Memories of Another Day

by Harold Robbins

  Chapter 17

  The newspaper headlines were already proclaiming the strike against “Little Steel” by the time Daniel got off the train at Union Station. He bought a Tribune and read it silently in the taxi that took him directly to the union offices.

  There were two interviews featured on the front page. One, prominently displayed near the top of the page, was with Tom Girdler, president of Republic Steel; the other, smaller, in a little box in the bottom corner of the page and continued into the back pages, where it was almost impossible to find, was with Phil Murray, president of the SWOC, CIO.

  The Commies, anarchists and agitators who are trying to take over this country and deliver us intact into the greedy hands and power of the Soviet Union will awaken to a rude shock when they come face to face with the mass of real Americans ready to protect their ideals and the American way of life for themselves and their children. We will not shirk nor shrink from our task. We are ready for them and we will fight them in the fields and the streets even unto the gates of our plants and beat them, just as the American soldiers beat back the threat of the Boche in the war. I say to the misguided strikers, “Listen not to false prophets who will betray you unto your enemies. Come back to your jobs and work. We are Americans, always ready to forgive and take our neighbors in as our brothers.”

  In contrast, Murray’s statement was restrained, even temperate.

  All we ask for the workingman is justice, the job security and the benefits already granted to his compatriots working for U.S. Steel and the other companies who have already recognized that their demands were simply fair and equitable. We have no intentions to deliver anything into the hands of any foreign power or ideology, only to make life better for the American workingman whose labor makes our American way of life possible and a reality.

  Daniel left the paper in the taxi as he got out in front of the union headquarters. Carrying his valise as he walked through the whole floor that served as the SWOC’s regional offices, he could not help thinking of the difference in organization between the present and the last attempt to unionize the steel industry in 1919. Then everything had seemed haphazard and improvised. Now all was planned. There were a complete information section, with over forty employees, who serviced the newspapers and wire services with up-to-date reports on the organizing activities; a statistical section, which kept abreast of all economic trends that might affect the union’s position; a striker’s help-fund section, which supplied aid, financial and otherwise, to the members. There was no doubt about it. It was very different. But was it?

  Despite the application of the most modern business techniques and the solidest financial support any union organizing effort had ever had, something was missing. Daniel could feel it but could not quite put his finger on it. Perhaps it was just that the union itself, moving forward on the crest of the pro-union wave of the past few years, was overconfident and did not recognize the determination of the opposition. The sudden collapse of Big Steel last year, the success of the Textile Workers’ drive in the South, the organization of the automobile workers at General Motors represented a trend which perhaps led to an illusion. In each of these victories it was the largest companies with which agreements had been reached, the companies whose share of their respective markets was so great that the net results could not affect them more than just a little. But the smaller companies, to which the differences had a major effect on their profit margin, had good reason to battle on. The Ford Motor Company was as far from agreement as it had ever been. And so was Little Steel. And each of these companies’ individual managements had translated this into a personal battle to retain what it felt was control of its own business and freedom. Neither Henry Ford nor Tom Girdler was about to bend his knee to the serfs. On the contrary, they felt that those who worked for them should be grateful to them for the opportunity to serve in their vineyards, especially after all they had given to them.

  The executive offices were at the back of the floor, away from the elevators. Each with windows looking out on the city, respectably if not expensively furnished, rugs on the floor, in contrast with the mass grouping of most employees in large open rooms with as many as thirty or forty desks crammed into space big enough for half as many. Now the union leaders were as effectively isolated from the rank and file of their organization as any executive of the companies with which they did battle. Suddenly Daniel knew what it was. A new hierarchy was in the process of developing. Sooner or later, the man inside that office, behind the closed door, had to lose touch with the people outside, those whom he represented. No longer was there an emotional relationship. Now it was a calculated representation of an ideal that itself had turned into another form of big business.

  Now Daniel could understand the pressure on Phil Murray to perform. Their organization was much like any division of General Motors. They had goals to reach, and if for some reason, whatever that might be, they were not achieved, new managers would be found who could reach those goals. The battle had to be joined, even if the outcome was in doubt. Murray had to prove that he was not afraid, nor was he shirking his task. And all the while, he was aware that Lewis was sitting back there in Washington, careful to maintain his position as the man who had settled Big Steel without a strike, and because of that carefully avoided taking a position within the union councils either pro or con regarding a strike effort. He was quite willing to leave it to Murray. If he failed, he would hang himself; if he won, Lewis could come in and share the glory because he had shown the way and had confidence that Murray could do it.

  Daniel stopped in front of the door that had MR. MURRAY painted on it in gold letters and turned to the secretary seated at the desk just outside. She was a new girl, one he had never seen before. “Is Mr. Murray in?”

  She looked up from her typewriter. “May I ask who wishes to see him?”

  “Daniel Huggins.”

  She picked up the telephone. “Mr. Huggins is here to see you, Mr. Murray.” A moment later she put it down, a new respect coming into her voice. “You may go right in, sir.”

  Daniel thought Murray looked drawn and tired as he rose from behind his desk and came toward him. He shook Daniel’s hand warmly. “I’m glad you’re back.”

  “I am too,” Daniel said. And meant it.

  “Grab a chair,” Murray said, going back to his own seat. “How’s the baby?”

  “Fine.”

  “Your wife must be very proud. Apologize to her for me for having to pull you back so fast.”

  Daniel met his eyes. “My wife is dead.”

  A stunned look came into Murray’s eyes. “You never said anything.”

  “There was nothing to say. It happened, and it’s over.”

  Murray was silent for a moment. “I’m sorry, Daniel. If I had known, I wouldn’t have pressed you.”

  “It’s okay,” Daniel said. “I did the things I had to do and now I’m back to work.”

  “Is your child in good hands?”

  “I’ve got a fine woman to take care of him and the house. It’s going to be all right.”

  Murray took a deep breath. “If there’s anything I can do to help, you let me know.”

  “Thank you.” Daniel waited. The amenities had been disposed of quickly, but from the moment he had come into the office he had felt there was something wrong. It was nothing he could put his finger on, just the feeling that Murray did not seem completely comfortable with him.

  Murray shuffled some papers on his desk, finally coming up with the one he sought. Holding it in his hand, he glanced at it for a moment, then spoke. “I’ve got a new job for you. I’m bringing you into the office here as coordinator of the subregional offices in the Midwest. It will be up to you to see that none of them go off half-cocked on their own.”

  “I don’t know if I’m an office man,” Daniel said. “I’m used to being out in the field. Why can’t I just stay on my old job?”

  “You’re becoming too important to be running around in
the field with the organizers. We need someone in here to keep an eye on the overall picture for us.”

  “Who do I report to?”

  “David McDonald in Pittsburgh. He’s taking over day-to-day operations. I’m moving back to Washington, where I can keep pressure on the government.”

  Daniel nodded. McDonald was a good man, a veteran of many years in the steel industry. There had been talk that he was Murray’s heir apparent, just as the talk had been that Murray was Lewis’ heir apparent. Now, at least, the first part of the rumor had been confirmed. But Daniel could find no fault with it. McDonald was the logical candidate.

  “Do I have any specific authority in the new job?”

  “I thought you would get together with Dave and work that out between you,” Murray answered.

  Daniel took a cigar from his inside coat pocket. He bit off the end and lit it slowly, his eyes fixed on Murray all the while. Finally, when the cigar was going, he leaned back in the chair. “Okay, Phil,” he said quietly. “We’ve known each other a long time. You can tell me the truth. Why am I being kicked upstairs?”

  Murray flushed. “It’s not exactly that.”

  “It’s not exactly anything else either,” Daniel said.

  Murray shook his head slowly. “You won’t let me off the hook, will you?”

  Daniel was silent.

  “Too many people have heard you say you were against the strike. Too many people know of your affair with the Girdler girl. They just don’t trust you.”

  “Do you trust me?”

  “That’s a stupid question,” Murray flared. “If I didn’t trust you, I wouldn’t give you another job.”

  “Maybe I’d better quit anyway,” Daniel said. “I don’t like running up blind alleys.”

  Murray’s voice was forceful. “You’re not quitting. I don’t want it, David doesn’t and Lewis doesn’t. You’re the only man we know who has worked in all the subregional offices, the only one we can depend on to give us a clear picture of what’s happening there. Besides, it won’t be for long. When this strike is settled, we’ve got something in mind for you.”

  “It’s not going to be settled for a long time,” Daniel said. “I can’t seem to make any of you understand just how tough Girdler is. He’s managed to forge an unholy alliance with the other independents, and they’re going all the way with him.”

  Murray was thoughtful. “An unholy alliance. I can use that phrase in the press conference I’m holding in Washington next week.”

  “Be my guest,” Daniel said.

  “Memorial Day is about three weeks off. We’re planning mass demonstrations all over the region. I think that unholy alliance you talk about might have second thoughts when they see the mass of workers behind us.”

  “I don’t think they’ll give a damn,” Daniel said. “They’re out to break this strike no matter what it costs.”

  “Daniel, stop fighting me.” Murray’s voice was suddenly weary. “I have enough people on my back now. Don’t make it impossible for me to keep you. Just help me.”

  It was the first time Murray had ever come out and spoken so bluntly to him. It was only friends who talked to each other that honestly. Murray had been there when he needed help. For almost twenty years Murray had been there. Now it was his turn. “Okay,” he said. “What’s the first thing you want me to do?”

  “Work on the Memorial Day demonstrations. See that they go off without any trouble.”

  “I’ll do my best,” Daniel said. He got to his feet. “If I’m going to stay in Chicago, I’d better go out and find myself a place to live.”

  Murray looked up at him. “Thanks, Daniel.”

  “You don’t have to thank me, Phil,” Daniel said. “I owe you.”

  Murray smiled wearily. “We can argue about who owes whom someday. Right now the important thing is to get the job done. And incidentally, I forgot to mention that the executive board approved a salary of eighty-five hundred dollars a year to go with your new job.”

  Daniel laughed. “You should have mentioned that first. Maybe I wouldn’t have given you such a hard time.”

  Murray laughed with him. “If it were the money you wanted, you could have taken that job with the I.A. But I knew better.”

  Chapter 18

  The office assigned to him was small, with just enough room for his desk and two chairs, one behind it and one in front. In the corner of the room was a small coatrack. The walls, painted white, were bare. But he did have one window, and if it had not been for that he might have gone completely mad in his first week.

  Frustration was the game. He began telephoning all the subregional offices to align his contacts with the local organizers. They were friendly enough, but not about to relinquish any of their power or authority to anyone without specific instruction, and they had received no communication as yet from the central office as to his position. He had placed innumerable calls to McDonald in Pittsburgh, but had never reached him. Each time, he was assured by the secretary that McDonald would return his call, but at the end of the week, he accepted the fact that it was not about to happen.

  The papers on Friday afternoon played up Murray’s press conference in Washington. The phrase “Unholy Alliance” caught on. It was jingoistic journalese. The newspapers loved it. Even Gabriel Heatter used it on his national evening radio newscast. Daniel picked up the telephone and called Murray in Washington.

  He felt a minor surprise when Murray came to the phone. “Congratulations,” Daniel said. “The press conference went down well. The newspapers here gave it a big play.”

  Murray was obviously pleased. “Good. I think we’re beginning to make some headway. Public opinion is beginning to move our way. How are you doing?”

  “Going crazy,” Daniel said shortly. “I’m not doing anything. I’m being locked out.”

  “I don’t understand.” Murray sounded genuinely puzzled. “You talk to Dave?”

  “Can’t get him on the phone. And the subregionals haven’t been officially notified as to my position. I’m out here in left field with nothing coming my way.”

  “I’ll talk to him,” Murray said.

  “I don’t want to make things difficult for you,” Daniel said. “You have enough on your mind. Maybe it would be better if I moved on.”

  “No.” Murray’s voice was emphatic. “Stay with it. I’ll get it straightened out.”

  “You don’t owe me anything,” Daniel said. “Besides, I have the feeling I should be back in California with my kid. Bad enough he has no mother; he shouldn’t be without a father too.”

  “Give me until the end of the month,” Murray said. “If we can’t straighten it out by then, you can go where you want.”

  “Fair enough,” Daniel said. He put down the telephone and took the bottle of whiskey from the bottom drawer of his desk. He poured himself a drink and turned to the window and stared out while sipping his drink. Rain and dusk were falling on Chicago, and as he watched the buildings disappear and the lights come on, he began to feel closed in and trapped.

  He got to his feet and threw open his office door. To his surprise, the big office was empty except for one lone girl huddled over her typewriter at the far end of the room. He glanced at his watch. Five o’clock.

  Times had changed. It hadn’t been so long ago that union workers never went home. After hours they would sit around talking about what they were doing and what they hoped to achieve. But now it was like any other business. Five o’clock and everyone went home.

  Holding the drink in his hand, he walked down the room to the girl. She looked up as she heard his footsteps. “What are you doing?” he asked.

  “Mr. Gerard wants this report on his desk when he comes in first thing Monday morning,” she answered.

  “Mr. Gerard?” It was a new name to him. “What department is that?”

  “Legal,” she said.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Nancy.”

  “Nancy, do you like worki
ng for a union?”

  She glanced down at her typewriter. “It’s a job.”

  “Why the union?” he asked. “Do you feel you’re making a contribution to the labor movement and the betterment of working conditions?”

  “I don’t know anything about that,” she said. “I answered an ad in the paper, even though they were only paying fifteen dollars a week.”

  “Is that a fair salary for your job?”

  “Most places pay about nineteen a week for the same job,” she answered. “But there aren’t any other jobs.”

  “Maybe what you need is a union,” he said, grinning. He finished his drink. “Want a drink, Nancy?”

  She shook her head. “No, thanks. I have to finish this.”

  “Okay,” he said, and started back to his office.

  Her voice stopped him. “Mr. Huggins.” He turned to look at her. “Can I ask you a question?”

  “Sure.”

  “Ever since they put your name on the door and you moved in, everybody’s been wondering exactly what is it you do and what department you’re with. You’re kind of a mystery man around here.”

  He laughed. “Ever hear of the limbo department?”

  “Limbo?” she was puzzled. “I don’t think I have.”

  “That’s where I’m at,” he said, and went back to his office and closed the door.

  ***

  It was still drizzling when he left the office and walked to the parking lot for his car. He started the engine and switched on the headlights, then sat there with the motor running. The idea of going back to his empty apartment didn’t attract him at all. He had read all the papers to come out that day, and the prospect of sitting alone with a bottle of whiskey, listening to the radio, wasn’t his idea of spending an evening. He thought about going to the movies, but that too was empty and offered no real escape from his restlessness.

  Impulsively he drove down into South Chicago, to a bar near the Republic Steel mill, which he had helped organize. The bar was crowded with men, steelworkers, who had spent the best part of their day on the rainy picket line. Against the wall, neatly stacked, were their picket signs. REPUBLIC STEEL ON STRIKE! FOR A LIVING WAGE, GO CIO! Some were printed, but there were many that had been hand-lettered by the men themselves.