Memories of Maxwell Street
t
by Edwarde F. Perbon
Each chapter hurtled me back
into memory. Ira Berkow’s
“Maxwell Street" wai, a* he had
himself subtitled his book,
“survival in a bazaar,” a
compendium of names and people
of an era long ago. They were
living reminders of a time and
place no longer theirs. But the time
and place rekindled a bit of
Americana brilliantly told by
Berkow.
It brought back for me a time, a
rainy afternoon in Chicago almost
six decades ago, when I found
myself gamboling on that
picturesque and bustling
thoroughfare of Jewish entrepre
neurs known as Maxwell Street.
Fve seen flea, thieves and floating
markets since—in Paris, London,
Hong Kong and Bangkok—but
none intrigued me more than did
Maxwell Street a half century ago.
Fifty years ago and more—in
the era of the Ford “flivver”—a
visit to the Windy City from
Milwaukee was a trek of
considerable undertaking. If you
traveled by steam train or electric
train (North Shore), it was a trip of
a few hours. By auto, through
towns and villages (especially
archaic Zion, Ill.) you lumbered
along at a breakneck speed of 35
mph.
In those halcyon days, an auto
trip to Chicago was not a one-day
excursion. Motels were unknown
and tourist homes few and far
between. Unless you were rich—or
a drummer on an expense
account—you couldn't afford the
hotels and “high-priced”
restaurants. You stayed with
relatives or friends, who somehow
always found room to put you up
and feed you. Of course, that visit
was always later repaid in kind
with room and board.
Thus, one weekend in the mid-
'20s, with my family safely
ensconced at a friend’s home in a
neighborhood that was fast
becoming the Jewish sector, I
made off for my safari to Maxwell
Street. 1 walked, of course; my
father insisted that Maxwell Street
was no place to take and park the
family iron-horse, our Dodge
touring car.
Maxwell Street—whose fame
for infamous bargains had spread
market place: it was also a
challenge. What prospective buyer
did not believe himself to be the
equal in bargaining eclat and savvy
of that ignorant, unschooled, store
merchant or pushcart peddler on
Maxwell Street? How underrated!
Everybody came to outsmart the
seller and to get the big bargain!
Six decades ago the street teemed
with tourists and townspeople
looking for “steals.” Now, some 60
years later it is not easy to recall in
detail, but I remember Maxwell
Street: it was exciting, amazing,
beguiling, offending and enticing.
It was also cheap, tawdry, smelly,
alive and inspiring.
It was inspiring and elevating to
see how these immigrant Jews of
Russia and Poland, endowed with
courage and desire to be their own
masters, fought with their native
wits and instinctive skills in barter
and trade to succeed in their own
businesses—and survive in the
general melee against their
neighbor and competitor.
1 roamed aimlessly through the
street, crossing from one side to the
other as my fancy and curiosity
dictated. I shook off the
“puller,” who tried to wheedle me
into his store, and the “pusher” at
the cart, who was forcing his goods
into my hands at “Such a bargain,
take it!” I wended my way, eye
shopping and resisting all who
tried to entice me—until suddenly
there was what I wanted.
Pretending disinterest, I casually
asked the man at the stoop, “How
much for the raincoat there?” I had
spotted a glossy, tannish,
rubberized military trench coat
hanging on the brick wall near the
stairway into the store’s entrance.
He quoted me a mountainous
price, much beyond the few dollars
I had in my pocket. I didn't even
counter-offer and began to walk
away. “Vait!” he commanded, “for
you I’ll take less." How much less?
Whatever it was, it was still beyond
my paltry assets. He was no
student of psychology, but his
sense of economics deserved a
doctorate. “How much you wanna
pay?” he asked, kind of irritated. I
shrugged my shoulders hopelessly.
“How much you got?" was his next
inquiry. Timidly I confessed.
“About $5.00.” “Awright,” he
nodded, “take it,” and reached up
to give me the coat. I fumbled in
my pocket as I became the
surprised owner.
The National Recovery Act
(NRA, 1933 et seq) changed all
that. No more could there be price
gouging, haggling or bargaining. A
price was a price was a price. The
Maxwell Street merchants
adopted a code erf' fair competition—
and willingly or not, abided by it.
In the years following, the old
Maxwell Street, as I knew it, died.
Died, did I say? Not really. On a
sunny day last summer I visited the
old place. The street sellers and
shopkeepers, with their bazaar-
like atmosphere, are still there. But
they are of a new breed. The
immigrant of yesteryear—with his
Jewish nuances, influences,
aromas—has mostly absconded,
leaving in his place a distinctly
Latin essence. Jewish merchants
are still around, but their Yiddish
has almost completely dis
appeared. In the main, Italian,
Mexican, Spanish and Black
vendors have preempted the
blocks and streets.
The same streets are, as of yore,
all showing the burnish of time: the
stores on the streets and the stalls
on the sidewalks are stocked—
from fish to furniture, from TVs to
nostalgia, from fashionable (?)
clothes to doubtful antiques.
Maxwell Street and its environs 3
hum and thrive. On a “good”
Sunday, as many as 35,000 persons
will filter through the boisterous,
odorous, ambitious areas
radiating north, south, east and
west from Halstead and Maxwell
Streets. It is a site (or is it a “sight”)
to see. It is as one writer phrased it
“The best free show in town."
And as Ira Berkow more
recently observed, “...this
remarkable area, a microcosm of
America” from which sprung such
famed men as former Supreme
Court Justice Arthur Goldberg,
William Paley, president and
chairman of CBS; Hyman
Rickover, inventor of the nuclear
submarine; Barney Ross, Kingfish
Levinsky, Barney Balaban, Benny
Goodman, Meyer Levin and many
other bright names.
Requiscat and shed a tear. I
returned to my auto, parked in a
lot for $1.00, and reminisced.
Maxwell Street will never be as I
remembered it—its stores and
stands, its people and products.
And my rubber trench coat,
symbol of my personal triumph in
the art of barter? Ah, I
remembered that, too.
(Edwarde F. Person is editor
emeritus of the Wisconsin Jewish
Chronicle.)
‘Maxwell Street—whose fame for infamous
bargains had spread far and wide—was not
only a market place: It was also a challenge.
...Everybody came to outsmart the seller and
get the big bargain!’
far and wide—was not only a
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Page 11 THE SOUTHERN ISRAELITE July 21,
