Sixteen

Knowing that a young man was interested in me certainly added spice to my life. And such a fascinating young man too. We had talked all the way home, touching on every subject under the sun. Daniel and I had been comfortable with each other, but we had never really discussed deep matters. Jacob and I thrashed out religion and royalty and socialism and communism and even birth control. I was amazed that I could talk about such things with a man. I had pretty much taken life for granted until I left Ireland. I knew that conditions were unfair and that the Irish were treated poorly in their own country, but I had considered those who fought for change to be rabble-rousers and hotheads, spoiling for a fight. In Jacob I saw someone who cared passionately and believed he could make a difference in the world. When he told me some of the things he had done as a member of the Bund in Russia, I was amazed. He couldn’t have been more than seventeen at the time, but he had risked his life almost daily.

After we parted, I went to my room and stood at the window, watching him walk away. “Now that is truly a fine fellow,” I said out loud. He wouldn’t forget to mention that he was engaged to another girl or lack the courage to break off an engagement to a girl he didn’t love. Thinking of Daniel reminded me that I had to write a note to him, purely professional, of course. I took out pen, ink, and blotter and started to write. I asked him for any details of Katherine’s death that he could find—the point at which she was taken from the river, estimate of how long she had been in the water, where she might have entered, description of what she was wearing, any dressmaker’s labels on the clothes to indicate where they were made, any jewelry, any sign of foul play—bruises, wounds, etc. I almost signed it, “Yours, Molly,” until I remembered that I was not his and most probably would never be his. But the thought was no longer as painful. In fact I felt a great lifting of the spirit, as if I had awakened after a long hibernation.

I sent the message to the Mulberry Street police station with Shamey and waited for a reply, knowing it might not be until Monday, if Daniel had his weekend free. The moment I thought about Daniel’s weekends, scenes flashed through my mind—Daniel and me strolling by the lake in Central Park, eating ice cream at a soda fountain, Daniel kissing me under the leafy boughs of the Ramble in the park. I knew then that I wouldn’t get over him so easily, however diverting the fascinating Mr. Singer might be.

As it happened, Daniel didn’t have the weekend off. That evening a note was delivered by a uniformed constable.

I’m writing this at work, so forgive the terse tone of this message.

The young woman you think may be Katherine was pulled from the river below the Brooklyn Bridge. She was spotted from the deck of a docked cargo ship. Since she was in midstream, it is unclear where she fell in. She may have jumped from the bridge, which has become a popular suicide site. Her clothing is recorded as a print muslin dress. No mention of dressmakers labels, laundry marks, etc. No mention of any jewelry (and that would include wedding ring—hence the motive for suicide?). Also no suggestion of foul play.

I’m sorry I can’t help you more. I trust that your reason for wanting these facts is to satisfy the curiosity of her family, and that you do not entertain any absurd notion of investigating her death. I need hardly warn you that you have had several lucky escapes recently. Do not test the fates again.

Daniel

His lack of information gave me nothing to investigate, I thought angrily as I reread the note. To be truthful, I hadn’t expected any jewelry, but she was married, or pretending to be, so the lack of ring was strange—unless someone had removed it along with any other means of identification. Of course, it could have slipped off a cold, dead finger in the icy East River, and I didn’t think that the New York police would be above even pocketing a wedding ring. But I had been hopeful that an observant policeman might have noticed an unusual label on her clothing or something that didn’t fit the picture. Even if she chose to dress simply, her underwear would still be top-quality English, maybe even from Paris. Ah well, it was too late to do anything about that now. The poor girl was dead and buried. I just wished there had been some proof that this was Katherine Faversham. How awful it would be for her parents, never quite knowing what had happened to her. In spite of Daniel’s warning, I hoped that Nell would come up with some small fact that could start us on the road to filling in the pieces of this puzzle.

Monday was another rainy day that found us garment workers huddled together, wet and steaming in the warmth of Samuel’s Deli at lunchtime. Rose took the opportunity of speaking to the girls about the union and the plans for a walkout.

“So who’s going to feed my kids while I’m on a picket line?” one of the older women demanded. “And who is going to tell my Leon when I get the boot?”

“But nobody should be treated the way we are,” I said, joining Rose. “You can’t like working in such conditions.”

“Of course we don’t like it, but we have no choice if we want to feed our families,” the woman snapped.

“We have to make them sit up and notice that we have power,” Rose said.

“Power, schmower,” the woman muttered. “My mother’s canary has more power than we do, and it lives in a cage.”

“But don’t you see,” Rose insisted, “if our timing is right, then we do have power. You know how Mr. Lowenstein likes to get his clothes into the store before his rivals. If we walked out on the very day that he wanted us to get busy on the new line, I believe he’d listen to us.”

“She may have a point, Fanny,” another girl said. “If he’s not first in the stores, who would want his shoddy clothing? You know how he skimps on the fabric and it’s the cheapest quality too.”

“It might be worth a try, Rose. Tell us what we have to do.”

Suddenly the girls were all around her. “You tell us when, Rose. You give the word. We’ll show him we’re not made soft like butter.”

It was very exciting. I found myself swept up in their enthusiasm.

“Not a word until he hands us the new designs, eh? We don’t want him getting a whiff of what we’ve planned for him,” I cautioned.

On the way back across the street Rose joined me. “What do you think, Molly? Isn’t it wonderful? They’re all with us. We might even get them to cough up the money for union dues.”

“I just hope one of them isn’t a traitor,” I whispered.

“There’s not much we can do about it, is there?” Rose glanced around at the girls hurrying back through the rain, their shawls over their heads. “We can’t sit back and do nothing, in case we might be betrayed.”

As we crossed the street, a fancy carriage clattered away, drawn by a fine matched pair of black horses.

“That looks like old Lowenstein,” Rose said. “Trust him to pay a visit when none of us are there. He probably feels too guilty when he sees what we have to go through for him. But we’ll show him, won’t we, Molly!”

We came into the workroom, shaking the raindrops from our shawls.

“Careful of getting drops on that fabric!” Mr. Katz yelled.

“Yeah, it might melt if it gets wet,” Rose commented and got a laugh.

“That will cost you, Rose Levy,” Katz said. “You would do well to remember where you are and who is in charge.”

“As if I could ever forget where I am,” Rose said. “I’m certainly not in our nice big living room back home in Poland with the porcelain stove in the corner and the grand piano.”

“Then go back, if you don’t like it here,” Katz said. “In fact, maybe you’ll like to be one of my first volunteers.”

“Volunteers to do what?”

“Mr. Lowenstein was just here,” Katz said. “He’s got some bad news.”

“They didn’t have the right brand of caviar for his lunch today,” Rose whispered to me.

“The new designs won’t be ready as soon as he expected and you girls have worked so well that the orders are up to date. So there’s nothing much to do until we start work on the new line—maybe next week, who knows. Until then it’s half time for everybody. Come in at seven, home at noon. He’ll pay you two dollars a week, which is very generous when there’s not enough work.”

“Very generous!” one of the girl blurted out. “Does he pay us extra when there’s too much work and you keep rushing us to get it finished?”

“You can’t put everyone on half time,” Rose said. “These girls have families who rely on their wages.”

“Like I said, Rose Levy, you could volunteer,” Katz said, giving her his sneering grin. “Half the girls could volunteer to stay home until the new work comes, and then the other half would get full wages. It’s up to you how you handle it.”

“I tell you how we handle it,” Rose said, sticking out her chin and putting her hands on her hips as she faced him. “We don’t accept his measly offer. We walk out. We shut down this crummy sweatshop and we keep it shut until Mr. Lowenstein listens to us and treats us like human beings. Come on, everyone. Get your things. We’re leaving now.”

It was fantastic. Every girl followed Rose to the door.

“If you go, don’t think you’ll be coming back,” Katz screamed. “We’ll get new girls to replace you.”

Rose turned and looked back at him. “Even if you can get them to cross our picket line, do you think you can train them in time for the new line and the rush job? We’re going to show you who has power around here. In the end you’re going to wish you were nicer to us.”

Then she turned again and ran up the flight of steps, out to the street. We all followed her.

“Come on, everyone, let’s go to Samuel’s to plan,” she said.

We crossed the street to the deli.

“I thought we weren’t going to walk out until he got the new designs,” Golda said. “Are you sure we’re doing the right thing?”

“I know it’s taking a big gamble,” Rose said, “but he was going to put us all on half time anyway. Lowenstein won’t want to pay any scabs to work this week because there is no work and our picket line is going to keep new girls away. We must all show up tomorrow prepared to stand our ground around the shop and not let anyone inside.”

“How can we do that?” a small, frail-looking girl asked. “Look at us. If Katz tried to knock us out of his way, he could.”

“Then we need reinforcements,” Rose said. “Let’s go to the United Hebrew Trades and see if they can get us some male volunteers to help our cause.”

“Good idea,” I said. “I’m sure that Jacob will want to help.”

“Jacob?” she asked. “You mean Mr. Singer?”

I blushed. “Yes, Mr. Singer,” I said.

She looked at me curiously. “And how come you’re on first-name terms with Mr. Singer when you only met him last week?”

“He’s a friend of my friends,” I said and hoped she wouldn’t push me further.

Someone was sent to Jacob’s house, and soon the word got around so that the Hebrew Trades headquarters on Essex Street was jam-packed when we met there later that day.

“They did it. The girls walked out of Lowenstein’s.” The word went around quickly. Jacob arrived, so did some of the other men I had met the previous Wednesday night.

“Where is Miss Blankenship? She’d want to be here,” someone suggested.

“Should someone take a cab to fetch her?” I asked.

Heads turned in my direction.

“Take a cab? Listen to Miss Rockerfeller here,” the girl beside me said, rolling her eyes. “And where should you find the money for a cab? Not in this week’s pay packet.”

“I only meant because it’s so important and she’d want to be here,” I said quickly. “And she has money to pay for cabs, doesn’t she?”

“She has a telephone at her house,” Jacob said. “The University Settlement a couple of blocks away has a telephone that they let us use. Do you know how to use a phone, Molly?”

“No, but I expect they’ll show me.”

He took out a matchbook and scribbled on the back. “Here is her number. You turn the handle and when the operator comes on the line, you ask for the number. Got it?”

“I think so.” I shoved the matchbook into my pocket.

“And I usually give them a dime for the privilege,” Jacob said, fishing in his pocket and handing me a coin.

I ran up the stairs from the basement, my heart beating fast. I was so annoyed at myself for making that slip. Of course these girls would never have taken a cab in their lives. Paddy Riley would never have slipped out of character so easily.

I reached the austere building of the University Settlement and went inside. It reminded me of the time I had lived in the hostel run by a bible society. Strict and cold. Not the kind of place you’d want to stay longer than necessary. A distinguished-looking woman took me into a cluttered little office and pointed at the telephone on the wall. “Do you know how to use this contraption?”

“I’ll manage, thank you.”

She stood behind me, her hands on her hips, watching. It was with some trepidation that I cranked the handle and then heard a voice in my ear. “Number please?” I gave it to her and almost immediately a voice answered. “Miss Blankenship’s residence.”

“Is Miss Blankenship at home, please?”

“I’m afraid she’s not. This is her maid speaking.” A slow voice with an unfamiliar drawl to it.

“When are you expecting her back?”

“We was expectin’ her back by now. Would you care to leave a message for her?”

I dictated my message, suggesting that she might want to join us as soon as possible. When I returned to the headquarters, fifty picketers had been assigned to the morning shift, with the rest ready and waiting to take the places of those who felt faint from standing too long. The meeting concluded in great high spirits but Nell Blankenship didn’t put in an appearance.