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.”