by Evelyn Weiss
woolen plaid skirt, a simple linen blouse and a shawl. There’s also a photograph, of a woman wearing a similar costume. I study how she has tied the shawl. As soon as I’m sure that the style of my dress matches the woman in the photograph, I descend the stairs to Chisholm’s room and knock at the door.
The door opens, and the figure of a tall, strong man fills the frame. He’s a man that anyone would take for a laborer. Rough trousers and waistcoat. Even his face seems different: I notice the corrugated brows, the work-worn creases round his eyes.
“What on earth is this, Chisholm? A fancy dress party?”
“Not quite! We need to leave the hotel: just come with me, and I’ll explain as we go along.”
My first instinct is: what will people think of us, as they see us leaving the hotel? And indeed we do get glances, even stares, as we cross the lobby towards the main entrance: I see a mixture of scorn and pity in peoples’ eyes. They must all think we’re a jobless couple who have come to the hotel looking for work – and that the hotel manager has sent us on our way.
Out on the sidewalk, the sun feels surprisingly warm, and the shawl feels itchy round my hair. I hear Chisholm’s voice.
“We’re going somewhere where these clothes will help us fit in. Trust me, Agnes – and above all, don’t speak. Where we are going, don’t open your mouth.”
The cab journey from Chelsea Piers to the Hotel Metropole was a blur: only now am I starting to take in my surroundings. I’ve seen New York only twice, fleetingly. The first time I stayed here only one night, before my voyage to England. The second time was after the Titanic, and I only left the hotel to take the train to Connecticut and then return. Right now, the noise and brashness is, as it was before, a shock. Brighter, louder, faster than London. Automobiles whiz by along 43rd Street, trams clang and jostle. But it’s the sounds that are so different: shouts, calls – American voices, the accents so cheerful, so strong, youthful, vigorous. Strangely, I’m reminded of the playground back in my schooldays. The riot of noises rings in my ears as we walk through the thronging streets to where 43rd Street crosses Eighth Avenue.
Chisholm looks at the traffic. “We need to cross the road here” he says, but Eighth Avenue is a like a river: an relentless flow of automobiles and wagons. There seems to be no crossing-place. We spot a gap in the stream of traffic and step off the pavement. As we reach the other side of Eighth Avenue, Chisholm turns to me and says “Welcome to Hell’s Kitchen.”
I’m surrounded by filthy, ragged children: they swarm like flies around Chisholm and me. First I notice the stench from them, and their rags of clothing. Then I notice the hands. Dirty little fingers are everywhere: reaching out, touching my arms, pulling at my skirt. There are mangy, wild-looking dogs, too: mouths open, slavering. They look at me as if I might be carrying something for them to eat. I guess if I did have food, the children and dogs would fight over it. “Walk” says Chisholm. I step forward into the throng of street urchins, and they move aside to let us pass. “See, they’re just trying it on.” Chisholm says to me, as we walk down a sunless, slot-like street, the sky above blotted out by rows of washing strung across between the blocks of frowsy, dark-stained buildings.
London is known for sudden changes of neighborhood, but this is something beyond any experience of mine. It’s a different world from central Manhattan across Eighth Avenue. The very air here is grimy: I’m breathing ash and dust. The street is strewn with dog-gnawed bones. “From the slaughterhouses.” says Chisholm. “Some of those who work there are part-paid in kind: they’re allowed to take a share of the bones and offal home.” And yes – through the gritty air I can smell boiling flesh, and the sharp chemical reek that comes from tanneries. And all along the alley, loitering around dark doorways, are little gangs – in threes and fours, groups of men, of women and of children. Every single face has a stare. Looking at me. Hostile? Or just curious? I thought that my clothes were supposed to help me fit in – but every one of these silent stares says to me: here’s an outsider, she doesn’t belong here.
At the end of the block is another busy road. Chisholm says just two words. “Ninth Avenue”. This road is different: it’s in deep shadow, overhung by the huge metal frames of an elevated railway. There are no cars along this road: in the darkness beneath the forest of iron girders supporting the El tracks, I see horses pulling wagons. Some of the wagons are filled with scrap metal, others are piled high with animal carcasses. Plodding alongside the wagons are crowds of rag-clad pedestrians: men, women and children, all moving as if in time. Every head is down, every face looks blank. They look like a column of fleeing refugees. We cross the road, watching carefully, but the hordes of people seem oblivious to us: a crowd of walking dead. I hear the rumbling approach of an El train above us: a strange, metallic rattle that sets my teeth on edge. It gets louder and louder, and the girders of the railway structure seem to shake. Then, as the sound of the train dies away again, I hear a different noise; one that I first heard five minutes ago, in the alley. Short, low coughs from many of the pedestrians. The telltale sign of tuberculosis. It’s a relief to get to the other side of Ninth Avenue, but then we enter a second alley of slums, as ruinous and festering as the first.
We turn another corner, and I hear a chorus of women’s voices from overhead.
I look up. Every window in the tenement block above us is wide open, and from every one peers a female face, rouged, pouting. Bare arms wave from the windows. The voices are calling to Chisholm.
“Hey, good-looking fella!”
“Give us the time of day, man.”
“It’s your lucky day, boyo! Just ask at the door there for Moll.”
I’m shocked, most of all, by Chisholm’s behavior. He stops walking and looks up at the girls. He smiles and waves back at them, and the chorus of voices calling to him increases. I’m stunned by his behavior: I would never have thought it of him. He seems pleased, excited even: taken up into the attention of the girls. As he grins at the faces above us, I hear a movement, below and behind us. I turn to see a shadowy shape move up to us, soundlessly, like a ghost.
I’m looking at the cold glint of sunlight on a cheap, ragged-edged knife. Held to Chisholm’s throat. The blade grazes his Adam’s apple.
“Give me every cent you’ve got.”
As if choreographed, all the girls disappear. We’re alone on the street with our attacker. Chisholm doesn’t speak. I can’t believe he’s brought us to this den of horrors – and now, he’s been taken in by this trick. Five, ten seconds pass: Chisholm does nothing, says nothing, and I see the stranger’s grip tighten, his knuckles white as he presses the knife against the skin. A dull-red stain on the blade must, I guess, be dried blood: I can even see, in the grime of the handle, what look like strands of torn sinew.
I hear a totally unfamiliar voice come from Chisholm’s lips. A broad, friendly Irish brogue.
“Hands off, you daft lad. Put the knife down. Jimmy Nolan would skin your soft hide off your flesh like a carcass down at Tom’s Tannery, if he knew what you were doing to a brother.”
The attacker’s grip eases, his eyes stare. He releases Chisholm, takes a step back. There’s almost an apology in his face. But he’s still the one holding the knife. Chisholm smiles, speaks easily to him in that utterly unexpected accent.
“Today’s password, by the way, is Monaghan. See, you should learn a trick or two and use a better knife. You’ve been butchering bones for Jimmy’s dogs with this one.” Chisholm holds out his hand, flat. Like a child, the man places the knife gently in the palm. Chisholm speaks like he’s giving a fatherly lesson. “A good workman looks after his tools. Sharpen this, and keep it clean. I’d have thought better of a Gopher.”
The Gophers. Even I’ve heard that name: the most notorious and powerful gang in all New York. In bars across America, there are whispers about their fearful deeds. But I’ve also heard that they do more to help the poor Irish of the city than every charity and soup kitchen in Manhattan put together. Chish
olm’s smile is now a warm, wide grin, and his Irish accent continues.
“You’ll have to get up earlier in the morning, before you try jumping the likes of me. I saw you hiding there, clear as day: that’s why I looked up at the girls. Whores calling out to grab the attention of a guy, so some punk can jump him – it’s the oldest trick in the book. So I looked up at the girls, deliberate like, so as to give you the chance. And when you put the knife to me, I didn’t react for a minute or so, just so as to test you out. You see, if you’d been some trash from The Gorillas or The Parlor Mob, and I was standing there and not giving you my cash, you’d have tried sticking the knife to the lady’s neck, see if that would make me cough up some money. But us Gophers are gentlemen, we don’t go around slitting ladies’ throats. We don’t need to. So when you left my girl alone, I knew you were a Gopher.”
The man stand silent, humbled. Embarrassed. Chisholm speaks again.
“So come along with us, son. You see, I’m over from the old country, and I’ve some words to have with Jimmy. I guess he’s in the usual spot?”
“I’ll take you there right now. By the way, my name’s Malone. It’s good to meet you.” Now, the stranger is eager to please: almost fawning on