Thursday, November 4, 1909
Luisa and Vito are better. But Teresa is so weak this morning I had to help her get to the bathroom in the hall. Zi’ Maria was in there, and so we had to wait, which made me ten minutes late to work. I’ll be fined for that. It doesn’t matter how long we work at night — if we’re even a few minutes late in the morning, we get fined. If I’d tried to explain, Mr. Klein would just say, “If you don’t like it, you know what you can do.”
Sarah and Clara say all factories are this way. Today, Clara told us about the factory where she used to work where she made ladies’ corsets. “I had to pay thirty cents for each spool of thread I used, usually two or three a week.”
Sarah’s eyes flashed. “That’s just what I mean. You probably earned less than six dollars a week, working long hours. So why should you have to pay for your own thread?”
Sarah went on to say that the problem is that most of the bosses, like Mr. Klein, are subcontractors. Mr. Klein is our boss, but he doesn’t own this factory. He gets orders from a bigger boss. That’s why Mr. Klein tries to pass off all the costs he can, like thread and needles, to the workers. That way, he can make more money.
“No matter how you look at it, the workers lose,” Sarah told us.
From talking to Sarah, I am getting to know Clara Rosen, too. The other day at lunch Clara asked me for help with her English language lesson. She’s taking a class from the Women’s Trade Union League, the WTUL, a group of American women who volunteer to help working girls. Sarah explained that the WTUL is like a partner to Local 25 of the ILGWU.
As I looked at Clara’s lesson I was surprised. It wasn’t like the lessons we had in public school. It was all about the problems of workers like us — how we work overtime without pay, and how we must pay for our own needles and thread.
After I helped Clara with some of the harder words, I couldn’t help myself — I kept reading. One part described a girl who worked in a union shop:
She goes home at twelve o’clock on Saturday.
She has one hour for lunch every day.
Sometimes she works overtime in the busy season.
She gets extra pay for overtime.
Imagine — working only a half day on Saturdays. If this is what the unions want, it’s no wonder the bosses are against them.
Still, I can’t help thinking how nice it would be. If I had Saturday afternoons off, I could go to the market for Mama, or even take Teresa to special festivals. We could listen to music, watch the parade, and stroll up and down looking at all the carts and booths full of delicious things to eat.
Or maybe I’d just sit on my fire escape, write in my diary, and wait for my sparrow to visit me.
Monday, November 8, 1909
At lunch, Sarah whispered that she had something exciting to tell me about the Women’s Trade Union League. She said that most of the WTUL members are well-off American ladies. They’ve been to college, live in fancy houses, and are married to rich men.
“One morning last week the WTUL president, Mary Dreier, was picketing with girls in front of the Triangle Waist Company,” Sarah said, her eyes flashing with excitement. “Mary Dreier begged one girl not to cross the line and be a strikebreaker. Well, what do you think? That girl struck Mary Dreier, then told a policeman to arrest her!”
“Did he do it?” I asked.
Sarah nodded. “Yes, but was that police officer surprised when they got to court and found out that Mary Dreier was a rich American lady. He said he’d never have arrested her if he had known.”
Mary Dreier told her story to the newspaper. So now Sarah hopes that the large American newspapers might pay more attention to what’s happening at the Triangle factory. Maybe more people will support the girls there, and their right to strike peacefully.
Sarah isn’t sure about trusting rich American ladies like Mary Dreier, but she says the Triangle strikers need all the help they can get.
Tuesday, November 9, 1909
A needle broke on my sewing machine this morning. At first I didn’t know what had happened. There was a jerk, a funny noise, and then the thread started spinning around.
It was easy enough to fix. But now Mr. Klein will take off from my pay for the broken needle. As mean as Mr. Klein can be, though, I’ve learned that ours isn’t the worst shop. Sarah says a friend of hers works for the Bijou Waist Company, where the boss moves the hands of the clock when he thinks no one is looking. He gives the girls only twenty minutes for lunch instead of thirty.
Later, as Luisa walked upstairs in front of me I noticed a hole in the bottom of her left heel. No wonder she got sick walking in the wet, cold streets. Shoes cost about two dollars, sometimes more. But Luisa has her heart set on a new hat for spring, and she’s saving for that.
As for me, I think I’d like to have an umbrella, for when the rain comes down hard. My hair is so thick that once it gets wet, it seems to stay damp for hours. But an umbrella costs at least a dollar. I’d also like a pair of gloves. I saw some in a pushcart on Elizabeth Street for seventy-nine cents.
Every week I have to pay twenty-five cents for a locker to keep my coat in at the shop. But if I didn’t have to pay for broken needles, and had that locker money to keep for myself, I could easily save to buy an umbrella or some gloves.
Tonight Mama grumbled when we arrived cold and wet. She doesn’t like this weather, either. The other day I heard her tell Zi’ Maria that she misses the sunshine of Italy on these dark, cold days.
“Italy is beautiful but poor,” replied Zi’ Maria, shaking her head. “Here at least there is enough food, and we can eat until we belch.”
Mama smiled and patted the faucet in the kitchen sink. “And I wouldn’t trade all the sunshine in Sicily for this.”
Thursday, November 11, 1909
It’s hard to pick up my little book today. I feel so tired. It’s because Zi’ Caterina died yesterday. All evening, Rosa’s apartment was crowded with paesani. Rosa’s pretty face was streaming with tears. I took Alfio onto my lap, and Pietro snuggled beside me. I know it’s selfish, but I couldn’t help thinking about what we would do if something happened to Mama.
All the women in our tenement will help cook and care for Zi’ Vincenzo and his family now. After all, they are paesani, and whatever we have we will share. Babbo will help Zi’ Vincenzo arrange everything. The funeral will cost more than a hundred dollars. Each family will give what it can.
Just before we all went to bed, Luisa dropped some coins into Babbo’s hands. “For the funeral,” she said. “I’ve been saving up the dimes Mama gives me.”
“That money was for your spring hat,” I whispered, once Luisa and I were in bed.
Luisa turned her face away from me and didn’t answer.
Monday, November 15, 1909
Rosa was back at work today. What else can she do? Each time I see the dark shadows under her eyes, I feel like crying.
Everyone is sad. Yesterday afternoon Mama stared out the window, trying to wipe away the dirt on the pane, searching for blue sky. She is missing Zi’ Caterina and Sicily, too.
Sicily seems so far away, like dreams that fade when I open my eyes. Only feelings and colors are left behind. But here on Elizabeth Street the tall buildings seem to cover up the sun. And now that it’s November, the sky is gray and gloomy, like a bitter old man. Babbo says his shoulder hurts, a sign that winter will be long and hard.
Today Vito came home with pieces of coal for our stove, which had fallen off a cart. He took some to Rosa’s family, too. He is a sweet boy sometimes.
I hardly sit outside to write anymore. But tonight I took some crumbs from my piece of bread at supper and left them on the fire escape for my sparrow. I wonder if he will make it through the winter ahead.
Wednesday, November 17, 1909
There’s always a rush down the stairs when we leave the factory. Last night I got separated from Luisa and Rosa. As I stood waiting for them on the street, I heard two girls talking near me. One wa
s Sarah.
“Workers at the Triangle and Leiserson shops have been fighting alone. But many girls are joining the waistmakers’ union, Local 25 of the International Ladies’ Garment Workers’ Union,” Sarah was saying. “Local 25 is small, less than 800 members, I think. But now the union has called a mass meeting for next Monday night.”
She lowered her voice. “Something is sure to happen.”
My head turned. I couldn’t wait to hear what Sarah would say next, but at that moment Luisa came up. With a scowl, she began to walk so quickly, I had to run to catch up. Still, as we hurried along, I couldn’t help thinking about the girls who have been striking this fall.
I think they’re so brave to walk on a picket line with a sign. I can’t imagine doing such a thing. I would feel afraid of what might happen to me. I wouldn’t want to be arrested by a big, burly policeman, or have people look at me or taunt me. And what would Mama think? No, it would be so much easier to try to get another job instead.
This morning I felt as if someone had left a window open, and a fresh, new breeze was blowing into our shop. It must be all this talk about change.
Mr. Klein growled to himself, barked orders, and paced back and forth across the factory floor like a nervous watchdog. Next to me, Sarah bent to her machine with her usual concentration. But I could sense her impatience and excitement.
“Something is about to happen at last, Angela,” Sarah whispered as we slipped into the hall at lunch. “Why, even Samuel Gompers, the president of the American Federation of Labor, will be at the big meeting next Monday night.”
Sarah said she hoped they would decide on a general strike. “A general strike? What does that mean?” I asked.
“A strike by everyone, by all shirtwaist workers. Not just a shop here and there, the way it has been all fall. Will you come to the meeting, Angela?”
I imagined what it would be like, sitting in a large hall, surrounded by other working girls. But of course I shook my head. My parents expect me to be home at night.
Sarah told me that her father works as a cloakmaker and belongs to a different union, but he has always supported her. From reading The Call, it seems like many Jewish men like Sarah’s father are involved in unions.
I didn’t say anything. Lunch break was over then, so I went back to my sewing machine. But I couldn’t help thinking about something that had happened the other day.
It was Sunday afternoon. I was coming past the corner barbershop when I spotted Babbo with Zi’ Vincenzo, Audenzio, and other men. Curious, I stooped down outside the doorway, my head hidden, as if to tie my shoe.
Babbo was talking. I only caught the end of his sentence, something about “the Industrial Workers of the World.”
I wondered if this is a different union for Italian workers. I wanted to hear more. Audenzio bent forward as if he were about to argue something in return. At that moment, he glanced outside and spotted me. For a second, our eyes met. I straightened up and rushed on.
I’m almost certain now that mio padre and his friends have long discussions about workers and unions, but it seems as though these unions are different from the ones the Jewish workers belong to.
What does Babbo think about all of this? I wish I knew.
Friday, November 19, 1909
Tonight after work a man on the street thrust a flyer into my hand. He had stacks to hand out — not just in Yiddish, either. Some were in Italian, and others in English. The flyer was about the meeting next Monday night at the Cooper Union building.
“Oh, Angela. For a girl who has been to school, you don’t seem to have brains. Think about it — what good will a strike do?” cried Luisa when I showed it to her. “This is only for Jewish girls. They will lose, anyway. The factory owners are too powerful.”
I took a breath and tried to repeat the arguments I’ve heard Sarah make. “Luisa, it’s because the factory owners are so powerful that we must all act together. Sarah says that as long as only one or two factories are on strike, nothing will change. Everyone must join together.”
But Luisa turned on me. “‘Sarah says, Sarah says!’ Angela, what have I been telling you? Don’t listen to Sarah Goldstein! The leaders of this union haven’t even tried to talk to us. They don’t care about Italian girls.”
When Sarah talks about fighting for our rights, she makes me want to listen and join in. But then I listen to Luisa, and I can’t help wondering why there aren’t more Italians leading the union, especially if it is supposed to be for all workers.
I feel more confused than ever.
Tuesday, November 23, 1909
I have so much to write about! I’ll start at the beginning, when I opened my eyes. Of course the first thing I thought of was last night’s meeting. I couldn’t wait to find out the news from Sarah.
Luisa, Rosa, and I rushed to work without speaking. The weather is colder now, and the wind seeps through my coat and makes me shiver. But as soon as the shop came into sight and I spotted Sarah waiting for me, I forgot all about being cold.
I hung back so I could talk to her. Luisa shot me an angry look and pounded up the stairs. “Hurry, or you’ll be late, Angela.”
Sarah and I lingered in the dim hall. She was eager to tell me everything. The “Great Hall” at Cooper Union had been so packed, she said, that some people had to stand outside in the street. Her words rushed out. She told me about the labor leaders who spoke, like Samuel Gompers and Mary Dreier, the leader of the WTUL.
Sarah leaned forward and put her hand on my coat sleeve. “After two hours of speeches, no one had called for a strike. Instead, each speaker warned us not to enter into a strike hastily.”
I frowned. “So that’s it? No strike?”
A quick smile lit Sarah’s face. “Wait, I’m not finished. Just when it seemed the meeting would end, a young woman named Clara Lemlich shouted that she wanted to speak. She was lifted to the stage on the shoulders of other workers.”
Sarah said that Clara Lemlich works in the Leiserson shop, which is already on strike. Earlier this fall, Clara was beaten on the picket line by thugs the factory owners hired to bother the girls.
Sarah’s eyes flashed. “When Clara stood on that stage, she seemed to speak for all of us. She said we must break the bonds that hold us.”
I could picture Sarah herself speaking before a huge crowd, moving people to tears with her powerful words. I think she could do just as well as this Clara Lemlich.
Sarah said that when Clara called for a general strike of all shirtwaist workers, the crowd went wild. It was the moment the workers had been waiting for. Everyone took the old Jewish oath. “We said it in Yiddish, Angela, but we strike together — Jewish girls, Americans, and Italians,” Sarah told me.
She raised her right hand and recited the oath for me. “‘If I turn traitor to the cause I now pledge, may this hand wither from the arm I now raise.’”
Her words made me shiver. “What will happen now?” I asked.
“I promise you, Angela, something will happen this morning,” Sarah replied. “Don’t put your hat in your locker this morning. Keep your coat right beside you.”
Minutes later, I could feel my fingers begin to tremble with excitement as I lined up the seam on my first shirtwaist. The power was turned on. Vroom! The room sprang to life with the noise of the sewing machines. The floor vibrated under my feet.
I bent to my work. Everything seemed as usual. But it was not. I knew it, Sarah knew it. I think Luisa did, too, for by then, everyone had heard the whispered story of last night. I could hardly keep sewing straight seams.
We worked for two hours. There was only the sound of the machines and Mr. Klein’s voice, urging us to work faster.
Just when I decided nothing would happen after all, something did. I thought it would be Sarah who would call the strike. But it was a girl named Ruth, who sat near me.
Around ten o’clock, Ruth stood up, took a whistle from her pocket, and blew it. It made a thin, screeching sound. I was so
startled, I jumped in my chair.
In a clear voice, Ruth yelled, “I now declare a strike in this shop!”
The machines were roaring, so she called out the words again, even more loudly. Then she leaped onto a chair and reached up to a switch on the wall. My heart beat faster when I saw what she meant to do. She didn’t hesitate for an instant. She turned off the electric current.
All together we rose up out of our seats. Mr. Klein began to wave his arms and yell, “Girls! Sit down! Sit down!”
No one listened. Without a word, we took our coats and hats. And we all walked out. Even Luisa and Rosa.
Later
Mama is about to turn off the gaslight for bed, but I have a few more minutes. My mind is still racing about everything that happened today. My pen has to chase my thoughts across the page!
After we stopped our machines, we ran downstairs and into the street. In front of our building I saw a policeman with a club. He shook it at us and yelled. The other girls didn’t pay a bit of attention. But I couldn’t help looking over my shoulder, worried that a policeman or even Mr. Klein would come after us.
Sarah laughed and linked her arm through mine. “Don’t be afraid, Angela. Mr. Klein can’t stop us. Look around you. There are thousands of girls here, from every shop on this street, from all over the neighborhood.”
It was true. The streets were full of working girls. It looked like quitting time, but it was only ten in the morning. I stood on tiptoes to find Luisa, but I’d lost her and Rosa in the crowd.
Dear America: Hear My Sorrow Page 5
