Comrade Yetta

Paulding leaned forward and broke in impulsively.

"Comrade, everybody has knocks! Every page in the paper is weak. We don't have to be told that. How can it be improved with the resources at hand? That's the question."

"Nothing can be done without some money. But if we could raise one man's salary, I think we could make a great improvement. What's needed is a man who can give all his time to it, some one who has an idea of news-value, of up-to-date journalism, who understands the labor movement and can write about it without an offensive Socialist bias."

"And," Paulding growled, "how much would a man like that cost us? There aren't half a dozen men with those qualifications in the city. How much would Karner pay a man, who could make real circulation for The Star out of a labor page?"

"The kind of man I mean would value the freedom we could give him. Nobody who's sincere likes to work for Karner. We can get him for less."

"Well, I'm doubtful," Paulding said. "We're sweating our staff now worse than any sweat-shop. Look at this rotten office where we ask them to work. We're overworking them, underpaying them, and about every week asking them to sign off some of their wages."

"They do it willingly," one of the nonentities put in, "the Great Ideal – "

"Oh! that Great Ideal talk makes me tired," Paulding interrupted. "We can't get high-class men at such terms. I know two really able men; they give us a lot of stuff gratis. They've got the Great Ideal as strong as anybody, but they've also got families! They'd be glad to work for us if we could give them, not fancy salaries, but decent ones. We can't. The men we've got are wonderful. I take off my hat whenever I think of them. They're devoted to the limit. Very likely they're of high moral character" – his voice rose querulously – "good to their mothers, and all that. But there is no use shutting our eyes to the fact that they're not newspaper men. Braun had some experience on the Forwaertz. But there isn't a man in the office who ever saw the inside of a modern metropolitan daily.

"What can we offer a man? Twenty-five dollars a week – at most. That's what Braun is getting – sometimes. It's a joke. A hundred a month to our editor-in-chief! That's our whole trouble. What we – "

"Could you offer twenty-five a week?" Yetta interrupted his despondency.

"It would be hard," Rheinhardt said.

"Sure we could – for a good man," Paulding contradicted him. "I could guarantee it myself. I've a lot of friends who are interested in The Clarion, but just dead sick of its sloppy appearance. I haven't seen anything in it for weeks that jolted me till this paper-box story of yours. Think of it! A Socialist paper which isn't afraid to tell the truth, but can't afford to hire the brains to do it! Yes, if we had a live-wire on the paper, I could find ten people who would pledge ten dollars a month. But what's the use of talking about it? The kind of man we need could get fifty a week – more. It's the same all the way through. We need keen men in every department and can't afford to pay their market value. If we got the right kind of a man for advertising manager – the kind we need – he'd be valuable to other richer papers. The right kind of a man for our circulation department would be worth ten thousand to a dozen other – "

"I don't know anything about the business side of it," Yetta interrupted again. "But I know a lot of reporters. If you'll authorize me to offer twenty-five a week, I'll see if I can find one."

"No one can work on the paper who isn't a party member," the other nonentity said. "We can't ask the Comrades to put up money to support a broken-down capitalist."

"What's the use of discussing it?" Paulding asked Yetta, ignoring the nonentity. "Have you the nerve to ask a friend to take such a job? You wouldn't do it yourself."

Yetta suddenly remembered that she was probably jobless.

"On the contrary," she said, "if I had the right kind of training, I'd jump at it."

"Well," Rheinhardt said, suddenly waking up, "I think you come nearer to what we need than any one we're likely to find. If Paulding can raise twenty-five a week, will you accept it?"

"Yes," Paulding chimed in, "I'll get the money. Will you do it?"

"I haven't the training," Yetta laughed, not taking the offer seriously. "I've only had six months' newspaper work altogether, and that was very specialized stuff on the Woman's page. We need some one with more general and longer experience."

"You don't answer," Rheinhardt said, slumping back in his chair; "we can't get the wonder you talk about. Even with your limited experience you can earn more elsewhere."

"Of course you won't take it," Paulding sneered. "Not that I blame you. I'm not taking it either."

"On second thought," Yetta said, "I will."

It was a complicated psychological process which caused Yetta so suddenly to throw in her lot with the struggling Socialist paper. She did not often act so impetuously.

The motive which seemed to her strongest was the distaste for her old life which had suddenly flooded her. She had emigrated spiritually. Fate had jerked her roughly out of the orderly progress, which had been typified by Walter's great leather chair. It seemed incongruous to go on with the old work of the League from the new flat in Waverly Place. Everything must be changed.

But a self-protective instinct, more subtle and less easily recognized, was equally strong. She was not so likely to be reminded of Walter in the rushing turmoil of The Clarion office. In learning the details of a new job she would have less time and energy for the destructive work of mourning.

Deeper even than this was a subconscious reaching out for help. Here she could find the strength she needed to go forward. She had tapped it over the telephone wire when she had been tottering on the raw edge of despair. She wanted to keep ever in touch with this indomitable little band of fighters. She had looked down upon them – rather despised them – from the false standard she had acquired uptown. They had seemed to her unkempt. But in her moment of greatest need it was to them she had turned. "Culture" and "gentility" had been no help to her. It was the handclasp of her own people that had given her strength to climb up out of the Slough of Despond.

As a little child in whose brain is as yet no clear concept of "danger" clings, when frightened, to its mother's hand, so Yetta – knowing that her need had not passed, afraid of the future – wanted to keep close to the protecting enthusiasm, the dauntless faith which had proven her only helper – her one hope of salvation.

But it was not until many months had passed that Yetta woke up to a vital, emotional attitude towards her new work. The deeper side of her personality had been stunned by the crash of her romance. She walked through life a high-class physical machine, a keen, forthright intellect. But it did not seem to matter very much to her. Nothing did. The moments came when she cursed the Fates for having sent Walter to rescue her from Harry Klein. That could have been no more painful, and it would have been over quicker. The years she had spent studying seemed only to have increased her capacity for suffering.

Each day was a task to be accomplished. The very uncertainty of The Clarion's existence fitted into Yetta's mood. Any moment the flimsy structure might collapse. She thought of the future as little as possible. Can I get through another day without breaking down? Can we get out another issue? These two questions seemed almost the same to her. She and the paper were struggling desperately to keep going until they found firmer ground underfoot.

CHAPTER XXVIII

YETTA TAKES HOLD

But if Yetta did not think her work mattered very much, Isadore and Rheinhardt and Paulding and all those who had the welfare of The Clarion at heart thought very differently about it. Gradually she transformed the labor page into a vital force in the trade-union world.

Organized labor is fighting out the same problem in democracy which our larger community is facing. "How shall elected delegates be made to represent their constituents?" The rank and file of workers cannot attend all the meetings of their central organizations any more than we can spend all our time in watching Congress. Labor bosses, like political crooks, love darkness. Yetta, taking a suggestion from the progressive magazines, turned the light of publicity on the weekly meetings of the Central Federated Union. She made the Monday afternoon labor page a verbatim report of the Sunday session. Among the delegates to the C. F. U. there were many fearless, upright men who were as much opposed to gang politics as any insurgent senator at Washington. Yetta knew them from her old work and drew them into a sort of informal Good Government Club. Every day she tried to run some story dealing with this issue of clean politics. More and more the "labor grafters" denounced The Clarion, and more and more their opponents came to rely on it as their greatest ally. The percentage of "crooked" and "straight" among the unionists is about the same as in any church membership. The circulation grew among the honest workers – the vast majority.

Her influence was not confined to her own department. Her experience in the Woman's Trade Union League had made her an expert beggar; more and more she helped Isadore, relieving him of some of the burden of money-raising. This freed more of his time and energy for his page. He listened more docilely to her suggestions about bettering the style of his editorials – adding snap to them – than he had done when Paulding had tried to help him. The improvement was noticeable. During her apprenticeship under Mr. Brace Yetta had absorbed some of his "sense of make-up." Harry Moore often appealed to her judgment. In time The Clarion began to look almost attractive.

One day Yetta's old friend Cowan, the sporting editor of The Star, met her on the street.

"I hear you're working on this Socialist paper," he said. "How goes it?"

"I like it better than The Star," she replied.

"I've looked over some of the copies," he said. "You people aren't handling local news the way you ought to. Why don't you tear the lid off this Subway scandal? I'm not a Socialist. But I hate to see such good stories going to waste."

Yetta rather wearily went over the long story of their limitations. She had learned to recite it as glibly as Isadore or Paulding.

"It's too bad," Cowan said, as he left her. "I didn't realize you were up against it so hard. I sure hate to see some of these hot stories unused."

A couple of days later, Yetta received a long, unsigned typewritten manuscript. It was a well-written story of a session of the Public Service Commission. A witness had made a statement which seemed to offer the key to the whole situation in the tangled effort of the city to get decent transportation. A few more questions promised to bring out the fact – generally suspected – that a well-known banker was obstructing progress. The chairman had unexpectedly adjourned the sitting. When they reassembled, the old witness – the only one who had ever shown any willingness to remember important things – had left town. Then followed from official court records a list of the cases in which the Chairman of the Commission had served as personal attorney for the banker who was under suspicion. It was a wrought-iron story, hardly a word in it was not public record; chapter and verse were cited for every allegation. Yetta called up Cowan and asked him about it. He denied all knowledge of it so ardently that she was sure he had sent it. They made a screaming front-page story of it. The regular papers denounced it as "a malicious and audacious lie" – which was good advertising for The Clarion. More anonymous stories followed. They attracted a new class of readers. The circulation grew. Gradually Yetta and The Clarion found firmer ground underfoot.

Despite her strenuous work for The Clarion, Yetta did not lose interest in, nor neglect, her vest-makers union. She was not alone in her ambition to see all the garment trades allied in a strong federation. There were many Socialists in the various unions, and there were many who, while not party members, had been influenced by the propaganda of the Industrial Workers of the World. As the months passed the sentiment for "One Big Union" grew steadily. At last, when Yetta had been about a year on The Clarion, a convention of all the garment trades was called to consider the matter.

The victory of Yetta's faction was by no means sure. Each union had its own ambitions, which it was loath to sacrifice for the common good. In all the unions there were little groups of "officials" – some of them afraid of losing their salaries in the proposed new arrangement, more who feared to lose their influence. A union man who is elected to the executive committee by his fellows has all the personal pride in the matter that a college graduate has in being on the board of governors of his club. The union man has the same temptation to resort to petty intrigues to hold his place. Officialdom always distrusts innovations – is always conservative. Working-men are surprisingly like the rest of us – especially in these little personal jealousies and meannesses.

There was also the hostility of the American Federation of Labor to overcome. Within that great organization the same struggle between industrialism and the old-fashioned craft-unionism was waxing more bitter every year. A bitter opposition was growing against the rule of Samuel Gompers and his satellites. No one denied that this group had done great service to the cause of labor – ten, fifteen, twenty years ago. But the younger union men – especially those most in sympathy with Socialism or the I. W. W. – said these "leaders" were getting old, that they were out of touch with the times. Naturally these leaders did not look with favor on the spread of such ideas.

Yetta and her friends saw at once that their only hope of success lay in appealing to the rank and file. So during the first days of the convention, while the official delegates were denouncing the principles of Industrial Unionism, Yetta spoke at noon factory meetings, two or three times each evening, and devoted almost all of The Clarion's "Labor Page" to the same subject. This is the secret of democratic politics. If the mass of the people can be stirred into watching and controlling their representatives, Democracy is safe. The mass of the garment workers believed in federation. They made their wishes heard even in the Convention Hall, – it is rare, indeed, that the will of the people control such assemblies, – and when the crucial vote was taken, the resolution of the industrial unionists was carried by an unexpectedly large majority.

For close to five years, Yetta had been working towards this end. At first she had been laughed at and snubbed. The victory made her wild with joy – but also she felt very tired. The meeting did not break up till after one in the morning. The last week had been a ceaseless rush. She felt that if she went to sleep she would not wake up for a month or so. It was important to have the story in the morrow's Clarion, and Isadore ought to write an editorial on the victory. She decided to go to the office, hammer out the "copy," leave a note for Isadore, and then go home to sleep with a clear conscience.

The elevator was not running at this hour, and Yetta had to climb up the six flights to the Clarion's loft in the dark. There is something eerie and weird about a deserted office. The feverish activity of the day haunts the place like a ghost, even in the stillest hours of the night. Although Yetta knew the room was empty there was a very distinct feeling that some one was there. She was not afraid of the dark, but it was a decided relief when, after much fumbling about, she found the way to her table and turned on the light. The electric globe hung low, and the light was so concentrated, by a green glass shade, that it shone glaringly on the table and typewriter, but did not illumine the rest of the room at all.

Once Yetta had a sheet of paper arranged in her machine, the feeling of weirdness left her, and soon the spirit of composition made her forget that she was tired. For an hour she hammered the keyboard without interruption. It was not till she had finished her "story" that the fatigue reasserted itself. She ought to look over the copy to make corrections. She ought also to write a note to Isadore about the convention and to say that she was going home to sleep a week. She stretched herself energetically to drive away the drowsiness and – unconsciously – her arms went down on the table, her head down on her arms, and she was hopelessly asleep.

Isadore was generally the first of the editorial force to come to the office. His "eight-hour" workday was from 4 A.M. till noon. On his way to the office in the morning he picked up the early editions of the other papers, clipped the news he wanted worked up for their afternoon edition, and got his day's editorial finished before the rest of the staff turned up. It was his theory that if he had an evening engagement, – a committee meeting or a speech to make, – he would sleep four hours in the afternoon. If he had work in the afternoon, he went to bed before nine. So he got in seven hours of sleep every day – theoretically. But it so often happened that he had work to do both afternoon and evening that the week was rare when he averaged more than five hours sleep a day.

He generally found the office empty when he arrived. But this morning a light was burning in the back of the loft – "the composing room." One of the linotypers, who was also a mechanic, had come a few minutes before him to repair one of the machines which had gone wrong, and so save the expense of bringing in an expert. It was a violation of the union rules, but this linotyper was a Socialist.

"Comrade," he said, when he saw Braun, "it's a crime. This linotype is worn out. I'm getting it so it will run again, but it's dead slow. And it'll break down again in a couple of days. It ought to be scrapped. It costs more to keep it going than the interest on the price of a new machine. It's uneconomic."

Isadore said he would talk it over with the executive committee. He made his way through the shadowy machines to the front part of the loft, which was by courtesy called "the Editorial Room." No one who has not experienced the expensiveness of poverty can realize how maddening it is to throw money away because you are not rich enough to save it. Isadore knew there was very little chance of buying a new linotype. He turned the end of a long bookcase and suddenly saw the light burning over Yetta's table; he saw her stretched out motionless across her work. He had never seen her asleep. With an awful sinking of the heart the thought came that she might be dead. He sprang towards her and called her name. In the semidarkness he upset a chair with appalling clatter.

Yetta, startled out of profound sleep, sprang to her feet. Her head struck the light, which hung low, broke the glass shade; the jar dislocated the fragile film of the lamp. In the instant before the light went out, the only thing which Yetta realized was that her surroundings were unfamiliar. She had never been so frightened before in her life. When they told her afterwards that she had screamed, she could hardly believe it. She could not recall having done so. The first thing she was conscious of was that some one's arms were about her and Isadore's voice was saying, – ungrammatically but convincingly, – "It's me."

After the hideous nightmare of fright, his accustomed voice, his strong arms about her, were utterly comforting. She told herself afterwards that she must have been partly over the verge of fainting, for Isadore kissed her and she made no motion – had no idea – of resistance. First, in the darkness, his hand had found the way to her neck and face; then she had felt the hot wave of his breath, – murmuring words which made no sense to her, – and then his lips on her cheek and mouth. She was never quite sure if she had kissed him back. Whether she had or not she knew she had been very close to doing so.

But the moment of forgetfulness had been interrupted by the linotyper, running towards them and asking the cause of the commotion. At the idea of an onlooker, Yetta disengaged herself from Isadore's arms – just in time. The linotyper turned on a light. Isadore tried to laugh.

"We scared ourselves nearly to death," he explained. "Comrade Rayefsky had fallen asleep. The sight of her scared me into upsetting a chair. That startled her awake. She jumped up so quick she broke the lamp."

The linotyper was a good fellow. He unscrewed a lamp from another socket and substituted it for the one Yetta had broken, and went decently back to his work.

Isadore seemed on the point of coming towards her, and Yetta retreated back of the chair.

"How stupid of me to fall asleep. We won out at the convention. I came down to write it up. I must have just started to look it over when I went to sleep. You'll have to grind out an editorial on it. I'll finish it up at once."

She sat down to her work.

Isadore found it harder to bring his wits together. But her movement of retreat had been like a blow in the face to him. It steadied him a trifle – but only a trifle. He had kissed Yetta. All these years he had loved her. Suddenly – utterly unexpectedly – the Heavens had opened. He had held her in his arms, he had kissed her.

The foolish idea came to him that he would like to look at his lips, which – after waiting so long – had at last found their goal. As there was no mirror in the office, this was manifestly impossible. But his hand – at least he could look at that – it also had caressed the beloved face. His hand was stained with blood. For an instant he was dazed. Yetta – her cheeks aflame – was bent over her work. A little stream of blood ran down her neck, where a bit of the broken lamp-shade had cut her in its fall.

"Yetta, Yetta!" he cried, "you're wounded."

"What?" she said in amazement. She had been preparing a crushing answer in case he started to make love again. The emotions that were tearing her were too violent to let her take note of a little cut.

"Look," he said, showing her his hand. "Broken glass. On your neck. Let me see."

Impressed by the sight of blood, she bent her head for the examination. But Isadore's ideas of treating such a wound were sentimental rather than scientific.

"Oh, don't. Please!" she protested, agonized by shame. She struggled up to her feet, but somehow she had forgotten the crushing retort she had prepared. "It isn't serious. It doesn't hurt. Please let me finish this work."

Isadore retreated before her distressed eyes.

"Wipe the blood off your lips," she ordered sternly.

Then she sat down again, utterly confused. It seemed such a stupid, inane thing she had said. It was all her fault, she unjustly told herself. If only she had kept her wits that first moment instead of being so childishly frightened. She felt humiliated. It took an extreme effort of will to turn her attention to the garment workers and the article she must correct. It would have helped if she could have heard the scratching of his pen or the rustle of his newspaper. There was not a sound from his desk. She did not dare to look around.

At last the task was finished. She put on her cloak and hat and wrapped the muffler about her throat before she found courage to look at Isadore. He was sunk down in his chair, watching her hungrily. She bit her lip at the sight and had trouble speaking.

"Isad – Comrade, here's the copy. I hope you can make an editorial out of it. It's awfully important for Organized Labor. – This convention has finished me. I'm dead tired. I'll take a vacation to-morrow – I mean to-day – and sleep."

Isadore did not reply. He just looked at her, a dumb plea in his eyes – which she did not want to seem to understand.

"So long," she said.

She was almost out of sight before he spoke.

"You'll come back? When you're rested?"

"Why, yes," she said. "Of course."

It was at least half an hour before Isadore pulled himself together and got to work. But the editorial which he wrote on the Federated Garment Trades was very creditable.