by Pamela Pope
The degree of his relief seemed out of all proportion as he drew her close in a rare display of affection. Then he explained: ‘I want you to understand, Ellie, why we can’t accept any help from George Pullman. These are difficult times. If the strike materialises it could be dangerous if we were seen to be favoured by the management.’
‘Well, we won’t be,’ she said brightly. ‘I told my godfather that you can provide everything William and I need.’
‘Good girl.’
The reassurance pleased Max and he was particularly attentive. He even discussed some of the strike politics with her so that she would know what was in the air. Many men were now members of the American Railway Union and Max was part of a committee of forty-six elected to try negotiating with the Pullman Company over wages and conditions, but as he told Ellie, it was impossible to reach agreement.
‘I’m afraid it must come to a strike,’ he said. ‘There’s no other way.’
The weather was pleasantly warm and Ellie carried William down to the Arcade stores on Thursday 10 May, 1894. It was several days since she had been that way and she was surprised and puzzled to see a wall being built along the eastern end of the workshops. When she questioned a young woman she knew slightly she had her first taste of antagonism.
‘What do they want a wall for?’ she asked.
The girl looked at her and sniffed. ‘It’s so as the likes of you can be safe from the likes of us,’ she said.
‘I don’t know what you mean,’ said Ellie. ‘Why am I any different from you?’
‘You can ask that when you’re related to George Pullman!’
‘But I’m not.’
‘That’s not what I heard.’ The girl walked away and Ellie was left feeling uneasy. The brusque exchange had been unlike anything she had experienced since coming to live in the town and she kept thinking about it long afterwards.
She entered the vast iron and glass Arcade which contained over thirty stores and was always bustling with people who congregated as much to gossip as to buy, and saw several groups holding animated discussions. Voices were loud and it appeared that three committee men in the ironwork shop had been told there was no work for them.
‘It was rigged,’ she heard a man say. ‘They were told to come back Monday but we all know they were discharged and it was a cover-up.’
‘Discrimination, that’s what it is,’ said another. They all sounded angry.
That night Max was called to an urgent meeting and he didn’t come home until the next day’s sun had risen. Ellie was sick with worry.
‘What can you have found to talk about all these hours?’ she said, when he finally came into the bedroom where she had spent an equally sleepless night. ‘You’ll be so tired. You can’t go to work this morning.’
Max shrugged off her fussing. ‘I’ll be there as soon as I’ve had some breakfast, but I doubt it’ll be for long. We passed a resolution to strike.’
She knew that to withdraw labour was serious, but she had no idea of the full implications. The blacksmiths had gone on strike in December and the action had only lasted a few days: it hadn’t affected anyone. So she cooked food for her husband and fed her son before settling down to what she thought would be the routine of just another day.
Soon after ten-thirty she heard the sound of cheering coming from the direction of Florence Boulevard. It was repeated a few minutes later and Ellie went to the window to see the women of Fulton Street hurrying towards the sound. She picked up William, strapped him against her chest with a shawl, and joined the flow.
At Florence Boulevard she saw men arriving at the gates in an orderly fashion from their respective shops to join the freight-car workers who had come out first, and as each group came there was a fresh burst of cheering. The embroidery girls earned particularly loud applause when they appeared.
‘Ain’t a machine operating in the whole damn place,’ a man cried. ‘Let’s see how long it takes management to get ’em working again.’
There was a lot of jovial banter and by the mood of the crowd it could have been a holiday. Someone started singing and a chorus was taken up. Wives began running to their menfolk, but it was some time before Max appeared and Ellie knew he wouldn’t want to be distracted while he was involved in union business so she watched at a distance and waited until he came.
‘The walk-out’s nearly a hundred per cent, Ellie,’ he told her. ‘We must succeed. Only the foremen are left in and they’re at the root of the trouble.’
‘It’ll soon be over though, won’t it?’
‘It’ll be over when your precious godfather listens to the workers instead of the foremen, and realises he doesn’t own us along with all his property we’re forced to pay nearly all our wages to rent. His model town might have been a good idea but it’s grown too big.’
‘The town means everything to him,’ Ellie said. ‘He’s always wanted what’s best for his workers.’
‘Sure he has. So perhaps he should take a look at those closest to him who don’t share all his high ideals. At the meeting it was promised there’d be no retaliation against committee men, but there has been, and now the company faces the consequences.’
That night the Strike Committee called a rally and organised day and night guard duty round the works which would protect property and also be a picket line to ensure no new labour was recruited by the company.
*
On Saturday Max and Ellie took a picnic to the Arcade Park and sat on the grass listening to the Pullman Band. It made a wonderful change from the scrubbing and cleaning which never made the apartment look any better, and the seemingly endless washing a baby made. William gurgled happily on a rug and kicked against the restraining shawls which made him hot in the sunshine. It was like a public holiday and people who came from Chicago to witness the effects of the strike on the community were puzzled to find no outward sign of suffering or hardship.
But the apparent tranquillity was short-lived. On Monday Ellie found that the Arcade stores were no longer giving credit.
‘If only you could make some extra money with your furniture, Max,’ she said that evening.
‘No one has money to buy furniture!’ he replied sharply. He was so edgy these days that she was half-afraid to say anything.
He’d hoped to rent a shed behind a store in Roseland, a town on a ridge west of Pullman, where he could work late on his designs, but now it was impossible. Instead he spread sheets of paper on the kitchen table and covered them with drawings of elaborate sofas and revolutionary armchairs which would have been the ultimate in elegance had he been able to produce them. He could no longer afford the materials. The drawings were filed away between two plywood boards and tied with cord before he stored them under the bed each night. The saloons in Kensington seldom saw him any more.
Days became weeks and the workshops were still closed. Those who had predicted the strike would crumble in a few days were proved wrong, but the Chicago newspapers reported with sympathy on the unusually dignified industrial struggle. The Chicago Dispatch spoke of a model strike in a model town, but like most other papers it thought the men were making a grave mistake in staying out. The Tribune called it suicidal. Indeed, conditions in Pullman were becoming more and more difficult as money and supplies dwindled, and a Relief Committee was set up to help those in need. Towards the end of May potatoes, flour and meat were distributed, and assistance came from many of Chicago’s charitable organisations.
At the end of the month, Drew turned up on one of his periodic visits to see Ellie. He came at midday when not many people were about so no one in the tenement block saw his arrival. Ellie hugged him fiercely and he had to force her away, laughing as he did so.
‘Anyone would think you were pleased to see me,’ he joked.
‘Oh, I am. I’m so happy,’ Ellie babbled. She always longed for news from home, and there was so much to tell him about developments in Pullman.
‘I ca
me to see how my favourite nephew’s progressing,’ he said, taking the baby from her. ‘And to let you know Clarissa and I are getting married.’ He had put on weight and matured over the last year. The rough edges acquired during his rebellious years on the footplate had been smoothed away and he was now a self-assured man with a distinguished air. But he was still a champion of workers’ rights, often to his father’s frustration.
‘That is just wonderful,’ she cried. ‘I always hoped you’d ask Clarissa. She idolises you.’
‘I wish you and Max could be at the wedding but Father won’t hear of it. When I suggested it he nearly threw a fit. I’m so sorry, Ellie, I keep trying to get him to forgive you but it’s become an obsession. Mama says he is the loser and he ought to at least compromise, but he just bellows that he is head of the house and no one is to go against his wishes.’
Ellie sighed. ‘I miss you all so much.’
‘And 1 worry about you,’ Drew said. ‘Every time I read about the strike I fear for you and wonder if you’ve enough to eat. That’s why I’ve brought you some money. This time you must take it.’
‘Max will be so angry if I do.’
‘Then don’t let him know. Keep it hidden and use it sparingly. I beg you to have it, Ellie, for William’s sake.’
The temptation was too great and she succumbed. After her brother had left she found a pin box and rolled the notes until they fitted inside it. Then she tucked it into the bottom corner of her untidy sewing basket.
It was noticed that Ellie Berman was still able to afford most necessities.
‘No chance of you getting thin, or your kid either,’ said a woman with a tartan shawl around her bent shoulders. Ellie was buying cereal and eggs, and William was looking over her shoulder, his large brown eyes alert to everything going on around him. ‘Does your husband wear a flag or a ribbon, tell me that?’
The strikers were pinning white ribbons to their lapels these days while company men sported tiny United States flags. The barb hurt Ellie, but she continued to provide the best food she could for her family, particularly since she’d heard there was the threat of a malaria epidemic in the town.
Conditions were deteriorating fast. Sickness due to hunger and worry became commonplace, and Nell Frencham who lived in the apartment beneath the Bermans’ became so weak she had to take to her bed. Hearing of it, Ellie went down with hot soup which she fed to Nell and the three children, but when she would have done the same the next day she was stopped at the door by Dan Frencham, Nell’s husband.
‘We don’t want your help,’ Dan said. ‘We don’t want company hand-outs.’
‘What are you saying?’ Ellie demanded. ‘This is food I bought myself. Isn’t it good enough for you?’
‘Bought with money from George Pullman. We all know you’re kin to him.’
‘I’m no relation to Mr Pullman.’
‘God-daughter, he called you. Near as kin since he’s your father’s friend. Oh yes, we know you’re one of the Harvey clan, though what you’re doing here God alone knows. Spying, I don’t doubt.’
Ellie was shaken by the bitterness in his voice. Not long ago she had thought they were friends. And she was furious at the accusation.
‘I am Max Berman’s wife,’ she stated. It did her case no good when her own cultured voice became arrogant. ‘He and our baby are my family and I won’t have anyone judging me by any other standard. He’s a good committee man.’
‘How do we know that everything said in committee isn’t taken back to George Pullman through you?’
‘I refuse to listen to such wicked talk,’ said Ellie, and she stalked away with her head held high. But when she was alone she wept at the unfairness and decided not to tell Max. He already had enough to worry about.
She became increasingly aware that she was being ostracised. Women who had previously stopped to chat and to make a fuss of William began to pass her by, some smiling faintly, other going so far as to cross the road rather than risk having to speak. Ellie was desperately lonely, and guiltily yearned for some of the company she had once kept. In particular she longed for a heart-to-heart talk with Clarissa.
Various events were organised by the union to keep morale high in the town, and one of these was a dance to be held on the second floor of the Market Building. Ellie begged Max to take her and after much coaxing he reluctantly agreed, but when he tried to find someone to look after William for a few hours everyone had an excuse.
‘They’re not all going dancing,’ he said, after the fourth refusal. ‘What’s going on? What have I done?’
Ellie came out of the bedroom in a blue satin gown which had been put away for almost a year and she looked so lovely her husband caught his breath. Her hair was elegantly knotted on top of her head, elbow-length gloves covered her forearms, and her slender neck was exposed in all its beauty by the low cut of her bodice. She could have been going to dinner at the Richelieu.
‘You haven’t done anything, my dearest,’ she said. ‘I’m the one no one will speak to. I don’t fit in here any more. Everyone thinks I’m on the side of Mr Pullman.’
Max stared at her. ‘You can’t go dressed like that.’
His sudden anger was explosive and so unexpected Ellie recoiled, but in a few seconds her surprise turned to indignation.
‘There’s nothing wrong with the way I’m dressed,’ she retorted. ‘I’ve gone to a lot of trouble and I’m sure none of your friends’ wives will look any better.’
‘That’s just it — none can possibly match up to such finery. You look like a Chicago socialite. You look like Conrad Harvey’s daughter instead of a striker’s wife.’
‘If I can’t wear this gown I’m not going,’ Ellie said. ‘I am different from the women here and if they want to shun me I’ll give them even more reason.’
‘Go and take it off,’ Max commanded.
‘No, I won’t.’
‘Then we’ll stay at home.’
He pushed her roughly into the bedroom and began to disrobe her, ignoring both her protests and William’s frightened cry at the sound of raised voices. He wrestled with her and when she fell back on the bed he pinned her arms above her head, holding her wrists in one of his strong hands while he pulled off the dress with the other. She struggled violently, but when she was wearing only her chemise he kicked off his trousers and took her with a force that shook the bed until it moved towards the cradle. And Ellie responded. Since William’s birth, Max had rarely touched her and she had longed for a spontaneous, uninhibited union like this to put some spark back into their marriage. Now his passion roused her to ultimate excitement. He had never been such a demanding lover and he awakened a wild joy in her which was pagan in its intensity. Her fingernails clawed his shoulders and drew blood which stained his shirt. Her body throbbed with a tumultuous climax which made her cry out.
She was sure he would say that he loved her — how could he not when they had just shared such an ecstatic experience? But when he was spent, Max simply rolled away from her and lay on his back with his eyes closed, his lips set firm as if he were still angry.
‘You’ve the looks of a countess and the appetite of a kitchen skivvy,’ he said.
Emotional pain cut short the euphoric aftermath. His cruelty was incomprehensible and Ellie wanted to strike him, but even as she contemplated it she was held back by the love which enabled her to forgive him anything. All the same, he couldn’t go unchallenged.
‘Is there no way I can please you?’ she demanded. ‘What must I do, cover myself in grey cotton and pretend to be a prudish Puritan? Well, I can’t do it.’
William was now crying loudly and insistently. Max jerked himself off the bed and replaced his clothes. ‘I’m going to Downey’s,’ he grunted. ‘See to the baby. He needs you more than I do.’
When he had gone Ellie allowed tears to fall unchecked as she covered herself with a wrap and lifted William out of the cradle to feed him.
She didn’t understand why Max continually found fault. So often he used complaint as a whip to humiliate her, and she had excused him by admitting that she was a poor housewife. She had blamed herself and made allowances for his impatience, but this time it was the shared intimacy of love-making he had found distasteful and she could find no reason for it. Had she been frigid he would have had cause to reproach her, but she was far from that: she could match him in passion whenever he came to her. She’d thought his self-control since William’s birth had been out of consideration for herself, but it seemed the reason was deeper and more worrying.
There was something else which disturbed her much more profoundly. Max was always too involved with the union, his meetings and his furniture designs to take an interest in his son.
*
It was no wonder Ellie couldn’t understand her husband when he had difficulty understanding himself.
Ever since their wedding, Max had been trying to come to terms with the enforced marriage. Sometimes he looked at Ellie and told himself how fortunate he was to have such a beautiful wife who declared her love for him at every opportunity, but the more she strove to please him the less he liked it. He was caught in a situation which became more intolerable as she failed to adapt to her new station in life. Yet he ought not to expect her to change completely. If he was truthful he didn’t want her to.
He walked through the alleyway to Downey’s in a confused mood. Ellie had looked so lovely in her blue gown. The sight of her in it had aroused him even before he’d lost his temper, and they could easily have come together peaceably. Instead, he had seen her flaunting the remnants of her rich background and it had enflamed him.
His resentment was increasing since the strike had worsened. No matter how hard she tried, Ellie would always be different from the other wives, and it set him apart as well. He knew there was talk behind his back, especially since George Pullman’s unfortunate visit. Men who had trusted him to speak for them were now more inclined to turn to someone else, and he could feel their suspicion growing. It was unjust. Nothing had changed his attitude towards the company or lessened his enthusiasm for the workers’ cause. He was as resolute as ever to see justice done and he was a good orator. It was his wife who was the trouble.