box it came out of.
Her signature, though, was the “I Spy” series, begun in 1992, in which Ms. Marzollo’s rhyming text invited the reader to try to find various objects and shapes in elaborate scenes photographed by Walter Wick. Every page was a visual adventure, the images often staged like an artwork.
One page suggested backstage at a theater, with evocative masks and costumes. Another was an aerial view of a seaside town, complete with clam shack and lighthouse. And the “I Spy” tasks Ms. Marzollo gave youngsters were more than just a game.
“While kids perceive that they are simply hunting for objects in a picture,” Jinny Gudmundsen, a columnist for Gannett Newspapers, wrote in 2006, describing a video-game version of the books, “this visual puzzle game actually teaches young children about visual discrimination, rhyming, vocabulary, word-object association and reading.”
Jean Martin was born on June 24, 1942, in Manchester, Conn. Her father, Richard, was Manchester city manager and had also been a state water commissioner. Her mother, the former Ruth Palmer Smith, taught high school biology.
Jean received a bachelor’s degree at the University of Connecticut in 1964 and a master’s degree in teaching at the Harvard Graduate School of Education in 1965. After teaching high school in Arlington, Mass., and serving as assistant director of Harvard’s Upward Bound program, she moved to New York City in 1967 to work on early childhood development projects for the General Learning Corporation. In New York she also met a sculptor, Claudio Marzollo; they married in 1969.
She and some friends formed a company to write educational material for and about children, including a parent/teacher guide to “Sesame Street,” which had premiered on public television in 1969.
That led Ms. Marzollo into book writing, first for grown-ups. “Learn Through Play” was published in 1972, and she would write others for adults, like “Fathers & Babies” (1993), a baby-care book for dads, and “Your Maternity Leave” (1989), which carried the forthright subtitle “How to Leave Work, Have a Baby, and Go Back to Work Without Getting Lost, Trapped or Sandbagged Along the Way.”
But children’s books were her main interest. In 1972 she became editor of “Let’s Find Out,” a monthly magazine for kindergartners, and 1978 brought her first children’s book, “Close Your Eyes” (illustrated by Susan Jeffers), about a boy having trouble falling asleep.
Of the many that followed, one of her favorites was “Pierre the Penguin: A True Story” (2010, illustrated by Laura Regan). It is about a penguin at a California zoo whose caretaker makes the animal a wet suit because it is missing feathers.
“Using a cute (and catchy) rhyme, author Marzollo tells the true story of a bedraggled penguin and the human caretaker who hits upon the perfect solution to his problem,” wrote Terri Schlichenmeyer, author of the Bookworm Sez syndicated review column. She added that children “who have a problem with teasing will be able to identify with Pierre.”
Another that Ms. Marzollo was particularly pleased with, her family said, was “Happy Birthday, Martin Luther King” (1993, illustrated by J. Brian Pinkney). In it she recognized the sensitivity of writing for a young audience. When dealing with King’s death, the text is sparse but straightforward.
“Martin Luther King Jr. was shot and killed in 1968,” it says. However, in the book’s foreword, she advises those reading it to preschoolers to use their judgment.
“If you feel that the words ‘shot and killed’ on page 30 are inappropriate for the child or children you plan to read this book to, you may want to change the words and say simply that Martin Luther King ‘died’ in 1968,” she wrote. “It isn’t, after all, necessary for us to tell very young children the harsh details about Reverend King’s death in order to convey to them the central message of his inspirational leadership.”
But softening reality for young readers had its limits for her. In 1993, she and another children’s author, Kate McMullan, were invited to speak at Sag Harbor Elementary School on Long Island for an “author’s day.” But the ostensibly harmless event caused a local uproar when school officials objected to two small illustrations in Ms. McMullan’s book “The Noisy Giants’ Tea Party,” one of a boy running away after breaking a window with a basketball, the other of three men staggering out of a tavern.
When a school official explained that the intent of the event (which was eventually canceled) was not to prompt a discussion of social issues and values, Ms. Marzollo took umbrage.
“All literature is about values,” she told The New York Times. “I can’t name a picture book that is not about values. That’s why people read. Kindergarten teachers impose values on children all day long. They say, ‘Let’s clean up.’ ‘Let’s not hit each other.’ ‘Let’s not run in the hall.’ If something in a book triggers a discussion, that’s a teachable moment.”
There was no controversy surrounding Ms. Marzollo’s “I Spy” books, just a demand for more of them. The eight original “I Spy” books led to spinoffs like an “I Spy Challenger” series, with extra-hard puzzles. The concept was adapted for the digital age, first with a CD-ROM, then with video-game version for Nintendo, Leapster and other platforms. The original “I Spy” books have been translated into more than 20 languages.
Ms. Marzollo is survived by her husband; two sons, Dan and David; a brother, Allen Martin; a sister, Katherine Martin Widmer; and three grandchildren.
Last year the Butterfield Memorial Library in Cold Spring, in Putnam County, where the Marzollos had lived for many years, announced that its newly renovated children’s room would be named for Ms. Marzollo.
She had served for eight years on the Haldane School Board, which encompasses Cold Spring, including two as its president. Representative Sean Patrick Maloney, whose district includes Cold Spring, this week called Ms. Marzollo “a passionate voice for education and a stalwart booster of the Haldane School District.”
At the end of “I’m a Seed,” the marigold explains to the pumpkin what is inside each of them.
“Seeds,” the marigold says. “When my seeds are planted, they will become new marigolds.”
To which the pumpkin replies, “When my seeds are planted, they will become new pumpkins. There should be a name for it.”

Says the marigold: “There is. It’s called life.”

Qiu Jin

C. 1875-1907
Qiu Jin
A feminist poet and revolutionary who became a martyr known as China’s ‘Joan of Arc.’


With her passion for wine, swords and bomb making, Qiu Jin was unlike most women born in late 19th-century China. As a girl, she wrote poetry and studied Chinese martial heroines like Hua Mulan (yes, that Mulan) fantasizing about one day seeing her own name in the history books.
But her ambitions ran up against China’s deeply rooted patriarchal society, which held that a woman’s place remained in the home. Undeterred, Qiu rose to become an early and fierce advocate for the liberation of Chinese women, defying prevailing Confucian gender and class norms by unbinding her feet, cross-dressing and leaving her young family to pursue an education abroad.
Her legacy as one of China’s pioneering feminists and revolutionaries was cemented on July 15, 1907, when she was beheaded at 31 by imperial army forces who charged her with conspiring to overthrow the Manchu-led Qing government. It was her final act of resistance, and it would later earn her a place in the pantheon of China’s revolutionary martyrs.
To this day, she is often referred to as “China’s Joan of Arc.”
“Qiu Jin lived at a time when women in China were not permitted to venture out of their homes, let alone participate in public affairs,” said Zhang Lifan, a writer and historian in Beijing. “So Qiu Jin not only participated in politics, her actions alone were a rebellion.”
Throughout her life, Qiu wrote often of what she saw as China’s stifling gender roles, as seen in this passage from a 1903 poem:
My body will not allow me
To mingle with the men
But my heart is far braver
Than that of a man.
At the time of the poem’s writing, China was an empire in distress. The Qing government was on its last legs, heaving under the weight of internal bureaucratic decay and external pressure from foreign powers.
With the uncertainty of the period came opportunities for educated Chinese women like Qiu. As a result, Qiu soon found herself at the forefront of an emerging wave of new feminists who believed that women’s rights and political revolution naturally went hand in hand.
But scholars say the enduring strength of Qiu’s legacy lies not only in her leadership, but also — and perhaps more important — in her willingness to ultimately sacrifice her life for the cause.
“She argued that it wasn’t enough for women to just sit around and ask for equality,” said Hu Ying, a professor of Chinese literature at University of California, Irvine. “She believed you had to be willing to put your life on the line. And the fact that she really did put her life on the line is what made her words stick.”
As is often the case with any historical martyr, it is difficult to disentangle the facts of Qiu’s life from later myth making.
Qiu Guijin (pronounced Cho GWAY-Jeen) was born into a respected, albeit declining, gentry family in the southern port city of Xiamen on Nov. 8, 1875 (some scholars say 1877). Her father, Qiu Shounan, was a government official. Her mother, surnamed Shan, also came from a distinguished literati-official family.
With her older brother and younger sister, Qiu grew up in Xiamen and her family’s ancestral home of Shaoxing in China’s eastern Zhejiang Province.
By all accounts, she had a comfortable childhood. But she was forced to bind her feet, learn needlework and — worst of all, in Qiu’s eyes — submit to an arranged marriage.
The man Qiu’s father chose for her was Wang Tingjun, the son of a wealthy merchant in Hunan Province. In 1903, seven years after marrying, the young couple moved with their two children from Hunan to Beijing.
For Qiu, life in the imperial capital was decidedly less dull. She struck up friendships with like-minded women and began to take an interest in China’s political affairs. She unbound her feet, drank copious amounts of wine and began experimenting with cross-dressing and swordplay.
Still, the frustrations of her marriage took a deep toll on her psyche. Her husband, she felt, was uncultivated and had no interest in poetry or learning.
So in the summer of 1904, Qiu, then 28, acted on a bold decision: She left her husband and two children, sold her jewelry and sailed for Japan. (For that reason, scholars sometimes call her “China’s Nora,” after the character in Henrik Ibsen’s 1879 play “A Doll’s House”.)
She summed up her life in a 1904 poem called “Regrets: Lines Written En Route to Japan”:
Sun and moon have no light left, earth is dark,
Our women’s world is sunk so deep, who can help us?
Jewelry sold to pay this trip across the seas,
Cut off from my family I leave my native land.
Unbinding my feet I clean out a thousand years of poison,
With heated heart arouse all women’s spirits.
Alas, this delicate kerchief here,
Is half stained with blood, and half with tears.
In Tokyo, Qiu enrolled at Shimoda Utako’s Women’s Practical School, shortening her name to Qiu Jin. But she focused most of her energy outside the classroom, connecting with other reform-minded Chinese students similarly keen on fomenting revolution back home. She joined influential anti-Manchu secret societies, including the Restoration Society and Sun Yat-sen’s Revolutionary Alliance.
She came back to China in 1906 with a militant determination to advance women’s causes and topple the Qing government. She started the short-lived “Chinese Women’s Journal,” which, unlike most feminist magazines at the time, used vernacular language to appeal to a broader audience on topics like the cruelty of foot-binding and arranged marriages. She also learned how to make bombs.
By 1907, Qiu was running the Datong School — a front for a group that recruited and trained young revolutionaries — in Shaoxing when she learned that Xu Xilin, who was her friend and the school’s founder, had been executed for assassinating his Manchu superior.
After Xu’s death, friends warned Qiu that Qing troops were coming to Shaoxing to find the woman thought to be his co-conspirator. But Qiu refused to run away. In a scene that has since been memorialized and embellished in a multitude of forms, Qiu attempted to fight back but was quickly captured, tortured and beheaded.
Over the years, critics have accused her of being naïve in her belief — widely shared at the time — that overthrowing the Qing could resolve China’s social and political ills. Others said her death was unnecessary since she had ample time to escape from the advancing soldiers.
Perhaps her most notable critic was Lu Xun, one of China’s greatest 20th-century writers, who believed Qiu’s reckless behavior in Shaoxing was linked to the enormous adulation she received during her time in Japan. She was “clapped to death,” he told a friend.
More than a century after her death, many Chinese still visit her tomb beside West Lake in Hangzhou to pay their respects to the woman now embedded in the national consciousness as a bold feminist heroine.
Some can also still recite the famous words she wrote just before her death: “Autumn wind, autumn rain, fill one’s heart with melancholy.”
The line was a play on her surname “Qiu” which means “autumn” in Chinese.

Nella Larsen


A Harlem Renaissance-era writer whose heritage
informed her modernist take on the topic of race.
When Nella Larsen died, in 1964, she left little behind: a ground-floor apartment, two published novels, some short stories, a few letters. She was childless, divorced and estranged from her half sister, who, in some accounts, upon learning she was to inherit $35,000 of Larsen’s savings, denied knowing the writer existed.
It was a fitting end for a woman whose entire life had been a story of swift erasure.
Larsen’s immigrant parents — Mary Hanson, from Denmark, and Peter Walker, from the Danish West Indies — had settled in a mostly white, working-class neighborhood in Chicago, a city that was rapidly growing and segregating by the time Larsen was born on April 13, 1891.
Two years later, Walker disappeared, leaving Hanson alone with the couple’s young daughter. In his absence, Hanson married a fellow Dane, Peter Larsen, with whom she had another daughter, Anna.
By all appearances, the family was white. But Nella Larsen was different, something that would come to inspire her fiction — celebrated during the Harlem Renaissance, forgotten by midcentury and rediscovered to be read today in American literature and black studies courses.
The public schools that Larsen attended in Chicago drew students from mostly German and Scandinavian backgrounds. So it wasn’t until she left Chicago for Nashville in 1907 to attend the Fisk Normal School, a teacher-training program affiliated with the historically black Fisk University, that she was surrounded by faces that weren’t white.
Larsen later enrolled at the Lincoln School for Nurses in the Bronx, which was founded to recruit black women into the field. After graduating with the equivalent of a registered nurse’s degree in 1915, she was hired as a superintendent of nurses at the Tuskegee Institute in Alabama.
The next year, she moved back to New York to join the staff at Lincoln. She met Elmer Imes, the second African-American to receive a Ph.D. in physics, whom she married in 1919. As the Harlem Renaissance began to take shape in the 1920s, Larsen and Imes took up with a circle of black intellectuals that included W.E.B. Du Bois and Langston Hughes.
Larsen first expressed a professional interest in literature and art as a volunteer helping to prepare the New York Public Library’s first exhibition of African-American artists. She later enrolled in the library’s teaching program, eventually becoming its first black female graduate.
Her initial placement was on the Lower East Side of Manhattan, but she transferred to the library’s 135th Street location to be closer to home and to the heart of the Harlem Renaissance. Today the branch is the Countee Cullen Library (named for a poet who contributed to Harlem’s artistic prosperity) and is near the Schomburg Center for Research in Black Culture, where the archive includes two of Larsen’s letters.
In one of the letters, from 1928, in a looping scrawl, Larsen addresses Edward Wasserman, a wealthy bohemian whose social circle included the novelist Zora Neale Hurston and the publishing matron Blanche Knopf. After years in which she had written stories under a pseudonym, her first novel, “Quicksand,” had just been published by Alfred A. Knopf, and she was eager to get Wasserman’s opinion:
I do want to see your review. Will you have a copy? I’m too poor to subscribe to a clipping bureau. Besides, what’s the use? It seems that your review will be the only notice I’ll have.
But that was not the case. Thadious M. Davis, one of Larsen’s biographers and a professor of English at the University of Pennsylvania, said that “Quicksand” was widely and positively reviewed, including in The New York Times, The Times Literary Supplement and The Nation.
The novel follows Helga Crane, a teacher at Naxos, a black boarding school in the South where excellence is measured by its proximity to whiteness. Helga, whose mixed-race background mirrors Larsen’s, is unsettled by Naxos’s rigid and racially fraught standards. So she leaves in search of financial stability and her own identity. When she connects with her mother’s white relatives, they treat her with a mix of contempt (in Chicago, her remarried uncle’s wife rejects her) and fascination (her aunt, in Copenhagen, parades her around the predominantly white city as an exotic).
According to Davis, Larsen was remarkable in approaching the subject of race as a modernist, rather than drawing on Southern tropes or vernacular to convey her characters’ blackness.
Larsen followed “Quicksand” the next year with “Passing,” which tells the story of Irene Redfield and Clare Kendry, two mixed-race women who grew up together and reunite at a Chicago hotel after years of separation. Clare, Irene discovers, has been living as a white woman married to a racist who is none the wiser about his wife’s background. The relationship between the two women flirts with the sensual as each becomes obsessed with the other’s chosen path.
In its review of “Passing,” The New York Times noted that “Larsen is quite adroit at tracing the involved processes of a mind that is divided against itself, that fights between the dictates of reason and desire.”
When “Passing” was reissued in 2001, the Times’s book critic Richard Bernstein wrote that “reading it and knowing that its author wrote very little after it imparts a sense of loss, giving as it does a glimpse of an original and hugely insightful writer whose literary talent developed no further.”
In 1930, one of Larsen’s short stories became the subject of plagiarism accusations. She had riffed on a story by a British contemporary, Sheila Kaye-Smith, infusing its arc with racial tension.
“I think she was much too smart an individual to boldface plagiarize that story,” Davis said.
Despite the controversy, that same year she became the first African-American woman to receive a Guggenheim Fellowship. She used the grant, worth roughly $2,500 at the time, to pay for a period as an artistic expatriate in Europe.
When Larsen returned to New York, she was forced to confront the realities of her marriage. She knew that Imes, who had moved to Nashville for a post at Fisk University, was having an affair, and it led to their divorce in 1933. Supported by alimony, she continued as a fiction writer producing at least one novel and a number of short stories that were not published. After Imes died in 1942, she moved downtown from West 135th Street to Second Avenue and returned to nursing to support herself.
Having cut her ties to Harlem’s circle of artists and intellectuals, and with no connection to her last living relatives, Larsen had, wittingly or not, created the conditions necessary to disappear quietly. She died of a heart attack in her apartment on March 30, 1964. She was 72.

Overlooked No More:
Charlotte Brontë, Novelist Known for ‘Jane Eyre’
By Susan Dominus
March 8, 2018
Since 1851, obituaries in The New York Times have been dominated by white men. With Overlooked, we’re adding the stories of remarkable people.
Charlotte Brontë was a 20-year-old schoolteacher — impatient, dreamy, long-suffering, unpublished — when, in 1836, she sent a sample of her writing to Robert Southey, England’s poet laureate at the time. Although her friend and biographer Elizabeth Gaskell would eventually write of Brontë’s “constitutional absence of hope,” the young teacher clearly already had a firm sense of her own worth — an enterprising spirit and ambition, and a longing for her own genius to find its way into the world.
In his reply, Southey acknowledged that Brontë showed talent, but he nonetheless discouraged her from pursuing her craft, and warned her off ambition itself. “Literature cannot be the business of a woman’s life,” he wrote, “and it ought not to be.”
Brontë wrote back conceding the wisdom of his advice, then devoted much of her life to ignoring it. When she later decided to send a sample of her work to the poet Hartley Coleridge, she made no mention of her gender. Coleridge offered no great praise, but even his unbiased diffidence failed to sap Brontë’s will to write, to publish, to be, in a sense, heard. It was a will that would ultimately produce some of the most revolutionary novels of the 19th century.
Charlotte Brontë, born April 21, 1816, was one of six siblings whose mother died when they were all still small; her father, Patrick Brontë, a brilliant clergyman on a modest salary, brought the children up in Haworth, England, by the desolate moors of Yorkshire, in a stone house surrounded by a graveyard on all sides but one, Gaskell wrote.
As a child, and even as an adult, Brontë was small and frail, so shy among strangers that one host recalled her twisting herself around in her chair so that she could converse without making eye contact. Yet in her elaborate imaginary life, one she created with her siblings, in plays and stories and with maps, she could imagine herself as bold and swashbuckling, a magician or soldier or politician — her personal hero was the Duke of Wellington. In her imagination, and in the way she valued the product of her imagination, she was fearless — so fearless that she eventually paid to have a volume of poems by her and her younger sisters published under pseudonyms, an unusually ambitious act for a woman of her era.
When the poems did not earn the family fame, Brontë persisted, sending to publishers her and her sisters’ novels (also under assumed, gender-ambiguous names): Emily’s “Wuthering Heights,” Anne’s “Agnes Grey” and, a bit later, her own “Jane Eyre.” The daring contrivance played out like a plucky scheme, a plot point in some future novel: “Jane Eyre” became a runaway hit, fueling interest in the other two novels, but readers also clamored to know the authors’ true identities, with the attempt at anonymity only stoking curiosity.
By the time Brontë wrote “Jane Eyre,” she had already lost her two older sisters, who suffered in much the way Jane Eyre’s beloved Helen Burns suffered, from ill health and poor care at a boarding school that Brontë attended alongside those sisters. Less than a year after “Jane Eyre” was published, her brother, Branwell, died of tuberculosis, possibly complicated by his alcoholism; soon after, Brontë bore the burden of caring for her two younger sisters, Emily and Anne, both of whom also died of tuberculosis and both of whom she watched suffer in considerable agony.

In “Villette,” a novel that Brontë wrote after the loss of her siblings, she suggested that such pain could engender fearlessness. “I might suffer; I was inured to suffering: death itself had not, I thought, those terrors for me which it has for the softly reared,” says Lucy Snowe, the heroine of the novel thought to be Brontë’s most autobiographical. “I had, ere this, looked on the thought of death with a quiet eye. Prepared then, for any consequences, I formed a project.”
A survivor whose life had been shaped by grief, Brontë was perhaps emboldened to write as few, if any, women had before: tales of resistance and insistence on trusting one’s own sense of true morality, however unconventional. In “Jane Eyre,” she wrote from the first-person perspective of a child, an innovation that gave voice and power even to the very young; she created, too, a heroine who was, like Brontë herself, plain, pale, small, and yet frankly desirous, as well as worthy of desire.
Brontë once wrote to a friend that she considered the marital ambitions of women of no means or beauty “an imbecility which I reject with contempt,” a practical response to the frank injustices of class and a kind of sexism. In her novels, however, those same plain women are entitled to not just any marriages, but to passionate, loving ones. The interior lives of Jane Eyre and Lucy Snowe are shared in such detail that the characters’ unfair burdens are plainly manifest; Brontë could make great sweeping plotlines of the small moments and humiliations in an unmarried woman’s life. Lucy Snowe’s struggle to find a private place to read a long-awaited letter reads, over several pages, with the suspense and drama of a Spenserian quest.
A miniaturist of the soul, Brontë captured shades of emotion with a psychological subtlety that still feels exquisitely modern. When Lucy Snowe, battling depression, is advised to cultivate her own happiness, her strong response will feel familiar to many a 21st-century person who has the condition: “No mockery in this world ever sounds to me so hollow as that of being told to cultivate happiness,” she wrote. “Happiness is not a potato to be planted in mould and tilled with manure.”
She had a mordant wit, which could protect her only so much from the series of losses that left her so fragile. “It is useless to tell you how I live,” she wrote to a friend in 1851. “I endure life — but whether I enjoy it or not is another question.” She startled readily, and wrote to friends complaining of crushing insomnia, a poor appetite, grief and flashbacks; she put off writing letters for fear of how dejected she would feel if the replies came too slowly. Her two most intense romantic passions — one, involving a married Belgian school master, was meticulously memorialized in “Villette”; the other, for her publisher, George Smith (also captured in the characteristics of a doctor in “Villette”) — were both unrequited.
But reader, she married, eventually, at the age of 38, choosing Arthur Bell Nicholls, a pastor who worked for Brontë’s father. Although she acknowledged frankly that he was not her intellectual equal, he pursued her persistently, and against her father’s wishes, possibly imbuing a late-in-life courtship with a jolt of romance.
Did Brontë ultimately find the kind of happiness that she described as “a glory shining far down upon us out of heaven”? In “Villette,” Lucy Snowe describes her own feelings about happiness: “The negation of severe suffering was the nearest approach to happiness I expected to know. Besides, I seemed to hold two lives — the life of thought, and that of reality. And provided the former was nourished with a sufficiency of strange and necromantic joys of fancy, the privileges of the latter might remain limited to daily bread, hourly work and a roof of shelter.” Once Brontë married, however, her life of thought suffered. “My own life is more occupied than it used to be,” she wrote to a friend. “I have not so much time for thinking.”
Literature would no longer be the business of her life; whether the pleasures of marriage could offset that loss remains unclear. To one friend, she wrote, “It is a solemn and strange and perilous thing for a woman to become a wife.” But several months later, she wrote, “I have a good, kind attached husband, and every day makes my own attachment to him stronger.”
In “Jane Eyre,” Brontë imagines what a perfect union might be like: “I know no weariness of my Edward’s society: he knows none of mine, any more than we each do of the pulsation of the heart that beats in our separate bosoms,” she writes of Jane’s marriage to Mr. Rochester. As for what marriage would come to mean in her own life, Brontë had little time to find out: She died on March 31, 1855, only nine months after her wedding. She was pregnant, and unable to survive morning sickness so severe that complications from malnutrition and dehydration were the likely cause of death. Given the trials of her life, an obituary in The Leeds Mercury Saturday noted, her early demise seemed preordained — “but not the less deep will be the grief of society that her genius will yield us nothing more.”
While Brontë did not get an obituary in The New York Times, her husband, who died 51 years later, did. The article was just five lines long, and the headline said it all: “Charlotte Bronte's Husband Dead.”

Sylvia Plath

Sylvia Plath
A postwar poet unafraid to confront her own despair.
She made sure to spare the children, leaving milk and bread for the two toddlers to find when they woke up. She stuffed the cracks of the doors and windows with cloths and tea towels. Then she turned on the gas.
On the morning of Feb. 11, 1963, a Monday, a nurse found the poet Sylvia Plath in her flat on Fitzroy Road in London, an address where W.B. Yeats had once lived. She was “lying on the floor of the kitchen with her head resting on the oven,” according to a local paper, the St. Pancras Chronicle.
Plath had killed herself. She was 30.
Because the death was a suicide, Plath’s family did not much advertise it, said Peter K. Steinberg, an editor, with Karen Kukil, of “The Letters of Sylvia Plath,” the second volume of which is to be published this year. And although she was a published poet who had received good reviews, and had determinedly made her way in a literary world dominated by men, the press did not pay much attention.
There were eight-line death notices in tiny print in The Boston Globe and The Boston Herald. To find them, a sharp-eyed reader had to look under “H,” for Plath’s married name, Hughes. The notices were almost as terse as a headstone: of London, England, formerly of Wellesley, Mass., wife of Ted Hughes, mother of Frieda and Nicolas (her son’s given name mysteriously missing its “h”), daughter of Aurelia, older sister of Warren.
Plath’s hometown paper, The Townsman of Wellesley, falsely reported that she had died of “virus pneumonia.” It nodded toward her literary career, “as poet and author.” But it did not name her poetry collection, “The Colossus,” first published in 1960 to positive reviews in the British press, or say that her poems had been printed in prestigious magazines like The New Yorker.
In its Fleet Street sensationalism, the St. Pancras Chronicle’s report was more satisfying, and more truthful.
“Tragic Death of Young Authoress,” the headline blared, before subordinating her reputation to that of her husband. “Found with her head in the gas oven in the kitchen of their home in Fitzroy-road, N.W. 1, last week was 30-year-old authoress Mrs. Sylvia Plath Hughes, wife of one of Britain’s best-known modern poets, Ted Hughes,” the article said. It went on to say that her doctor had arranged for her to see a psychiatrist, “but the letter was delivered to the wrong address.” It ended with the coroner’s verdict that Plath had died of carbon monoxide poisoning and, to leave no doubt in the matter, “that she killed herself.”
At that moment in time, it was easy to see why she might have wanted to. She was estranged from Hughes after discovering that he was having an affair with another woman, Assia Wevill. On Dec. 28, 1962, just weeks before her death, Alfred A. Knopf, which had published her poetry, had rejected her novel “The Bell Jar.” Judith B. Jones, the editor who sent Plath the rejection notice, did not try to soft-pedal it.
“To be quite honest with you, we didn’t feel that you had managed to use your materials successfully in a novelistic way,” wrote Jones, who has been credited with rescuing the diary of Anne Frank from the reject pile and with discovering Julia Child. Jones said she had found the attitude expressed in the first half of “The Bell Jar,” about the young heroine’s adventures as a magazine intern in New York, “perfectly normal,” and had liked it well enough. As for the second half, Jones wrote, “I was not at all prepared as a reader to accept the extent of her illness and the suicide attempt.”
An editor at Harper & Row concurred with Jones’s assessment. In a letter addressed to “Mrs. Ted Hughes,” this editor wrote, a little more charitably, that the first part of the novel was “arresting, a fresh and bright recreation of a girl’s encounter with the big city — universal and individual.” But she added, “With her breakdown, however, the story for us ceases to be a novel and becomes more a case history.”
As she grappled with the rejection of editors and her husband, Plath spent her last months writing the poems that would secure her literary reputation.
Six days after she died, her friend, the literary critic A. Alvarez, predicted in The Observer that those poems, many of which were later published in her best-known collection, “Ariel,” would establish her as “the most gifted woman poet of our time.”
Thus it was in death that Plath found her literary due.
The public fascination with her death has hovered over her family. One of Warren Plath’s two daughters, Susan Plath Winston, recalled the surprise that she and her sister would feel when their aunt’s name appeared, for instance, in a snippet of “The Simpsons.”
Worse was when Plath’s son, Nicholas, a fisheries biologist in Alaska, hanged himself in 2009, at 47. Because of who his mother was, his death received front-page treatment. “Your family pain being literary/celebrity news is a bizarre place to be,” said Winston, a lawyer in Oklahoma City who represents victims of domestic violence.
Sylvia Plath was born in Boston on Oct. 27, 1932. Her father, Otto Emil Plath, a German-born professor at Boston University, died when she was 8, and her mother, the former Aurelia Schober, made ends meet teaching in a university secretarial program. Biographers have linked Plath’s bouts of depression to the childhood trauma of losing her father, as well as to her own perfectionism and her mother’s smothering nature.
As a student at Smith College, Plath won a “guest editorship” at Mademoiselle magazine in New York in 1953, an experience that became the basis of “The Bell Jar.” Later that summer, she had a breakdown after being rejected from a writing course at Harvard. She received shock treatment, and then swallowed most of a bottle of sleeping pills.
She met Hughes, a future British poet laureate, at a party in 1956 while studying at Cambridge University on a Fulbright grant. (In describing the encounter in her journal, she wrote of biting his cheek so hard she drew blood; he pocketed her earrings.) They married within four months, a romantic union that was also a literary partnership.
It was after their separation in fall 1962 that Plath — jealous, feverish, addicted to sleeping pills and writing at dawn while her children slept — produced poems like “Lady Lazarus” and “Daddy” that helped make “Ariel” an exemplar of confessional poetry.
“The Bell Jar” was not published in the United States until 1971. (It had been published in England a month before Plath died, under the pseudonym Victoria Lucas, for fear, Kukil said, that its resemblances to real life would attract libel suits.) In 1982, she was awarded a posthumous Pulitzer Prize.
“Lady Lazarus” has been quoted so often it has become a kind of epitaph for Plath.
Is an art, like everything else.
I do it exceptionally well.
I do it so it feels like hell.
Gloria Steinem, who was a year behind Plath at Smith College, published Plath’s BBC radio play, “Three Women,” in an early edition of Ms. magazine — “probably one of the reasons she was taken up by second-wave feminism,” said Kukil, the associate curator of special collections at Smith. “The Bell Jar” has risen from the ashes of rejection to become a perennial favorite of high school and college students. It spent 24 weeks on the New York Times best-seller list in 1971, and had sold nearly three million paperback copies by the 25th anniversary of its publication in 1996.
“I like to think she somehow helped to open up and legitimate female anger,” said Gail Crowther, author of “The Haunted Reader and Sylvia Plath,” among other books about the writer.
Plath made the object of much of that anger clear elsewhere in “Lady Lazarus.”

Baldy Jack Rose

“The old Metropole. The old Metropole," brooded Mr. Wolfshiem gloomily. "Filled with faces dead and gone. Filled with friends gone now forever. I can't forget so long as I live the night they shot Rosy Rosenthal there. It was six of us at the table, and Rosy had eat and drunk a lot all evening. When it was almost morning the waiter came up to him with a funny look and says somebody wants to speak to him outside. 'all right,' says Rosy, and begins to get up, and I pulled him down in his chair. "'Let the bastards in here if they want you, Rosy, but don't you, so help me, move outside this room.' "It was four o'clock in the morning then, and if we'd of raised the blinds we'd of seen daylight."
"Did he go?" I asked innocently.
 ‘Sure he went." Mr. Wolfshiem's nose flashed at me indignantly. "He turned around in the door and says: 'Don't let that waiter take away my coffee!' Then he went out on the sidewalk, and they shot him three times in his full belly and drove away."
  "Four of them were electrocuted," I said, remembering. "Five, with Becker."
                                                                                                                The Great Gatsby

The gangland murder of Rosy Rosenthal, an otherwise irrelevant, small-time gambler in Manhattan, should have passed into oblivion decades ago, but it hasn't and, in as long as F. Scott’s Fitzgerald’s novel captures the imagination of one generation after another the next, Rosy Rosenthal and the Metropole Hotel will live on.


The Rosenthal case, the most important of the Progressive Era in New York, also brought down New York City Police Lieutenant Charles Becker was the first American law enforcement officer policeman executed for murder. The case dragged on for three years, helped to bring down the Tammany machine and brought around a much-needed purge of the New York City Police Department. Whether or not Becker was actually guilty remains, after all these decades, an open question.
To this day, many historians believe that a Connecticut man named Jack “Baldy” Rose, along with partners Louis 'Bridgey' Webber and Harry Vallon, were the actual men behind the murder of Rosey Rosenthal, and concocted an impressive and layered frame-up that sent Becker (and four gunmen) to the electric chair. Their court testimonies for the prosecution in exchange for immunity were more than likely lies.

Rosen was born Jacob Rosenzweig in September 1876 in Poland as Jacob Rosenzweig. His parent emigrated and Rosenzweig, who shortened his name to Rose grew up in Fairfield County, moving around from Bridgeport to Waterbury, and South Norwalk.
At age 4, he contacted typhoid, causing alopecia universalis, a rare disorder that left him hairless and permanently bald and devoid of eyebrows and eyelashes. It also gave him an almost unearthly paleness. Added to his oddness was the fact that he was overtly feminine in his speech and manner. 
As a young man, he founded The Rosebuds, an early minor league baseball team in the Connecticut League. He would later recall those years, 1898 and 1899 when, as manager of both the Danbury and Norwich baseball teams, as some two of the best years of his life. "Those were hard days for the baseball game you know. Admiral Dewey and the Spanish War took up the public interest so much, that It was next to impossible to get people to spend any time attending baseball games. Many a time when we came to Bristol the team didn't get support enough to pay car fares, but we kept at the struggle all the summer. It was mighty hard sledding almost all the season.”

Eddie Phelps, a catcher for the Brooklyn Dodgers played for Rose in Connecticut and recalled “He seemed to have various interests in Danbury, but I was not especially thick for him, being merely a young catcher for his team. He was popular, and, as far as I could see, was inclined to be liberal. He had a slew of players and he always made it a habit to pay a man s fare back home when the man failed to make good.

Eddie Phelps

Rose, and promotors James Campbell and Moe Harris (Who was also a notorious fence in Bridgeport) arranged the infamous Tommy Ryan/ Dick O'Brien fight in the Hartford Coliseum on December 23, 1898.
The Hartford Courant reported “While in Hartford Rose was known for many Idiosyncrasies and mental vagaries. For example, with a head literally as bald as an egg, he was a constant frequenter of barber shops where he loved to enjoy shampoos, tonic rubs, etc declaring they stimulated his brain to greater activity. He also had a weakness for silk socks and underwear and always managed to gratify this vanity even when his finance were at lowest ebb, Rose was known to the Hartford sporting contingent as the nattiest dresser and the shrewdest card sharp that ever frequented the city's gaming resort”

He was an owner in the Plaza hotel in Waterbury and lived there for several years along with “polo players, prizefighters, baseball players and traveling burlesque companies.”
In Waterbury, he partnered up with a young man named James Mark Sullivan, later appointed Envoy to the Dominican Republic (1913-1915) Rose and Sullivan promoted several prize fights in Waterbury earning Sullivan enough cash to enter Yale and graduate from Yale law in 1902.


Raised in Thompsonville, he lived mostly in Waterbury but was born in Ireland on January 6, 1873. He worked for the Hartford Courant and the Waterbury American, either as a contributor or a salesman. He met William Jennings Bryan who became his political sponsor.
Sullivan and his wife

 After Yale, he moved to New York and built a law practice based on Tammany Hall connections and ties to underworld and gambling interests. He was the spokesman for the national Democratic Party between 1898 and 1912 and built his power among the Irish-American in the North-East. He was mentored by James K. McGuire, the Democratic mayor of Syracuse and in 1912, Sullivan campaigned successfully for Woodrow Wilson.

 When Jack Rose was caught up in the Becker-Rosenthal trial, Sullivan acted as Rose’s voice behind the scenes with shady Tammany politicians. He was appointed, through patronage, Ambassador to the Dominican Republic in 1913 but proved to have no skills whatsoever for the diplomatic world (Nor did he speak Spanish)

At best, he proved to be an embarrassment, starting with his public declaration “I was anxious to secure this post for the purpose of getting even [financially] by means of the good salary that goes with the place”
Once in the Caribbean he helped friend’s land lucrative contracts on the island and by December 1914, he was the subject of a Congressional investigation, and by the following July had been asked to resign. On the positive side, he did introduce baseball to Santo Domingo.
A masterful poker player, in or about 1900, Rose opened a small gambling casino in Norwich and then branched out to managing sporting and athletic events, mostly in New Haven and Fairfield counties, and became the proprietor of the Tremont Hotel in Bridgeport’s old tenderloin district. Heavyweight champion John L. Sullivan lived there off and on over the years and was an admirer of Baldy Jack’s. Rose was also a partner in Charley Pierce's saloon, “one of the liveliest in the district” which was located just below the Tremont, at Middle and Wall streets.


A one-time bouncer in a German-American beer hall, Charles Becker, like Arnold Rothstein, another denizen Gatsby, was discovered by political powerhouse Big Tim Sullivan. 

Big Tim Sullivan

The irascible but incredibly corrupt Sullivan was a New York City politician who had served a term as a United States Congressman and New York State Senator. He also had close ties to gang leader Monk Eastman who was, arguably, the most feared gang leader Gotham had ever produced.

Becker was brought onto the New York City police force in November of 1893 under Sullivan’s powerful patronage and essentially acted as one of many informers, enforcers and collectors for Sullivan and occasionally for Eastman, should he require a policemen’s service.

Becker proved to be a bad apple from the very start of his law enforcement career. In 1896, he made unwelcomed headlines when he arrested a woman named Ruby Young for prostitution. It was a false arrest, even though Young was an admitted prostitute. Extorting tribute from streetwalkers was common for corrupt cops in their salad days. Most of the women simply paid because their word would never stand up in court against the word of a foot patrolman. However, on that day, Ruby Young was not plying her trade and refused to pay Becker, who promptly arrested her.
Unknown to Becker, the man accompanying Ruby Young through the streets that day was author Stephan Crane, then a Hearst's New York Journal news reporter. Crane, who would write the classic novel, The Red Badge of Courage, had previously written another book call 'Maggie: A Girl of the Streets, which was the story of the struggles that forced a young Irish immigrant into the world of prostitution. Crane had been interviewing Ruby Young for a follow up story when Becker arrested her.
Crane testified in court that Becker had tried to extort money from Ruby, who refused to pay and was locked up. Magistrate Robert C. Cornell released her immediately, yet, remarkably, Becker, despite the next day's headlines and because of his connection with Big Tim Sullivan, went unpunished.


The next year Becker mistakenly shot and killed an innocent citizen while chasing a man Becker claimed was a burglar. He tried to cover his mistake by accusing the dead citizen of being part of the burglar's gang. When the truth was uncovered, and Becker was proven to have made the story up, he was given a three-day suspension for lying to a supervisor.
"Becker" said a cop from his precinct "would raid his own crippled grandmother if he thought it would make him look good at headquarters." 
As an example of that mentality, in 1904, Becker was awarded a medal for heroism for leaping into the North River and saving a man named James Butler from drowning. Two years later, it was revealed that Becker had promised to pay Butler, who considered himself an ‘expert swimmer’, to jump in the river so Becker could save him. The reason Butler stepped forward and told his story was that Becker refused to pay him the $15.00 he had promised him for leaping into the frozen waters.  Again. thanks in large part to Big Tim Sullivan’s protection, Becker went unpunished.
Over the next few years, Becker would be investigated several times for brutality and false arrest, but in each case, the charges were dropped, or Becker walked away unharmed.  In 1906, Becker, now a sergeant, was placed in charge of a politically motivated special unit working out of police headquarters to probe allegations of corruption against Police Inspector Max Schmittberger.  (Below)

Becker’s orders were clear, if he could not find or verify corruption charges against Schmittberger, he was to create them against the Inspector's whose only true crime was giving truthful but damaging testimony to the 1894 Lexow Committee, which was investigating criminal corruption within the New York City Police Department.
Becker did his job. Based on evidence Becker either collected or manufactured or both, Inspector Schmittberger was convicted of corruption and removed from the force. A thankful Deputy Police Commissioner Rhinelander Waldo, the driving force behind the Get-Schmittberger squad, rewarded Becker by making sure he became the bagman, the bribe collector, for a precinct captain. Like all bagmen in the city, Becker received ten percent of the gross of the graft he collected. It was a very lucrative promotion that brought the cop $80,000 in his first year on the job.

Rhinelander Waldo

When Rhinelander Waldo became Police Commissioner in 1911, he promoted Becker again
The area, which now encompasses the Garment district and Chelsea, was a haven for prostitutes and thieves. City Hall gave Becker was given carte blanche to clean the area up. If he needed to crack skulls, he could. He could close down what he ever business he wanted, whenever he wanted, without reason or cause.
He and his men, the so-called Broadway Squad, corralled prostitution in the area and pushed an estimated 30,000 streetwalkers across town, further away from Times Square. 

The pickpocket and petty thieves followed. All that was left were the gambling houses, which were tolerated by City Hall in so long as they paid a hefty tribute to Tammany Hall and caused no problems. So many all-night gambling houses popped up along Forty-Second Street the area became known as ‘The Roaring Forties’ although by 1920, the first year of prohibition, they were virtually all gone, replaced by speakeasies. 
For a man like Becker, who had no natural moral or ethical stops, the power to extort money from the gamblers was virtually a license to print money. He extorted hundreds of thousands for Tammany Hall and a small fortune for himself. Although his salary was less than $183.00 a month, Becker had managed to save over $70,000 in 1912 alone.
Although he a had a reputation as a brutal and completely corrupt cop, Becker, 40-year-old at the time, was known by his superiors as highly intelligent and disciplined. He neither drank nor smoked and by all accounts was loyal to his wife, the former Helen Lynch, a special needs schoolteacher who was pregnant with the couple’s second child. But he was, at his base a hustler and ambitious overachiever who grew increasingly corrupt and arrogant with every passing day.
Becker subcontracted extortion payment collections to an interesting hood named Jacob Zelig (born Zelig Harry Lefkowitz) leader of the Eastman gang, the same gang had graduated Al Capone and Chicago boss Johnny Torrio. Zelig "the most feared man in New York," had taken over Eastman's after Monk Eastman was sent to Sing Sing in 1904 on a simple robbery charge.


 Since then, the once mighty Eastman’s membership had dropped from1200 members to roughly one hundred. But when the highly volatile and very unstable Eastman was released from prison, he was banned by the gang’s leadership from returning to power over the outfit that bore his name. 


Instead, Jake Zelig, a pickpocket who was less insane and more businesslike then Monk Eastman, took over and started to rebuild the gang to its former glory. Busy with those duties, he handed Lieutenant Becker's collection chores over to his enforcers, Harry 'The gyp' Horowitz, Lefty Louie, Dago Frank and Whitey Lewis.

(left to right, standing), Harry Gyp the Blood Horowitz, Louis Lefty Louie Rosenberg, Dago Frank Cirofici, and Whitey Lewis.

Things were going well Becker until an obese, glitzy character named Herman 'Beanie' Rosenthal “a flamboyantly indiscreet Estonian immigrant” decided to open a small casino in the middle of Becker’s territory. 

Herman Rosenthal was born in the Baltic provinces of Russia and arrived in New York as a child of five, in 1879, and settled in the East Side Jewish neighborhoods. Leaving home at age 14, he was a runner in a poolroom and eventually he too fell under the spell of Big Tim Sullivan.

He eventually became a bookie and in 1909 opened a gambling den at 123 Second Avenue and 39 East Seventh Street, which was in direct competition a ring of highly connected hoods that used his influence to have Rosenthal's place raided and shut down. He reopened in Far Rockaway but again found himself in competition with organized gamblers who had his casino raided and closed by the District Attorney's police.
He relocated again, this time in a brownstone at 104 West Forty Fifth Street. The casino was in the building’s basement and Rosenthal and his wife lived upstairs. (He later moved)
Compared to the dozens of gambling dens that surrounded his, Rosenthal’s operation was small but respectable for the money it brought in and soon came to Becker’s attention.
A few days after Rosenthal opened shop in the Roaring Forties, Lt. Becker strolled in informed Rosenthal that he was now a 20% partner in the casino and that every now and then, he would have to conduct a false raid on the place and arrest a few customers to make the District Attorney happy. Also, as part of the required protection package, Rosenthal was told to bring in Jack Rose, said to be the best poker player in New York, as a partner in the casino.
Sometimes around 1915, Baldy Jack Rosen moved to New York and opened a hugely successful gambling resort in East Side Manhattan known as The Rosebud, a place that soon became a gathering place for the underworld, particularly the deadly and powerful Eastman Gang, and Rose became closely associated with Monk Eastman, "Big" Jack Zelig, and the Lenox Avenue Gang.
He was such a popular Broadway character that a cocktail, was named in his honor, “The Jack Rose” which Rosen took credit for inventing.

2 ounces applejack
1 ounce lime juice
1/2 ounce grenadine
Glass Type: cocktail glass
Instructions: Shake the applejack and other ingredients well with cracked ice, then strain into a chilled cocktail glass.

However, according to Esquire's The Wondrich Take, the resident cocktail historian “the drink is based on Applejack, and it's rose-pink. Play on words. In any case, the Jack Rose is an effective testament to its namesake: It's smooth and sweetish and deeply deceptive.”
In the summer of 1912, New York Police Lieutenant Charles Becker and the "Gambling Squad" raided The Rosebud. But instead of closing down the resort, Rose agreed to pay Becker 25% of his weekly income, which ran as high as $10,000 a month. Rose would also become Becker's official collector for the rest of the gambling establishments from which Becker would extort money.
Baldy Jack would watch over Sullivan and Becker's shares. Rose was Becker's primary collector and frontman in his illegal activities around the Times Square area.  A professional card dealer and police informant, Rose took a 25% cut the $600,000 a year he collected for Becker. Rose and Becker were also reportedly partners in a loan sharking business.
Rosenthal and Rose had known each other for years. Rose had hired Rosenthal to run a pool room/ gambling casino for in Waterbury. Rose also brought Rosenthal to Hartford to scope out the gambling possibilities there.
On the first night of operation, a gambler named John Freeman dropped $6000 in the casino and Rosenthal promptly pocketed $2,800. Baldy Jack demanded that he put the money back in the casino account, but Rosenthal refused. There was an argument and Rosenthal tossed Baldy Jack off the property.  A few hours later, Becker called and arranged a meeting to meet Rosenthal the next day at Pabst's, a saloon on Fifty-Ninth Street and Broadway.

The next day Rosenthal went to Pabst's and waited but Becker never showed up. Returning to home, he found his casino turned upside down the result of a raid by Becker's squad who had smashed and broken everything.  After they had wrecked the place, Becker told Rosenthal’s wife "You tell Herman he and I are even now.”
To Becker's amazement, Rosenthal refused to be extorted. He simply refused to pay.
Becker responded by placing a patrolman inside the house and another outside the front door on the stoop to keep customers away.  Remarkably, Rosenthal went to court and asked the judge to order Becker to remove his men on the grounds that they were depriving him of his income. Understandably, the judge refused the request to remove the policemen so Rosenthal could break the law.
Completely frustrated, Rosenthal filed a complaint with the authorities and launched a public relations campaign against Becker. He gave an interview to The World newspaper and said' There is only one man the world who can call me off, that is the big fellow, Big Tim Sullivan, and he is as honest as the day is long and I know he is in sympathy with me. He don't want to see anybody hurt. My fight is with the police. It is purely personal with me. I am making no crusade and my friends know all about it. I am not going to hurt anyone else, and if I can't go through with this without bringing anyone else in, I'll quit. '
Rosenthal also arranged a press conference at his casino, where he locked in the policeman who was stationed in his lobby and refused to let him out. The cops responded by breaking down the door which allowed Rosenthal’s lawyers to sue on a federal level since Rosenthal was claiming the casino was also his home and therefore the police had entered without a warrant or due cause.
The reporters printed the story about the kidnapped cop but would not print Rosenthal’s accusations that Police Lieutenant Becker was on the take to the tune of $10 thousand a month from the areas gamblers. However, there was enough scuttlebutt going around the city to require the District Attorney Charles Whitman, the grandfather to the husband of New Jersey Governor Christy Todd Whitman, to return from his vacation in Newport Rhode Island and address the situation. The first thing Whitman did was to agree to meet with Rosy Rosenthal and listen to his accusations.


Rosenthal was treading in dangerous territory. That same year, a gambler named McAuliffe testified about gamblers graft to the police. He was arrested, locked in a cell and beaten to death with nightsticks. The gambling community had already closed ranks on Rosenthal and encouraged their best customers to avoid him and Becker, who found out that Rosenthal intended to meet with the DA, had already sent word out on the street that “Nothing can happen to anyone who croaks Rosenthal.”  Yet, despite it all, Rosenthal almost seemed to be enjoying himself; he certainly enjoyed the attention he was getting. 
A day later, Becker met Baldy Jack Rose at the Union Square Hotel at a table behind the newsstand where Rose usually collected Becker’s graft. There, Becker said “This fellow Rosenthal means to do all he said he would do. All he set out to do to expose me and that I am his partner and that I am a grafter and that he is going to show me up and break me. Here I am in charge of the strong-arm squad and instead of getting money from that fellow, I give him money. I protected that place and looked after him and here is the gratitude, he’s looking for my scalp”
Rose said that he suggested that he speak to gambling community about the problem and have them apply pressure on Rosenthal as a favor to Becker and that Becker exploded “Do you think I would let anybody go to anybody and ask Rosenthal to let up on me? You don’t know me!”
Big Tim Sullivan was the recognized arbitrator of such disagreements. Meeting Becker and Baldy Jack Rose at a theater he owned on Broadway, Sullivan suggested buying Rosenthal’s silence until the problem between him and Becker could be worked out.
Later, and probably without Becker knowing it, Sullivan gave Baldy Jack Rose $6,000 in cash to give to Rosenthal. At this point, Baldy Jack may have set the crime in motion to have Rosenthal murdered, pocket the $6,000 in cash and have Becker take the blame for the killing.
A week after the meeting with Becker and Rose, Sullivan, who suffered from untreated Syphilis became delusional and paranoid. At the urging of his family, he was judged mentally incompetent and committed to a private hospital.
Becker told Rose to visit gang leader Big Jack Zelig and find out if he was interested in taking over the contract to kill Rosenthal. At the time, Zelig was jailed in New York’s prison, the infamous Tombs. 

He had been jailed several weeks before on a gun charge. During the arrest, which happened in a saloon he owned, Zelig shouted out to the forty customers in the place to note that he was being arrested for illegal possession of a deadly weapon and then threw his arms in the arm to demonstrate that he was not carrying weapon. It didn’t matter. But the time he arrived at the station house, a pistol appeared from thin air and was booked on the charge. Baldy Jack Rose visited Zelig at the Tombs and asked for his help in the Rosenthal situation, but Zelig refused to help unless Becker helped him get out of jail, to which Becker replied, “Then let him rot in the Tombs, who needs him?”
Perhaps at Zelig’s urging, Rose talked two of Zelig’s gang members, Lefty Louie and Whitey Louis, an opium addict, and told them that they would more than likely be arrested by members of Becker’s Broadway Squad the next morning for carrying concealed weapons.  Lefty Louis responded, “We don’t carry them no more since the trouble with Zelig” to which Rose answered, “Well it don’t make no difference. Zelig didn’t have one on him either” implying that Becker’s men would plant the guns on them if they had too. 

The bar room where Lefty Louie worked from

When a day went by and Rosenthal was still alive, Becker asked Rose, “What is the matter with that job? Rosenthal is still around. I see him every night as big as life” When Baldy Rose explained that he had to proceed carefully, Becker yelled “I told you, there is nothing to fear. Shoot him in front of a cop if you have too. Nothing will happen to you”
When the murder didn’t happen that night, Becker figured that Baldy Jack Rose had been lying about finding someone to assassinate Rosenthal. Becker took his business to Bridgey Webber.
Louis William Webber, known as Bridgey Webber, was a drug dealer and avowed enemy of Rosenthal's.  Webber earned his nickname simply because he lived with an Irish immigrant named Bridget who ran his opium den on Pell Street.
 The animosities between Rosenthal and Webber went back several years. One of Rosenthal's collectors and casino bouncers was the murderous John Lewis, better known in the annals of organized crime as Spanish Louie (Lewis was a Sephardic Jew, hence the nickname).

On one occasion, Rosenthal sent Spanish Louie to wreck one of Bridgey Webbers casinos and put it out of business so Rosenthal could steal his customers. To the shock of the underworld, Webber actually filed a criminal complaint against Spanish Louie and forced Rosenthal to pay Webber $900 in damages.
Several days later, Spanish Louie attacked Webber and his live-in girlfriend Bridget, and beat them both with a blackjack. For revenge, Webber paid Big Jake Zelig to send a crew, made up of Whitey Lewis, Gyp the Blood and Lefty Louis Rosenthal, to return the beating to Spanish Louie. No one knows exactly what happened, but Spanish Louie ended up shot to death.
Webber organized a meeting at the Lafayette Baths with Becker, Dago Frank Cirofici, Harry Vallon, Lefty Louis and Baldy Jack Rose. At the meeting, one of the bathes employees named James Marshal later testified that he heard Becker say, “If that bastard Rosenthal isn’t croaked, I will croak him myself” Marshal, who would testify for the prosecution in Becker’s trial, was a minor criminal with a record for illegal gambling, something that was not brought out during his testimony.  It was agreed that they would be paid, by Webber, $250 each for killing Rosy Rosenthal.
Later, Becker took the men to a Chinese restaurant when word reached them that Rosenthal and his wife were dinning a few doors away at the Garden Restaurant. Becker went to see for himself but was certain that Rosenthal was being protected by armed private detectives and called the shooting off for another day.   
On the night of July 15, 1912, Rosenthal was interviewed by District Attorney Charles Whitman. Rosenthal left the meeting at about 10:30 p.m. with the comment "You'll find me dead one of these days and you'll probably find they've planted a gun on me. They’ll get me for sure,” Whitman, laughed the remark off and told Rosenthal that he had nothing to worry about.
“Oh you can laugh it off” Rosenthal replied, “But I know what I am talking about. I don’t mean to say that a patrolman in uniform will step up and put a bullet in me. They don’t do things that way, but they do have ways of their own and they get to me”
Before they parted, Whitman advised Rosenthal that his charges were huge, and he would need a witness. Rosenthal offered his wife as his witness and Whitman agreed to meet them the next morning at 8:00 AM at Whitman’s home at 37 Madison Avenue. The DA assured Rosenthal that if the gambler's wife corroborated his story, he would convene a Grand Jury by noon that day.
At 11:00 PM, Rosenthal was home when he received a message to meet someone, he would not tell his wife who it was, at the Metropole Hotel down the block from his house, although the call probably came from Baldy Jack Rose who probably told him that Becker wanted to meet him privately to solve their differences. 

Baldy Jack Rose on the stand

Rosenthal dressed in a black suit with a black and red striped shirt with yellow buttons, and walked to the Metropole, arriving there at about 1:00 AM. “I tried to persuade him to stay home” Rosenthal’s wife said, “I tried all day to persuade him to get away, but he laughed at my fears and went out tonight against my wishes that he stays here in the house where was safe”

The Metropole, which was set to close in six days due to bankruptcy, was located at Broadway and 42nd Street and only feet from Times Square, was secretly owned by Big Tim Sullivan and fronted for him by a pair of gamblers named Jim and George F. Considine, friends of Arnold Rothstein. George Considine had once managed the careers of heavy weight champ James J. Corbitt and fighter Kid McCoy.  The partnership also owned the Miner's Theatre on the Bowery, a saloon on 6th Avenue and the infamous Lobster Palace.
The hotels rather dull, nondescript brownstone exterior masked a pretentious interior of  deep red-carpeted floors and Japanese curios, copies of masterpiece paintings and expensive faro and custom-built roulette tables on the first floor.

A tiny property, only 60 by 100 feet and six stories high, was less than fifty yards from the center of Times Square. It held a much sought after 24-hour drinking license, complimented by an all-night dining room, kept it filled constantly with a variety of interesting and quirky Manhattan night owls, causing composer Cole Porter to immortalize it in his song Ace in the Hole; 

This town is full of guys who think they're mighty wise,
just because they know a thing or two.
You'll meet them night and day, strollin' up and down Broadway
telling of the wonders they can do.
There's con men and there's boosters.
There's card sharks and crapshooters.
They congregate around the Metropole

 That night, a Hungarian Band played the Turkey Trot. Every light in the room was on and enormous electric fans blew a pleasant breeze across the room. When Rosenthal walked into the dining room, other gamblers lowered their heads and walked out. No one wanted to be seen talking to Rosenthal.
 Inside the Metropole 

Carrying a late edition newspaper, Rosenthal walked to the back of the cafe took a table for four and ordered a Horses Neck, bourbon, a twist of lemon and a ginger ale, and three large Havana cigars. A while later he was joined by gamblers Christian 'Boob' Walker, an occasional bodyguard for Bridgey Weber, 'Butch' Kitti’ and 'Fat Moe' Brown.
It was a chokingly humid night. Rosenthal told the men he was waiting for a reporter with the New York World newspaper, the Pulitzer Prize-winning reporter Herbert Bayard Swope, the same reporter who would later coin the term 'cold war'. Rosenthal said that he had promised Swope 'the story of the century'.
A few minutes before 2 A.M, the group ordered a pot of coffee and watched as Bridgey Webber strolled into the café and walking past Rosenthal’s table said, “Hello Herman”.  Rosenthal was probably taken aback by Bridgey's pleasant tone, since Rosenthal had, after all, once paid to have the narcotics dealer killed. Regardless, that evening he waved and answered back "Hello Bridge".
Webber strolled out of the cafe as quickly as he entered and took a seat in the lobby next to Harry Vallon, an opium dealer from Chinatown.

 Vallon and Webber were partners in a lucrative poker room at the northwest comer of Forty-Second Street and Sixth Avenue. They were also partners with Becker in several 'Struss' houses, Struss being a simplified version of faro. Standing next to Vallon was Lefty Louise. Webber told them “Rosenthal’s inside now.” And pointed him out since none of the gunmen knew what Rosenthal looked like. To be sure, they knew Rosenthal on sight, Vallon flagged a waiter and sent him to Rosy Rosenthal’s table. The waiter approached Rosenthal and said loudly “Herman, someone wants to see you outside”. At that, Lefty Louise walked outside and said, “The squealer is on his way out”
The killers were out on the sidewalk.  Lefty Louie Rosenberg 23, was one of the shooters. The other gunman was Sam Schepps, an opium dealer described by police as "intelligent, a smooth talker, neatly dressed, considerable jewelry, constant frequenter of theatres, associate of sporting men, vaudeville actors, etc., accustomed to good living, spending much time in Turkish baths, and an incessant cigarette smoker."  Schepps was essentially a flunky for Baldy Jack Rose.

Another member of the hit team was “Dago Frank” Cirofici, "one of the toughest men in the world". Suspected in at least six murders since 1900 and considered dangerous and unpredictable even in his own circles, Cirofici worked mostly as a stick-up artist and killer for Big Jake Zelig. Cirofici's girlfriend, known only as Dutch Sadie, carried a butcher's knife in her belt and worked with her boyfriend on the occasional mugging.
 All of them were members of the Lenox Avenue Gang, of which Harry the gyp Horowitz, was the nominal leader. The gang was started in or about 1900 and was made up essentially of pickpockets and burglars, and they answered, indirectly, to Jake Zelig, leader of the dominant Eastman gang.
 A Cuban cigar in hand and a newspaper under his arm, Rosenthal walked across the lobby, past the enormous potted palms, and out the front door. Harry Vallon said, "Over here Beansie!" and then three shots rang out. Although there were three men with pistols, only one, Lefty Louie Rosenberg, was firing. He shot high. The first bullet had missed and buried itself in the hotel large wooden doorframe. A second struck Rosenthal in the face, passed through his right cheek and shattered most of his teeth. A fragment landed in His neck and the third entered his skull. The killers were so close when they fired that Rosenthal's face was burned by the muzzle flash. 'gotcha!' one of the murderers cried out. 

Rosenthal was thrown backward and then, with his hands covering his face, down on to the sidewalk. The gunmen’s car swung up to the sidewalk, the killers leaped in and the car, driven by Billy Shapiro, age 20, who worked as a collector for Becker, disappeared.  An off-duty policeman Billy File, a former sparring partner for Gentleman Jim Corbett who had recently been reduced in rank from Detective to Patrolman for lying to the District Attorney, was in the hotel, probably as a plant by Becker. File said he rushed out onto the sidewalk and drawing his pistol, flagged down a nearby cab and with a patrolman named Brady, gave chase to the fleeing killers. However, District Attorney Whitman later classified File chase as “Little more than a pretense of pursuit” Among other things, File gave the investigating officers the wrong license plate number but DA Whitman, who had arrived on the scene, had the correct plate number, NY 41313. Officer and the cab driver had made a note of it.  
A crowd rushed out of the Metropole and dozens of people scurried over from Times Square just in time to watch a man in a hat, probably Baldy Jack Rose, step casually over the body, bend down and say loudly "Hello Herman" and then straightening up he smiled and said, "Goodbye Herman" and then disappeared into the unusually humid night.
It happened that Sadie Sherman, a stage actress from New Haven witnessed the entire murder. She said "I was sitting with Mr. Files and other friends at a table in the Metropolis.  I was waiting for a telephone message from my husband when the shooting occurred. Our table was in a straight line back from the door of the restaurant, which was about twenty feet away. When the man I suppose was Rosenthal went out alone, I saw him but paid no attention. Immediately there was a shot. Nobody moved because I supposed it was the blowing out of an automobile tire. Then came the second shot, and I saw the man in the doorway fall. I went to the door myself and looked at Rosenthal and then went back to our table.”

The first reporter on the scene was Alexander Humphreys Woollcott who was then covering the police beat for the New York Times. Woollcott, the inspiration for Sheridan Whiteside in The Man Who Came to Dinner, would go on to help form the infamous Algonquin Round Table and write theater reviews for the paper.

Alexander Humphreys Woollcott

Years later, Woollcott, who, as a crime reporter, had certainly seen his share of murder victims, wrote 'I shall always remember the picture of that soft, fat body wilting on the sidewalk and I shall always remember the fish-belly faces of the sibilant crowd which, sprung in a twinkling from where formed like a clot around those clamorous wounds. Just behind me an old-time whispered a comment, which I have had more than one occasion to repeat. "From where I stand, " he said, "I can see eight murderers. "
It was chaos out on the street. A crowd of about one hundred trampled close to the body until Jimmy Considine, Big Tim’s front man in the Metropole, had a waiter cover the corpse with a tablecloth. An ambulance arrived twenty minutes after the shooting, but the attendants concluded that Rosenthal, whose brain was mostly on the sidewalk, was probably dead before he hit the ground. A Doctor named Holmer who lived nearby arrived on the scene, and without bending over to inspect what was left of Rosy Rosenthal’s skull, declared him dead. A man called out from the crowd “Well he got his” causing several dozen people to laugh at loud
      Shapiro dropped the gunmen off at the corner of Forty-Ninth and 3rd Avenue and then returned the car to its garage in Washington Square. Bridgey Webber and Baldy Jack Rose met Becker outside the Murray Hills Bathes. “I congratulate you” Becker is supposed to have said to them “It was a good job. I was at the station house (After Rosenthal’s Body was brought in) and I saw Rosenthal there and I felt like taking my knife, reaching down and cutting his tongue out and hanging it up as a warning to squealers”   

The so-called Murder car

     With the correct license plate, the police tracked down the car and established that the same car had been used during a drive-by shooting of gangster Jack Sirocco's café the week before. That alone should have tipped off the police that Jack Zelig was tied into the murder, at least in some way. 
In 1911, Sirocco left a wounded Jack Zelig behind during a failed bank robbery. He also refused to post bail for Zelig and then tried to take over the Eastman Gang. But, Zelig, using his substantial political connection had the charges and walked free. Next, Sirocco sent an assassin to murder Zelig, but the plot was found out and instead Zelig murdered the assassin in December of 1911. The power struggle went back and forth until Zelig’s death in the fall of 1912.
The Norwich police, armed with photographs Whitey Lewis, Baldy Jack Rose and Lefty Louie, searched the city on a tip that Rose had used his Connecticut contacts to hide out for the New York City Police.
    The cops arrested the car’s owner, Louis Libby, and dragged him from his bed down to police headquarters for what a New York Times reporter called “intense third-degree questioning”. Minutes after the questioning began, Libby named his friend Billy Shapiro, as the driver who sped away from the murder scene with the killers.

     A squad of police tracked down Shapiro and, finding him, interrogated him. “If the grilling of Libby was stiff” the Times wrote “there were no words to describe the cross-examination through which (the police) put Libby’s partner” But Shapiro would not cooperate.
Louis Libby (center)

      The murder and Rosenthal's talk with the DA and the tie into Becker, was splashed across the morning papers and City Hall was forced to do something. Charles Becker was arrested for Herman Rosenthal’s murder on July 29. The arrest came largely on the testimony of Baldy Jack Rose.

Rosenthal's burial 

After being deeply implicated in the Rosenthal killing, Baldy Jack Rose turned himself in directly to the District Attorney and promptly worked a deal to save his own life. He informed on everyone, telling the police where they Shapiro was hiding. In turn, after his arrest, Shapiro, who denied any complicity in the killing, started to cooperate as well.
In the meantime, the DA’s case was slowly being sabotaged by Becker’s friend on the Police Department, to some degree to protect Becker but also to protect the department as a whole. It was just a matter of time, DA Whitman figured, before another one of his witnesses in the case, or even Becker himself, was found dead.
Lefty Rosenberg

Frantic to save his case, Whitman started to cut deals in exchange for information. Without conferring with his staff, he offered Rose, Webber, Vallon and Shapiro immunity for cooperation. 

They all leaped at the deal. Shapiro confessed that he drove the car to the Metropole and identified the killers as Louis “Lefty” Rosenberg, Frank “Dago Frank” Cirofici, Jacob “Whitey Lewis” Seidenschmer and Harry “Gyp the Blood” Horowitz.  Baldy Rose gave up Becker and squarely pinned every aspect of the murder in Becker’s camp. Rose testified that Becker told him "He (Rosenthal) ought to be put off this earth. There is a fellow I would like to have croaked! Have him murdered! Cut his throat, dynamite him or anything!"
       Further, Rose said, that on Becker's request he called on Gyp the Blood and Whitey Lewis who in turn recruited Lefty Louie and Dago Frank and that he paid them $1,000 total for the murder. Why Becker, a hands-on manager who had enormous contacts throughout the underworld, would need a minor hood like Rose to carry off the murder is unknown.
     To a large degree, Becker indicted himself when he said that on his way to his home to 165thstreet in the Bronx, he had driven down Fifth Avenue and across Broadway and passed by the Metropole Hotel at about 1:50 and that he was home by 2:05 when Rosenthal was killed.

    There was a substantial number of people who believed that although was certainly guilty of many things, he was guilty of ordering Rosenthal’s murder.  The theory is that Rosenthal's testimony would harm the street level hustlers more than it would harm Becker, and in that, Becker simply allowed the politically ambitious District Attorney Whitman, according to this theory, was fully aware that Becker was technically innocent, but saw that a conviction of corrected murdering cop would get him more political influence. And it did. Whitman was eventually elected Governor of the state.
     A second theory is that although Rosenthal met with the District Attorney Charles Whitman, apparently, he did not provide him with much information. Perhaps the initial meeting was intended only to send a message to Becker to back off. Most who knew Rosenthal agreed that he did not intend to give up his life to avenge an increase in protection money.
     Instead, they suspected that Rosenthal was actually shaking Becker down for $15,000 in cash and a promise to leave town. The reason he walked back to Metropole that evening was to meet Becker who had agreed to pay off. Although it is widely doubted, Mrs. Rosenthal later alleged that her husband had gone to the Metropole to keep an appointment with Charles Becker. However, she refused to testify to that information in court.
     In the meantime, the underworld and segments of the police department and City Hall shook in fear. The late-night murder of an otherwise unknown common gambler had attracted the world’s attention. Casino owners, fearing the worst, packed up their equipment and moved out of the city. Others wondered what would happen next. Becker and Baldy Jack Rose knew plenty about the system of pay and play. If they talked, the very foundation of the city would be rocked. The daylight murder of Jack Zelig proved the point.
    The prosecution’s case largely rested on the corroborating testimony of gang leader Big Jake Zelig who was spotted by several people, including at least two policemen, talking with Baldy Jack Rose at the corner of 29th and Third Avenue just minutes before the murder. But, on the evening of October 4, 1912, from the prison where he was being held in protective custody, Baldy Jack Rose told the state prosecutor “Zelig will never live to see the trial start. Watch. He’ll be the next one they get” And he was right. Four hours later and one day before he was to testify at the Rosenthal murder trial, Big Jake Zelig was at a party when Philip "Red Phil" Davidson, a Russian immigrant, kidnapper, and pimp either accidentally pushed Zelig or bumped into him on purpose, which led to a minor altercation. The following day, during a card game at Segal's Cafe, Davidson began pestering Zelig who then slapped Davidson and then threw him out of the saloon.

Philip "Red Phil" Davidson

     Several hours later, as Zelig boarded a streetcar, Davis said he walked up behind him and fired off a round into the back of his head, killing him. There were no witnesses. Captured a few moments later, Davidson said that he killed Zelig because he had no choice. He claimed that he been kidnapped and beaten by hoods who wanted Zelig dead, so they could keep him from testifying at the Rosenthal murder trial.

     Virtually no one believed his story. It is more likely that Zelig’s enemies in gangland murdered him and arranged for Davidson to take the fall. The Russian pleaded guilty to second-degree murder and served 12 years of a 20 years sentence in Sing Sing in upstate New York. 
     Jake Zelig was the last leader of the last massive street gangs that roamed and to a degree, ruled the streets of lower Manhattan. After Zelig’s murder, the once mighty Eastman gang crumbled, a dinosaur that had outlived its time. The Lennox Avenue Gang also ceased to exist.
Becker, right, in court

     Becker’s guilty conviction in his original trial was overturned on the ground that the trial judge, John Goff, the Fenian Hero, had been biased against Becker. However, a retrial in 1914, reaffirmed the 1912 conviction.

    A crafty defense lawyer probably could have kept Becker out of the electric chair, but after the jury learned that the cop was pocketing 20 times his annual salary in graft, they reasoned that he would probably commit murder to protect his income. He was found guilty and sentenced to death at Sing Sing prison. While on death row, Becker earned the respect of his fellow prisoners, many of whom were illiterate, by reading cowboy stories aloud to them while they passed away the hours.

Whitey Lewis on his way to prison

Crowd waits to see the jury exit the courtroom for the last time

 Becker on his way to Sing Sing

     Following Becker's conviction, Judge Goff sentenced Gyp the Blood Horowitz, Lefty Rosenberg, Dago Frank Cirofici and Whitey Lewis Seidenschmer to death in the electric chair as well. On April 14, 1914, the four of them were executed at Sing Sing prison.

  Dago Frank's funeral

     Before he was executed, Dago Frank Cirofici told a reporter “So far as I know, Becker had nothing to do with the case. It was a gambler’s fight. I told some lies on the stand to prove an alibi for the rest of the boys.” That November, former New York District Attorney Charles Whitman was elected Governor of New York, largely on the fame he gained from the Rosenthal case.
      On July 30, 1915, at 5:30, Becker became the first American police officer executed by capital punishment for murder.  When asked if he would appeal or ask the governor for leniency, Becker said defiantly “I’ll not ask for any quarter. I will not appeal to Whitman. I am ready to meet my maker” 
     An appeal would have been pointless anyway. Becker’s wife had already made an appeal, in person, to Governor Whitman who turned her down with the words “My real sorrow is for you and your child”

    The larger question was how could Whitman decide on the issue in any fair way? He was, after all, the prosecutor brought helped to find Becker guilty and see him given the death sentence. Some in the state house suggested that the Governor could not make a fair decision regarding clemency and should have turned Becker’s case over to the Lieutenant Governor, but Whitman refused to cooperate.
Charles Becker’s final words were "Into thy hands 0 Lord, I commend my spirit." Unfortunately, for Becker and the reporters brought in to witness the execution, the first jolt of electricity did not kill him. Nor did the second jolt. It was gruesome to watch. Finally, eight minutes after the first jolt, the third jolt killed him.
A silver plate affixed to his coffin and engraved with the epitaph: “Charles Becker. Murdered July 13, 1915. By Governor Whitman.” However before he was buried, authorities ordered the plate removed. Becker’s son, Howard, became a prominent sociologist and his son, Christopher, taught history in Connecticut, at Yale and Quinnipiac.
In August of 1912, Big Tim Sullivan, the fierce political boss who started the careers of both Becker and Rosenthal, was being held in a Bronx mental asylum by order of the court. He bribed his orderlies and escaped to the outside for several hours of freedom before he died, apparently of natural causes. 

His body was found sprawled across railroad track, nearly severed in half when a train on the old New Haven Line inadvertently ran it over. Because the orderlies had failed to report him as missing, Sullivan's body went unclaimed and he was scheduled for a pauper's grave in Potters Field, until it was recognized by an off-duty policeman.   Over 25, 0000 people attended his wake and funeral. He was the last of the Tammany Wild Cats and his death marked the end of the organization, which limped along for another twenty-five years before it collapsed.
Bridgey Webber would spend the rest of his life certain that Charlie Becker’s friends were going to kill. He changed his name, fled to Cuba for a while, and finally settled in Northern New Jersey where he opened a successful box-manufacturing firm, the Garfield Paper Company. He died suddenly of peritonitis at age 59.
Sam Paul, who paid for Rosy Rosenthal’s funeral, and was probably the brains behind the murder of Rosy Rosenthal, died of natural cause’s in1927. The target of ceaseless arrests and raids by the police, who were also certain he had framed Becker for Rosenthal’s murder, by the time Paul died his tiny empire of pool halls, dinners, cafes and strip joints were long gone.

Gunman Sam Schepps was arrested for forgery in 1933. He was convicted and sent to prison. Upon his release, he became a prosperous jewelry and antique dealer. He died in 1936.  

Harry Vallon, one of the men who fired shots into Rosy Rosenthal, was reported to be living under an alias in Pittsburgh in 1915. After that, he disappeared into oblivion.


Jack Rose left New York in disguise in 1915. Broadway gambler were laying odds that he would be murdered by the end of the year.  He declared bankruptcy, bought a patch of farm land in Westport and donned a wig and fake eyebrows.

“I want to move to someplace quiet, a country town, where my children will be brought up under proper influences. I want to get them away from the atmosphere of New York. The Tenderloin is a great spot to open a quart of wine but its not a place to raise a family.
Locked out of the gambling business and with no other options left took to the Christian (Rose was raised Jewish) speaking circuit where he preached against the ills of the underworld.

He and his wife returned to Manhattan in the early 1930s and lived comfortably in a residential hotel on West 55th Street. In 1936, the state of New York considered charging Rose with the Rosenthal murder, but the case eventually fizzled out.
 In September of 1947, at age 72, Rose entered the Roosevelt hospital complaining of stomach ailments. He never left the hospital, dying there of undisclosed internal disorders on October 4, 1947.