“I just don’t want to sew. I don’t know how to tell you why. I want to do something else.”
“Nu?”
“I want to be a bookbinder.”
“A bookbinder? How did you come to this idea?”
“It seems more—I don’t know. I would rather have my hands on books than dresses.” I looked down at the floor, worrying that Rose would take my comment as an insult.
She stared with her blue eyes, as if she wanted to say something but changed her mind. “So how are you going to go about getting bookbinding work?”
“I saw a bindery over on Canal Street. I asked and they said they could only hire union.”
“Union?”
“You know, like the Bund.”
“I knew that,” Rose said, exasperated. “What I heard was that they sign up girls from inside the shop to be in the union, and then the unionists work with the non-unionists, try to get them to go over—”
“It’s like that in the box factory, only if they find out you’re union, they fire you. Last week they fired a boy who had one of those strike papers the unionists are always handing out on the street. That’s how they keep the wages so low.”
“So go somewhere else if you can’t go by the bookbinders. In sewing, almost none of the girls are in the union and we still make almost twice as much as you do. You don’t want to kill yourself for nothing.”
“I should kill myself for something?”
“Stop, Chava, you know what I mean.”
In May the boss, Samuels, said that because it was slow season, everybody would get 10 per cent less. What did that mean? we asked. A penny for every 110 boxes, he said. It was too much. We stood at our tables with our hands at our sides, clenching and unclenching our fists. Probably none of us was older than sixteen—some had to stand on wooden crates to reach, they were so little. Sadie looked at me. I took a deep breath and whispered, “Strike?” and she nodded yes. The whisper filled the room until we were all saying it in a soft voice, “Strike.” The boss’s eyes got wide.
“Strike! You’re just children, what can you know about strikes?” Samuels was snorting. It was a big joke; his cigar rolled around in his mouth. “Now get to work and I’ll forget I ever heard you use that word, you miserable offspring of cockroach lice. You should be ashamed of yourselves, foul language like that in your innocent mouths!”
We stood still. I never told Rose this, but the rats liked the taste of paste, and the boss did nothing to keep them from making tunnels in the waste cardboard on the floor. When I heard a rustling under our table, I moved towards the door. It was warm already and no one had a coat—in the box factory it was hotter than outdoors because of the sealed windows. From every table a leader was heading out and the rest followed. No one stayed. We were all out in front of the factory, looking at each other. Now what?
As we were massing on the sidewalk, a woman walked by. She stopped, stared at our group and asked what was going on.
“We’re on strike, lady,” I said.
Molly from Norfolk Street added, “We gotta get better conditions”—using English for the word “conditions.” Sadie linked arms with me and Molly.
“We’re not going back until the boss gives in,” Sadie said.
The woman looked us over carefully, seriously. She was dressed very nicely, like a picture you see in a newspaper, with a shiny blue jacket and wide-brimmed hat. “And what are these conditions that make you want to strike?”
Someone told her about the wages. I found a voice to speak about the rats. Samuels was out on the steps yelling that God would curse our souls and make our mothers grow beards. When he spotted the lady he turned around and went back in.
“I have a friend who would be very interested in this,” the woman said. “I’m going to telephone her.” Telephone! This woman must have been a very rich American lady if she knew how to use a telephone, even if she did speak to us in Yiddish. “You children stay here but you must walk in a circle on the sidewalk. It’s the law. Walk two by two. Can you do that?”
“Sure, you bet, lady, absolutely!” We all yelled.
“Good. I’m going to get you some help and maybe someone from a newspaper will come down. But remember to walk in a circle, stay on the sidewalk, don’t block the doorways—stay inside the law, all right?”
We walked with our heads high, like it was a parade. Some of the younger children probably thought it was a holiday. We made faces at each other, pulling our shoulders up to our ears and swinging our arms around.” Be serious!” a boy in a torn yellow shirt barked. “We have to look strong, like the strikers over on Delancey Street.”
Sadie pulled on her ear. “Do you really think this is going to work?” she asked me. I threw my hands up in the air and made a silly grin. Even the serious boy chuckled before rearranging his mouth to look intent. All of us seemed glad, at least, for the break in routine.
In about an hour, I recognized Lena from the boat, Lena Reznikoff, with a couple of young women behind her, striding towards us. She looked taller than I remembered; maybe it was the change of background from sea to city. The other women had signs under their arms. She passed out the signs: Strike! … Fair Wages, Fair Hours! … We Want the Union Shop! Some of the children didn’t know what a union was. The organizers were everywhere explaining, moving us along like mother geese.
Finally Lena saw me. She pursed her lips, frowned.
“Bialik,” I said and she nodded, remembering everything.
“So you’ve found a fight already?”
“You’re the one who appears to be out looking for fights.” I gestured to the sign she was carrying: An Eight-Hour Day. What a luxury that would be.
A man with a card in his derby showed up, a reporter for the
Call
, he said. Lena pushed me towards him and he started asking me about the factory, the boss. But before I could say much, the police showed up, three wagons of them, jumping off, waving their batons in the air. Samuels came out to the sidewalk and lit his cigar.
Most of the children scattered like the rats did when I kicked at the cardboard waste. “You have the right to strike!” Lena called after them. Only a dozen stayed behind, including Sadie. I told her I came over on the same boat as Lena and she seemed impressed that I knew an organizer.
“Now what?” I whispered to Lena. She squeezed my hand, staring at the boss.
Samuels was red with anger and triumph. The police glared at the remaining strikers.
“Those AFL mamzers are sending you women around to stir up trouble among children?” the boss yelled. “Who the hell do you think you are?” Drops of perspiration fell all over his face. “You tell those kids if they’re not back at work 6:30 tomorrow, I’ll replace them all with ones fresh from Ellis Island who’ll be glad to work for a penny every 120!” He stalked away. The reporter tipped his hat and left. A few policemen stuck around, keeping their eyes on us.
“You—,” Lena motioned to those of us who walked out—only girls, I noticed, “you want to try and keep the strike going?” Some of them couldn’t even look at her but everyone found some way to say yes. “Go find the others—tell them to be here tomorrow at 6:00
A.M.
to picket.”
“But we don’t have to be at work until 6:30,” Molly complained.
“The boss will bring the strikebreakers at 6:00, you’ll see. Chava, you come with me.” I looked at Sadie and made an effort to smile.
“Don’t worry,” Sadie yelled loud enough so anyone still listening could hear. “I’ll be here at 6:00
A.M.
!”
I walked up to Allen Street with the organizers. Lena paid for me to go on the El, because, she said, I was a striker now. A striker! I threw my shoulders back. I wished Mama could see me—maybe she wouldn’t have thought it was right for a girl to strike. No, I thought, Mama would be proud of me for not giving in. This definitely would have made Daniel happy. But the Petrovskys? Uncle Isadore wouldn’t like it. But what could he do to me? I wasn’t his daughter. He could make me leave though—no, not just for striking. He wouldn’t, would he?
As we rode along the tracks at the top of the tenement buildings I could look right into windows at women like Aunt Bina, scrubbing clothes on washboards, bent over big tin sinks, old rags tied around their hair. I wasn’t striking to prove anything to anybody, not Mama, not Uncle Isadore, not even Daniel, but for myself and for others like me. Is that what every person who went on strike learned? Still, I wished Daniel could know—maybe if I wrote Sarah and Esther, they would be able to pass the letter along. Sarah would have been proud of me, I knew.
We got off at First Street. “We work for the Women’s Trade Union League. You’ve heard of it?” Lena asked. I shook my head no. “Well, we want to organize women and girls like you into unions, then you can join the AFL. You know what the AFL is?”
I felt like a greenhorn all over again, but I didn’t want Lena to think I hadn’t learned anything in America. “Like the Bund?”
“A little, but not just Jewish. The American Federation of Labor is an organization of trade unions, for all the workers.” She knocked on a door. Inside there were four other women, some sitting at desks. She introduced me around, getting me to tell about Samuels’ Paperbox Manufacturing Company. The others clucked over me like my Aunt Shendl used to, except in English. I could tell most of them didn’t know from Yiddish. “Such a smart one!” one said, though I was beginning not to feel so smart if I was going to lose my job, and the other girls too. But when Lena asked me to sign a union pledge, I got my courage back. Belonging to a union meant to fight against tyranny—and wasn’t that what Samuels was, a tyrant?
“Yes,” Uncle Isadore said at dinner that night, “but a union also means there are many of you—how many others signed the pledges?” He wasn’t angry like I had expected, only scornful. Scornful I could deal with.
“I was the only one there, but tomorrow—.”
“Tomorrow,” Ephraim butted in, “the rest will go back to work and you can eat your pledge.”
“Tchish,” Aunt Bina gave them a sideways look, “don’t pay any attention to them. You did what you thought was right. You have no idea how hard Chava works for only a fraction of what you get—.” She gestured to Isadore and the boys. “Three dollars—remember? Your wages went up, not hers. And you can see she puts in as many hours as you.”
“Chava’s just a girl, what does she need?” Aaron forked another potato onto his plate.
“And what do you need? The wages of this family to send you to the City College in September—that’s what you need. Why do you think I take in trousers to finish? It’s not for the entertainment, I’ll tell you that!”
“Two firebrands we’ve got!” Isadore said with his mouth full.
Bina arched her eyebrow. He looked away. A flush rose and subsided in her cheeks as she turned back to me. “You don’t pay any attention to them, darling. You do what you think is right.”
“But what if they fire you?” Rose asked.
I shrugged. “Maybe I’ll have to learn how to sew after all.”
“That I’d like to see,” Rose slapped my shoulder lightly as she started to make ready Bina’s evening workspace.
The next morning, the headline in the
Call
read “The Children’s Strike!”
“We’ll show them how strong children can be!” Lena said. At 6:00
A.M.
, just as she predicted, carts full of new children showed up.
“Don’t scab!” we called to them. “You’re just going to be exploited in there! Watch out for the rats!” The police folded their arms and made a fence around the strikebreakers, so we couldn’t even get close. We kept walking in our circle. I was glad that Sadie walked beside me. It made picketing familiar in an odd way, as though we were still together at our work station.
At noon Samuels came out. “Well, I replaced a quarter of you this morning—and I got more learners on the way. How long does it take to teach somebody to put together a box? You, Fannia, how long did it take you?” The girl he singled out hung her head. “I’m giving you children one more chance. If you want your job, come back inside when the second whistle blows for the end of lunch.”
“On what terms?” Lena called out.
“You’re still here? I’m a fair man. They can come back when the whistle blows for what they were getting yesterday, a penny for every 110 boxes.”
Lena’s jaw was tight. “And the hours?”
“The same. You think I’m in business for charity? You go back uptown, give piano lessons at a settlement house, don’t bother my workers no more!” He glanced over at me. “You, you think your socialist friend knows how to show you to be an American better than me? Let her show you what to do now. You’re fired, just like an American!”
“You can’t fire her for picketing!”
“I’m firing her because she’s a disruptive worker and it’s my factory!” He spat and missed Lena’s shoes by an inch. Then he stalked back in.
The girls were whispering together, even Molly and Sadie. Lena told them they had to be united but they shook their heads. Sadie turned to me, and I saw the dark circles under her brown eyes.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “It’s a rotten job but my mother—”
“Go on,” I said. “It’s all right. I wanted an excuse to look for another job anyway. Maybe I’ll see you at the soda fountain.” She clasped my hand. When the second whistle blew, she went back in with the rest of the girls. I stared at the gob of spit on the sidewalk.
“All right, so this one we didn’t win.” Lena put her knuckles under my chin and lifted my face. “You know there are better jobs you can do, don’t you?”
“I don’t sew.”
“You don’t sew! A Jewish girl who doesn’t sew, will miracles never cease! And I was hoping you’d become another Vera Pavlovna.”
I wanted Lena to take me seriously and now she was talking in riddles. She knew I didn’t have her education. “Who’s Vera Pavlovna?”
“The heroine in Chernyshevsky’s
What Is to Be Done?
You never read it?”
“No, I heard of it, I think.”
“Read it if you can. It was an inspiration to us in Vilna. Vera Pavlovna starts a sewing cooperative that the workers own. They look after each other.”
“That sounds like what my brother Daniel used to talk about.”