When I opened my eyes early that morning, it was still dark out and the ceiling of my room was bathed in the yellow glow reflected by the street light. My body felt strange in that new place. I stretched, putting my forearms behind my head while I scanned the small attic room that I had rented. I liked it. The walls were covered with decorated paper, and the floors were of polished wood. It was a corner room with two windows; one of them looked out to Twelfth Street and the other towards Los Angeles Street. I had a view of the twin spires of the church from that window. I smiled, thinking of how different this room was from the cell that had almost become my world.
I felt nervous. Again there would be new faces, a new routine and a new way of working in my life. But my shakiness began to fade away when I told myself that if I worked hard, I would one day be able to find Ismael. There was something else besides this, though. I felt a desire, strong and new for me, to be able to trace out my own path in life, and to be able to choose what direction I would take.
When the eight-o’clock buzzer sounded at the factory, Ana and two other new women workers were in the locker room where they had been told to wait for the floor supervisor. Ana was wearing a skirt and blouse she had been issued in prison, and to cover these she wore a heavy apron. Instead of the heeled pump shoes, she was wearing loafers and socks for more comfort.
The three women waited, now and then saying a few words until the door finally opened and a medium-sized man with curly red hair appeared. “Morning! My name is Shelly Feurmann. I’m the floor supervisor. You ladies our new workers?”
The three women looked around as if asking who else could they be. The man seemed slightly embarrassed and he spoke rapidly, trying to patch over the silly question. “That is, of course, I know you’re our new people. Well…that is…just follow me. Wait a minute! I suppose none of you speaks English, right?”
The three women chimed in, “I do.”
Embarrassed again, the man ushered the women away from the lockers, down a wide corridor and through broad swinging doors. Ana’s eyes opened widely when she caught sight of an enormous room; it was as big as the prison auditorium. The place was lined from side to side with sewing machines, all operated by women. She looked up and was amazed at the heavy metal rods that crisscrossed, connecting vertically from the ceiling down to others horizontally built into the walls. There were so many that she thought she was looking at an aerial jigsaw puzzle used for supporting large bobbins of multicolored threads which intertwined like giant spider webs. Her ears began to hurt because of the roar generated by the commotion in the hall.
Each machine was a work station equipped with a table for single garment parts, and Ana saw that each aisle produced different pieces. One section made sleeves; the next collars; followed by napes and side panels. The women worked with their heads bent low, noses almost touching their deftly moving fingers as their hands worked swiftly, straightening thread and fabric, feeding them into a rapidly stitching needle.
Shelly Feurmann led the three newcomers to their work stations, but because of the noise, he could only point first to the woman and then to the vacant place she was supposed to occupy. Ana was the last one to be seated, and when she settled in, she looked at the machine, then at the piecework for which she was responsible. She thus began what would be a span of years working for Ezra Feurmann and Son, Inc.
The first months were difficult for Ana, mostly because she felt lonely, but also because she wrestled almost constantly with the desire to look for Ismael. Sometimes she scanned the phone book to find Octavio’s number and possibly his address, but then she remembered the judge’s words warning her, threatening her with a new jail sentence. Instead, she contacted city and county agencies, but the social workers only referred her from one office to another.
She liked going to work because she discovered that it distracted her. At first, she found herself trailing the more experienced operators. In time, she caught up with them, and, after a few months, she was among the most productive operators. This was when she began to notice that they all worked under harsh, unhealthy conditions; the work stations were cramped and lighting was inadequate, as was the ventilation. Breaks were not given, and by the time the lunch period came around, most of the women were exhausted. The same thing happened during the afternoon period. Ana began to think more and more of how they were all underpaid.
In the evenings when she returned to her room, she thought of how strange it was that none of them, including herself, ever complained. She remembered the women who picked tomatoes under the blistering sun in the Valley of the Yaqui River. She also recalled the girls like her who worked silently for the shoe manufacturer, getting pennies in return. What most gnawed at Ana was that no one ever said anything.
The day she blurted out the idea that they should go on strike, Ana caused a furor in the lunch room. Some of the women looked at her as if she were crazy, and others were shocked to hear the forbidden word so close. But most of them, though momentarily bewildered, responded with a smile and a nod of the head once they had regained their balance.
It took weeks for Ana’s idea to take hold with her fellow workers while they argued and debated during their lunch hour. After that, when the buzzer ending the lunch period sounded each day, the operators returned to their work stations thinking of one thing: strike. Ana realized that she had touched a nerve, and that even if no one ever spoke up, she knew now that those women were dissatisfied and ready to fight for a better way to make a living. Every lunch hour, and sometimes even after the five-o’clock buzzer ended the shift, most of the women got together to plan.
A few months passed, and when Ana’s fellow workers decided that they had a strategy, she was chosen to approach the owner with their petitions. Ana accepted and wasted no time in asking to see Mr. Ezra Fuermann that same day. He agreed to speak to her. When Ana walked into the office, she was feeling nervous, although she looked calm. The older Fuermann, sensing what her visit was all about, decided he would get the upper hand by going on the offensive.
“Now, Missy, I don’t want you to be scared.” He spoke, looking at Ana over silver-rimmed spectacles. He was a short, stocky man whose bald head was accentuated by tuffs of kinky hair that coiled out from around his ears. He was chewing on the stub of a cigar that wasn’t lit.
“Miss Calderón.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“I’m Miss Calderón, not Missy, and no, sir, I’m not scared.”
“Oh!…eh…I’m sorry, Miss Calderón.”
Ana had snatched the offensive from Mr. Fuermann while telling the truth. She was not afraid because she was there to speak up for her fellow workers. As she spoke, she stood erect in the middle of the office, which was cluttered with piles of paper, fabric remnants, newspapers, magazines and file cases with half-opened drawers jammed with crumpled documents.
“Sit down, won’t you?…Uh, Miss Calderón. There on that chair.” He signaled Ana over to the only chair that was not piled high with something or another. “I know that you’re here on a special mission, or something like it. Before you begin, however, I’d like to talk about you.” He paused as he gazed at Ana through squinting eyes. He was searching for a reaction, but there wasn’t any. “What I mean is that I’d like to offer you a new position, one that would get you away from the machines.”
Ana remained serene, as if she had not heard what he was saying. She returned his gaze frankly, steadily, and waited for him to finish what he was saying. She knew he was about to make an offer in an attempt to distract her from what she had come to say.
“See here, Miss Calderón,” Fuermann came directly to the point, “I’ve noticed how well you’ve caught on to working here. You’ve been able to manage not only one type of machine, but everything in the whole place. And the thing is that we’re having problems with some of the women who aren’t as fast as you are. Shelly tries, but he keeps bumping into brick walls. We thought of getting you to help us. What d’ya say?”
> She was silent as her mind processed what she had heard. After a few moments, she said, “Maybe you should first listen to what I have to say, Mr. Fuermann. You might change your mind about me.”
Ezra Fuermann frowned and reached into his vest pocket for a wooden match, doing it slowly, obviously playing for time to think. He finally pulled out the match and scraped it on the heel of his shoe. The hissing sound filled the silence of the room while he stared at the blue flame for a few seconds. After some minutes, he spoke, “Try me, Miss Calderón.”
Looking at him steadily, Ana began to cite the workers’ requests. “My companions are unhappy with the conditions here at the plant, Mr. Fuermann. They think…”
“Wait a minute! What’s wrong with the place? It has a lunch room, toilets…”
“I thought, Mr. Fuermann, that you were ready to listen, but I see…”
“All right! All right! I’m listening!”
“We have the things you’ve just mentioned but if you’ll take the time to see how cramped the space is around our stations you’ll see for yourself that it only causes greater fatigue, which means less production. That’s our first request, that you spread out the stations so that each employee can work with less strain.”
Ana stopped speaking and looked at Mr. Fuermann, who nodded, letting her know that he wanted to hear the rest of what she had to say. “The ventilation is poor and so is the lighting. We don’t get breaks in the morning period nor during the afternoon. Put all of these things together and you’ll see why we are unhappy.”
“Is that all?” Fuermann sounded testy.
“No, Mr. Fuermann, there’s still the most important part. Our pay is not adequate, and we’re asking for a raise.”
“What?…”
She went on speaking, ignoring his shock. “We understand that the improvements we’re asking for will take time, but if you can begin working on it, I know my companions will be happy. As far as the pay is concerned, we’re willing to sit down with you to discuss a plan to make the right adjustments.”
“And what if we don’t agree to your demands, Missy…er…Miss Calderón?” Ezra Fuermann wasn’t slouching in his chair anymore. He was sitting up, listening to Ana.
“Requests, Mr. Fuermann. Ours are just simple, reasonable requests, not demands.” She paused for a second. “And to answer your question as to what will happen if you don’t honor our petitions…well, there’s just one word: Strike!”
She spoke with such force and conviction that Fuermann sat up as if he had received a high-voltage shock. He stared unabashedly at Ana. He forgot all about the proposition he had been on the verge of making because he saw in her eyes, in the way she spoke, in the way her body moved, that she would not accept a few more dollars and a softer job in place of what she was asking.
“Oh, now look, Miss Calderón. No one wants a strike. I don’t want it. Shelly doesn’t want it. Everyone comes out a loser, and you know it.”
Ana looked into his tiny eyes without responding. She allowed minutes to pass and yet she remained silent. Fuermann looked at his watch, then out the window. Afterward, he even began tapping his fingers nervously on the desk. Yet nothing came out of her mouth. Ezra finally spoke. “Give us a few days to talk this over, Miss Calderón. It’s not going to be easy.”
After a few days, Ezra Fuermann called Ana into his office. “Miss Calderón, Shelly and I have agreed to sit down with you and whoever else to…”
Ana sensed his intention to stall and that he was not planning to negotiate, so she interrupted him. “No, Mr. Fuermann. We’ve waited long enough, and we want an answer by Friday. Otherwise we go home. We all have things to do around the house.”
Ana left the office quietly, but her hands were shaking. She was afraid that she had cut him off too suddenly, without giving him a chance to express what he and his son were willing to propose. It was done, however. Now, she and her fellow workers had to face the possibility of walking out on strike at the end of the week.
Ezra Fuermann called Ana back into his office at the end of the day. When word got around of the impending meeting, all the workers stayed on in the locker room after quitting time. Everyone wished her good luck and told her to be tough.
“Okay, Miss Calderón. Shelly and I are willing to follow your recommendations because, what the Hell, we were going to do practically the same things on our own.”
He paused, staring at Ana with his small, incisive eyes, but when he saw no reaction coming from her, he went on talking. “We got the building next to this one a few months ago, so now we can spread the stations out so they won’t be so cramped. We’re cranking on more electricity to give more light and putting in more windows for better air. We’ve got a new schedule that includes a morning and afternoon break. The money, well, that’s the hard part. We can only increase the pay gradually over the next few months. Anyway, we’ve decided to do it, so let’s see what happens.”
Fuermann spoke rapidly, gesturing with his stubby arm. He didn’t allow time for Ana to speak. Instead he waved towards the door as if dismissing her. When she turned to leave, he spoke up. “Wait a minute there, Miss! Where are you going?”
“I thought you were finished.” Ana looked puzzled.
“No, no. I’m not finished! I want you to do something for me. Listen, Miss Calderón. I want you to help Shelly out there on the floor. We’re expanding to the next building and that boy can’t be everywhere at the same time. So you’re the one. What d’ya say?”
When Ana returned to the locker room to speak to the other women, she closed the door behind her. The Fuermanns stood at the other end of the hall, craning their neck as they peeped around the corner to see what would happen. After a few minutes of silence, there was a loud burst of shouting, hooting, laughing, and applauding.
I worked as a floor supervisor with Shelly Fuermann for the next two years, and we became friends. I have to admit that I liked him because he was an easy-going person who enjoyed joking, and I could see that he felt good being with me. We had lunch together most days in his office when we chatted about movies or food or gossip we had heard. But I never talked about myself, even though I knew that he wanted to know what I was like when I was alone. Hardly a day passed when Shelly didn’t ask me questions that might give him a little information about what was inside of me.
One day as Shelly was peeling an orange, he blurted out, “I’ll bet you’ve read a lot of books, haven’t you, Ana?”
Ana was surprised at his question, and she looked at him quizzically. “Why do you ask?”
“Well, you seem to know a lot.”
“I guess I’ve read a few books.”
“Like which ones?’
“Mostly novels.”
“Which ones?”
“What’s in that orange that’s making you ask so many questions?” Ana had finished her lunch and was brushing crumbs from her lap as she spoke to Shelly. When he didn’t answer, she continued speaking. “There’s one by John Steinbeck that I really like.”
“Tell me about it.”
“Now? We’ve got to go back to work in a few minutes.”
“Come on, just a little bit.” The truth was that Shelly enjoyed hearing Ana speak; he loved the sound of her voice and the way she pronounced words.
“It’s about a couple of brothers and how one hates the other one because their father loves him more. It’s also about their mother, who leaves them to become first a prostitute, then the owner of a brothel. It all happens in Salinas.”
“Prostitution! Brothels! My, my, Miss Calderón! I thought you were a nice girl, and here you spend your time reading seedy novels.” Shelly teased her, hoping to get more talk out of her. He didn’t want her to leave, but she was packing her thermos and lunch bag. “What other novels can you tell me about, Ana?”
She had slid to the edge of her chair. With her elbows on the desk and cocking her head sideways, she looked at him inquisitively. “Such interest in novels all of a sudden. What’
s going on?” She smiled and said, “Well, there’s Anna Karenina. She was a rich woman with a boring, bossy husband. She fell in love with someone else, and for that she was punished by everyone: her husband, her friends, her relatives. He—the lover, that is—wasn’t blamed for anything.”
Shelly was staring at Ana, obviously weighing what to say next. Then he raised his arm and spoke in a melodramatic tone, “Ah, sex, sex, sex! It maketh the world goeth around.” He laughed out loud, seemingly enjoying what he considered a witty remark. When he noticed that she was not sharing the joke, he blurted out, “Ana, have you ever had sex?”
She stood up and made for the door, incensed by his question. As she put her hand on the doorknob, she hesitated, then turned to face him. “None of your damned business!”
“Ha! I love it! You’ve got guts! Ana, you’re great! Really! You’re right, it isn’t any of my business.” Shelly’s eyes were filled with admiration and affection for her. He thought she was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.
Before walking out, Ana narrowed her eyes as she looked at him, deciding what next to say. “If you’re wondering how a person like me ever had the time to read those novels, I’ll tell you. I read them while I was doing time in prison. Terminal Island.” She didn’t allow Shelly to speak because she abruptly left the room. She knew that ice water thrown in his face would not have shocked him as her words had done.
At lunch time next day, Ana joined Shelly because she didn’t want him to think she was upset with him. He seemed surprised to see her come into the office, but in a few moments he showed that he was happy that she had returned.
They ate their sandwiches almost in silence. At the end, Shelly said to her, “You know, Ana, I think you ought to go back to school.” When he saw her surprise, he went on. “No, really. I mean it. You’ve got something special.”
The Memories of Ana Calderón Page 18