Dear America: Hear My Sorrow Read online

  Oh, here’s a sparrow. He’s a bold fellow — he’s landed so close to my feet. I love how he hops about on the iron landing and cocks his head at me. He’s probably searching for one last meal before dark. I wish I had some crumbs to give him. I wonder if Miss Kelly is right: Maybe I am like a curious sparrow.

  Well, there I go, thinking about Miss Kelly and school again. Zi’ Maria may be partly right. School hasn’t exactly caused trouble between my family and me, but I think in a way it has made me a little different. More American, maybe.

  It’s safe to tell the truth here in this little book since I’m the only one here who can read English in my family. And so I can write that when I told Mama I didn’t like school, well, that wasn’t exactly true. I did like school — a lot. But as Mama and Zi’ Maria say, why should a girl go to school when her family needs her help, and she will soon be married, anyway?

  No, here in America, work is the most important thing. As Zi’ Maria would say with a laugh, “Here, it is worka worka all the time.”

  Tuesday, September 21, 1909

  No news about my job yet. Luisa says the bosso, Mr. Klein, is waiting for new orders to come and the busy season to start. Every day that goes by, Mama gets more anxious, since our rent will soon be due. I wish I could start my job so I could help out.

  I can’t help wondering what the factory will be like. At first I thought I’d have to sew a whole shirtwaist blouse all by myself. Back home, being a sarta, a seamstress with scissors dangling from one’s waist, is an honored profession. But Luisa says it’s different here. It takes about ten workers to make one shirtwaist. Some girls sew just the collars or the seams of the sleeves. But Luisa says I won’t even be sewing at first. I’ll be a learner, snipping off the ends of threads.

  Tonight I asked Luisa to tell me about the girls in her shop. She explained that besides Italian girls, there are many Russian Jewish girls who speak Yiddish. There are even some American girls and a few Irish girls.

  “Usually the boss puts girls who speak different languages next to one another, so they won’t chatter,” Luisa said. “And it’s just as well. There are some girls who would make trouble in our shop.”

  I wanted to ask Luisa what she meant by “trouble,” but just then Mama asked her to take some soup upstairs to Zi’ Caterina, Rosa’s mama, who hasn’t been well.

  As for me, I think I’d like to make friends with a Jewish or an American girl. I can think of so many questions to ask. I’d like to know what their families are like, where they came from, and what they eat. I know Jewish people usually eat different foods than we do. Teresa and I sometimes go to the Jewish market on Hester Street, where there’s lots of meat, huge pretzels sprinkled with salt, and strong-smelling pickles swimming in barrels of brine.

  Friday, September 24, 1909

  Flowers, flowers, flowers! My fingers are sore from making artificial flowers for ladies’ hats. We’ve been working on them all week, because as soon as Mama heard I couldn’t start work at the factory, she didn’t waste any time. She went right to Mr. Silvio and got an extra-large order of artificial flowers so we can earn our rent money.

  Mama usually brings Teresa with her when she goes to get flowers, because Mr. Silvio has his favorites. He pinches Teresa’s cheeks and teases her, which Teresa doesn’t like at all.

  Today, while my fingers were busy, I couldn’t help figuring in my head how much money we’ll make. In a way it’s a little like the number problems Miss Kelly gave us.

  We get paid ten cents for each gross — 144 flowers — we make. Sometimes Zi’ Maria works with Mama. And so does Rosa’s mama, Zi’ Caterina, when her little boys, Alfio and Pietro, are at school. But I don’t think Zi’ Caterina has worked for several weeks now. By herself, Mama can make enough flowers to earn about sixty cents a day. On days when Teresa and I help, we can make twelve gross — more than 1,700 flowers — a dollar and twenty cents.

  Last night Babbo said he would try to get work next week, but Mama won’t hear of it yet. She says his shoulder must heal more.

  “Ah, how you take care of all of us, Mama,” he teased her.

  At Bedtime

  We had so many flowers to finish tonight! Even Vito, who’d rather be running in the streets with his friends, pulled up a chair at the kitchen table. We do almost everything in our kitchen, especially in the winter, when we want to be near the warmth of the stove. This little room is our soggiorno, our main living and eating area, and at night it’s Vito’s bedroom, too.

  Babbo doesn’t usually help with flowers, although Teresa tells me that the other afternoon when she came home from school she found him working along with Mama at the table. Most evenings, though, Babbo goes to his favorite café on Mulberry Street to talk and play cards with Zi’ Vincenzo and other men from the neighborhood.

  “Is it roses, violets, or daisies?” Vito asked.

  Mama smiled. She pampers Vito, and never scolds him as sharply as she does us girls. “Violets, for spring hats.”

  Teresa picked apart petals while I separated stems. I dipped each end into paste spread on a board on the table. Mama and Luisa slipped the petals up the stems. Vito tried to help, but his fingers aren’t as quick as ours are. His tongue makes up for it, though. Before long he was boasting about how much money he’ll make when he starts work.

  “You should work in a candy factory, Vito,” Teresa suggested. Teresa loves candy, especially torrone, almond candy, but we don’t usually have extra money for such treats.

  Luisa smiled and said Vito would hate working in a candy factory. She told us about a girl in her shop named Maria who once worked in one. Maria had to peel coconuts and almonds all day long. The work was dirty and made her hands hurt. Worst of all, she only got four dollars and fifty cents a week.

  Vito snorted. “Well, then, I won’t work in a candy factory — I’ll own one! I heard an Italian started the Margarella Candy Company. You wait! That’ll be me someday — a rich businessman.”

  It’s hard not to smile at Vito’s bragging. He began telling wild stories of all the fancy things he’ll buy in the big department stores uptown once he’s rich. Before long Teresa was laughing so hard, she started to wheeze. Mama clucked her tongue and sent Teresa to lie down.

  Sunday, September 26, 1909

  Yesterday Luisa brought home her pay envelope and gave it to Mama without opening it. Luisa says some girls in her shop keep money back for themselves. Imagine! Why, that’s almost like being a boarder. Mama would never allow that, although with Vito it might be different. Boys have more freedom, after all.

  Usually Mama is pleased with Luisa when she opens the envelope, but this time she snapped, “Luisa, there are only six dollars here. Last week you brought home seven.”

  Luisa hurried to explain. “Sì, Mama, but remember, the cloth for the new shirtwaists didn’t come on time, so one whole morning we sat in the shop, just waiting. They didn’t pay us for that time. And don’t forget, Mama, there are the costs.”

  Luisa has told us about the costs. She has to pay twenty-five cents each week for a locker to keep her hat and coat in. She also has to buy her own sewing needles, at five cents each. If she’s late, she pays a fine. Still, Luisa feels lucky to have this job. Sometimes, in the slack season, when the work slows down, many girls lose their jobs. Then when it’s busy, they work long hours, without overtime pay, in a frenzy to keep up. That’s just the way it is, Luisa says.

  Mama frowned. She does that a lot lately. She has two little lines on her forehead that don’t go away. She asked Luisa again if there would be work for me.

  Well, I’ve saved the biggest news for last: Luisa told us the cloth and new designs have finally arrived. That means the busy season is starting and the boss says it is okay for me to come. Tomorrow I become a factory girl.

  Monday, September 27, 1909

  Luisa shook me when it was still dark. But I’d been lying with my eyes open for a long time, my mind as crowded as Elizabeth Street. Would the boss li
ke me? Would I make friends with the other girls? Would I be able to learn my new job?

  Teresa was still asleep next to me on our folding bed in our salotto, our good front room. Her dark eyelashes curled on her cheeks like the tiny feathers on my sparrow. I shook her gently. Vito was spread out across the chairs in the kitchen. He’s getting so tall, he won’t fit there much longer. I could hear Mama making coffee and grumbling at him to wake up. That’s not easy — Vito can sleep through just about anything.

  Outside, Luisa handed me a roll, but I felt too nervous to swallow even a crumb. I stuffed it in my pocket for later. I clutched my scissors, carefully wrapped in a bit of paper.

  Mama had given us ten cents each for the elevated train. But Luisa suggested that we walk instead of taking the El. “It’s not that far. Besides, I’m saving for a new hat for next spring.”

  It wasn’t even seven, but the streets were already crowded with people rushing to work. “Buon giorno, buon giorno.” We said good morning to everyone.

  The busy season must be starting everywhere, because we passed several shops advertising for workers, with signs reading, GOOD PAY, LONG SEASON. Luisa had had to leave her first job because in the slack season only the senior machine operators were given work. She was left to sit, day after day, not getting paid. That’s when Rosa told her about this shop.

  When we got there the first thing that happened was….

  Tuesday, September 28, 1909

  If Miss Kelly ever reads this book, my face will turn red with shame. Last night my eyes closed in the middle of a sentence.

  I’ve washed the dishes in our little sink. Teresa and Vito are doing lessons (although the last time I looked, Vito was dozing off). Mama has gone upstairs to take some nice zuppa to Zi’ Caterina, who’s feeling poorly again. These days, she only has enough energy to eat soup. The gaslight is dim, but I can see well enough to write about my new job.

  The shop is on the third floor of an old building. Perhaps thirty or forty girls work there. Luisa says some factories have hundreds of hands. We had to walk up creaky wooden stairs in a dark hall. The stairs were grimy and I wanted to hold my nose, the smell was so bad.

  Luisa led me past an outer room with large tables where a few Jewish men were already at work. The men using the heavy irons were pressers, she told me. Others worked as cutters, bent over large wooden tables and laying out thin paper patterns to cut sleeves or collars using short, sharp knives.

  We stepped into a large room where girls were just sitting down to their machines. There are two long tables, and I counted about ten or twelve sewing machines on each side. Even though there are some windows on one wall, the room is lit mostly by gaslight. The floor is littered with snippets of thread, remnants of cloth, dust, and lint. The dust tickled my nose and I sneezed.

  Luisa pushed me to stand in front of Mr. Klein, a bony man with dark hair and smudged glasses on his nose. The boss peered at me. “So, are you the new cleaner, the trimmer? Do you speak English?”

  “Yes, sir, I went to school for four years.”

  “Humph,” he grunted.

  Suddenly, a bell rang and the machines sprang to life. A whir filled the air. I could feel the wooden floorboards under my feet quiver from the vibrations. Needles flashed and jumped. Up and down, up and down. The electric current was on!

  The operatrici, the operators, bent to their sewing machines. The girls looked so determined as they guided the cloth under the fast needles. At the end of the rows, other girls sat trimming threads and stitching collars and cuffs.

  Mr. Klein turned to snap in Yiddish to a girl who was coming in. I would have been scared, but she simply looked at him calmly.

  “Go with Sarah,” he told me, pointing at her. “Since she’s late, she can lose even more time from her work to teach you. And remember, in this shop there’s no talking. Ten cents’ fine if you talk.”

  I was too scared to ask if I could sit near Luisa. But it wouldn’t have done much good, anyway. The boss frowned and waved us off.

  I followed Sarah. She looks about eighteen or nineteen. She has curly, dark hair, sturdy shoulders, and flashing brown eyes. All her movements are quick, as if she has important things on her mind and no time to waste.

  Sarah led me to a table at the end of the row of whirring sewing machines. Luisa sits halfway across the room at the other long table, but Rosa is just a few machines away.

  Luisa was busy, her head bent, but Rosa glanced up for a second. She smiled, ever so slightly, her head nodding quickly. Mama says Rosa is named well — she’s like a flower that brings smiles to people’s faces. I think Mama is right. Looking at Rosa made me feel better, as if she knew my hands were shaking. I had to clasp them together to keep them still.

  “You’ll sit here, near me, at the end of this row,” Sarah told me. Then she ordered, “Stick out your hands.”

  I put my hands out, hoping she wouldn’t notice them trembling. She peered at them closely. “All right. Be sure they are clean. Always. If they’re dirty, you’ll soil the cloth and ruin the waist. Understand?”

  I nodded.

  Sarah pointed to a pile of shirtwaists. “This is your stint, your pile of work. Now, do you have scissors?”

  I nodded and pulled out my scissors.

  She grabbed them. “A cleaner’s job is to trim the threads off the finished shirtwaists. Look, cut like this.” She began to snip threads from the sleeve of the shirtwaist so fast that the blades of the scissors flashed. “Go as quickly as you can. Be careful not to let your hand slip. Now do it while I watch.”

  Sarah stood beside me while I snipped the loose ends of the white threads from the insides of the sleeves, first one sleeve, then the other.

  “All right, but faster. Remember, clean hands. And fast.”

  And so I began.

  By the time lunch came, my stomach was making little growling noises. I wanted to go outside and walk in the air. Many of the girls sat by their machines to eat. A few whispered quietly. Others left to use the toilet or walk in the hall. Anyway, lunch was only a half hour. I took my roll out of my pocket and nibbled it slowly to make it last.

  And then it was back to work. Snip! Snip! Snip!

  The scissors made my fingers red and sore. I wanted to shake my hand and rub the hurt away. But I didn’t dare stop for an instant. No one stopped. Every girl in the room was sewing as fast as she could. Whenever I wanted to stretch, Mr. Klein was peering over my shoulder.

  Once he barked, “Don’t stop, girl.”

  The afternoon dragged on. Then, from somewhere outside, I heard bells chime six. I felt sure we would stop then, but no one moved. I couldn’t wait to stand up and stretch. Oh, how I wanted to go home. The minutes dragged on. Six, six-thirty, seven.

  Just when I couldn’t stand it a minute longer, the machines fell silent. It was seven-thirty. My eyes were blurry and my back ached. I followed Luisa and Rosa home, hardly knowing where I was walking. We said nothing. I felt a dull pain in my head. My fingers were cramped and sore.

  We climbed the dark stairs and said good night to Rosa. I asked Luisa if there would be overtime pay. She shook her head and told me we were paid by the week, not by how many hours we worked.

  Then she said softly, “You’ll get used to it.”

  Friday, October 1, 1909

  It’s been just a few days, but I already know my job well. It doesn’t take half my brain to snip threads all day. It’s not nearly as hard as the number problems Miss Kelly used to give us. But it makes me tired and sore. If only the chair I sit in had a back.

  Today in the middle of the morning I felt a sharp pain creeping up my spine. I wanted to move and stretch to make it go away, but I was afraid to stop working. Mr. Klein had his sharp eyes on me again. So I kept my head down. Snip! Snip!

  Mr. Klein let us go a little earlier today. When I got home, Mama sent me to the market with Teresa. As we came down the steps, Teresa squeezed my hand and whispered, “I missed you. I’m glad you’re with me,
Angela.”

  We darted quickly around carts selling dried fish, bananas, tomatoes, and long strings of garlic and shiny, red peppers. There’s so much beautiful food — and such wonderful smells. Garlic, cheese, coffee, and fresh bread. Teresa and I love to stand in the pasta shop and crane our heads back to look at strings of noodles hanging down like ribbons.

  Mama needed bread. As we entered the bakery, Teresa poked me in the ribs and whispered, “Arturo’s here, Angela.”

  Arturo flashed a smile, as if he really was glad to see me. “How’s your new job?”

  I shrugged. “I’d much rather work in a bakery,” I said. “It smells nicer here.”

  “You wouldn’t like getting up before the birds,” Arturo teased.

  I had only a nickel, for a day-old loaf of bread, but Arturo gave us a fresh eight-cent loaf, anyway. I like the bakery, with the crusty, rich loaves piled on wooden trays. Why, there’s even bread on the walls, hanging like wreaths.

  “Please take good care of my little sister whenever she comes here,” I asked Arturo as we left. He smiled and promised he would.

  Arturo seems to like working in his father’s bakery. If our papa had his own small shop instead of being a hod carrier, everyone in our family could work together. I wouldn’t care what kind of business it was: a butcher shop, a small grocery, or maybe even a confection shop. Vito and Teresa would like that!

  Yes, if we had a business of our own, I wouldn’t have to work for a boss who scowls all day long. I think Mr. Klein has a heart like a raisin.