Where We Belong

by Lynn Austin

  Rebecca gestured helplessly. “I don’t know.” She was as upset by what she was seeing as Flora was, but what could she do? What had begun as a chance to explore new places had turned into something quite different.

  They continued down the street to the factory at the end of the block. A large hand-printed sign beside the open door read, Now Hiring. The noon whistle sounded inside, and workers spewed from the fire escape doors on the second floor for their lunch break. A dozen girls no more than eight or ten years old emerged first, clambering down the wooden fire escape with their newspaper-wrapped lunches. All of them were barefooted. The women and teenaged girls perched on the steps and rickety landings to eat theirs. Flora hurried over with the rest of the apples and passed them around to the girls. “Do you work in that factory?” she asked in astonishment.

  “We’re making uniforms for the soldiers,” one of the youngest replied. She seemed excited and proud, as if she was helping to win the war at just eight years old.

  “There’s lots of jobs because of the war,” another said. “I make four dollars a week!”

  “Four—!” Tears filled Flora’s eyes as she turned to Rebecca. “They’re exploiting these children, Becky. Surely they can pay their workers more than that, considering the demand for uniforms.”

  “You’re right. It’s outrageous.”

  Between the two of them, Rebecca and Flora emptied their change purses, buying fruit for everyone until the apple cart was empty. Children trailed behind Flora as if she were a queen and they were her handmaidens. Flora was still wiping her tears as they returned to Rufus and the waiting carriage. “I’m so embarrassed when I remember how much money I just spent on a new summer gown,” she sniffed on the way home. “Did you notice they were all barefooted? My new shoes, which I didn’t even need, cost more than those little girls make in a month!”

  Rebecca didn’t reply. She was very glad to have her sister back, yet at the same time, visiting that neighborhood had revealed a side of herself that Rebecca didn’t like at all. Her desire to explore and collect exotic experiences simply for the novelty of it seemed as wrong as Flora’s desire to collect wardrobes full of clothes. How dare she gawk at others’ misfortune in order to entertain herself? If she was going to spend time and money pursuing her love of travel, there should be more to her adventures than novelty and an escape from boredom. Flora’s question continued to haunt her. “Isn’t there anything we can do to help?” She needed to think of something.

  She found Flora waiting for Mrs. Worthington in the downstairs sitting room later that afternoon, looking dejected. “I can’t stop thinking about everything we saw today,” Flora said as Rebecca sat down beside her.

  “I know. Me either. . . . I wanted to explore, but it seems selfish to me now. It’s wrong to just gawk at new things, then walk away without even trying to make a difference. We gave those children free apples, but who will feed them tomorrow?”

  “What do you suppose it’s like for those little girls to work in that factory?” Flora asked.

  Rebecca shrugged. “The factory must have a government contract to make army uniforms, so the owners are probably making a good profit. Shouldn’t at least some of those profits go to the workers? I don’t think four dollars is a fair wage for a week’s work, do you?”

  “No. And those little girls shouldn’t have to work at all! What do you suppose they do inside there all day?”

  An idea struck Rebecca like a smack on the head. “I think I know how we can find out.” Flora looked at her, waiting. “We can apply for jobs there ourselves.”

  “You can’t be serious. Why would we do that? We don’t need the money. Besides, we’re older than those girls were.”

  “True, but I saw some girls our age eating their lunches on the fire escape. We could dress in old clothes and see if they’ll hire us. That way, we’ll get a good look inside.”

  “And then what?”

  Rebecca scrambled to think. “Well . . . once we see what’s going on, maybe we can figure out how to change things. Father can help us. He knows a lot of important people here in Chicago. Think what a difference it would make to those families if the parents could earn a decent wage and the children could go to school.”

  “Do you think we dare?”

  “Would you rather look the other way?”

  Flora shook her head, her tendrils dancing. “No. I can’t look the other way. Jesus told His followers to be compassionate. He said if we’ve been given much, then much will be required of us. But . . .” Her voice hushed. “But do you think Father will be upset when he finds out?”

  “No. I think he’ll be proud of us. Let’s go back there tomorrow.”

  “I don’t know, Becky. Mrs. Worthington has our week all scheduled with social calls and—”

  “We’ll tell her we’re sick or that we need a week’s vacation or that we have something more important to do—which we do. She won’t like it, but that’s too bad. She’s ruined our lives enough, already.”

  “That’s not fair, Becky. She’s only trying to help us.”

  “And now it’s time for us to help someone else. Are you with me or not?”

  “You wouldn’t go back there by yourself, would you?”

  Rebecca thought for a moment. “I would. But I’d much rather go with you.”

  “Well, if you really think we should . . .”

  “I do.”

  Mrs. Worthington could barely mask her displeasure when Rebecca and Flora told her they wouldn’t be making social visits or receiving callers for the rest of the week. She had arrived with their new calling cards, fresh from the printer, and her cheeks turned from pink to red as she stood in their foyer struggling to control her temper and remain ladylike. “Why in the world not?” she asked.

  “There’s something more important we need to do,” Flora said. She didn’t elaborate. Rebecca grinned at her sister for showing more gumption than she had in a long time.

  “But you have social obligations. This simply isn’t done!” The widow couldn’t have been more outraged than if they’d told her they were joining the Confederate Army. Rebecca suppressed a smile, knowing she would faint with horror if she knew the truth. “Does your father know about your plans?”

  “We’ll be sure to tell him,” Rebecca replied. After the experiment is over, she added to herself.

  “But . . . how shall I explain your unusual absence?” Widow Worthington addressed the question to Flora, aware that she could be pressured more easily to spill the details.

  “I don’t think it’s anyone’s business but ours,” she replied. “If someone wants to know more, she’s simply being nosy.” Rebecca wanted to cheer. Flora suddenly seemed to catch herself and added, “If you please, Mrs. Worthington.”

  They designed their disguises that evening after supper. That’s what Flora called them—disguises. Rebecca liked the intriguing sound of it. They found skirts and shirtwaists they hadn’t worn for several years and attacked them with scissors, cutting and ripping and unraveling them until they looked as ragged as the ones the street children had worn. “They still don’t look quite right,” Rebecca decided, so they carried them out to the carriage house and dragged them across the floor until they were filthy. Rufus watched in astonishment. Rebecca stopped in the kitchen on their way upstairs again and asked the cook for a dollop of lard. Maria-Elena looked as mystified as Rufus had. “We’ll rub it through our hair tomorrow morning,” Rebecca told her sister, “so it looks greasy and unwashed.” She fell asleep that night feeling more excited than she had in a long time.

  After eating breakfast with their father as usual the next morning, they hurried upstairs to put on their disguises. “Isn’t this fun?” Rebecca asked as she combed lard through her hair.

  Flora made a face. “No, it’s rather disgusting. But I’m trusting that it will be worthwhile in the end.” Rebecca felt like a fraud when she looked at herself in the mirror. But she often felt that way when she saw herself al
l dolled up in the widow’s finery, too. Neither image was the real Rebecca. But what was?

  Rufus’ eyes grew very wide when he returned from driving Father to work and saw them waiting for him in the carriage house. “What’re you two misses up to now? Your father know about this? For sure Mrs. Worthington don’t want to see you looking like that!”

  “We’re going back to the neighborhood where you took us yesterday,” Rebecca said, “but this time we want to blend in.”

  “That you do for certain, miss. But I don’t think—”

  “We’ll be fine, Rufus. We promise.”

  He stared at them for so long that Rebecca wondered if they would have to take public transportation. But he finally sighed and reached to help Flora into the carriage, mumbling, “I just hope I ain’t in trouble right along with you.” He drove them to the same place they’d gone yesterday and parked the carriage. The rotting horse still lay in the street, smelling even fouler after another day beneath the summer sun.

  “If we’re not back in an hour, Rufus, you can go home and—”

  “I ain’t leaving you young misses here unless your father say so!”

  Rebecca didn’t know what to do. She had no idea if their disguises would work or if the factory would even hire them. “Wait here for us, then,” she said. “We’ll be back.”

  The scene on the street looked unchanged from the day before. No one seemed to recognize them as the fine ladies who had given away apples a day earlier. They walked the length of the block to the drab factory and stepped through the open door. The pungent odor of tanned hides and the loud clamor of machinery assaulted them from the leather factory on the main floor. Flora clapped her hands over her ears as they climbed the narrow wooden stairs to the uniform factory on the second floor. “How can people stand to work here?” she asked, nearly shouting.

  At the top of the steps, bolts of dark blue wool for Union Army uniforms lay stacked in the hallway, on the stairs, and in every available space inside the doorway. The summer heat and humidity remained trapped inside the factory, the breeze unable to find its way through the open windows since the factory was surrounded by other factories and tenements packed closely together. Row after row of tables for the seamstresses filled the majority of the factory floor, the young women never looking up as they sewed nonstop on their chugging machines. A balding man with a walrus mustache sat at a desk directly in front of them, smoking a pungent cigar. He looked up from his ledgers and piles of paperwork when he saw them. “What can I do for you girls?”

  “We wanna work.” Rebecca said. She had advised Flora not to give themselves away by speaking properly. “Heard you’re hiring.”

  “Can you operate a sewing machine?” he asked.

  “We can learn.”

  He smirked and shook his head. “Forget it. I don’t have time to teach you. You’re too old to snip threads,” he said, pointing his cigar at Rebecca. “But you aren’t.” He pointed it at Flora, who was tiny and petite at age sixteen and could pass for a twelve-year-old in her disguise. “Job is yours, if you want it.”

  “Is there another job that I could do?” Rebecca asked.

  He stroked his walrus mustache and gave the factory floor a piercing glance, a cat on the lookout for wayward mice. “You don’t look strong enough to cut through several layers of wool,” he said, gesturing to the cutting table. “Or handle a steam iron. Try the leather factory downstairs.”

  “But I’m very strong, and I can carry things—like she’s doing.” Rebecca pointed to a young girl, scurrying between the tables with armloads of garments. The boss looked Rebecca up and down, and for a moment she feared he had seen through her disguise and could tell she was seventeen years old.

  “You do look well-fed,” he finally said, opening one of his ledger books. “Tell you what. I’ll give you a try and see how you do. Names?”

  “I’m Becky and she’s Flora. Last name is Hawes.”

  He scribbled in his book, then said, “Work starts at seven o’clock tomorrow morning. If you’re late it comes out of your pay, which is four dollars a week—minus any money we take out if you snip the cloth and ruin it,” he said, pointing to Flora. “Bring your lunch. Workday ends at six fifteen.”

  “That’s a very long day!” Flora said as they filed down the creaking stairs again. “How do those little girls do it? Did you see them working around that big table? They didn’t even have chairs to sit on!”

  “I guess we’ll find out what it’s like when we start work tomorrow.” Rebecca knew it was ridiculous to feel elated about working in such a place and for such a pittance, but she couldn’t stop smiling at the prospect of a new quest. Suddenly her sister halted, and Rebecca nearly toppled into her. “What’s wrong?”

  “We must be insane for doing this.” Flora looked frightened. Rebecca waited, hoping she wouldn’t change her mind, but then Flora seemed to steel herself. “Even so, I’m going to do it, Becky. The Almighty has given us so much, and I have to try to make a difference.”

  Rebecca smiled all the way home. Their disguises had fooled the foreman. She thought she understood the guilty delight a criminal must feel, the rush of energy and thrill of excitement at getting away with something. Imagine! Wealthy debutantes Rebecca and Flora Hawes were going to work in a uniform factory.

  So far, it had been easy. But Rebecca found out the next morning that the most difficult step in her scheme was convincing Rufus to drop them off in the run-down part of town before seven o’clock and return for them at six fifteen that evening. He pulled off his hat when she told him and scratched his grizzled head. “I watched you gals grow up, always keeping an eye on you, and I know that ain’t no place for you little misses. No, sir. This just ain’t right at all.”

  Rebecca tried explaining what they intended to do, and why. “We want to help those little girls, Rufus. Change things for them. You saw how they lived. If we were older, we could accomplish that in a different way, but we’re too young. Going inside the factory for a firsthand look is the only way we can report on the working conditions. Please help us. We don’t want to be useless rich girls all our lives.”

  Rufus continued to shake his head, blowing out huffs of air, like one of his snorting horses. After much persuasion, he finally relented. “I’ll take you. But anything happens to you, I’ll never forgive myself.”

  “Nothing will happen to us.”

  Rebecca could tell how nervous Flora was as they drove there. She didn’t say a word the entire way, and she shifted on the seat as if the seamstress had left a dozen straight pins in her gown. They ordered Rufus to halt on a side street, a block from the factory, and they joined the stream of workers, mostly women and young girls, climbing the narrow, enclosed staircase to the second floor. The man with the walrus mustache was waiting for them beside his desk. “So. You came back,” he said with a grunt. “Wasn’t sure you would. Leave your lunches in the cloak room and follow me.” He led them on a twisting route across the crowded factory floor, weaving between the rows of sewing machines where the women were scurrying to take their places. Stray threads and blue lint from the wool littered the floor and windowsills, adhering to nearly every surface in the sticky heat. Rebecca wondered why no one bothered to clean up. They passed the cutting tables, draped with layers of blue wool, where workers prepared to cut stacks of pattern pieces with huge shears. A young girl stood ready to deliver the cut pieces to the rows of seamstresses, then hurry back to the cutting table for more.

  The boss stopped beside a large table that had a haphazard mountain of uniforms piled in the middle. The little barefooted girls Rebecca and Flora had seen the other day gathered around it, and when the whistle shrieked, they each snatched a garment from the mound and began snipping threads. The boss reached into a box on the table and handed Flora a small pair of scissors.

  “Snip off all the loose threads that the seamstresses left,” he told her. “I don’t want to see anyone dawdling or hear any talking or it’ll come out of
your pay. And if you snip the cloth and ruin the garment, that’ll come out of your pay, too. Last girl we had was so sloppy it ended up costing her more than she earned. Had to fire her. Understand?”

  “Yes, sir.” Flora’s voice squeaked with fear. There were no chairs or stools around the table, so she would have to stand in place until the noon whistle blew, five hours from now. Then for five more hours until the day ended. Flora raised her hand as if she was in school. “Um . . . what if we need the privy?” she asked.

  He glared as if she had asked to buy the factory. “That’s what your lunch break is for.” Rebecca was already regretting the two cups of tea she’d had for breakfast. “You—follow me,” he said, pointing to her with his unlit cigar. He led her to a mound of uniforms on the far side of the room surrounded by more uniforms tied into bundles. “When the girls finish snipping,” he said, “a runner brings the uniforms here. Tie them into bales of a dozen each. You do know how to count to twelve, don’t you?”

  “Yes, sir.” Rebecca longed to tell him she had studied algebra and geometry with a private tutor, but she held her tongue.

  “Someone will come for them by closing time and deliver them to the people who do piece work in their homes at night, sewing on buttons and hand-stitching hems. These bundles over here are the finished ones. Untie them, count them, make sure they have all their buttons, then take them to the pressers.” He pointed to the corner of the room where men in shirt-sleeves stood behind ironing boards, sweating in the heat as they pressed the finished uniforms with steam irons. The smell of damp wool saturated the air and caught in Rebecca’s throat. Steam clouded the air and fogged the windows. Most of the factory workers were women, and the men who worked at the cutting and pressing tables looked too old or too unfit to fight in the war.

  By lunchtime Rebecca couldn’t remember ever feeling so tired. Never before had she remained on her feet for five straight hours without a chance to sit down. And she still had five more hours to go until the workday ended. She retrieved their newspaper-wrapped lunches from the cloakroom and followed her sister and the other girls down the fire escape to eat outside. They waited in line to use the reeking privy, then found a shady place to sit beside the factory’s brick wall. Flora moaned as she collapsed to the ground. “I don’t know if I can do this for another five hours, Becky. I ache all over from standing in one place.” Her face and the back of her blouse were damp with sweat. Lint and stray threads stuck to the lard she had combed through her hair. Rebecca tried to stifle a giggle.