The Daily Worker Newspaper, March 13, 1926, Page 13

ee este am (From the Textile Strike Bulletin, Passaic, N. J.) HERE is an outside agitator at the the bottom of the Passaic strike. His name is John Roubish and he has been agitating for two years. He’s been agitating ever since he’s been born; He is two years old. If you don’t believe he caused the strike you ask his mother, Mrs. Roubish. She stands there with him on her arm, a wide woman, a thick woman, a whale of a woman, just a grand woman, in fact. She has to be like that because she has eleven children. This outside agitator, John Roubish, is the youngest. There’s a girl of fourteen who is the oldest of the eight children at home, “Sure,” she says, “I got to support all these kids. I got to support them all alone. My man’s been dead for two years. Yes and I’ve got to pay $26.50 a month to the building loan. What do I make? I make $17.50. Seventeen fifty,” she proclaimed in a deep, loud voice with a gesture to the universe, “ain’t enough for nine peo- ple to live on.” In real wages Mra. Roubish is making $11.55. She lives in a very nice house. It is the regult of twenty-three years’ hard work. Twenty-three years ago as a bride of sixteen she came to this-country. For twenty-one years Roubish worked hard. In this time she had eleven children. They managed to buy their house. He died. God knows how she manages to keep this house, but she does, this strong, powerful woman. She is bound to keep it. She has a fine cook stove. It is grey enamel and nickel, There is only one thing the matter with that cook stove. There isn’t one thing in that house to cook on it. Nor there wasn’t. before the relief workers got there. She stated it as a fact. “A woman alone with eight kids, she don’t get credit long. First they gave me something, now they only give me mean looks, icoSure I'd: go out on the picket line. Sure I’m’on' the picket line every day from five o’clock. I got to win my strike. You look at my baby. You see how strong he is; he’s a big fol low.” The agitator looked calmly at us with large blue eyes. He smiled in a secret way to himself. He was an entirely serene person. “I want to keep my baby like this. The nurse; she comes, she says, ‘You want your baby strong, you give him orange juice, milk, fresh vegetables’ I do like what she says. If I wasn’t to eat nothing but bread I'd get for him an If I Were an Artist - F I could draw, the first thing I would portray would be the shop in which I have been working re- cently. The shop in itself is the aver- age dingy factory with windows that have not been cleaned for the longest time, and which in all other respects differs very little from the average shop. But the exception was that here not only was the employer rul- ing over his workers, but his wife, Mrs. S., was also a very determined “queen.” This Mrs, S. is the first figure that Td like to paint if I were an artist. She is one of the very short and stout women who while walking re- sembles @ large barrel rolling about. Her tiny eyes were hidden away in her fleshy cheeks. Her short, thick neck terminates in a sizeable hunk of fat in the nape, while her short waist drew the eyes at once to her rounded shoulders. Her lofty bosom contrasted with her short piano-like legs. Her full arms and large hands formed themselves into little pillows. Heavy diamond rings pressed deep into the flesh of almost every finger. On the whole she presents a specta- ele fit for an exhibition. This Mrs. 8. criticized severely the girls at the machine for being lazy, the girls, who reminded one of a bou- quet of flowers, fading because of Tack of sunshine and fresh air. Mrs. 8. approaching the girls shrieking in a voice as shrill as a policemen’s whis- tle the following sentiments: orange to make him strong. I want my children to get it better than I get it. That's what we strike for. hen they cut us ten per cent we got © strike.” For $17.50 is nine-tenths of what Mrs, Roubish used to get. They docked her one-tenth. “That means an awful lot ‘when you got eight kids,” she explains, “It’s bad enough you should be left alone tc bring them up. My little girl she had to go to school. Her papa was dead | and somehow I got to make money for them. I worked at night. | worked a long time on the night shift. Now she’s fourteen and she can stay , home. I work daytimes. I tell you | work -daytimes ig good after you work | night shifts and got kids too.” She | explains this tranquilly with sweep- ing gestures, a woman sure of her strength, A few of the eight came in. They had red cheeks and blue eyes. Their hair was pale gold. They were what is known as the pure Nordic type and they were whales for their age. Their eyes swept questioning around the room. Their hands explored the empty bread box. She threw at them: “All right, all right. By and by I'l! get you something. You run out now and play. Right off I’m going to the store. You go and play in the yard!” There was a tiny yard in front and one behind. But yet the yard and house was just as clean as a pin, no} confusion, no litter, nice things, plain | things, clean paper on the shelves, glasses that shine. Not an extra thing, but order and cleanliness, giv- ing a sense of peace that amounted to luxury. Did you ever try to keep things spick and span when there were eight children from two to four- teen? How did she do it? She moved calm and majestic with the agitator always on her arm, Someone said: “You're lucky to have a house.” “I got to have a house,” she an- Swered and she laughed. “What do you think they say when I go to try and hire a place when ‘Il say I've Bot eight kids. They Say, ‘Jese, beat ‘it’ "DD? you have many cases like this?” the relief worker was asked, “Oh, this ain’t nothing,” he an- swered. “This is a fine case. These folks aren’t poor. There’s nothing the matter here, only there ain’t no eats. This here is the best case I got yet. But they’re for the same thing. | { j } { t | | oneness si tienerrnennihr nt ee ennai The Outside Ag itator - By Mary Heston Vorse “Let it Rain, Let it Pour!” Old Andy Melion doesn't have to worry about charges of shady ways of They're striking for their kids.” At getting money thru his Aluminum Trust. He’s protected, this. the agitator smiled wisely again. From authentic sources it appears that he has numberless confederates. | monster The ¢trikers’ children are linked in a | bosses, conspiracy against the They’ve been agitating and stirring up their parents for years past, By Pauline Schulman “A bunch of good-for-nothings, that is what they are. They don’t care to work. Money, money, give them— that is what they want. (Looking at her non-ringed fingers.) If you girls would let down one nickel on the garment we could take in another order. (Quietly to herself). One nickel less on each garment would: Make so much and so much on the whole.” With this additional profit she might be able to furnish with jewels the remaining unequipped fin- gers without encroaching on the usual profits, Mrs. §S. (continuing her calcula- tion): “If they would work one hour more besides the eight hours per day, in the course of a few months I could get that pretty necklace, too, that saw at A——’s, (Looking at another garment.) If I could squeeze down another dime here, why in a very short while I would be able to move to Riverside Drive where all the bet- ter class people live and would not have to remain among the ‘kikes.’” Mrs, S., in her imagination, saw her- self among those people fur whom a flunky in uniform opens the hall door. “It is true I will have to learn the English language when moving up the Drive, put what of it?” Then she would get the girls ac- customed to work the entire day Sat- urday instead of merely half a day. Thus she surely would be soon in a position to buy a “swell” car, not a chauffeur of her own. UT the girls could hardly wait that 5 o’clock bell. With a sigh of relief they arose from their seats and tried to straighten their backs, All of them were anxious to be out as soon as possible. One was hurry- ing away to a meeting, another to en- joy the thrills of a serial picture she was following in the movies; a third girl, about thirty-five years of age, who had been ceaselessly chattering all day long, manifested a complex due to the suppression of the sex urge and was in a greater haste than the others. This time she was deter- mined to speak to him—to the drug- gist whom she met recently. “He says that he likes me but cannot marry me. I should live with him like that . . . but if after a short while he should leave me, and if I should meet someone else who would be willing to marry me—would he do so if he discovered I was no longer a virgin?” The struggle within her left its marks on her thin, pale face and ner- vous eyes. Her tall and slender fig- ure personified one who tried to com- bat the natural law, If I were an artist I should paint a symbolic picture of a narrowed mind involuntarily brt firmly impris- oning her body in a stifling cell. M*® 8. was enraged when the girls were about to leave. “Why are you rushing, girls? What is the mat- Ford, but a Studebaker, and have ater? Can't you work another hour? Look at all the money you are los- ing, and what do you say, can we take in another order? You know that we don’t care, but it is for you girls, we want you to have steady work and plenty of it.” The girl who was in a hurry to go ~ to the meeting in a stern tone of @in- | phatic determination retorted: “No! — Neither will we let down the nickel nor will we work overtime. Bight hours a day are more than sufficient to work.” Mrs. 8.’ lofty bosom began to heave in rapid majesty. She was on the verge of a nervous breakdown. Her substantial body plumped down on a chair. With both hands she clutched at her throbbing temples, bellowing to her husband in a hoarse voice, “We will have to break their stiffness.” Looking down at her hands and no- ticing those orphaned, diamondless fingers, she began to yell at the top of her voice. : : “If you don’t like to work get out of here and let others make a living! Plenty of people are starving.” In her excitement, her miniature eyes burning like the fires of Hell, her greasy face flashing in flaming crimson red, reminded one of a roast- ing pig. “Oh! How I hate those ‘kikes.’” They wouldn’t let me live.” She cried out aloud, Large tears rolled down her face, the tears of emotional release, . Yes, if I were only a painter,