Deep River

by Karl Marlantes

  The workers stayed with the union, and with every man beaten and woman sent home with half pay anger grew. Aino used that anger to overcome their reluctance to retaliate with the only weapon they had: the strike. Still, they would not strike, hoping that management would relent.

  Then, in April 1923, one man had four of his front teeth broken off at the roots by a man wielding brass knuckles. That night, after an impassioned speech by Aino, the workers voted to strike, asking for an eight-hour day at twenty-five cents an hour, nearly double what they’d been receiving.

  Management retaliated by switching work to other factories.

  Aino quit her job and, relying on fellow Wobblies to give her food and shelter, took the train to St. Louis, the site of one of the company factories to which management had diverted work. She had the St. Louis workers organized within a week. When she returned to Chicago, she spent hours at the Western Union office, coordinating the Denver Wobblies to get the Denver workers to strike the company’s remaining factory. She and her fellow Wobblies enlisted the help of teamsters and railroad workers in every city where Cleveland Shirt and Dress operated. Cleveland Shirt and Dress shipments languished in warehouses and on loading docks; boxcars with Cleveland Shirt and Dress shipments got lost or hooked onto trains going in the wrong direction.

  Faced with being outmaneuvered by the IWW, and with pressure from sympathetic AF of L workers, Cleveland Shirt and Dress resorted to other more sophisticated forms of counterpressure: politics and public relations.

  By late May the strike had gone on for several weeks. Aino spent a lot of her time making sure that the picket lines were manned. Picketers brandished signs calling for an end to slavery. Aino usually joined the picketers before and after work, carrying a One Big Union sign. She and all the other Wobblies took pains with their apparel. Even though temperatures were in the low eighties, she wore a tight-fitting jacket over her dress.

  Tensions were mounting. May was when Cleveland Shirt and Dress had orders to fill for the summer line—and the buyers would be putting pressure on the company to deliver as promised. Every day was a day of lost revenue at a peak buying time and a day where the competition would steal market share. Management, who had previously weathered two strikes without meeting workers’ demands, began a public relations campaign. A firm was hired to write and place newspaper articles with appropriate stories. It seeded bystanders with people paid to reinforce management’s message, physically if need be.

  Aino was unsurprised when the hired public relations firm planted stories and slanted the news. But she hadn’t expected it to undertake direct action of its own. One morning, she faced an unusually sullen and hostile crowd. The morning had started with the usual taunts: “Traitors, you all ought to be in jail” or “Commie bastards, if you don’t like it here, move to Russia.” This was standard anti-Wobbly fare, the old red menace fear combined with lingering anger over the perceived and much-advertised traitorous sabotaging of the war effort.

  This crowd was different. Aino could see the police looking nervously at their supervisors. Something was up. Her anxiety started to grow into fear. She walked from picketer to picketer, steadying them, warning them.

  The first hint of what was to come was a rock hitting Aino’s sign, hurled by a boy of about ten. Then she saw other boys, about the same age, running out from the crowd, throwing their rocks, then scampering back to where they couldn’t be seen. The rocks pelted down on the picketers, who tried to shelter behind their signs.

  A boy with thick red hair came out of the crowd, hurled his stone, and started back in, but Aino ran for him and caught him just inside the line of the gathering crowd.

  “Let me go! She’s kidnapping me! Let me go!” The boy shouted, obviously enjoying himself.

  “I won’t until you show me the man who’s paying you.”

  The boy struggled. Aino held on. Then a woman’s voice said, “You leave that child alone!”

  The boy, sensing victory, started shouting, “Help! Help! She’s trying to kidnap me.”

  “You let him go,” the woman said. She didn’t wait for Aino to release the boy. “Police! Police!”

  Two policemen from the line that separated the crowd and the strikers started toward Aino. She panicked and ran for the picket line, the two officers in hot pursuit. Several of the male garment pressers from the factory moved into their path, letting Aino inside the line. The police started hitting the men with their billy clubs.

  At first, the rest of the policemen didn’t know what to do, but someone in the crowd shouted, “They’re attacking the police! Get the Bolshevik bastards!”

  The crowd surged.

  Aino was put in an ugly little cell in the Cook County jail, along with two other women picketers. Once again, her back was a mass of welts and bruises, blood showing at the roots of her hair by her right ear. The only light in the cell came from a single window, high above them, so covered with grime they could not see the sky. Her cell mates were huddled on the floor against the wall, both clearly frightened, one occasionally bursting into tears. They were garment workers, not organizers.

  Aino stood away from them, pushing her back against the cold stone wall, struggling to contain her panic, consciously trying to keep herself in the present. Being in jail was no longer new. Still, every time, it raised the ghost of Helsinki.

  She sat down next to the woman who’d been crying. “Everything going to be OK. They just scaring you,” she whispered.

  “They’re doing a great job,” the woman whispered back.

  They always do, Aino thought, cradling the woman’s head against her shoulder.

  They were left in the cell for hours, having to share one bucket to relieve themselves. Around midnight, they heard keys jangling and the lock turning. Two guards, followed by a supervisor, came into the cell.

  “It stinks in here, ladies,” the supervisor said. The two guards chuckled. The supervisor stopped in front of each woman, exaggeratedly wrinkling his nose. He turned to the guards. “Take the other two, leave that one.” He pointed at Aino. She felt her heart lurch. She struggled not to show it. They had singled her out.

  The two guards roughly grabbed her cell mates. The one who’d not been crying protested. “Where are you taking us? What’s our crime? You can’t hold us without—” She was cut short by a backhand slap from the supervisor. “Are you going to be a troublemaker?” he asked her. She lowered her head and the supervisor grunted approval.

  Aino pushed herself up against the wall with one forearm held up against her breasts and the other held down in a fist protecting her vulva. Her hands were shaking. She knew she must act, say something to show she wouldn’t be intimidated. By sheer will she lowered her arms and straightened her back. “What crime have we done? What is going to happen to us?”

  The two guards looked at the supervisor to see if he would answer. He nodded for them to get on with their business, which they did, taking the two women away. He turned to Aino. “Not us, princess, you. We’ve found no record of an Ina Virtanen. Those two women are United States citizens. Unless you have proof you are, and even that may not save you, you’ll be sent back to Finland under the Espionage Act.”

  “We not fighting in the war now.”

  The man laughed. “The war’s over, yes, but the Espionage Act is here to stay.” He leaned in so their faces were only inches apart, making Aino press back against the wall even harder. “You and your communist traitor friends are not.”

  He walked to the door, then turned to look at her. She could see his body and head silhouetted by the naked lightbulbs strung down the corridor. Then he shut the door and she was in darkness, all alone, again.

  Panic grabbed her. She fought it back, trying to take regular deep breaths. She failed. She rammed her fist into her mouth and bit down, hard. The pain brought her to the present.

  She squatted against the dank wall and wrapped her skirt tightly around her ankles to keep out rats. She could hear her own breathing
and occasional clangs, clanks, and the voices of guards. Then she heard sharp claws skittering across the stone floor. She rose to her feet, her heart pounding. Maíjaliisa would say now was the time for sisu. Ilmari would say now was the time to pray. Matti would say now was the time to kill rats. It was too dark, however, to see the rats, and she did not want to have to feel for them. What she said to herself was that now was the time to endure.

  She pulled her skirt tightly around her legs against the rats, fighting what she knew was a pull into insanity. She was in Chicago, not Helsinki. Americans don’t torture people. She realized she was moaning.

  She finally exhausted herself and went unconscious. When she awoke, looking up at the window she guessed it was still early morning. She tried to remember everything about Eleanor: how she smelled after breastfeeding, how she looked sleeping, how soft the skin on her face felt, her perfect fingers with their tiny perfect fingernails, the sound of her laughter. She imagined Eleanor with Alma and Ilmari. She imagined walking with her brothers and Eleanor on the banks of Deep River. She remembered that day walking back to the mill when she’d turned her back on Deep River. For the co-op? For the One Big Union? For her own feelings of worth and, yes, power? Fighting for a worthy cause? Oh, the cause was worthy—but was it worth it?

  She remembered her argument with Kyllikki. Had she put Eleanor first, she wouldn’t be here now, terrified. It occurred to her to pray. Oh, how easy it would be to take it all to the friend we have in Jesus. Bring it to the Lord in prayer. She laughed at herself. Then she started thinking: What’s wrong with comfort in hard times—even comfort based on a fairy tale? Why did she have to be the one who put aside her life and the people she loved for the betterment of society? If people like her didn’t do it, the world would surely be run by the bullies and tyrants, whether political or economic. When was it time to pass on the torch? She was suddenly tired of being tough-minded. She wished Aksel and the Bachelor Boys would come storming through the door. She smiled at the scene she’d just constructed with herself, Aino, the damsel in distress. Then she wondered: What’s wrong with that? It’s what she was.

  She didn’t exactly pray, but she did make a promise—to who or what she did not know, but to something more than just herself. She promised that if she ever got out of this alive, she would put Eleanor and her family first. She would be the best mother Eleanor could have, a mother with a capital M—and she would go back to Deep River.

  The keys in the door set her heart thumping again. The single pane high above her showed a dirty gray-brown light. She braced herself.

  The man who stepped inside carried a briefcase and wore a neat business suit. She heard the guard say, “Twenty minutes.”

  She backed up against the wall. There was no escape.

  “Well, Ina,” the man said. “I’m Albert Angell.” He smiled. “I’m not, however, an angel. I’m a lawyer.”

  She said nothing. This might be a ruse.

  After several minutes of calm talk, he eventually gained her trust. He was from a prominent Chicago firm but did pro bono work for the IWW, lately trying to get its leadership out of prison.

  Aino wanted to hug the man but knew it was undignified.

  She told him everything: her real name, her involvement with radical socialism in Finland, her family, her marriage to Jouka, her divorce. He questioned her in some detail about what happened in Centralia when she told him she’d been there during the massacre. Then he switched to another line of questions.

  “You say you’re divorced.”

  She nodded. “My husband is not living with me,” She hung her head, unable to look at him.

  “What jurisdiction?”

  She looked at him, puzzled.

  “What court? Where did you file the papers?”

  “I didn’t file them.”

  “So, you’re not divorced?”

  “Jouka doesn’t live with me anymore.”

  “That’s called a separation.” He paused and took a small breath.

  “Is Jouka a U.S. citizen?”

  “Yes. He was born in Washington State.”

  Angell smiled as if he’d just won a poker hand. “Fact is,” he said, “as far as the law is concerned, you’re still married.” He paused for effect. “To a U.S. citizen.” She looked at him questioningly. “They were thinking of deporting you. I think now they’ll have a hard time. You’re a U.S. citizen, too. All but the paperwork.”

  “I ran from the law in Centralia. My name is in newspapers as an accomplice.”

  “Accomplice?” He looked at her, thinking. “As far as the state of Washington is concerned, they’ve imprisoned everyone who’s guilty.” His jaw tightened. “Unjustly. With shockingly unfair sentences.” He brought himself back to the cell. “I’ll check to be sure, but my guess is that no one’s looking for you.”

  She wrote to Matti, Kyllikki, Alma, and Ilmari to tell them she was coming home as soon as she earned the fare—and she was coming home to stay. She hesitated but plunged in, telling them about the strike and being thrown into jail. That night she slept, troubled by dreams of frantically searching for Eleanor. She woke several times, wondering if Eleanor remembered her. She’d left her a toddler. She’d be five by the time she returned. Could she ever make it right?

  4

  During Aino’s lost years in Chicago, the Bachelor Boys had moved from subsisting on elk whistlers to thriving in the liquor business. Jens, Yrjö, and Heppu sent a lot of money to their families. They were all content with using one of the trucks for personal affairs, but they rarely needed transportation for personal affairs because the Bachelor Boys as a group had all chipped in on a deep-burgundy, four-door 1923 Oldsmobile Sports Touring car with black trim, solid burgundy wheels, and black leather seats. Being behind its steering wheel was sheer exhilarating joy and being in the back seat with no control was sometimes sheer exhilarating terror. There was no road in Pacific and Nordland Counties that tested its maximum speed. Police departments didn’t have the budgets to buy vehicles that could compete.

  Because Aksel was the leader, he drove the Oldsmobile most often, using it on a regular basis to drive to Nordland to make deposits in the Nordland Bank. Just another year or two, he figured, and he’d have the finest gill net boat on the Columbia, made to his specifications with a four-cylinder gasoline engine. Matti was investing in the stock market and that looked like a smart thing to do, but Aksel wasn’t interested in getting rich. Even though the stock market seemed to do nothing but go up, he didn’t want to risk the boat. He wanted money in the bank.

  He, however, had a problem: income tax, which could lead to other charges, confiscation, and even jail time. He couldn’t show large deposits in his name.

  Louhi used Al Drummond to launder her earnings for the same reason, so Aksel went to Drummond. Aksel knew Drummond was slippery, but anyone who laundered money was slippery by definition. In addition, Drummond was the only game in town. He and the sheriff kept out all the competition. Aksel figured that along with his connection with Louhi, better the devil he knew.

  Al was only too happy to set up a savings account under a false name for him, for a mere 2 percent per year on the balance, paid directly to the bank every three months. The account would yield no interest. Another cost of doing business—illegally.

  The account grew and one night at their camp Aksel asked the Bachelor Boys to sit with him by the cook fire. When Aksel opened a bottle of scotch, they knew the meeting was serious. They never drank inventory.

  In the twilight that still lingered even though it was after ten, they passed the bottle around like a peace pipe, saying nothing until everyone had taken a sip. When it returned to Aksel he placed it carefully in front of him and took a deep breath.

  “I’ve decided to quit,” he said. “I’ve got more than enough for my boat.”

  Everyone took it in.

  Jens motioned toward the scotch. He took a swig and said, “Maybe you should wait a bit.”

  He pass
ed the bottle to Heppu, who said, “That’ll only leave four of us. Holding the turf with four is going to be harder.” He passed the bottle to Yrjö.

  Yrjö took a drink, said nothing, and passed it back to Aksel.

  “You can have the Oldsmobile,” Aksel said. His meaning was clear. He passed the bottle to Jens and it went around the circle until it was empty.

  Aksel left in the Oldsmobile the next morning, getting to Nordland late in the day. The bank was still open.

  He walked in, put his savings book in front of the teller, and said he wanted to withdraw all his money. The teller looked at the sum in the book, blinked, regained his composure, and said, “Certainly, sir. Can I just see some identification?”

  Aksel blinked. When he regained his composure, he asked, “Isn’t the savings book enough?”

  “No sir, I’m sorry. It could be stolen.” He hastily added, “I’m sure it isn’t, but we need to protect our customers. You understand.”

  Aksel took three slow breaths. Then he asked, “Is Mr. Drummond in?”

  “I’ll see, sir.”

  The teller left. When he came back, he said, “Mr. Drummond asks who you are.”

  Aksel stormed into Drummond’s office without knocking. Drummond looked up, surprised, then immediately became the genial banker.