“Be happy that the boss has such a kind heart,” Katz announced as he poured in kerosene and got the stoves going. There was no room for them between the rows of girls so one stood at the doorway to the street and one at the doorway to Katz’s back room. Most of the girls felt no effect at all.
I was looking forward to the union meeting on Wednesday. I had written a list of grievances that I couldn’t wait to share with union organizers. Maybe with two of us, Rose and myself, we could light a fire under those girls at Lowenstein’s and get them to speak up for themselves.
Rose and I had a bowl of soup together at Samuel’s and then we made our way to Essex Street where we went down the steps into another basement. This one was quite different—brightly lit, warm, and filled with benches, most of them already occupied.
“Here’s Rose, at last,” one of the young women called as we stood hesitantly in the doorway. “I thought things had been too quiet until now.”
“Yes, and look what I’ve brought with me,” Rose said, dragging me inside. “A new warrior for our struggle. This is Miss Molly Murphy, come from Ireland.”
“Welcome, Molly. Sit yourself down.” A place in the back row was indicated for me. I sat and looked around the group. I was interested to see an equal number of men and women in the group—serious young men in worker’s garb, with dark beards and dark eyes. There were plenty of young women like ourselves, dressed humbly in shirtwaists and skirts with shawls around their shoulders, but one or two stood out, the cut and fabric of their dress announcing them to be not of the working class. What were they doing here?
Three men and two women sat at a table in front of us. The women were better dressed than the rest of us and one of them looked familiar. I stared, trying to place her. Had I seen her picture in a newspaper? She had dark and rather angular features, a long thin nose, and hair swept severely back from her face. She wore a black fitted coat, trimmed with astrakhan, and a neat little black velvet bonnet sat on the table beside her, decorated with a stunning black ostrich plume. Obviously not one of us, then.
“Right then, let’s get started.” A young man banged a gavel on the table. “For those of you who don’t know, I’m Jacob Singer of the United Hebrew Trades, and we’re here to help you form a ladies garment workers union.” He spoke with the slightest trace of a foreign accent. He was slim with a neatly trimmed beard and expressive dark eyes, framed with round wire-rimmed spectacles which gave him a boyish, owlish look.
A slim girl in black rose from my left. “We’ve had such a union for a year now, Mr. Singer.”
“Yes, I know that, Miss Horowitz, but it has only existed on paper, hasn’t it? It hasn’t sprung into action yet.” Jacob Singer smiled. His face had been so grave and earnest before that it came as a shock to see his eyes twinkling. It quite changed his appearance.
“No, but it will.” The girl thrust out her chin defiantly.
“I don’t doubt it, but first it needs members. How many members are on your books so far?”
“Twenty-five.” The girl’s voice was little more than a whisper.
There were some titters from around the room.
“So it would appear, ladies, that our first task is to grow your membership,” Jacob said.
“How do we do that?” Rose got to her feet. “How can we persuade girls to join us when they fear for their jobs? Where I work, at Lowenstein’s, we are treated worse than animals. We have no rights. There are constant abuses. But if a girl speaks up, she is dismissed. So all remain silent and the abuse goes on.”
Jacob nodded his head gravely. So did the others at the top table. “We can do nothing without solidarity,” another man at the top table said. He looked more like a student, with straggly beard and Russian worker’s cap on his head. “I represent the cloak-makers union, and we have had some small successes with strikes in the past. But only if we get one hundred percent participation. All for one, one for all. We cannot hurt them until we are united. If there is to be a walkout, then all must walk out.”
“If we walk out, then they just hire new girls,” Rose said.
“If the walkout is only at one shop,” the straggly young man agreed. “If all shops walk out at the same time, then they have a problem.”
“It will never happen,” a voice behind me said.
“We have to let them see that it can happen,” the slender young woman at the top table said. “Maybe there will have to be some sacrifices, but we must let the owners see that we are prepared to strike and lose our jobs if we want progress.”