This story appeared in 120 Million, a 1927 collection of the stories, poems and chants of Michael Gold, the editor of the New Masses. Look for a new edition of this important work of proletarian literature from Factory School in 2015.
THE FACTORY of Fineberg and Goldstone, Makers of the Hytone Brand Ladies' Cloaks and Suits, rushed along busily in its usual channels that sweet May afternoon; the machines racing and roaring; the workers gripped by their tasks; the whole dark loft filled with a furious mechanical life, hot and throbbing as the pulse of an airplane.
Outside, the sunlight lay in bright patterns on the dusty streets and buildings, illuminating for another two hours the city crowds moving to and fro on their ever-mysterious errands. But the factory was filling with darkness, and the hundred silent figures at the sewing machines bent even lower to their work, as if there were some mighty matter for study before them, needing a sterner and tenser notice as the day deepened into twilight.
The pressers, at their boards at one end of the long loft, thumped with their irons, and surrounded themselves with hissing steam like a fog. The motors roared and screamed, and one of the basters, a little Italian girl, sang in a high voice a sad, beautiful love song of her native province in Italy. It ran through the confusion of the loft like a trickle of silver, but now and again its fragile beauty was drowned by the larger, prosaic voice of Mr. Goldstone, the junior partner, as he bustled about and shouted commands to one or another of his workers.
"Chaim, come here and take this bundle to Abe's machine!” he would shout in Yiddish, and a very old, white-bearded Jew came patiently and slowly, and took the huge bundle of cloaks on his brittle shoulders, and delivered them to the operator.
"Hurry up on this Flachsman job, boys!" Mr. Goldstone would say, rubbing his hands, as he stood behind one of the operators, and a few of them in the vicinity would frown slightly and murmur some inaudible answer from between closed lips.
Mr. Goldstone, a short, flabby man with a bald head and reddish mustache that was turning white, was the practical tailor of the firm and stayed in the factory and looked after production. His partner had been a salesman when they joined their poverty and ambition not many years ago, and therefore looked after the selling and business end now. Mr. Goldstone liked this arrangement, for he had sat at the bench for years, and still liked the smell of steam and the feel of cloth, the putting together of "garments." Best of all, he liked to run things, to manage, to bustle, and to have other tailors under him, dependent on his word.
He trudged about the factory all day like a minor Napoleon, and wherever he went there was a tightening of nerves, an increased activity of fingers, and a sullenness as if his every word were all insult. He was a good manager, and kept things moving. His very presence was like a lash lightly flicked at the backs of the workers. They did not like him, but they responded when they felt him near.
Mr. Goldstone trotted about more strenuously than usual on this afternoon. There was a big order to be delivered the next morning, and he was making sure that it would be on time. He sped from his basters to his pressers, from his pressers to his operators, a black, unlighted cigar in his mouth, a flush of worry on his gross, round face.
"Where are those fifty suits in the 36 size of the Flachsman lot?" he suddenly demanded of the white-bearded factory porter.
"I brought them to David an hour ago, Mr. Goldstone," Chaim said, looking at him with meek eye.
"Good. Then they'll be sure to get off to-night," said the Boss, scowling like a busy general. "Good."
He thought a moment, and then hurried on his short legs through the piles of unfinished clothing till he came to the door that led from the factory to the shipping room. There was a glass panel in the upper part of the door, and Mr. Goldstone stopped and looked through it before entering.
What he saw made him take the cigar out of his mouth, swear, and then open the door with a violent kick that almost tore it from its hinges.
"My God!” he cried fervently, "what is this, anyways?"
His shipping clerk, David Brandt, a Jewish youth of about twenty-one, was seated on the table near the open window, staring dreamily at the gray masses of building opposite, that now were flashing with a thousand fires in the sun. He was hugging his knees, and beside him on the table lay an open green-covered book that he had evidently put aside for a moment.
David Brandt was a well-built youth, with good shoulders and chest, a body that would have been handsome had he not carried it like a sloven; tense brown eyes, and a lean face with hungry, high Slavic features. He was shabbily dressed, almost downright dirty in his carelessness of shirt and clothes, and he stood up hastily as the Boss spoke and ran his fingers nervously through a shock of wild black hair.
Mr. Goldstone strode over to him, picked up the book, and read the title.
"Ruskin's Sea-same and Lilies!" he pronounced contemptuously. "My God, boy, is this what we're payin' you good money for? What are you here for anyway, to work or to stuff yourself with fairy tales? Tell me!" he demanded.
"To work," David answered reluctantly, his eyes fixed on the floor.
"Then work, in God's name, work! This ain't a public library, ye know, or a city college for young shipping clerks to come to for a free education! What sort of a book is this, anyway?" he asked staring again at the title. "What's a sea-same, anyway?"
"It's a sort of password," David stammered, a crimson wave of blood creeping over his dark face.
"A password to what?" the Boss demanded, looking at him sternly, with the air of a judge determined upon the whole truth and nothing but the truth. "Is it something like the Free Masons?"
David floundered guiltily. "It's used only in a sort of symbolical sense here," he explained. "Seasame was used as a password by Ali Baba in the story, when he wanted to get into the robbers' cave, but here it means the password to thought—to culture."
"To thought—to culture!" Mr. Goldstone mimicked grandiosely, putting an imaginary monocle to his eye, and walking a few mincing steps up and down the room. "And I suppose, Mr. Brandt, while you was learning the password to Thought and to Culture—ahem!"—he put an incredible sneer into these two unfortunate words—"you forgot all about such little things like that Flachsman lot! Look at it, it's still laying around, and Chaim brought it in an hour ago! My God, boy, this can't go on, ye know! I been watching you for the past two months, and I'll tell you frankly, you ain't got your mind on business! I didn't know what it was before, but I see now it's this Thought"—he sneered again— "and this Culture. Cut it out, see? If ye want to read, do it outside the factory, and read something that'll bring you in dividends—good American reading."
"What do ye want with thought and culture, anyway?" the Boss cried, waving his cigar like an orator. "Me and Mr. Fineberg was worse off than you once; we started from the bottom; and look where we got to without sea-sames or lilies! You're wasting your good time, boy."
David looked at the plump little Jew, with his glittering bald head, his flabby face, and his perfectly rounded stomach that was like some fleshly monument to years of champagne suppers, auto rides, chorus girl debauches, and all the other splendid rewards of success in the New York garment trade:
"Do you ever read Shakespeare?" Mr. Goldstone said more tolerantly, as he lit his cigar.
"Well, you know in his Choolyus Caesar, this man Caesar says: Let me have men about me that are fat, and that don't think; that is, don't think outside of business, ye understand. Well, that's my advice to you, my boy, especially if ye want to hold your job and got any ambition. The last feller that held your job was made a salesman on the road after five years, and the same chances are open to you. Now let's see whether you're smart or not. I like you personally, but you gotta change your ways. Now let's see you use common sense after this—not Thought and Culture."
He laughed a broad, gurgling, self-satisfied laugh, and passed into the factory again, where the machines were warring, and the little Italian girl singing, and the pressers were sending up their strange, white fog of steam.
David spat viciously at the door that closed behind him.
He worked fiercely all that afternoon, in a state of trembling indignation; his hands shook, and his forehead perspired with the heat of the internal fires that consumed him. He was debating over and over again the problem of thought and culture with Mr. Goldstone, and his eyes would flash as he made some striking and noble point, and withered the fat little Boss with his scorn.
Six o'clock came at last; the factory motors were shut off, and died away with a last lingering scream. The operators and pressers and basters became men and women again. They rose stiffly from their seats, and talked and laughed, and dressed themselves and hurried away from the factory as from a prison.
The rage that sustained David died with the iron-throated wailing of the whistles that floated over the city, unyoking so many thousands of weary shoulders.
A curious haze came upon him then. He walked home weakly, as if in a debilitating dream. He hardly felt the scarlet sky above the roofs, the twilight beginning to fall upon the city like, a purple doom, the air rich with spring. Mighty streams were flowing through the factory district, human working masses silent and preoccupied after the day's duties, and David slipped into these broad currents without thought, and followed them automatically.
He lived in a tenement on Forsythe Street, on the East Side, and the tides all flowed in that direction; down Broadway, through Grand Street and Prince Street and other streets running east and west and across the dark, bellowing Bowery. Then they spread again and filtered and poured out into the myriad criss-crossing streets where stand the tenements row after row, like numberless barracks built for the conscripts of labor.
It was Friday night, the eve of the East Side's Sabbath, and Mrs. Brandt, David's little, dark, round-backed mother, was blessing the candles when he entered. She had a white kerchief over her hair, and her brown eyes, youthful and eager in her wrinkled face as David's own, shone with a pious joy as she read the pre-Sabbath ritual from an old Sidar that had come with her from Russia. She looked at David's clouded face anxiously for a moment, but did not interrupt her prayers to greet him when he came David did not her either, but limp and nerveless went directly to his room and flung himself upon the bed.
There he lay for a few minutes in the darkness. He heard the sounds of life rising from the many windows on the air-shaft; the clatter of dishes and knives, the crying of babies, voices lifted in talk. He heard his mother move about; she had evidently finished her prayers, and was coming to his room. Some strange weakness suddenly assailed him; as she knocked at the door, David began weeping; quietly, reasonlessly, like a lonely child.
"David?" his mother inquired, waiting at the threshold. There was no answer, and she called his name again.
David answered this time.
"I'm all right, Mommer," he said, his voice muffled by the pillow.
"Supper'll be ready in five or ten minutes," Mrs. Brandt said. "Better come out now and wash yourself. And David—"
"David, darling," she whispered, opening the door a little, "you should not do like you did to-night. You should always go and kiss your Popper the first thing when you come home. You don't know how bad it makes him feel when you don't do that. He cries over it, and it makes him sicker. He's very sick now; the doctor said to-day your Popper is worse than he's ever seen him. Be a good boy, David, go and speak to him."
"Yes, Mommer,” David said wearily, "after supper."
He washed at the sink, and ate the Friday night supper of stuffed fish, noodle soup, boiled chicken and tea. His mother chattered to him all the while, but David listened in that haze that had come on him at the end of the factory day, and answered her vaguely. When he had finished eating he continued sitting at the supper table, and was only aroused when she again suggested that he go in to see his father.
The elder Brandt was a sad, pale, wasted little Jew who had spent fourteen years in the sweatshops of America, and now, at the age of forty-five, was ready to die.
He had entered the factories a hopeful immigrant, with youthful, rosy cheeks that he had brought from Russia, and a marvelous faith in the miracle of the Promised Land that had come from there, too. The sweatshops had soon robbed him of that youthful bloom however; then they had eaten slowly, like a beast in a cave gnawing for days at a carcass, his lungs, his stomach, his heart, all his vital organs, one by one.
The doctor came to see him twice a week, and wondered each time how he managed to live on. He lay in the bed, propped up high against the pillows, a Yiddish newspaper clutched in his weary hand. His face, wax-yellow and transparent with disease, was the face of a humble Jewish worker, mild and suffering, but altogether dead now except for the two feverish eyes. He put down the newspaper looked up with a timid smile as David entered the room. David came over and kissed him, and then sat on a chair beside his father's bed.
"Well, David, boy, did you have a hard day in the shop to-day?" the sick man began in a weak voice, fingering his straggly beard and trying to appear cheerful.
"Yes," David answered dully.
"Are you getting on good there?" Mr. Brandt continued, in his poor, hopeful quaver.
"And did you ask the boss yet about that raise he promised you two months ago?" "No," said David, vacantly, staring with lusterless eyes at the floor.
Mr. Brandt looked apprehensive, as if he had made an error in asking the question. He stroked the feather-bed quilt under which he lay imprisoned, and stole little anxious glances at David's brooding face, as if to implore it for the tiniest bit of attention and pity. Another difficult question hesitated on his lips.
"David, dear," he said at last, "why don't you come in to see your Popper any more when you get home from work?"
"It's because I'm tired, I guess," David answered.
"No; it ain't that, Davidka. You know it ain't. You used to come in regular and tell me all the news. Do you hate your Popper now, David?"
"No; why should I?"
"I don't know. God knows I've done all I could for you; I worked night and day for long years in the shop, thinking only of you, of my little son. I wanted better things for you than what you've got, but I couldn't help myself; I was always only a workingman. Some men have luck; and they are able to give their children college educations and such things. But I've always been a shlemozel; but you must try to get more out of life than I have found."
"David, don't hate me so; you hardly want to speak to me. Look at me."
David turned his eyes toward his father, but he saw him only dimly, and heard in the same dim way the feeble, high voice uttering the familiar lamentations. In the flickering gaslight his rather seemed like some ghostly shadow in a dream.
"David, you hate me because I'm sick and you have to support me along with your mother. I know; I know! Don't think I don't see it all! But it's not my fault, is it, Davie, and I've only been sick a year, and who knows, maybe soon I will be able to take my place in the shop again, and earn my own bread, as I did for so many years before."
"Don't, Popper, for God's sake, don't talk about it!” David spoke sharply.
"All right, I won't. All right. Excuse me."
They sat in silence, and then David moved uneasily, as if to go. Mr. Brandt reached over and took his hand in his own moist, trembling one, and held it there.
"Davie," he said, "Davie, dear, tell me why you didn't come in to see me to-night. I must know."
"I was tired; Popper, I told you."
"But why were you tired?"
"I had a fight in the shop."
"A fight? With whom?"
"With the boss—with Mr. Goldstone."
"With the boss? God in heaven, are you crazy? Are you going to lose your job again? What is wrong with you? You have never stuck to one job more than six months. Can't you do like other boys, and stick to a job and make a man of yourself?"
"Let me alone!" David cried in sudden rage, rushing from the room. "For God's sake, let me alone!"
With both elbows on the sill, and with his face in his hands, David sat at the airshaft window again during the next half-hour. His mind whirled with formless ideas, like the rout of autumn leaves before a wind. His head throbbed, and again a haze had fallen upon him, a stupor painful as that of a man with a great wound.
The airshaft was still clamorous with the hymn of life that filled it night and day. Babies were squalling, women were berating their children, men were talking in rapid Yiddish, there was rattling of plates and knives, and the shrieking of the clothes line pulley like a knife through it all. The airshaft was dark; and overhead, in the little patch of sky, three stars shone down. Pungent spring odors mingled with the smell of rubbish in the courtyard below.
David's mother moved about carefully as she took away the supper dishes. She knew David's moods, and went on tiptoe, and let him sit there until she had cleaned up in the kitchen. He heard vaguely the sound of her labors, and then she came and laid her rough hand, still red and damp from the dish-water, on his shoulder.
"What's the matter, Davie?" she asked, tenderly. "What are you worrying about?”
"Why did you fight with your Popper? You know he's sick, and that you mustn't mind what he says. Why did you do it?"
"I don't know."
"You must be nice to him now; he feels it terribly because he's sick, and that you have to support him. Do you worry because you have to support us?"
"I don't know."
"It won't last forever, Davie boy. Something must happen—there must come a change. God can't be so bad as all that. Is that what worries you?"
David's eyes grew melancholy and his head sunk more deeply between his hands.
“Life isn't worth living; that's what's the trouble, Mommer," he said. "I feel empty and black inside, and I've got nothing to live for."
"That's foolishness," his mother said warmly. "Everyone lives, and most people have even more troubles than us. If there are so many poor, we can be poor, too. What do you think God put us here for anyway? A healthy young boy like you saying he's got nothing to live for! It's a disgrace!"
"Mommer," David said, passionately, "can you tell me why you live? Why do you yourself live? Give me one good reason!"
"Me? Are you asking me this question?" David's mother exclaimed, in a voice in which there was surprise mixed with a certain delight that her usually silent boy was admitting her on an equality to such intimacies.
She wrinkled her brow. It was the first time, probably, in her work-bound, busy life that she had thought on such a theme, and she put her finger on her lip in a characteristic gesture and meditated for a minute.
"Well, Davie," she said slowly, "I will tell you why your Popper and I have gone on struggling and living. It is because we loved you, and because we wanted to see you grow up healthy and strong and happy, with a family of your own around you in your old age. That's the real reason."
"But supposing I don't want to grow up," David cried. "Supposing you raised a failure in me—supposing I'm sick of this world—supposing I die before I raise a family—"
"That's all foolishness. Don't talk that way."
"I won't suppose anything."
"Very well," said David. "You live for me. But tell me, Mommer, what about people who have no children to live for? What does the whole human race live for? Do you know? Who knows anyone that knows?"
Mrs. Brandt thought again. Then she dismissed the whole subject with a wave of her hand.
"Those are just foolish questions, like a child's," she said. "They remind me of the time when you were a little boy, and cried for days because I would not buy you an automobile, or a lion we saw in the Central Park, or some such thing. Why should we have to know why we live? We live because we live, Davie dear. You will have to learn that some day, and not from books, either. I don't know what's the matter with those books, anyway; they make you sick, Davie."
"No; it's life makes me sick—this dirty East Side life!"
"You're a fool! You must stop reading books, and you must stop sitting here every night, like an old graybeard. You must go out more and enjoy yourself."
"I have no friends."
"Make them! What a funny, changeable boy you are! Two or three years ago we could never keep you at home nights, you were so wild. You did nothing but go about till early morning with your friends—and fine friends they were too, pool-room loafers, gamblers, pimps, all the East Side filth. Now you read those library books; and I don't know which is worse. Go out; put on your hat and coat and go!”
“Anywhere! The East Side is big, and lots of things are going on! Find them!"
"But I want to read!"
"You won't! I won't let you! I should drop dead if I let you!"
David stared wrathfully at her for a moment, stung into anger by her presumptuous meddling into affairs beyond her world of illiteracy and hope. He was about to speak sharply to her, but changed his mind with a weary shrug of his shoulders. He put on his hat and coat and wandered aimlessly into the East Side night, to walk, to dream, to be surrounded by a million struggling Jews, and to be lonely in their midst.