Dear America: Hear My Sorrow

by Deborah Hopkinson

  “My poor mother! She spoke not a word of English, and she was so sick and frightened during the voyage. She barely let us out of her sight the whole time,” Sarah said. “And when they separated the boys from the women and girls for a physical exam at Ellis Island, she thought she’d never see my brother Joseph ever again!”

  Sunday, October 17, 1909

  Teresa has a bad cold. Her cough is rough and makes her chest ache. Her wheezing is worse when she has a cold. Sometimes she has a hard time catching her breath.

  To help Mama, I went to the market. Arturo was working in the bakery and gave me an extra-large loaf of bread. Arturo is a little like Rosa. He always smiles before he frowns, and that makes me smile, too. But why must my face get so hot and turn red whenever I try to say even a few words to him?

  Later I helped Mama cook the macaroni. Then we sat down to make artificial flowers. While we worked, Luisa and I took turns singing to Teresa and telling her stories. Even Vito told one.

  At least Vito was home today. He’s been gone most afternoons after school lately, Teresa tells me. That little brother of mine had better be careful! I hope he doesn’t get in with some of the wild boys who steal from the pushcart vendors. It’s one thing to follow coal carts or wagons to find scrap pieces of coal or wood. Everyone does that. But stealing … Vito has big ideas, but sometimes I’m afraid he wants to do everything the easy way.

  I wish Vito could stay in school longer. But I know as soon as he turns fourteen he’ll leave school and go to work.

  Tuesday, October 19, 1909

  The girl who sat next to Sarah has quit. Suddenly this morning I heard my name. Sarah was speaking up for me with Mr. Klein.

  “Give Angela a chance to be a machine operator,” she said. “She’s a fast worker and a quick learner. Also, her English is good, especially for an Italian girl. She’ll help explain things to the other Italian girls and make things easier for you.”

  She said more, but in Yiddish, so I didn’t understand. But as I snipped I held my breath, waiting for Mr. Klein’s answer.

  Mr. Klein scratched his chin and turned to stare at me. He nodded toward my stint and pushed his smudged glasses back on his nose.

  “After you finish, sit there. She will teach you. If you make too many mistakes, you’ll have to go back.”

  It took me until late afternoon to finish the shirtwaists in my stint. Then I sat at the machine next to Sarah and watched. That’s when I first got scared. How will I ever make my seams as straight as hers?

  “Come a little early tomorrow morning,” Sarah offered. “Mr. Klein will be here, getting the cloth ready to be cut for the new styles. He’ll let us in, and I can explain it to you better. You won’t make so many mistakes, and I won’t lose time from work teaching you.”

  Luisa’s mouth turned down even more than usual as we walked home. “I don’t like you being near that girl.”

  I didn’t answer. But Luisa was the quiet one when I told Mama that, from now on, I’ll be a machine operator, too.

  Wednesday, October 20, 1909

  Today was my first day as an operator. On the floor to my right stands a wicker basket piled high with my work. As I sat down in the wooden chair, I could smell the oil of the machine.

  At first I was so nervous, my hands shook, like on my first day. But Sarah is a good teacher. She spoke clearly and showed me each step.

  I’ll start with simple seams first. I must lean forward and run the cloth under the vibrating needle to make each seam. I have to concentrate every second. This job isn’t as easy as trimming threads.

  At lunch I took out my roll. “Thank you for teaching me and for talking to Mr. Klein for me,” I told Sarah. “You could have tried to get the job for a Jewish girl.”

  Sarah smiled. “Well, you’re a good worker. Why shouldn’t I help you? I don’t like that the bosses always separate Jewish and Italian and American girls. They don’t want us to support one another, or talk to one another about what we want to change. I hope we’ll all fight together — soon.”

  Talking to Sarah makes my head whirl. I can never understand half of what she says. What does she mean, “fight together”? I just don’t see that there’s much hope that things will change.

  I keep thinking about the Triangle factory. When the Triangle workers went on strike this fall, there were other girls just waiting, desperate for work, ready to take their jobs. That’s just the way it is.

  Sometimes I wonder if Luisa is right. Maybe Sarah does want to make trouble. Still, without her, I wouldn’t have this new job.

  Friday, October 22, 1909

  Yesterday I had an accident. Mr. Klein kept telling us to go faster and faster so we could make a deadline. All at once my hand slipped and my finger got in the way. The needle went right through. I felt a sharp, sudden pain.

  Oh, it hurt! I wanted to scream. I bit down on my lip hard, trying not to cry. Sarah reached over and handed me a piece of cotton. “Bind it up with this and make sure you have some with you for when it happens again. That way you can keep sewing quickly.”

  Sarah says these accidents happen to everyone, especially when we’re asked to sew fast. Luckily, the needle went through part of my nail, which isn’t so bad. When it happened to Clara, the needle went right into her bone. That must have really hurt!

  After that I concentrated hard so I wouldn’t make mistakes. But, oh, how my back and shoulders ached. Luisa says it will get better once I can relax. But how? I have to pay attention every second and go as fast as I can. Last night when we came home I was so tired, I couldn’t write in this book. All I wanted to do was sleep!

  Today I sat in my chair and talked to Sarah at lunch. I told her how happy Mama is about my new job. Mio padre might make more money, but Mama is the one who keeps the family going.

  Then Sarah told me a little about her mother, who still wears a sheitel, an old-fashioned black wig, like married Jewish women back in Russia do. Sarah smiled. “We try to make her change, but she’s attached to the old ways.”

  I nodded. I often see Jewish women on the streets with their dark wigs, shawls, thick wool stockings, and big, sturdy shoes. I think our mothers aren’t so different. Luisa and I hate to look like foreigners. We wanted to get rid of our foreign clothes as soon as we came to New York. But Mama still wears her old shawl, and doesn’t mind if she looks like a foreigner.

  “Mothers don’t need to worry about getting married, like we do,” said Sarah with a sly smile. “At home my mother would sew us new clothes just a few times a year, at holidays. Here in New York I want to look stylish, like an American.”

  Sarah told me a funny story about her little brother. When her family came to America, Joseph had heavy, clunky old shoes, made by the cobbler back home. He didn’t like them at all. “Joseph hated being teased by the other kids,” Sarah told me.

  But Joseph knew his parents would never agree to buy new shoes until his old ones wore out. Sarah smiled. “One day Joseph came home with only socks on his feet. He’d thrown his shoes in the river so he’d never have to wear them again.”

  Of course, Joseph was punished. But Sarah’s parents had no choice but to buy him a pair of American shoes. I couldn’t help laughing.

  “Joseph sounds like he’s a rascal,” I told her. “That’s exactly the kind of thing my brother Vito might do. But, oh, would my parents be angry.”

  Sunday, October 24, 1909

  Rosa came to fetch Luisa today, so Luisa could help her at home. Zi’ Caterina isn’t any better. I can tell Rosa is worried about her mother because she only gave Teresa a small smile when she came in. Mama had made some soup for Rosa’s family. Little Alfio looks like Rosa, with his long eyelashes and shy smile. When Vito teases him, he always hides his head behind Rosa’s skirt.

  Zi’ Vincenzo works as a day laborer, taking his pick and shovel wherever he can find work. But the work isn’t regular, so the whole family depends on Rosa’s pay. It’s a good thing Mama, Zi’ Maria, and the other women in
our building are here to help.

  Tuesday, October 26, 1909

  A girl who sits near me got sick this morning. She had to use the toilet twice before lunch. On the third time, Mr. Klein followed her into the hallway and began yelling in a loud, scratchy voice, urging her to hurry. I’m lucky I don’t get sick easily. Sometimes I try not to use the toilet in the hall for the whole day. But other times I must.

  We worked until nearly eight tonight. The order was late, and Mr. Klein pushed us hard to finish. By the end of the day I was so tired, I could hardly see.

  But Sarah didn’t seem tired — instead, she was angry! As we spilled onto the sidewalk from the factory, Sarah put her hand on my shoulder. She leaned forward and looked right into my face with flashing eyes. “Angela, you’ve been to school, so I know you can read English. I want you to take this.”

  She thrust a newspaper into my hands. In big letters on the first page it said The Call. Sarah whispered low and earnestly. “Read for yourself why we must do something about the way we’re treated!”

  I was so surprised, I couldn’t say a word. At that moment Luisa grabbed my arm. I tried to push the paper back at Sarah, but she was already rushing away.

  I stuffed the newspaper into my pocket and said nothing to Luisa and Rosa about it on the way home. I ate some macaroni and helped Teresa, Alfio, and Pietro with their schoolwork.

  But when my chores were done, I took the newspaper into the toilet with me and read some of it, until Zi’ Maria began banging on the door, shouting for me to hurry. “I’ve heard about you and your little book, Angela,” she shouted. “I hope you’re not writing in there. Other people live here, too!”

  I put the newspaper back into my pocket and opened the door. I showed her my empty hands. “I wasn’t writing, Zi’ Maria,” I said. Then, quick as a flash, I slipped past her into our apartment, leaving her shaking her head at me.

  Anyway, from the part that I did read, it seems to me that The Call is more for Jewish workers, and how they should join a union.

  I wonder what Babbo thinks. Sometimes when Zi’ Vincenzo and Babbo are sitting and drinking coffee in our kitchen, I’ve heard them speak of the fasci dei lavoratori, workers’ unions, that are still active in Sicily. I wonder if Babbo was ever involved in one back home?

  And what about Audenzio, Rosa’s friend? When Teresa and I saw him in the barbershop, Babbo and several other grown men were all paying close attention. What could such a young man say to make them listen like that? What were they arguing and talking about so intensely?

  Thursday, October 28, 1909

  Yesterday as we left, Mr. Klein scolded Luisa because she hadn’t finished her stint. Luisa is usually a fast worker. Suddenly I realized her skin was glistening with sweat and her eyes looked watery.

  Outside, I reached up and put my hand on her forehead. “You have a fever, Luisa!”

  She began to cry. All the way home, Rosa and I held her tightly under her elbows, even when people jostled and pushed us. Once, I thought she would faint. At home I pulled out our folding bed, and Luisa rolled into it without a word. Mama clucked her tongue and got a cool washcloth for her head.

  Luisa thrashed in her sleep all night, and this morning her skin felt hot. She cried, “I can’t be sick. What if I lose my job?”

  But she couldn’t even sit up, never mind go to work.

  This morning the power went out in the factory for a while, so all the machines stopped. Mr. Klein was busy trying to fix the problem. For a few minutes, no one paid any attention to us.

  Sarah leaned over and asked what I thought about The Call, the newspaper she’d given me. I shrugged, not knowing what to say. Sarah raised her eyebrows. Finally I admitted I didn’t really understand much of it.

  “Well, you’re young, and just starting out. But if you keep your eyes open, you’ll see why we must stick together and fight.”

  Bending close, Sarah told me in a whisper about something that had happened when she’d worked at the Triangle Waist Company.

  One of the foremen was a nice man who had hated to drive the girls so hard. “When he tried to protest to the bosses, they fired him,” Sarah remembered. “As he left the room, he pleaded, ‘Brothers and sisters! Don’t let me be treated this way.’”

  I looked around to make sure no one was watching us. “What happened then?”

  Sarah shrugged. “We walked out for three days, then we came back. The bosses made speeches and promises but, in the end, nothing changed. Angela, the truth is that unless we all join the union and work for better conditions, nothing will change.”

  “Luisa and Rosa have thought of getting jobs there,” I said. “They think it would be nice to work with so many girls, and be so near a park like the one in Washington Square.”

  Sarah shuddered. “I’d never go back to the Triangle factory! For one thing, it’s ten stories tall and you have to work on the eighth or ninth floor. The bosses keep some of the doors locked so no one will sneak out or steal anything.”

  Sarah talked more about unions, but I didn’t understand everything she said. She reminds me of a strong, young horse. Her eyes flash, as though at any minute she might bare her teeth and bite, or rear up and kick. I don’t think she could ever be beaten down.

  When the power came back on, Mr. Klein yelled at us to work faster to make up for lost time. Sometimes he stands over my shoulder, peering at my work. He is so close, his stale breath touches my ear.

  Friday, October 29, 1909

  Luisa is still sick. Our rent is due in a few days, and Babbo only worked half of the month. So early this morning Mama and Teresa left to get an order of artificial flowers from Mr. Silvio. Teresa stayed home from school to help.

  Somehow, though, no matter how bad things are, Mama always seems to manage. She makes sure our rent is paid and food is on the table. She even does her best to make the apartment look cheerful. We have bright curtains for our windows and a few pictures on the walls — thanks to Mama.

  I thought of Mama when the shop peddler came in today, carrying a basket of food. He stopped near me and lifted the black oilcloth from his basket so I could see the bright red apples and sweet rolls tucked inside. I was so hungry. In my pocket I had the dime Mama had given me. I wrapped my fingers around it, longing for a bite of sweet, crunchy apple. But I shook my head. I can get by, and save my money for another day.

  Listening to Sarah has made me curious to learn more about the union, so tonight I read The Call again. It said that the union wants to help workers fight for the “three eights”: eight hours of work, eight hours of free time, and eight hours of sleep.

  Sarah says the factories are not supposed to make us work more than ten hours a day, six days a week. And we should have a full hour for lunch, not thirty minutes. All the factory bosses ignore these rules, though.

  Well, no matter what Sarah says, I don’t think this will change. If we protest, they’ll just hire new workers.

  Sunday, October 31, 1909

  Luisa’s a little better, but now Vito and Teresa are sick. Vito thrashes about fiercely and when he’s awake, he begs Mama for water. He says his body feels like the train tracks with the El running over him! But Teresa doesn’t complain, even though sometimes I hear her gasping for breath.

  Mama is beside herself. She has flowers to make, and the apartment needs cleaning. I don’t think she’ll be able to wash our family’s clothes tomorrow, let alone help Zi’ Caterina. I worked as fast as I could to make flowers, then helped her cook beans for supper.

  Babbo ate in silence. At first I didn’t think he liked my cooking, but at the end of the meal he told me the food was good. I jumped up to take his plate and do the dishes. Mama was in the next room, helping Vito get a drink of water.

  “So, you are a machine operator now, Angela,” Babbo said. “You are a good girl.”

  His words made me feel proud. It was just the two of us in the kitchen, and more than anything I wanted to ask him what he thought about workers and
unions. But if he wants to talk about it, he will bring it up.

  Monday, November 1, 1909

  I wanted to stay at home and help Mama take care of everyone, but it’s the busy season now. Mr. Klein kept us sewing until after eight o’clock. By the end of the day I was so tired, I spoiled a waist. I didn’t mean to, but Mr. Klein says it must come off my pay.

  Rosa and I rushed home in the dark. A peddler jostled against me, and I stepped into a puddle. I could feel the cold water seep into my shoes.

  Poor Rosa! I shouldn’t complain — at least Mama is here to take care of us. But I’m afraid Zi’ Caterina is getting worse. Every day Rosa rushes home to do chores and take care of her mama. At least we are lucky to have paesani here to help out.

  Like tonight. When I walked down the hall, Zi’ Maria opened her door, pulling Rosa’s little brothers after her. She must have been listening for my footsteps. “Ah, there you are, Angela. Alfio and Pietro have more schoolwork to finish. Tonight you must be their ‘little mother.’ Take them to your kitchen now and help them. I’ve already fed them some good macaroni. And when they’re done, wash their faces and take them to Rosa to put to bed.”

  “Sì, Zi’ Maria,” I answered, taking little Alfio’s hand. I felt tired, but I’d never dream of disobeying Zi’ Maria.

  Besides, I don’t mind taking care of younger children. Even though I’m only a year older than Vito, when we first came to Elizabeth Street, Mama often asked me to be his “little mother” out on the street, keeping watch while he played with his friends. Now, of course, Vito is old enough to fend for himself.

  From the grim, tired look on the boys’ faces, I think they realize their mama is very ill. But they won’t be neglected, not while Zi’ Maria lives in this tenement. I don’t always like Zi’ Maria’s sharp eyes, but if she sees something that needs doing, she makes sure it gets done. Zi’ Maria and Mama look out for everyone.