Coming of Age

Abstract

Coming of Age Lorine Kritzer Pergament (bio) Fannie Lipsky picked up her pay envelope at four forty-five. She counted her money—not much, but it was all there—maybe she’d have time to stop at the notions store to buy a tube of hand cream with the nickel she usually kept before giving the envelope to her mother. Her papa and brother Oscar probably were on their way to the Havdalah service at the shul to thank God for giving them a day of rest and meditation. The Havdalah was the “great divide,” between the Sabbath and the new week. For Fannie, it was also the great divide between men and women. How nice it would be to have a Shabbos day of rest herself, but the entryway sign in English, Italian and Yiddish at the Triangle Waist Factory was clear: “If you don’t show up on Saturday or Sunday, you’ve already been fired when it’s Monday.” Comforting herself with the thought that tomorrow, Sunday, was her day off, she sighed—helping her mama to fold the wash and scrub the floors was better than bending over to inspect the tiny stitches at the factory. She glanced at the calendar on the wall—March 25, 1911—only two weeks until her thirteenth birthday. She didn’t care that girls didn’t have a Bar Mitzvah service at the shul with a grand reception afterwards, like her brother Oscar had, to celebrate entry to adulthood. Fannie wanted only one thing—books. Back out on the floor she made sure the girls finished putting everything away properly. The eighth-floor watchman had just rung [End Page 52] the quitting bell, and one of the girls in the cloak room started singing “Let me call you sweetheart.” Soon others joined in. “I’m in love with you...” Gerty Steinberg, Fannie’s best friend, worked on the floor above and was about to get her coat when she heard someone scream. Catching a whiff of the unmistakable smell of burning cloth, she dropped the piece she’d been folding and ran toward the stairway, but she was caged in by the wicker work baskets and had to scramble to get over them. By now most of her coworkers were at the door or on their way to it. Gerty tripped as she freed herself. As she pulled herself up, she heard Mr. Wolk, the foreman, uselessly trying to calm the girls at the door, which was locked from the outside. Management claimed this was so the girls wouldn’t be bothered by outsiders, but everyone knew that the outsiders they were referring to were union organizers. Some of the girls ran to the windows and screamed for help. After a few agonizing moments, it was apparent they couldn’t stay where they were. One by one and in two’s they stood on the window sills—then jumped, some holding hands, others praying softly. Not wanting to jump nine stories to a certain death, Gerty crawled on the floor to avoid the smoke, and made her way to the elevators. She inched between moving legs and feet to the front and pulled herself up against the wall next to the open doors of one of the cars, where frantic girls pushed their way in through the opening between the grated closure while Joseph Bevilaqua, the operator, held up his arm, imploring them to wait for the next car. Finally, struggling with the rotating handle, he managed to bring the two sides together, leaving the outer metal doors open and the remaining girls shouting. He yelled, “I’ll be back,” but Gerty knew he wouldn’t. She quickly threw her coat on top of the descending elevator, closed her eyes and jumped. Her body hit the elevator with a crunching thud, and she knew she’d broken at least one leg, maybe both, and felt sharp spasms in her rib cage. She started to call for help when she felt a huge weight fall on top of her. She tried to lift her head for air, but it was pinned down, and her screams were muffled by the weight of...