Mrs. Picciotto's Journal

Mrs. Picciotto’s Journal

Prologue

The Jewish Consumptives’ Relief Society (J.C.R.S.) was created in 1904 in Denver, Colorado as a treatment center for people suffering from tuberculosis. Hundreds of patients traveled from all over the country to be treated by fresh air and sunshine, which was believed at the time to heal the disease.

Many of the J.C.R.S. founders, including Dr. Charles Spivak, were of Jewish decent, and decided to run the society with an emphasis on following practices and a diet based in Judaism.

J.C.R.S. had a policy of treating patients of all stages of the disease, and of endowing equal treatment to its clients regardless of income. It remained an active treatment center until 1954, when it was converted into a cancer research center now known as the American Medical Center.

1454 East 12th St.Brooklyn , NY

9

SOPHIE PICCIOTTO’S JOURNAL

May 26th, 1933

I’m up early this morning, as usual. Ruthie and Joe were crying at the crack of dawn. It’s the same each day, little Ruthie starts to cry, hungry, and then Joe wakes up, hearing her screaming. Joe wasn’t such a loudmouth baby, that’s for sure. Each of my little angels is different in their own way, I suppose.

So begins my day, like all other mornings since Joe was born, waking up early to crying babies, although Joe is six now. Get up at six-thirty, feed the kids, pack lunches for Joe & Maurice, and walk little Joe to school.

I don’t work, but I never feel like I have time to do much. I barely get to read the paper since Ruthie is a handful. Before all this I read all the time it seemed.

Don’t get me wrong, I love them, but I was young when I had Joe. I was seventeen, and I didn’t get a chance to finish high school. I dropped out only a year away from graduating. I daydream about finishing but the honest reality of it is that I may never have the time. Maybe when Ruthie is old enough for school. Maurice says not to worry about it, that he’ll take care of us and I don’t need to think about it. My place is at home.

Maurice didn’t finish school either but his friend John has a construction business and set him up with work. Maurice was in a hurry to get married as soon as I got pregnant. Not that I minded, but like I said, I was very young. I still am I suppose; I’m twenty-two.

Boy, it took a long time for my mother to warm up to Maurice though, that’s for sure. A Catholic Italian boy marrying a Jewish girl? At least we were from the same neighborhood. This was our saving grace. My folks accepted him for that reason. Maurice and I practically grew up together. We went to the same grade school, right after my mother and I moved here from Egypt when I was eight.

Okay, I have to walk little Joe to school now. This is almost the end of his first year of kindergarten, I am so proud of him; he’s such a well-behaved little boy. I think he really loves being around other kids.

Waking up is more difficult lately; I’ve been coughing in the morning especially right after I wake up. I feel like my lungs are burning and I feel hot most of the day. I take cold baths a lot to make myself feel better. I am also having a hard time lately picking up Ruthie; I’m feeling so weak. My friend Gina who lives a few blocks away on 17th street comes by when Maurice leaves to keep me company and help me do chores. She’s been coming over pretty much every day since I told her I’ve been feeling under the weather.


Waking up is more difficult lately; I’ve been coughing in the morning especially right after I wake up. I feel like my lungs are burning and I feel hot most of the day. I take cold baths a lot to make myself feel better. I am also having a hard time lately picking up Ruthie; I’m feeling so weak. My friend Gina who lives a few blocks away on 17th street comes by when Maurice leaves to keep me company and help me do chores. She’s been coming over pretty much every day since I told


coughing in the morning especially right after I wake up. I feel like my lungs are burning and I feel hot most of the day. I take cold baths to make myself feel better. I am also having a hard time picking upRuthie; I’m feeling

so weak.




Waking up is more difficult lately; I’ve been coughing in the morning especially right after I wake up. I feel like my lungs are burning and I feel hot most of the day. I take cold baths a lot to make myself feel better. I am also having a hard time lately picking up Ruthie; I’m feeling so weak. My friend Gina who lives a few blocks away on 17th street comes by when Maurice leaves to keep me company and help me do chores. She’s been coming over pretty much every day since I told 11


June 4th, 1933

Waking up is more difficult lately; I’ve been coughing in the morning especially right after I wake up. I feel like my lungs are burning and I feel hot most of the day. I take cold baths a lot to make myself feel better. I am also having a hard time lately picking up Ruthie; I’m feeling so weak.

My friend Gina who lives a few blocks away on 17th street comes by when Maurice leaves to keep me company and help me do chores. She’s been coming over pretty much every day since I told her I’ve been feeling under the weather.

I wonder if I have a cold. I’ve had lots of colds in my life, but this is a kind of cold I’ve never felt before. I hurt all over, but especially when I breathe. I’m not sure what’s happening.

June 8th, 1933

I coughed up a bit of blood today, I was so scared! It was just a drop or two but enough to make me worry. When Maurice comes home today I’m gonna talk to him about it and tell him I’m worse. He thinks it’s just a cold, and I’m sure that he won’t be happy about paying for a visit to the clinic.

I’m taking the kids to see a matinee movie today with my friend Gina and her daughter. We’re seeing King Kong. It’s been out for a few weeks, and we’ve been waiting to go during the day for cheaper tickets but have just now found the time.

The newspapers say it’s a scary film, but Joe won’t rest until he sees it. Mama King Kong, Mama King Kong he keeps saying. He’s only six; hopefully it won’t scare the pants off him.

June 12th, 1933

My visit to Dr. Nicholson today at the medical center down on 65th Street was a bit traumatic. Our neighbor Esther was kind enough to watch Ruthie for me for a few hours while I walked down there. Gina would have watched her but she had to run another errand this morning.

Of course Jack can’t take off of work, construction work is spotty these days for him, and there’s really no such thing as a sick or vacation day. No wonder he’s so tired and crabby when he comes home.

He wasn’t pleased about dishing out the five dollars to see him since we don’t have insurance, but after he heard me coughing last week he said forget about it. He was really worried and called Dr. Nicholas himself to make an appointment.

So the doctor drew a little bit of blood from me and then took an x ray, which took a while. The doctor says we need to wait a few days for him to test my blood, and that he’ll give me a call when he gets the results. Boy did that sting, I hate needles so much.

Anyway, I just got home from the doctor and I’m not feeling so hot. Joe is almost done with school, I’m gonna walk down to pick him up then take the kids down to Gravesend Park to get some air. I can maybe get some reading in if the kids calm down.

I’m about half way through my book of Emily Dickinson book of poems that Gina got me for Christmas. It’s been helping me get my mind off of being sick. I’m slowly getting through it, and I’m so in love with her work.

Some people think her poems are sappy, but I think they’re romantic. How great would the world be if people could talk to each other like that, sincere and not afraid of their feelings?

I also love that in some of her work she talks about a belief in God, but also that she has doubts about religion and the idea of original sin. I can relate to that, no kidding. I like that she’s not afraid to talk about her doubts. She turned her back on the strict religion that she was brought up with because she disagreed with parts of it. That takes courage.

15


June 15th, 1933

Oh god, what a terrible day. I just don’t know how to feel right now. Almost as soon as I got back home from taking Joe to school today, I got the call from Dr. Nicholson. He asked me to come into his office to talk, and I said to him what’s wrong? He wouldn’t tell me and said “Sophie, its best we talk in person”.

I put some shoes on Ruthie real quick and ran down the street to the medical center. Once I was in his office, he looked down a lot at the floor at first. He told me that I had tuberculosis and that he was so sorry to have to tell me this. He told me that lots of people recover, and that there was hope for me because mine was not that advanced.

He thinks I should go to a special treatment hospital. He suggested one in Spivak Colorado. I looked on the map, and it’s somewhere near Denver. But first he said I’d have to be admitted to the hospital to keep me away from everyone, because I might be contagious. He said that he’d already called Maurice at work, and that he was on the way over to bring some things from home for me.

Could I have given this to Ruthie or Joe or Maurice? Or what about Gina or the Dr. Nicholson? Then the doctor pulled one of those white mouth masks from out of a drawer and put it on his face then told me some reassuring things about treatments in this place in Colorado called Jewish Consumptives’ Relief Society (J.C.R.S.).

He says that sunshine and fresh air helps a lot. I guess fresh country air is something I haven’t had for years. I’d do anything to feel better, but the kids and Maurice can’t come with me, can they? I am so scared and confused.

I asked him if I could pass this on to anyone else, and he said yes it was somewhat contagious but no one else near me seemed to be sick or have any symptoms. It was a little difficult to hear him through the mask he was wearing, but I think I understood.

17


June 17th, 1933

This is my second day sitting in this hospital bed and I hate it here. I’m not getting any better, despite my hopes, since my lungs are stinging still. I still can’t believe I have TB, they call it. It seems impossible. I have too much to do, I have my children to take care of, I need to walk Joe to school and keep my home running. This is all I know to do.

I’m alone right now as I’m writing. I’m glad I remembered to ask Maurice to bring my journal along with my clothes and toothbrush. It’s so nice to write and get all this off my chest.

I’ve been so upset that I’ve not been sleeping. I’ve been crying nonstop since I found out I have TB. They keep my door shut, and when the nurses or the doctor come in, they’re wearing those mouth masks.

Maurice came in earlier this morning, and he had a mask on too. It was so heartbreaking. He held my hand and said how worried he was about me and asked if Dr. Nicholas had talked to me about Colorado. But I don’t want to leave my family I said. We both started crying.

He told me that it would save the family some money if I went out there to be treated. My brother Jack in Houston said he could help. I feel like a burden.

June 19th, 1933

Maurice came to see me again today with Ruthie and Joe this time. I’ve missed them so much even though I just saw them a few days ago. They had the masks on them again. I’m used to everyone wearing them now, so I’m trying to make light of it. It’s funny, trying to understand the mumbled voices. It set me off on a giggling fit today.

Maurice brought up going to Colorado again. He really wants me to go, and I don’t want to. My life in Brooklyn is all I’ve known since I was a girl. He said they would come to visit once he saved enough money, and he would get his sister Sadie who lived not too far away in Park Slope to help him take care of the kids while he’s at work.

He said that I should get better soon, and I would hopefully be home soon enough. I wondered if he was lying. Did he know something that I didn’t?

Dr. Nicholas didn’t say that I should be better soon, just that the fresh air and sunshine would help me heal, and that this was my chance at getting well. I suppose I haven’t really stopped to think about the sickness living inside me, I’ve been so concerned about everyone else.

18


June 21st, 1933

I talked for a long time with Maurice today, longer than I think we have in years. It was wonderful. I agreed to go to Colorado. He was relieved but we were both sad about the prospect of me leaving. He said he would work on buying a train ticket for me. I guess it will take two days to get out there. It’s supposed to be a lovely view of the countryside.

I asked Maurice to bring me my Emily Dickenson book. Thank god. I need something to keep my mind occupied when I am alone here, which is most of the time.

Reading so much lately has made me want to do some writing myself. Usually my attempts at poetry and stories start out almost like gibberish and doesn’t make much sense. But it helps to get my feelings out.

I wonder if this is how some poets work, to just spew out anything that comes to mind, like an explosion, then go back and put things together. I’m gonna try this. I would love to see some notebooks of other writers, just to get an idea of what their process is. I guess I’ll just start writing.

Wanting, waitingLeads me to regret things not yet doneAm I dangerous?EndangermentParts of me, my children are far away Quickly out of focus. Are they fading or am I?Where is my courage?I’ve never really needed it until today.I want to live long enough To learn more

fields of

wheat

I can’t sleep

like grass

June 26th, 1933

The train trip has been long, and much at all in my seat. We couldn’t afford a sleeping car because it was so much more than a regular seat ticket, so I sat up during my night on the train. I’m pretty nervous and sad at the same time.

If there’s anything good that came out of this it’s being able to see the countryside from the train. So beautiful! The train left at night from Union Station, so it was dark for the first part. It’s early morning, and we’re going through Indiana. The sun is rising and we’re riding past some sort of crop. It was maybe

in some parts because it was , but brown and wispy. Such a pretty sight seeing it waving back and forth in the wind.

24


Gina gave me a book of poetry today to bring with me on my trip. It’s a collection of different by Walt Whitman. I remember being at the library when I first moved here from Egypt and was trying to learn English. My mother and I went to the library every day to check out books to bring home. Library books and our tiny television was our window into the English world for a while, before mother made friends in the neighborhood.

It was here at the library in Borough Park that I found a book of Walt Whitman poems. I didn’t understand all the words but the ones I did know were enough to understand the feeling that he was trying to get across. Reading this right now is bringing back memories! It’s reminding me of home. Here’s a bit of the poem I’m reading right now. It’s called Miracles. I’ve been thinking a lot about it lately.

Why! Who makes much of a miracle?As to me, I know of nothing else but miracles,Whether I walk the streets of Manhattan,Or dart my sight over the roofs of houses toward the sky,Or wade with naked feet along the beach, just in the edge of the water,Or stand under trees in the woods,Or talk by day with any one I loveor sleep in the bed at night with any one I love,Or sit at table at dinner with my mother,Or look at strangers opposite me riding in the car,Or watch honey bees busy around the hive, of a summer forenoon,

Or animals feeding in the fields,Or birds, or the wonderfulness of insects in the air,Or the wonderfulness of the sundownOr of stars shining so quiet and bright,Or the exquisite, delicate, thin curve of the new moon in spring

Or whether I go among those I like best, and that like me best,mechanics, boatmen, farmers,Or among the savans, or to the soiree, or to the opera,Or stand a long while looking at the movements of machinery,Or behold children at their sports,Or the admirable sight of the perfect old man, Or the perfect old woman.

To me, every hour of the light and dark is a miracle,Every cubic inch of space is a miracle,Every square yard of the surface of the earthis spread with the same,Every foot of the interior swarms with the same;Every spear of grass; the frames, limbs, organs, of men and women, and all that concerns them,All these to me are unspeakably perfect miracles.

the frames, limbs, organs,

of men and women

28


The part where he talks about organs is jarring me a little right now, but the rest of it is beautiful. It’s hard to be reminded of what is happening to my body right now. I don’t like not being in control of this. It’s just so unfair. I take care of myself, eat right and do well by my children, husband, family and friends. Then this happens to me. Something creeps into my lungs and won’t leave.

June 27th, 1933

I was admitted to J.C.R.S. today. What an experience. It’s strange enough to be away from my family, but I haven’t really been anywhere outside of where I grew up in Egypt and Brooklyn. Sure we took the train to Manhattan a lot, and once we went to Coney Island with the kids. But I’ve never really been beyond this. I’m frightened.

A nice young man from the hospital picked me up from the train station. I didn’t have much luggage, so it didn’t take us too long to get everything packed in the car and we were on the road. His name was Frank, and he was a friendly guy. He asked me about myself a bunch, which made me feel better about this place. Maybe it won’t be so bad. And it’s not as if I’ll really be here long, I’m sure I’ll get better real quick.

But still, I hate hospitals. The last time I had to be in one was when I was back in Brooklyn in the past few weeks and then when my mother passed away a few years ago. I think still I don’t believe that sick. I feel not so hot, but it still feels like maybe I just have a cold, like I’m going to get over this.

As we drove down the road towards the hospital I was surprised at how big it was. There were a few larger buildings, and then a bunch of tiny ones, almost like they were separate rooms or tiny houses. Frank said these were where the other “Sickies” could get fresh air and not get other people ill.

I’m in bed in my new room now. I’m pretty tired and have been coughing a lot still. I’ll try to get some writing in.

Devoid of creatures of any kindVisitations don’t occur Everything rawCold and untestedLong ago when I spoke lastAlthough we talk everyday

31


June 28th, 1933

Ruthie and Joe are on my mind now, I miss my children so much. The nurse noticed my Emily Dickinson book, and told me that they have a large library in the nearby building, but they’re mostly written in Hebrew. I know a little Hebrew, but not enough to muddle my way through a book, let alone a poetry book. I’m sure there would be some loss in translation. I wonder if they’d let me go to a public library in the city.

I walked to the common room for the women’s building, where other patients sit and gab and listen to a little radio on a stand in the corner of the room. My room is not to fart, so I can usually hear people talking although I can’t make everything out. But today I met a sweet lady named Charlene!

There was another woman asleep in a chair and Charlene sat on the couch reading the newspaper. We got to talking and chatted about how a few days ago they ended the prohibition, so it was legal to drink booze now.

Holy crow, this was strange because the ban has been on since I was a little girl. I’d had beer and wine before of course. Maurice and I were particularly fond of red wine.

Charlene slipped a flask out of a pocket on the inside of her robe and passed it to me. We had to be sneaky as we passed it back and forth taking sips. I’m sure the doctors wouldn’t look kindly on this. This is fun! I really like this girl, she’s always smiling. I could take a lesson from her. “I have TB of the noggin” she said, tapping her head with her finger.

She says the doctors tell her she’s not doing so hot, but she says she feels fine. She seems well; I don’t think I’ve met a woman with more cheer in all my life.

33


July 4th, 1933

I’ve been writing to Maurice and my little ones, and I haven’t heard back from them at all. I tried calling once a day since I’ve been here, but it always keeps ringing. Am I calling when they’re not there? I know he said that Sadie would be taking care of them while he’s at work, and I realized that I don’t have her phone number. I need to figure out how to get it. I always kept all my numbers in the little book in the kitchen cupboard back at home.

I’ve also written Maurice three letters since I was admitted and nothing back from him yet. I don’t understand. I guess it’s really only been a few weeks.

All this has made me sad, and I feel this way pretty much every day. The only thing that’s been making me feel better has been talking to Charlene.

She hasn’t been in the common room much anymore because she’s been having trouble walking, but I’ve been sneaking into her room to talk.

Tonight is the Fourth of July, I’d almost forgot for the first part of the day because I’ve been reading, but then the nurse reminded me that we might be able to see some fireworks from our windows.

The staff is firing off a few small ones in the front yard I guess. Small change compared to the ones we would take the train to go see in Manhattan.

After it got dark and the nurse came and went from my room, I snuck into Char’s room and sat with her. It was pleasant, although she’s been feeling really weak lately. She was mumbling quite a bit. I hope she snaps out of it.

I keep hearing about people being so sick that they pass away here, but I’ve never seen anything. I think they’re just good about hiding it. Anyway, we were able to see a little bit of popping of light in the sky in the distance from her window.

I’m back in my room that and have so many thoughts in my head. I think I’ll write for a while. I’ve never known a holiday without my family. I miss my children. I’ve been thinking about little Ruthie especially today.

If I could wake the perfect Hot in hands for you,

in art’s deftly sakeSoundI wouldand (distressing most moon)Instill itin the wings of burning under songs in summerButterfliesFor you my shiny lovemy loveTo hear it bendingto them Down

37


July 5th, 1933

Today I met a new doctor, Arthur Rest. I had a few doctors come in and examine me, but they said that he was a specialist for TB. What an interesting name, ha! His soft voice and warm smile is soothing and actually makes me feel sort of calm, so I guess his name is a good fit. I know I’m a married woman, but he’s incredibly handsome, hubba! Nothing wrong with looking. I get nervous whenever he comes in my room. I haven’t felt this way in years! I felt this way when I first met Maurice. This makes me so sad, I can’t write anymore.

38


July 12th, 1933

Dr. Rest has been such a good friend to me lately, and I see him everyday since I can’t get out of my bed as much to visit Char or go to the common room. He doesn’t come in just to examine me like the other doctors did. I mean he does sometimes use his stethoscope thing to check my breathing, but most of the time he just sits on the edge of my bed and talks to me. It’s so nice to be treated like a person and not just a sick patient to avoid. Today he noticed my journal and then his eyes got big when he saw my Whitman book. “I love poetry too!”, he said. We started chatting nonstop for I don’t even know how long, talking about our favorite poets and why we loved them. He likes E.E. Cummings and Robert Frost a lot because they have a lot of happy and hopeful.

He says Robert Frost has some wonderful descriptions of nature, which he loves since describes himself as a city dweller. I guess he hasn’t spent much time outside of the Denver area.

I only really know of a handful of poets because I haven’t really explored too many, with my sparse free time with kids. We got to talking about talked about Maurice and how he hasn’t spoken to me yet and how I missed my family. He told me not to worry to just give him some time to adjust to everything that had happened.

“Keep writing your feelings down” he said, “getting this out can help you heal in a way.” What a wonderful man. I’m glad I met him.

39


July 24th, 1933

When Arthur and I were talking today, he mentioned the library here. He said that lots of the books though are written in Yiddish. I know quite a few words from growing up in a Jewish household with my mother, but I certainly don’t know how to read a full book of it.

Arthur offered to go to the Denver library to pick me up some books. I was so excited because I’ll be needing another book soon! Maybe this will help me feel not so isolated if I can immerse myself in stories.

I have so much time on my hands here. I think he could tell that I was happy about this and gave me a warm smile. He asked me if he could see some of my poems. I got embarrassed and said no, but maybe someday. I don’t mind, but I don’t think I want to share the parts about him!

41


Aug. 16th, 1933

I haven’t written for a while in here. I’ve been really upset. Char passed away, and I miss her horribly. Maurice and the kids still won’t answer my calls and letters. I feel terrible. So many people are dying here, but I only hear about it from the doctors and nurses. It’s like they just disappear.

At least I have a friend here in Arthur. He comes to my room a few times every day now and we talk for a long time. I showed my journal one day, so he could read my poems, and he found out my feelings for him. I really have fallen in love. My heartbroken still, but my feelings for him are too good to fight anymore. “I wish I’d met you earlier” is what he told me.

All we can do is visit each other, and of course a kiss was out of the question. He was almost always wearing a mask when I saw him, and he would occasionally take it off when he talked for a while. I wonder what my future holds here.

Where are you? Damaged promise Breathing damagedWith what hopes should I invest in?A guest in my own skin Difficult remembering your face

45


Sept. 19th, 1933

Feeling very weak lately. I managed to convince Arthur to let met try to walk around today and actually get out of my bed. I can manage to get around with only a little trouble as long as I have the walking cane that they gave me. I just needed to go chat with another human being other than the nurse and the doctor.

Arthur arranged for me to lay out in the huts I call them, outside lately. It’s been so hot, and it’s really nice to feel more of a breeze than what comes through the window of my tiny room.

It’s a perfect place to read actually, very quiet and cool. There’s a beautiful view of the mountains from here. Mountains are one of the things that I find beautiful about this place. I’ve only ever seen small hills before.

46


April 5th, 1935

Again, it’s been a long time since I’ve written because I’ve not been feeling so great lately, very weak. Arthur went to the library again for me and picked up some books today. I love that he does this for me. Reading makes me feel better. I’m soaking up each book he brings me, I love it!

Arthur and I love each other. I feel a hole in me always that I don’t have my kids and Maurice right now, but life is interesting. Things just happen and you have to deal with it.

Today Arthur said his friend told him about this poet names John Ashbery who writes really strange things, very abstract and sometimes nonsensical, but really beautiful. Anyway, he checked out a book of poems by him and I started to read a few. He was right!

My favorite poem so far is called “The Painter”. I’m gonna write it down here so I can always look back it after he returns it the library.

Sitting between the sea and the buildings he enjoyed painting the sea’s portrait.But just as children imagine a prayer is merely silence, he expected his subject to rush up the sand, and, seizing a brush, plaster its own portrait on the canvas.

So there was never any paint on his canvas until the people who lived in the buildings.Put him to work: Try using the brush as a means to an end. Select, for a portrait, something less angry and large, and more subject to a painter’s moods, or, perhaps, to a prayer.

How could he explain to them his prayer, that nature, not art, might usurp the canvas? He chose his wife for a new subject, making her vast, like ruined buildings,as if, forgetting itself, the portrait had expressed itself without a brush. Slightly encouraged, he dipped his brush in the sea, murmuring a heartfelt prayer:

My soul, when I paint this next portrait, let it be you who wrecks the canvas.The news spread like wildfire through the buildings.He had gone back to the sea for his subject. Imagine a painter crucified by his subject! Too exhausted even to lift his brush, he provoked some artists leaning from the buildings

To malicious mirth: We haven’t a prayer now, of putting ourselves on canvas, Or getting the sea to sit for a portrait!” Others declared it a self-portrait.

Finally all indications of a subject began to fade, leaving the canvas perfectly white. He put down the brush. At once a howl, that was also a prayer, arose from the overcrowded buildings.

They tossed him, the portrait, from the tallest of the buildings; and the sea devoured the canvas and the brush as though his subject had decided to remain a prayer.

49


June 10th, 1936

My journal! I found it today, I was so happy to find it. Somehow I had set it down in the common room one night and feel asleep. When I woke up it was gone. A nurse found it in a box in the basement storage today and saw my name on it. It smells horrible. I have another journal now, but this is special to me since I’ve had it for so long.

But this was not the strangest part of my day. Arthur came into my room this morning and sat down on the edge of my bed. His head was hung low, and he looked somber.

I was really tired so I waited for him to talk because I know him and know he likes to sometimes think about what he’s going to say before he lets it come out of his mouth. “You’re getting worse, and we’ve tried everything.”, he said.

I felt shocked but suspected this was true for a while now, I’ve slowly been feeling worse over the past months, and it’s been harder for me to breathe. I started to cry, then he did too. We sat holding each other’s hands for what seemed like hours. He told me they would keep trying to heal me, they he’s do anything he could.

51


Dec. 20th, 1936

Low. I’m feeling so low today. I know that I have this wonderful connection with my new love, but I can’t help but keep thinking that I might not ever leave this place. Everyone keeps treating me like I’m not getting better and yet not talking about it. I also can’t stop thinking of Maurice. He passed away a few months ago. A heart attack.

I never was able to talk to him after being admitted here, which was years ago, and I’m still heartsick over it. Now I will never be able to resolve what happened or see him again. Sadie has little Joe and Sophie, and she won’t answer my calls.

Arthur has sent a few letters on my behalf to her, encouraging her to visit or at least speak to me. He even offered to pay for their train travel here. But no answer. I don’t understand. I helped him write another letter to mail to her.

Dec. 28th, 1936

Dear Sadie,

I am the doctor and friend of your sister-in-law, Sophie Picciotto. She is currently a patient here at the Jewish Consumptives’ Relief Society, and has been here for quite some time. She has become very distraught. She’s also been very upset regarding her estranged husband’s death, and her inability to see her children Ruth and Joe.

Sophie is desperate to see her children, and I would like to ask you on her behalf, to allow her contact with them. This is her heartfelt wish, and I would like to help her in any way to allow this to happen.

Sophie is in ill health, and we are gravely concerned that she see her children as soon as possible. If you are in need of money to come visit Sophie with the children, I would be happy to help you.

Eagerly awaiting your reply,

Dr. Arthur Rest

54


Jan. 5th, 1937

Can’t think too straight, and am having trouble with breathing. Arthur. My love Arthur. I tell him just for now he should take my journal. He promised when I get better we would marry. I remind him. But I only feel worse everyday. I asked him to read Whitman again today for me.

Come, said my soul, Such verses for my body let us write, (for we are one), That should I after death invisibly return, Or, long, long hence, in other spheres, There to some group of mates the chants resuming, (tallying earth’s soil, trees, winds, tumultuous waves,) Ever with pleased smile I may keep on, Ever and ever yet the verses owning as, first, I here and now, Signing for soul and body, set to them my name

56


I would like to provide a very special thanks to Dr. Jeanne Abrams, who has passionately kept the records and voices of J.C.R.S. patients alive.

Credits

Patient Records Courtesy of Dr. Jeanne Abrams J.C.R.S. Collection Beck Archives Special Collections Penrose Library and Center for Judaic Studies University of Denver, 2009

Photography Credits

Pages 6 & 7: Life Archives on Google Image Search. Photographer: Ed Clark, taken September 1946, New York, NY.

Pages 8 : Life Archives on Google Image Search. Photographer: Alfred Eisenstaedt, taken 1945, Little Falls, NY.

Page 10: Life Archives on Google Image Search. Photographer: Alfred Eisenstaedt, taken 1945, Little Falls, NY.

Page 12 & 13: Shortfinals.wordpress.com Photographer and date taken: Unknown Romilly Park, Wales, England.

Page 14: Photograph courtesy of Dr. Jeanne Abrams, J.C.R.S. Collection, Beck Archives Special Collections, Penrose Library and Center for Judaic Studies, University of Denver.

Page 16 & 17: Life Archives on Google Image Search. Photographer & Date: Unknown.

Page 19-20: Life Archives on Google Image Search. Photographer: Bernard Hoffman, taken 1940, Portugal.

Page 22-23: Life Archives on Google Image Search. Photographer: Gjon Mili, taken 1958, Voilodina, Yugoslavia.

Page 26: Life Archives on Google Image Search. Photographer: John Dominis, taken 1952, Mount Vernon, TX.

Page 30: Life Archives on Google Image Search. Photographer: Unknown, taken 1946, United Kingdom.

Page 32: Life Archives on Google Image Search. Photographer: Carlo Bavagnoli, taken 1967, Valencia, Spain.

57


Page 34: Pregnancytoday.com. Photographer and date taken: Unknown.

Page 36: Life Archives on Google Image Search. Photographer: Leonard Mccombe, taken 1959, USA.



Page 48: Life Archives on Google Image Search. Photographer: Alfred Eisenstaedt, taken 1944, Philadelphia, PA.

Page 50-51: Photograph courtesy of Dr. Jeanne Abrams, J.C.R.S. Collection, Beck Archives Special Collections, Penrose Library and Center for Judaic Studies, University of Denver.

Colophon

Palatino, regular and bold, 11 pt. Hammermill Laser print paper, 24 lb. Stab Binding Printed at Rocky Mountain College of Art and Design

Created for Visual Sequencing Martin Mendelsberg, Instructor

Sara Ellen Gosney July 31st, 2009

Mrs. Picciotto's Journal

Documents

Transcript of Mrs. Picciotto's Journal