“Let’s hear it for Rose! Rose is our champion!” someone shouted and the line of girls broke into applause.
Daylight came and with it a watery sun, making the sidewalks steam as the puddles evaporated.
“I prayed last night that it wouldn’t rain today,” Rose said, adjusting the shawl around her shoulders. “Maybe I should have prayed that the sun wouldn’t shine. Only in New York can November be as hot as summer if it pleases.”
We stood and stood. Passersby shouted out words of encouragement. Mr. Samuel from the deli came across with hot tea for everyone. Clocks across the city chimed out the hours. We drew quite a crowd of bystanders, some curious, some supportive, some mocking. Then around noon the crowd parted to let a long, elegant automobile through. Its hood was down and it was driven by a chauffeur in brown livery. It came to a halt and Mr. Lowenstein got out of the backseat. He came toward us cautiously.
“Girls, girls,” he said in a soft, gentle voice. “What foolishness is this? You risk your jobs because some socialist tells you to strike? These Hebrew Trades fellows—they don’t have your welfare at heart. They’re anarchists, every one of them. They want to bring down the economy, bring down the government. They don’t care about you.” He looked up and down the line. “I tell you what—I’m going to make you a most generous offer. Any girl who goes back to her machine right now, I’m not even going to take a note of her name, and I keep her on at full pay. The rest of you—out. Finished. On the street. Is that what you want?”
Rose dug me in the side again. I stepped forward hesitantly. “We want better conditions, Mr. Lowenstein. Fair conditions—enough heat in the winter, enough fresh air so we don’t get sick, enough light so we don’t go blind, and a foreman who doesn’t try to cheat us by winding back the clock. That is all we ask. We work as hard as we can for you. We want you to be fair.”
Lowenstein held up his hand. “All right. All right. I get better lighting put in, just as soon as electricity comes to this street.” He held up his hand to silence the angry mutter that rose from the line. “And any girl who goes back now—I give a dollar bonus.”
Several girls stirred on the line. Rose stepped out in front of them. “Not good enough, Mr. Lowenstein. We want six dollars a week, like the girls get at the other shops. And no more paying for the washroom towel and mirror, and no more being fined if we have to stand up to stretch our backs or we need to use the washroom.”
Lowenstein looked up and down the line. “You want six dollars, go to one of those other shops who pay this magnificent amount. You are trying my patience. All right, girls. Back to work now if you want your jobs and the bonus I promised you.”
One tiny, frail-looking girl stepped out of the line. “Please, Mr. Lowenstein, does that mean that we’ll all go back on full wages right now? No more half pay until the new line is ready? My sister and I are the only breadwinners and my mother is sick. We’ll starve if I don’t work.”
I saw that a new idea had occurred to Lowenstein. His brain was ticking: If he kept us out on strike for a few more days, he wouldn’t have to pay us a cent. “Full wages when there’s work to be done. I don’t pay girls to sit twiddling their thumbs,” he said. “I guess none of you want to be sensible and loyal. Fine with me. I’ll replace the lot of you.”
He spun around and stalked back to the car. The chauffeur leaped out to open the door. I noticed then the other occupants of the backseat. They sat together, very chummy, whispering and smiling. One of them was his daughter, Letitia, in her fur-trimmed bonnet. The other was a handsome young man. It took me a moment to place him. As the car drove away, spattering mud from the puddles on those who stood too close, I remembered who he was: He was Mr. Mostel’s son.
Twenty
Mostel’s son and Lowenstein’s daughter—did Papa Mostel know about this relationship, given his distrust of Lowenstein? I rather thought not. But Mr. Lowenstein obviously approved. I took this one stage further—here was an obvious connection between the two garment shops, an easy way to pass information. Mostel had told me that he took the designs home at night. How easy it would be for his son to copy them and hand them over to Lowenstein? So it was possible, but it didn’t make any sense. If Papa Mostel didn’t prosper, who would pay the fees to keep the son at his fancy university? And what son would be such a traitor to his father?
All the same, it was an interesting thought and my first real lead in the case. With all the momentous things that had just happened, I had all but forgotten that this had started with a simple case of stealing fashion designs. It might still be the one case I had the ability to bring to a conclusion.