Touched by Fire (13 page)

She says, “It can’t be any worse than the questions they asked us in Hamburg or on Ellis Island.”

It’s still early. Storekeepers open their shutters, sweep their front steps, and display their wares temptingly on the sidewalk. Boys shine windows or shoes. They run errands or sell newspapers, before going to school. Yuri might have been one of them, if he hadn’t been so stubborn! We walk along Rivington Street, then East Houston, past many stores and cafés.

There are so many sights for me to write home about. No, not home. Home is where I live now. But to the rest of the family, who waits for news from me before they leave Berlin to join us.

Beckie points to a ten-storey skyscraper. “We’re almost there. That’s the Asch Building. The Triangle Waist Company is on the eighth, ninth, and tenth floors.”

“Yes, I can see the sign, Beckie. Look, Rosie, up there!”

“The building takes over the whole corner of Washington Place and Greene Street. See how it juts out, like the prow of a ship?” Beckie says.

Mama will be so surprised when I write her that I am working in a skyscraper – that is, if I am hired! I ask Beckie, “Who owns the factory?”

“Mr. Max Blanck and Mr. Isaac Harris own it. Mr. Harris roams the floors, making sure the work is done exactly the way he wants it. He designs many of the shirtwaists. In the busy season, we turn out twelve thousand shirtwaists or more in a week. Mr. Harris doesn’t talk to any of us machinists – I doubt he even knows our names. No girl would ever dare to speak to him first. We’re expected to keep our eyes on our work.”

“What exactly do the machinists sew, Beckie? Does each girl make a whole shirtwaist?” Rosie asks.

“Each machinist is responsible for a different part of the shirtwaist: the collar, cuffs, sleeves, bodices, buttons, and buttonholes. Then the pieces are taken up to the ninth floor by the floor girls, to be assembled. The tenth, the top floor, is the showroom. The pressing, packing, final inspection, and shipping are done there.”

“Tell us more about the bosses,” Rosie says.

“Mr. Blanck meets the customers on the top floor. He also walks round the other floors, making sure the exit doors are locked. He’s afraid we might smuggle a bit of lace
home. Once a girl hid a shirtwaist under her hair – can you imagine? Of course she was found out, fired, and blacklisted! We all have our pocketbooks searched before we go home. There’s a night watchman on each floor.”

Rosie and I look at each other. “That sounds awful, Beckie. I am not a thief – none of us are! Doesn’t he trust his workers?” I say.

“During the strike, I heard Mr. Blanck tried to pretend he was on the side of the workers. That’s a joke. I heard he invited the ones from the eighth and ninth floors who crossed the picket line to come to work, to listen to a phonograph at lunchtime. He set it up in a small space on the ninth floor, and there was dancing! He’d have done anything to get us to come back.”

“Were you glad to go back?” Rosie asks.

“I wish we’d held out for more than we got. But how long can a girl manage without a paycheck?” Beckie says.

“I’ve never earned a paycheck, but I can imagine,” I say, remembering how anxiously Mama used to count out the money for rent.

“You’d never think, to see them now, that Mr. Blanck and Mr. Harris came off the boat, just like we did. They’re from Russia and started off working in a tenement sweatshop. Look at them now, with their swanky homes and servants. Max Blanck comes to work in a chauffeured limousine. I’ve even seen him wear a diamond in his lapel. They own the
biggest shirtwaist factory in New York. People call them the Shirtwaist Kings.

“They hire their relatives for the top jobs. That’s natural, I guess. Mr. Samuel Bernstein, who’s in charge of the eighth and ninth floors, is Mr. Blanck’s brother-in-law. Mr. Harris’s sister, Eva, works here, and Mrs. Harris’s cousin, Mary, does typing and sometimes switchboard duty.”

“I hope there are some other Italian girls here,” Rosie says.

“You’ll be surprised how many Italian girls work here, Rosie. We all get along so well, laughing and joking when the bosses aren’t looking. Since the end of the strike, wages are better, and we work shorter hours. Mind you, the bosses still get up to their old tricks.”

“What do you mean, ‘tricks’?” I ask.

“Sometimes they stop the clock for a few minutes to get a bit more work out of us before closing time. Or they move the clock ahead, to squeeze a few minutes from our lunch break. One of these days, I’ll get myself a watch, so I can prove it. At least now we don’t have to pay for our own needles. Don’t be surprised, though, if the supervisor follows you into the washroom. She does that, to make sure you’re not wasting time. If we get sick, we don’t get paid. Not that much changed after the strike.”

I’m beginning to feel more and more nervous. Even Rosie’s looking worried.

“Beckie, I am not so good at sewing,” Rosie says, “not like you and Miriam. What should I tell the lady when she asks me what I can do?”

“You have hemmed a dress, mended a shawl, or sewn on a button, haven’t you?” Beckie asks her. Rosie nods a bit uncertainly. “So tell Anna Gullo, our foreman, that you do plain sewing. The machines do most of the work because they are all connected to one electric motor. All you have to do is to press the floor pedal and feed the cloth through the machine. It’s easy when you get used to it. I prefer it here to working in a department store. I know it means sitting for a long time, and you have to concentrate, but it’s a lot better than not being allowed to sit at all.”

Beckie gestures as she speaks, so that Rosie can follow what she is saying. We both practice our English as much as we can. And Papa says we should all speak only English at supper. I wonder how long he’ll keep that up!

“You’ll be fine,” Beckie says. “Let’s hope neither one of you has to work the buttonhole machine, on the ninth floor. It’s forever breaking down, and then the shirtwaists pile up and the foreman goes wild!”

“Another park,” I say.

“That’s Washington Square Park over there, with a white arch over the north entrance. We’ve no time to go in now, but one Sunday, or Saturday after work, we will. It’s a lovely place at any time of year. People are always out strolling,
and children can play away from the streets. We’re almost there now,” Beckie says.

“Is this where we go in?” I ask.

“No, this is the main entrance for the Triangle Waist Company, on the Washington Place side. It’s reserved for customers and the bosses, who use the two smaller passenger elevators to go up to the tenth floor. Our entrance is farther down, round the corner, here on Greene Street. We use one of two freight elevators. There’s room for up to fifteen workers at a time. You’ll always see a line waiting to go up. No one wants to be docked pay for being late,” Beckie explains.

As we arrive, some workers are already waiting. When we get on the elevator, Beckie introduces us to Joseph Zito, one of the two operators. There’s barely time to exchange remarks about the weather before we reach the eighth floor. I’ve never been on an elevator before, but I don’t say anything. I don’t want to be called a greenhorn. We step out and Beckie turns right, past a door which she says opens into the staircase leading both to the top floor and down to Greene Street. She points to a clock, which is set high in a wooden partition. Beside it is the single door through which the workers enter onto the work floor, or shop, as it is sometimes called.

“We are in plenty of time. This is where Mr. Wexler, the night watchman, stands. He can see right across the floor.
He rings the starting and quitting bells. At night, he checks our pocketbooks. On the ninth floor, the other night watchman does the same.

“We should go in now and see Miss Gullo.”

One by one, we pass through the narrow door and enter the shop. It feels bright and airy. Light streams in through the floor-to-ceiling windows. Beckie takes us into the dressing room, which has lockers and a full-length mirror. We hang up our things and smooth our hair. I don’t want to look windswept when I meet Miss Gullo.

Beckie says, “If either of you gets sent to work on the ninth floor, we’ll meet downstairs, outside the Greene Street elevators, at lunchtime.”

There are rows of long tables, at which cutters and their assistants are getting ready for the day. The table legs are boarded up from the floor to a few inches below the tabletops. They form a bin, into which scraps of leftover material are pushed out of the way by the cutters. Beckie says a rag dealer empties the bins when they are full.

Papa has told me that cutters are top men in the trade who get the highest wages because they are the most skilled. The cutters arrange the patterns, so that the least possible material is wasted as they cut into layers of fabric. Flimsy paper patterns dangle from wires strung over the tables, swaying like cutout dolls.

Beckie said there are forty cutters on this floor. I can
see them at five tables on one side of the shop, under the windows overlooking Greene Street, and two more on the Washington Place side. Tables with sewing machines fill the remainder of the room. How I hope that Rosie and I will soon join Beckie at one of them!

There is so much to look at. Lining the walls at intervals are red fire buckets filled with water. A few stand on shelves above some of the cutting tables. There are big signs saying
NO SMOKING
in Italian, English, and Yiddish. But I notice one of the cutters holding up his jacket to hide his cigarette!

We follow Beckie to a small desk that stands between two cutting tables and the dressing room. Two women greet us with a smile. One is seated.

“Good morning, girls. I am Anna Gullo, foreman for the ninth floor,” says the one standing, “and this is Dinah Lipschitz, our eighth-floor bookkeeper. She keeps account of everything that is produced on this floor.”

Miss Lipschitz writes down our names, and Miss Gullo asks Rosie what kind of sewing experience she has had.

“I can do plain sewing, miss,” Rosie says, confidently repeating Beckie’s instruction. She smiles. That smile will get her anything.

Miss Gullo tells her she’ll start her on the ninth floor as a hemmer.

When it’s my turn, I tell Miss Gullo that my father is a tailor and that I’ve been doing all kinds of sewing since I
was a little girl. She asks me if I made my blouse and looks closely at the stitching. I’m thrilled when she says she’ll try me out as a cuff setter, at Beckie’s table. This means I’ll be adding cuffs to shirtwaist sleeves.

We are both hired!

Miss Gullo says, “Mr. Bernstein will inform Miss Lipschitz at the end of the day what your wages will be. The working week is fifty-two hours, from 8:15 a.m. to 6:00 p.m. Monday to Friday, with a lunch break of forty-five minutes. The short day is on Saturday, from 9:00 a.m. to 4:45 p.m. Saturday is payday. There may also be work on Sundays. Rosina, I’ll take you up to the ninth floor now. Go and collect your things from the dressing room. Beckie, please show Miriam to your table. She will sit between Annie and Nettie.”

Rosie hurries back to the dressing room. She manages a quick wave to us before following Miss Gullo.

It’s wonderful and a bit frightening to think that, in just a few minutes, I have become a working girl in the biggest and most modern shirtwaist factory in New York. Maybe in the whole world!

A
supervisor shows me what to do. After she leaves, I introduce myself to the girls sitting on either side of me. They offer to help, if something goes wrong. I’m really nervous now.
Suppose I break the needle?
A girl, her hair covered by a kerchief, runs in. She takes her place, next to Beckie and directly across from me.

She gasps, breathless. “I thought I’d be late, Beckie. My mother isn’t feeling well, and I had to deliver some laundry for her. I only just made it in time.” The girl’s voice sounds familiar.
But where have I heard it before?
She stares at me, and shivers run up and down my back.

“You’ve gone as white as a sheet, Miriam. Don’t be afraid; you’ll be fine,” Beckie says.

Can it be true? Is it possible that Malka, the first friend I ever had, is sitting opposite me?
I wonder if she remembers how
we played in the shtetl. How we ran, hand in hand, away from the Cossacks. At school in Kiev, we sat next to each other. We were inseparable. Then one day she was gone, and no one knew where. If they did, they were afraid to tell me.
How can she be here?
We both begin speaking at exactly the same time.

“Malka Pinski, I can’t believe it, is it you?” I whisper, almost afraid to ask.

Malka says, “Miriam! Miriam Markowitz, are you a ghost? Beckie, pinch me, I’m dreaming. Ouch, no, I’m not.” We both stand up and push back our chairs, so we can run to each other.

At that moment, the bell goes. The power is switched on, and the machines begin to clack and clatter. Annie pulls me down. I sit, tense, terrified that I can’t do this. The machine is so much faster than the old treadle I’m used to. I concentrate on feeding the cloth smoothly under the needle. Gradually, I find a rhythm. My thoughts race faster than any machine. The noise around me is constant, loud, but I don’t mind. I like helping to make clothes for women all over the country to wear. Only, now, all my thoughts are with Malka. I am overwhelmed by the need to speak. I have so many things to ask her:
Did she know she was going to America? Does she still make dresses for her doll?
Of course not, we are the same age – fourteen! We put away our dolls
a long time ago. I don’t dare to look up from my work yet. The floor girl throws another pile of cuffs into the wicker basket at my feet.

At last, I feel confident enough to take my eyes off the machine for a second to smile at Malka. I want to ask her how she got here and how long ago she came to America.

Before I can get the words out, she mutters, “Bernstein’s coming.” Just in time, I smooth the cloth before it puckers. The manager stands and watches me work for a moment or two, before moving on. It’s hard to speak, but every now and then, we look up and smile at each other.