New York_ The Novel - Edward Rutherfurd [332]
And now the lady started asking her questions.
“Is there a union at the factory?” Rose asked.
“There is a friendly union inside the factory.”
“It was the outside union, the Women’s Trade Union, that the owners did not like. Did you want to join it?”
“No.”
“So when the owners locked out the workers, what happened to you?”
“My parents wished me to continue working. Our priest also said I should work. So I went to Mr. Harris at the factory.”
“And he gave you back your job?”
“Yes.”
“Did he employ new girls to work at the factory?”
“Yes.”
“Are they mostly Italian, Catholic, respectable girls, like you?”
“Yes.”
“The girls who lost their jobs, who have joined the WTU, are they mostly Jews?”
“Yes.”
“Thank you, dear. You can sit down.” Rose turned to the assembled ladies. “I think everyone here can see that this is an honest young woman,” she declared. “And I’m sure there are grievances at some of the factories which need to be addressed. But I think we need to be careful. What is it the Jewish girls want that Anna here does not? Are they really striking for better conditions, or is their object political? How many of these Russians are socialists?” She gazed round in triumph. “I believe it’s a question we need to ask.”
Rose enjoyed the silence that followed. In the first place, she’d brought a little common sense to the place. The people in the room would have been even more surprised had they seen the little press story that gave an account of how, at a luncheon at old Mrs. Master’s house, members of the Master family who were well acquainted with the true conditions of the workers, not all of whom were on strike, had questioned the motives of some of the socialist agitators behind it. Old Hetty could still have her moment of glory—her luncheon would be remembered—just not in quite the way she had planned. And the family’s reputation would be saved. The story would be printed in several papers that evening.
In the silence that followed, Hetty stared. She couldn’t believe it. Her own grandson’s wife had come here to ruin her party, in this act of public disloyalty. Her reaction was instant and natural. No doubt Rose knew the trust funds would flow down to William anyway, but if she thought that anything from this house was coming to her, she could forget it.
Hetty looked round for someone to save the day. Her eye alighted on Edmund Keller. It was worth a chance.
“Well, Mr. Keller,” she asked, “will you be our knight in shining armor?”
Edmund Keller paused. He liked old Hetty Master, and he would be glad to oblige her. But even more important for him was the cause of truth. And truth was more complex than Rose was making it out to be.
He understood the city well enough to know that the Russian immigrants, having suffered political and religious persecution, were determined to fight anything that looked like oppression in their new home. The Italians, on the other hand, were only fleeing poverty. They sent money back to Italy; many of them didn’t even plan to stay in America—sometimes at the docks there were more Italians returning home than arriving. They had less reason to cause trouble, or to enter the political process, therefore. And they might put up with bad treatment when they shouldn’t. But even having said that, the situation wasn’t straightforward. And if there was one thing, as an academic, that Edmund Keller hated, it was people who simplified evidence until it was misleading.
“Are there picket lines outside the Triangle Factory?” he asked Anna.
“Yes, sir.”
“Are there Jewish girls in the picket lines?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Are there also Italian girls in the picket lines?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Are, I don’t know, maybe a quarter of the picketing