Memories of Another Day

by Harold Robbins

  “The story is going out on the wire services all over the country,” he was saying. “Tomorrow the whole world will know about us. Already offers of help are coming in, from New York, Chicago, even as far away as San Francisco. We’re planning a big demonstration in front of the mill the day after tomorrow. Sidney Hillman is coming from New York, Lewis and Murray from Washington, Hutchinson of the Carpenters too. Mother Jones said she would be there, and Jim Maurer, head of the AFL here in Pennsylvania, will be with her. The steel companies will soon discover that we can’t be intimidated, and the country will know that all labor is behind us. Not only that: by tomorrow about forty volunteer workers are coming down from New York to help out with the campaign and see that the newspapers get a steady flow of stories about us.” He paused for a moment. “Good. The five hundred dollars will be a big help. I knew I could count on you. Thanks.”

  He put down the telephone and looked up and saw Daniel in the doorway. “Where the hell have you been?” he asked angrily. “I’ve got men out all day checking the hospitals to find out what happened to you.”

  “I’m here now,” Daniel said.

  “You should have seen that we were better prepared for what happened,” Foster said. “That was your job.”

  “I tol’ you the best I could,” Daniel said. “You couldn’t control the men. There was no discipline down there.”

  “Discipline?” Foster’s voice was scornful. “They’re workers, not soldiers. What do you expect from them?”

  “Nothin’,” Daniel said succinctly, “but better leadership. It seemed to me like they was jes’ bein’ set up to become patsies.”

  Foster rose angrily. “Are you accusing me of deliberately sacrificing those men?”

  Daniel’s voice was even. “I’m not accusin’ you of anythin’. I’m jes’ tellin’ you how it looked to me.”

  Foster stared into his eyes. “Where were you when the head of the plant guards went under the wheels of the truck?”

  Daniel met his gaze. “Why do you ask?”

  “Some of the men said they saw you near him just before it happened.”

  “Who?”

  “Some of them.” Foster was deliberately vague.

  “They’re full o’ shit,” Daniel said. “I was busy runnin’ up the street behin’ you, but it did no good. You was too fast fer me.”

  “The police are bound to turn up here looking for you,” Foster said.

  “Tell ’em to go lookin’ fer the men who put our poor bastids in the hospital instead,” Daniel answered. “Right now the mounted cops is ridin’ up and down the streets o’ Hunky Town bustin’ the head of any poor bastard who’s standin’ out in the street talkin’ to his neighbors. By the time night comes, there ain’t a man down there won’ be afraid to come outta his house.”

  “How do you know that?” Foster demanded.

  “I jes’ come f’om there.”

  “How come I didn’t hear about it before now?”

  “All your assistants is too busy playin’ important up here in the office to go out an’ fin’ out what’s happenin’.”

  “You sound like you think you can do it better than we can,” Foster said balefully. “Pretty smart, aren’t you?”

  “Mebbe I’m not smart enough,” Daniel said. “I jes’ don’ know how things like this is s’pose to be done.”

  Foster relaxed, leaning back in his chair. “Well, take my word for it. We’re handling it right. This is a big strike. It covers almost eight states. It’s not going to be won or lost by one incident at one lousy mill here in Pittsburgh. Believe me, when the news of this gets around, we’ll come out stronger than ever.”

  Daniel looked at him without answering.

  “I’m going to put two or three men with you. Go out on the streets and bring me back written reports of specific police harassment. Names, places, times. I want to get this out on the news wires tonight.”

  Daniel nodded. “Yes, sir.”

  Daniel never filed the report. That night he and three hundred other strikers spent the night in jail. The two men whom Foster had sent with him developed good reasons to go back to the union office at their first glimpse of the mounted police riding up on the sidewalk to roust three customers out of the chairs in a Hunky barbershop. “We’re gonna need more help,” they said.

  Daniel watched with contempt as they darted up the street. Then he turned and walked into the barbershop. One of the policemen, in the process of hauling a Hunky worker out into the street, lather still on his face, blocked Daniel in the doorway.

  “Where the hell do you think you’re goin’?” he barked.

  “To git a shave an’ a haircut,” Daniel replied. “What the hell do you think a man goes to the barber fer?”

  “Wise guy,” the policeman snarled.

  Another policeman stopped near him. “Wait a minute, Sam,” he said. “This guy sounds like an American, not like no Hunky.” He turned toward Daniel. “Look, feller, you go back to a barber uptown. This ain’t no safe place fer an American to be walkin’ aroun’.”

  “These men ain’t Americans?” Daniel asked.

  “They’re goddamn Hunky Commies,” the policeman said. “They’re the ones that’re causin’ all that trouble over at the steel mills.”

  Daniel looked at the Hunky standing there with the lather beginning to drip down the sides of his face. “Is that what you are?”

  The Hunky stared back at him with a blank expression.

  “See?” the policeman said. “The son of a bitch don’t even speak English.”

  “He don’ look like a man makin’ trouble over at the steel mills,” Daniel said. “He looks like some poor jerk who jes’ came in fer a shave an’ a haircut.”

  “What the hell are you tryin’ to do? Make trouble?”

  “No, sir,” Daniel said ingenuously. “I’m jes’ tryin’ to git the fac’s straight. Fer the record, so to speak.”

  “The Record?” the policeman said. “You a reporter with that newspaper?”

  Daniel looked at him. “You mought say that. I’m down here tryin’ to find out what’s goin’ on.”

  “Well, you just mosey right back to that rag newspaper of yours an’ tell ’em to mind their own fuckin’ business!”

  “Why, Officer, ain’t you never heard o’ the freedom o’ the press?” Daniel asked sarcastically.

  The policeman shook his nightstick under Daniel’s nose. “You just haul your ass outta here real quick, or I’ll give you a taste of this here freedom.”

  Daniel looked at him for a moment, letting his eyes deliberately wander down over the policeman’s blouse and looking at his shield. “Yes, sir,” he said, backing out of the doorway. “I’ll go right back to the paper an’ tell ’em what I saw.”

  “You didn’t see nothin’,” the policeman said.

  “That’s right,” Daniel said, still backing out. “I didn’ see nothin’. That’s jes’ what I’m gonna tell ’em back at the office.”

  He saw the look flash between the two policemen. He moved quickly, but he had forgotten about the third man in the street. A nightstick creased his skull, and when he came to, he was in the tank with about sixty Hunkies.

  The Hunky he had seen in the barbershop was sitting next to him. Daniel turned his head and tried to sit up. A groan escaped him.

  The Hunky turned and put an arm under his shoulders, helping him sit up, his back against the wall. “Okay?” the Hunky asked.

  “Okay.” He rubbed the back of his head. There was a bump back there the size of a duck’s egg. “How long was I out?”

  The Hunky looked blank. Then he remembered: the man did not speak English. He moved his head slowly, looking around. Most of the men seemed to be sleeping or trying to sleep. None of them were talking.

  “What time is it?” he asked, making a gesture as if he were looking at a watch.

  The Hunky nodded and held up two fingers. Two o’clock in the morning. The Hunky stuck his hand in his pocket and came
out with a pack of cigarettes. He took one out and carefully broke it in half, offering half to Daniel. Daniel took it, and the Hunky lit both of them with one match. Daniel sucked on the cigarette, its acrid smoke helping to clear his head.

  “They’ll let us out in the mornin’,” he said.

  The Hunky didn’t answer. Just nodded.

  “Where’s the toilet?” he asked.

  That the Hunky understood. He pointed across the room, then held his nose with two fingers and shook his head.

  Daniel looked across the cell. There was one toilet in the corner, and there were fifty men at least in the cell. Daniel knew what the Hunky meant and didn’t even bother to get up. He could wait. He finished the cigarette, then leaned his head back against the wall and dozed.

  The next time he opened his eyes, daylight was streaming through the small cell window and two policemen were standing outside the cell, the door open, and shouting, “Okay, you Hunky bastards, you’re getting out.”

  Silently they filed past the policemen and left the building through a small side door leading into an alley. For a moment, the men shuffled around, looking at each other; then, without conversation, they scattered, each toward his own home.

  Daniel held out his hand to the Hunky. “Thanks,” he said.

  The Hunky smiled, taking it. He said something in a foreign language while shaking Daniel’s hand vigorously.

  Daniel didn’t know what the man was saying, but felt the warmth both in his hand and in the man’s smile. He smiled. “Good luck.”

  The Hunky nodded again, then hurried off down the street, and Daniel headed for the union office. He passed a diner, and suddenly he realized he was hungry. He went inside, sat down at the counter and ordered a big breakfast.

  The girl behind the counter looked at him and smiled. “I’ll hold the eggs for a few minutes if you want to wash up first.”

  “Okay,” he said. He made his way to the washroom, but it wasn’t until he looked in the mirror that he understood why she had made the offer. There was blood caked across part of his cheek and in his hair and down the side and back of his neck. Rapidly he washed, drying himself on the roller towel. Breakfast was ready just as he came out.

  The waitress smiled at him. “It must have been a hell of a fight.”

  He shook his head ruefully. “I never saw what hit me.”

  She put a steaming cup of coffee in front of him. “Ain’t that the truth?” she said. “Nobody ever does.”

  Chapter 9

  The union offices were crowded with people Daniel had never seen before. They were spread throughout the various rooms, men and women, who spoke with refined Eastern accents and were busy writing and scribbling notes and looked as if they had never done a day’s work in their lives.

  Daniel saw one of the regular organizers. “Who are they?” he asked.

  The organizer grinned. “The do-good brigade. They always show up when something happens that will get into the papers.”

  “They don’ look like union people to me.”

  “They’re not,” the organizer replied. “But it’s fashionable to say you’re with the liberal causes. It shows that they don’t let their money interfere with their sense of social justice.”

  Daniel caught the note of sarcasm in the organizer’s voice. “Do they do any good?”

  The organizer shrugged. “I don’t really know. But Foster thinks it’s important to have them around. After all, they don’t only come themselves, they all have money and bring it with them.” He reached into his pocket for a cigarette and lit it, his eyes watching one of the fashionably dressed young girls walking by with a handful of notes. “But I’m not complaining. It’s sweet, clean pussy, and they all put out for the cause. That’s another way they have of demonstrating their solidarity with the workers.”

  Daniel grinned, watching the girl. “I see what you mean. Is Foster in ’is office?”

  “He should be. They’re getting ready to go over to the picket line at the mill for photographs. Mother Jones and Maurer are already over there.”

  Daniel walked down the corridor to Foster’s office and went in. Foster and Phil Murray were alone in the office. Foster looked up, an expression of annoyance on his face.

  “’Scuse me,” Daniel said, starting to back out the door. “I thought you was alone.”

  It was Phil Murray who spoke. “Come in,” he said. “We were just talking about you.”

  Daniel closed the door behind him and stood there.

  “The police were here last night and earlier this morning looking for you,” Foster said.

  Daniel grinned. “They should have looked in the Fifth Street jail. They had me in the tank there all night.”

  “Were you alone?”

  He shook his head. “They had about fifty other men in there with me. The Cossacks was pickin’ ’em off the streets last night. They got me when I followed ’em into a barbershop where they took two Hunkies right out of their chairs.”

  “The men who went with you came back and said you disappeared. They said they didn’t know where you had gone to.”

  “You kin believe that,” Daniel said sarcastically. “They took off like geese flyin’ south the moment they saw the Cossacks ridin’ up on the sidewalk. They was goin’ back for he’p, they told me.”

  “They said you left them and went off on your own.”

  Daniel didn’t answer.

  “The police want to talk to you about that guard that was killed. The papers are making a big stink about it.” He pushed a few newspapers across the desk.

  Daniel looked down at the headlines. The Times and Herald Tribune from New York, the Star from Washington and the Bulletin from Philadelphia. The headlines and stories were pretty much the same in each. The lead headline: “Guard Killed by Strikers at Steel Mill.” After that they went into the story, and buried somewhere near the end of the story was the additional fact that almost thirty strikers were in the hospital. There was nothing in the story that even mentioned how the police and deputies had begun the attack.

  “They make it sound like that was what started the whole thing,” Daniel said.

  “The steel company was waiting for something like that to happen,” Foster said. “They jumped right on it.”

  “Seems to me they was better prepared than us. In every way,” Daniel said.

  Foster knew what he meant. “Not anymore,” he said quickly. “We have the help now to get our side of the story out first.”

  “It’s gonna have to run pretty fas’ to catch up to this one. By the time you git your stories out, this will have gone all over the country,” Daniel said.

  Foster was annoyed. He took out his watch and looked at it. “It’s getting late. The photographers should be all set up. We better get down there for the pictures.” Murray got to his feet, and Foster turned back to Daniel. “You find one of the reporters outside and tell them about the night in jail. I’ll talk to you when I get back.”

  Daniel looked at him. “I won’ be here.”

  Foster shot a sharp glance at him. “Where will you be?”

  “I’m leavin’,” Daniel said. “I don’ cotton to the idea o’ the police takin’ me in. I got the feelin’ I cain’t expect much support from the boys aroun’ here.”

  “If you run, it would be like you were admitting you were guilty.”

  “I’m not admittin’ nothin’,” Daniel said. “I jes’ don’ like the idea o’ hangin’ up on a cross between the two of you.”

  Foster was silent for a moment. “Okay, go down to the paymaster and draw down your salary to the end of the week.”

  “Thank you,” Daniel said. He turned to leave the office.

  Murray’s voice stopped him. He held out a key in his hand. “This is the key to my room over at the Penn State Hotel. When you get your things together, you meet me in my room. I’m driving up to Washington this afternoon. You can ride up with me.”

  “Thanks,” Daniel said. He took the key f
rom Murray’s hand. “I’ll be waitin’ fer you.”

  ***

  It was just after four o’clock in the afternoon when the big black Buick pulled out of the city onto Interstate 5 with Daniel sitting next to Murray, who was driving. It wasn’t until they were a half-hour out of the city that Murray spoke.

  He didn’t turn his head, keeping his eyes on the road. “Did you kill that guard?”

  Daniel answered without hesitation. “Yes.”

  “That wasn’t very smart,” Murray said. “If the police could hang that on you, it could hurt us very seriously. Maybe even lose the strike for us.”

  “The strike is lost already,” Daniel said. “I knew that the minute Foster lost control of ’is men. He jes’ froze, an’ atter that he couldn’ do nothin’ right. For a while I was beginnin’ to think the strike didn’ mean nothin’ to ’im atall. That it was somethin’ else he was atter.”

  “What?”

  “I don’ know,” Daniel answered. “I don’ know enough about strikes an’ politics to have an opinion—but sure as hell, I kin smell when somethin’ ain’t what it’s s’pose to be.”

  “Do you think that battle could have been avoided?”

  “No, sir, but there wasn’t a need fer all them men to git the shit kicked out of ’em. If I was him, I would of come down from the platform and jawboned the sher’f into goin’ slow. The sher’f didn’ seem that anxious to me to start anythin’; he was lookin’ as much fer an excuse to back down an’ go slow—but we didn’ give ’im the chance.”

  “Do you really think the strike is lost?”

  “Yes, sir,” Daniel said earnestly. “The steel mills has ever’thin’ too well organized. From what I been able to fin’ out, they have over eight thousan’ men depitized aroun’ the country to put the strikers in their place. The cops is runnin’ up and down all over Hunky Town, harassin’ an’ arrestin’, an’ they won’ stop till it’s over. An’ I can’t believe that Foster don’t know it. But there’s somethin’ else stickin’ in his craw that’s keepin’ ’im goin’.”