SEWING CAN BE DANGEROUS
AND OTHER SMALL THREADS
By S.R. Mallery
Copyright ©2015 S.R. Mallery
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner without written permission from the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
Contact: http://www.srmallery.com.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
SEWING CAN BE DANGEROUS
A DRUNKARD’S PATH
LETTIE’S TALE
THE COMFORTER
A PLAGUE ON BOTH YOUR HOUSES
BORDER WINDFALLS
EMMA AT NIGHT
MURDER SHE SEWED
PRECIOUS GIFTS
LYLA’S SUMMERS OF LOVE
NIGHTMARE AT FOUR CORNERS
A HEARTY THANK YOU
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
THE DOLAN GIRLS
EXCERPT
To Richard, Chris, and Liz
SEWING CAN BE DANGEROUS
As the subway train lurched to a spark-grinding stop, the steam, billowy white from the cold October day, temporarily blocked the neon letterforms scrawled across the station signs.
On the train, Susan turned to her companion. “This is us, Mom,” she announced.
Dressed in varying shades of black, the two women rose from their metal seats, quickly exited before the doors could close on them, and gingerly made their way down the rickety platform steps. Yet down at street level, they both froze, mesmerized by the view. Hundreds of tombstones and mausoleums spread out before them on either side, and with the grey stones gradating up into a grey sky, it resembled more of an architectural painting than a backdrop to the oldest Jewish cemetery in New York City.
Mourning relatives huddled around the two newcomers, offering each one silent hugs and wet cheeks. Then, wending her way over to the family plot, Susan tried hard to avoid stepping on any hallowed ground as she passed row after row of Siegelmans, Strausses, Brodskys, Kandelbergs, and Steins.
But it was the incongruous array of headstones that impressed her the most—faded names butted up against trendy 1990 tombstones with faces photo-transferred onto their slick, dark green surfaces. Just imagine, she mused, how a heavy downpour would look, splashing against their faces, beating tears down all those shiny cheeks.
Oh, that’s Great Aunt Ada, she thought, focusing on their family plot’s fanciest headstone. I remember hearing about her. And there’s little David, run over by a trolley car. How awful it must have been for her grandmother as a girl, to be told something so tragic about her own brother.
Closing her eyes, she could still hear her bubby’s voice in her head, imitating all the deep wails emanating from the family parlor the night of the boy’s death. Now, even as her Uncle Jacob eulogized, her mind kept drifting, conjuring up emotions she herself had suppressed for months.
After the service, still taking in the family tombstones, she zeroed in on an unfamiliar name and stepped in closer to get a better look.
“Herein lies Sasha Rosoff
Born in Russia, 1895
Died New York City, 1911
A short life in America—
A large soul in Heaven.”
Susan’s interest was tweaked. Who was this mysterious Sasha Rosoff and more importantly, what had caused her to die so young? She swiveled around to ask one of her older cousins, but thought better of it. Later would be a more appropriate time for questions.
Later turned out to be at Uncle Jacob’s house in Queens, where the laughter, tears, and reminiscences intermingled with tray after tray of Jewish delicacies. By evening, when a secondary wave of people arrived to extend their noisy condolences, the tiny white wood and plaster house with the black roof swelled and vibrated.
Finally, Susan couldn’t contain herself any longer. Approaching a four-foot-tall, four-foot-wide silver-haired woman, she rested her arm around one of her favorite relative’s shoulders. “Cousin Yetta, I am dying to know something—who is Sasha Rosoff?”
The twitch of surprise was palpable. “There are a few things we just don’t talk about around here. But if you have to know, ask your Great Uncle Jacob, he might tell you,” she added as she folded and unfolded her cocktail napkin.
Uncle Jacob’s duty as memorial host was to keep afloat just long enough to see the last guest leave. Sitting on the sofa, the lower section of his shirt half-opened, an unbuckled belt releasing his enormous belly, he was drawing slow, deliberate breaths as Susan sat down beside him. Her fingertips were the lightest of touches on his tired arm. “Uncle Jacob, are you all right?”
He smiled at her concern. “Susan, my sweet one. How are you? I didn’t even ask. How’s the job? Your mom told me you’re so upset.”
“I am, but that’s not what I want to ask you.” She paused, measuring her words carefully. “When we were all at the cemetery, I noticed a tombstone marked Sasha Rosoff. Who was she? Why did she die so young?”
Uncle Jacob’s unexpected tears startled them both. For all his bulk and composure, his vulnerability made Susan instantly regret having brought it up.
“That poor girl never had a chance,” he murmured. “So terrible to die that way…” He ended with his head resting on his right palm.
Susan leaned forward and stroked his shoulder. “Please, Uncle Jacob, tell me what happened, please?”
He sat up, pulled a handkerchief out of his back pocket and first wiping his eyes and blowing his nose, let out a heavy sigh. “What happened? Ah, well…”
**
Sasha couldn’t believe how miserable the boat trip had been coming across the Atlantic. People shoved up against each other, buffering the elements; howling babies in the arms of frantic mothers trying to pacify them, and always the inevitable nausea that forced everyone to gag or lean over the railings and vomit.
Torrential rain and wind drove the ragged ship, listing it back and forth over the fierce waves and scattering passengers into dark cubbyholes. Throughout, prayers provided the only strong haven, and for Sasha and her family, they prayed every free moment they got that New York’s harbor would appear before their vessel broke into wooden fragments floating in the angry sea. From the lower levels, third-class shawled women, hatless men, and grimy-faced children kept gathering up on deck, straining to catch sight of the Statue of Liberty, the ultimate Lady of Hope.
“Anytime now, it’ll be there,” the crew assured them, but all they kept seeing were endless miles of a relentless ocean.
Below deck, gathered around the family’s makeshift table, Sasha’s father Moshe held court. “Ven ve come to New York, ve vill go to our cousins, the Brodskys, on Hester Street. Ve will all act vit respect, and ve von’t give dem any trouble, vill ve? Is dis understoot, Sasha?”
Sasha clenched her teeth, her green eyes hard. Being treated like a second-class citizen in Russia because she was Jewish seemed a cruel and mystifying enough punishment, but to be viewed as a third-class citizen by her own father simply because she was female was more than she could bear.
Ignoring her set jaw, Moshe and beamed at his young son. “David, balibt, my beloved one, I know you vill behave vell, and ve vill find you goot job. Dis is land of opportunity, and you can do anythink you vant. No Cossacks to shoot you down, no pogroms here. Dis is America.”
“Papa, vat about me?” Sasha struggled to steady the tremor in her voice.
“Hush, girl! You vill do vat you are told! Ve vill look for somethink dat girls are meant to do. Now hush, Sasha!”
Sasha’s mother Raisa bowed her head and sighed. Twenty years of livi
ng with her husband had taught her not to argue; in the end, the price was always too high. But Sasha was young, her spirit still intact, and as the ship pressed forward, she made a silent vow to herself. She would someday live her life the way God intended her to do.
By the time the boat entered the Upper New York Bay, people had scrambled over to the main deck railing, bobbing and positioning themselves to get their first glimpse of the famous statue. There she was. None of the photos or paintings had done her justice. Up close, the sheer magnitude of her green-bronzed body with the one arm reaching up towards the cloudy sky, grasping a torch while her crowned head held a steady gaze towards America, brought tears to the Rosoffs’ eyes. Without speaking, each of them was silently acknowledging her significance. To Moshe, she represented the respect he felt he had always deserved; to Raisa, if her husband received more respect, he might soften towards others; to David, she evoked new, exciting adventures, and to Sasha, just landing on American soil symbolized independence.
As the ship maneuvered into New York Harbor, the sudden horn blast and swollen plumes of smoke bursting from its huge black fennels caused everyone to first jump then shriek with delight.
Their new lives were just beginning.
But the high-paid jobs for Moshe and David never materialized, and after degrading medical examinations on Ellis Island, consisting of harsh finger probes, sneers, and humiliating positions, they both resigned themselves to sweeping garbage off the floor of a local saloon for a pittance. Interestingly enough, despite Moshe’s predictions, the only family member who managed to get a better paying job was Sasha.
The Triangle Shirtwaist Factory, inside the Asch building, was located on the corner of Greene Street and Washington Place in the lower east end of Manhattan. The owners, Isaac Harris and Max Blanck, prided themselves on mass-producing new fashioned shirtwaists for American women and in the process, becoming extremely rich men by hiring young Yiddish, German, and Italian seamstresses, desperate for work.
The Rosoffs were thrilled at her steady pay, but Sasha’s heart sank. She found out soon enough what working conditions were really like: sixteen hour days, six days-a-week, hunched over cumbersome black iron industrial sewing machines in dense, almost airtight conditions that had her breaking out in streams of sweat on hot summer days, and teeth chattering shivers in the dead of winter.
Harris and Blanck were true believers of the new industrial age. It never occurred to them to offer decent factory conditions to their hard-working employees when they could just as easily squeeze the same amount of work out of these naïve immigrant girls. So for Sasha, each day was filled with crippling, repetitive motions that left her neck, back, and arms sore for days at a time. The fifteen minute allotment for lunch passed so quickly that some of the slower girls only had time to pull out their lunch boxes and take a couple of bites of food washed down by two or three swigs of liquid before the whistle blew, signaling them back to work. There were no other breaks and no time to socialize.
Lint particles sifted steadily throughout, settling into every conceivable surface. Microscopic fibers clogged mechanisms and filled nostrils with a dust so fine, after two hours it became difficult to breathe. Oil soaked rags, used for greasing the mechanisms, radiated their own heat that could be slightly comforting in winter for those workers near the large bins where they were dumped, but toxic in spring and summer for everyone else.
America, Land of the Free. Such a joke, such a schpas, Sasha grumbled as she hobbled home one evening, later than usual. Entering their cramped, walk-up apartment, she appeared to be alone, and grateful for the stillness, stretched out across their daybed/sofa, relishing a soundless room without the constant clatter of industrial sewing machines. She tried relaxing her throbbing back by closing her eyes and pretending she was far away in distant lands, but within minutes, she could hear Jacob Brodsky trudging up the hallway stairs from his after school job. Eyes still closed, she smiled in spite of her exhaustion and pain.
Her little cousin Jacob had become the one and only shining light in her life. He adored her and she him. Somehow, the two found solace in each other’s company and without him, Sasha knew she might not have the strength to continue. More shuffling on the vestibule steps announced her Uncle Samuel, tired but excited about all the tips he had made that day waiting on tables.
The Brodskys were fortunate. They had all gotten jobs in a local Jewish delicatessen, preparing the food, waiting on tables, and dishwashing. Delighted with their work and its decent pay, they still commiserated with Moshe and his family on their lowly positions and grueling schedules. ‘Remember, this is America,’ they would repeat on cue. ‘Land of opportunity. Just wait and see—have a little patience, have a little geduld.’
But as time went on and still no changes, Moshe’s increasing bitterness garnered a single target: his daughter. “Girl, vere ist your money for veek?” he would lash out. “I told you, you give it to me right vay. Don’t tink to keep it for yourself! You vouldn’t know vat to do with it, anyvay. Except for sewing, you no good! Give it! Gebin!” Most times, he would end by shoving his hand roughly out towards her, palm up, waiting for total compliance.
Tonight, still lying on their couch and watching the Brodskys prepare dinner, Sasha could feel herself drifting off into a much- needed doze. Earlier that day, her shift had been particularly exhausting. Rainy spring days brought foul, rancid smells into the factory, and with little to no air, the combined odors had proved unbearable. At lunch break, she had nearly fainted from the stench, and when she had dared ask for a lunch extension, her answer came in the form of a broom handle, poking her in the ribs.
“Gebn, meidl! Give girl!” Shaken awake, she saw her father looming over her, his heavy breathing hammering her in angry waves. Moshe’s day had been bad as well, culminating in his employers deliberately stomping across the area of floor where he had been carefully mopping, tracking fresh mud in from the street. In an instant, all the months of swallowed pride surfaced. Flinging his mop down, he stormed out, pushing bills and sustenance far from his mind.
Out on the street, however, his anger quickly morphed into silent desperation and by the time he had reached their apartment, he was looking for the only satisfaction he knew he could get—attacking Sasha.
“Can’t I keep a little money, Papa? At least let me do somethink else. I hurt all over. Ich schatn…” Her voice cracked.
That did it. Cursing in Yiddish, he grabbed a wooden ruler and started hitting her shoulders and outstretched hands, ignoring all her feeble attempts at self-protection. Finally, with palms the color of raw meat and raised welts rubbing against the rough fabric of her dress, she cowered on the floor in the corner of their kitchen and sobbed.
Jacob, kneeling down beside her, started stroking her hair.
Just then, her Aunt Deborah entered. Her reserve this past year as she had watched her cousin’s behavior with his only daughter had been based on a laissez-faire philosophy. But enough was enough. Genug is genug. Shoving her cousin up against the wall, she snarled, “Shame on you! How dare you treat your daughter like that! Vitout her money, you vould be notink, do you hear me, Moshe Rosoff? Notink!”
Moshe slowly lowered his arm, dropping the ruler onto the floor beside him. Suddenly the apartment stilled, with only the tick…tick…tick of the wall clock, echoing Sasha’s soft whimpers.
A half hour later, dinner was placed on the cracked oak table as if nothing had happened, and with Raisa home, Moshe talked fervently to everyone about how things would be soon looking up, his pink face flushed with a renewed energy. Seduced by his good mood, Deborah, Raisa, Jacob, and David listened attentively while Sasha ate in silence.
Saturday, March 25, 1911, started out like so many other days. Sasha woke up in the dark, got dressed with cold, numb fingers, splashed water on her face from the porcelain pitcher and bowl set out on the kitchen table, gently kissed a sleeping Jacob, grabbed a piece of bread she had covered with jam, and let herself out the doo
r. Feeling her way down the pitch-black hallway by running her fingers over the embossed plaster patterns, she almost stumbled on a nail peeking out of a floorboard just before reaching the front door. The gas light in the vestibule had been out for weeks, and their landlord had refused to fix it. She felt tired and depressed, but as bad as conditions were at Triangle Shirtwaist, nothing could compare with being around Moshe, and so taking a deep breath, she gratefully made her way through lower Manhattan to the sewing factory for a day of overtime and its slightly higher pay.
On the sidewalk outside the factory, she caught up with many of the girls with whom she usually worked—three hundred Italian, German, and Yiddish girls, their thread-worn dresses hanging over muddied petticoats and eyes as dark-circled as hers. Trudging up the path, they were all met at the front entrance by Joe Zitto, one of the elevator operators.
“OK girls, OK. Let’s get goin’. The rest of the building ain’t opened today, so I’m gonna take ya’s up to the 8th, 9th and 10th floors only. Don’t try to go anywheres else for lunch. The doors to the other floors are locked mostly. I guess Old Man Harris don’t want no burglars comin’ in. So, c’mon girls, let’s go.”
Bending over her assigned sewing machine was excruciating. Her entire body ached from the previous day’s abuse; still, she kept working until lunchtime. She was in no mood to socialize—making idle chit-chat was the last thing she wanted to do, but when she retreated to a corner of the factory floor by herself, two of her closest co-workers, Gladie Moskovitz and Irma Delacina, came over to sit beside her.
“What’sa matter wid you today, Sasha?” Irma peered at her friend as she bit down hard on a piece of Italian bread, some crust flipping out of her mouth and onto the floor.
“Yah, you look different. Is evertink all right at home?” Gladie was more privy to Sasha’s problem with Moshe than Irma was.
“I don’t vant to talk about it—sometink did happen, but I not say…” Sasha feared once she started talking, there would be no stopping. Better to keep mute.
Sewing Can Be Dangerous and Other Small Threads Page 1
