Retirement home's Red luster fades

LOS ANGELES — One was a young woman when she spent a night behind bars for attacking a policeman at a labor rally. "You're talking to a jailbird," she says. "Someone who stood for what she believes. An old Red."

Another was merely a girl when she became aware of "the extraordinary inequalities of the capitalist system."

Still another looks up from her walker, through 91-year-old eyes, and remembers a pair of anarchist icons executed after their 1920s trial: "Sacco and Vanzetti, they went to the gallows with such dignity."

There are only 11 of these aging leftists now, and Sunset Hall, their retirement home, is in jeopardy. Located in an immigrant neighborhood near MacArthur Park, it is small, poor and shopworn. Often, when residents die, no one replaces them. Five elderly newcomers, without political leanings, recently have come to fill vacancies, but that leaves 20 empty rooms.

Once before, when board members tried to close Sunset Hall and sell it, a judge ordered the home kept open. But perhaps there is no saving it this time.

Sunset Hall might be the only one of its kind. The nonprofit home was established in 1924 by women from a nearby Unitarian church. It was intended to house aging religious liberals. As time passed, it catered more to residents with a political bent.

"A retirement home that attracts old socialists and liberals?" said Anne Katz, an associate professor of gerontology at University of Southern California. "Totally unique."

Said Don Redfoot, a senior policy adviser on housing for AARP: "I've certainly never heard of anything so tied to an ideology."

A "precious" place

The day of reckoning is Saturday. That's when residents of Sunset Hall and its 50 or so dues-paying supporters will vote on its fate.

One plan, a long shot, is to keep it open for another year, hoping for donations and new residents. Among other plans: Sell the two-story building and buy or build another place in a better neighborhood.

"Unfortunately," said Wendy Caputo, its director, "that will be too late for the people living there now. Some of them don't have much in the way of family. And so many of them are so frail. What will happen to them?"

Luba Perlin is one. She is 91 and wide-hip sturdy. Like most of the others, she has a mind that slowly is betraying her. But because she remains opinionated and is one of the only ones left with much energy, she also is the unofficial spokeswoman.

"I have the sense that this is a very special place," she said, pronouncing her words crisply. "A place for people who care about the welfare of the working people and the trades unions, the AF of L.

"This place is most precious."

Sunset Hall's concrete-covered quad contains one tall mimosa tree, a few dozen other plants and a fishpond drained of water should any of residents fall in. A cozy library is lined with eye-catching titles: "This is Communist China," "The Collected Works of Lenin," "Karl Marx and Christian Ethics."

There are no finely trimmed lawns or golf courses. Residents sit, just before lunch, in Zen-like peace in the living room. Some sleep. Some seem frozen, not moving or making a sound. Some gaze at the television, distance in their eyes.

Perlin, as usual, then pipes up.

"People might believe it is not beautiful here," she said, before losing the thought. "What was I saying?"

A visitor reminded her.

"Oh, yes, I believe that Sunset Hall, it is beautiful because it is full of the most wonderful idealism. In today's world, I find that highly unusual."

The management at Sunset Hall, which calls itself "a retirement home for freethinkers," is careful to note that conservatives are welcome. A Republican lived here once. She left. Her story, which has reached mythic proportions, goes like this:

It was all over the food. Rye bread is a staple in the cafeteria, because most residents are Jewish. All that rye bread — the Republican couldn't take it. "She wanted white bread," one of the managers said, grinning. "White bread."

"Bush? Oh, that Bush"

There is humor here. Most residents are women. They joke about how frail men seem. "They don't last." And they joke about their memories. "Feels like I lost part of my brain. Oh, well."

They talk about how long ago it was that they were teachers, engineers, labor organizers, all with what they call a progressive bent. One of them was a typist for the Communist Party.

"Growing old, it's such work," said Frida Singer, a retired librarian who has had socialist leanings since her youth in Chicago.

"I did not know that ... I would have such a hard time controlling my mind," she said. "But I do have good things, like my room. And I do still have what I believe in. Equality for all people. And the world should be at peace."

Often, she and the others gather to discuss current events, although figuring out the details is difficult.

"Who is our president again?" asked one of the women, once a Communist Youth League member.

"Bush," replied a teacher, who comes once a week to run discussion.

"Bush?" asked the woman, puzzled.

The name then dropped on her like something heavy from the sky. Bush. Her face crinkled. "Bush? Oh, that Bush. He should have stayed in the bushes. He's a pain in the butt, pardon my French. Don't like him. He's ruining everything we worked for."

The others sat silently. Some cupped their hands around their ears, straining to hear. Some soaked it in, but responded only with pained smiles. Others were lost in the moment, not appearing frustrated, not appearing angry or anxious — just being.

"It's getting harder and harder to reach them," the teacher said afterward. "It's uncomfortable. We used to have such good discussions."

Sunset Hall was full and thriving as recently as three decades ago.

There was a waiting list. Many residents were recently retired, in their 60s and 70s, still with sharp minds. They included blacklisted screenwriters, editors of communist newspapers and confidants of Upton Sinclair, the socialist writer who in 1934 almost became governor of California.

By the 1980s, though, it all had begun to fade. The neighborhood around Sunset Hall grew dangerous. The nearby First Unitarian Church was struggling, and fewer members moved in.

Worse for the fate of Sunset Hall, radicals from a generation that made some Americans fear the "Red Menace" was dying off.

"There's no denying it," said Larry Abbott, a retired teacher who is president of Sunset Hall's board, "the dissolution of the left, that's taken its toll."

By the early 1990s, when 18 residents remained after four died in two months, the board tried to sell the property. Only a last-gasp push by supporters and angry residents, along with the judge's restraining order that held off a sale until the membership could vote on it, prevented Sunset Hall from closing.

Looking to fill its rooms, which cost about $1,800 a month, Sunset Hall began courting elders who cared little for politics. It hasn't helped. In February, after reviewing a $300,000 deficit and an operation running largely on gifts and loans, the board again recommended putting Sunset Hall on the market.

Caputo, the director, has spent recent days breaking the bad news. Most residents can't grasp what is going on, she said. "It shocks them. Then it just fades away."

"We did some good"

Pauline Manpearl, 91, is a stout woman with gray hair cut fashionably short. Along with Perlin and a handful of others, she is still able to walk around with no help.

Like Perlin, she cannot remember the short term. She recognizes the way her mind is faltering, and laughs. Then the past comes back into her head, as clearly as the sunlight streaming down on her face.

"You know how it started? It started in the Ukraine."

For the fourth time this day, she spoke of how her family fled pogroms to come to America. How they came through Ellis Island and ended up in Minnesota. How she learned about communism from her mother.

For the second time, she told about being arrested in Minneapolis for hitting a police officer over the head during a protest march, and about how the judge said communism was a good idea but she should keep it to herself.

And about the jail: "In my cell, there was a prostitute. I told her what we were there for. She said, 'Maybe I will become a communist.' I remember thinking, 'Great, that's exactly what we need, prostitutes.' ... What we were fighting for was for a better world so that they would not have to be prostitutes."

Her mind stopped there.

"We did some good," Perlin said later.

"We tried," Manpearl replied. "Things didn't exactly turn out the way we wanted. But we did do some good. The eight-hour workday. Women's rights. Things like that. ... Just think of the world we would have if people didn't spend money on bullets. If everybody had enough to eat, a good job and a roof over their heads. Just think."