by A M Homes
I am the plaintiff herein. This action is brought to recover $21,000 with interest thereon upon two promissory notes aggregating $19,000 and a check of $2000.
It goes on.
I never gambled with Arnold Rothstein in my lifetime. I never borrowed any money from him. He and I were intimate personal friends, and from time to time he borrowed money from me. He knew I was always possessed of large amounts of cash.
Nowhere in the papers is there any explanation of what business Kahn was in that had him “always possessed of large amounts of cash.” Basically there was no defense for this case because the only option was for the Rothstein estate to prove that this was a gambling debt and therefore not legal or valid.
After much back-and-forth the motion for a judgment is granted, “in favor of the plaintiff for $21,000, together with interest, as demanded in the complaint.”
The fact that the man who appears to be Ellen’s maternal grandfather had the nerve to make a case against the estate of Rothstein, a man described as “the spiritual father of American organized crime,” and a “criminal genius,” tells me that Benedict Kahn must have been someone that both the estate and the court took seriously—but beyond that I find nothing, except the seeds of a strong interest in numbers and gambling that echoed throughout subsequent generations.
And then there is the sad story of the Bellman who got bumped on his head—big time. Here is another Henry—this time Bellman, not Hecht—but for inexplicable reasons, I remain convinced that somewhere I do have a biological relative named Henry.
Henry Bellman vs. In Re: George Bellman vs. Timken Silent Automatic Co.
Henry Bellman, born in Germany in 1902, arriving in New York in 1928, is brought to Bellevue saying he can’t sleep, has a headache, lights are bothering him. In the presence of the doctors, he said:
The way it looks they throw lights, right into my room, and I can’t sleep. I hear them talking. They laugh at me. I moved five times in three or four months. They follow me in the street. They make fun of me. I heard them say c.s. and s.o.b. I don’t know if they want to kill me. They are down here too.
He was committed to Central Islip State Hospital.
George Bellman as guardian for Henry Bellman files a case against the Timken Silent Automatic Co. asking for $150,000 in damages, stating that Henry, never injured or ill, working as a driller for $8.80 a day, was on September 8, 1934, on First Avenue between Ninety-sixth and Ninety-seventh Streets, struck by a truck. The truck, which swerved to avoid a granite block in the roadway, bumped another car into a ditch, and then ran through a barricade, striking Henry Bellman, knocking him unconscious for more than ten minutes. His injuries, initially thought to be mild, became progressive. His condition deteriorated, and in July 1935 Henry began to complain that people were spying on him. The case was filed first by Henry and then by the family—seeking to be able to afford a better-quality care for their brother. It was settled without trial for $27,500, of which $13,750 was paid to the attorney the brother hired before his condition had so deteriorated. The Honorable Edward R. Koch was presiding justice, April 8, 1936. Case file stamped LUNACY.
I can’t help but think about the difficulty of these immigrants’ lives, of Bernhard Kahn and Henry Bellman and thousands of others. They left their homes and families in Europe under what were often pressured and fearful circumstances. With only the belongings they could carry on their backs they set off on a difficult journey to a mythical faraway place, hoping for Utopia, finding instead a foreign language, discrimination, and poor working and living conditions. I am amazed at the resilience and fortitude most immigrants demonstrated and am also surprised that more didn’t simply go mad—there are times I think, how could you not?
Whether or not Magdaline, William, and their son, Howard, or Bernhard or Henry are related to me by blood, they are all related by humanity and by the stories the files tell, and it is all lunacy! I am including the stories here because I cannot bear for them to be forgotten.
I continue to dig, off and on, stop and start, and collect the fragments of hundreds of lives. The technicality of biological relation becomes somewhat irrelevant—I am thrilled by what I am finding, by dipping into history, by seeing how people lived and died, noticing what else was going on in the world at each of these points. As stressful it has been, I have enjoyed the process; it amazes me how deep and expansive the World Wide Web is (at only fifteen years old) and I am thrilled to have met and corresponded with so many people along the way. My search is no longer all-consuming, the initial urgency has settled into a perhaps healthier continuing curiosity and no doubt will continue on and off over time. And yes, there is comfort in having connected some of the dots—in having names and dates and some sense of where my family lines and I fit into history. I can juxtapose Robert Slye’s birth in England with the reign of Queen Elizabeth. I note that Friedrich Nietzsche is born in the same year as Jacob Spitzer (the father of my beloved grandmother Julia Beatrice), and that in 1959, the year of my brother Jon’s birth, the Dalai Lama escapes Tibet and goes to India, while Alaska and Hawaii become the latest additions to the United States. In January 1961, the year of my birth, at the inauguration of John F. Kennedy, the American poet Robert Frost stands to recite a new poem, “Kitty Hawk,” but is frail and fumbles the words. He begins again, instead reciting “The Gift Outright.”
My Father’s Ass
Norman Hecht as a boy
Norman Hecht as a young man
I have not spoken to my father since the conversation in late 1998 that ended with him saying I could call him anytime—“Call me in the car, my wife’s not usually in the car.”
In the summer of 2005, as an extension of my genealogical adventure, I decide to join the Daughters of the American Revolution. My desire is not political but personal. I want to join the DAR because it is a lineage organization—and among the first things my father told me about myself was that I am eligible. And while I am an unlikely member of such an organization, I want to try it on as a piece of my biological identity—I want to see from the inside the thing that I am not. My friends are upset by the idea; they view the DAR as right wing and racist. In 1939 the DAR refused to allow the black singer Marian Anderson to sing at Washington D.C.’s Constitution Hall. (Subsequently Miss Anderson sang at Constitution Hall six times.) I explain to my friends that understanding my background is not just about embracing the parts that feel comfortable, and that, in this case, my interest is in the concept of lineage. I trade e-mails with the president of the Port Tobacco, Maryland, chapter—the hometown chapter of the Slyes of Maryland. She sends me a copy of the worksheet, which asks the applicant to walk back through time and provide the documentation for fourteen generations proving the link to the one deemed “the Patriot.”
I am assured that this documentation can be assembled if I can provide the more current information—namely my father’s birth certificate and my own. A complication—my father’s name is not on my birth certificate. And my father’s birth certificate is available from the District of Columbia Department of Vital Records, but only to next of kin—photo ID required. I explain to the DAR that my birth parents were not married and that I was adopted and I do not have a birth certificate with my father’s name on it, but that my father and I had a DNA test to prove our relationship. The DAR responds that they do not care if my parents were married or not, they will accept the DNA test as sufficient proof. A further complication—I don’t have a copy of the results.
Why didn’t I ask him for a copy of the test in July 1993 when the blood was drawn? I could say I felt shy, but the truth is I felt infantile—thrown back through time. It was all I could do to hold on to any semblance of self. I wanted him to like me, I wanted to know more about who I was, where I had come from. I felt I had to do what I was told. As much as he and I were equal participants in the test, he paid for it, refusing to accept my offer to share the expense. I was intimidated. I didn’t want to cause trouble. I didn’t want to be re
jected again.
I imagine asking him and am intimidated even now. Just the idea of it hurts. And I always worry that my call will come too late—he will be dead. And even if he’s not, what will I say—“Hi, I want to join the DAR and I need a copy of your birth certificate and the DNA test?”
I imagine him answering the phone—his voice will tremble and he’ll say, “This is not a good time—can I call you back later?” How will I feel if he doesn’t call back? And what if I do manage to ask for what I want and he stalls, and there is an awkward and heavy silence? Do I continue, “We were equals in submitting to the test and both have the right to the information?” And if he says, “I don’t think so,” I’m not sure where I go. “I’ve never asked you for anything, but now I am asking you for something and I hope you will reconsider.”
I think of calling him—in my imagination, his wife answers the phone, and is not pleased. To her I am illegitimate. Does it mean I don’t exist, that I never existed, that I am something to be forgotten, left behind, basically a big embarrassment?
In my thoughts I can call him; in reality I can’t pick up the phone.
I ask Marc, my lawyer—the same lawyer who called him years ago to tell him Ellen was dead—if he would mind giving him a call. I give Marc the phone number and explain that his wife might answer. We discuss what he is going to say. The call is made.
The wife answers the phone and my father goes into another room to take the call. My father tells my lawyer that he will not provide the test result, that in fact he does not even have the test result—he gave it to his own lawyer for safekeeping. Marc is told that he should not call my father anymore, that any further communication should go through my father’s lawyer. Marc calls my father’s lawyer and the lawyer tells him that, yes, he did have the test result but that he did something with it—can’t remember what, so it’s not to be had. Marc tells him that an affidavit of paternity will do and is told that that’s not possible, that’s not going to happen.
Call me naive—there was part of me that thought when my lawyer called and asked for the test results, the answer would be, Yes, of course, and how is she?
When Marc calls to tell me how it went I’m feeling hopeful, cheered by the swiftness of the response. “I spoke to your father,” he says and I’m pleased, proud in a certain way, and then he says, “And it didn’t go well,” and my spirits sink. “He declined to provide the information and asked that we not contact him directly again.” That’s my father we’re talking about—my father is saying, Please don’t call again. Was it something I said, or just the fact of my existence?
The idea that my father asked me to participate in a DNA test—asked me to prove myself to him—and now won’t share the results is not okay. It is about power and arrogance and the negation of my right to own my identity. I feel a moral obligation—a social and political obligation, an obligation that is larger than me—to try and get a better resolution, a better end.
“What did you expect?” a friend asks.
“More,” I say.
“This is nothing new,” she says. “He’s behaving in character. Look at what he did to your mother. He’s not a good guy.”
“He’s my father.”
“You’re screwed.”
I am waiting for this man to do the right thing. What I want from him is not his money or even his love—at this point, in the absence of his affection, I want a context, a history, a way of understanding how all this came to be. Will I ever have the question answered: Where did my paternal grandparents meet, what was their courtship like, how did it happen that the son of a Jewish butcher married a Southern belle?
And now I also have to defend my dead mother. My friend is right about this. It’s not about me, it’s about him, it’s about the way he behaves, how he values people, how he does only what he wants, what’s good for him. My mother had no life after she gave me up—she never married, never had another family. She had invested in him from a very early age—he used her and then said good-bye. She never recovered.
“Law is not about what is fair, you realize that,” a friend says to me.
I call another friend, who calls Lanny Davis, a well-known Maryland lawyer who acted as special counsel to the White House under Bill Clinton. I remember Davis from when I was growing up and he was an up-and-coming local politico. I instinctively trust him and explain the situation. Lanny offers to make a call for me; he is quite sure that if he explains the situation to my father—and the reason that I am asking for this document—it will be forthcoming.
“There’s no reason to think we’ll have to take this further.” I give him the telephone number and again mention that the wife might answer the phone. He calls me the next afternoon—shocked. My father took his call, seemed to know why he was calling before he even said anything, and flat out refused. Lanny, being careful about his description of the events, told him, “I was approached by your daughter and asked to consider representing her, but having heard the story, it is my hope that this can be resolved without my having to put my lawyer hat on.” Norman refused. “Should I put my lawyer hat on? Should I be speaking with your lawyer?” My father refused to even tell Lanny his lawyer’s name and/or provide the lawyer’s phone number—both of which I already had.
Lanny called my father’s lawyer. The lawyer said, “You don’t have a leg to stand on, there is nothing to go to court about, there is no case, and you cannot have the document.” He said no and no and no. The lawyer was cautiously reminded that if this became a court case it also became a public event. He was unfazed.
“Is there anything else I should know?” Lanny asked me. “Some other reason why he wouldn’t want you to have this?”
“There are only two things I can think of: one is that he is not really my father, but somehow wanted to be, in some strange way; or maybe he’s worried I’ll make a claim on his estate.”
Long ago, when he stopped talking with me, I thought it might be because he was worried that I would sue his estate for a “piece of the pie.” I explain to Lanny I want nothing from his estate and in fact would feel compelled to refuse anything were it to come.
Once again in my head I am writing letters.
Dear Norman,
Are you kidding? You are writing your own history. You are painting a portrait of yourself that is less than flattering—want to reconsider?
I confer with lawyers—everyone is surprised. It shouldn’t be this difficult.
“Is it something about your family and the DAR? Something maybe you don’t know? Something that bubbles beneath?” someone asks.
What bubbles beneath is rage—nuclear-hot rage. And below that, deep grief—profound disappointment that he is not capable of more, cannot rise to the occasion, does not feel compelled to do better.
I go to see the rabbi. I am hoping for some insight, hoping there is learned example, spiritual intervention that will guide my decisions. We talk a lot about what is to be gained and what is to be lost—the actual importance of the piece of paper and the larger picture.
The rabbi suggests I write a letter—a simple note: I am writing to let you know that if I don’t hear from you to the contrary, I am going, from now forward, to act as if and assume that you are my biological father.
The rabbi suggests that I run that past the lawyer. I do and the lawyer points out that it proves nothing, that it simply sets me up to wait—for nothing.
I write more letters in my head:
Dear Dad,
My interest in the DAR is about genealogy and lineage and I cannot let your actions stop me from joining with hundreds of years of my biological decedents.
You long ago promised to take me into your family—and I understand that life and families are complicated things. What I am asking for is not about your immediate family, your sons and daughters who are biologically no more or less related to you than I—what I am asking you for is to provide the link, so that I may make my own connection to my past, allowing me to j
oin my relatives of the last four hundred years. It is the history that interests me, the history of all of the families that I am part of….
Dad—
You fancy yourself a man of belief, of good character; I would think as one grows older one would think about that belief, about what one’s God expects of him, about one’s behavior through the course of his lifetime. I am a person of great optimism and faith and it remains my hope that we can resolve this with some measure of grace.
Pop—
Take responsibility for your actions, be a bigger person, be a man.
Mr.
You are an old man——don’t you want peace, don’t you want people to feel good about you?
Dad—
Fine thing. Isn’t that your expression for events such as these?
The lawyers debate what to do—is there a way to compel him to produce the document? If we were to take him to court, what would we take him to court for—breach of contract? unfair use of the results? He’s had more than 50 percent use of a co-owned result for all these years. If in fact he lied to me, saying, I want you to do this test so I can take you into my family, when he may have wanted the results to explicitly exclude me from his family, from his estate—it’s fraud. Was he acting fraudulently?
“Where was the test done?” one of the lawyers asks me.
“The blood was drawn in Washington, D.C.”
“What was the name of the lab?”
“I don’t remember. I’m not sure it even had a name—it wasn’t so much a lab as an office, a collection site.”
“Maybe you can get the result directly from the lab.”
Once again I am digging. I am looking for blood labs that did DNA blood testing in 1993—before it was all the rage, before everyone and their mother wanted to know who throughout history was their brother. I uncover Orchid Cellmark—the leader in DNA testing—and give them a call.