John F Ward

Broad Street cut a long and meandering path through Newark in 1918, stretching from Mount Pleasant Cemetery, at the city’s northernmost end, to Mount Olivet Cemetery, at the city’s southern end, just yards from the Elizabeth city line.

In 1995, the street still shows hints of its former grandeur: fading signs on the sides of the magnificent old department stores, an occasional Greek revival portico, a few parks left from the days when people flocked to them for a taste of the rural life that most U.S. residents still lived at the time.

The neighborhood where Helen and Carl lived — the northernmost block of Broad Street, not far from the cemetery — is changed from their time there. The homes on that block are gone, replaced by a stark brick complex built by the federal government to house Newark’s poor. There are no gardens now, nor flower boxes. Instead, the windows are armored: covered with steel grates, shades pulled. On a sunny Friday afternoon in September, a few people sit outside, and they eye a visitor warily on what is now a dead end block.

All around the complex now — Mount Pleasant Avenue, Oriental Street, Broadway — are larger, slightly older buildings that are sealed shut with security gates and grates, or empty and gaping with the wounds of fire and vandalism.

But in 1918, reaching as it did from cemetery to cemetery, Broad Street pulsed with every aspect of life to be found in a U.S. city during Woodrow Wilson’s presidency.

Broad Street was served by the Public Service Co. trolley. Actually, that’s far from the whole story. The Public Service Co. trolley tracks were the artery that carried the life of Broad Street, and Broad Street was pivotal in the life of Newark.

In 1918, the Broad Line ran east from Irvington, N.J., swinging north into Newark, along Broad Street and continuing to Nutley, N.J.; the Patterson Line went north from Newark into Patterson, again using Broad Street; the Mount Prospect Line ran (not surprisingly) down Mount Prospect Avenue, across Bloomfield Avenue and south on Broad Street, past the city line to Irvington, N.J.; the Public Service Fast Line ran down Broad Street and all the way to Trenton, the state capital; another Broad Street line ran south to Perth Amboy and still another started at the Lackawanna Station, at Broad and State streets, running south into Elizabeth.

In fact, the busiest street car station in the world at that time was at the corner of Broad and Market streets, just a few blocks from the Morris Canal. By 1915, that corner was so congested that an off-street terminal was built with a little subway, three blocks long, to divert some of the traffic. The Broad Street rush hour was an all-day affair.

Street cars – trolleys – were a vital part of the Newark into which Helen and Carl moved on June 4, 1918. And the street cars brought Newark nearly to its knees just two days later when the motormen and conductors walked out on strike, seeking higher wages.

That dispute was settled by the War Labor Board, which had been appointed to resolve labor disputes that might distract the war effort, but not before several days in which trolley riders in Newark and much of the rest of northern New Jersey were forced to walk or find other conveyances. The Newark Evening News carried photos of resilient Newark residents hanging from the sides of open trucks, riding bicycles or strolling along the silent tracks which ran up the middle of the street. Very few took the opportunity to stay home from work.

When the trolleys were running, a traveler in 1918, beginning at the south end of Broad Street, would have started out in an industrial neighborhood. To the west would be visible the train tracks of the Pennsylvania Railroad, running alongside modest Lake Weequahic — more like a flood plain or a wetland area than an actual lake.

Soon, the factories and warehouses would give way to narrow two- and three-story wood-frame homes packed one atop the next and strung like beads along the tiny side streets on both sides of Broad Street. As the trip progressed north, those homes would be replaced by small stores, many of them brick, topped with one or two floors of apartments. By the time the traveler got to Lincoln Park, the buildings would be a little taller — four or five stories — and deeper, no longer offering room in back for small trees or gardens, and topped with offices as well as apartments.

At 841 Broad St., the traveler could dismount to visit Minor Rubber: “If it’s made of rubber, we have it.”

At the corner of Market Street, the rider could switch to any one of the half-dozen trolley lines that met there, reaching many parts of northern New Jersey with a single ticket. From this station, it was a very short transfer – or a brief walk – to the Market Street train station where Helen would board the Pennsylvania Railroad for her trip under the Hudson, to work in Manhattan. Carl’s daily trip to the family’s Wilson Avenue factory in Newark, where he worked, also involved a transfer here.

At 807 Broad St., the traveler could shop at Marshall & Ball for soft-cuff shirts at $1.19, three for $3.50; mercerized Madras and granite cloths; summer silk neckwear, on sale at 39 cents apiece; imported handkerchiefs, six for $1.19; men’s silk lisle half hose, six pairs for $1.19.

Here — or nearly anywhere along this downtown stretch of Broad Street — the traveler could get off for a meal at one of the dozens of small luncheon counters and restaurants that catered to the office workers of the center of Newark’s commercial district.

At 797, the traveler could visit Stoutenberg & Co. — men’s and boys’ clothiers, open even on Saturday nights. Next door, at the Woodbury Dental Offices — located above Pettit’s Drug Store — dental exams and estimates were free; silver fillings cost 50 cents, gold ones $1.

Across Broad Street, at 770, the traveler could arrange to buy or sell stocks at the New York Stock Exchange, via Post & Flagg, brokers. As of yet, there was no public stock for the Heller & Merz Colors Co., the family business where Carl worked.

At the corner of Cedar Street, after crossing the Morris Canal, the traveler could stop in at The Goerke Co. to shop for white canvas pumps at $1.39, white canvas boots for $2.65 or ready-to-wear hats, trimmed with bows: $2.50, untrimmed from 78 cents to $1.19.

Just north of Cedar Street, the traveler could switch to another line at the Public Service Co. terminal, in order to reach most areas of Newark.

At 693 Broad St., Lissmere’s offered three floors of women’s clothes, including summer dresses “fresh from their boxes” at $5 each, choosing from dainty new frocks, novelty gingham, beautiful plaids, linens and the like.

At 657, W.W. Oppenheim – which touted itself as The Lining Store, Newark’s specialty shop – offered silks, dress goods, trimmings, laces and more, such as 32-inch-wide chiffon for $1.98 a yard and 40’’ crepe de chine for $1.39 for each yard.

At the northernmost tip of the triangular Military Park — at 608 Broad St. — stood Trinity Cathedral, the heart of the city’s many Episcopalian churches. The cathedral’s blood-red brick facade was mimicked by its three-story rectory and boarding academy on the corner of Rector Street and Park Place, just half a block east of Broad Street.

Still headed northbound, the traveler could stop at the post office to send a letter or at City Hall to address some question or complaint to the mayor.

At the corner of Fulton Street, that same traveler would find the Broad Street Theatre, which might offer some elaborate stage production of a show that had played well in New York City — something like the “diverting and brilliant comedy” called “The Squab Farm,” a play about movie studio life. Tickets for the Wednesday and Sunday matinees were 25, 35 or 50 cents; evening performances cost from 25 to 75 cents.

Along the edges of Washington Park — around 525 Broad St. — were two libraries: the Newark city library, with its startling three-story, balcony-ringed lobby and illustrated ceiling; and the statuesque stone facade of the Rutgers University library, its three large wooden doors nearly hidden, each beneath its own stone arch.

Farther north was the Central Railroad Station, at the corner of Broad Street and Lackawanna Avenue, providing rail access to points well outside of Newark and beyond the New Jersey state lines.

Past the station, the buildings grew smaller and stores became less common. By Gouverneur Street, the last trolley tracks had shifted west one block to Broadway, and Broad Street was residential: occasional apartment houses among single-family homes, many of which had small yards planted with trees and gardens – including "war" gardens.

That was the way the last block of Broad Street would have looked on July 24, 1918, when the Krollpfeiffer family car arrived, packed with Carl’s Mother, Frida Merz Krollpfeiffer, his two sisters, Frida and Elsa; his mother’s lawyer and friend, Lou Stone; and Helen’s younger sister, Grace Williams, who lived nearby in Orange with her husband, Leland.

Broad Street in late July 1918 would have been busy already with people on their way to work or conducting the routine business of Newark. Still others, though, might have been headed for a trolley that would take them to the Market Street train station to see off the last of the 1917 draftees: 541 men scheduled for the nearly three-hour train ride to Camp Dix. Carl, though not a draftee, was to be on that train.

His call for duty had come up; he was leaving his bride in Newark, just seven weeks after their wedding.

Most of the draftees had assembled much earlier that day at the city’s armory, located between James Street and Sussex Avenue. They would march along Sussex Avenue to Central Avenue to Broad Street and along Market Street to the train station.

Draft marches were not uncommon in Newark, with draft boards calling up soldiers at a furious rate. The parade route would be closed to regular traffic and nonmilitary trains would be rushed out of the Market Street station to make way for the draftees and their entourages.

Carl had been excused from reporting early for the march. When he had registered for induction, his mother’s cousin, Edgar Heller, was in charge at the draft board office.

“Carl, I know your family will want to see you off at the station, so you need not report at the armory to march with the troops to the train,” Edgar reportedly told Carl. “But for Heaven’s sake, don’t miss being there!”

Carl had promised to be “present early,” so long before 10, Frida Krollpfeiffer loaded up her touring car with Carl, Helen and the five others for the trip to Market Street Station.

When the group arrived at the station, Helen’s heart sank, she later wrote in her memoir. Only the draftees were allowed into the station itself or onto the platforms. A crowd, already several ranks deep, had gathered in the court surrounding the freight yard, where the draft train would pass.

“Oh, Carl,” Helen said she told her husband. “I’m afraid we’ll never be able to see each other! I’m so short to be standing among all these people!”

Lou Stone, who was nearly as tall as Carl, spoke up right away, Helen recounted.

“Helen, I can help you,” he said. “I’ll put you on my shoulder when the train begins to move!”

Helen was skeptical, but Carl smiled broadly.

“Fine!” Carl exclaimed. “I’ll get into the last car and stand at the very last window on this side of the train!”

As the train began to leave the station, Lou hoisted Helen up onto his right shoulder, holding her high above the crowd. She strained and strained to see through the steam into each window as the first nine cars passed by, and, sure enough, when the very last car passed, in the very last window, as promised, she could see Carl. He was waving furiously and yelling — or rather, Helen wrote later that she could see his mouth open and moving. She could not hear anything he might be saying, over the noise of the huge chugging locomotives, the din of the crowd and the sound of her and her family and friends shouting their farewells: “Good bye, Carl! Good bye!”

Helen was frantically waving her right arm, which clutched a small American flag, her left hand holding onto Lou Stone’s shoulder, as the train passed out of view.

~

Helen spent the weekend with Carl’s uncle August and Aunt Florence Merz, who had a summer home in Denville, N.J., 15 miles northwest of Newark, not far from a quiet New Jersey town of fewer than 6,000 people, called Boonton.

The Merzes entertained Helen and fed her well and did their best to keep her occupied, she later wrote. She appreciated their efforts, but still she felt very alone.

Finally, Monday came and Helen set off for her job in New York City. The train ride from Newark was easy enough; once in Manhattan, she rode the bus to her office, as was her routine.

When she arrived at her desk, she found three envelopes waiting for her from the morning’s mail. Unaccustomed to receiving mail at work, she did not know what to make of them. Inside each, Helen found a copy of a photograph from Thursday’s edition of the New York World.

Under the caption, “Militant American Womanhood,” there she was, balanced on Lou Stone’s shoulders, waving her American flag, smiling, with her mouth wide open, apparently cheering.

Militancy was far from Helen’s mind that day, she would later write; along with hollering good bye to Carl, she was offering up “an accompanying prayer that our flag, under God’s protection, would bring these men home safely — particularly a fine young American to his anxiously awaiting bride of seven weeks.’’Author’s note: Carl served as a corporal in the U.S. Army in Louisville, KY, where he was training to become a gunnery officer. In September, Helen moved to a rooming house in Louisville, to be near Carl. At the 11th hour of the 11th day of the 11th month that year – 1918 – the Armistice took effect, bringing the war to an end. Helen and Carl arrived back home just in time for Thanksgiving dinner at his mother’s home.