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Sewing can be Dangerous

Sarah Mallery

    The subway train came to a spark-grinding stop all by itself, but the cold October day helped puff the steam up from the tracks below, temporarily blocking the neon letterforms scrawled all over the station signs.
    Susan turned to her companion. “This is us, Mom,” she announced.
    Dressed in various shades of black, the two women rose from their metal seats, quickly exited before the doors could close on them, and gingerly made their way down the rickety platform steps. Down at street level, they were overwhelmed by the view: hundreds of tombstones and mausoleums spread out before them on either side, and with the grey stones gradating up into a grey sky, it resembled more of an architectural painting than a backdrop to the oldest Jewish cemetery in New York City.
    Mourning relatives huddled around the two newcomers, offering each one silent hugs and wet cheeks. Then, wending her way over to the family plot, Susan tried hard to avoid stepping on any hallowed ground as she passed row after row of Siegelmans, Strausses, Brodskys, Kandelbergs, and Steins.
    But it was the array of headstones that impressed her the most; faded names butted up against trendy 1990 tombstones with faces phototransferred onto their slick, dark grey surfaces. Just imagine, she mused, how a heavy downpour would look, splashing against their faces and beating tears down all those shiny cheeks.
    Oh, that’s Great Aunt Ada, she thought, her eyes taking in their family plot’s fanciest headstone. I remember hearing about her. And there’s little David, run over by a trolley car. How awful it must have been for her grandmother as a girl, to be told something so tragic about her own brother.
    Closing her eyes, she could still hear her bubby’s voice in her head, imitating all the wailing that had occurred in the family parlor the night of the boy’s death. Even as her Uncle Jacob eulogized, her mind drifted still further, conjuring up emotions she herself had suppressed for months.
    Focusing on the family tombstones after the service, she zeroed in on an unfamiliar name and stepped in closer to get a better look.

“Herein lies Sasha Rosoff.     Born in Russia, 1895     Died New York City, 1911.     A short life in America—     Yet a long soul in Heaven.”

    Susan’s interest was tweeked. Who was this mysterious Sasha Rosoff, and more importantly, what had happened to her after coming to the U.S.? She swiveled around 180 degrees to ask one of her older cousins, but thought better of it; later would be a better time for questions.
    Later turned out to be at Uncle Jacob’s house in Queens, where the laughter, tears, and reminisces intermingled with tray after tray of Jewish delicacies. By evening, when a secondary wave of people arrived to extend their noisy condolences, the tiny white wood and plaster house with the black roof swelled and vibrated.
    Finally, Susan couldn’t contain herself any longer. Coming up to a four-foot-tall, four-foot-wide silver-haired woman, she rested her arm around one of her favorite relative’s shoulders. “Cousin Yetta, I am dying to know something.....who is Sasha Rosoff?”
    The twitch of surprise was palpable. “There are a few things we don’t talk about around here. But if you have to know, ask your Great Uncle Jacob. He might tell you.” Suddenly, her eyes aimed down at the cocktail napkin she was fingering.
    Uncle Jacob’s duty as memorial host was to keep afloat just long enough to see the last guest leave. Sitting on the sofa with the lower section of his shirt half-opened and an unbuckled belt releasing his enormous belly, he was taking slow, deliberate breaths as Susan sat down beside him. Her fingers were the lightest of touches on his tired arm. “Uncle Jacob, are you all right?”
    He smiled at her concern. “Susan, my sweet one. How are you? I didn’t even ask. How’s the job? Your mom told me you’re so upset.”
    “I am, but that’s not what I want to ask you.” She paused. Then, “When we were all at the cemetery, I noticed a tombstone marked Sasha Rosoff. Who was she? Why did she die so young?”
     Uncle Jacob’s unexpected tears surprised both of them. For all his bulk, his vulnerability made Susan instantly regret having brought it up.
    “That poor girl never had a chance. So terrible to die that way...” His softened voice fluttered as his eyes rolled upward.
    Susan leaned forward; the suspense was too much. “Please, Uncle Jacob, tell me what happened.”
    He turned his eyes back to her. “What happened...? Ah.....well...”

*    *    *    *    *    *    *


    Sasha couldn’t believe how miserable the boat trip had been coming across the Atlantic. People shoved up against each other as a buffer to the elements plus the constant noise of crying babies with their frantic mothers trying to calm them down, accompanied the inevitable vomit that made people slide sideways and gag.
    Torrential rain and wind drove the ragged ship, lurching it back and forth over the fierce waves and scattering everyone to dark cubbyholes. Throughout, prayers provided the only strong haven, and for Sasha and her family, they prayed every chance they got that New York’s harbor would appear before their vessel broke into floating wood fragments in the angry sea. From the lower levels, third class shawled women, hatless men, and grimy-faced children kept gathering up on deck, straining to catch sight of the Statue of Liberty, their Lady of Hope. ‘Anytime now, it’ll be there,’ they were assured by the crew, but all they kept seeing were more miles of a relentless ocean.
    Below deck, gathered around the family’s makeshift table, Sasha’s father Moshe held court. “Ven ve come to New York, ve vill go to our cousins, the Brodskys on Hester Street. Ve will all act vit respect, and ve von’t give dem any trouble, vill ve? Is this understood Sasha?”
    Sasha grit her teeth, her green eyes hard. Always being treated like a second-class citizen in Russia simply because she was a Jew was a cruel and mystifying enough punishment, but to be seen as a third-class citizen by her own father simply because she was a girl, was more than she could bear.
    Moshe ignored her set jaw and beamed at his brown-haired son. “David, balibt, my beloved one, I know you vill behave vell, and ve vill find you goot job. This is land of opportunity, and you can do anything you vant. There von’t be Cossacks to shoot you down, or pogroms here. Dis is America.”
    “Papa, Vat about me?” Sasha felt the familiar tightness inside her chest that made her heartbeats pound.
    “Hush, girl! You vill do vat you are told! Ve vill look for something dat girls are meant to do. Now, hush! Scha!”
    Sasha’s mother Raisa sighed and bowed her head. Twenty years of living with her husband had taught her not to argue; in the end, the price was always too high. But Sasha was young with a spirit still intact, and as the ship pressed forward, she made a silent vow to herself: she would someday live her life the way she wanted to.
    By the time the boat entered the Upper New York Bay, people had scrambled over to the main deck railing, bobbing and positioning themselves to get a decent first glimpse of the famous statue. There she was; none of the photos or paintings had done her any justice. Up close, the sheer magnitude of her green-bronzed body with the one arm reaching up towards the cloudy sky holding a torch while her crowned head held a steady gaze towards America brought tears to the Rosoffs’ eyes. To Moshe, she represented a new respect he felt he had always deserved; to Raisa, if her husband got more respect, he might treat others better; to David, she came loaded with new, exciting adventures, and to Sasha, just being on American soil would automatically give her independence.
    As the ship maneuvered into New York Harbor, the sudden horn blast accompanied by billowy plumes of smoke coming out of its huge black funnels made everyone jump, then immediately shriek with delight.
     Their new lives were beginning.
    But the high-paid jobs for Moshe and David never materialized, and after degrading medical examinations on Ellis Island consisting of harsh finger probes, sneers, and humiliating positions, they both considered themselves fortunate just to sweep garbage off the floors of a local saloon for a small pittance. Despite all Moshe’s predictions, the only family member who did get an immediate job was Sasha.
    The Triangle Shirtwaist Factory was in the Asch building, located on the corner of Greene Street and Washington Place in the lower east side of Manhattan. The owners Isaac Harris and Max Blanck prided themselves on mass-producing new fashioned shirtwaists for American women, and in the process, had become rich men by hiring young Yiddish, German, and Italian seamstresses, desperate for work.
    The Rosoffs were thrilled at her steady pay, but Sasha’s heart sank. She found out soon enough what working conditions there were actually like: sixteen hour days, six days-a-week, hunched over huge black iron industrial sewing machines in crowded, near airtight conditions that had her breaking out in streams of sweat on hot summer days, and teeth chattering shivers in the dead of winter.
    Harris and Blanck were true believers of the new industrial age. It never occurred to them to offer decent factory conditions to their hard-working employees when they could just as easily squeeze the same amount of work out of these naîve immigrant girls. So for Sasha, each day was filled with crippling, repetitive motions that left her neck, back, and arms sore for days at a time. The fifteen minute allotment for lunch passed so quickly that some of the slower girls only had time to pull out their lunch boxes and take a couple of bites of food washed down by two or three swigs of liquid before the whistle blew, signaling them all back to work. There were no other breaks and no time to socialize.
    Lint particles sifted steadily throughout, getting into every conceivable surface. Microscopic fibers clogged mechanisms and filled nostrils with a dust so fine, after two hours it became difficult to breathe. Oil soaked rags, used for greasing the mechanisms, radiated their own heat that could be slightly comforting in winter for those workers near the large bins where they were dumped, but toxic in spring and summer for everyone else.
    America, Land of the Free. Such a joke, such a schpas, Sasha grumbled as she hobbled home one evening, later than usual. Entering their cramped, walk-up apartment, she appeared to be alone. Grateful for the stillness, she stretched out across their daybed/sofa, relishing a soundless room without the constant clatter of industrial sewing machines. She tried to relax her throbbing back by closing her eyes and pretending she was far away in another life, but within minutes, she could hear Jacob Brodsky coming up the hallway stairs from his after school job. Eyes still closed, she smiled in spite of her exhaustion.
     Her little cousin Jacob was the only bright spot in her new life. He adored her and she him. Somehow, the two found a solace in each other’s company, and without him, Sasha knew she might not have the strength to continue. More shuffling on the vestibule steps announced her Uncle Samuel, tired but excited about all the tips he made that day waiting on tables.
    The Brodskys were fortunate. They had all gotten jobs in the local Jewish delicatessen, preparing the food, waiting on tables, and dishwashing. They were delighted with their work and its decent pay, yet never forgot to commiserate with Moshe and his family on their lowly positions and grueling schedules. This is America, they would repeat on cue. Land of opportunity. Just wait and see...have a little patience....have a little geduld.
    But as time went on and there were no changes, Moshe’s increasing bitterness found a solid home in attacking Sasha. “Girl, vere ist your money for veek?” he would lash out sometimes. “I told you, you give it to me right vay. Don’t even tink of keeping it for yourself! You vouldn’t know vat to do with it, anyvay. Except for sewing, you no good! Give it! Gebn!” Then he would shove his hand roughly out towards her, palm up, expecting total obedience.
    Tonight, still lying on their couch and watching the Brodskys prepare dinner, Sasha could feel herself drifting off into a deeper sleep. That day, her shift had been particularly exhausting. Rainy spring days were foul in the factory; rancid, musk-like smells from people’s clothing permeated the air, and with little to no ventilation, the odor had become unbearable. Today at lunch break, she had nearly fainted from the stench, and when she had dared ask for a lunch extension, her answer came in the form of a broom handle, poking her in the ribs.
    “Gebn, meidl! Give, girl!” Shaken awake, she saw her father looming over her, his heavy breathing wafting towards her in angry waves. Moshe’s day had been bad as well, culminating in his employer deliberately stomping across the area of floor where he had been carefully moping, tracking fresh mud in from the street; in an instant, all the months of swallowed pride surfaced and he snapped. Flinging his mop down, he stormed out, forgetting about bills and putting food on the table.
    Out on the street, however, his anger soon morphed into silent desperation, and by the time he had reached their apartment, he was looking for the only satisfaction he could get: blaming Sasha .
    “Can’t I keep a little money, Papa? At least let me do somethink else. I hurt all over. Ich schatn......” Her voice cracked.
    That did it. Moshe lost all control. Cursing in Yiddish, he grabbed a wooden ruler and hit her shoulders and back repeatedly until her muscles numbed. She tried putting up her hands as protection, but he kept knocking them away with the ruler. Finally, with palms the color of raw meat and the popped up welts rubbing against the rough fabric of her dress, she cowered on the floor in the corner of their kitchen and sobbed. Jacob gently approached her, and kneeling down, started stroking her hair.
    Just then, her Aunt Deborah entered. Her silence this past year as she watched her cousin’s behavior with his only daughter had been based on a let-each-family-deal-with-its-own-problems philosophy. But enough was enough. Genug is genug. She pushed her cousin up against the wall. “Shame on you! How dare you treat your daughter like that! Vitout her money, you vould be notink, do you hear me, Moshe Rosoff? Notink!!”.
     Moshe slowly lowered his arm, dropping the ruler onto the floor beside him. Suddenly the apartment stilled, with only the tic...tic...tic of the wall clock clicking in time to Sasha’s soft whimpers.
    A half hour later, dinner was placed on the cracked oak table as if nothing had happened and with Raisa home, Moshe talked fervently to everyone about how things would be looking up soon, his pink face flushed with a renewed energy. Seduced by his good mood, Deborah, Raisa, Jacob, and David listened attentively, while Sasha ate in silence.

*    *    *    *    *    *    *

    Saturday, March 25, 1911 started out like so many other days. Sasha woke up in the dark, got dressed with cold, numb fingers, splashed water on her face from the porcelain pitcher and bowl set out on the kitchen table, gently kissed a sleeping Jacob, grabbed a piece of bread she had covered with jam, and let herself out the door. Feeling her way down the pitch black hallway, running her fingers over embossed plaster patterns, she almost stumbled on a nail peeking out of a floorboard just before getting to the front door. The gas light in the vestibule had been out for weeks, and their landlord had refused to fix it. She felt tired and depressed, but as bad as conditions were at Triangle Shirtwaist, nothing could compare with being around Moshe, so she took a deep breath and gratefully made her way through lower Manhattan to the sewing factory for a day of overtime and its slightly higher pay.
    Outside the factory on the sidewalk, she caught up with many of the girls with whom she usually worked; three hundred Italian, German, and Yiddish girls, their thread-worn dresses hanging over muddied petticoats and eyes as dark-circled as hers. Trudging up the path, they were all met at the front entrance by Joe Zitto, one of the elevator operators.
    “Okay girls, okay. Let’s get goin’. The rest of the building ain’t opened today, so I’m gonna take ya’s up to the 8th, 9th and 10th floors only. Don’t try to go anywheres else for lunch. The doors to the other floors are locked mostly. I guess Old Man Harris don’t want no burglars comin’ in. So, c’mon girls, let’s go.”
    Bending over her assigned sewing machine was excruciating. Her entire body ached from the previous day’s abuse; still, she kept working until lunchtime. She was in no mood to socialize then—she had so little energy, and besides, she didn’t want to have to make small chit-chat, feeling the way she felt. But when she went off into a corner of the factory floor by herself, two of her closest co-workers, Gladie Moskovitz and Irma Delacina, ignored all signals and came over to sit beside her.
    “What’sa matter wid you today, Sasha?” Irma peered at her friend as she bit down hard on a piece of Italian bread, the crust flipping out of her mouth and onto the floor.
    “Yah, you look different. Is everytink all right at home?” Gladie knew a little more about Moshe than Irma did; the other day Sasha had let her in on just how bad things had become on Hester Street.
    “I don’t vant to talk about it—sometink did happen, but I not say....” Sasha feared talking; once she started, her emotional dam might come unplugged and there would be no stopping her thoughts and feelings. Better to keep mute.
    In what seemed like only five minutes, the whistle blew, followed by many deep sighs and groans. Irma threw an arm around Sasha’s shoulder on the way back to their sewing machines, and handing her a delicate-looking locket from around her own neck, told her, “Here, taka dis to wear. It’sa my good luck charm necklace. I got it in Italy. If you wear it, maybe you getta good luck from now on.” She leaned over and gave her friend a little kiss on the cheek.
    Sasha, touched by Irma’s gesture, instinctively pulled off a little pinkie ring of her own; a small, silver Jewish star pattern with a pink stone in the center. Uncle Samuel had picked it up for her the week before at a local flea market, then sat her down, telling her, “Remember, Sadelah, you’re American now, but always, you are a Jewish girl. Never forget the Torah, my child.”
    Irma’s mouth opened, minus two upper right teeth, as she placed the ring on her pinkie finger. Then the two girls gave each other a quick hug before returning to their stations.
    The afternoon dragged on. Sasha found that by concentrating only on the rhythm of the sewing machines, she could block out her misery for a while; if she closed her eyes and listened intently, she could almost hear the tapping of a marching band: click, click, slam-slam-slam, whoosh..... whoosh, rattle—rattle went the machines. Soon, the whole factory pulsed.
    By 4:45pm, the whistle blew as if by magic, signaling the end of the workday and going home to face another round of God only knew what with Moshe. Turning off her machine, Sasha stood up, took a deep breath, and steeled herself, trying to remember she did have some good people in her life, people like Irma and Gladie and of course, little Jacob.
    Three steps out, she smelled smoke.
    Girls on the opposite end of the floor next to the windows were beginning to scream in a chorus-like panic, and someone streaking past her shouted, “Fire! fire!” Still, she remained paralyzed, her arms and legs like lead, and her mouth filled with a bitter, chalky taste. Then the adrenaline hit her and she broke into a dead run.
    Dark gray swirls of smoke were seeping in from under the doorway cracks while dozens of girls stampeded past the sewing room, heading towards the elevator shafts and stairwells and ending up crushed together against the in-going only doorways. Hysteria rendered each girl strong; no matter how hard she tried, Sasha couldn’t push her way through the flailing group of arms and legs, so she about-faced to explore other escape routes.
    Outside on the street, a man walking by pointed upward and shouted, “Look at the smoke coming out from the Triangle building!”
    “Yeah, it looks like it’s comin’ from the top floors! What’s that coming outa the windows? Looks like bolts of fabric! Old Man Blanck must really want to save his precious cloth!” a woman chimed in.
    “Yeah.....Wait! Wait a minute!” the man continued. “That’s not bolts of fabric—they’re—they’re—oh, God in Heaven!”
    The woman let out a blood curdling shriek.
    As a large crowd gathered, all eyes gazed up towards the 9th and 10th floors in time to see several smoke-blackened girls in smoldering dresses hurling themselves towards the ground to join the six bodies already strewn across the sidewalk, limp, broken.
    Engine Company 72 clanged around the corner and sparked to a halt, but the mounting piles of corpses made it impossible for the hose wagon to get close enough to be effective. Desperate firemen started handing out bucket after filled water bucket to the foreman, male tailors, and anyone available so they could run back into the building to douse out the flames. When all 27 buckets were emptied, it became all too painfully obvious; the fire was totally out of control.
    A few soot-streaked firemen tried to stretch out a safety net to catch one girl’s fall, but before all four corners were taut enough, three more girls had jumped seconds behind her, the weight of all four ripping the net as they landed hard against the pavement. The stunned men grabbed a nearby horse blanket to try to cushion the fall of another girl, but she, too, flew down with such force, her charred body split the blanket in two, hitting the cement in a twisted heap.
    Up on the tenth floor, more and more girls were desperately trying to scramble down the fire escapes. Gripping the iron ladders, adrenaline gave them the strength to ignore the steam hissing out between their fingers, until suddenly, yelping in pain, they let go and flailed like flying squirrels to the ground.
    Inside the building was pandemonium. Clouds of black, billowy smoke blinded Sasha, making her eyes sting and her throat raw until she got down on her hands and knees and managed to crawl towards the elevator shaft, praying both Joe Zitto and Joe Gaspar might still be on duty. Sure enough, the elevator was working, but it kept stopping on the eighth floor below her. She could hear Joe Zitto frantically working the metal levers, shouting up to anyone within earshot, “I can only get to the eighth floor! The ninth and tenth floors are blocked off! Get to the eighth floor and I’ll take ya’s down.”
    She managed to get to the eighth floor using one of the few stairwell exit doors not engulfed in flames, but once there, found too many crazed girls jammed together, calling out for the elevator. Joe Gaspar came up next, but could only squeeze in twelve to fifteen girls at a time. Between the two men, they made fifteen to twenty trips each, but with each trip, the girls’ clutches and cries weakened as their coughing from all the smoke and ashes overwhelmed everyone.
     “Come on, Sasha, come wid me to da westa door. We can getta through there!” She recognized Irma Delacina by voice only; the girl covered in head-to-toe soot and sizzling clothes standing next to her had nothing to do with the kind, smiling girl she had hugged just hours before. She attempted to reach out and grab her, but Irma was already halfway across the hallway, heading toward a door that Sasha knew to be locked. She called out after her friend, but Irma either wasn’t listening or couldn’t hear over the din of howls.
    Clanging around the corner from Great Jones Street, Engine Company 33 shuddered full stop in front of the burning building, drawing hurrahs from a crowd that naturally assumed any back-up would bring miracles. But their cheers soon turned into cries of horror when everyone realized the hoses could only reach the seventh floor, leaving the upper floors of the factory to burn.
    Inside, finding herself at the back of the tenth floor, Sasha viewed her options. She could see three male cutters across the room running towards an open window, and decided to go with them. She didn’t get very far. Oxidation from the fire had turned the tenth floor into a time bomb, and as bolts of fabric imploded into popping flames, she was knocked off her feet and onto the floor.
    Dazed, she tried to get up, then fell back, unconscious.
    Two minutes later, a roar erupted from the huge crowd as they witnessed three male cutters forming a human chain from the roof of the factory to an adjacent building. Slowly, one at a time, several of the girls carefully inched across the backs of the men to safety, eliciting cheers and applause each time someone made it. But the strain on their hands and fingers were too much for the cutters; someone lost their grip, and all three men plummeted eighty feet to their death.
    The sudden stillness overwhelmed the crowd already in mourning. In the thousands, they remained in shock until a man finally found his voice. “Look at the roof!”
    All eyes pointed upward. There, over a hundred girls, in their cumbersome dresses and singed petticoats, were wriggling across a ladder held down by some New York University law students who had placed an escape route between the adjacent buildings.
    By nightfall the fire had subsided, leaving glowing embers and assuring the fireman of an end in sight. But along with their relief came the dreaded job of scouting for more girls inside the building, and as the searchlights criss-crossed up towards the hollowed floors, an even more gruesome sight was revealed: scores of burned bodies, cradled by ropes, were being slowly lowered by firemen, then gently lined up on the cobblestones to be carted away for family identification.
    Nearby, hysterical relatives had descended on the Mercer Street Police station, asking questions in broken English and praying that their loved ones had managed to survive. Italian families wedged up tight against German families, who had melded into Russian-Yiddish families, all waiting for any announcements.
    Soon, an official shuffled into the room, his face impassive and mouth straight-lined. With his legs in riot stance, he stared at the families for several seconds before indicating a map on the south wall. All heads and torsos turned left towards it. Go to the Bellevue Morgue on 26^th Street, he informed them. You can either identify your loved ones there, or obtain more information about any missing girl. Then he about-faced and marched out, as apathetic as he had come in.
    Moshe, Samuel, and Raisa wasted no time. Before anyone else could leave the room, they had already begun their race over to the designated morgue. Once there, the thought of waiting in another endless line was out of the question for Raisa. She stormed across the waiting room to the main registry, leaned over the dull green institutional counter, demanding, “Ver ist da girls?” The inexperienced secretary flinched backwards then pointed a shaky finger towards the pier, a few yards away.
    Approaching the area, the smell of burned flesh overtook them, and Raisa started to faint. Moshe quickly stepped up and tried to shake her out of it.
    “Be brave, be brave for our little girl,” he muttered repeatedly.
    All the years of repressed anger exploded in Raisa. “You....You.... You did dis to her!” she screamed. “She had nottink to say—you made her verk there! I never forgive you, never! Kein mol nit!!! She pounded his chest with her fists, leaving him clinging half-heartedly onto her arms.
    She jerked herself free and charged through the warehouse to the identification room, ignoring all officials, yet ready for any confrontation. Entering the main room, she did a double-take: on the floor were dozens of bodies, burned beyond recognition. Walking up and down the rows, she scrutinized each cadaver, but it was no use; she couldn’t make out anything. Suddenly out of nowhere, she let out an agonized sob and collapsed. Samuel rushed over to support her, cradling her as if she were Sasha herself, and after a minute of rocking back and forth, he looked lulled himself, glazed, unable to speak. Then he focused on something and cried out.
    “Vat, vat is it?” Moshe implored.
    Samuel pointed to a charred body like all the others except for one slight detail: on the right hand was a little pinkie ring, a Jewish star ring with a tiny pink stone in its center.
    “It’s the ring I bought for her,” Samuel moaned, his choked voice so thick it was difficult to understand.
    Later that night, after Moshe and Samuel had put an exhausted Raisa to bed, Moshe turned to his relative. “Samuel, come sit vit me—ve need to talk.”
    They tiptoed out into the front room and he began. “There was something dat bother me about Sasha’s body tonight. Sasha always haf frizzy hair, but dis girl haf wavy hair. Wos kut dat mean?”
    “I don’t know, Moshe. But the ring, I know that ring. I’m sure it’s her. It’s our little girl..” He finally broke down, releasing all the pent-up emotions from an exceptionally long day.

*    *    *    *    *    *    *

“....It turned out to be one of the worst disasters in the history of modern industrialization, and because of it, a commission was set up to study better labor practices. Dozens of witnesses and family members testified, and when details of what happened came out, it was far more horrific than anyone could have imagined. A turbulent trial ensued, with the owners not being blamed and actually getting off scott free. But, we do end this program on a hopeful note. Conditions today in the work environment are probably better than they’ve ever been, partly due to the tragedy that happened at the Triangle Shirtwaist Factory on March 25, 1911. This is Peter Manning, signing off for ‘Investigations On the Air’....”

    Susan stared at the TV a few seconds before switching it off. Suddenly, the blackened screen made her reflect on her own job and the recent memos she had seen, revealing disturbing trends she could no longer ignore. Her mother had warned her not to make waves; after all, being a buyer for a celebrity’s clothing firm was a hard job to come by. Count your blessings.
    But that night, she didn’t sleep well. Fitful dreams, filled with fire, smoke, and a faceless girl desperately trying to slap out flames on her long skirt, startled her awake every few hours. By morning, exhausted, she had come to a major decision: she was going to read the testimonies and try to get inside her cousin’s world at the factory that day.
    After letting Uncle Jacob in on her plan one night after dinner, Susan was surprised to see him disappear into the bedroom and return with Sasha’s diary. “I don’t know if this will be helpful, but I have always kept this. She meant so much to me.” Handing her the thin, worn, leather-bound volume, he kept looking down at the floor, blinking his eyes and biting his lip.
    Sasha was certainly no Anne Frank, Susan mused as she skimmed through the book, but it was touching, none-the-less. Ambivalent about her own boss, she was drawn to this girl, obviously so trapped by her father and her situation. Throughout it all, Uncle Jacob appeared to be the girl’s one shining star, and that made Susan feel even closer to him. The other two names that kept cropping up were Irma Delacina and Gladie Moskovitz. Obviously she had considered them to be friends, or at the very least, comrades in misery, but other than that, there was nothing too eye opening about factory conditions, only that she ached all the time.
    The next step was the New York Public Library. Microfisching through a mountain of testimonials, she skimmed through most of the commission’s report until something caught her eye. She clicked the machine on hold and started reading.
    One of the testimonies given was by a Marco Delacina. He stated that he was quite distraught because they had never truly been able to identify their daughter, Irma; she was presumed to be one of the group of girls who had actually melted against a locked door. But the family had remained skeptical; where was her good luck locket that she always wore? It must have melted, officials had told them impatiently. It was not enough to lose one’s daughter, he further testified, but to have to endure being glossed over by public officials was an outrage. Besides the personal loss, the loss of income was devastating to their family. What were they to do now?
    Susan’s dreams turned violent that night; ash-coated monsters lumbered after her as she tried to escape the blocked passageway. Clawing at the door, her fingers and nails were sticky with blood as she fingered a little locket around her neck.
    At 4:23 am, she bolted upright in a sweat. Oh, my God —maybe they had switched jewelry!!
    She kept remembering Moshe’s testimony during the hearings; the hair quality was different. Everyone assumed it was his Sasha but the hair was different....and what about the Delacinas never truly believing they had found their girl..... Maybe Sasha had never been found, not Irma!
    Back to the library. She poured through dozens of articles, searching for anything that had to do with young teenage girls in New York. Nothing on Sasha, but there was an interesting article about the Delacina family doing very well financially several years after the tragedy. According to a certain interview, they kept receiving an anonymous donation each month, undoubtedly from the Sons of Italy, and it had changed their lives. Because of that, they had been able to move to Queens and were living the American middle-class dream.
    Watching her night after night, the librarian couldn’t contain her curiosity any longer and finally approached the avid researcher. After hearing the story, she suggested, “Why does it have to be New York? After all, if the girl didn’t want to return to her family, why would she want to stay in New York all these years?”
    Susan smiled. Of course. So she plunged in again, expanding her geographical area of interest. She focused on a 1922 article written from the “Pennsylvania News Terminal”: homeless, Russian Jewish girl makes good, setting up her own bridal sewing shop. People raving about her work, her moxy, etc. etc. Her name was Sarah Mijss. What an odd name. A fuzzy, antiquated photo of the seamstress displayed a rather plain girl with frizzy hair.
    Susan jotted down the name, took some notes on the article, and hugged the librarian before going home for the night. Frazzled, all she wanted to do was to pour herself a large glass of Cabernet Sauvignon and tube out. She channel-surfed for a minute or two before deciding on “Rosemary’s Baby,” playing on one of the movie networks. She had seen it numerous times before, but for some reason that night, was in the mood for the bizarre. Snuggling up against her overstuffed Sacks Fifth Avenue pillows, she settled down. Two-thirds of the way into the movie, she started glancing at her pad of paper on the coffee table and ruminated, unable to stop her circling mind. Casually picking up the pad, she studied the notes, including the odd name. Mijss. Weird .....
    Just then, one of the most crucial scenes in the movie came on when the leading character Rosemary, was told by the companion of a recently deceased friend that the answer to the problem lay in an anagram. Getting out her scrabble letters, she moved the pieces around and came up with the name of the satanic leader of a cult who happened to be living next door to her. With the music swelling ominously, it was one of the high points of the film.
    Susan stared down at her pad again. Mijss. Mijss. M-I-J-S-S. Oh my god!
    J stands for Jacob, I is for....? S is for Sasha, M is for Moshe, and S is for Samuel! I....I....I is for Irma? Yes, it would work!. It definitely could be her! Maybe she’s still alive and living in Pennsylvania!
    The next Saturday, she purchased a railroad ticket to the little town in Pennsylvania and booked herself into a hotel for the weekend. Might as well make a mini-vacation out of all of this. I can sure use it, she thought, frowning.
    After asking around about Sarah Mijss, it seemed everyone knew of her. Sure, Sarah, she’s the town character, ninety-five years old and still going strong.... She fell asleep easily that night in the hotel, preparing for the big day.
    On Sunday, Susan’s shaky hand paused before knocking. I hope this isn’t too much for her. I mean, what if it is her? Will she have a heart attack and die? She took a deep breath before hammering the tarnished brass knocker down on the door. Nothing. She tried again. Soon, she could hear shuffling on the other side of the door. “Coming, coming,” echoed an old, yet surprisingly firm voice.
    The door opened. “Hello, dear. May I help you?” the elderly woman stood waiting.
    Susan was afraid to proceed. “Ah.....you don’t know me from ‘Adam’, Ms. Mijss, but I’m here to talk to you about something that happened a long time ago.” There was a lull while she checked for any reaction. There wasn’t any.
    She continued. “May I come in? I don’t really want to say what I have to say out here.”
    The woman locked her knees and drew herself up. “My dear, whatever you have to say to me, you can say it in the doorway.”
    Here goes, Susan thought. “Have you ever heard of a little boy by the name of Jacob Brodsky?”
    It was as if the woman had been slapped on both cheeks. Her eyes watered instantly and stumbling back, she caught herself on the doorknob before lowering her head and sinking to the ground.
    Susan knelt down beside her. “I’m so sorry to do this to you. Are you all right?”
    Sasha Rosoff turned to her, whispering, “Someone found me at last. I can’t believe it — after all these years...”
    Later, over tea and homemade cookies, it all came out: the switched jewelry identities, the escape across the unfortunate cutters’ backs, the despair of losing her friend Irma, and the realization that she could start a whole new life without her dominating father.
    Susan interrupted her. “But the Delacinas ended up doing okay. I guess they got an anonymous donation from some Italian organization. They moved to.....” Then she caught one edge of Sasha’s lips curling.
    Her elderly cousin nodded slowly. “ After all, a life for a life, I always say. She saved mine, really, so the very least I could do was to save her family’s.”
     Susan rounded the table to hug her mentor, and beneath the old woman’s frail shoulders, she could sense the toughness that had served her well all these years. Clinging onto each other, Sasha started to cry. “I suppose everything has come full circle,” she murmured.
    Wiping away her own tears, Susan shook her head. “Not quite. There’s just one more thing I‘ve got to do to make things right, and I need you to be with me...”

*    *    *    *    *    *    *

    Cameras flashed as Susan’s boss, the well-known actress-turned-clothing-guru, entered the room. Marching defiantly past Susan with her team of lawyers, she put on her most dazzling smile for the press. The steady flux of background noises in the hearing room buzzed like a swarm of National Geographic insects as the gavel came down hard on the judge’s podium.
    Seconds before Susan got up to testify about unfair, dangerous labor practices in her boss’ overseas factories, she gave her couasin’s hand a nervous squeeze. Even up on the mahogany stand, the blood draining from her tight face, she needed to look over at her relative one more time for another infusion of courage.
    The skin on the ninety-five-year-old was shriveled and her shoulders hunched over like the letter “C”, but Sasha’s eyes were as green and determined as ever, giving her cousin the power to continue. Susan’s voice trembled slightly as Sasha suddenly sat upright for the first time in many years.

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