Opal Ruff, at the age of 83, had been sitting in the same corner
of the red vinyl couch in the tiny lobby of the New Morse Hotel almost every
day for the last three years. Her eldest son, Herman, a bachelor in his
sixties, had brought her to the hotel shortly after her husband, Noah, had died
of a heart attack on Christmas Day, 1969.
"I don't want to go there," Mrs. Ruff protested at the time, but
Herman had responsibilities of his own and insisted that she pack up and move
into the hotel.
The New Morse was more of a warehouse for the aged than a hotel.
It was not the kind of place Mrs. Ruff would have selected for herself had she
been able to get around without a walker. Old folks signed in and many of them
never signed out. Funeral home attendants would carry them out. Relatives of
the deceased would come by and carry out their belongings in brown paper bags.
It's not that Mrs. Ruff thought she was too good for the New
Morse Hotel. It took a couple of months but eventually she adjusted to her new
environment. Now she lived with ash trays in the lobby rather than doilies in
her living room. It took a while to get used to a major change like that.
The other residents, most of them elderly males, had gotten used
to seeing her on the couch two hours in the morning and two hours in the
afternoon. She would sit in her corner of the couch saying the rosary in
silence, lips moving, her hair in a tidy bun, her long dress down to her
ankles. She could easily have passed for the mother or grandmother of the woman
in the famous painting, "American Gothic."
While Mrs. Ruff said her rosary, the male residents would take
turns sitting in the uncomfortable easy chairs, reminiscing and trading tales
about when they were young and randy and not limited to the lobby of the New
Considering the nature of the men's conversation, it was
fortunate Mrs. Ruff was stone deaf and never wore her hearing aids in the
lobby. She had worn them in her first few months but now she left them in her
tiny room so she could pray and not have to hear the men discuss their lives in
pursuit of women. Mrs. Ruff had nothing against sex. In fact, she had presented
Mr. Ruff with eight children, four boys and four girls. All of them lived in
other states now, except for Herman, who was busy rearing six children of his
own without the help of his wife who, for some reason Mrs. Ruff didn't
understand, had unexpectedly committed suicide.
"Noah and I had a good marriage," Mrs. Ruff would occasionally
say if someone inquired politely about her life before moving into the New
Morse Hotel. "He was very healthy for his age and no one expected him to have a
heart attack. But he hit the floor with a thump and never moved. I knew he was
gone when his water broke and it soaked the living room rug."
Poverty was the one thing most of the men who lived in the hotel
had in common. But there were also a few retired gentlemen who had small
pensions as well as Social Security checks they could count on. They chose to
live in the New Morse because they appreciated the Ashkenaz Restaurant, which
was located on the floor beneath the hotel and was known throughout Chicago for
its Jewish cuisine. Most of the dishes were favorites of the Ashenazi and
Sephardic Jews who lived in the neighborhood, some of them survivors of
Auschwitz and Buchenwald as tattooed numbers on their forearms would always
Harris Cohen didn't have a tattoo. He had been born eight
decades ago in America. He liked the matzoh ball soup and the knishes and
kishke that he could order at Ashkenaz. Every month, on the day he received his
retirement check, he would celebrate with a pastrami sandwich on rye, loaded
"I have never eaten better pastrami," Harris would often say,
"not even in New York."
He had eaten these specialties all his life and that is why,
after retiring from the railroad where he had worked 40 years as a conductor,
he chose the New Morse Hotel as his residence. Every morning, unlike most of
the other men, he would shave, put on his short-sleeved white shirt, a nice
tie, and the navy blue pants he saved from his days on the Century Limited,
where he had patrolled the aisles making certain the needs of the passengers
were met in a timely fashion. He usually worked the trips from Chicago to New
York and back again, which took 16 hours each way and involved sleeping berths
for some and at least two meals per trip for everyone on the train. Passengers
expected good service for their money and Harris provided it, not because of
the occasional tip he would receive but because he liked to do a good job.
"No one ever had a complaint in one of my cars," Harris would
announce in the lobby at least once a week. And no one ever bothered to argue
Harris Cohen treated Mrs. Ruff with great respect. Although he
was unfamiliar with the rosary, he knew from his own religion, Judaism, that
prayer beads, as he called them, were important. That is why he would never
interrupt Mrs. Ruff while she was praying. But as soon as he saw her make the
final Sign of the Cross, he would ask after her well-being. She would always
assure him that she was fine and then inquire about him. Harris and Mrs. Ruff
had mastered the art of pleasantries and each was very polite in dealing with
In fact, Harris often sat at one end of the couch and Mrs. Ruff
at the other. After he had paid his respects to Mrs. Ruff, he was free to read
his newspaper and strike up conversations with the other men who took a seat in
the lobby while waiting for the clerk of the day to materialize behind the desk
and give them their mail. Sometimes they had to wait until the ancient
switchboard lit up with a call. If no clerk was available, Ralph Doogan, the
manager, would come roaring out of his office behind the board to find out what
had interrupted his day. Often he had the remains of a gigantic ham sandwich in
his hand. Every once in awhile, Doogan would offer Harris Cohen a bite of his
ham sandwich and Cohen would always decline. He was not a religious man, but he
had been bar mitzvahed as a young man and he did not want to give Doogan the
satisfaction of getting him to eat something forbidden to the Jewish people.
"Doogan can keep his ham, " Harris was known to say. "I like my
The hotel had only one maid, Rozelle Johnson, who took care of
16 rooms on the second floor and another 16 on the third floor. Her rounds took
all day. A good Baptist, and a lovely woman in her early forties, Rozelle had
long ago put the lechers in the lobby firmly in their place. They knew she was
not available at any price.
"Leave that woman alone," long-term residents would advise any
new man who checked in, and they levied that warning with good reason. One of
their own a few years back, big Bruno, had paid a great price for grabbing
Rozelle's buttocks as she wheeled her cart down the narrow hall. She hit him
with her dustpan on the top of his bald head and then whacked him across the
face, breaking his nose. There was blood everywhere. None of the men of the New
Morse Hotel tried to get next to Rozelle after that.
As a result of this incident, Rozelle talked regularly with only
two residents among those she encountered on her daily rounds. She spoke with
Mrs. Ruff when she was in her room and had her hearing aids in place. She
admired the spirituality of Mrs. Ruff even if she wasn't a Baptist like
Rozelle. She knew that Mrs. Ruff had accepted Jesus the way Catholics do and if
that was good enough for Jesus, it was good enough for her.
She also liked to talk with Harris Cohen, not because he tipped
her a dollar a week but because the man was always clean and well-shaven and
wore a tie. In the lobby, Harris had the good sense to modify his language when
Rozelle was passing through. When she wasn't there, however, he would advise
the other men who sat down what it was like during the Depression. According to
Harris, the going price for the company of a woman as fetching as Rozelle was
$2.00, not a penny more.
"The ladies were happy to get the money," Harris would say, "and
I was happy to help out. Times were tough."
Not knowing Harris and his attitude toward women, Rozelle always
thought she might be able to fix him up with Mrs. Ruff despite their religious
differences. She thought the two of them might be able to keep each other
company. And if they eventually got married, the hotel did have a few apartment
suites that Rozelle thought would suit them as a couple. Whenever one of these
little suites, as the hotel called them, became available, Rozelle would
amplify her praise of Harris while cleaning Mrs. Ruff's room. For months, Mrs.
Ruff listened politely and agreed that Harris seemed to be a gentleman. After
all, she had never heard his tales of feminine conquests in the lobby because
she sat there without her hearing aids, quietly saying her rosary.
One day, however, Rozelle's lobbying in behalf of Harris got to
be too much for Mrs. Ruff. After making the bed, her final duty in the room,
Rozelle was preparing to leave when she decided to take a chance and tell Mrs.
Ruff that she thought Harris might like to take her to lunch in the restaurant
downstairs. Rozelle didn't know that Harris Cohen, despite being the same age
as Mrs. Ruff, had always liked younger women and had savored enough of them
over the years, especially when times were tough. Mrs. Ruff, on the other hand,
had loved her husband throughout her marriage and had no interest in any other
man. But Rozelle had a point to make.
"Mrs. Ruff," she said, "I wouldn't suggest your having lunch
with Harris if I didn't think he was a gentleman. He might even ask you to
marry him at some point."
Tired of Rozelle's efforts in behalf in Harris, Mrs. Ruff moved
a little in her chair, put her rosary down, looked Rozelle in the eye, and
"And if I married him, what would I do - lift him on and lift
Rozelle never mentioned Harris Cohen to Mrs. Ruff again. Six
months later, she had found another job in a much better hotel.