Storywalks is just the coolest thing. It’s a new, free smartphone app that will debut at the Museum at Eldridge Street with a launch party on December 6th. Why is it so amazing? Because it brings history to life by restoring voices from the past to our exquisite sanctuary. It’s a beautiful marriage of old and new technology.

Here’s a sample – you can sit in the women’s balcony in the synagogue and listen to Max Smith talk about sitting up there with his mom when he was a kid:

Storywalks began when Carlin M. Wragg and Anna Pinkas came to Eldridge Street as interns from the Interactive Telecommunications Program (ITP) at NYU. They had a mission: collaborate with the Museum to develop a new way to use interactive technology to enhance a visitor’s experience at the historic Eldridge Street Synagogue. “We have a passion for creating experiences that lie at the intersection of art and education,” they said. Carlin is a creative writer who uses archival media and the latest expressive technologies to tell stories about ordinary lives. Anna is a visual artist with a background in animation whose work with collections and series excavates the extraordinary slumbering within the mundane. They’ve both since graduated from ITP.

“A place like Eldridge Street invites you to wonder what it was like to be there when its benches were filled with congregants and the voices of famous cantors lead the congregation in prayer,” said Carlin, recalling how Storywalks got started.  ”The Museum at Eldridge Street has worked for years to gather congregants’ memories of that time on cassette tapes and CDs. There is something special about these voices — their accents, the way their speech is infused with Yiddish phrases — that only comes through in the audio. From the beginning, the oral histories were core to the experience we set out to design; we wanted to create a way for these congregants to speak through time to tell visitors their stories.”

Carlin and Anna began developing this new app in January 2012 and had a prototype ready in May, which they presented to the Museum’s staff. As the Museum’s archivist, I was familiar with the oral histories they used for Storywalks—I’d seen the old cassette tapes in the archives and read the transcripts. But hearing what Carlin and Anna did with them was completely new and exciting! Suddenly the people – and the synagogue – came to life. These voices from the past told about what it was like to be part of the Eldridge Street community and its Lower East Side neighborhood in the 1920s, 30s and 40s. It was magical!

We all loved Storywalks, but there was the question of funding. “As a former arts administrator, I appreciate the limited resources museums have to experiment with innovations in interactive technology,” explained Carlin. “To create the experience of our dreams we need to hire a developer who has the expertise to build a boundary-pushing smartphone app.” The project needed money to move forward.

Ever resourceful, Carlin and Anna undertook a Kickstarter campaign and successfully crowdsourced the needed budget. “Storywalks shows what makes nonprofits special,” said Carlin, “A passion for mission, community support and a commitment to collaboration can drive innovation.”

Now ready to launch, Storywalks uses cutting-edge interactive technology to guide visitors along a sonic pathway of voices, music and environmental sounds, highlighting the synagogue’s architectural treasures, fascinating history and long musical tradition. It infuses the landmark Eldridge Street Synagogue with the voices of more than a dozen past congregants, making these voices from the past available to the public for the first time. Storywalks also features prayers sung by renowned cantor Edward Smith, son of Eldridge Street congregant Max Smith whose voice is featured in the clip above.

The app uses a map of Eldridge Street and simple floor plans of the synagogue’s three levels to orient the visitor.  Voices are triggered by a touch on the screen. “We didn’t want Storywalks to feel impersonal and glossy, like so many smartphone apps,” said designer Anna. “The intimate and picturesque testimonies from this oral history archive lead us to a narrative that reflects the synagogue’s multi-layered history. We use the building’s floor plan to situate users, allowing them to immerse themselves in the splendor of the site rather than constantly calling attention to their hand-held screen.”

This public art piece is a collaboration between the Museum at Eldridge Street, Carlin M. Wragg (Producer and Narrative Designer) and Anna Pinkas (Visual and Interaction Designer), with custom software by creative technologists Chien-Yu Lin and Lia Martinez, a soundscape composed by musician Mercedes Blasco, and location recording and sound mixing by Ryan Billia.

“Storywalks is an unbelievable Chanukah gift,” said the Museum’s Deputy Director, Amy Stein-Milford. It’s a gift we feel very fortunate to receive – and one we can’t wait to share.

Come for a preview. The Storywalks Launch Party is on Thursday, December 6, from 6:30-8:30, at the Museum. The event is free.

When my father passed away two and a half years ago, we had to clear out our family home. My family had lived there for about 54 years and in addition to the regular family detritus, somehow we had become the clearing house for stuff from our extended family and friends of family, too! It made cleaning up very interesting.

One day we found a packet of letters and report cards belonging to my father and his younger brother, Mason, who had died relatively young, when he was in his early forties. My Uncle Mason had been a sociology professor and, like me, had traveled a lot for his career: California, Montana, Europe, the Mid-East, New England and then back to Massachusetts. He always sent my sister and me trinkets from his travels — jewelry, dolls and the like — but he died when I was in my early teens and I never got to hear his stories of travel or his service in World War Two.

I was thrilled to find this packet of letters from his time in the service (he was stationed in Europe and Missouri). Most of the letters from abroad were short and censored but he wrote faithfully to my grandparents. This one, though, made my brothers and sister and me chuckle a bit. We never pegged Uncle Mason as a regular shul goer, but this proved us wrong. The letter from the director of the Jewish Welfare Board, although a form letter, is a sweet and heartfelt one, alluding to the darkness of the War yet hoping to comfort my Bubba. I found it curious that it was only addressed to her and not my Pa, although my grandfather had been a founding member of the Waltham synagogue and was one of the loyal minyan.

If any of you reading this have family papers you haven’t looked at in awhile, take some time during this season of festivals and read and share them with one another. The storytelling and sharing are as sweet as the honey and apple!

The streets of the Lower East Side are filled with religious spaces of all shapes and sizes: churches, Buddhist temples and synagogues, to mention a few. Even within a Judaic context, houses of worship vary greatly. The Eldridge Street Synagogue, boasting an ornate stucco façade displaying Stars of David, is a recognizably Jewish space. But, not all synagogues in the area are as easily distinguishable.

I invite you to travel back in time to the turn of the 20th- century, when the streets of the Lower East Side were filled with new immigrants arriving daily from Eastern Europe. A lack of space and a desire to worship with individuals from one’s own community led to the popularity of shtieblach, or storefront synagogues. Some were as cramped as a single room, having space for only a small minyan (quorom of 10 required for prayer). Congregations shared buildings with shops, tailors and even secular newspapers and non-kosher eateries! The Lower East Side became the home to over 500 small shtieblach, some of which still stand today.

Equipped with a map outlined by our Deputy Director Amy Stein-Milford, fellow intern Sophie and I ventured to explore Shtieblach Row, home to an entire block of small, storefront synagogues.

To the casual passerby these buildings appear to be standard tenement apartments, but plaques display the name of congregations whose roots trace back to Eastern Europe. While walking, Sophie and I stopped to take a closer look at 239 East Broadway, Congregation Chevras Yeshuas Yaakov Anshe Sfard. The founders emigrated from Austro-Hungary, and the congregation still hosts minyans. They have even made the transition into the age of the internet, and weekly minyan times are posted online. Just a few steps away is the home of Congregation Beth Hachasidim de Polen, which began in 1904 by immigrants coming from Poland.

Here at the Museum at Eldridge Street our roots also trace back to worship in a shtiebel. The congregation, Kahal Adath Jeshurun, began in 1853 and originally worshiped on Allen St., about 25 years before the doors at Eldridge Street were opened! Even today the congregation’s original ark stands in the lower level Bes Medrash (House of Study), a relic of the time before the Eldridge Street Synagogue became of a part of Lower East Side history!

Eldridge Street Trivia:

How much did it cost to move this ark from Allen Street to Eldridge Street in 1887?

We’d love to hear your guesses, and come on a tour of the Museum to learn the answer!

Maybe something can be done about the weather…

As the Museum’s archivist, it has been a treat to be able to look at each item in our collection.  What are my favorites?  It’s so hard to say, but this sign, from the Museum’s sizable collection of Hebrew and Yiddish signs collected from around our Lower East Side neighborhood, is on my list.

It’s small, about the size of a standard sheet of paper.  Its frame is nicked and worn, and the sign itself is stained.  Why do I like this so much?  I like how it looks, its authentic patina of age.  But the deal was sealed when I found out what it says.

The Hebrew writing is the beginning of the Blessing for Dew:  “V’ten Tal u’Matar“; in English, “And give rain and dew.”  This sign signals that this blessing should be added to daily prayers, and it would be hung on the synagogue’s bimah during the dry season in Israel, roughly from fall through early spring.

I was curious about why the sign had clearly gotten wet — its letters are blurred and its hanger is rusted.  I wanted to think that it had hung outside and that its instructions had produced results — that it had worked and brought rain.  But probably, like so much else at the Eldridge Street Synagogue, it fell victim to the elements when the main sanctuary was shut in the 1950s.  Still, I love that the cycles of nature are part of prayer and faith, and that asking for rain would be a community aspiration.

As this brutal winter drags on, maybe we should organize a collective prayer for an early Spring!

Written by Nancy Johnson, Museum Archivist

In response to my last School Days post about the cheder at the Eldridge Street Synagogue, former Director of Education Annie Polland sent in some enlightening details. Taken from a paper she presented at a conference about the institution of the Bar Mitzvah at the turn of the last century, the following gives us a better understanding of why the congregation’s school lasted only one year:

Why didn’t these congregations start Hebrew schools from the start? We know that the congregation encompassed far more activities in its domain other than merely worship. Politics, building maintenance, charitable activities, and study for adults all took on formal arrangements in the synagogue. Why then, wasn’t there room for formal children’s education? One reason for the hesitancy in building up their own school was that both individuals members and the congregation as a whole was an early and avid supporter of the Machzike Talmud Torah. Given that strong support, they probably reasoned that duplicating their efforts by exerting energy for a school on their premises would only frustrate those already underway. But by 1901, ideas had shifted: The Board of Trustees met on September 30, 1901 and discussed opening a Talmud Torah for its members: “It will be a good thing for Judaism and also a benefit for our congregation.” Several days later, when the trustees brought the proposal “of establish[ing] a school on Shul premises, to provide instruction for the children of members” and that the school should be under the directorship of the conregation” to the general meeting, it was enthusiastically received, as the members not only unanimously accepted it and appointed a committee [David Cohen at head], but opened up their wallets to pledge individual contributions.

A total of $569.25 was raised over two fundraising efforts in the fall of 1901 and summer of 1902. “Cash” contains a section devoted to the “Beit Sefer” and shows the fundraising efforts engaged upon by the members. In several fundraising efforts, starting in October of 1901, August of 1902, individuals pledged money, amounting to the sum of $569.25 , from which teachers were hired, ledgers purchased, and advertisements placed.

At the end of the term in December, the board studied the books and decided to continue the school, which would hold its next session starting July of 1902. Over the next year and half, the board and congregation seemed pleased with the school, continuing to support it and even overseeing construction at the Bes Medrash level for the creation of classrooms. The Cash book shows expenses for teachers, one of them Leib Matlawsky, the secretary. In 1903, there appears to be hesitation, with the congregation pledging their renewed support, but appointing a new school committee (perhaps the former one had become dormant?). The problem seemed to be a loss of funds: “To this end, the following committee is appointed to take care of this matter properly, to be knowledgeable about the finances, so that the congregation will know how much to appropriate when necessary.” In addition to their interest in the financial management of the school, they seemed to think that scholarly nature of the school needed some professionalism, and thus one of the first acts of the committee was to appoint Rav Yosef Fried, who directed much of their adult study sessions and had just published Ohel Yosef, as an advisor.

As the term continued, the financial difficulties were not resolved, and in April 1903 the general meeting debated the topic, and in May of 1903 decided to end the congregation’s formal administration of the school, instead allowing the two teachers to continue their classes in the shul for the next six months “at their own expense.” Because the Minutes do not go into any details, and the Cash book shows an imbalance between income and expense, it is hard to say what happened beyond financial failure. Around the same time, the Minutes show that the congregation had just started to debate the option of opening an uptown branch. Many of the members of the school committee were among those who were interested in the uptown branch, so it is possible that their energies and interests were simply diverted. If they had moved uptown already, then presumably their children were in school uptown, and they were less motivated to lend the energies needed to establish a new school downtown. Indeed, David Cohen—the leader of the committee and who would emerge as the leader of the uptown contingent, was himself a prime player in the movement to build the Uptown Talmud Torah. So, it is possible that just at this juncture, many of the wealthier members had or were starting to move uptown, thus shifting their educational ambitions northward as opposed to the synagogue.

Thanks, Annie! Stay tuned for more about the local public schools, the foundation of Jewish day schools and education for girls coming up over the next few weeks.

What was education like for worshipers at the Eldridge Street Synagogue at the turn of the last century? On my walking tours, we often pass a local landmark: Mesivta Tifereth Jerusalem, known in the neighborhood simply as “The Yeshiva.” This local Jewish school, chartered in 1907 and still thriving today, very often has visitors asking: Where did the members of the Eldridge Street Synagogue send their children to school? I’ll explore this question over the next few weeks, showing some of the different options available to the Jewish community of the Lower East Side at the turn of the last century.

Today’s post is about school at the shul. Did the Eldridge Street congregation form a cheder, a school for boys, as many other local synagogues did? I found the following in an index of the congregation’s Yiddish books, discovered in the basement at the start of the restoration:

During the turn of the century Cong. Adath Yeshurun ran a Hebrew School, for how many years is not clear. This book has on the inside cover Beth Haseifer, Congregation 12-16 Eldridge Street, NY, October 13, 1901. Beth Haseifer, is what Hebrew schools were called. This is a ledger book for the Hebrew School. On page 9 the date seems to be Dec. 1902. It reads “Take out door of cellar . 50.” None of the other expenses concern the shul building. This book contains other expenses, etc. of the shul, as well as minutes of the Loan Committee of the shul.

It appears that for at least a year there was indeed a cheder inside the Eldridge Street building. However, it seems that the school was short lived, as this is the only mention of any such school in the entire collection. Why did the school close after only a year? What does that tell us about the members’ desire to educate their children in Bible, Talmud and Jewish law? I’d love to hear your thoughts on this matter.

Next time, we’ll explore the most popular option for LES children: the local public schools.

My name is Sonny, and I have been interning at The Museum at Eldridge Street for five months now. As the education intern at the museum, one of my jobs is researching new and interesting facts to include in our tours and school programs. I’ve always been fascinated by history, especially the unusual parts that people are less likely to discuss! One thing I love about the Museum at Eldridge Street are the clues that teach us about the ways that the first congregants balanced their cultural and religious identities with the new American way of life they were now living – many of which are built right into the synagogue itself. Something that sparked my interest when I first visited the museum in 2008 was the snuff box in the Bes Medrash – it seemed totally out of place, as well as perfectly natural, and in my opinion is one of the parts of the synagogue that gives it’s first congregants a more human face. Recently, Miriam Bader asked me to do some research on the history of snuff to share with our docents, and I was very intrigued by what I found out!

What is “Snuff?”

Smokeless tobacco has been manufactured and sold across the globe for centuries, but was most popular in the United States during the late 18th and early 19th centuries. The two main categories are dry and moist snuff. Dry snuff is pulverized tobacco, which a user would take a pinch of and sniff into their nose. Dry snuff was typically thought of as a European habit, hence it is also referred to as “European snuff.” In the United States the more typical form of smokeless tobacco has always been moist snuff. Commonly referred to as “dip,” moist snuff is a version of Snus, a Swedish smokeless tobacco which was brought to America by Swedish immigrants in the 19th century. Moist snuff is often confused with chewing tobacco, but their uses are slightly different: rather than chewing snuff, a person would take a pinch of the loose tobacco and place it between their lower lip and their gums. Sucking on the tobacco causes an excess of saliva to develop, making it necessary to spit into a container (or on the ground!), as swallowing can cause nausea or irritation to the esophagus. Long time users, however, can often swallow without any side effect, which is colloquially referred to as “gutting” it. It became popular because it was able to be used indoors, especially during long work days, when an employee might not get a cigarette break or might be required to use both hands to work.

At Eldridge Street

Since smoking was a common habit among Americans during the early days of the Eldridge Street Synagogue, it is not surprising that many of the male members of the congregation would use snuff during long services when they could not smoke cigarettes. Accordingly, the snuff box in the bimah in the Bes Medrash, which is one of the most unusual features of the architecture at Eldridge Street, does not seem so out of place when you consider the widespread nature of the habit at the time of the synagogue’s construction. During the synagogue’s hey-day, the congregation used a portion of their funds every year to purchase new spittoons, and had strict rules regarding spitting on the floor, as noted in the detailed minute books. These facts leave us with the assumption that many of the congregants used dip during services rather than European snuff, as dry snuff does not require the user to spit. Additionally, moist snuff was more popular in the U.S. at the time and therefore it was likely much easier to purchase. However, it is possible that the congregation might have provided dry snuff in the snuff box in the Bes Medrash. Either way, smokeless tobacco was a popular indulgence of the time that many of the congregants took part in, even during religious services.

While looking into the history of Eldridge Street, I came across a fantastic e-book digitized by Project Guttenberg about a historic church in the neighborhood, located on the corner of Henry and Market Streets.

The Kirk on Rutgers Farm, written by Frederick Brückbauer in 1919, celebrates a century of worship in what began as the Dutch Reformed Church, was then the Church of the Land and Sea, and is now the First Chinese Presbyterian Church. The land was deeded by Henry Rutgersin 1816, and the building on the lot has been standing since 1819.

Learn more about the history of the building.

The introduction by George Alexander describes the history of the church, and the incredible spirit of the worshippers who retained their prayer space even as the walls crumbled around them:

Of the sanctuary, which, for one hundred years, has stood on the corner of Market and Henry Streets, the author, like many others who have put their lives into it, might well say: ‘Thy saints take pleasure in her stones, Her very dust to them is dear.’ The story of ‘The Kirk on Rutgers Farm’ is one of pathetic interest. In its first half-century it sheltered a worshipping congregation of staid Knickerbocker type, which, tho blest with a ministry of extraordinary ability and spiritual power, succumbed to its unfriendly environment and perished.

The last line of the paragraph stuck with me, as it so reminds me of our synagogue building and its dramatic rescue. “Those of us who in our unwisdom said a generation ago that it ought to die judged after the outward appearance. Those who protested that it must not die, took counsel with the spirit that animated them, saw the invisible and against hope believed in hope.”