For the Love of Mike (Molly Murphy Mysteries, #3)

He was still gazing at me with a hostile sneer. “What accent you speak with? Irish? And for why should I want to hire an Irish girl when most of my workers speak Yiddish?”


“Since we’re not allowed to talk when we’re working, what difference would it make?” I demanded, looking him straight in the eye. “And if you’re not hiring, just say so, and I’ll take myself elsewhere.” I turned to go.

“Wait,” he shouted. “I didn’t say we weren’t hiring. I can always use a good worker. Where have you worked before?”

I had decided it would be wise not to mention Mostel and Klein. “I’m just arrived from Ireland, sir. I worked for my auntie who ran a dressmaking business. We did everything—bride’s dresses, latest fashion, and always in a hurry. I’m used to hard work, sir.”

It was hard for me to address this obnoxious fellow as sir, but it obviously worked, because he nodded. “I’ll give you a trial. You’ll get five dollars a week if you do your quota. You bring your own needles and thread.”

I nodded. “I have them with me.”

He looked annoyed that he hadn’t had a chance to catch me out. “You pay us ten cents a week for the use of power.”

Power? I thought. Those pathetic gas brackets counted as power? I certainly couldn’t feel any form of heating.

“And five cents for the use of mirror and towel in the washroom.”

It struck me that I had heard that one before. Someone at Mostel’s had told me about it. I wondered if it was common practice in the garment sweatshops.

“The rules are simple,” he said. “Do your work on time and you get paid what you’re due. You don’t leave your seat without permission. You don’t talk. Obey the rules and you get your full paypacket. Got it?”

“Yes, sir.” I looked suitably humble.

“All right. Get to work then. What are you working on, Lanie?”

“Sleeves,” a voice from the middle of the room said.

“Start her on sleeves too then. What’s your name, girl?”

“Molly, sir.”

“Go and sit next to Lanie. She’ll show you how we do things around here. And the rest of you, get on with it. Mr. Lowenstein is not going to be happy if he comes in and finds you’re behind with this order. If those dresses aren’t ready to be shipped by Friday, I’m docking everyone a dollar’s pay. Understand me?” For the sake of those who didn’t, he repeated the whole thing in Yiddish. I then heard someone passing it along in Italian, then maybe Russian or Polish, with a gasp each time.

I squeezed my way between the rows of girls until I came to a plump girl with a magnificent head of dark hair, coiled around her face. She looked at me with big, sad eyes and a rather vacant expression.

“I’m Lanie,” she said. “Pleased to meet you, I’m sure.”

I squeezed myself onto the vacant chair beside her. The chair had a broken back and rickety legs. I hadn’t been told to remove my shawl and now I was glad to notice that most of the other girls wore theirs too. Some of them wore gloves with the fingers cut out. The atmosphere was decidedly damp and chill. From the depths of the room came the sound of coughing.

“You’ve worked a machine like this before?” Lanie asked over the noise of the treadles.

Luckily I had. It was identical to the ones at Mostel’s. I nodded.

“We’re doing sleeves,” she said, pointing at the huge stack of dark blue bombazine. “All you have to do is the side seam, then pass them on to Rose. She’s setting them in the bodice.”

I turned to the girl on my other side. She was petite with red curly hair and she gave me a bright smile. “Another redhead. Now I won’t feel so much like a freak.”

I smiled back. “We redheads must stick together.”

I started sewing. By the time the clock on the wall rolled around to lunch, my fingers were stiff and cold and my back was aching from sitting on the uneven chair with no support. A bell rang and chairs scraped as we got to our feet.

“Did you bring your lunch with you, Molly?” Rose asked as we joined the throng of girls making their way to the exit.

“Not today. I wanted to see what the other girls do.”

“As you can see, we all leave,” Rose said. “Nobody wants to be down here, breathing this rotten air, for a second longer than necessary. When it’s nice we eat our sandwiches in a churchyard—only don’t tell my father. He’s a rabbi. He’d die of shock to hear that his good Jewish daughter was hanging around a church.”

I laughed. “And when it’s not nice, like today?”

“Then we go to Samuel’s Deli on the corner over there. You can get a bowl of soup with matzoballs or liver dumplings for a nickel. It’s good and filling.”

We joined the line waiting to be served, then carried bowls of clear soup with what looked like three small dumplings in it to the counter that ran around the wall. It was already lined with girls standing and eating.

“Can you make room for two hungry people, Golda Weiss?” Rose said, shoving another girl in the back.