|
|
From the book:
Late that afternoon, as he was not called for picket duty, Alfonso was at home. Returning from the community toilet at the end of the hall he entered the two room, dilapidated, apartment where he and his family resided. He was shocked to see his wife entering the front door just ahead of him, tears streaming silently from her tired eyes as she listlessly shuffled into the main room. It was obvious she had been crying for some time. The four children looked up from the floor where they were occupied with their wooden toys. Alfonso quickly moved to her.
“Como sta?!”
“Bene, bene!”
“NO BENE! What's wrong?!”
“Siamo scesi a. . .”
“Speak English!”
He nodded to the children scattered around the cramped room. Her speech became stilted and deliberate. “We go down to . . . the new strike relief center. Some men are goin'a through dee street saying, 'free soup and bread, free soup and bread', and holding up signs.”
“Okay.” Due to her emotionally drained state she relapsed into Italian. Alfonso, becoming more enraged by the tears welling in her eyes, didn't notice.
“They said the food was compliments of the A.F.L.”
“Who you go with?”
“Signora Poropolus.” He hugged her.
“Okay Bella, tell me.” “After two hours of standing in line, in the freezing cold the man asked me, 'How many people are in your family?' I said to him, six. He said, 'Good, then you can have double ration.' My heart soared! I gave him my pail, but he pushed it back to me. I was confused. Then he said, 'First, you must sign this paper.' I said, 'What is this paper?' He said, 'This paper says you and your husband, and your children will be members in the A.F.L. and no longer members of the Industrial Workers of the World.' ”
“Did you sign this paper?!” Her look of indignation was more than answer. His reaction was immediate. He did up his braces as he charged into the bedroom emerging seconds later checking the action on a Baretta 9mm. “Where is this relief station?” He demanded. “Cherry Street, near the butcher's. What are going to do?!” “Get some soup. Stay here with the children . . .” “Alfonso, if . . .” “DO YOU UNDERSTAND ME? NO MATTER WHAT HAPPENS!” “Yes.” Having heard the row Mr. and Mrs. Poropolus were standing across the hall in their doorway as Alfonso stormed through the narrow hallway and started down the staircase. Mrs. Poropolus immediately moved to comfort Signora Affanoso. Hugging her friend tightly she realized her husband was still standing behind her leaning on the door jamb leisurely picking his teeth. Reaching over she slapped him on the side of the head. “What are you gawk at! Go and help him!” “ALRIGHT! I GO! Only don't hit!” “You need hit sometimes, you big mule!” “ALRIGHT! Only don't hit!”
“Bene, bene!”
“NO BENE! What's wrong?!”
“Siamo scesi a. . .”
“Speak English!”
He nodded to the children scattered around the cramped room. Her speech became stilted and deliberate. “We go down to . . . the new strike relief center. Some men are goin'a through dee street saying, 'free soup and bread, free soup and bread', and holding up signs.”
“Okay.” Due to her emotionally drained state she relapsed into Italian. Alfonso, becoming more enraged by the tears welling in her eyes, didn't notice.
“They said the food was compliments of the A.F.L.”
“Who you go with?”
“Signora Poropolus.” He hugged her.
“Okay Bella, tell me.” “After two hours of standing in line, in the freezing cold the man asked me, 'How many people are in your family?' I said to him, six. He said, 'Good, then you can have double ration.' My heart soared! I gave him my pail, but he pushed it back to me. I was confused. Then he said, 'First, you must sign this paper.' I said, 'What is this paper?' He said, 'This paper says you and your husband, and your children will be members in the A.F.L. and no longer members of the Industrial Workers of the World.' ”
“Did you sign this paper?!” Her look of indignation was more than answer. His reaction was immediate. He did up his braces as he charged into the bedroom emerging seconds later checking the action on a Baretta 9mm. “Where is this relief station?” He demanded. “Cherry Street, near the butcher's. What are going to do?!” “Get some soup. Stay here with the children . . .” “Alfonso, if . . .” “DO YOU UNDERSTAND ME? NO MATTER WHAT HAPPENS!” “Yes.” Having heard the row Mr. and Mrs. Poropolus were standing across the hall in their doorway as Alfonso stormed through the narrow hallway and started down the staircase. Mrs. Poropolus immediately moved to comfort Signora Affanoso. Hugging her friend tightly she realized her husband was still standing behind her leaning on the door jamb leisurely picking his teeth. Reaching over she slapped him on the side of the head. “What are you gawk at! Go and help him!” “ALRIGHT! I GO! Only don't hit!” “You need hit sometimes, you big mule!” “ALRIGHT! Only don't hit!”
Scurrying down the narrow hall after Affanoso, Poropolus took time to turn back to his wife who was now watching over the shoulder of Alfonsos's wife as they embraced.
“You hit me, maybe I get hurt,
then you don't get none of this!” He gyrated his hips with his hands
behind his head. “I don't need none of
this! I need younger man!” “OHHH!
Good luck to you, old woman!” “GO!
Just GO! It will be finished before you start! As usual.”
Mrs. Affanoso was hard pressed to curtail
a giggle at the middle-aged Greek couple's banter, but grateful for the opportunity
to regain her composure.
“Thank you, Angelica.”
“Agghh! Some day we all have nice place
to live. We have big dinner with all the families, and we tell stories.”
“Yes . . .” The Greek woman wiped
a tear from her neighbor's cheek. “. . . but what kind of stories we
tell?”
Down at street level a half dozen other
mill hands from the tenement were outside in the cold Winter's air shifting
a donation of coal from the back of a small, open bed lorry. Observing Affanoso,
still clad only in his shoes, trousers, braces and undershirt, they instantly
sensed something was up. From his agitated state they instinctively knew what
ever it was it had to do with the bosses and so couldn't be good. They straggled
after him bringing broom handles, shovels and various improvised weapons with
them.
The military patrols ordered by Col. Sweeter
had not only cleared the mill districts but secondarily discouraged most other
traffic in the town giving the well planned streets a temporary early Sunday
morning feel. Overnight a thin layer of snow had coated the city and so the
only sound discernible that mid-day was the crunching of the snowy crust as
the men strode west on Maple Street.
Five minutes later the small group turned onto Cherry Street and a policeman on the corner saw them. Given the heightened, panic stricken atmosphere of the last few weeks he wasted no time and ran towards the nearest military post, three blocks west. By the time they reached the kosher butcher's shop Affanoso saw a group of about twenty women engaged in a heated argument in the doorway of the relief station across the street. He pushed his way through the gaggle where there were two men behind the long soup counter engaged in busy work and a third standing by a mill worker who was bent over the end of the counter apparently signing his name to something.
Affanoso may have been hot tempered but he wasn't stupid. He kept the Baretta tucked neatly in his trouser pocket as he entered the store-front shop. The two soup workers didn't immediately tick on to the developing situation but the one with the mill worker looked up at the overtly aggressive man.
“Which one of you is Golden?”
Asked Affo. “I am!” He answered,
bolstered by a false sense of confidence.
Affanoso wasted no time but vaulted the
counter and with his left hand clasping Golden's throat slammed the terrified
A. F. L. agent backwards against the wall behind the counter and thrust the
pistol under his chin. One of the younger women screamed.
Two of the men with the Italian moved to stand on either side of the mill worker who had only began to sign the union application form. A quiet, “Get out” was all that was required for him to understand his position. The women parted like the Red Sea as he scurried through the front door.
One of the Armenian women gathered in the
entrance quickly dispatched her two children to the street corners to act
as lookouts.
“How much is the soup now, fangulo?!” Alfonso asked, the bile of contempt welling in his throat. “I . . . I was just . . .” “SHUT UP'A YOU FACE!” The other two behind the counter stood stark still. There was no question, Affanoso was in charge. “YOU TWO, give them soup!” The women scurried to the counter, pails in hand. The two men were already there to greet them, ladles dripping with vegetable broth. “Bread too, stronzi!” The men immediately complied. “What are you doing?! You just can't . . .” Golden weakly protested.
Suddenly from the corner of Maple and Cherry
one of the Armenian youngsters sounded the alarm. The women looked to Alfonso.
“In the back! Now!” He
ordered the other men. “You stay here!” He ordered Golden. “Take
off your coats!” His fellow mill workers complied. “You
two, get busy doing something! One of you collect all the shovels, take them
out. You with the broom, the floor is dirty.” “Si
Alfonso!” He began leisurely sweeping up. By this time the women had
formed an orderly line along the counter. “If
there is shooting , you will be the first!”
Affo kept the gun at his side hidden from plain sight by the tall counter but still in sight of Golden. “You came here to help us, so help! Fill the pails!” Golden was relegated to dispensing generous portions of the steaming soup to the women.
Affo kept the gun at his side hidden from plain sight by the tall counter but still in sight of Golden. “You came here to help us, so help! Fill the pails!” Golden was relegated to dispensing generous portions of the steaming soup to the women.
A squad of soldiers, with the policeman in tow, double timed in formation up to the shop and while six of them formed a cordon around the shop arching into the street the rest shoved their way in and cleared a path through the women. Through the front door strode a well polished young Lieutenant who may have seen one too many picture shows. Anxious to assert his command, pistol drawn and held at waist level, he quickly surveyed the premises.
“Don’t forget your bread Mrs. Zaydoon.” Affanso offered calmly. With tears in her eyes the thirty-something woman going on fifty took the bread without answering and scurried around the officer. Golden's men froze but the mill workers carried on as if the soldiers weren't there. “We have a report of a disturbance. Everything alright here Mr. Golden?” “No problem fellas. Everything is in hand.” “You seem to have extra help today?” “Volunteers from the U.T.W. Hall.”
Hesitantly, but satisfied, the L.T. holstered
his revolver and retired to the street where he sharply issued a series of
orders and assembled his troops into a platoon formation and marched them
back from whence they came.
More women, some with children in tow, began
appearing at the soup kitchen.
Just as the situation seemed to resolve
itself a boy in his late teens, merrily bounced through the front door and
approached Affanoso and Golden.
“Who?” Affo demanded of
Golden. “Our daily courier. From the
U.T.W. Headquarters.” “So Gompers
is behind your little scheme.” “He's
nothing to do with it.” “Wait, don't
tell me. He doesn't even know?!”
The women continued to eagerly collect their
double rations of soup and bread.
“Morning Mr. Golden.” The
boy greeted. “Morning . . . Stewart.”
Golden choked out the rest of his reply. “Here
for your afternoon order sir.” “Oh,
we'll go for the same . . .” The pistol pressed harder into his ribs.
“ . . . ahh better double, ahh, triple the order Stewart. It’s
going pretty good down here.” “Wow!
Mr. Gompers' office will be thrilled when he finds out! See ya at two Mr.
Golden.” As the courier exited more women lined up and the queue now
snaked out the front door. “How much is
your normal order?” “Two hundred
loaves of bread and a fifty gallons of soup.” “Very
nice. You and you stay with me.” He was careful not to use his colleagues
names. "We’ll wait until two. You others get out and tell the rest
of the women to be here at two when the trucks come.”
On his way out of the relief station Poropolus
turned to Golden and made a comment in Greek. Golden, who was still doling
out generous portions of soup, turned to his captor.
“He say, don’t you feel
better now you do the right thing?” The union official, unamused continued
to stare at Affanoso.
“Don't forget your bread
ladies.” Alfonso pleasantly reminded.
