No Country: A Novel (42 page)

“I’m Annie,” the girl spoke a thick brogue, “Annie Starr. And this is Julia Rosen.” But Julia went on working, barely acknowledging me.

I felt a little apprehensive around the stolid middle-aged women, or the bent older ones who fretted about getting slow or their tired eyes. The cutters were all men and, being better paid, thought the world of themselves, Annie told me. I noticed too, how the boys in the cutting and shipping sections made eyes at pretty girls, some of whom giggled or snapped back pert answers.

Oh, there was plenty to watch, but little time, as I focused on my job, sewing linings on a pile of coats dumped beside me. Twice that afternoon, our supervisors, Anna Gullo and Lucy Wesselofsky, came up to me, pointing out this or that wrong stitch or bent seam.
Oh bother those two!

As we walked home that evening, Josephine noticed I had my head bent, eyes fixed on the sidewalk underfoot. “Bibi?” she said, “it is that bad, yes?”

“No, no, it is not,” I said, gritting my teeth, and then conceded, “I just have to keep thinking of my first pay, and it gets easier.”

Josephine laughed. “The workers of the world are all united on that one issue, neh?”

•  •  •

B
UT THE SECOND
and third days were easier. Crowded together, sharing tools and materials, I made new friends among my co-workers, even some who spoke little English but chattered among themselves in Yiddish, Italian, or Polish, but they all tried their English on me. On the second day, Rebecca Feibisch gave me two pierogies from her lunch and said something nice to me in Yiddish. Although I did not comprehend what all her words meant, I had already begun to pick up words and phrases from Josephine and her family, feeling a deep connection to the language, touching my father through it.

Rebecca spoke often to me, as did Sarah Sabasowitz, a thin girl with bright, mismatched eyes. Poor Julia Rosen was bent and aged before her time, although she was probably thirty and seldom talked or smiled, unlike Sarah Kupla—young Sarah never could stop giggling—and plump Ida Kenowitz almost always got her started. Sarah and Ida were inseparable and shared everything: tools, scissors, lunch, and confidences. Ida joked that they would end up marrying the same man!

By the end of the week, I had begun to learn a lot about rapid stitching from Julia Rosen, although she had a temper, and also from plucky little Vincenza Bellota, who, though only sixteen, had to take the ferry early each morning all the way from Hoboken, where she lived with her gruff uncle Ignazio. Vincenza’s high Neapolitan laugh was unmistakable, and she made me her friend, offering to teach me Italian words once she came to know that my Frankie was from Boscotrecase.

My back and eyes hurt by the end of each day, but I already knew better than to complain. Josephine had told me that for each one of us—almost a hundred and fifty who worked here, on the ninth floor—there were dozens of others working the same or worse hours in basement sweatshops, damp back rooms,
often the prey of violent employers. Here, at least, that did not happen.

Mr. Blanck did the ledgers, grinding us for each penny, while his partner Mr. Harris knew about the actual cutting and sewing. “He is always cutting corners,” I whispered to Vincenza, who loved my joke. What he liked best was to come up with ways to dock our pay. He was so fearful of anyone taking the smallest scrap that he had the doors to the roof locked, so no one—even on a break—could take a breath of fresh air.

Huge open windows to the east and south opened to a fine view of Washington Square Park for those who worked on the tables around those windows. But even for beginners like me who sat far inside, there was enough natural light, for which I thanked God ten times a day.

The day I walked back with my first pay, I was elated, but then it hit me that this would go on, without the novelty, week after week, for months, and then years. In the street, for an instant, I felt a momentary revulsion for the already familiar mixture of the smells of fresh starch, new cotton and wool.

How Josephine managed tirelessly to do all she did, I marveled. Apart from the grind of daily work, she went to the Alliance, a stone’s throw from the Bialystoker Synagogue, to take classes in history and learn to play the piano. She had already taken me to the Cooper Union to hear a free lecture on workers’ rights. Afterward, she walked up and talked to a man she said I must meet: It was Mr. Abraham Cahan, the editor of the
Forward
. Josephine felt she could talk to everybody in the world. And she went to union meetings with her friends Clara Lemlich and Yetta Ruth, and brought back bundles of pamphlets, some of which she secretly gave to fellow workers.

On my third week at work, one of the supervisors slapped stoop-shouldered Julius Roth, who had protested loudly that he had been docked part of his pay for a mistake someone else had made. He left by the stairs after being fired.

We rode up, packed tight on the freight elevator, only when we reported for work. Mr. Zito, the operator, always hummed some show tune or other under his breath.

Every little movement has a meaning

all its own—unh-ha

His hands were known to wander in the crowded elevator. After each trip, he wiped his palms on either side of his Brilliantined head, as if coaxing that chinless balloon to stay glued on his round shoulders. He chewed mint all the time. But everybody knew another story about him: how he had taken a half day off, without pay, to help a sick seamstress, supporting her down all nine flights of stairs—the elevator was out of bounds to employees except for going up at the beginning of the shift—then propped her home to her mother.

Each week, a man called Max Schlansky came by and went away with a packet. This Schlansky wore a black homburg and spoke to no one, but there was about him an air of malicious power.

“What does he do?” I asked Josephine at home.

“Schlansky? He breaks strikes. He breaks people,” she replied, making a face.

One day, another man came by—for a smaller packet. A shiver ran through my frame, but I kept quiet. He was not treated with the same wary respect by Mr. Harris or by his assistant, who gave
him the packet. This man also did what Mr. Schlansky never did. He counted the money. Then he spat on the floor, conveying his dissatisfaction before leaving.

It was Ijjybijjy Malouf.

•  •  •

W
E BENT OVER
our work, twelve hours a day, surrounded by the sounds of our trade, but found ways to chatter, bantering and gossiping, while our fingers were flying, scissors snicking, steam hissing and rising like local clouds where the girls did the pressing. Some, like Sarah Sabasowitz, struggled to keep pace with the seasoned ones like Annie Starr, who could finish lining a suit jacket every six minutes. I had been at my job about two months now, and could already finish eight in an hour. Fifteen-year-old Bessie Viviano with her nimble fingers finished eleven, but because she had no head for figures, she got short-changed each time. I told her to keep count by putting a small colored string in her pocket for every ten she finished, a trick I had thought up for myself.

When my neck hurt, I would close my eyes momentarily, clench my tired palms, and think intently of our new home: Josephine had helped me find a tiny apartment with a kitchen—and a bathtub in it!—close to Water Slip off the East River. It would be available in a week or so. In that same building lived Hepzibah Schiffman, a plump smiling widow whom Josephine knew well. She would look after my boy while I worked. That is why I did not mind how much Anna Gullo the sour-faced supervisor scowled, sticking her head through lines of hanging patterns that hung like paper ghosts.

I did not want to acknowledge it even to myself, but I thought often of the sweet life on the farm. I longed for Grandpa Brendan and his simple affection. Most of all, I longed for Frankie’s arms around me, but what I missed most keenly was his zest for life. It fed mine. I yearned for my little boy, how he smelt, his minute perfect fingers, his chortles when I would pretend to hide behind my palms and then go peek-a-boo. He never did tire of that game. I felt our lives, Frankie’s, Padraig’s, and mine, were a grim version of that hide-and-seek game, where we were each trying to come find each other. Had my baby forgotten me, did he miss me? I thought with anguish if now he loved Mama more than me.

Not daring to ask for a couple of days off to go to the farm, I wrote to Mama with the news of my job and asked her to bring my son the next weekend, adding the news about Frankie and his quest in Naples.

I had so wanted to prove to my mother that I could manage on my own, but felt no great triumph now. A month ago I had felt the need to stand squarely before her and ask why she had not given my letter,
my
letter by rights, from Frankie. But the sharp edge of my anger had blunted. I thought of my little boy safe with her and missed the uncrowded rhythms of the farm. Oh, I knew that she loved me too; it was its insistence and grip that galled me. Yet the days away from her had taken away its sharp vinegar. My heart was torn over my proud, obdurate mother who was silent about too many things, while I need to talk.

Why do I always need to set my will against hers, Grandpapa Brendan?
I thought,
Will Mama see things my way now, stand by me, and say, “No need for Mrs. Schiffman, for I am right here for you”?

•  •  •

J
OSEPHINE HAD GOT
up early this particular Saturday morning. It was the first time in years that she had taken a day off work, for Uncle Arthur was turning sixty years old. Shy as a schoolboy, he beamed about all the fuss Josephine made. He too had taken the day off. But I would be paid today and hand over much of that money to my landlord. I would be given the key to my own place right away, or a day later, if the landlord did not want to work on his Sabbath. I would miss Josephine, and the two old men, but felt a deep pleasure that I would have a home of my own.

I expected my mother to arrive either today or on Sunday at Josephine’s, but I was certain she would come this weekend. Josephine insisted that it would be no problem for all of us to share her room for the day or so until I had my apartment ready.

Josephine appeared happy, joyous as a child on her own birthday. She made Uncle Arthur his favorite breakfast, then went about the apartment busily arranging for the birthday dinner and also the probable arrival of my mother and son. Before I left, she said, “I thought of something else, Bibi. I met Nino Tancredi at a union meeting, and he said that he was working with Italian immigrant groups from Naples and the church there. I just thought to send word through him for news of Lucia and Frankie.”

I felt my tears gathering. “But I wrote dozens of those letters,” I began.

“Hush,” she said, touching my arm, “this is different. You know how the mails are. Nino is going himself next week. He is such a close friend, a good union man. He will do this personally for me. He promised. I wanted to wait until I had some news, but today I thought you should have some joy too.” I smiled, my heart aching to gain faith.

I left reluctantly, for the apartment was full of cheer. I stood at
the door, watching Uncle Arthur and Uncle Julius shake hands, chuckling as they sat down for a leisurely cup of coffee and quiet smoke, while Josephine bustled behind them.

When I stepped out into the street, I felt amazed by the beautiful day. Twenty-fifth of March, and already glorious weather, the sky a deep blue lake. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught sight of that receding figure: the shy young man with the fair hair, vivid blue eyes, yarmulke on his head, crossing the street away from me. For a moment I thought I’d call out after the stranger, “Jakob Sztolberg, oh stop for me, Jakob. It’s me, Bibi. Don’t you know me, Papa?” But he had gone from my life again. I looked up at the sky and saw the glide of a pale hawk as it soared above the sparkling city and watched until it disappeared from sight.

“I am happy,” I told myself. “Someday I will meet my papa, I know, in no country where time exists. Won’t that be something!”

•  •  •

M
Y BACK HURT
by late afternoon as I labored on, absorbed in the frenzy of the closing work week. The operators worked their stuttering machines, and the runners scampered up and down with fabric lengths, putting them into wicker baskets by our side, and picking up the finished pieces: sleeves and tucked collars and such. Everything around me screamed
hurry, hurry!
The machines were clicking at a gallop. The foremen bellowed the number of pieces needed, checking various piles, in a complicated race. I wondered if I could ever fit back into the farm again.

I raised my head briefly to ease my aching shoulders, staring into the distance, not really focusing on anything. With a jolt, I recognized the receding coppery head of Ijjybijjy Malouf. A cigarette
hung from the corner of his mouth. He walked through the busy room, pushing his way with his muscular shoulders, looking neither left nor right. He slipped into Mr. Blanck’s glassed-in office and kicked the door shut behind him. The green glow of the banker’s lamp on Mr. Blanck’s desk made them look submerged and mossy. I watched, fascinated, hands on my lap—the only person on the work floor not caught up just now in the frenetic pace of the closing hour.

“Nine more sleeves, double quick!” bellowed Mr. Bernstein to one of the runners.

Just beyond Mr. Abramowitz at his cutter’s table, I could still see Malouf and Mr. Blanck but could not hear a thing. They seemed to be quarreling. Mr. Blanck’s mouth opened and closed, his face livid, and he kept pointing his index finger, whether to make a point or to show Malouf the door, I was not sure. I watched Ijjybijjy clenching his jaw, smoke curling up from the cigarette in his mouth. Suddenly he pushed Mr. Blanck with his open palm, making him stagger against his desk. Malouf turned around, as if on a mechanical device, and slid out.

He flicked something into Mr. Abramowitz’s bin of scrap cuttings of cotton and lawn before he slunk off toward the main door. There Ijjybijjy swiveled around to stare at the room, as if he were a curious passerby. A small smile played on his lips. Mr. Blanck seemed relieved to be rid of the man and bent down to make a phone call.