by Larry Koch, EDD
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My relatives on my father’s side worked in the garment industry. Most were members of the International Ladies Garment Workers Union (ILGWU), and that was a focal point of our lives. On vacation we went to union summer retreats, rather than the expensive “Borscht Belt” hotels, and we voted for the Liberal Party, which the ILGWU’s leader David Dubinsky controlled.
My earliest memory was when I was four, visiting my father at work. That was 1950—75 years ago!
I remember I wore short pants and short sleeves on that hot day, and that the windows were open. An old fan on a table worked tirelessly to cool the small room.
My father announced to the room full of workers sitting in front of sewing machines that “I was no longer a ‘little pisher’ and it was time to put me to work,” and then he explained my job for the day, which was to help the working ladies by using a giant magnet to pick up pins on the floor.
My father was in the fur business, and while the six or seven middle aged ladies in the shop were experienced at their jobs, they didn’t have the time or flexibility—or eyesight—of a young boy to retrieve needed pins.
So, crawling crab-like—on my bottom, this way and that with my heavy magnet—I would circulate, collecting pins and putting them in an old coffee can. While I passed, the ladies would tousle my hair and share Yiddish endearments. I pretended not to notice but I loved the attention.
My father stopped in the shop occasionally from his adjacent office, and all of the ladies told him what a good worker I was. I enjoyed my day, the ladies were to me like a room full of bubbies, and after that I accompanied my father to the shop whenever possible, until he became ill and could no longer continue his business (but that is another story!).
My father immigrated from the town of Komarno, which was an important garment center in pre-war Poland. He hired ladies who had old country experience in the clothing business. While most of the time he was dealing with sales and bookkeeping and similar office tasks, he took his turn at the sewing machines, especially when there were deadlines that had to be met.
Besides the rattle of sewing machines, the shop was never silent. Often the women talked while they worked about the old country, about coming to America and of course neighborhood gossip. “They went to Gluckstern’s for their anniversary” or “At his aufruf my nephew looked like he was going to jail, not getting married.” Often a tale would hit home, and the office would erupt in laughter or tears—or both—and similar experiences would be shared.
Sometimes they would even sing—“Raisins and Almonds” (Rozhinkes mit Mandlen) was a favorite—and they would all join in. It seems incredible, but while they talked or kvetched or sang, these skilled women continued to work nonstop, and they never “missed a stitch” (pun intended)!
In school I would later hear nothing good about sweatshops. Yes, the work was hard and the hours long, but the women seemed to enjoy their jobs and the community with which they worked.
Besides, let’s be honest—where else could such immigrants find work? They all spoke Yiddish and, if they spoke English at all, it was with a heavy accent. The women also needed to leave work early on Friday and take off for Jewish Holidays—accommodations that were rare at other places of employment. Admittedly not all Jewish employers were so lenient, but my father was.
From their meager salaries, families survived, and I am sure many of their children and grandchildren now in businesses and the professions are descendants of “sweatshop” labor.
In that era, it was assumed that most of us, when we grew up, would work in the clothing industry, and the most popular shop class in junior high school was sewing. Who, then, expected that the industry would move south in search of cheaper labor, and then out of the country altogether?
I remember joining my father once at his early breakfast. Afterwards, he kissed me goodbye and headed out to work in the “city.” Even though we lived in Brooklyn, to us, Manhattan was the “city.”
The sun had not come up yet, and the weather was terrible. I was a young boy, and though I strained to see my dad, the rain came down in buckets and the wind was horrendous, and I soon lost him in the pitch darkness of morning. A few steps from the apartment door and it was like the earth had swallowed him up.
Suddenly, lightning lit up the sky, and for a quick second I could see not only my father, who turned and waved to me, but dozens of bundled ghost-like men and women, all determinedly marching forward, all bent against the driving rain. They came from across the street and up the block, and all moved toward the subway entrance. I know not all of them worked in sweatshops, but many of them did. In a flash, the lightning lit up the sky, and then it was gone and the darkness returned.
Nevertheless, the quick sight of that moment, seeing dozens of people braving horrible weather was incredible to me at the time, but in retrospect it was even more profound. I was seeing, in effect, a photograph of early morning Brooklyn working class people—and from that neighborhood, Jewish people—leaving their tenements to go to back breaking work—a sight that future generations would probably never see—in a world that I know has since disappeared.
About The Author:
DR. LARRY KOCH, formerly from Maine, is an educator with interests in storytelling, entertainment, writing and history—especially Lincoln and the Civil War. Larry was instrumental in founding UD’s Osher Lifelong Learning Institute, taking the lead in forming OLLI Dover’s founding committee of UD staff, potential members and community leaders. In retirement he enjoys sharing these interests with audiences of all ages, libraries, and Jewish institutions! He can be reached at larrykoch@gmail.com.
