Anarchy
The scant dozen children left in Rosa's class sat at their desks, puzzled into silence. The bell had rung some time ago, and still no Miss Finch. There was an almost sepulchral solemnity about her absence. Teachers, in the students' experience, were always in the classroom. They had no life outside that room. Therefore, they were never tardy, much less absent. Tardiness, to hear Miss Finch expound on the subject, was one of the seven deadly sins.
Then how to account for the missing Miss Finch? What should they do?
At length, Rosa opened her single textbook, her history book, and tried to reread the dense description of the Constitutional Convention. out of the corner of her eye she could see that the Khoury boys had put their heads down on their desks to get a head start on their morning naps. Celina Cosa had unbraided both of her pigtails and was carefully rebraiding one.
Celina caught Rosa looking. "She's dead," Celina said. Someone several rows back let out a snort. Celina whipped about. "It ain't funny. She'll go straight to hell, being a Protestant and all."
Rosa was shocked. of course, she knew the church taught that if you weren't Catholic you were lost, but she'd never actually applied it to people she knew. Certainly not to Miss Finch, who was so proper—who was always here, never tardy, and was, in her prim, oldmaidish way, trying desperately to turn them into good, clean, educated American citizens.
She was even more shocked when, a few minutes later, Miss Finch came bursting through the door, her hat askew, her hair flying loose from her always perfect bun, her coat half buttoned.
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She was panting like a stray dog. "They attacked my trolley car!" she cried. "They threw rocks at us. I was only trying to get to school!" She paused to catch her breath. "oh, children, didn't I warn you there would be terrible violence? These Marxist agitators are turning your people into animals...animals! I barely escaped with my life, and then I had to run—I had to run all the way to get here to you." She plopped down on her chair, exhausted.
The children sat riveted, staring at her as she sought to pull herself together. "It began with snowballs and ice. Now..." She looked down at her coat and began, with shaking fingers, to undo the remaining buttons. Then she stood, slipped off her coat, and laid it on her desk. They watched her, as entranced as though they were attending a performance. She reached up and took the pins out of her hat, removed it, returned the pins to the crown of the hat, and set it on top of the overcoat. Then she felt her hair. Abruptly, she picked up the hat and coat and started for the cloakroom at the rear of the classroom. The class sat in stunned silence and waited for her to re-emerge, her hair now pinned into its usual tight bun, her face looking remarkably calmer.
"Celina," she said, "this is not your boudoir, my dear. Kindly go to the cloakroom to finish dressing your hair." Celina rose to her feet, still clutching her half-braided hank of hair. She kept her head turned to watch the teacher and tripped over her shoes as she made her way to the back of the room.
"Now, children, don't be afraid. I'm sure you're as upset as I am that this strike has turned so ugly. I've tried so hard to warn you what might happen. Your parents are being led astray by these anarchists and Marxists. I'm not sure we've discussed Marxism yet. Suffice it to say, all Marxists are atheists. That means, they do not believe in God. We have talked, I know, about anarchism." She looked down into Rosa's face. "Can you tell the class what an anarchist is, Rosa?"
"It's—they're people who don't trust the government."
"Yes, but it's more than that, isn't it?" The teacher's voice was kind. She wanted so much for them to understand. "Anarchists not only mistrust government, they want to be rid of the government. They're lawless, and they're proud of being lawless. And what," she stopped to look at each of the children in turn, "what would life be like if there were no laws? No policemen to protect us from those who would harm us?"
"A policeman beat up my mama."
Rosa did not have the nerve to turn and see whose quiet voice had dared challenge the teacher.
"I'm sure the policeman was only trying to help keep order," Miss Finch said. "It's very hard for them, you know, when thousands of people are threatening them every day. Preparing to dynamite the mills, throwing rocks—"
"The workers didn't set no dynamite, Miss Finch. That was a trick."
Now Rosa did turn to see who had the gall to take up Joe O'Brien's role as teacher's challenger, which had disappeared when he was arrested. She was startled to realize that it was tiny Olga Kronsky, who had hardly ever spoken out in class in her life, which was why Rosa hadn't recognized her voice. "My mama said the owners'd do anything to make the strikers look bad. Maybe those Pinkerton men they hired was the very ones who threw them rocks at your trolley car. Joe Ettor said if anything bad happened, they'd always try to make it look like the workers done it."
"Did it. The workers did it, Olga."
"No, ma'am, they ain't done nothing."
"They haven't done anything, Olga, not they ain't done nothing."
"But that's what I mean, Miss Finch, my mama ain't done nothing. Joe Ettor said, 'No violence,' and that's what we done. We ain't done no violence."
Rosa could tell from the look on Olga's face that she had no idea it was her grammar and not her protest that Miss Finch was trying to amend. Miss Finch apparently realized that her cause was hopeless. She sighed deeply and sat down at her desk. "Very well, Olga. I'm afraid you'll be disillusioned soon enough. Ah, welcome back, Celina, you look very nice now."
The Day Hell Breaks Loose
Jake was sick of it all—the grubbing for food, the nasty places where he had to sleep or the churches where he tried to sleep but which didn't welcome strays like him, who came only for shelter from the winter wind and a chance to pilfer pennies. There had been those few moments with Angelo, and then again when he saw Mrs. Gurley Flynn, when he had almost thought the strike was a good thing, but the feeling hadn't lasted. He had no national hall to march proudly into for warmth and food and companionship during these dark days. There was nothing in the strike for the likes of him but cold and hunger.
So on that Monday, more than two weeks after the infernal business had begun, he determined once again to return to work. He would earn the money to buy his pa enough whiskey to keep him from beating him, and go back and live in the shack by the river that he had called home since he could remember. He remembered quite well how much he had hated that old life, but this new one was worse. He never knew what to expect from day to day. And he was so cold. He would save out from his pay envelope at least enough money to buy coal for the shack's little stove. Yes, he'd make a fire at night and sleep close to it.
The crowds on Canal Street were almost as thick as they had been at the station the week before. But they were angry, booing and yelling at workers who were trying to elbow their way through to get to the mill gates or over the canal bridge and on to the Wood or Ayer mills. "Scab! Scab!" they screamed, along with what he guessed were obscenities in their native tongues. He persisted and was nearly at the bridge when a rough hand grabbed his arm.
"You ain't scabbing, is you, boy?" It was Giuliano.
Jake decided on the spot that he'd have to give up trying to get to work that day. "No, no," he said. "I come to help picket."