A Secret Gift (43 page)

In 1933, no tour of Canton would have been complete without a visit to the Palace Theater and Meyers Lake Amusement Park, the two great escapes from the Great Depression. Today the theater enjoys a place in the National Register of Historic Places, but it is ailing. Once it was the most ornate edifice in the city. Even at ninety-six, Marjorie Markey, daughter of “Gray the Painter,” remembers the fabulous organ rising out of the pit, Banks Kennedy playing the keys. But today, at eighty-two, the theater’s plaster is falling, the tapestries are tattered, the furniture is broken, and the marquee has been allowed to go dark—deemed too expensive to feed its forty-eight hundred lights. An appeal to passersby for contributions to help with the utilities is posted on the door.

Meyers Lake Amusement Park, which hosted the dance marathon and was where Betty Gissiner and her beau would find relief and laughter, was itself not immune to the Depression. When business fell off, its owner, George Sinclair, secretly extended a plank across the moat to Monkey Island and let the monkeys escape, then breathlessly phoned in the story to the
Canton Repository
. “I don’t know how they got out,” he told the paper. The next day, attendance at the park soared as people came to watch monkey mayhem. Today, nothing remains of Meyers Lake Park except the lake for which it was named and the cottages and condos that sprang up around it.

But even today, B. Virdot’s gift enjoys a half-life in Canton. At Christmas 2008, following my discovery of the suitcase, the
Repository
ran an editorial citing Sam Stone (a.k.a. Mr. B. Virdot) and his generosity:

“Stone himself was not a wealthy man, but he had done well enough for his time. He also had experienced the loss of a business and had benefited from the help of others in getting back on his feet. And so, just before Christmas in 1933, Stone reached out to help others, with no wish for acclaim. Our own time is tough enough. There is no better role model than Samuel J. Stone.”

And as Sam Stone himself would have been the first to note, numbers themselves do not tell the whole story. Five dollars was so little and yet so much. Today’s unemployment numbers are real enough, but so too are the character and resilience of Canton’s people. Hard Times come and go, but even in these difficult days they are showing the same grit, compassion, and resourcefulness that have always defined the city and held out the prospect of better days ahead.

The place to begin dispensing thanks is with the descendants of those who wrote to B. Virdot that Christmas of 1933. Children and grandchildren, siblings, nieces and nephews—all who allowed me to enter their lives and the memories of those who were loved (and, more difficult still, those who were not). To you, I owe much. You gave me not only a book but a lesson in both history and the character of the country. For most Americans, 1933 was not a good year, and, though hardly comparable, neither were the years in which this book took shape. Still, your courage and humor were themselves a powerfully needed stimulus package for trying times. I defy anyone to spend time with you and not emerge an optimist.

To my many relatives—all those (especially Shirley Cohen) who helped me piece together the riddle of Sam’s life but also shared with me the stories of his siblings—I want to say thank you. Their story is not always pretty, and I have made no attempt to gussy it up. It is what it is. That we as a family, the descendants of two displaced Romanian immigrants named Jacob and Hinde, have come into such a life is a testament to their dream of what could be and also what we ourselves have made of it. It is my hope that whatever bad blood stood between our forebears, founded or not, is finally consigned to the past. Consider this a belated olive branch.

To the many good and gracious people in Canton—shopkeepers, steelworkers, city officials, police, social workers, retirees, and the unemployed—who spent innumerable hours with me, your contributions to this story were invaluable. Though I have not lived in Canton for decades, you made me feel as though I were home again.

Deepest appreciation must go to the staff of the genealogical division of the Stark County Public Library, without whose tireless support and resourcefulness this book would have been vastly more difficult and less complete. Lauren Landis was the consummate professional.

I am also indebted to Char Lautzenheiser of the Classic Auto Museum both for her insights into Canton and for her research aids that made it possible for me to track the descendants of those who wrote to Mr. B. Virdot.

At the McKinley Presidential Library & Museum, curator Kimberly Kenney and librarian Karl Ash were of immeasurable help. For her valuable assistance and indefatigable research—and for introducing me to Nicholas Lane, my fabulous guide to the city—I thank Susan M. Melnick, archivist of the Rauh Jewish Archives at Pittsburgh’s Heinz History Center.

Thanks too to any number of friends and family whose suggestions and enthusiasm were invaluable, and whose tolerance in hearing me prattle on about these stories was heroic. A few deserve special mention: Mike Riley, Katie Jordan, Alex Jones, Howard Landau, Thrity Umrigar, Cyrus Taylor, Bill Siebenschuh, Doug Struck, Regina Brett, my thanks to each of you. Thanks too to Jared Bendis, whose tech savvy was exceeded only by his patience with me. And to the late “Bidey” Bryant, who lovingly introduced me to a Canton I might otherwise never have known.

To my many mentors—Ben Bradlee, Bob Woodward, Len Downie—special thanks. To Terry Oblander, for helping me find a place in journalism, for taking my pencil and forcing me to learn to type, and for showing me what a lede should look like, I will be forever grateful. To the legions of others—the late and beloved Frank Longstreth, Eleanor Roundy, Allen Grossman—abiding appreciation. I am particularly indebted to my dear friend Peter de Roetth, whose insights and texual questions proved invaluable.

To the late Susan Tifft, dearest of friends, a note to say your confidence in me made all the difference. Your friendship was itself “A Special Gift.”

To my agent, David Black, thank you hardly seems adequate. That he is a superlative agent is well known. That he is a friend, a demanding editor, and a thinly disguised psychologist on constant call makes him so much more than an agent. And to Susan Raihoffer, who works with David, my gratitude for your belief that such an account was not meant for American eyes alone.

To my editor at Penguin, Eamon Dolan, who made sense of my words, there are no words adequate to express my debt. From our first conversation, I knew the book was in the best of hands, that I could trust his judgment, and that his insights and instincts would enrich the book immeasurably. For stretching me to the limits of my capabilities, I say thank you. A nod too to Penguin’s Nicole Hughes, whose close reading of this manuscript was deeply appreciated.

The list of those who contributed to this project is longer than time or space allows, but no one was of greater help than my wife, Peggy Watts Gup, whose counsel and guidance left an indelible impression on the book. With candor and passion she influenced the project from initial proposal to final draft, helping me select which letters to include, and creating spreadsheets and organizational systems to manage the information. She asked the questions that ultimately helped shape the narrative. Thanks too to my two teenage sons, David and Matthew, for sleeping late and letting me work.

This book owes everything to my mother, Virginia, and not just for giving me birth and then handing me the suitcase with the B. Virdot letters, but also for teaching me (contrary to prevailing parental wisdom) that I should always talk to strangers, that there is no such thing as too many questions, and that sticking my nose in other people’s business could be turned into a gratifying and even lucrative profession. My father’s hand was in this too, though he has been gone for decades.

For Dorothy, my mother’s sister, thank you for fielding endless questions, sharing your memories, and combing through mountains of old photographs, legal documents, correspondence, and yellowing newspapers in aid of this story. Thank you for not throwing out the suitcase and its letters while they were in your possession. Without your enormous help, this book would have been much diminished.

Deep appreciation for my sister, Audrey, whose support and enthusiasm mean so much to me.

The final thanks go to my grandparents, Sam and Minna Stone. Though they both passed before they could have possibly imagined their grandson undertaking such a project, it is their hands, their hearts, their words, and their genes that gave life to this book.

Twenty-eight years after Sam Stone left us, I still cannot quite bring myself to believe he is gone. A part of me imagines that, as he did so often, he is merely holding his breath under the water, ready to explode on the surface, expelling a spume of water and a hearty laugh. Sam Finkelstein, Sam Stone, Mr. B. Virdot, Sambo—whatever name you went by, we, your descendants, thank you for your gift.

Digital copies of the letters to B. Virdot are to be given to the William McKinley Presidential Library and Stark County Historical Society in Canton, Ohio, as well as to the Franklin D. Roosevelt Presidential Library in Hyde Park, New York. A Web site features more of the letters as well as additional photos, research materials, and links to related sites and upcoming public appearances by the author. It is hoped that the Web site will be of use not only to the citizens of Canton but to students and scholars who study the Great Depression. Please visit
www.asecretgiftbook.com
.

—T.S.G.

Sam’s father, Janne, or Jacob, Finkelstein, is born in Romania.

 

Sam’s mother, Hilda, or Hinde, Bacall, is born in Romania.

 

Sam is born in Romania. He would variously give his birth year as 1888,

1889, or 1890, but nearly always listed the date as March 2.
^.

 

The years Sam Stone claims in midlife that his parents came to America and then returned to Romania, and that he was born during their visit to the United States. There is no documentary evidence to support that claim.

Romania passes the Law of Guilds, barring Jews from practicing many professions. It comes on top of numerous earlier anti-Semitic pieces of legislation. In September, the United States protests Romania’s treatment of Jews. That is the same month Sam and his father set sail for America from Le Havre, France.

 

Father Janne (Jacob) Finkelstein, age forty-three; eldest son, Sam, fifteen; eldest daughter, Hana Sure (Sarah), seventeen; and Moses (Morris, Mack), eleven, arrive in the port of New York and make their way to Pittsburgh to join a growing community of displaced Romanian Jews.