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Jews who scrap: It's a living
By: TED S. STRATTON Staff Reporter
Ridge Road Auto Parts on the West Side of Cleveland looks out upon two Jewish cemeteries across the street.
Dan Rothstein, owner of the wrecked car recycling business, hopes those graveyards aren't a metaphor for the future of his livelihood. The scrap business that was and still is dominated by Jews is in danger of extinction.
In the 1920 City Directory, 90 scrap dealers were listed in Cleveland proper alone. Now, their ranks have shrunk to less than ten. Most people in the business today are not even classic "scrappers," people who buy and sell scrap metal off the street. Many, like Rothstein, have developed a niche, such as auto recycling, specialty metals or ingot making.
Leonard Tanenbaum calls himself an Horatio Alger story come to life. Eighty-eight years old and living in Stone Gardens in Beachwood, Tanenbaum built small empire of scrapyards during the Depression and war years, working his way up from a childhood spent in a Jewish orphanage. Happily retired, Tanenbaum has since sold his yards. But he remembers his old profession with fondness, even titling a book of his memoirs, Junk is Not a Four-Letter Word.
"Back then, rich people would throw things out, and you could get something for nothing," recounts Tanenbaum. His biggest score was a cache of silverware that he found during the wartime embargo from a Youngstown hotel. Those precious metals got him $300 and a brief run-in with the Youngstown police, who let him go after they couldn't find anything illegal about his transaction. But he doesn't regret his sometimes dangerous profession. "I made a pretty good living at it, " he says n for more than four decades.
But when the Environmental Protection Agency (EPA) started hounding him about suspected violations in the early ‘90s, even the street-smart Tanenbaum didn't have the energy to fight. He left the business for good, and now worries about the health of his industry, one that does more for the environment than even the EPA, he says "We are trying to rescue America's throwaway society."
Those were the days
"The old days are done," says Jim Wilkoff, who is surrounded by piles of wire and slabs of scrap in his Cleveland office. He owns the Wilkoff and Co. scrapyard in the heart of the old Woodland Jewish neighborhood around E. 47th St. When Wilkoff's grandfather founded the company in 1924, the entire family worked in the business. Out of nine grandchildren, Jim's the only one remaining in the business.
"It's an extremely volatile business," explains Wilkoff, 60, "but it's still a commodity." Wilkoff and Co. specializes in alloy metals like molybdenum, because alloys fetch a higher price than old standbys steel, aluminum and copper. He is thankful, he says, that he has built up enough capital, equipment and space to keep the business running on extremely low margins.
"Twenty years ago, all you needed was a pickup truck," he says. "Now, the investment in plant and people is just like a major manufacturing operation." Wilkoff employs 25 workers and estimates it would cost many millions to start his company again from scratch.
Why Jews?
The so-called "junk" business has always been the purview of Jews, not only in Cleveland but throughout the country. A 1936 Fortune Magazine article estimated that 90% of industry owners were Jewish. Dan Rothstein remembers local leaders peddling Israel Bonds at meetings of the Cleveland Autowrecker's Association back in the 1960's. Attending a trade organization conference was like going to B'nai B'rith, he jokes.
Jews got into the business in the late 19th century through a combination of timing, discrimination (they were effectively barred from certain industries and occupations) and a desire to be entrepreneurs. That's the assessment of Carl Zimring, a visiting assistant professor of history at Oberlin College and author of the forthcoming book, Cash For Your Trash: Scrap Recycling in America.
In the 1880s, demand for scrap from the burgeoning steel industry was at an all-time high, and Jews were migrating to America in enormous waves. Thousands of Jews started entering the trade, mainly because it was a cheap investment: All they needed was a horse cart and some established contacts n and they could be their own bosses.
"Within ten years, some people were making $100,000 a year," says Zimring n a fortune in 1890 dollars. A few successful Jewish scrap dealers parlayed their investment into growth; Levinson Steel became a large Pittsburgh concern, and the Luria family of Pennsylvania had operations in 16 cities and controlled two-thirds of the scrap market.
Small time crooks?
But junk dealing always carried a stigma that other professions did not, and to some extent it still endures today.
"We're a lot like the old-fashioned butchers; everyone always felt ripped off," says Kenny Cohen, who owns Able Alloys, a small yard that relies on independent suppliers for scrap.
A pickup truck brings in a load of metal washers and the driver heaps them on the scale. Cohen dips into the cash register and pays him $1 per pound, the going rate for copper. Not a bad price considering a ton of iron is worth about the same amount.
"We don't have the best reputation, but there are really good people in the profession," says Cohen, a third-generation scrapper who lives in Beachwood and commutes daily to the West Side. Back in his grandfather's day, the tools of the trade were a magnet and a file; now, Cohen proudly shows off his high-tech Metorex metal analyzer, while computers give him an up-to-the-minute price of every metal.
With the loss of manufacturing in Northeast Ohio, Cohen's supply of scrap has dwindled tremendously, he says. Would he encourage his children to carry on the business into a fourth generation? Not really.
"It's best to encourage education, and get a job," he says. "In this business, you have to make it on your wits more than anything else."
The future of "recycling"
Yet not everyone is pessimistic about the state of the now euphemistically named "recycling" industry.
"I actually think there is potential," says William Grodin, president of River Recycling, an ingot making factory nestled in Cleveland's industrial valley in the shadow of International Steel Group's rolling mills. His company buys excess metal material, forms them into small cylinders or "ingots," and sells those ingots to foundries around the world, from China to India and Germany. Cleveland offers excellent transportation, he says, to ports like New York and Seattle where they can ship product by sea.
Grodin runs the company with the help of three cousins and his brother, Robert. It's unusual to see so many family members in one company, especially in a supposedly declining sector. But Grodin says participation in a family business seminar at Case Western Reserve University has really helped them make it work.
Grodin's grandfather made the peculiar career switch from attorney to metal broker and smelter in 1919, but "maybe that was a better decision back then," says Grodin. He says he never felt pressured to enter the family business, but when the time was right, he jumped at the chance.
"We looked at it as good opportunity to build on a successful business," says his brother Robert. "To take it from a regional to a national, and now international, scope."
Dan Rothstein, owner of the wrecked car recycling business, hopes those graveyards aren't a metaphor for the future of his livelihood. The scrap business that was and still is dominated by Jews is in danger of extinction.
In the 1920 City Directory, 90 scrap dealers were listed in Cleveland proper alone. Now, their ranks have shrunk to less than ten. Most people in the business today are not even classic "scrappers," people who buy and sell scrap metal off the street. Many, like Rothstein, have developed a niche, such as auto recycling, specialty metals or ingot making.
Leonard Tanenbaum calls himself an Horatio Alger story come to life. Eighty-eight years old and living in Stone Gardens in Beachwood, Tanenbaum built small empire of scrapyards during the Depression and war years, working his way up from a childhood spent in a Jewish orphanage. Happily retired, Tanenbaum has since sold his yards. But he remembers his old profession with fondness, even titling a book of his memoirs, Junk is Not a Four-Letter Word.
"Back then, rich people would throw things out, and you could get something for nothing," recounts Tanenbaum. His biggest score was a cache of silverware that he found during the wartime embargo from a Youngstown hotel. Those precious metals got him $300 and a brief run-in with the Youngstown police, who let him go after they couldn't find anything illegal about his transaction. But he doesn't regret his sometimes dangerous profession. "I made a pretty good living at it, " he says n for more than four decades.
But when the Environmental Protection Agency (EPA) started hounding him about suspected violations in the early ‘90s, even the street-smart Tanenbaum didn't have the energy to fight. He left the business for good, and now worries about the health of his industry, one that does more for the environment than even the EPA, he says "We are trying to rescue America's throwaway society."
Those were the days
"The old days are done," says Jim Wilkoff, who is surrounded by piles of wire and slabs of scrap in his Cleveland office. He owns the Wilkoff and Co. scrapyard in the heart of the old Woodland Jewish neighborhood around E. 47th St. When Wilkoff's grandfather founded the company in 1924, the entire family worked in the business. Out of nine grandchildren, Jim's the only one remaining in the business.
"It's an extremely volatile business," explains Wilkoff, 60, "but it's still a commodity." Wilkoff and Co. specializes in alloy metals like molybdenum, because alloys fetch a higher price than old standbys steel, aluminum and copper. He is thankful, he says, that he has built up enough capital, equipment and space to keep the business running on extremely low margins.
"Twenty years ago, all you needed was a pickup truck," he says. "Now, the investment in plant and people is just like a major manufacturing operation." Wilkoff employs 25 workers and estimates it would cost many millions to start his company again from scratch.
Why Jews?
The so-called "junk" business has always been the purview of Jews, not only in Cleveland but throughout the country. A 1936 Fortune Magazine article estimated that 90% of industry owners were Jewish. Dan Rothstein remembers local leaders peddling Israel Bonds at meetings of the Cleveland Autowrecker's Association back in the 1960's. Attending a trade organization conference was like going to B'nai B'rith, he jokes.
Jews got into the business in the late 19th century through a combination of timing, discrimination (they were effectively barred from certain industries and occupations) and a desire to be entrepreneurs. That's the assessment of Carl Zimring, a visiting assistant professor of history at Oberlin College and author of the forthcoming book, Cash For Your Trash: Scrap Recycling in America.
In the 1880s, demand for scrap from the burgeoning steel industry was at an all-time high, and Jews were migrating to America in enormous waves. Thousands of Jews started entering the trade, mainly because it was a cheap investment: All they needed was a horse cart and some established contacts n and they could be their own bosses.
"Within ten years, some people were making $100,000 a year," says Zimring n a fortune in 1890 dollars. A few successful Jewish scrap dealers parlayed their investment into growth; Levinson Steel became a large Pittsburgh concern, and the Luria family of Pennsylvania had operations in 16 cities and controlled two-thirds of the scrap market.
Small time crooks?
But junk dealing always carried a stigma that other professions did not, and to some extent it still endures today.
"We're a lot like the old-fashioned butchers; everyone always felt ripped off," says Kenny Cohen, who owns Able Alloys, a small yard that relies on independent suppliers for scrap.
A pickup truck brings in a load of metal washers and the driver heaps them on the scale. Cohen dips into the cash register and pays him $1 per pound, the going rate for copper. Not a bad price considering a ton of iron is worth about the same amount.
"We don't have the best reputation, but there are really good people in the profession," says Cohen, a third-generation scrapper who lives in Beachwood and commutes daily to the West Side. Back in his grandfather's day, the tools of the trade were a magnet and a file; now, Cohen proudly shows off his high-tech Metorex metal analyzer, while computers give him an up-to-the-minute price of every metal.
With the loss of manufacturing in Northeast Ohio, Cohen's supply of scrap has dwindled tremendously, he says. Would he encourage his children to carry on the business into a fourth generation? Not really.
"It's best to encourage education, and get a job," he says. "In this business, you have to make it on your wits more than anything else."
The future of "recycling"
Yet not everyone is pessimistic about the state of the now euphemistically named "recycling" industry.
"I actually think there is potential," says William Grodin, president of River Recycling, an ingot making factory nestled in Cleveland's industrial valley in the shadow of International Steel Group's rolling mills. His company buys excess metal material, forms them into small cylinders or "ingots," and sells those ingots to foundries around the world, from China to India and Germany. Cleveland offers excellent transportation, he says, to ports like New York and Seattle where they can ship product by sea.
Grodin runs the company with the help of three cousins and his brother, Robert. It's unusual to see so many family members in one company, especially in a supposedly declining sector. But Grodin says participation in a family business seminar at Case Western Reserve University has really helped them make it work.
Grodin's grandfather made the peculiar career switch from attorney to metal broker and smelter in 1919, but "maybe that was a better decision back then," says Grodin. He says he never felt pressured to enter the family business, but when the time was right, he jumped at the chance.
"We looked at it as good opportunity to build on a successful business," says his brother Robert. "To take it from a regional to a national, and now international, scope."
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