Tag Archives: women’s history

Hatteras Girl: Dixie Burrus Browning Remembers Island Life During World War II

libsohn 1

When thirty-year-old Brooklyn photographer Sol Libsohn visited Hatteras Island, North Carolina, in 1945 to take a few photos for Standard Oil, he probably didn’t realize that he’d soon end up creating what many consider the definitive portrait of “old” island life on the Outer Banks.  Twenty years later, completion of the Bonner Bridge over Oregon Inlet ushered in a new world on Hatteras.  Some things, like health care and education, got better.  But cars, tourism, and the collapse of the old maritime culture have taken their toll.

Made as stock commercial photos for use in the oil company’s magazine, Libsohn’s images are enormously popular on the coast.  His idyllic, romantic vision of island life before the roads came in is far from accurate and leaves much unsaid, but Libsohn beautifully captured the archetypes of the old days and ways, before they began their slow disappearance in the 1960s. Yet the actual stories of Hatteras are still hidden in these pictures.

The engineers and roughnecks who descended on this part of North Carolina in the final months of World War II were coming to one of the more remote and hard-to-get-to parts of the American South in those days.  Culturally distinct from the rest of the state and often at loggerheads with it, the inhabitants of these scrawny barrier islands were both isolated and at the center of a great Atlantic crossroads.

Famous as the “Graveyard of the Atlantic,” Hatteras and the treacherous Diamond Shoals became the deathbed of many a ship in the days of sail.  Some island families even came here by accident, stranded on their way to other ports of call.  Though the mainstay of life was always fishing, a frequent lucky windfall — shipwrecks — brought exotic goods and even scarce household items. Bananas, canned food, clocks, bedsteads, and sometimes cars, all of which could be legally salvaged or auctioned off, came to Hatteras in the hold of wrecks.  In this place where wood is scarce, it is remarkable that many old Hatteras houses were built from doomed ships or the cargo of wrecked lumbering vessels.


dbb 6(NC Route 12, today the only highway on the Outer Banks, was a dirt path seventy years ago.)


Sol Libsohn, who died in 2001, came to Hatteras to illustrate the theme “There’s a drop of oil in everyone.”  Petroleum, in fact, was at the center of a forgotten drama enacted here during the early years of World War II. The little-known “Battle of the Atlantic,” when German U-boats sank hundreds of merchant marine vessels and oil tankers transporting war goods to Allied Europe, was waged from Newfoundland to Texas, but the waters off the Outer Banks became one of the major targets of Hitler’s underwater navy.

Most of the older generation who lived on Hatteras in those years can remember an ominous glow on the horizon, glimpsed over dunes at night, as stricken tankers burned at sea a few miles out.  In a strange boost to North Carolina tourism, recreational divers are now rediscovering and photographing some of these vessels — and their attackers.  In 2014, the German submarine U-576 was found thirty miles off Cape Hatteras.  Forty-five German sailors died when it was sent to the bottom on July 14, 1942.


u-352(U-352 was sunk off “Torpedo Alley” on May 9, 1941, and is one of the most visited dive sites along North Carolina’s coast.  Sumberged Sports.)


Many stories, some surely mythic, proliferated about German crewmen rowing into towns like Morehead City on rubber dinghies at dark to watch movies in local theaters.  A media blackout and the sheer remoteness of the place kept most Americans from knowing much about the war waged off North Carolina’s beaches in 1941 and ’42.  Local lore, now told by adults who were children back then, recalls the horrible fate of sailors at sea.  Bodies — American, English, German — would sometimes wash up on what became Cape Hatteras and Cape Lookout National Seashores, horribly disfigured after swimming or floating through burning oil slicks on the ocean’s surface.

At war’s end, Standard Oil began exploring the bottom of Pamlico Sound for domestic petroleum deposits.  For a while, an oil derrick even sat near the Cape Hatteras lighthouse, vying with it to be the tallest structure around.  The oil men gave up after drilling shafts down to 10,000 feet and finding nothing.  Recently, plans for another go at offshore drilling along the Virginia and North Carolina coast have sparked controversy, especially after the BP disaster in the Gulf of Mexico.

Roy Stryker, who headed the Farm Security Administration’s Information Division and launched the career of many of the great documentary photographers of the 1930s and ’40s, worked with Standard Oil to send the self-taught Libsohn to Hatteras, purportedly to show the uses of oil.  A Jewish kid from Brooklyn, Libsohn had knack for getting along with working-class Americans.  He went on to create a great record of many of the stock subjects of Edward Hopper’s America — “late night portraits of drivers and their vehicles,” his obituary in the New York Times runs, “waitresses and diners, roadside attractions, small towns along the Pennsylvania Turnpike. . . the hurly-burly life in the Ringling Brothers and Barnum & Bailey Circus.”  He taught at Princeton for years.  Most of his images are housed at the University of Louisville’s Photographic Archives in Kentucky.


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(Dixie Burrus.  Photo by Sol Libsohn.  Photographic Archives, University of Louisville.)


Dixie Burrus Browning was fifteen years old when Libsohn photographed her in June 1945.  She doesn’t recall why he took her picture.  Her father was Maurice “Dick” Burrus, a Hatteras native who had played professional baseball for teams in Philadelphia, Boston, and Indianapolis and was once scouted in person by the great baseball manager Connie Mack.  After returning to Hatteras Island at the start of the Great Depression, Dick Burrus became a commercial fisherman and a Texaco dealer — perhaps the reason why Libsohn photographed his daughter.

Dixie married Lee Browning at age 20.  They raised their children in Winston-Salem, North Carolina, where the couple lived for forty-nine years before returning to the Outer Banks.  Dixie has written over a hundred romance and historical novels and is a prolific painter who runs a studio in Buxton.  She spoke to me in her home in December 2008 and told me about life in Hatteras back in the ’40s.


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Dixie Burrus Browning:  My daddy was a baseball player.  He played first base with the Philadelphia Athletics and the Boston Braves and some minor teams.  And he had a hernia.  That ended his career.  Unfortunately, he stocked away everything in the stock market, and he got out of baseball in 1929, so you can imagine what that was like.  Perfect timing.


dick burrus 1


dick burrus indianapolis


If you really wanted to understand Hatteras, you had to be here, living on collards and crokers during the Depression, when most people didn’t even realize there was a Depression, because they went right on living the way they always had.  And it was a subsistence thing, pretty much.  But you could hunt.  You could fish.  You didn’t have to have licenses for everything, because there wasn’t any law down here.  No sheriff.  You didn’t have to have a driver’s license, because there were no highways.  It was a good place to grow up, but Lord, I’m glad my children didn’t grow up here.  And my grandchildren?  Children today, in this generation, they couldn’t handle it.

My brother was a year and a half younger than I am.  When he was about twelve, he became captain of daddy’s shrimp boat.  Daddy was a Texaco dealer, but he had a shrimp boat.  It had a crew of two, a captain and one mate, I guess you’d call them, and they were both Hyde County farmers who didn’t know a whole lot about running a shrimp boat.  And so finally daddy fired them, and my brother Steve at age twelve became captain of a shrimp boat.

And during one of the hurricanes, what you’d do was, you took the boat offshore and anchored it so it’ll swing into the wind.  And so Steve took the trawler off into the sound and anchored it and rode out the storm in it.  And nobody worried about it.  Now can you see a twelve-year-old given that responsibility today?

It was a working thing.  Up at 3:30 in the morning.  And they all headed out, in a row, early in the morning before daylight.  And the first person who found the area where there was shrimp, I can’t remember if they threw a flag over it or what, but then all the trawlers slowly circled, dragging that area all day.  And the first day Steve came in as captain, he sold high man.  He had caught more than anybody else that was out there and that was a big thrill.

He died a good while ago, just before he turned fifty.  [Steve Burrus worked for IBM and helped install computers on nuclear submarines.  He succumbed to a rare brain cancer in 1981.]

And then we hunted, too, when we were children.  We had a bolt action rifle, and for safety’s sake, I carried the bolt and walked behind Steve, who carried the rifle.  And we followed the shoreline looking for geese, ducks, anything edible.  And if we saw something, by the time we got the rifle back together again, they were gone.  So we never shot anything, but people did.  We had stewed goose with rutabagas.  We had sea turtle.  That is the best meat.  It’s un-P.C. to talk about it now, but I don’t give a damn about P.C.  It was delicious meat.  One flipper would feed the family, but it was awful to clean.  It had layers of gobby, sticky fat and leathery skin.  But it was the sweetest, best meat.  It was the color of beef, I guess.  But it was milder than beef.  It was just delicious.  Turtle stew, turtle hash, anyway you wanted to cook it.  Turtle burgers, we had those, too.


dbb 5(Dixie Burrus and Little Lee Peale, 1940s.)


But other than what we could catch or hunt here, we depended on the freight boats.  They came over a couple of times a week with whatever didn’t sell on the mainland.  You know, hamburger that was black.  And we grew up having canned milk, because you couldn’t get bottled milk that was fresh.  It would have been sour by the time it got here.  These weren’t refrigerated boats.

And we traveled on the freight boats, too.  My momma was from Elizabeth City, my grandmamma lived there.  And it was about an eight-hour trip.  They had absolutely no passenger accommodation.  One space for cars.

I have a ship model I did of my granddaddy Dozier Burrus’ boat.  The ship was called the Hamlet.  He bought the Hamlet after he retired from the West Indies trade.  He used to take daddy and daddy’s brothers with him on some of the runs.  Occasionally he’d take his daughters, too, to go up to Baltimore City or Washington City.  The West Indies trade was rum and molasses, mostly.  They sailed down to the Caribbean.  I don’t know that he owned the ships that he was captain of.  One of them — I loved the name! — was called the Bessie Mae and Annie.  I named a painting after it.


dbb 11(Almy Burrus and Capt. Ethelbert Dozier Burrus at the wheel of the Bugeye.)


My daddy’s mother was Achsah Williams.  She died when daddy was about six years old.  (He was the youngest of a slew of children.)  And granddaddy brought a new bride home, Miss Maggie.  Maggie Douglass, from Wilmington.  He left her here with his children while he went off to sea again.  So we had Miss Maggie when we were growing up.  And she’d tease us and play with us and walk to the beach every morning with old paint buckets to get gravel for the chickens she kept.  She kept our chickens.  She lived in the back part of our house.  Her clothes she made out of Pillsbury feed sacks.  Bloomers that would tie.  Cotton stockings that she didn’t darn — she would patch them with a gingham patch.  She wore high-top tennis shoes and sun bonnets.

After she died, we were packing away her things, and in the bottom of the trunk, there were two golden earrings and a black chiffon blouse.  And it just struck me:  Miss Maggie was a young woman with dreams, and she married Granddaddy Dozier and he went off and left her at home.  I’ve often wished I could go back and talk to her and just hug her.  I wrote a novel about her, The Mariner’s Bride.

Lots of ships got sunk around here by the German submarines in World War II.  I remember taking a walk on the beach after they blew up the Australia and seeing a metal lifeboat with bullet holes all down the side of it.  It had been strafed, obviously.  There was just a straight line of machine-gun holes right down the length of it.  And part of a carton of containers or something.  K-ration, or C-ration, or one of those rations, small cans.  The container had what looked like blood stains on it.  We didn’t touch any of that stuff.  And there were old pieces painted grey that were part of the deck gear that we recognized as such.  But you know, you’re kids, you can’t drag everything home.  There was stuff everywhere.  The beach was littered.  And we chased a muskrat all around there.

I know Shank Austin found a body there.

It was really rough.  Even as a child, it was the reality at that time.

I remember one specific night when everything rattled.  Everything that was glass in the house, including the window, just rattle-rattle-rattled.  It was enough to wake you up.  I woke up and looked out the window.  It was over the Slash, through the marsh.  We had a pretty clear shot of the ocean.  You couldn’t see the ocean itself, because there were houses and things in between, but you could see three distinct glows at night.  You could see the glow of burning oil.  The German submarines had gotten three of them that night.


the slash(A man, probably Millard O’Neal, walks over “The Slash” in Hatteras Village.  Photo by Sol Libsohn.  Photographic Archives, University of Louisville.)


My uncle, Uncle Almy, was in charge of the Hatteras Inlet Coast Guard Station, which at that time was on the north end of Ocracoke Island.  He and his crew went out there in open boats.  I’m not sure if that was when the Australia was torpedoed (you know, I was a child then, I get things mixed up), but Uncle Almy and his crew saw the surviving sailors on one of those ships.  The stern was up in the air looking down at the water and the tanker was surrounded by burning oil.  The surviving crew members had to dive in and swim under.  Not many of them made it.  Somewhere I have pictures of Uncle Almy and I think one or two survivors when they got back to the station.

After the Australia was sunk, they had a vendue.  That’s traditional down here.  They’ve been doing that for the past couple of hundred years.  There was a wreck commissioner who came down.  He would oversee the sale of things.  And daddy bought some things off the Australia.  He bought the Texaco flag.  Big, bedspread-sized, wool bunting.  And he bought some of the semaphore flags, but not all.  Momma put an old quilt in between the layers and quilted them together.


dbb 15 - mv australia(The Texaco tanker Australia went down off Diamond Shoals on the night of March 16, 1942, en route from Texas to Connecticut.  Four crewmen were killed in the explosion.)


dbb 8(Two survivors of the Australia at Hatteras Inlet Coast Guard Station.)


dbb 7(Local Hatteras islanders next to the wreck of the Australia.)


dbb 16 - uboat(U-332, which torpedoed the 11,000-ton tanker Australia in 1942, was sunk by an RAF Liberator bomber in May 1943 off Cape Finisterre in northwestern Spain.  All 45 of its crewmembers died.  This photo shows the crew of a similar boat, U-576, found off Cape Hatteras in 2014.)


The first time I went to New York was with Ernal Foster and my daddy.  I was maybe ten or eleven years old.  I had long pigtails.

I remember coming out of the Holland Tunnel.  There was a woman standing outside the tunnel dressed in a man’s suit.  That made such an impression on me.  There was nobody else in sight.  No cars, no traffic, no nothing.  It must have been in the wee hours of the morning.  I thought that was the strangest place, New York.

Out on Long Island, we stopped at a place called Pop’s Pony Yard for me to ride a pony.  Never mind that I had ridden bareback on the beach here at Hatteras.  There was me in a dotted Swiss dress with a long sash and my pigtails, sitting on the back of the pony, jogging along.


dbb young 1(A young Dixie Burrus, around 1940.)


I graduated in a class of three at Hatteras High.  It would have been more, except that the boys, as soon as they got to be sixteen, they’d leave here and go sign up with the Merchant Marine.  So our class kind of leaked.  I think we got the kind of teachers that couldn’t get a job anywhere else.

Just about the sickest I have ever been (and I was always prone to sea-sickness) was traveling back from Elizabeth City on one of those freight boats.  There were two boats named the Cathleen and the Mallinson, but I can’t remember which one it was.

Anyway, it was a freight boat, loaded up to the gills except right up in the forepeak.  And then there was all that cargo.  There were just planks like this that held it back.  We left late in the afternoon, and it was already rainy and stormy, and the water was real rough.  I think there were two other girls and me.  We had been to Louisburg to a Methodist youth retreat or something like that.

So when it started getting kind of rough — and, as I said, there were absolutely no amenities — they sent us below.  We opened the hatch up in the forepeak, and climbed down a ladder, and sat on upturned cases or crates or whatever.  And by then the water was sloshing about mid-way up our shins and we just sat there.  And the bow was rocking back and forth.  And we were getting sick.  And every time the boat would go like this, with all that freight piled up behind us, the boards would creak and groan.  And like I said, it was an eight-hour trip.  In pitch darkness.

First one and then other of us would get sick.  It was hot, miserable, stifling, stinky and I couldn’t stand it anymore.  So I climbed up the ladder and just got this much of me outside and closed the hatch over here.  And it was real foggy then.  Still rough, not raining, but just foggy.  But I could breathe, and the seas would wash over, and then wash over, and then wash over, and then wash over.  And it was refreshing.  Then all of a sudden this figure materialized, just head and shoulders, because the rest of it was foggy, and he said: “SON. . . You got to go back below!”

Several of the old men called all children “son,” male or female, it didn’t matter.

But they haven’t called me “son” in a few years.


dbb 10(Dixie Burrus heading out to Diamond Shoals.  More of her photos are available at the Hatteras Island Genealogical and Preservation Society’s website.)


Stephen Taylor, staylor336 [AT] gmail.com

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Heinrich Schliemann Gets an “Indiana Copper Bottom Divorce”

schliemann 1861

Four years after the end of the Civil War, Indianapolis, Indiana, was the unlikely destination of one of the nineteenth century’s most famous and daring archaeologists.  Though he didn’t come here for a dig.

In 1869, just before setting off for Turkey, where he astounded the world by excavating the long-lost city of Troy (so lost that most experts thought it was mythic), Heinrich Schliemann came to Indiana’s capitol city with an unusual goal:  to get a divorce from his Russian wife, who lived on the other side of the globe.

On December 28, 1890, two days after he died in Naples, Italy, as other papers were running routine obituaries of the now world-famous man, the Indianapolis Journal put together a unique tribute:  “Schliemann in This City: The Distinguished Archaeologist Had His Home for a Time on Noble Street.”

The Journal article was based mostly on interviews with two of Indianapolis’ most prominent Germans, who had known Schliemann during his short stay here.   Adolph Seidensticker was the well-respected editor of the Indiana Volksblatt, at a time when probably a quarter of the city’s newspaper readers still got their news auf Deutsch.  Herman Lieber was a prosperous frame merchant, art dealer, and soon one of the founders of Das Deutsche Haus, the center of German life here in the 1890s.  (When the U.S. went to war against Germany in World War I, the unpatriotically-named building was renamed “The Athenaeum.”)  Lieber’s nephew, conservationist Richard Lieber, was a reporter for the German-language Indiana Tribüne and later founded the Indiana state park system, saving Turkey Run and McCormick’s Creek from the lumberman’s axe.


herman lieber

(Herman Lieber, frame-maker and art dealer, remembered meeting aspiring archaeologist Heinrich Schliemann in Indiana.)


our old school

(In addition to editing the Indiana Volksblatt, Adolph Seidensticker, center, worked as one of Schliemann’s divorce attorneys and served as president of the German-English Independent School, a bilingual school on Maryland Street at the current location of the Marion County Jail.  He is pictured here next to Clemens Vonnegut, great-grandfather of the novelist Kurt Vonnegut. Seidensticker’s father, George, was another newspaperman and was once imprisoned in a Hanoverian dungeon.)


When Heinrich Schliemann — obsessed with dreams of Achilles, Agamemnon and the ten-year siege of Troy — showed up in the Greek-sounding town of Indianapolis in April 1869, the place was remarkably German.  Lockerbie Square was often called “Germantown.”  In that neighborhood especially, Schliemann would have found a thriving cultural mix of radical German freethinkers, refugees from the failed 1848 revolutions, and “confessional” Lutherans who left Germany to avoid government meddling with their worship.

But as Herman Lieber recalled, Schliemann wasn’t yet a famous archaeologist.   “He was not then recognized as a great person.  He was a very entertaining talker and excellent company.  If it had been suspected that he would ever be such a lion he would certainly have received greater attention.”

Schliemann’s unusual and rather odd story up to 1869 is worth a quick retelling.

Born in a port town on the Baltic in 1822, the future archaeologist grew up in the duchy of Mecklenburg, which later became part of East Germany.  His father was a Lutheran minister.  His mother reviewed books, including Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein.  In his memoirs, Schliemann claimed that his minister father, who was soon chucked out of his church for mishandling funds, read him long passages from Homer’s Odyssey and Iliad as a boy, firing a fertile imagination.  (Elsewhere he claims that he took an interest in Homer when he heard a drunk recite part of the Greek epics in a grocer’s store where he worked as a teenager.)  If we can trust his memoirs, by age eight Schliemann vowed to find the lost Trojan capital.

But with his family sunk in poverty, the fourteen-year-old was forced to drop out of school.  At nineteen, bound for Venezuela as a cabin boy on the German steamer Dorothea, Schliemann was shipwrecked off the Dutch coast.  Stranded in Amsterdam, he went to work for an import business, becoming the firm’s agent in St. Petersburg, Russia, in 1846.  It was then that his renowned aptitude for mastering languages took off.

Adolph Seidensticker, who himself ran a German paper in a mostly English-speaking town and helped found a bilingual school, said of Schliemann: “He spoke when here [in Indianapolis] nine different languages fluently.”  (He claimed to be able to learn a new language in six weeks, eventually learning even Turkish and Arabic.)

Seidensticker also remarked that Schliemann’s amazing linguistic skills helped him rise out of poverty.

His rise to fortune was based to some extent on his knowledge of the Russian language. . .  It seems the person having in charge the Russian correspondence of the [merchant house in Holland] having died suddenly, and they were in a quandary as to how to supply his place, Schliemann volunteered his services, but he was looked on with suspicion until he went to work with the correspondence, and showed them that he had really mastered the language.

Hearing of the death of his brother Ludwig, who had struck it rich as a Forty-Niner in the California Gold Rush, he left Russia and sailed for the West Coast.  Like his brother, Schliemann made a small fortune speculating in gold dust, enough to open a bank in Sacramento in 1851.  Crucially for the later divorce proceedings that brought him to Indianapolis, Schliemann became an American citizen in California.

Now a wealthy man, in 1852 he abandoned Sacramento and went back to Russia, where he married a woman named Ekaterina Lyschin.  The couple eventually had three children.  Growing even richer in the indigo and coffee trade, he made enough money to corner the market on ammunition and gunpowder during the Crimean War, selling military goods to the Russian government as it fought against the British, French, and Turks.  Schliemann effectively retired from business in 1858, aged only thirty-six.


schliemann portrait young


His trip to Indiana actually begins in Tsarist Russia.  His work as a war contractor in the Crimea and a Grand Tour of Asia took him away from his family in St. Petersburg.  So did his growing obsession with finding the location of Homer’s Iliad.  Ekaterina didn’t share his passion for the Greek epics and refused to uproot her children and move to Paris, where Schliemann was studying at the Sorbonne and speculating in real estate.  As Seidensticker told the Journal reporter:

She was a Russian lady. . .  He did not, for some reason, feel quite at home in Russia, and endeavored to persuade her to live elsewhere on the continent of Europe, but she would not consent.  I think that she had three children by him.  She was a devoted member of the Greek Church, and would not leave Russia because she wished to bring them up as orthodox Russians.

The marriage was a failure.  Though divorce was occasionally permitted by the Orthodox Church, in Russia it was scandalous and rare.  Schliemann, however, had the advantage of being an American citizen.  He even took an active role in a bitter debate then raging in the U.S. about legalizing divorce.

Reno, Nevada, is known today as the world capital of the “quickie divorce.”  But in 1869, it was Indianapolis.  As Glenda Riley writes in her fascinating book Divorce: An American Tradition, Hoosier politicians had unwittingly turned Indiana into a notorious “freewheeling divorce mill” in the 1850s.

When legislators began writing a new state constitution in 1850, Indiana began its quick “rise to notoriety.”  As Riley put it, “the state’s divorce laws reportedly attracted huge numbers of migratory divorce seekers.  Public alarm became evident as dramatic reports described the Hoosier State as a divorce mecca, churning out easy divorces to people from stricter states with little regard for long-term consequences to spouses and children.”

Though generally treated as anathema by most Americans, divorce had long been permissible under Indiana law, but only in cases of “bigamy, impotency, and adultery” and if a spouse had shown “extreme cruelty.”  Yet only about a hundred divorces were prosecuted in Indiana from 1807-1840.  The laws of the 1850s caused a drastic spike in the divorce rate, mostly due to out-of-staters coming here to take advantage of the courts.

An 1858 editorial in the Indianapolis Daily Journal lamented that every railroad depot in the state was crowded with “divorce hunting men and women.”  A District Recorder wrote to a New Yorker that he feared the new Indiana laws “shall exhaust the marriages of New York and Massachusetts.”  William Dean Howells, a bestselling American novelist in the 1870s, spun the plot of his novel A Modern Instance around an out-of-state case rammed through Hoosier divorce court.  The villain was a lecherous husband.

In November 1858, the Terre Haute Daily Union lambasted the divorce reformers.  “The members of the Legislature who passed the odious and contemptible divorce law that now stands recorded on our Statute, have certainly procured their divorces long since (for, no doubt, it was intended to especially meet their cases,) and we hope and trust the coming session will blot it out.  We do not wish to see Indiana made the rendezvous for libertines from all parts of the Union.”  As proof that Indiana was being made a mockery of, the Daily Union reprinted a clip from the Albany Argus in upstate New York.

terre haute daily union - 13 Nov 1858

New York Tribune editor Horace Greeley fulminated against the reforms in several open letters exchanged with social reformer and Hoosier statesman Robert Dale Owen.  Greeley, a liberal and a Universalist, opposed divorce on the grounds of protecting women’s rights and Biblical teachings.  He called Indiana “a paradise of free-lovers” and published the following spicy anecdote:

The paradise of free-lovers is the State of Indiana, where the lax principles of Robert Dale Owen, and the utter want of principle of John Pettit (leading revisers of the laws), combined to establish, some years since, a state of law which enables men and women to get unmarried nearly at pleasure.  A legal friend in that State recently remarked to us, that, at one County Court, he obtained eleven divorces one day before dinner; “and it wasn’t a good morning for divorces either.”  In one case within his knowledge, a prominent citizen of an Eastern manufacturing city came to Indiana, went through the usual routine, obtained his divorce about dinner-time, and, in the course of the evening was married to his new inamorata, who had come on for the purpose, and was staying at the same hotel with him.  They soon started for home, having no more use for the State of Indiana;  and, on arriving, he introduced his new wife to her astonished predecessor, whom he notified that she must pack up and go, as there was no room for her in that house any longer.  So she went.

Robert Dale Owen, too, had women’s rights in mind when he advocated for legalizing divorce, arguing the immorality of binding a woman to a “habitual drunkard,” a “miserable loafer and sot,” or a wife-beater merely because of the “vows and promises of a scoundrel.”  Of bad husbands, Owen wrote frankly:  “He has the command of torments, legally permitted, far beyond those of the lash.  That bedchamber is his, and the bed is the beast’s own lair,” presumably a reference to spousal rape.  “God forgive you, Horace Greeley, the inhuman sentiment!”

Amazingly, Heinrich Schliemann, who was already digging for Troy in Turkey, took a steamer over the Atlantic in his hunt for an “Indiana copper bottom divorce,” as the Terre Haute Weekly Gazette lampooned in 1877.

schliemann terre haute weekly gazette 8 feb 1877

Several big reasons probably drove the “Dr.” here.  Ekaterina — called “Catherine” in Indiana documents — was still in Russia and wouldn’t show up in Indiana to stop him.  His American citizenship, acquired in 1851, required him going to an American court.  And he believed, probably rightly, that his work at Troy, which was in the Ottoman Empire (the traditional enemy of Russia), would be easier if he wasn’t married to a Russian.

Schliemann checked into an Indianapolis hotel and filed a divorce petition in the Marion County Common Pleas Court, hiring three lawyers.  One of his lawyers was Adolph Seidensticker, editor of the Indiana Volksblatt.  To convince Judge Solomon Blair of his honorable intention to stay in town, the wealthy Schliemann bought an interest in the Union Starch Company and a small house at 22 N. Noble Street.  (Today, this is roughly the site of Harrison College, just west of the railroad bridge that crosses East Washington Street.)  The Indianapolis Journal also claims that Schliemann owned a plot of land “on the west side of South Illinois Street, just north of Ray Street.”  (Incredibly, this is directly behind the Greek Islands Restaurant on S. Meridian, and may have included the parking lot of Shapiro’s Deli. The naturalist John Muir was temporarily blinded in an accident at a carriage factory two blocks north of here in 1866.)

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In a letter to his cousin Adolph, Schliemann wrote on April 11, “I have a black servant and a black cook, half of Indian and half of Negro blood…”

In another letter to his family also dated April 11, he writes: “The cook reads 3 large newspapers daily and is completely versed in the politics, history and geography of the country and may this give you an idea of the education of the people here, when you consider that in the entire state of Indiana there is not yet a single school for colored people (descendants of Negroes)…” About his female cook, though, he complained: “[she] gave away my fine cigars to her lovers and wasted the money I gave her for the little household in the most wanton way.”

Schliemann was impressed with the Indianapolis Germans: “As everywhere in America, so here, too, Germans are greatly respected for their industry and assiduity as well as their solidity, and I cannot think back without alarm of Russia where the foreigner, and the German in particular, is despised because he is not a Russian.”

One aspect of life in the city didn’t find favor with him, though. His diary entry for June 1, 1869, reads: “The most disagreeable thing here is the Sabbath-law, by which it is prohibited to grocers, barbers and even to bakers to open their shops on Sundays.”

Probably looked on as an odd character, Schliemann took his early morning baths in the White River: “I have been bathing here in the river for more than a month but it appears there is no other amateur but me for early bathing.” Then he added: “There are no Coffeehouses here.”

He mentioned the effects of the Civil War everywhere: “One meets here at every step men with only one arm or one leg and sometimes even such whose both legs are amputated. I saw even one whose both legs were amputated close to the abdomen. The disabled soldiers of this State come here to the Capital to receive their pensions and this accounts for the numberless lame men.”

Schliemann gave a speech (in English) at the Indiana Statehouse in support of divorce.  Later on, he described the legislature in his diary: “After all I am very glad to have got an insight into the doings of these people’s legislative assemblies, which present Democracy in all its roughness and nudity, with all its party spirit and facility to yield to lateral influences, with all its licentiousness. I often saw them throwing paper-balls at each other and even at the speaker.”

The Marion County court received perjured testimony that Schliemann was a resident of the United States.  He also presented letters from his wife, written in Russian, with his divorce petition.

In one letter, Ekaterina wrote from St. Petersburg: “The sole and only reason of all our disagreement is that you desire I should leave Russia and join you in America. But this I most decidedly decline and refuse to do and I assure you with an oath, that for nothing in the world I shall ever leave Russia and that I would sooner die than live together with you in a foreign country.”

In another, dated December 31, 1868, she asserted: “Infinitely better is it that Sergius should finish his education in St. Petersburg. At the age of 13 one cannot send him from one country to the other without doing injury to his whole being; he would thus never get accustomed to one country. Irrevocably he would lose the love for his mother country.”

And on February 16, 1869, she wrote this: “You demand that I should prevail upon my children to [leave my mother country] and that I should deprive them of the great blessing to be educated in the orthodox religion… I have [not] sought for pleasure, being always contented with my family circle. Whether my children will be rich heirs or not, that only God knows.”

It is hard not to agree with her, though an interesting footnote she added to her New Years’ Eve letter might have caused her to reconsider leaving Russia after all: “This winter is remarkably cold and for some days even the quicksilver in the thermometer was frozen so that we could not see what the exact temperature was. Many people are frozen to death in the cars of the Moscow railway, because unfortunately they have not introduced yet on our railroads the American system of heating the cars.”

On June 30, 1869, once Judge Blair was convinced that the petitioner’s wife and young children in Russia were provided for, the marriage of “Henry and Catherine Schliemann” was annulled.

Schliemann had tricked the court.  Like almost everybody who came out for an “Indiana divorce,” he abandoned the state a few weeks later.  (Seidensticker remembered: “He did not seem to be much impressed with Indianapolis.”)

Surprisingly, the case quickly returned to Indiana courts.  Ekaterina Schliemann sued from St. Petersburg and tried to nullify the Indiana judge’s ruling.  Seidensticker and Schliemann’s other attorneys had a hard time validating their client’s Indiana residency, since he had abandoned the state and moved to Athens, Greece, where he had already taken out a newspaper ad for a new bride.  (Schliemann wanted a wife who could serve as an archaeological assistant.  He found 17-year-old Sophia Engastromenos, a niece of the Orthodox Archbishop of Athens.  Despite a 30-year age difference, the couple were quickly married in September 1869, two months after Schliemann sped away from Indianapolis.  They had two children together, Andromache and Agamemnon.  Agamemnon Schliemann, who was baptized while his father read from a copy of the Iliad over his head, became the Greek ambassador to the U.S. in 1914.)

Partly freeloading off the archaeological digs of Frank Calvert, U.S. consul in Turkey and the real discoverer of Troy, Schliemann began his rise to fame in 1871.  He later unearthed Mycenae in the Peloponnesus.  (The finds at Hissarlik, reputed to be Troy, were both disputed and celebrated in Indiana papers.)  Schliemann smuggled a load of ancient Trojan gold out of Turkey in 1874.  “Priam’s Gold” was first housed in Berlin, then stolen by the Red Army in 1945.  Today it is in Russia.  A 1902 article in The Philistine regretted that “His Trojan treasures were presented to Berlin.  Had Schliemann given his priceless finds to Indianapolis, it would have made that city a Sacred Mecca.”


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(Schliemann, seated, with a group at the Lion Gate, part of the Bronze Age citadel at Mycenae in Greece.  Schliemann excavated Agamemnon’s ancient capital in 1876.)


In 1889, a year before his death, the archaeologist drew up a will.  Called the “Last Testament of a Millionaire savant” by the Indianapolis Journal in September 1891, it was sent to C.E. Coffin & Co. from Odessa, Russia.  Written in Greek, an original copy of Schliemann’s certified will is on file at the Marion County Probate Court in the basement of the City-County Building in Indianapolis, where, twenty years after his only known visit to the city, he still claimed legal residency.

A typed translation is at the State Library.  To his Russian daughter Nadezhda, the archaeologist left property at 161 Buchanan Street.  The address no longer exists, but was just north of what is now I-70 and is part of Eli Lilly’s downtown campus near Fountain Square.  Nadezhda also got a house at “No. 6 Rue de Calais near Rue Blanche in Paris” and fifty-thousand francs in gold.


schliemann will

(The Indiana State Library has a translated typescript of Schliemann’s last will and testament.  Stamped by the U.S. Consul in Athens, Greece, the original is on file at the Marion County Probate Court downtown.  Indianapolis industrialist Eli Lilly, Jr., who was also a historian and archaeologist, had Schliemann’s letters and other documents related to his stay in the city translated and published in 1961.)


Sophia_schliemann_treasure    Sophia_Heinrich_Schliemann

(Schliemann hurriedly married his second wife, 17-year-old Sophia Engastromenos, in Athens, just months after his divorce was finalized in Indianapolis.  Around 1874, she was photographed wearing the “Jewels of Helen,” which her husband claimed to have discovered in the ruins of Troy.  Sophia died in 1932.)


[This post first appeared on Hoosier State Chronicles: Indiana’s Digital Newspaper Program]

Stephen Taylor, staylor336 [AT] gmail.com