Band of Sisters

by Cathy Gohlke

  For five hours the populace of New York marched through the Washington Square Arch behind white horses outfitted in black netting.

  Blame for the fire was cast and recast. Workers’ rights and workplace safety reforms were demanded by the International Ladies’ Garment Workers’ Union, by politicians eager to step on a new bandwagon, and by an enraged public. But no amount of investigation, blame, accountability, or even reforms could bring the Triangle workers back to life.

  As the tragedy of the fire filled the headlines, the outrage against Victor Belgadt and his cohorts—the owner and management of Darcy’s Department Store—and public cries to investigate the ring’s connections to Ellis Island were swept from the front pages of newspapers and soon fell out altogether.

  “Of course, reforms are desperately needed—better wages, shorter working hours, safer conditions,” Agnes pointed out at the circle meeting at Morningside, the Saturday afternoon before Easter Sunday.

  “But those reforms won’t automatically change the basic face of poverty or the way immigrant women are treated when they first enter this country,” Hope insisted. “They might help workingwomen in time, but it’s getting those jobs in the first place that concerns me.”

  It concerned Olivia, too. No matter what they did or how hard they tried, they couldn’t change the way others treated women—immigrants or native born. They couldn’t make them train or hire women who were not qualified for positions. We can’t even make them hire women who are qualified! And how many can we help? She rubbed her temples. Twenty? Fifty? It was too little for a problem so great.

  As though her sister could read her mind, Dorothy whispered in her ear, “Courage, dear. Do you remember Father’s literary trio?”

  Olivia stared in return, thinking her sister had surely gone mad. What has that got to do with anything?

  “One for all and all for one?” Dorothy clasped Olivia’s fingers within her own and whispered again, “We’re not meant to do this alone. We need a greater band of women and men to be the hands and feet of Christ in this fight for abolition of white slavery. So you’d best get started.”

  Olivia narrowed her eyes in concentration, taking in Dorothy’s words and their implications. “One for all and all for one” . . . That is the point, isn’t it? Father knew that. . . . It’s the point of the Musketeers and of our growing, inclusive band of women. It’s what truly loving one another means. A flicker of hope marched up her spine. “I understand, but what can I do—?”

  Dorothy cut her off. “You can dust off those social justice writing skills you and Father used to revel in and use them to rouse the troops. With Curtis’s help, of course. People can’t help if they don’t know the need. Once they recognize the need and understand what they’re capable of doing to help stop this injustice, they’ll join the fight—just as we have.”

  Olivia stared at her sister—the sister whose timid heart had, with Drake’s arrest and the revelation of his crimes, not been destroyed but been transformed into the heart of a lioness, despite her failing health.

  Olivia’s own heart pounded as the idea took hold. Could I truly write something useful? Something that would glorify God by inspiring a movement for abolition and healing? She remembered how In His Steps had changed her life, her father’s life, and the lives of all this band of women. She swallowed, barely able to focus on the faces around her for the unexpected fire surging through her bones. Isaiah’s response to the Lord’s call rushed through her mind: “Here am I; send me.” Tears sprang, unbidden, and she knew the Spirit’s voice. Thank You, Lord! Thank You!

  “I still say women who can’t speak English are at a terrible disadvantage and a terrible risk,” Julia interrupted her thoughts, “whether they’re working in the garment industry or wherever they are. Employers can take all kinds of advantage of them.”

  “So we’re back to where we started,” Carolynn concluded. “We still need to provide housing and classes, services to help women find better, safer jobs. And we need ways of intertwining our lives with theirs.”

  “Not entirely back where we started,” Isabella insisted. “We’ve taken into our homes the rescued women who are still looking for families.”

  “You’ll have some of them forever,” Agnes said quietly. “You know their families won’t all take them back.”

  “Then I’ll have them forever.” Isabella bravely smiled. “It’s finally a good use of that great house.”

  How far we’ve all come!

  “I can help at last,” Dorothy said.

  The women turned. Olivia held her breath, knowing what was coming, knowing what her sister’s offer had cost her.

  Dorothy smiled tentatively. “I’m donating Meitland House as a home for young women who will train and work as sales clerks.”

  Women shifted in astonishment.

  “I’ve already talked with Reverend Peterson and one of the members of our church who owns a major department store in the city. He’s willing to take the girls in at entry level, with an eye to promotion—as long as they can read and speak English, as long as we prepare them to work with the public, and as long as we guarantee they’re living respectably.”

  “But where will you live? What will your husband say?” Hope asked.

  Dorothy drew a deep breath. “It turns out that Drake is not my husband. He was married to Curtis’s sister, and she was still living when he fraudulently signed our marriage certificate.”

  Someone in the group gasped, but Dorothy lifted her shoulders and braved ahead. “Meitland House was Father’s wedding gift to me, given and received in good faith. But I don’t want to live there anymore. And I’ve prayed, asking what I should do, what Jesus would do in my situation.”

  Katie Rose slipped her hand into Dorothy’s.

  Dorothy clasped it and smiled. “Being on 34th Street will give the women perfect access to the stores on Fifth Avenue—the best stores in the city for employment. Katie Rose and I are going to move back to Morningside with Olivia and Maureen. We can all run it together.”

  “We’re calling it Emma’s House.” Katie Rose smiled.

  One for all and all for one. Olivia shook her head softly and in wonder.

  The meeting had not quite finished when Curtis and Joshua arrived, papers in hand, both looking as pleased as cats following a canary lunch.

  Agnes whispered, “I’ve been dragging my feet ten minutes! I thought you’d never get here!”

  “Curtis?” Olivia asked. “What is it?”

  Curtis grinned and pulled Olivia to her feet. “Wait till you see!” He spread rolls of paper blueprints and official-looking deeds across the dining room table. “Wedding gifts,” he proudly announced. “Those tenements on Orchard Street that Drake sold me—the ones I bought to convince him of my interest in his scheme—I’ve deeded to the church. Close enough to the Battery and the factories to provide easy access for women working on the Lower East Side. One is destined for an employment and living skills training center for immigrant girls and women, and one for housing, to be overseen, of course, by you ladies. I’ve talked with Reverend Peterson and given notice to the bar owner on the first floor. They’ll be available for us to begin renovations by the first week in June.”

  The room erupted in cheers.

  “We’re in business!” Julia shouted.

  Curtis turned to an astonished Olivia. “Do you like it?”

  But Olivia did not seem to know how to respond.

  Curtis looked surprised, confused, deflated, and concerned by turn. “Olivia? Say something.”

  “I—I don’t know what to say.” She picked at her broach.

  Agnes coughed a cough meant for the stage.

  The couple turned toward her.

  “Did you say ‘wedding gifts’?” Agnes asked pointedly. “Do you think you might have put the cart before the horse, Mr. Morrow?”

  Joshua smirked and took a seat beside Maureen, lifting her ringed finger to his lips before one and all. Then he raised cur
ious eyebrows toward Curtis, still standing with Olivia in the center of the room.

  Curtis’s complexion rivaled the bright roses in Olivia’s centerpiece. He stammered, stopped, started to speak, and gave it up.

  When his eyes found Olivia’s, he turned brighter still. It took a moment, but he bowed slightly and respectfully asked, “Miss Wakefield, may I speak with you in the garden?”

  Joshua’s appreciative chuckle was cut off by Maureen’s playful but reproving “Hush now!” But the moment she pushed his fingers away, she reconsidered and tucked hers back into his strong grasp.

  Curtis gave Olivia his coat just before they slipped through the French doors.

  Members of the circle smiled knowingly at one another, took up their purposeful and animated conversation, and discreetly turned from both blushing couples.

  But from the corner of her eye, Maureen sensed more than saw the nearly imperceptible shift in her sister’s shoulders. She caught the momentary strain in her forced smile, the too-bright shine and flash of hunger in eyes that followed Olivia and Curtis through the glass doors. She saw Katie Rose blink—almost wince—as the latch clicked behind them, then quietly separate herself from the group of women and creep closer to the glass doors.

  Maureen squeezed Joshua’s hand, bade him stay, and followed Katie Rose. She stopped just as she realized her sister’s mission, watched her lean against the doorframe, saw her spy as Curtis ushered Olivia through the early spring garden. As she stepped closer, Maureen, too, could see Curtis swipe his handkerchief across a low wrought-iron bench and carefully settle Olivia there. Framed by a budding purple and white wisteria, he knelt, taking Olivia’s hands in his own.

  It was a beautiful but private moment, one that Maureen knew neither she nor Katie Rose should share. She reached out to chide her sister to come away when she saw Katie Rose lick her lips and swallow hard. Something in her younger sister’s vulnerability, in her all-consuming fascination with the scene before her, stayed Maureen’s hand. She watched Katie Rose’s reactions to Curtis’s upturned face—a face transformed into light by his love for Olivia. She saw the hunger in Katie Rose as Curtis’s lips moved, surely asking the all-important question, and as Olivia’s hands cupped her lover’s face.

  Katie Rose swiped a renegade tear, and Maureen could wait no longer. She stepped closer and wrapped her arm around her sister’s waist, drawing her to her side.

  “I’m glad for them—I am,” Katie Rose stammered.

  “And so am I.”

  “It’s just . . . it’s just that I want that too. I want someone to . . . And it’s what Emma really wanted. But she never had the chance—and what if . . . ?”

  Maureen buried her face in her sister’s hair, whispering with a kiss, “We’re safe now, sweet Katie Rose. We’re safe, we’re loved, and we’ve all our lives ahead.”

  But Katie Rose shuddered, her shoulders trembled, and the tears Maureen knew her younger sister had held back began to fall, a cleansing rain. Maureen held her close, praying silently for her spirit, willing strength into her fragile frame.

  At last Katie Rose heaved a sigh, coughed, and breathed more evenly. Maureen kissed her forehead, then pushed damp tendrils from reddened eyes and wiped the face she loved with her handkerchief.

  Katie Rose sniffed and drew a nearly clean breath before braving a wobbly smile, replete with the determined brightness Maureen longed to see. “We do.” She sniffed again, her arms encircling Maureen at last. “We’ve all our lives ahead.”

  Caught suddenly in the fragility and wonder of that truth, Maureen felt her heart and smile swell until both breached their bounds—We do! Thank You, Jesus!—and embraced her sister in return.

  I’d planned to write a historical novel about female immigrants who were hounded in the late 1800s by traffickers lurking near Castle Garden, New York—gateway to the New World—and members of the settlement house movement who came to their aid. I’d planned to include the story of Jacob Riis, his exposé of the extreme poverty found in New York City, and his crusade for change through rousing the social conscience of his time. But while I was busy making plans to tell a story, the Lord shaped a vision to ignite a cause dear to my heart.

  I discovered that my agent, Natasha Kern, shared my passion for helping women and children caught in modern-day slavery. I learned that my editor, Stephanie Broene, was fascinated by Ellis Island and the immigrants who’d poured through those doors. And I learned through crusaders and research that today, in this twenty-first century, there are far more people trapped in bondage, more people exploited and enslaved in every way, than at the height of the transatlantic slave trade.

  Remembering a challenge my son once made (“Why don’t you write about a current need?”), but without a story, I went to New York and sailed on the earliest morning ferry to Ellis Island. I read everything I could beg or buy, asked innumerable questions, and left on the last ferry of the day. I spent two days at the Lower East Side Tenement Museum and three days trekking through the Lower East Side, taking multiple tours, loading my bag with books and emptying my wallet of their purchase price, in search of a story.

  There were fascinating accounts at every turn, but none that bore my name, none that connected with the growing frustration in my spirit over the gross injustices I discovered—those taking place today and those recorded in the pages of history. The problem of human trafficking simply loomed too big. It was not enough to state the problem, to paint a picture of grief—there had to be an answer, at least the beginnings of an answer.

  Finally I returned to my hotel room, weary but satisfied with the extent of my research. I trusted that once I’d rested up and read my bounty of materials, one of the many tales I’d heard would emerge in some new and fictionalized form in my brain. But morning after morning came, and the story didn’t. By the time my stay in New York was nearly at its end, I was on my knees to the Lord, begging that He show me what He wanted me to write. Whatever it is, as long as it is Your story, that’s what I want and all I want.

  Because I knew I’d be searching, I’d taken two books with me to the Big Apple: one that is my guide and stay—my Bible—and one that set my feet on the path to consecration of my life to the Lord many years before—Charles Sheldon’s book In His Steps. In between the books I write, there’s something profound and revitalizing about returning to the roots of my journey, about seeking again the place of Christ’s strength made perfect in my weakness.

  It had been a number of years since I’d read In His Steps. It’s odd that I would have packed it in an already-full suitcase. But after days of walking the history-laden streets of New York and researching dozens of story angles to no avail, discouraged, I closed the door to my hotel room and picked up my age-old friend.

  I wasn’t through the first chapter when I knew that this book embodied the only question that mattered about human exploitation or modern-day slavery or how we treat immigrants or, in fact, any other issue in life: What would Jesus do? It’s the only question that matters because in Him is the only place we find answers.

  If we all truly do what Jesus would do, slavery will end. Jesus never exploited men or women. He never used children or child labor for ease or gain. He never bought or sold baby girls to fulfill the “bride needs” of one-child cultures favoring boys. He never bought or sold human organs or fetuses or body parts. He never lied to immigrants, never enslaved them, never threatened their families or their loved ones or their lives if they did not comply with His demands, never coerced or forced, never shamed or punished a single person into submission to His will. But in every way He set a moral compass, employed divine compassion to the brokenhearted and broken-bodied, and held to account any and all who victimized others.

  Band of Sisters is a mild story in the world of human trafficking and modern-day slavery. The realities are far more grim—at the time the story took place and certainly today. But I pray this is a voice—one voice—that evokes a platform for discussion.

 
If we unite, if we all raise our voices in a demand for change, we will create a clamor that can’t be resisted.

  To see what other groups and individuals are doing to raise awareness and to learn how you can help create that change, please visit my website and connect to the links for sites fighting modern-day slavery and sites that are holding out a hand of hope and help. The opportunities are there. Dozens of organizations are in place. But “we, the people,” are desperately needed.

  Let me know what you think and what you’re doing to help. I’d love to hear from you at www.cathygohlke.com.

  Cathy Gohlke is the two-time Christy Award–winning author of the critically acclaimed novels Promise Me This, William Henry Is a Fine Name, and I Have Seen Him in the Watchfires, which also won the American Christian Fiction Writers’ Book of the Year Award and was listed by Library Journal as one of the Best Books of 2008.

  Cathy has worked as a school librarian, drama director, and director of children’s and education ministries. When not traipsing the hills and dales of historic sites, she, her husband, and their dog, Reilly, make their home on the banks of the Laurel Run in Elkton, Maryland. Visit her website at www.cathygohlke.com.

  Why is Maureen so resistant to Joshua Keeton’s help at the beginning of the story? At what point does she start to realize that maybe his intentions aren’t malicious after all? What still keeps her from accepting his help? Have you ever wrongfully doubted someone’s intentions?

  Olivia had misgivings about Drake from the beginning, even though she had no proof of her suspicions. Keeping in mind the social restraints of her day, do you think she was wrong not to confront Dorothy about him earlier? Have you ever been in a similar situation? Without giving too much detail, how did you handle it?

  In his book The Three Musketeers, Alexandre Dumas made famous the line “All for one, one for all.” Douglas Wakefield kept the literary trio (busts of the three musketeers, Athos, Porthos, and Aramis) in his study. Do you see a relationship between the philosophy of these characters and the way in which Douglas Wakefield lived his life? How did Olivia and Dorothy understand and embrace their father’s philosophy?