But He Was Good To His Mother

tives. He continually gave
them money and found them
jobs. Although they were not
part of Zwillman's operation,
because they were Zwillmans
the family sometimes encoun-
tered whisperings and slights
from "respectable" citizens of
Newark. Nonetheless, the
family continued to love and
respect him.
"His mother was a wonder-
ful woman," remembers Itzik.
"I used to go to their house.
They lived on Hansberry
Avenue. Wonderful people.
"Longy used to come there
every Friday with a half
dozen fellows. His mother
used to cook Jewish food, kre-
plach, gefilte fish. A. few
ltalianas (Italians) used to

come. They never ate so
good."
In 1939 Longy married
Mary Mendels Steinbach, a
divorced woman with a son,
John.
Longy adored his wife and
raised her son as his own.
Longy took the youngster
with him wherever he could,
even to "business" meetings.
Despite their father-son
relationship, Longy never
legally adopted John. "If I
adopt you," Longy told the
youngster, you'll carry my
name. You'll be marked for
life, and that won't be an
advantage. No matter what
you do, how well you behave,
you'll be pointed out as a
Zwillman. I've seen it happen

Meyer Lansky, left,
was "crazy about
his children," and
"Dutch Schultz"
Flegenheimer in
1935, awaiting his
verdict in an
income tax case.

to the rest of my family," said
Longy, and I don't want it to
happen to you."
It didn't. John married in
1958 and led a respectable
life without anyone connect-
ing him to the Zwillman era.
axey Gordon grew
up tough. As a
young man he was
a terror on the
streets and later ruthless as a
bootlegger. However, his wife
and three children meant
more to him than anything.
Throughout his criminal
career, he shielded them from
the uglier aspects of his life.
His conviction for income tax
evasion shattered the illusion
of respectability he sought to
create. His wife, Leah, the
daughter of a rabbi, had to
endure the shame.
Waxey's beloved eldest son,
Theodore, was a 19-year-old
pre-medical student at the
University of North Carolina
at the time of the trial.
Waxey often boasted to his
friends about Teddy's apti-
tude for study, his love of
books and hi's devotion to his
parents.
During the trial of his
father in December 1933,
Teddy remained in New York
to be with his mother. He
returned to school after
Waxey's conviction. A few
days later, Teddy received a
call from his uncle, Nathan
Wexler, urging him to return
to New York to go to the
judge and Thomas Dewey to

W

plead for a reduction in his
father's 10-year sentence, and
to ask for Gordon's release on
bail pending appeal.
"But uncle, I have an exam
in the morning," the boy said.
"Can't it be put off for a day?"
His uncle told him that
haste was important. Teddy
went straight to his car and
started back to New York. It
began to snow and sleet and
he was tired, so he asked a
friend of his to drive for him.
The boy fell asleep at the
wheel and the car went off
the road and crashed. Teddy
was killed.
A few hours after the acci-
dent, Waxey was told of his
son's death.
"That boy was my one
hope," Waxey told his attor-
ney. "I counted on him.
Everything I did centered
around him."
Gordon asked the court for
permission to attend his son's
funeral. Prosecutor Thomas
E. Dewey granted his
request. Teddy was buried in
the Mount Hebron Cemetery,
in Flushing, N.Y. Gordon,
tears streaming down his
face, stood in the sunlight
and recited the Kaddish.
Mourning beside him stood
his wife and their other chil-
dren, Paul, 15, and Beatrice,
11.
Rabbi A. Mordechai Stern
led the Kaddish, and Gordon
followed, muttering like a
man in a dream.
Afterwards, Gordon stood
as if in a daze as the clods of
earth rained down on the cof-
fin. "I would rather have
taken any sentence, even life,
than to have this happen to
Teddy," he said.
Weeping bitterly, Gordon
was led away,
eyer Lansky loved
his two sons and a
daughter and kept
them away from
his criminal activities. Doc
Stacher, who knew Lansky
well, said that "Meyer was
close to his children, crazy
about them."
Lansky's first wife, Anna,
was "opposed to everything

M

Lansky stood for, but there
was nothing she could do
about it. She was terrified
that the children would follow
in his footsteps, despite
Lansky's repeated assurances
he "wouldn't let the children
get involved."
But Meyer meant it. His
first child, Bernard, nick-
named "Buddy," was born in
1930. The boy was cheerful
and even-tempered, but had a
damaged spinal cord. He
would always be a cripple.
Meyer supported him all his
life.
Meyer's second son, Paul,
was born in 1932. He grew up
normal and healthy. Lansky
wanted his younger son to be
fully integrated into
American society. In 1950,
Paul Lansky got into West
Point on the basis of his own
ability. Lansky was forever
proud of Paul's achievement
and never ceased talking
about it.
Meyer loved driving up to
visit his son at the U.S.
Military Academy, and he
took the family there for pic-
nics. His son's graduation
from the Academy gave him
the feeling, as perhaps noth-
ing else could, that he had
made it in America.
This was reinforced for him
in 1952, when Dwight
Eisenhower became presi-
dent. The father of one of
Paul's roommates was a close
friend of Eisenhower's, and
Lansky got an invitation to
the inauguration. Lansky
thought this was a mistake.
He wrote the man a letter
thanking him but hinting
that some of the dignitaries
at the ceremony might find
his presence objectionable.
The man wrote back telling
Lansky not to forget to come.
He disclosed that in his club
they used the same slot
machines that Lansky had in
his casinos, and during
Prohibition he and his friends
used to drink Lansky's boot-
leg whiskey. Lansky was sur-
prised and flattered, but
declined to attend.
Paul graduated from West