I went, of course. I was curious to see where she lived and I wanted to say hello to Miss Green. Even though we had never had much to do with each other, she was the only person I knew who cared as much about Filomena as I did. I was missing Filomena a lot. She sent me a postcard every month, so I knew she was thinking of me, but it wasn’t much comfort when I was feeling blue.
The Ediths were living in an old brownstone in the South End—the kind where you go up a flight of stairs to get to the front door and all the rooms have high ceilings and tall windows. It was on one of those wonderful blocks with a strip of grass and trees in the middle of the street. There was an elegant marble fireplace in the living room, but the paint was peeling on the woodwork and the rug was a little threadbare. Shabby-genteel, if you know what I mean.
There were no tea cakes or even tea, just as Miss Chevalier promised. She served sandwiches and coffee, which seemed much more modern to me.
I was sorry that Miss Green was under the weather and didn’t come downstairs. But when I saw her paintings on the walls, in my mind I started writing a letter to tell Filomena about how her teacher’s purple skies and yellow hills reminded me of the tinted postcards she sent from New Mexico. I could imagine Filomena reading that and smiling.
Miss Chevalier introduced me to her friends, and what an impressive bunch. I met the president of the Women’s Educational and Industrial Union, the director of the Boston school lunch program, a history professor from Wellesley College, and a lady doctor with a thick German accent.
The room was buzzing with conversations about politics and books—I didn’t hear a single word about dahlias or summering in Manchester. I remember thinking how nice it was that these old ladies had such good friends.
Ha! Those “old ladies” were probably in their fifties. Being eight-five gives you perspective. It also gives you arthritis. Maybe you should stitch these pearls of wisdom on a sampler. Do you even know what a sampler is?
Not everyone was “old.” There were a few girls like me, in their twenties, and they were interesting, too: a social worker for the city health department, a librarian, a high school teacher, and a law student.
When I found out that Rita Metsky, the law student, was going to Portia Law School, I said I knew someone who had graduated from there. “Do you know Gussie Frommer?”
She smiled. “Everybody knows Gussie.” We traded stories about my outgoing friend, but Rita kept looking at the clock on the mantel and frowning. “My brother is supposed to give a talk and he should have been here by now. I told him I’d kill him if he kept these women waiting.”
When he did arrive—out of breath and carrying a suitcase—he said the train from Washington was late and apologized like he had nearly missed his own wedding. Miss Chevalier told him to take a minute and have a cup of coffee. He winked at Rita. “My sister would tell you I don’t deserve it.”
You couldn’t miss the resemblance between Rita and Aaron Metsky. They were both about four inches taller than me, with dark brown eyes; thick, almost black hair; and thin, straight noses, except that his was a little bit flattened on the end, like a hawk—but handsome.
He was a lawyer for the National Child Labor Committee and he’d been traveling around the country trying to pass the amendment against child labor. Aaron Metsky wasn’t there to convince Miss Chevalier’s friends about the need; those women supported everything they thought would help poor people, and keeping girls out of factories and sweatshops was one of their regular causes. He was there to report about how the campaign was going, but the news wasn’t good.
He had just gotten back from two weeks in the South, where states had been voting the amendment down one after another. They saw it as a plot by northerners to keep them poor and weak. He said, “They’re still fighting the Civil War down there.”
But even in the North, farmers, the Catholic Church, and even the anti-Prohibition people were all siding with the mill owners. They kept saying that the law was a communist plot to take children away from their parents.
Aaron shook his head. “When people find out where I come from, they say if Massachusetts voted this down, what makes you think it’s going to happen in Alabama or Mississippi? To tell you the truth, I don’t have a good answer for them.”
The social worker behind me jumped up and shook her finger at him. “I’ll give you your answer: Bert Forster, a fourteen-year-old boy who lost all the fingers on his right hand from working in the Connecticut tobacco fields. Or Selma Trudeau over at the Florence Crittenton Home, who had a baby at fifteen because some man promised to marry her and take her away from the Lawrence mills.”
The German doctor said that child labor could cause great harm later in life, too: deafness from loud machines, lung diseases from cotton dust, and nervous exhaustion that could lead to insanity and even suicide.
They were talking about my sisters. Betty was probably twelve when she came to America, Celia was maybe ten, and they went to work right off the boat. They got jobs wherever Papa went, which meant they worked in a candy factory and a shoe factory. When he became a presser, they learned how to use a sewing machine and worked in one sweatshop after another. Levine’s was better than most because there was a bathroom and he didn’t lock them in all day, but I remember how unbearable it was in the summer.
I wondered, did working as a little girl kill whatever strength Celia had been born with?
Betty was made out of stronger stuff, but she got away from factory work as soon as she could, and I knew she’d sooner cut off her arm than let any of her children work like she had. Betty and Levine wouldn’t even let Jake sell newspapers after school. “Let him play with a ball,” Betty said. “Let him be a little boy.”
It was different by the time I was born. Pretty much all the children in my neighborhood went to school at least until they were thirteen or fourteen, and a lot graduated from high school. Some of the bigger boys sold newspapers and I’m sure lots of little kids worked nights and weekends making paper flowers or sewing piecework at home, but it wasn’t as bad as factory work.
—
The discussion around me heated up. Miss Chevalier was standing up, pounding her fist on the palm of her hand. “The arguments against this law are outrageous. You hear things like ‘A mother could be arrested for asking her seventeen-year-old daughter to wash the dishes.’
“How in God’s name is protecting the young anything but just?”
Aaron didn’t seem
to be listening; he was staring at Rita, who was sitting next to me. She poked me in the ribs and whispered, “My brother can’t keep his eyes off you.”
I looked again and realized that she was right; he was looking at me. When he saw that I was looking back, he smiled. Then I smiled. How could I not? He was smart. He had a nice way with words. He was Jewish. And he was good-looking.
Aaron seemed so perfect, I giggled. But then I remembered what rotten luck I had with men and went to get myself another cup of coffee.
After Aaron finished his speech, everyone rushed up to him with questions and advice. I waited for a while to see if he would come talk to me but I lost my nerve and left. I was halfway down the block and sorry I hadn’t been a little more patient—or brave—when I heard someone call my name.