Memories of Another Day (26 page)

then stared out the window. The ram was really coming down; it made the afternoon seem like night. He watched it for a moment, then went back, picked up the bottle of whiskey and went into the bathroom.

The tub was almost fiill. He pulled a chair close to the tub, put an ashtray and the bottle of whiskey on it and got into the tub. The water was hot and it seeped into his bones. He took another drink, then put the cigar in his mouth and leaned his head back against the rim of the tub, staring up at the ceiling.

California. He had to be crazy. What was he doing here, anyway? There was nothing for him to do out here. All the action was back East. He had read in yesterday's paper that Lewis and Murray were setting up a Steelworkers Organizing Committee. That was where he should be. If he were there, he would be right in the middle of it.

He reached for the bottle of whiskey and took a long pull, then put the bottle back on the chkir and leaned back with a sigh. He had to be crazy, all right. For even thinking about being back East, He'd probably draw the shit end of the stick as usual and wind up getting his ass kicked off in the field. He had had twenty years of that, and that was enough. From the very first time he had met Phil Murray and Bill Foster back in 1919.

He'd just been discharged from the army and gotten a job as a guard at the big U.S. Steel plant in Pittsburgh. They'd fixed him up with an army-type uniform, a gun and a billy club swung from the belt around his waist. He was one of a squad of twenty men under the command of a former army sergeant who was tough as nails and ran his squad on strict army discipline.

The first two months were easy. He had nothing to do but stand at the gate eight hours a day and watch

the workers come in and go out as the shifts changed. They were mostly Hunkies and Polacks from Central Europe and spoke little or no English. They seemed all right—minding their own business, never making any trouble, even if they didn't seem to smile very much. Then, subtly, the atmosphere seemed to change.

Now they never smiled at all, and when they looked at him there was an expression of sullen resentment on their faces. Even in the bar he used to go to after his shift was over, they would fall silent when he came in for his drink and quietly move away from him until he was alone in a small open space.

One day the owner of the bar called him to one side.

He was a small Italian who spoke with an accent that

could be cut with a knife. "You a good-a boy,

I Danny," he said. ''I know that. But do-a me a favor.

Don't come-a in the bar no more."

''Hey, Tony," he said, astonished. ''Why not?"

"There's a big-a trouble comin'. And the men, they're gettin' nervous. They think you come-a to spy on them."

"Shit," he said. "How can I spy on them when I don't even understand what they're saying?"

"Do-a me a favor, Danny. Don't come-a no more." The little man walked away from him.

That night the sergeant called a meeting of his squad. "You fellers have been leadin' the easy life up to now. But pretty soon you're goin' to have to earn your keep.

"Any day now, the Reds an' LW.W.'s are goin' to call the Hunkies out on strike. They're goin' to try to close down the mills. An' it's our job to see that they don't do it."

"How we goin' to do that. Sergeant?" one of the guards called out. "We don't know nothin' about workin' the foundry."

"Don't be stupid," the sergeant said sarcastically.

"They walk out, there'll be other men to take their place. The strikers'U try to keep 'em out. It's up to us to see that them that wants to work gets in."

"That means we'll be helpin' the strikebreakers," Daniel said.

The sergeant fixed him with a baleful glare. "It means you'll be doin' your job. What do you think you're gettin' paid fifteen dollars a week, room and board for? Those Hunkies work twelve hours a day in the foundry fer less'n ten dollars a week. Now they think they're entitled to as much money as you're makin' an' more. An' most of 'em can't even speak, read or write English."

Daniel met his glare. "How are we expected to get the strikebreakers through the picket lines when we're inside the gates?"

"You'll have help. Lots of it. There are over two hundred men deputized by the sheriff who'll be outside the gates keeping an open passage."

"An' what if that's not enough?"

The sergeant smiled. "Then we go out an' help 'em." He pulled his billy club from his belt and held it up. "It's amazin' how persuadin' this little friend of ours can be."

Daniel was silent.

The sergeant continued to stare at him. "Any further questions?"

Daniel shook his head. "No, sir. But ..."

"But what?"

"I don't like it. I seen what happens in a strike. Back home we had trouble. In the mills, in the mines. Lots o' people got hurt. Even some who had nothin' to do with it."

"Nobody gets hurt if they mind their own business."

Daniel thought of his sister. Of Jimmy. He took a deep breath. "I don' like it. I was hired as a guard to protect the mills. Not to beat up on people. Not to be a strikebreaker."

The sergeant explcxied. ''If n you don't like it, git your ass out of here!"

Daniel stood there silently for a moment, then nodded slowly. He turned and started, still silent, from the room. The sergeant's voice turned him around.

''Leave your gun and club here."

Silently Daniel unbuckled his belt, placing the gun and club on a table. Then he turned and started again from the door. The sergeant's voice followed him.

"I expect you out of the barracks in fifteen minutes. If I find you there when we get back, you're goin' to git the livin' shit kicked outta you."

Daniel opened the door and stepped out. Before the door closed, he heard the sergeant's voice speaking to the others.

"I never trusted the bastard. We got word that he's a secret Red. Now, if there are any more of you Commie yellowbelUes in here, speak up now an' git out while you can."

Daniel walked down the haU to the barracks-type room he shared with five other men. Quickly he stripped off his uniform, folded it neatly and placed it on his bunk. From his locker he took his old army pants and blouse and put them on. Quickly he gathered up his few other belongings, put them in a duffel bag, slung them over his shoulder and walked out.

He went down the hall and out of the building. Silently he walked to the front gate. The guards on duty let hun out without a word. They had already got the word.

He set the duffel bag squarely on his shoulder, crossed the street and turned the comer. They came out of a doorway behind him. He heard the footsteps and began to turn, but it was too late. A club caught him across the side of his head, and he stumbled forward to his knees.

Desperately trying to get to his feet, he heard the sergeant's voice. "Git the son of a bitch good."

He lashed out in the direction of the voice, but his

fist reached nothing but air. His body turned into a sheet of pain under the rain of blows coming from clubs and fists. He went back to his knees, curling into a ball to protect himself as much as possible. Heavy boots began to kick him in the sides, and he rolled off into the gutter. He tried to move, but it was impossible. Everything was hurting inside him. There was no strength left, not even to fight back.

Finally the blows stopped. He lay there half conscious, his head swirling. From a long distance, he heard the sergeant's voice again.

'That'll teach the Commie bastard not to try any of his shit again."

A voice came from one of the other men. There was a note of fear in it. ''I think he's dead. Sergeant." *

He felt the sergeant's foot in his side, rolling him over onto his back. He squinted his eyes, trying to see up. He could feel the sergeant's breath on his face, but he couldn't focus on him.

''He ain't dead," the sergeant said. "But if he comes anywhere near us again, he'll wish he was."

There was a sudden sharp, stinging blow on the side of his head as the sergeant kicked. Then everything went black. It was quiet for a long time.

Slowly he began to come to. Bit by bit his body began to send him signals of pain. After a few moments he tried to move. An involuntary groan escaped him. He tried to force himself to clear his head. He made it to his knees, then, by holding on to a lamppost, managed to pull himself to his feet. In the light he looked down at himself. His shirt was torn and covered with blood, his pants ripped down one leg. Slowly he moved his head. His things were scattered all over the street, the duffel bag opened and emptied.

He took a deep breath, then began to move slowly, every step and motion sending exquisite pain shooting through him. In spite of it, he set about gathering up his things and stuffing them back into the duffel bag. Then he paused to catch his breath.

He looked up at the sky. The moon was high. It had to be about midnight. It had been eight o'clock when he walked out of the gates. The windows in the houses were all dark. He moved slowly back to the comer and stared at the gates.

The guards were still there in their small cabin. Through the open window he could see them talking. They had known the sergeant was waiting out there for him when he came through, but they had said nothing. For a moment he thought of going back and taking them. But then the thought was gone. He was in no condition to take anything. He would be lucky if he made it to someplace where he could get himself taken care of. He tried to pick up the duffel bag and sling it over his shoulder. But it was too much for him. He had to be content with dragging it along behind him.

He made his way through the dark streets to Tony's Bar. The lights in the windows were out and the door was locked, but through it he could see the little Italian cleaning up behind the bar. He knocked on the door.

Without looking up, Tony waved his hand indicating that he was closed for the night. Daniel knocked at the door again, more heavily this time.

Tony looked up. He could not see who was standing there. He came out from behind the bar and peered through the glass window in the door. ''We-a closed," he began to say. Then his voice stopped in shock. Quickly he took the chain from the door and opened it. *'Danny! Wha' happen?"

Daniel stumbled through the door. Tony put out a hand to help him. Daniel dragged his duffel bag behind him and slumped into a chair. He leaned forward and put his head on his arms on the table.

Quickly Tony went behind the bar and came back with a bottle of whiskey and a glass. He filled the glass. *'Drink," he said. ^'You'll feel-a betta."

Daniel had to hold the glass with both hands. The whiskey burned its way down his throat. He felt its heat running through him. Tony refilled the glass, and

Daniel drank again. He could feel some strength coming back into him.

''I warned you," Tony said, ''those Hunkies was gonna get you.''

''It wasn't them," Daniel mumbled. "It was the sergeant. I quit tonight when I found out they 'spected me to act as a strikebreaker. They was waitin' fer me roun' the comer from the mill."

Tony was silent.

"Got a place fer me to clean up?"

"You need a doctor," Tony said. "I don't need no doctor," Daniel said. "I got to clean up. Then I got things to do." He reached for the bottle of whiskey. "This is all the medicine I need."

"Come with me." Tony led him to the washroom in the back. This was the private washroom, not the one used by the customers of the bar. He turned on the light. "I'll get some clean towels."

While he was gone, Daniel stared at himself in the mirror. His nose looked crooked on his face, squashed flat; his cheekbones were split and cut and also his temples. His eyes were beginning to develop shiners, and his jaw was already swollen, and his face was covered with a mask of streaked blood. "Jesus!" Daniel said half aloud.

Tony had come back into the room. He nodded. "They really work-a you over."

Daniel turned on the water in the sink. "They'll pay fer it," he said quietly. Then he stripped off his shirt and began to wash. When he straightened up, he saw that his ribs and sides were black-and-blue.

Quickly he soaped the whole upper half of his body and wiped it off with a damp towel. Then he held his head under the cold tap until the fuzziness was gone. He began to dry himself. "There should be another shirt and pair of pants in the bag," he said.

"I'll get it." Tony went back into the bar.

Daniel got out of his pants. "Get me a clean union suit too," he called through the open door. There were

dditional bruises on his sides and thighs, but fortunately he had managed to escape being kicked in the groin. It had to be the way he had fallen; he wasn't conscious of having done anything to protect himself.

He wiped the rest of himself down with the damp towel, tl^n dried himself. By the time Tony came back with the clothing, he was drinking the whiskey right from the bottle.

''You bag is a mess," Tony said.

Daniel nodded. 'The stuff was all over the street. I jes' picked it up and stuffed it in."

"What should I do with these?" Tony asked, gesturing to the pile of torn clothes.

"Throw 'em out," Daniel answered. There was nothing else to do with them. They were beyond repairing. He dressed quickly.

Tony looked at him. "You better see a doctor. You-a nose is broke and some o' your cuts might need stitches."

Daniel turned and looked in the mirror. "It's not that bad. There's nothin' he kin do about the nose, an' the cuts will heal theirselves. I had worse when I was a kid."

He took another swig of the whiskey and carried the bottle back into the bar. Silently he began to repack his duffel bag. When he was finished, he looked at Tony. "Where's the union headquarters?"

"State and Main," Tony said. "Why?"

"I'm goin' over there."

"You-a crazy. It's-a one o'clock in the morning. - They be closed. Nobody there."

"Then I'll be there when somebody comes in in the momin'."

"Why don't you stay out of it?" Tony asked. "You a nice boy. You don't have to get mixed up in things like-athat."