The Sun

HE'S BACK TO VOTE AT 105
OLD SIMON HARRIS BLOWS IN FROM JERUSALEM
And He Registers With a Flabbergasted East Side Board—A Musty Tale of Republicanism From Lincoln to Taft—"Everything Was 'a Long Time Ago'"

A man bent but slightly with age and wearing a long white beard that trailed down over an overcoat reaching almost to his heels shuffled into the store at 447 Grand street yesterday forenoon and took his place in the line of prospective voters who had come to register. No one paid any attention to him when he began to answer questions as to his name, Simon Harris, or his address, which he said was 242 Division street, but when it came to the question of age the registry board and the loungers sat up.

"I'm 105 years old and I came back from Jerusalem to vote."

Willie Cohen, chairman of the board, was the first to start for a chair, but many say that Martin Horn got across the line first in the race for the honor of seating Simon Harris. In the corner Isadore Simon whispered in Yiddish that the old man must be boasting. The white bearded prospective voter swung around toward Isadore Simon and let him know that he still has ears good enough to hear whispered comments.

"I am 105!" cried Simon Harris vehemently. "Around the corner I have papers to prove it!"

He could not sign his name, but he answered readily the ten questions that are necessary in lieu of the signature. But when he was plied with further questions by the crowd that had gathered about him curious for more details about himself he at first was slow to answer because down under his beard he still was mumbling his protest against this Isadore Simon, who had whispered doubts as to his age.

"I am 105 years old. I am," he repeated over and over. Then better temper came back to him and he told a little about his life.

When it came to dates his memory was vague and he would mumble again and again, "Oh, long ago, long ago." He knew that he had voted for Lincoln, he said, and was quite sure that he has voted for every President since, and always the Republican ticket. More than four years ago he came back from Jerusalem to vote for Roosevelt, and now, he said, he is here to vote for Taft. He wasn't sure about the Republican candidate's name, but he was quite sure he was going to vote the straight Republican ticket.

When he was leaving the registry desk to return to his home a lane was made for Simon Harris, and as he shuffled out with his heavy cane tapping the floor they gave him a little cheer. All his good humor came back then and he turned and doffed his old derby hat and a smile almost closed the little eyes under his bushy brows.

"I'm going over to get my father to register now," he said in Yiddish, and left.

It was difficult to find Simon Harris last evening to ask him about himself. In the first place he had made a mistake about his address when registering, but in time it was learned that he lives at 262 Division street, where he rents a room from a Mrs. Levine, instead of 242. Every day he climbs three flights of stairs there.

When he hadn't come back at 10 o'clock last night it looked as if Simon Harris were gallivanting about. Then Rosie Levine remembered that probably he could be found in the synagogue in Grand street, around the corner because, said Rosie, he "is very religious."

Rosie darted off to the synagogue and brought Simon back. Then he talked a bit about himself, with Rosie and all her sisters and brothers and a few neighbors from across the hallway as interpreters.

Simon could understand English and even answer some questions brokenly, but often the interpreters were valuable. And above all Simon insisted that he didn't want his "picture in the papers."

He came from Russia "a long time ago"—everything was a long time ago—and became a citizen soon after the civil war started. He was a peddler in those days and lived in Mott street, near Bayard. He paid only "$8 or $10 for a house in New York a long time ago," and "everybody was happier then." "One day," he doesn't remember just when, he began to walk westward with his peddler's pack and "a long time after that" he reached San Francisco.

He walked all the way, he says.

"Have you any children?" the old man was asked.

"No, no," he cried with a show of anger. "They're dead—they're bad."

He has a daughter and grandchildren in Brooklyn," whispered Mrs. Levine. "He says she's dead because she is not orthodox. He's religious."

Old Simon admitted when asked about the daughter that there is a woman whom he saw for the last time "long ago."

"Bad, bad, bad," was all he would say about her, and he seemed to brush the absent daughter even further from him with a wave of his hand. His wife died a long time ago.

Two years ago he went to Jerusalem, his third visit there, to die, he said. But he didn't die, and last year he made up his mind to return to America again "to vote."

As he spoke of this he rose from his chair in Mrs. Levine's kitchen and went into his bedroom, muttering in Yiddish. Presently he returned, drew from a large leather pouch two papers and handed them across the kitchen table proudly.

One was a passport made out by Selah Merrill, the then American Consul in Jerusalem, dated February, 1905. The passport gave his age as 95 years.

The other paper was a letter written by Mr. Merrill on the American consulate note paper, whereon was told that Simon Harris was then a poor Jew and that any charity bestowed upon him would be deserving.

The tattered appearance of the papers worried the old man and he asked that they be handled carefully. Earlier in the day at the registration board's booth Simon lamented that his naturalization papers also were getting torn and tattered and wondered if he could have them renewed.

"Are you going back to Jerusalem after you vote?" he was asked last night.

"I'd like to go back," he answered wistfully in Yiddish. "I want to die there. I went back after the last Presidential election for a while, but I'm afraid I'm too old now to make the trip again. I'm afraid I'll have to die here."

Mrs. Levine said she did not know where Simon Harris's funds come from further than that the old man seemed to have friends of some means in the city who supplied him with money for his meals and his room. He pays his rent promptly each week, she said, and each day he goes out and comes back about 9 or 10 o'clock at night. Much of the time he spends in the synagogue, and as he climbs the steps to go to bed in his tiny room he stops only to say good night.

Last night when the reporters talked to him was the first time the tenants of the house who were grouped about him heard even so much of his history as he was able to remember then. Mrs. Levine had once heard him lament about the daughter in Brooklyn that "is dead," but that is all she knew of his personal affairs.

The mistake in giving his address as 242 Division street will not cause Simon to lose his vote, the registration board said. The mistake was promptly fixed up and the entire board will see that Simon votes in November if they have to get a carriage for him.