At first I thought we would just go home. But I soon found out differently. Clara came up and took my other arm. “Let’s all walk to strike headquarters on Clinton Street together.”
Sarah nodded. “Yes, you must join the union now, Angela.”
Join the union! I sputtered. “But … but … how can I? I must find my sister!”
I craned my neck and yelled, “Luisa!”
Sarah pointed. “Don’t worry, she’s over there with your friend Rosa. See? Just ahead. Come on.”
Around me, girls shouted and sang, waving their arms in the air. I couldn’t help being swept up in the crowd. I wondered if Luisa was feeling this excitement, too. I thought that maybe, now that the strike was actually happening, she might change her mind about Sarah and the union.
Sarah was laughing. “Do you believe this, Angela? We’ve filled the streets!”
We made our way to Clinton Hall, a large building on Clinton near Broome Street. Everywhere, I saw dark skirts and white shirtwaists and hats. Sarah steered me through the crowd, and eventually we stood before a desk where a girl asked if I was ready to join the union.
“She is! Aren’t you, Angela?” asked Sarah. “Here’s a dime to get you started. Her name is Angela Denoto.”
I hesitated and tried to step back, but there were girls on every side of me. Before I could speak, the girl had taken down my name. It would be a dollar and fifty cents in all, she explained, but the rest could be paid later. And then I was pushed ahead.
My thoughts were all jumbled. What would my parents say? But then I told myself that I hadn’t really joined. After all, it was Sarah’s dime, not mine. I wouldn’t really be a full member unless I paid the whole amount.
There was a crush of girls around me. Most were yelling and calling out to one another in Yiddish. But I saw some Americans and a few Italian girls, too. I made for the door. Outside, I spotted Luisa and Rosa at last.
Luisa pushed her way through the crowd and grabbed my arm so hard, it hurt. “Where have you been? We’ve been looking all over for you. Let’s go home.”
“But … but don’t you think we should stay here with everyone else?” I managed to say.
Rosa leaned over and put her arm around me. “Angela, our shop will likely settle soon. We’ll probably go back to work in a few days — a week at the most. If not, we’ll find work elsewhere. A strike might be all right for the Jewish girls, but our families need our wages too much, don’t they?”
I stared at Rosa and Luisa. I didn’t know what to say.
Sarah came up behind me. “Come back inside, Angela. The speeches are starting. The union leaders will explain about how to picket and what we’re all fighting for. We must stick together. It’s the only way we can change things.”
“What’s she saying?” Rosa asked. “Does she want you to go back inside?”
Sarah had spoken in English so quickly, Luisa and Rosa couldn’t understand everything. I stared at Luisa. So many thoughts flew through my mind. Luisa glared, her lips set in a hard line, her eyes flashing. She looked as if she wanted to slap my face.
All at once, Luisa grabbed Rosa’s arm and stomped away, disappearing into the crowd.
I stood on the sidewalk for a long moment. I knew I should run after them. But, more than anything, I wanted to stay with Sarah and the other fiery girls. I wanted to be a part of the struggle for our rights.
Even now, I can hardly believe my own boldness. But I turned and followed Sarah back into Clinton Hall.
Later, after all the speeches, I raced home along Broome all the way to Elizabeth Street. As my feet hit the tenement stairs, I got a hard knot in my stomach. I tiptoed past Zi’ Maria’s door — it would be just like her to pull me in and ask me questions!
Everything seemed as usual, at first. Mama was cooking macaroni. Luisa was at the table with Vito, who was ignoring his homework, bragging about all the wood he’d scavenged after school. Teresa smiled when she saw me. “Angela, help me with my arithmetic,” she begged.
Babbo came in just before our meal. I could hardly touch my food.
At last, Luisa took a deep breath. “You’ve heard about this strike of the workers. But don’t worry, Mama, as soon as there is a chance to go back to work, we will take it.”
Babbo pointed his fork at Luisa. “Did you go to the union hall today, like Angela?”
“No, Babbo, I did not!” cried Luisa.
I hung my head then, waiting to be punished. Of course Mama and Babbo already knew I had been at Clinton Hall. Nothing can be kept secret here! Other girls from Elizabeth Street were out of work, too. Probably someone at the barbershop had told mio padre I’d been seen at strike headquarters.
Then something surprising happened. Babbo began to shoot questions at me. He asked how strong the union was, how many workers had walked off the job, how many Italian girls had been at the meeting hall.
I swallowed hard and answered as best I could. Mama went to the sink and began clattering dishes. Teresa took out her homework and pretended to study, while Vito kept shoveling in his macaroni. Luisa sat with her arms folded across her chest, her face flushed with anger.
When I finished, there was silence. We waited for Babbo to speak. If he forbade me to go back to the union hall, there was nothing to be done.
For a long moment I stared down at the bright colors of the oilcloth Mama had put on the table. She’s always done her best to make our apartment cheerful, even when money is scarce. I swallowed hard. Now where will the money come from?
Babbo got up, rubbing his shoulder. He turned to Mama and said in the words of our village back home, “There are many who do not trust this union. It is getting help from rich American ladies.”
He paused, then added, “Yet young Audenzio says there are some in his cloakmakers’ shop who are closely watching what happens here. We will have to see….”
At the door, he turned and said to me, “For now, be careful.”
Mama banged her cooking pot after he left. Keeping her back to us, she shook her head. “Sì, you must be careful. Who knows what can happen here? No doubt there will soon be a chance to go back to work.”
Luisa got up and said she would go visit Rosa. She left quickly, shutting the door hard behind her.
My heart was beating fast. It’s just begun, but already I feel that the strike is tearing my family apart.
Still, I couldn’t help feeling more excited than I ever had. For Babbo hadn’t said no! He hadn’t told me not to join the union, he hadn’t said I couldn’t listen to speeches.
And so I’m going back.
Friday, November 26, 1909
Today didn’t begin well. Luisa and I fought again. Teresa was sleeping deeply beside me, her breathing slow and even, but I knew Luisa, like me, had tossed and turned most of the night.
Luisa’s hoarse whisper broke the silence. “Angela, maybe you believe those fiery girls can change things and make life better for working girls. But use your eyes and look around. You’ll see — nothing is going to change. We’ll be back to work in a day or two, and all of this will be forgotten. Mama needs us.”
I didn’t know how to answer. So I got dressed and left.
Clinton Hall was crackling with noise and chatter. There were crowds of girls everywhere.
I pressed into a corner to listen to what people were saying. Most of the girls were speaking in Yiddish and English. Here and there, I spotted a few Italian girls like me. Speeches were going on all the time, with girls cheering and clapping.
“The bosses only want you for your hands,” I heard one woman say. “Not for your heads or your hearts.”
I found myself nodding as I listened. That was true. I’ve seen signs that say simply, HANDS WANTED. I think we are like that horse I saw, who was used until she was all worn out.
At last I spotted Sarah and Clara. Sarah was so excited, she grabbed my hands and practically twirled me around. “Twenty thousand girls are on strike, Angela!” she cried, her words tumbli
ng out. “Most of the labor leaders — the men, anyway — thought there wouldn’t be more than five thousand. Now we must seize this chance and stand firm. If we give in, it’ll be easy for the larger shops, like the Triangle Waist Company, to ignore our demands. Those Triangle owners are so powerful, they’ll do whatever they can to fight the strike.”
Near us, two WTUL ladies with fancy hats were talking. I couldn’t help wondering if Mama had made the flowers on those hats. I heard one woman say, “We have the Italian girls in a hall nearby, but we need Italian speakers or we will lose them. Oh, where are the Italian speakers?”
The lady beside her shook her head. “Six hundred waist and dress shops, but we have no Italian organizers! Is there no one?”
Sarah had heard, too. Before I knew it, she had pushed me forward. Sarah told the union lady that I was Italian, and that my English was good, too.
The lady’s eyes lit up. “Is this true? What’s your name, dear? Have you been to school? We desperately need someone to translate for some of the Italian girls. We must explain to them why it’s important not to cross the picket lines, not to be scabs.”
I told her my name and said I had been to school for four years.
“Marvelous! Come with me, and report here every day. We can use you.” She grabbed my arm and led me away. As we walked, she told me how important it was for the workers to know the progress of the strike and the rules for picketing. So girls who are fluent in Yiddish, English, and Italian are needed to translate.
The union lady took me to a cold, dingy hall nearby. As the union leaders made announcements in English, I repeated the words in Italian as best I could. Then I translated the girls’ questions into English so the union ladies could answer them.
At first I was nervous and spoke too softly. Girls in the back of the room clamored for me to speak up. But it wasn’t long before I got used to standing in front of the crowded room.
Once, someone shouted, “That girl is too short. Give her a box to stand on!” Everyone laughed.
So now I have become not only a striking worker, but a speaker.
Monday, November 29, 1909
This morning Babbo left the tenement just as I did. We walked to the corner, where the pushcart vendors were setting up for the day.
“The headquarters are on Clinton Street, Babbo,” I told him, when we reached Broome Street, where I would turn.
Babbo nodded. “You look like your mama these days, Angela. When you were a baby back in Sicily, she helped storm the city council office to protest against taxes. It must be in your blood.”
I could hardly believe my ears. Mama had been involved in a tax revolt? I wanted to ask more, but Babbo had to rush off to his job. I wonder if he’d ever been part of a protest or strike back in Sicily, too. Maybe that’s what they talk about in the barbershop. And maybe that’s why Babbo — and Mama — are letting me take part in the strike … for now, at least.
Today, Clinton Hall reminded me of a beehive. People buzzed and chattered, flying here and there. Oh, and the speeches!
Clara Lemlich spoke this morning. She’s the one Sarah told me about, who helped start the strike. She’s not even twenty years old, yet she can speak to a large crowd and move people to tears.
My voice got hoarse from translating in a loud voice, and from cheering. At one point Clara cried, “If we stick together — and we are going to stick together — we will win!” The room burst into applause. With such spirit, how can we lose?
Sarah seems to be everywhere, encouraging girls and handing out assignments for the picket line. She and Clara Ruben plan to join the picket line soon, and Sarah wants me to join them.
“Angela, we must have an Italian girl and a Jewish girl walking side by side. We must!” Sarah cried.
I felt my heart lurch, and I didn’t answer. Going to the union hall and translating speeches is one thing. But walking the picket line … ?
Everyone knows the factory owners send rough men and women to harass and scare the strikers. They’ve been doing it all fall with the smaller factory strikes. I remember that Sarah told me Clara Lemlich was beaten. Others have been arrested and sent to jail, and even the workhouse.
No, I don’t think I’m brave enough for that.
Tuesday, November 30, 1909
Today one of the union ladies asked me to take a message to the girls picketing outside the Leiserson shop.
When I got there, the workers were walking peacefully up and down with their signs. But then several rough-looking men appeared. They began to abuse the girls, calling them bad names and telling them to go home. My face got red just listening to them. I kept expecting the policeman who was standing nearby to say something to stop them, but he did nothing. Nothing at all!
How can we win this strike when everyone is against us?
When I got home, Mama sent me to the bakery to get bread. I was glad for the chance to see Arturo again. He looked up with his warm smile.
“Angela, I heard you’re with the Jewish girls in this strike,” he said as I chose a nice large Sicilian loaf with a thick crust.
I sighed. “It seems there are no secrets on Elizabeth Street.”
“My sister Tina started work at the Triangle Waist Company a few weeks ago,” Arturo went on. “She still has her job there. Perhaps you could get one, too. I know your family depends on Luisa and you to put bread on the table.”
I mumbled, “Grazie,” took my bread, and left. I walked home slowly, hardly noticing the crowds around me. The bread felt heavy and leaden in my hands. All the excitement of the day seemed to drain away.
I’m so confused. One part of me knows that Arturo is right. He was just being kind to suggest that I work at the Triangle factory. Because no matter what Clara Lemlich and Sarah and all the union ladies say, the longer the strike continues, the harder it will be not to become a scab — to go back to work and break the strike. After all, even though Mama protested a tax back in Sicily, that was years ago. How patient will she be with this strike when the rent is due, and we need money for food?
Still, if I look into my heart, I know there is a part of me that would rather starve than give up this struggle.
Thursday, December 2, 1909
Today I heard a red-haired girl named Rose Schneiderman speak. Her words made me think again about that loaf of bread I carried home from Arturo’s bakery.
Rose said our struggle is not only about getting a loaf of bread. She said a union helps us realize that the hurt of one is the concern of all. If we have decent working conditions, then we can have other things in life, too. Like time to go to night school to improve our lives.
I’d never thought of it like that before. But I know Sarah believes this strongly. That’s why she was able to stand up and take action that day Clara hurt her hand — even if it meant risking her own job.
I wonder: Can I ever be as brave as that?
Speaking of being brave, we heard that a policeman hit one of the strikers yesterday. The union leaders say it’s because the owners have hired thugs, like those rough-looking men I saw, to break up the picket lines. Not only that, police officers have been bribed or “sugared” to support the cause of the owners. I guess that’s why the police officer I saw did nothing to help the strikers. This isn’t right! Police officers shouldn’t take money and hurt innocent girls.
Tomorrow there’ll be a march to city hall to complain about the police officers. Sarah wants me to go, but I must stay home to help Mama make flowers. After all, I have to make up for not working somehow.
It’s so cold now. Mama burned only three bushels of coal in the kitchen stove this week. That comes to seventy-five cents for cooking and heating both. If both Luisa and I were working, we could probably buy five bushels a week, enough to keep all our three rooms warmer. Mama has been keeping Teresa home from school to help her and Zi’ Maria make flowers during the day. I wish our apartment were warmer. Teresa gets colds so easily this time of year.
I took Vito asid
e tonight and asked him to try to find more wood and old packing boxes from the streets that Mama can burn in the stove.
“I will, Angela. But when are you going back to work?” he said.
“Soon,” I promised.
Vito said nothing. But his look made me cringe. I think he’s against the strike, too.
Sunday, December 5, 1909
Today I went to my first workers’ rally. I’ll never forget it!
First I walked to Sarah’s tenement building on Orchard Street. She was waiting for me outside, then we walked to the rally. By two o’clock, thousands of people were lined up. I heard one policeman say eight thousand people were there.
The speeches were so inspiring. My favorite was Publio Mazzella’s, who spoke in Italian. He urged us not to give up, and said the Italians should do more to organize. I felt proud to see an Italian onstage with the other leaders.
I also liked the speech by the Reverend Anna Shaw. She said, “You can’t strike a blow with one finger or two fingers, but when you want to strike you put all your fingers together, clench them hard and let them drive. That’s what the workers must do with themselves.”
I walked Sarah back to Orchard Street. All the good smells from the pushcarts tickled my nose and made my stomach growl. There were roasting chestnuts, steaming hot sweet potatoes, and warm, crusty bread.
I am hungry almost all the time now. Sarah is, too. She says she misses the food she loves: cabbage and gefilte fish. Those are Jewish foods I don’t eat, but I do love steaming sweet potatoes from a cart.
But after listening to the speeches today, Sarah says she doesn’t care about food anymore. “Angela, we must work harder and not give up trying to get better hours, more pay, and more rights. We are already starving, slaving away in these shops and factories. So this should be our new slogan: ‘We’d rather starve quickly than starve slowly.’”
Dear America: Hear My Sorrow Page 6
