The Kid from Hoboken

by Bill Bailey

  There was one thing I had to do to strengthen any organization we tried to build, and that was to build the Communist Party. A few in the group showed promise of making good Communists. They were dedicated, honest and principled. In addition, they had the confidence of the other men in the group. I would have to spend time with them discussing things on a level deeper than just the trade union movement.

  I was doing some shopping at the five-and-dime store when I saw some red muslin. I carried home a few feet of it, neatly painted a hammer and sickle on it and pinned it to the bare wall. What I had in mind was attaching it to the lance of the statue of King Kamehameha which stood guard at the entrance of the Royal Palace. Since it was never guarded, it would be easy to walk there on a dark night, climb up on the statue and unfurl it at the tip of the lance. In the meantime I would keep it on the wall. At the next meeting of the group, everyone sat facing the wall where the flag was draped. Several kept staring at it; I could see that it had caught their imaginations. At the end of the session, a few men stayed behind. Jack, the one I felt was a born leader, spoke first as he looked at the makeshift flag. "I don't know too much about that, but what I do know is good."

  The others nodded. I sat back down and for the next hour we talked about the Communist Party and its symbol, the hammer and sickle. "Does this mean," asked Jack, "that if the Communists took control of the Islands, the land the missionaries stole from us would be taken back?"

  "That would be number one on the list," I replied.

  "That's good enough for us," Jack said. In the next three months I would accept 22 applications for the Party.

  Chapter XX: Plantation Strike in Maui

  My old friend Jack Hall stepped ashore from a Matson ship one day. Jack had sailed in the deck department. He liked to make the Islands his stomping grounds, enjoying the easy-going, carefree style. He was a devoted trade unionist and one I could talk to about politics. The only argument I had with Jack was over his constant need for drink. But it was his style; who the hell was I to find fault with it? Jack was well-versed on conditions in the Islands and was more than willing to lend a hand in creating some organization.

  We had just finished eating in a local cafe when two men approached us. One was a member of the group, the other a stranger. He was introduced to as as Anton Fagel, a Filipino interested in organizing the sugar workers on all the islands. He said there was great interest among his Filipino brothers to start something. Together with the people in his organization, "Vibora Luviminda," he was ready to start a campaign of recruitment. All that was needed was some help from us. His supporters, he felt, might be more inclined to join if they knew they could depend on some backing from other trade unionists.

  It meant taking the inter-island steamer to Maui and staying over there for at least a week. The boat left at five; it was now two. We decided to let Fagel know by four. We discussed it with several people, including Berman. We all agreed that it was an ideal opportunity. We had nothing to lose. If Fagel's predictions of union interest among his supporters did not materialize nothing was lost but our time. On the other hand, if what he said was true this could be the door that could open unionization of the plantation workers on all the Islands. We were aboard the ship when it departed at five.

  We pulled into Lahina on the island of Maui. A few of Fagel's supporters were waiting for us with a car. We drove down a roadway lined with lush mango trees. In the distance were the huge fields of almost-ripe sugar cane. Our first meeting was to take place outside the gates of Puunene Plantation Number One. Fagel had sent runners out before us to encourage the workers to attend the outdoor meeting. When we arrived at the gates, some 100 workers were waiting for us. They greeted Fagel as an old friend; he spoke to them in Tagalog.

  Fagel wanted us to talk to the men about the need to build and join a union, but not to raise the issue of a strike or work stoppage. I spoke to them about the horrible conditions the seamen endured before the advent of trade unions and how conditions had improved since that time. Our remarks were translated by Fagel.

  Jack and I never knew what Fagel was translating. We assumed he was telling it as we said it. The men applauded us many times; it was obvious we were making a good impression. After these meetings, Fagel took out a little book and wrote down the names of those who paid him money to join the union. At this meeting of 100 more than half waited in line to pay their fee and join up. We returned to the car and rambled off to another plantation where a crowd was already waiting to receive us.

  As each meeting progressed, I became more forceful in my remarks, calling the planters parasites, slave-drivers and two-faced monsters. The stronger my language became, the more fervent the response. Fagel recognized this and at no time, from what we could tell, did he attempt to put a damper on our language. At Puunene Number Two, more than 150 workers showed up. Unlike at previous meetings, they asked questions. Fagel relayed one to me, "What kind of support can we get from the trade unions to build a union here?"

  Quickly the worker who had asked the question stepped forward. In clear English he said, "I asked if we had a strike here, could we get support from the mainland unions?"

  Fagel looked embarrassed. I was eager to respond. "Our West Coast unions function on the premise that what hurts one worker hurts all workers. An injury to one is an injury to all. If there was a strike of sugar workers and the employers tried to move their sugar to the mainland, for example, the crews would refuse to move the ship. No one would touch a spoonful of sugar; that's how we would show our support for the struggle of our brothers."

  The men rose to their feet to applaud.

  On the fifth day, Jack Hall's voice gave out. He was unable to speak. We began to have doubts about the true intentions of Fagel. On several occasions we had spoken to him about changing the name of Vibora Luviminda to something more recognizable as a trade union, such as the sugar Workers' Union, but Fagel didn't go for it. We asked why he was avoiding any mention of a strike or the possibility of a strike. He said that he didn't want to rush matters until all the Islands were organized, including the pineapple workers and the mills. It was a plausible answer, and we didn't pursue the matter.

  Since Jack could no longer orate at the meetings he wanted to take the next steamer back to Honolulu while I stayed on. There were more plantations to visit and more workers to hear the message. Jack departed and I stayed. It became obvious that we could not wrap up the work we had left without spending more time there. I agreed with Fagel when he suggested I stay another week.

  At about this time I began to notice that every time we had a meeting, someone was taking down what was said on a notepad. I noticed a young, beautiful girl about 50 feet from the crowd busily writing down what was said. I walked over to her and politely asked what she was doing.

  "I'm taking down in shorthand the remarks of the speakers," she said in a calm voice.

  "Who are you working for?" I asked just as calmly.

  "The Hawaiian Planters' Association," she replied.

  From then on we knew that whatever we said would be a matter of record. Fagel was not disturbed by this and I figured the Association would receive reports one way or another anyway. Up to this point, no open hostility had surfaced at the meetings. The men assembled outside the plantation gates, we spoke, they asked questions, Fagel took their money and names and the meeting was over. However, at a plantation town near the town of Waikuku, a large gathering of men met us at the gate. The usual warm greetings were missing. The men seemed to be uptight, as if something were wrong. I did not know at the time that all the lunas, the much-disliked overseers, were at this meeting. They had not been invited but came as a threat to the workers, to let them know that an eye was being kept on them.

  As I started to speak the heckling started. I tried not to notice and continued speaking. The heckling grew louder and more frequent until it became a battle between me and the hecklers, and the workers squatted on their haunches silently watching to see who w
ould get the upper hand. I was not about to allow this small group of company men to take over the meeting. I continued but stopped when I heard several of them say something I couldn't understand, then erupt into giggles. I had to stop them and do it quickly in order to save the rest of the meeting. I thought for a moment about how to hurt them the most without physically attacking them, which I knew would be bad and a losing proposition.

  "This jeering and snickering," I said, "reminds me of the time I was in Mexico many years ago. I was riding in a car with the leaders of some trade unions. There had been a big strike of peasants in the area. When we approached a small village I saw a lot of men hanging by the neck from telephone poles. I asked my friends in the car who these people were that hung from these poles.

  "'They're Mexican lunas, the people who have kept us from getting better conditions. They're the very same people who jeered and snickered at us. We finally gave them their just desserts; now that can no longer jeer and snicker at us.'"

  I continued. "Perhaps one day these hills I'm now facing will run with the blood of those who today snicker and sneer and oppress the workers of Maui."

  The crowd roared with approval. The lunas wiped the smiles off their faces and quickly departed. It was a drastic statement to make, but then again it was a drastic situation. At least it was effective.

  On the twelfth day of my stay in Maui I was alone, taking a relaxing stroll down the main street in Kahului, when a tall, well-built guy walked up alongside me. "Hey, Bill. I heard you talk last week at Paia. Boy, that was some speech. You sure have a flair for stirring people up. Too bad it's all wasted."

  "Wasted? What do you mean?"

  "Well," he said, "you're getting nothing out of this. Look, even your shirt's torn; that's the only one you got. You're wasting your time trying to do something for these people. Why not come to work for us? We'll give you a good job and pay you at least $150 a week to start with and a place to live."

  "Just who are you?" I asked.

  "My name's Dick Hyland. I work with the Hawaiian Planters' Association, and we need a guy like you. You can write your own conditions."

  "Get lost, creep," I told him.

  When I arrived back in Honolulu, I learned that Jack had shipped out on a "`round the worlder" two days earlier. He would be gone for three months. I reported to my group the essentials of what had happened in Maui and my judgment of Fagel's organizational drive. The consensus was that we should keep an eye on the situation. Anything could happen, although none of us thought a strike was very likely. Still, perhaps Fagel knew something we didn't.

  I received a note in the mail one morning. Would I care to have dinner with a family to discuss some organizational possibilities among the clerks on the plantations? I accepted the invitation. The house of my host was in a swanky section of Honolulu. It must have taken a lot of bucks to live in such a place. The interior of the house was expensively furnished. The table was neatly laid out with a setting that would have made the King of Siam envious. I was afraid to sit down for fear the high-class furniture might protest my intrusion. My inferiority complexes were emerging. I quickly subdued them, however, as I concluded that this had to be part of the game used by the Hawaiian Planters' Association.

  A man about 40, nattily-attired, introduced me to his wife who was dressed to kill. Cocktails appeared. The first drink almost knocked me for a loop, it was so strong. My mind raced with the speed of a buzz saw. With each sip I had to remind myself that this was a scheme to get me loaded so my tongue would loosen up. I was constantly on guard, yet friendly. The meal was one of the world's finest. It was so great that it bordered on obscene, but I stuffed myself as if it were my last meal.

  My host said, "There are some of us who want to join forces with you people to bring organization to our group."

  With conditions like the ones this guy was enjoying, who the hell needed organization, I thought. Why would he risk what he already has for something that is still in the abstract at this stage?

  He continued. "Your people could help us a lot. Perhaps several of our people could meet with your group and work something out."

  I tried to believe there might be some legitimacy to this, but my instincts told me to beware. He asked for names of my cohorts whom he could contact. What was the size of my group and how far did their influence prevail? I found the right words to veer my answers away from names or numbers and repeated things like, "We'll see what can be done" and "We'll discuss it and let you know." I felt relieved to get out of the place and back to my old haunts.

  A guy approached me on the waterfront. He explained that he had read an article in the Voice of Labor about the war in Spain. "Look," he said, "I spent some time in the army. I worked in the ordnance department. I'm a crackerjack in my field. Sometime ago I worked on an invention that I refused to give to the army; I never liked the service. My invention is a grenade launcher. I drew up the blueprints and even made a model of it. I want to see that it gets into the hands of the right people, you know, the Spaniards who are opposing Franco. I don't have the blueprints with me, but if you'll come to my house tonight I'll give them to you and explain them so you or your friends can get them into the right hands."

  "Okay," I said. "Just give me your address and if I can find the time I'll let you know." It was the last I saw of that guy. For all I know, he's still waiting.

  Two soldiers approached me in one of the cheap restaurants I ate in. "Mr. Bailey," said one. "A friend of ours named Leon told us to contact you to do us a favor."

  "What kind of favor?" I asked, surprised.

  "We're fed up with the military. We want to get the hell off this island and go home to the mainland. We heard that you have a lot of friends on board the ships that go from here to the mainland. We want you to help us get out of here by having some of your friends hide us on board. There's a couple of hundred dollars in it for you. We hate the military; we'd do anything to get away from here."

  With a small amount of effort I was able to brush off these obvious characters. I was determined not to be set up.

  Two weeks had passed since my return from Maui. I had no idea what was happening over there until I answered a knock on my door. I opened it to find Fagel, all excited. "You have to come back with me to Maui," he said. "Things are very bad. Against my advice the men at Puunene Plantations One and Two have walked out on strike. I don't know what to do. You have to come and help us or everything will be lost."

  The strikers had rented a small one-room dwelling in an alley of the main street of Waikuku. They sat around talking. The town was filled with strikers lolling about, doing nothing but waiting for the plantation owners to come on bended knees, begging them to come back to work. I was appalled by the inactivity of the men and the absence of men in leadership positions. I knew that inactivity leads to boredom, boredom to indifference, and indifference to demoralization. Something had to be done to get the strikers stirred into activity. Anything was better than sitting around or walking aimlessly about town.

  Fagel called a small group of men around him. They were to be his band of leaders. They were also men who did not question Fagel. They were wonderful easy-going men whom I liked. We learned what had prompted the men to walk out. One of them in Puunene One had openly declared himself shop steward and urged everyone on the plantation to deal with the "union" (Vibora Luviminda) through him. One of the bosses resented his status, and arguments ensued which led to the walkout. Puunene Two subsequently joined them.

  The men felt strong. Many of them had joined the Vibora Luviminda in the few weeks earlier. They saw themselves as part of a huge labor movement that stretched over to the mainland. They also believed that all it took was a few days off the job before the bosses would grant whatever they asked for. Unfortunately, Fagel had done nothing to dispel this notion.

  The strikers continued to live on the plantations in their small windowless shacks. So far no effort had been made by the owners to eject them. That much was an
asset to us. What about food, I asked Fagel. The company stores wouldn't allow the men to live on credit while "biting the hand" that feeds them, I told him. "I will have to use some of the funds to buy rice," Fagel said.

  "Since there's a limited amount of money, why not have some of the men go to every store where the workers have traded and ask for donations of rice or beans or other staples?" I suggested. "Make it clear to the merchants that the more they support the strikers in their effort, the more money they'll have to spend in the stores later."

  Ten two-man teams went out, determined to contact every store that sold rice. At the end of the day 65 fifty-pound sacks of rice and 20 sacks of beans had been collected. Our one-room strike headquarters had sacks piled to the ceiling. The merchants were more sympathetic when they were "threatened" by the relief committee with a boycott when the strike was over.

  It was important to monitor activity on the plantations. We would have to know what work, if any, was carried out now that the regular work force was out on strike. I talked Fagel into sending out squads of men to ride around on all the roads adjacent to the plantations, watching for anything out of the ordinary. This kept about 20 men from moping around strike headquarters or drifting up and down the streets.

  Reports indicated no unusual activity in the fields or mills. The employers were still in the initial shock of having their main force desert them. It had been seven days since the workers had walked out. Men were coming in to pick up their rations of rice and beans. So far fewer than 20 percent of the strikers had required this aid, and some of them appeared embarrassed collecting it.

  In a strike situation, it's important to prevent any vacuum from developing. The employers must be kept on the defensive. The more charges and attacks that can be made against them, the more time they'll spend defending themselves. That gives them less time to mount attacks of their own. I suggested that Fagel send a wire to Governor Poindexter at the Palace in Honolulu urging him to use his good offices to compel the plantation owners to sit down with the strikers and negotiate the items in dispute. In addition I advised he contact the National Labor Relations Board.