I thought about Sarah’s words as I walked home, past all the pushcarts. It’s fine for Sarah and me. But what about Teresa?
Tuesday, December 7, 1909
Today was a hard day. Sarah and Clara were not in the union hall at all. I know where they were — on the picket line.
Then tonight, Luisa and I fought again. I was telling her about a man named Arturo Caroti, who’s begun to visit Italian families to explain about the strike and get their support.
Luisa shook her head. “Don’t let him come here, Angela! I’m tired of waiting for our shop to settle. This has gone on long enough. Mama needs my full pay. I don’t care if I do have to cross the picket lines. Rosa and I are hoping to start new jobs at the Triangle Waist Company any day now.”
The Triangle factory! I didn’t know what to say. The worst part is, unless our shop settles soon, Mama will expect me to get a job there, too. I hope she’ll let me wait a little longer.
Besides, as I’ve told Mama, the Triangle factory has many workers. Since I’m only fourteen, I probably would have to go back to snipping threads instead of being a machine operator. I would be better off and would make more money in our smaller shop. I just hope ours settles soon!
Wednesday, December 8, 1909
I looked everywhere, but Sarah and Clara weren’t in the union hall again this morning.
In the late afternoon, one of the union ladies came up to me. “Aren’t you Sarah Goldstein’s Italian friend? We just found out she was arrested on the picket line.”
I asked if Sarah had been hurt, but the lady shrugged. She didn’t know. It would be just like Sarah to be bold and call attention to herself. What if she’s been beaten?
Thursday, December 9, 1909
I got to Clinton Hall early and searched frantically for Sarah. Finally, in the afternoon, I saw her come through the door. Clara, too. I ran and hugged them both.
Sarah said that a tall, fat policeman with a red face had yelled at the picketers to go home and mind their own business.
“An Italian girl came out of the shop we were picketing,” Sarah said. “We told her the shop was on strike and asked her to join the union. Then one of the thugs the bosses hired came over. He hit me so hard, I fell down.”
Clara nodded. “The policeman saw the whole thing, so I asked him to help us. He told us to come to the station to testify against the thug. But when we got there, we were the ones treated like criminals.”
Sarah said they were thrown into a cell with some drunken women. When their case came up in the court, the boss of the shop and the Italian girl testified against them. They lied, saying that Sarah had hit the Italian girl and called her a scab.
It isn’t fair! The workers have the right to strike. Why should the girls be treated like criminals and thrown into jail?
Sarah told me she was going back to the picket line. She begged, “Angela, come with me!”
But I didn’t answer.
Monday, December 13, 1909
Well, it happened! Luisa and Rosa have jobs at the Triangle Waist Company. They started this morning. If our shop doesn’t settle soon, I will be forced to join them.
I must have hope. After all, more and more of the smaller shops are agreeing to the union’s demands. Many girls have already gone back to work.
Still, it seems odd that on the day my sister became a scab, I was asked to read the rules for strikers to some Italian girls. Of course, I already know them by heart.
Rules for Pickets
Don’t walk in groups of more than two or three.
Don’t stand in front of the shop; walk up and down the block.
Don’t stop the person you wish to talk to; walk alongside of her.
Don’t get excited and shout when you are talking.
Don’t put your hand on the person you are speaking to.
Don’t call anyone “scab” or use abusive language of any kind.
Plead, persuade, appeal, but do not threaten.
If a policeman arrests you and you are sure that you have committed no offense, take down his number and give it to your union officers.
Tuesday, December 14, 1909
This morning when I went to the union hall, an American WTUL said, “Please come with me. Today we need someone on the picket line who speaks Italian, someone who can convince the Italian girls not to break the strike.”
She seemed so calm and confident that I would do it that I found myself following her. Sarah came, too. We stood on the sidewalk outside a shop with some other girls and waited. Soon we saw an Italian man leading some girls into the building, through our picket lines.
I cried out in Italian,“Please, do not break the strike. We must stand together to help everyone.”
The girls kept walking. The man scowled at me. I cannot be angry with them, though some of the other strikers are. Maybe it’s because I know how hard it is for them. I know their parents depend on these girls for food and rent money. I know they watch their fathers work like dogs, at jobs that often pay less than their own. And I know they have little sisters, like mine, who walk to school shivering in thin coats.
Tonight Luisa told me she likes the Triangle factory. She said they play music at lunch.
I didn’t dare tell her about the picket line.
Wednesday, December 15, 1909
I walked on the picket line again today. I’m getting more used to it. I guess it’s easier than I thought to be brave.
Today I was more cold than scared. Before long, my fingers and toes were numb and the tips of my ears began to sting. But at least nothing bad happened.
When I got home I finally found out what Vito is up to. He has quit school, even though he’s still thirteen. He’s going to work as a shoeshine boy.
“I’ve been selling rags and scraps of wood for weeks,” Vito announced, throwing his shoulders back proudly. “Finally I got enough to buy a shoeshine kit. This is just the beginning. Someday I’ll be a rich businessman!”
“Then you can buy me all the candy I can eat,” said Teresa. Poor Teresa, she hasn’t had even one piece of candy for such a long time.
Even though I wish he could have stayed in school, I’m proud of my little brother.
Now Teresa is the only one left at school, but she stays home a lot to help Mama make flowers. Each night I look at Teresa’s thin face and listen to her rough breathing beside me. She needs more good food and warm clothes. It seems as if her wheezing is getting worse. Sometimes I feel it is my fault that she’s suffering.
Oh, I hope our shop settles soon.
Later
Mama has just come to talk to me. I was sitting at the kitchen table, writing in my book. She was on her way to the toilet in the hall and said she would be shutting off the gaslight as soon as she came back.
“Sì, Mama,” I told her. “I am almost done writing.”
Then Mama did a surprising thing. She came to stand by my shoulder and said in a soft voice, “Your padre is right, Angela. You must be careful in this strike. We’ve heard the stories of policemen attacking workers on the picket line. I will bring my rolling pin and fight them off if they threaten you!”
“Oh, Mama! I am safe, don’t worry.” But I can’t help smiling at the thought of my mama with her long skirt and shawl, holding a rolling pin under her arm and waving it in the face of a burly policeman.
I feel that Mama, more than Babbo, would just as soon I forget about the strike and go back to work. But I am thankful she has not forced me to — yet.
Maybe she remembers those times back home when she fought, too. Even though my parents don’t trust this union, it seems they remember what it is like to fight for justice.
Sometimes I hear girls in the factory talking about how old-fashioned their parents are, how foreign they are, and how they don’t understand what it is to be American. Our teachers in school don’t seem to pay them much respect, either. I don’t think Miss Kelly really understood what courage it took for my family to leave everything
behind and come here.
But somehow this strike is making me open my eyes and imagine Mama and Babbo as different people. Oh, here is Mama’s hand on the doorknob; time to go to bed.
Monday, December 20, 1909
Good news today. Seven thousand shirtwaist workers in Philadelphia have gone on strike. They refused to do work sent to them by garment factories here in New York City.
There is bad news, too. More and more girls are crossing the picket lines to go back to work. And many of them are Italian girls. This morning I stood outside one shop and called on two girls to please stop. But they hurried by without even looking at me. My voice is getting hoarse.
Sarah is angry when she sees scabs. But my heart isn’t bitter. I understand.
Also, Italian girls and their families weren’t involved in planning the strike at the beginning. Sometimes it makes me angry to hear the union ladies blame the Italian girls for being weak and for not caring about the strike. But things aren’t so simple.
Sarah has the support of her family because they’ve been involved in this union, or one like it. But if the families haven’t been involved, what can the girls do?
I think it’s a good thing that Arturo Caroti and another man, Salvatore Ninfo, are trying to keep the Italian girls from crossing the picket lines by going from house to house to talk to the families and pay strike relief. Still, these Italian organizers should have been part of the fight weeks ago.
Later
Well, right after I wrote these words in my diary I heard more about the Italian labor leader Caroti. Mama sent me to take some of her fresh macaroni to Rosa’s family. What a surprise I had when I walked in, for there at the table was Zi’ Vincenzo, along with my papa and Rosa’s boyfriend, Audenzio. They were in the midst of a loud discussion and barely noticed me come in.
“They’ve recruited Arturo Caroti to help in the shirtwaist strike,” Zi’ Vincenzo was saying in a disgusted voice, pounding his fist on the table. “But that’s only because he helped lead striking silk workers in New Jersey last month. Why didn’t they come to the Italian community earlier? I tell you, we can’t trust these American labor unions.”
I started. They were talking about our strike! I wanted to sit down at the table and join in. But that wouldn’t do, in a room full of men.
Instead, I walked as slowly and quietly as I could across the kitchen, placing the bowl of macaroni on a small table in the corner. Out of the corner of my eye I saw a movement. Audenzio was starting to speak and, just as he had done in the barbershop, he began to gesture wildly.
“True, true,” he cried. “Still, here in New York, we must find ways to combine forces with the Jewish labor leaders. The men miscalculated the determination of these girls. Local 25 of the ILGWU is disorganized, they didn’t plan well enough. It’s clear these girls will fail, even with the help of those Americans from the WTUL, the Women’s Trade Union League. But we can learn from their mistakes. This shirtwaist strike may do more than expected. It may help us down the road if we learn from it.”
Fail! In spite of myself, I whirled around to stare at Audenzio. Who did he think he was? He was talking about the strike as if it were already over! How dare he speak so calmly of our certain defeat? He wasn’t out on the picket line in the cold. He wasn’t sacrificing for his family.
At that moment, he looked up and our eyes met. I shot him a dark look that would have made Luisa proud.
Suddenly, Babbo, whose back was to me, turned. For the first time, he seemed to notice I was there. I quickly crossed to the door, mumbling something about Mama’s gift of macaroni. Then I let myself out.
Well, it’s a good thing Audenzio is Rosa’s boyfriend, not Luisa’s!
Monday, December 27, 1909
What an awful day! More strikers were arrested. Thugs came outside the shop where we were picketing. They knocked some of the girls to their knees, striking at them. I was afraid, and stepped to the back. I began to tremble. I didn’t want to be beaten by these rough-looking men.
The thugs made a path for the scabs, who ran to the door of the factory with their eyes straight ahead. I think they were ashamed to look at us.
It is always the same story. Even though we were the ones who were attacked, when the police came they arrested strikers, not the thugs!
Sarah had bad news today, too. From the moment I first saw her I just knew something had happened. Clara has begun working at the Triangle Waist Company!
“I cannot believe she would do this,” she kept repeating over and over.
“You can’t blame her, Sarah,” I told her. “Clara’s the only support for her mother. It’s not her fault she couldn’t hold out any longer. I don’t blame Rosa or Luisa, either.”
But Sarah has a special hatred for the Triangle factory, partly because she once worked there, but mostly because it’s one of the larger factories that are resisting the union the most. The big bosses at Triangle are Isaac Harris and Max Blanck, Sarah told me. They’re known as “the shirtwaist kings.”
Girls are going to work there because they are desperate. “But these bosses will never agree to all the union demands, like better fire escapes and no locked doors,” Sarah said, her voice bitter and tired.
I told Sarah what Luisa had said, that at the Triangle factory she gets hot tea at lunch, and even phonograph music. Sarah just shook her head. “Just wait, Angela. I know this factory. They won’t be serving tea once this strike is over.”
Tuesday, December 28, 1909
There was more trouble today. Our union, Local 25 of the ILGWU, rejected an agreement with the largest companies, which are part of the Associated Waist and Dress Manufacturers. These companies said they would agree to some of our demands, like a fifty-two-hour work week and no charges for needles and supplies. But they refused to recognize the union or accept the union’s role.
Some of the rich American ladies from the WTUL, who have been helping us, think that Local 25 should have accepted this offer, because it gives us some of the things we want. They say it was our best chance, and we’ll lose public sympathy by turning it down.
But if the companies don’t agree that the union’s role is to bargain for all workers, then we lose in the end, anyway. The companies want an open shop — they want to be able to hire union and non-union workers. But we want a closed shop — only union workers. If we give in to the open shop, we’ll never have the power to force them to change.
Sometimes when I look at what I have written in this book, I feel so surprised. Just a few months ago, I was in school. I’d never even heard of a labor union. Now I’m learning about unions, closed shops, open shops, and the rights of workers. I’ve even spoken in front of rooms full of girls.
I wonder what Miss Kelly would say about her little sparrow now.
Wednesday, December 29, 1909
Today I sold newspapers! It was a special edition of the worker newspaper, The Call, to benefit the strikers. I wore a white ribbon like a sash and stood on a cold street corner with Sarah and some other girls.
We sold all our papers in only two hours. Usually The Call costs two cents, but this special edition was a nickel. Some people gave even more than that! One man pressed a quarter into my hand and wished me good luck. Later on we heard that the strikers sold forty-five thousand newspapers.
“Even though we’re stronger than anyone thought, the big companies are holding out,” Sarah said today as we stood shivering in the wind. “I wonder if we’ll be strong enough in the end.”
Sarah is certain our shop will settle in just a few days. I hope so, for I can’t hold out much longer. Luisa wants me to apply for a job at the Triangle factory. She likes it there, and says that since it’s one of the larger shops, there will be work all year and that the workdays always end at six.
Sarah laughed when I told her this. “What have I told you? When the strike ends, those girls will be back to working until nine o’clock at night, except for Friday and Saturday. And there is no overtime pay. Do
you know what they’ll do instead? They’ll give them a piece of apple pie. I’d rather have my money than pie!”
Sarah remembers a big sign posted at the Triangle factory on Saturday afternoons during the busy season. The sign read, IF YOU DON’T COME IN ON SUNDAY, YOU NEED NOT COME IN ON MONDAY.
Monday, January 3, 1910
It’s a new year, but there’s not much to celebrate. Mama needed me to make flowers today. Teresa helped, too. But it seems to me the shadows under her eyes have grown darker, and she coughs more than ever.
I helped Mama cook today. With our money so low, it is always pasta and beans, pasta and beans every day.
Maybe that’s why each day there are fewer girls at the union hall. After all, everyone has to eat. But even though I feel like giving up, Sarah has remained firm. She’s ready to fight to the end.
Sarah says that all her family eats now are potatoes. Sarah can make things seem funny even when they are sad. Today she even sang me a song about potatoes. The song was in Yiddish, so I didn’t understand it, but Sarah translated it into English:
Sunday, potatoes
Monday, potatoes
Tuesday and Wednesday, potatoes
Thursday and Friday, potatoes
Saturday we live to see a potato pudding,
And Sunday we have potatoes again.
Tuesday, January 4, 1910
Well, the strike is over for me. Tonight Mama said it was time, we could not wait any longer. There’s nothing I can do now. And so I promised that I’d go with Luisa to the Triangle factory on Monday.
We fought so hard, but every day, the number of girls out on strike is smaller. The girls and their families are hungry. And it’s so cold, no one can stand to walk the picket lines for long. I saw a copy of The Call today. It says there is a cold wave starting, with bitter north winds blowing in.
Dear America: Hear My Sorrow Page 7