Last update of this page 2022.APR.23
I am overburdened with sadness in thinking of my Aunt Edith. She had a sense of humor, but it may have been a cover for her agony. There is a bit of consolation in knowing that she had a number of relatively carefree years after her husband Herman passed away. Of all the children of Jacob and Kate, Edith has by far the most descendants.
Edith was born November 28, 1901 in Reading, Pennsylvania. We know very little about her early life.
This fascinating letter was in the Wilkes-Barre newspaper 1921.JAN.14. Samuel Reshevsky, his Anglicized name, was definitely Jewish and as a child was known as Schmulke. He started as a child prodigy and rose to the top of the chess world. He lived in Spring Valley, New York, and died at age 80 in 1992. He was ten years younger than Edith.
She married Herman Levy in Luzerne County, Pennsylvania, on July 3, 1922.
The marriage license was done with elaborate script that may be difficult to read. On the third line the word ‘not’ precedes the printed ‘married before.’ The word ‘same’ is used on the sixth line to note that Herman’s father and mother lived at the same residence.
The license identifies Herman’s parents as Zelik and Lena, maiden name Gordon. Herman’s middle initial is G, for Gordon. Zelik was a tailor in Trenton, New Jersey. Edith was 20 years old, and Herman was 22. Edith is identified as a bookkeeper. There is no indication for whom she worked, but it is plausible she was the bookkeeper for the family store.
The family lived on McDonald Street in Binghamton.
Edith and Herman had two children. Alan was born May 10, 1925, in Binghamton, and Carol was born May 30, 1930, in Binghamton. We have this detail from the 1930 census:
Alan and Carol will be the subjects of separate stories.
Edith’s parents, Jacob and Kate Simon, both died in 1929. Younger sister Ida stayed in Mocanaqua until she finished high school; thereafter, Ida moved to Binghamton to be with Edith and Herman.
Understanding Edith requires an understanding of Herman’s complicated history. Here is an account of Herman’s business , and here are other stories about Herman.
Edith was an active participant in her synagogue. This news item is one of many regarding her activities.
The 1940 census found the family at the same address. The ages are 40, 38, 14, and 9. The census was taken on April 5.
Alan died in Germany in World War II, just a few days after arriving in Europe. His death was a profound tragedy, and it had a huge impact.
There are family stories suggesting that her older brother, Nate, intercepted letters from the United States War Department about Alan’s death. Perhaps Nate believed he could help Edith deal with the pain in a more gentle style than letters from the government. I simply do not know how Nate managed this.
There have been lingering questions regarding Nate’s felt need to cushion Edith’s grief. Surely this tragedy could not have been indefinitely concealed from her. Click here to see the long history of Edith’s pain.
Alan’s death broke their spirits, and neither Herman nor Edith could completely free themselves from the pain. Grief was laid upon grief years later when one of their grandsons died.
Sometime after the war, Herman developed complications of diabetes and lost a leg. At the time I got to know him in the early 1950s, he had deteriorated badly. He seemed directionless, spending most of his time in a chair in front of the television, with the prosthetic leg at his side. I did not understand at the time the burden that his care placed on Edith.
These are basic facts about Aunt Edith. But I must add my own impressions and memories.
I remember Edith as kind and entertaining, easy to love. She was short and overweight, and she walked with a bit of a waddle.
Every couple of months, we took a car trip to see Aunt Edith and Uncle Herman. We drove from our home near Wilkes-Barre, an old-tired-depressed town, to their home in Binghamton, an older-more tired-more depressed town. Their home then was a big, cavernous structure on Vestal Street. As a child, I was fascinated with the passageway from the living room to kitchen. It went up and down a couple of steps, with the high stop linking to the creaky staircase to the second floor. The back yard had a cherry tree, and if we were lucky enough to visit during the very short season we had the thrill of picking our own snacks. The house had an old out-of-tune piano and mountains of sheet music that must have dated back to Edith’s childhood. The house was filled with things Aunt Edith had deemed worth saving; I still remember her copy of a newspaper describing the shooting of President Lincoln. This newspaper might have been a reprint, but I’ll never know.
At the start of each visit, I was requested to give Uncle Herman a hug. Uncle Herman was not easy for a child to approach, as he was in serious physical decline. How could human beings get to his condition? I knew that I had to be respectful, and I was, but it was troubling just to be near Uncle Herman. When I was a small child, he was in his fifties, which seemed ancient. I was told that he had diabetes, but the full grasp of the disorder was beyond my understanding. Uncle Herman had lost a leg to the disease, and he did not seem to use his prosthetic at home. He was content to get around with crutches. Even so, “get around” is an overstatement. I only knew him to be sitting in his living room in front of the television. He rarely left the house. His clothing was clean – at least I think that it was – but it was ragged and worn. He had only a few teeth remaining, and his encounters with products of the Gillette Razor Company seemed to happen about every seven days or so. I was told that I should give Uncle Herman a hug, and I did. He was certainly pleasant to his juvenile visitors, but these juveniles did not get to see him, or even imagine him, as his more vibrant former self.
Uncle Herman had operated a small store in Binghamton. He was beloved by his customers and was known to extend credit when times were tough. Times were often tough in Binghamton. The affectionate tag “Jesus Levy” was applied to him. One of my cousins remembers Herman taking him and his father to a minor league baseball game in Binghamton.
Aunt Edith bore the burden of grief, but she was able still to radiate cheerfulness. We always loved Aunt Edith. She had kind words for everyone, and she made delicious meals when we visited. The meals were usually spaghetti, great dining from a child’s perspective. Among her specialties were farfel and noodles, which she dried on the dining room table on a beautiful linen tablecloth. She is remembered as an amazing cook!
Edith’s devotion to Herman was impressive. He was physically compromised, and he needed total care. But care for him she did. On the return trips from Binghamton, my parents would discuss the fact that Edith’s life was so restricted by Herman. Edith would have enjoyed a visit to her daughter Carol, but could never manage to get away. Carol and her husband lived for several years in Houston and then many more years in Chicago. Aunt Edit had a profound fear of flying, and this fear likely prevented visiting.
“I think Herman is dead. He’s not breathing, and he’s not moving.”
That was the phone call that came to my Dad in February 1966 from Edith. How could my Aunt Edith have been so calm regarding the man she had married over forty years ago?
A proper funeral was held in Binghamton, and then Edith was alone.
She adjusted to being alone. The many years of caregiving had ended.
After Herman’s death, Edith acquired a freer existence. She had the chance to be out of the house, getting to stores, to friends, and to movies. Our visits to the house on Vestal Street in Binghamton were delightful. A special repeated event had our family taking her out to eat at the Spot Restaurant. Aunt Edith ate only kosher food, but her boundaries included fish in restaurants. The Spot is still standing, and it still has a wide selection of fish dishes.
She in turn was able to visit us in Wilkes‑Barre, and she loved the adventure of traveling by bus. There are distinct memories of her being at our house on the evening that my father hit a deer. Dad was fine, but the car and the deer were big losers.
She came to us at least once for Passover, grateful to be freed from the chore of cleaning her house for the holiday. Fay, my stepmother, was a wonderful and gracious host.
She even was able to visit her daughter Carol, then in Chicago. She traveled by train.
Aunt Edith always felt that a return trip after a family gathering needed a confirmation of safe arrival. The confirmation was a person-to-person phone call for “Alice Fine.” Since Alice Fine – or “Alles Fein” in Yiddish – was never available, the phone call did not generate a charge.
Aunt Edith possessed a self-mocking sense of humor. The line I remember most is her claim that she tore her hot-pants on her motorcycle.
Aunt Edith devoted many years of her life caring for a person with serious medical needs. It is perhaps gratifying to know that she lived sixteen years after Uncle Herman’s death.
We will never fully know the cause of Edith’s death in June 1982 at age 80. For several days, she did not answer her telephone. She was found dead in her own house. Perhaps this is an unpleasant ending, but she died in her own home and she was not provided with a medically-extended miserable demise.
The informant, line 19A, was Abe Simon. The funeral, line 21A, was held in Wilkes-Barre. The cause of death was listed as myocardial infarction from coronary disease, complicated by atherosclerosis, diabetes, and obesity.
There is also the story of Edith’s final resting place. My mother died in 1959, when I was only fourteen. My parents had been married sixteen years. My grief-stricken father bought adjoining cemetery plots in Wilkes-Barre, following the implicit logic that he would one day be buried next to her. In about a year, however, he married the woman who would be my stepmother. That marriage lasted 47 years, until my wonderful father was finally noticed by the angel of death in 2007. My father and stepmother are buried together in Ohio.
The plot next to my mother was available at the time Edith died, and that is where she will be forever. She and Herman are now resting in different states.
These pictures were taken on a visit to mark the 50th anniversary of Inga Simon’s death. Edith died in June, 1982, but the exact date is only estimated.
This account of Edith and Herman Levy was written by Gary Simon in 2014 and amended in 2021. Several others provided input, and they will be acknowledged pending their approval. Accounts are based on recollections, and these might not be totally accurate.
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