Road to Sunrise

By Olivia Beck and Allen Schmertzler

Olivia begins her life facing the challenge of a physical disability, and at age 12, finds her life dramatically changed after the death of her mother in the late 1950s. Having been sheltered by the closeness of a large extended family, she and her 11-year-old brother Lenny suddenly find themselves with an uncertain future living with their self-centered father, as their older brother Benjy goes off to join the army.

The frustrated children shuttle between Brooklyn and the familys upstate home in Liberty, New York, while Olivia struggles to balance her complicated life as a teenager with adult responsibilities. Strong family ties and the house that bonds her with fifteen close cousins, strengthen Olivias fortitude to deal with the trials she encounters on the road ahead.

With the backdrop of Americas growing pains in the 1950s and 60s, Olivia relives her life from a young girls perspective, through post-war economic growth, fear of nuclear war, ramifications of the McCarthy Era, the civil rights movement, the assassination of a president and the Vietnam War. School days, girlfriends, boyfriends and the birth of rock and roll, enrich her story of hardships, tragedy, and extraordinary childhood experiences.

Road to Sunrise takes us traveling from the busy streets of Brooklyn, NY to the tranquil Catskill Mountains in an emotionally charged journey from idyllic early childhood, through turbulent adolescence and teen years, to the hopes and dreams of a young woman.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Apr 28, 2011
• ISBN: 9781456731267

Olivia Beck

Olivia Beck was born in 1946 and grew up in Brooklyn, New York, spending the summers in Liberty, New York. From Long Island, she and her husband Richard moved to Massachusetts and then to Maryland. Now retired, they divide their time between their residences in Boynton Beach, Florida and Cary, North Carolina. The balance of their time is spent traveling, socializing with friends and family, and visiting their children, Jeffrey, Kenneth, and their daughter-in-law Susan.

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Contents

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

PART ONE

1

GOING BACK

2

COMING TO AMERICA

3

THE WAR TOOK ITS TOLL

4

A FAMILY RETREAT

1946

5

BROOKLYN 1950

6

THE EARLY SUMMERS

7

LIFE AT THE SUNRISE HOUSE

8

RING AROUND MY ROSES

9

SCHOOL DAYS

10

A MEMORABLE YEAR

11

DOWN THE ROAD

12

BACK IN BROOKLYN

13

SUMMER 1956

14

DEAR DIARY

15

COUNTRY 1957

16

SEVENTH GRADE

17

THE DARKEST NIGHT

SUMMER 1958

18

THE DAY THE MUSIC DIED

19

A TIME OF TRANSITION

PART TWO

20

SUMMER 1986

21

THIRTEENTH SUMMER, 1959

22

NINTH GRADE

23

LETTERS TO ELLEN 1960

24

SOPHOMORE YEAR

25

GOODBYE ROSEMONT

26

SORORITY

27

SWEET SIXTEEN AND COUSIN BRUCIE

28

BEN’S FAMILY MOVES IN

SUMMER, 1962

29

IOTA LAMBDA ADJOURNED

30

GRADUATION

31

WORKING FOR THE GOVERNMENT

32

VISITING BABA 1964

33

MOVING OUT

34

LAST FLING

APRIL 1965

35

CONVALESCING AT THE SUNRISE HOUSE

36

SORROW, BLACKOUT, AND WEDDING

37

LENNY COMES HOME

38

OUR WEDDING

39

JOB HUNTING

40

A NEW BEGINNING

41

THE PINK GLASS CHANDELIER

SUMMER 1986

EPILOGUE

THE NEXT GENERATION

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Road to Sunrise is a true story which lives in my mind like an imaginary tale. The seed to write this book was planted many years ago with snips of short stories I wrote since I was in elementary school and stories I told my children about our family’s closeness and summers together.

The inspiration and encouragement came from my dear friend, neighbor and mentor, Naomi Zaslow, a professional writer who was publishing her own memoirs at the time. Naomi kept me focused and on track, continually telling me, Just keep writing. I am extremely grateful for her suggestions, publishing advice, and above all, her special friendship.

When I did not know where to begin, memories spilled onto my computer screen from my brother Lenny, cousins, and friends. As the chapters unfolded, we relived our childhoods with some sadness and much laughter. Though looking into my past was difficult at times, it was mostly a wonderful journey back to an unforgettable time. The grief of my cousin Edi’s untimely death set me back, but then urgently pressed me to complete the book.

The book took shape with some unexpected surprises.

My friend Ellen Glanzberger discovered a box of letters that Harriet and I wrote to her over three summers as young teenagers. In the box were minutes from our high school sorority, school newspapers, and a roster from Sing. From these prized documents, sprung the personalities of the teenage girls. My heartfelt thanks go to Ellen for this and for her enthusiasm to see my book completed.

While agonizing over possibilities for a book cover, I coincidentally reconnected with my cousin Allen Schmertzler, an accomplished artist in Oregon. Allen remembered the house this way: Amazing how my memory of this place that I spent not too much time at is so vivid. I remember a very old house sort of like an old shoe. It had a worn beauty to it and you always loved putting the shoe on, but it wasn’t appropriate for the fine affairs. It clicked then, that Allen would be the perfect person to illustrate the cover. He called the experience a collaborative between distant relatives. I am truly grateful for Allen’s devotion to this project and, especially for our reacquaintance.

My deepest gratitude goes to my brother Lenny (Leonard) Pakula, who shared painful memories and his innermost emotions for my book. His contributions helped fill in my mental blanks, and were of great significance to many of the chapters. Len’s critique of everything I sent him, as well as his computer expertise, was invaluable.

I thank my sister-in-law Janet Pakula, who took a genuine interest in my book, sharing some of her own wonderful writing with me.

Much of my book was documented with the help of my cousin Richie (Richard) Glickman’s remarkable memory of the Sunrise House, the property, neighbors, Liberty, Brooklyn, people and events. He found old photos and answered my unending stream of questions, bringing to life what I was too young to remember, and providing insight into what the boys and older cousins did.

Richie’s wife Joan Glickman deserves a medal for putting up with the many conversations focused on our childhood; as well as my appreciation for spurring me on to keep writing.

It was very special when aunt Regina (Schmertzler) recalled to me and my cousin Harriet, for several hours, details of our family’s life in Europe and Jack’s army and war experiences.

Cousins Irwin and Barbara Rabinowitz helped with dates and time frames. Irwin talked about our grandparents, about his parents, (Aunt Fannie and Uncle Julie) and his and Papa’s dog, Duke. Being the Rosemont’s owner’s daughter, Barbara was an authority on the subject. She also revealed the adventures of the older kids.

Cousin Sheldon Schmertzler sent pictures, some of which helped Allen for the cover. He forwarded websites, and information about the Catskills, and shared many memories and facts.

Cousin Steven Schmertzler eagerly educated me about the Brooklyn gangs and imparted interesting family information.

My cousin Harriet Chaifetz recalled some of the experiences we shared together; and we laughed like school girls, reading the letters and minutes from Ellen and reminiscing about the days of our youth.

Cousin Barbara Zipkin contributed to some of the chapters and spent lots of time putting together precious, old photos, which appear in the book.

Cousin Wayne Schmertzler dug through albums and sent me photos.

Cousin Edi (Edith) Bernstein’s descriptions of her relationship with my mother were very special to me. I would never expect that she would not be here to read it. She is greatly missed.

Before passing away, my second cousin, Al Oberman, told me all he knew about the early days of our family in Europe and America.

Many thanks to my friends, Valerie Goren, Gail Trapani and Marsha Johnson, for reaching back to share memories.

My gratitude also goes to my other friends and family who made helpful suggestions and loyally supported me while I worked on Road to Sunrise.

I am deeply indebted to my family, friends, teachers, classmates and coworkers who enriched my life.

My love and appreciation go to my children, Kenneth, Jeffrey, and my daughter-in-law Susan, who inspired me to look back and for their dedicated interest in my book; but especially for being the exceptional people they are.

Last, but not least, I thank my husband Richard for putting up with the many stolen hours I spent on the computer, for all the late night dinners, for listening to my thoughts, reading what I asked him to read, and for his patience during family discussions, hearing repeatedly the stories we grew up with.

I have been blessed with beautiful people and experiences throughout my life that have taught me to use our blessings wisely, cherish valuable friendships, and that overcoming misfortunes can make us stronger.

Road to Sunrise is dedicated to the loving memory of my wonderful mother Rose Pakula, who dedicated her life to her family and instilled in me the values that helped me carry on without her.

It is also in memory of my Baba for her unconditional love, and my Aunt Fannie and Uncle Julie, who sacrificed to give me and my brother a home and hope.

The events in this book, Road to Sunrise, are based on a collection of the author’s memories, and those of others mentioned in the book, as well as films, pictures, letters, diaries, and other written data saved over the years. The book is based solely on the author’s perspective as a young girl.

Where necessary, some slight modifications were made to names and time sequences.

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PART ONE

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Family’s Naturalization Certificate

1

GOING BACK

My foot broke through the rotted floor as I climbed over the threshold of the first floor window, framed with my mother’s hand-made curtains, My mother’s curtains, I whispered. Take them, Ma, my 16-year-old son Kenneth urged. I can’t. My head was spinning… . everything was familiar and strange at the same time.

We had already forgotten the tenseness of a few moments before, when Kenny carefully removed each of the wooden slats used to board up the window, so that he could pry it open. Our eyes were fixed on the enormous beehive, about four feet long, which hung off the corner of the house outside of my cousin Steven’s bedroom. We heard their voices calling to us - my husband Richard and 13-year-old son Jeffrey - but we were drawn to the window with a strange magnetism and were pulled through its portal into another time.

Kenny’s eagerness to see the house pushed me forward. There were so many memories - would they be tarnished by what we would see in this house that no longer belonged to us? Could I face reliving the part of my life that I conveniently tucked away into my subconscious for fear of remembering? Memories, undisturbed for years like the old floors which creaked and groaned with each step under our weight, threatening to cave in and send us falling through to the dark abyss below the house. Mysterious secrets lingered in that basement. Only the boys and men were privy to the mechanical workings powering the house from below. There was an unspoken bond of secrecy among the male relatives about what was down there. We heard whispers of mice and ghosts.

The rooms in the abandoned house were in disarray - looking like they served no purpose. The antique furniture was missing, children’s toys strewn around. But, working our way down the back hallway, I was awestruck as we entered my Aunt Esther’s kitchen. Transfixed, I stared, struggling to process what I saw. Unlike the dark, uncared for rooms in the rest of the house, this kitchen was untouched; frozen in time. The sunniest of the five kitchens, it was suffused with light that streamed in from the windows along the back wall. I took in the surreal scene; the familiar white wooden door leading to the back lawn and my grandfather’s flower garden; the pink organza curtains and pink stenciled walls, the old white stove and oversized refrigerator, the wooden table and chairs at which we ate so many delicious meals … I closed my eyes and saw my aunt standing at the stove … and drifted back in time.

2

COMING TO AMERICA

It all began in Poland. My maternal grandfather Morris was neglected by his fanatically religious father and left home as a young teenager to live with a cousin. Nothing is known about Papa’s mother. Because of his hatred for his father, Papa refused to take his last name when he married and chose my grandmother’s last name instead. Many years later, their male children (my uncles) investigated changing the awkward family name, Schmertzler, back to my grandfather’s name, Lauber, but legal entanglements proved to be too overwhelming.

Of my grandparents’ eight children, six survived. Two little boys died in Poland, one from a childhood disease of the time, and the other from burns of hot soup. As the oldest, my mother Rose looked after her younger siblings. Fannie was two years younger than my mother, and Esther was the youngest girl. The boys; Bernie, Jack, and Harry were also about two years apart in age.

My grandmother’s kindhearted mother Yetta walked with a limp and lived with them in a one room apartment. She healed people from neighboring towns with her natural medicines. Her grandchildren did not know the people who delivered the large, herbal plant leaves to her, but they witnessed the preparations of the remedies and outcomes of her cures. Aunt Fannie said there was a boy who didn’t speak, and after my great-grandmother’s treatment, the boy was able to talk.

Since my great-grandmother was an orphan, married at age 16, with no form of higher education, it was unknown how she acquired this specialized knowledge. She desired to pass her wisdom on to her grandchildren, but none were interested, except for Esther, who never did learn. Yet, her passion for natural healing found its way down through the generations to some of us, her great-grandchildren, today.

Life was harsh for them in Stanislav, Poland. A city of the Ukraine, it was chartered in 1662 and passed to Austria in 1772. In 1919, the city became part of Poland. For this reason, my grandmother’s older sister, Becky remembered her homeland as Austria, while my grandmother claimed it was Poland. The six children, all born at home, shared one bed in an apartment flat in the city. Anti-semitism was common, placing many restrictions on the Jewish people, such as schooling, which was limited to eighth grade. Therefore, some lessons were taught at home by the village Rabbi. The nights that Russian and Polish soldiers tore through the town, raping young women, my pretty grandmother and her mother hid behind the tombstones in the cemetery.

America was beckoning as a life of freedom, and escape from the religious persecution in Poland that weighed heavily on them. However, the Polish army had other plans for Papa and drafted him before he could leave for America. Papa had no desire to serve in Poland’s army - a country that tormented its own people - and one day, he arrived home from the army wearing a Russian soldier’s uniform, a disguise that enabled him to flee the Polish army. It is unknown how he acquired the uniform; whether it was from a dead or live soldier, or the circumstances of his procuring it. Free from the army, Papa would fulfill the family’s dream and go to America.

My grandmother’s sister Becky, already in America since she was a young girl, sent my grandfather passage money. In order to satisfy America’s immigration requirements, Papa had to work in the United States for seven years before he could send for the rest of the family. From America, he sent money to my mother, his oldest and favorite child, for pretty dresses to wear at social dances, causing some rivalry between the sisters.

Finally, in 1928, my mother’s family left Europe forever, to disembark on freedom’s shores and the land of opportunity. Aunt Fannie often told us how seasick she was during the many days at sea on the long, rough voyage. Just barely able to afford the cost of passage, their accommodations on the lower level of the ship were poor, with little food. 9-year-old Jack slipped onto the upper decks and took food from the more privileged passengers to feed his siblings, mother, and grandmother.

My grandmother’s remaining sister, as well as other relatives, were not lucky enough to leave Europe before the Holocaust and perished in the Nazi death camps that Hitler invented for his master plan to annihilate the Jewish people, and millions of other innocent people.

Upon arriving in Brooklyn, New York, their priorities were to learn English, get jobs, and register the younger boys in school. When Papa needed to quickly come up with an American name for his youngest child on the first day of school, he repeated the name of another boy in the class, and his son Kalman was renamed Harry. (I was under the impression that Harry’s name had been Kalman, but on the Naturalization Certificate, it is listed as Elis. It is not clear why.)

Papa ran a candy store and eventually opened a shoe cobbler shop; Bernie dropped out of school at age 13 to help support the family by plucking chickens; and the girls sewed in factories.

In the garment company where Fannie worked operating the sewing machines, she met Julius, a young cutter working there, who became smitten with the feisty, smart, and fiercely independent 16-year-old, blonde beauty. Despite the fact that Fannie hardly spoke English, Julius patiently waited outside of Fannie’s English classes every evening, persistent to court her. Fannie, on the other hand, was not interested in the American boy from Des Moines, Iowa. But as stubborn as she was, he was determined, and there was no refusing his romantic intentions. Julius got his way and married Fannie, cherishing her until the moment he died, calling her name in his confused Alzheimer’s state of mind.

The name Schwimmer hung in the air like a question mark, spoken with fondness in hushed tones by my aunts and uncles. He adored my mother’s younger brothers in Europe and bought Jack his first dress suit. Pictures with his friends and with my mother in our family album were shrouded in mystery. There were postcards written to my mother in German. Interpreted, these are words and poems of a lover. He wrote: Loving and being loved is the most luck on earth. Living and not being together is harder than marble stones. I assumed he was an old boyfriend of my mother’s in Europe.

My mother’s siblings honored her request for secrecy. Aunt Esther pursed her lips when I questioned her about him. It was not until my own children were grown that I learned from my Uncle Harry of my mother’s first marriage. They were very much in love. He planned to follow my mother to America after his work in Poland was done, but when his letters stopped arriving, my mother returned to Poland to search for him. There, his friends informed her that her husband had been killed in his underground work to halt Hitler’s rise to power.

My mother’s family met my father’s family on the ship coming to America. My mother later married my father, a tall, handsome man, whose charm seemed genuine.

The story of two sisters marrying two brothers began in Poland, maybe before they were born. European woman banded together for survival when their husbands worked in the United States. The friendship that grew between my grandmother and Mrs. Goldstein in Poland continued in Brooklyn. When Mrs. Goldstein visited my grandmother with her two daughters, Anne and Regina, my grandmother told Jack that Rifka (Regina) was the one for him. He must have agreed, as he courted Regina, while Bernie dated Anne. Both couples eventually married, forming a strong bond between the two families.

Bernie and Jack worked as butchers and eventually owned and operated a market and butcher shop. Harry worked in their store. Esther married Joe (whose real name was Abe, but for some unknown reason, everyone called him Joe). He was an orphaned Russian immigrant who came to America as a child, and now worked for a plumbing supply company. Later on, Julius and Fannie partnered in a ladies’ undergarment manufacturing business with my parents, employing numerous seamstresses who worked on the many sewing machines in the shop. Several of these employees became life-long family friends.

Since immigrants needed to be sponsored by families in America, Fannie and Julie had several European friends and distant cousins live with them until they were able to go out on their own. One family helped another.

My great-grandmother Yetta died a few years after coming to the United States. The family worked hard, prospered, and adapted to American life - but then World War II intervened and separated them once more…

3

THE WAR TOOK ITS TOLL

The army drafted Jack and Harry, but left the third brother, Bernie, to care for the rest of the family. Harry was sent to the Philippines, and Jack to Europe. Uncle Harry would never forget, but was reluctant to share, his military experiences.

It was either by chance or divine intervention that Jack survived several close calls during the war. Surely, he would have died in the first wave of the battle of Normandy had he not claimed to have stomach problems, and was sent into the second wave instead. According to his wife Regina, the tragic errors of the first wave of fighting were realized, saving the soldiers in the second wave. The earlier troops were fired on from above, killing so many. Regina called it a massacre. The remaining men drowned due to the weight of their heavy knapsacks. The second wave was better prepared and threw off their knapsacks before entering the water. Thus, Jack survived the second wave battle at Normandy.

Once again, Jack was spared during battle when a big Polish soldier killed the German whose gun was aimed at Jack. In another eerie moment, Jack was warned of danger as he hid in a fox hole during the fighting. Hearing the voice of his grandmother (my great grandmother) urging him to get out, he immediately jumped out of the hole, witnessing a large tree fall into the space where he had been, the weight of which would surely have killed him.

Miraculously, Jack escaped these near death episodes only to be captured during the Battle of the Bulge in France when German soldiers, carrying machine guns, entered the auto repair garage where he and his troop were on a rest break. They were force marched for many miles, in extreme cold, to the prisoner of war camp that was to be Jack’s wretched residence for months to come. As the weary American prisoners struggled over the long distance in freezing temperatures, their bodies numb and exhausted, mean spirited French citizens, threw buckets of hot water on them, adding to their pain and misery.

Proof of Jack’s Jewish identity vanished along with the dog tags he cleverly discarded at the time of his capture. His German sounding name, and ability to speak fluent German, fooled his captors into thinking he was an American of German ancestry instead of a Polish Jew, and they let him live. Against all odds, Jack’s destiny was to survive the horrors of the German prison camp.

My parents lived with Anne and Bernie, but moved to an apartment to make room for Regina and baby Steven during the time Jack was in the army. For six months after Regina was informed that her husband was missing in action, she did not know if he was alive or dead, until she began to receive his letters from the prisoner of war camp. Although Jack described his treatment as kind and favorable in order to get the highly censored letters to pass inspection by the Germans, Regina thought otherwise. As disheartening as the news of his capture was, receiving these letters assured Regina that her husband was alive.

When Jack was released at the end of the war, weighing eighty-five pounds, he and other POWs were taken to Lake Placid, New York to recover. Due to the harsh treatment he endured as a POW, digestion disorders plagued him for the remainder of his life. He left for the army when his baby Steven was 8-months old, and returned when Steven was 2-years old. Jack’s keen intelligence, courageous spirit, and strong will to live, helped him survive the cruelty the Germans imposed on him.

In Aunt Regina’s house in Florida, is a plaque sent to Uncle Jack, dated November 11, 2001, from the French government, recognizing and thanking him for fighting in Normandy (1944-1945) and for liberating France. Uncle Jack was extremely proud to receive this overdue honor.

4

A FAMILY RETREAT

1946

With the world at peace, and the family whole again, it was a time for resettling. The idea of a house in the country, where the entire family could spend the summer months together, became a reality the first summer of my life when the Sunrise House became our home.

The ideal location was the Catskill Mountains. It is said that the Mohawk and Lenape Indians hunted in the exquisite vast hemlock forests in the area, where loggers later extracted tannin from the bark of the Eastern hemlocks for tanning leather. The Catskills attracted tourists during the post-Civil War years due to the scenic vistas and accessibility to New York City via two railroad lines. Jewish immigrants from Eastern Europe left Manhattan’s Lower East Side and moved up to the Catskills to settle, farm, and escape the unhealthy environment and summer heat of the city. Soon the Catskills became a popular summer vacation destination.

Farm houses were turned into summer boardinghouses to accommodate the vacationers. After World War II these boardinghouses multiplied, many evolving into hotels and clusters of cottages called bungalow colonies. In its heyday, as many as five-hundred resorts catered to visitors. These resorts together, became known as the "Borscht Belt." Famous entertainers, such as Jerry Lewis, owe their successes to their early performances in the nightclubs of the Brown’s, Grossinger’s, Concord, Nevele, Kutchers and the many other hotels.

Our house sat on five hilly acres, nestled in the rural mountains, just outside of the town of Liberty, New York. It was said to have been a hospital treatment center for Tuberculosis patients (as were the other houses along our road) in the early 1900s. The Young family originally owned the four lots of land that eventually became ours and those of our neighbors.

Immediately meeting the challenge of five families and two grandparents living together under one roof, the men began to reconstruct the enormous old house to accommodate each family’s needs. Uncle Harry and Aunt Gilda chose not to have a share in the house, but were frequent visitors.

Originally, the only kitchen in the house had been located at the central point between the front and back of the house, but the men converted it into a gathering room, and although it was no longer a kitchen, we continued to call it the middle kitchen. Five original main floor bedrooms were turned into kitchens - one for each family. Our grandparents shared a kitchen with Aunt Fannie and Uncle Julie.

Aside from Uncle Jack’s family, each family was assigned two bedrooms on the second or third floors. Flexibility to switch bedrooms was necessary as family needs changed. At one time, a large pantry next to Aunt Anne’s kitchen was converted into a bedroom for my cousin Edi. In the early years, a large wood burning stove in the middle kitchen warmed us on the cold days when we journeyed up in the wintertime. Papa would lift us up onto the surface of the stove to warm our small bodies from the damp cold of the house.

Aunt Esther’s kitchen was at the end of the rear hallway, near the back entrance to the house. That hallway ran into the middle kitchen. The one bathroom on the first floor (aside from the one in Aunt Regina’s apartment which was off limits to the rest of the family) was sandwiched between Aunt Esther’s kitchen and the staircase leading to her family’s two bedrooms.

The middle kitchen also opened to Aunt Fannie’s kitchen, Aunt Anne’s kitchen, and the dining room. The dining room led to my mother’s kitchen at the front of the house, and also to the atrium where white painted, double wood doors with glass panels, opened onto the front porch. Aunt Regina and Uncle Jack’s cluster of rooms came off the atrium, through French double glass doors. The apartment was designed for them on one level to accommodate Aunt Regina’s hip condition.

A cone-shaped, antique chandelier of rosy pink swirling glass, hung splendidly poised from the atrium ceiling. Once fueled by gas, but since converted to electric, it could still be lowered by a chain. I often sat on the stairs leading from the atrium to the second floor bedrooms, marveling at its amazing beauty and history, wondering what events took place over the many years it hung suspended on that very same spot, all the while embodying the essence of the Sunrise House.

Along the stairway to the five bedrooms and one bathroom on the second floor, ran a dark wood, spindled railing, wide enough for the children to slide down on and always looked freshly polished. When we were small, my younger brother Lenny and I shared a bedroom with our parents around the bend on the far end of the hallway. We slept together in the twin bed next to our parents’ full size one. The two of us could not get to bed until we jumped up and down on the soft mattress in a nightly ritual, causing the old bed springs to squeak. Then our mother, or sometimes our cousin Irwin, or older brother Benjy, read us a bedtime story. My favorites were Pinocchio, Jack in the Beanstalk and Little Black Sambo. When our father was in the city, one of us slept with our mother in her bed.

All the bedroom doors had etched numbers and large round knobs with old fashioned key holes. Each bedroom contained a small closet, with no rods, only hooks to hang clothing. The bedrooms were sparsely furnished with old painted dressers and metal beds that came with