"Good as anybody can be on twelve dollars a week."
"_Ach_, forget it, forget it! Always money, money! Whether a person
gets ten cents or three hundred dollars--it's not the money that
counts"--his hands went up in the air--"it's the _service_!"
Yet employers tell labor managers they must not sentimentalize.
A bit later he came back. "I tell you what I'll do. You stay late
every night this week and work Saturday afternoon like I told you you
should, and I'll pay you for it!"
To such extremes a sense of justice can carry one! (Actually, he had
expected that extra work of me gratis!)
During the week I figured out that in his own heart that boss had
figured out a moral equivalent for a living wage. There was nothing he
would not do for me. Did he but come in my general direction, I was
given a helping hand. He joked with me continually. The hammer and
nails were always busy. I was not only "dearie," I was "sweetheart."
But fourteen dollars a week--that was another story.
Ada was full of compassion and suggested various arguments I should
use next week on the boss. It was awful what he paid me, Ada declared.
She too would talk to him.
The second week I got closer to the girls. Or, more truthfully put,
they got closer to me. At the other factories I had asked most of the
questions and answered fewer. Here I could hardly get a question in
edgewise for the flood which was let loose on me. I explained in each
factory that I lived with a widow who brought me from California to
look after her children. I did some work for her evenings and Saturday
afternoon and Sunday, to pay for my room and board. Not only was I
asked every conceivable question about myself, but at the dress
factory I had to answer uncountable questions about the lady I lived
with--her "gentlemen friends," her clothes, her expenses. It was like
pulling teeth for me to get any information out of the girls.
In such a matter as reading, for example. Every girl I asked was fond
of reading. What kind of books? Good books. Yes, but the names. I got
_We Two_ out of Sarah, and Jean was reading Ibsen's _Doll's House_. It
was a swell book, a play. After hours one night she told me the story.
Together with Ada's concern over my grammar it can be seen that I left
the dress factory in intellectual advance over the condition in which
I entered.
The girls I had the opportunity of asking were not such "movie"
enthusiasts, on the whole. Only now and then they went to "a show."
Less frequently they spoke of going to the Jewish Theater. No one was
particularly excited over dancing--in fact, Sarah, who looked the
blond type of the dance-every-night variety, thought dancing
"disgusting." Shows weren't her style. She liked reading. Whenever I
got the chance I asked a girl what she did evenings. The answer
usually was, "Oh, nothing much." One Friday I asked a group of girls
at lunch if they weren't glad the next day was Saturday and the
afternoon off. Four of them weren't glad at all, because they had to
go home and clean house Saturday afternoons, and do other household
chores. "Gee! don't you hate workin' round the house?"
I wonder how much of the women-in-industry movement is traceable to
just that.
The first day I was at the dress factory a very dirty but
pleasant-faced little Jewish girl said to me, "Ever try workin' at
home? Ain't it just awful?" She had made thirty-two dollars a week
beading at her last place--didn't know what she'd get here.
I had hoped to hear murmurings and discussions about the conditions of
the garment trades and the unions--not a word the whole time. Papers
were full of a strike to be called the next week throughout the city,
affecting thousands of waist and dress makers. It might as well have
been in London. Not an echo of interest in it reached our factory. I
asked Sarah if she had ever worked in a union shop. "Sure." "Any
different from this?" "Different? You bet it's different. Boss
wouldn't dare treat you the way you get treated here." But as usual I
was yelled for and got no chance ever to pin Sarah to details.
A group of girls in the dressing room exploded one night, "Gee! they
sure treat you like dogs here! No soap, no towels--nothing." The
hours were good--8.30 to 12.15; 1 to 5.15. One Saturday Ada and the
boss asked the beaders to work in the afternoon. Not one stayed. Too
many had heard the tales of girls working overtime and not being paid
anything extra.
* * * * *
Wednesday I went back after my last week's pay. When the cashier
caught sight of me she was full of interest. "I was writing you a
letter this very day. The boss wants you back awful badly. He's out
just now for lunch. Can't you wait?"
Just then the boss stepped from the elevator. "_Ach_, here you are!
Now, dearie, if it's just a matter of a few dollars or so--"
I was leaving town. Much discussion. No, I couldn't stay on. Well, if
I insisted--yes, he'd get my pay envelope. My, oh, my, they missed me!
Why so foolish as to leave New York? Now, as for my wages, they could
easily be fixed to suit.... All right, all right, he'd get my last pay
envelope.
And there was my pay envelope with just twelve dollars again. "What
about my overtime?"
Overtime? Who said anything about overtime? He did himself. He'd
promised me if I worked every night that week late I'd get paid for
it. Every single night I had stayed, and where was my pay for it?
He shook his finger at my time card.
Show him one hour of overtime on that card!