The Daily Worker Newspaper, February 19, 1927, Page 7

Workers Holiday @ Mass stony HE weather was ideal. Overhead rolling skies broke through a mass of crimson-colored vapor and floated on into oblivion, dissappearing like a giant balloon that has lost its way. The changing blue skies, threatening occasionally to break into a storm, made the day clear. And, it was yet warm, though summer was already stripped of its virgin warmth by approaching fall. That day was a holiday. A most sacred one in the calendar of Capital. It was Labor Day—work- ers’ holiday. The one day in the year when big business and reactionary labor fakers shake hands in common cause. There was no work that day. Department store windows were curtained. Public buildings were bedecked in flags. Brokers’ news ticklers gave forth no news. The Stock Exchange did not open. Wall Street was deserted. Even the factories were closed. In short nobody worked. You couldn’t work even if you wanted to. The A. F, of L. wouldn’t let you. The tabloids wouldn’t let you. The state department wouldn’t det you. one would let you, for it was Labor Day—workers’ holi- day. A day devoted to the glorification of “peace in industry” and workers don’t work on that day, they celebrate it. A gay spirit of frivolity was suffused in the air, which passers-by readily inhaled. It was the hour when “taking a walk” was most popular, and every- where, people hurried along as though they were on their way to some huge carnival. Around the terminals, Negro porters clad in grey uniforms were sweating under the weight of heavy valises belong- ing to outgoing vacationists. They pocketed silver co'ns and smiled proudly as they lost their way in the crowded stations. On Fifth Avenue promenaded the bourgeoisie, also celebrating Labor Day. Here high-heeled wo- men moved adroitly about, under brightly tinted hats, while their lithe bodies swayed voluptousiy in silks, Neatly dressed puppets of dividends with brightly colored cravats protruding from under the points of white collars shuffled besides them. Blue ribboned dogs led tailored manikins along—girls whose faces were lost in the traffic of their destinations. This is the avenue where The Envied make os- tentatious display of their profits. And where the less fortunate children of commerce come to com- pete with them in the melo-dramic exhibit of wealth. The latter wear garments of less expensive tex- ture, which serve as excellent stuffings for mere mechanisms of men trying to look like their bosses sons. The procession continues as more and more civilized morons stroll by leaving behind them an oder of a refined monotony which sends strong whiffs of hate through your nostrils. Along Broadway, theatres gave special Labor _ Day matinees at advanced rates and willing theatre- goers clogged the congested thoroughfare as they ° darted from lobby to lobby in search of amusement. Fools, all of them, searching for. amusement in stuffy theatres when there is plenty of it all around them. Stop someday when your on that street and watch the never ending parade in caricature, sweep by. That should: give any man with guts a laugh. You see adolescent youths hurrying out of auto- mats as though they are ashamed of having eaten there. And giggling stenographers stop in front of mirrored windows to dab another layer of powder over their stenciled faces. It’s a wonder that some red blooded poet doesn’t come down here and watch those well groomed civilizees wend their way through the streets. Such a man could write a masterpiece about those cold, disconsolate humans, pushing each other with a barbarie gusto. All social beings, peering into each other’s face, yet strangers swarming the. sidewalks of unsociable New York, Where one human being cannot speak to another unless they ask for a match or the time. A thought worthy of attention! % The crowds continued to swell, swirl, and move on in a wild rhythm up arid d the pavements. Tn the gutters automobile horns honked their sereech- ing noise as gaudily painted cars deviated out of each other’s way. Enigmatic smiles broke through the lips of freshly barbered faces as their eyes ogled to passing girls, sweetly perfumed in lust. More faces, all animated with a blank nonchelance whizz by. Sensual eyes followed the outline of women’s buttocks swaying under imitation fur coats, while noses unwillingly pick up the scent of a lascivious odor which they leave behind. Giggles sounded from their midst. They are happy. It is their holi- dav. What holiday? Oh, yes, Labor Day—workers’ ° holiday. : In Union Square some twenty thousand garment workers rallied that never to be forgottén day, again we repeat. It was Labor Day—workers’ holi- day to protest against the injunctions issued to the greedy cloak manufacturers on the fifteenth week of the strike, which prohibited them from picketing the shops. In protest against the attempt to break their solidarity, a constant stream of determined strikers kept pouring into the spacious square. Here thev met friends, smiled, talked and sought to find a clear place to stand. The crowd was immense, and everywhere workers crowded each other out of _ place in an attempt to find a range of view. Mounted police astride well groomed horses kept the interchanging crowd within restricted lines, Orber nolice, not mounted, walked in jerky strides, swinging their clubs in threatening motion. The crowd continued to swell hourly as more and more sympathizers came to sound their voice in the great protest. They kept coming in ever increasing num- bers until the entire area was soon congested by tightly herded together bodies. Outside of the groups listening to the speakers, were other workers, ob- serving the vista of moving workers running into each other like water colors on a landscape. Here too a poet could justify his existence. Faces of workers rose above the sea of heads in continuous waves. Their necks cranned and eyes fo- cussed upon an improvised platform, standing in the midst of the huge throng upon which speaker after speaker mounted to address the multitudes. Words, drifting from rebellious mouths echoed through the crisp air and found harbor in the ap- plause of the listeners. Upon the small platform stepped a gaunt figure, attired in light top-coat, -A prolonged outburst of cheers greeted his: appearance. The strikers in- stantly surged forward continuing to cheer until the speaker waved his hand. It was the revolution- ary leader of the striking cloakmakers. “«Fellow workers,” he concluded. “Today we show our bosses the solidarity of labor.” Cheers accentu- ating approval greeted his words. “We will form a line and march to the nicket lines,” he continued. “Down with the injunction,” cried one of the crowd and “Down with the injunctions,” echoed in ,thou- sands of husky throats. Placards bearing “Long live the left wing unions” shook the air. It wasn’t long before “March to the picket lines—To the picket lines,” sounded everywhere. Without ado the com- pact mass dessimated into swarming groups. Soon narrow sidewalks running from the square became crowded with moving people welding into one solid column of humanity. They kept zig-zagging cintinu- ously in and out of each other’s way, as body after body appeared and disappeared in a continuous chain which stretched for many blocks. Two abreast they walked, heads up and feet moving in a tire- less shuffling. Old men, their chins hidden in snow-white beards, sought to keep pace with younger ones, whose feet Tose and pressed back against the grey sidewalks in staccato movements. Groups of men, crowds of men. Men, not yet grown old, some with faces grim- aced by want, others attired in misfitting clothes rubbed elbows with comrades whose shoulders were beginning to stoop from bending over seaving ma- By ALEX JACKINSON e, BuRK.'27 chines. All were instilled with that innate force called rebellion. . Their livelihood was menaced by the hated in- junetion which they denounced in vehement terms. Seme stopped to excnange greetings with passing friends, instantly becoming lost in the marching throngs. Intermingled in the procession walked young and old women. Women with bodies misshapen by }vars of toil in stuffy sweatshops. Other women, seme whose legs moved about under irides- cent dresses. Still others, young girls proud of their manicured fingers which have not yet become calloused from needie werk. All pressed steadily onward and all lost their individual indentity as they marched up the winding streets to the gar- ment district. From another street echoed the Aatter of heavy treading. Soon a squad of police reserves rounded a corner. They were on their way to the garment district, where word reached the Station house a demonstration of cloakmakers would take place. The distance between the station house and garment district was short. They had hardly finished the conversations, some of them carried on when they reached their destination, Silently they formed a barrier of shining night sticks across¢the street. lt was an oft repeated per- formance for them, which they performed automati- cally. They had all reeeived their orders previous in the day, not to allow a public demonstration on a holiday and automaton-like prepared to execute their instructions. As the lines of marchers drew closer, one of the police approached the strikers and ordered them to disperse. ‘ The strikers paused, as they listened to their leader reply in a defiant tone: “Today we show up the fake of Labor Day. Fall in line with us brothers, you two are victims of oppression.” The words echoed in the ears of the police like the babble of a strange tongue, profane grunts and a popping of night sticks was their silent answer. The impetuous strikers were not to be thus easily cheated of their desire to march through the picket lines> As one, they suddenly broke ranks. Men and women advanced in quick strides, breaking through the tight police lines. Overhead skies grew suddenly cloudy. The threat- ening storm broke loose as thuds of varnished night sticks echoed softly in the air.