The Window

September 18, 1910.

The rainbow-colored leaves gently fall on the cold sidewalk. Children’s laughter flourished the tarnished buildings. Light blue sky with fluffy white clouds watched over the people. The fragrant of fresh roses melted the stench from the garbage cans. Inside the house, the scream hunger children screeched the dark hallways. The food on the dinner plate was bland and cold. The dark ashes stained the decorated kitchen wall from the dirty stove. My name is Sarah Gumpertz and this is my home.

I stepped away from the window and quickly walked to my two daughters, Helen and Sana. “Ma, I don’t want this. It is so rough, like sandpaper,” said Helen as she the bread on the floor. “I know, baby girl. This is all we got,” I responded as I picked up the bread. “Why can’t we eat something else? We eat this hard bread every day since we got it. Nothing else, only this,” Sana murdered. I looked into their wry eyes, but solemnly turned away and signed, “I am so sorry girls. Pa and Ma need to earn more money. We should be happy that we have this small apartment.”

It has been about one month since we immigrated to the United States from Germany. We are currently living on the Lower East Side of Manhattan called Kleindeutschland, or Little Germany. Julius, my husband, works at a Mike’s as a shoemaker. Since we do not speak much English, it is difficult for us to do anything. I remember walking down to local grocery store and not knowing how to say milk. As stood by the glass door, I made cow noises to signify that I need milk. I could not communicate with anyone else. As I often stayed home to take care of the children. Back home in Germany, I had many friends and my mother-in-law often came over to help take care of the girls. During dinner, we would occasionally have Schnitzel, fried meat, and Maultaschen, pasta stuffed with meat and spinach.

Julius is a family-oriented family. He is the breadwinner for the family, but he is very stubborn. That night, when Julius returned home, he was exhausted. “Hey honey, how was work today?” I asked. He slowly sat at the dinner table and took off his dark brown shoes. His eyes looked empty and lost. “It’s alright. I am just very tired,” he responded with a half-broken smile. I walked over to the kitchen and warmed up the food. “Julius, I need to talk to you. Can you come over to the dinner table?” I asked. He slowly dragged his body towards me. “The girls . . . the food . . . I think I need to start working. They don’t want to eat hard bread every day. I don’t either,” I exclaimed disheartened. Julius took a seat at the dinner table and held my hands together. “I am working my hardest. I am doing my best to put food on the dinner table. You are a woman. You stay home to cook, to clean, to take of the children. If you work, who is going to take care of the children?” he responded as he tightens his grip on my hands. “Okay, I understand. But do you seriously want to eat bread all the time?” I replied. A moment of silence. Julius released my hands and began eating the hard bread and mashed potatoes. As I walked away, I turned and said “Listen, honey, I want the best for our children. I want them to eat properly. That’s all I want.”

The next morning, before dawn, I woke up and I realized that Julius already left the house to go to the shoe shop. Most likely because he wants to earn more money for the family. Julius is a man filled with honor and dignity. He would never want his wife to work because of his financial instability. This makes him look weak and unreliable. No man wants to look weak in front of his family. I know he truly cares about me and his children.  

I walked towards the window to feel the fresh breeze gushing through my hair and to view the beautiful golden sun rising on the clouds. It is a beautiful sight that reminds me of my home in Germany. It was the same sun. My typical day usually starts with making breakfast for Julius and the girls. Breakfast is usually a slice of toasted bread, only bread with some butter. Then I have to wash the dishes, clean the house, wash the dirty clothes, and dry the clothes. Both Helen and Sana stay home and sometimes they help me with household chores. When they grow a bit older, I want them to go to school and get an education, not to work in factories. During my free time, I go to the local bookstore to read and learn some English. Whenever I enter the bookstore, Ms. Rosi, the owner, kindly smiles and plays with Helen and Sana. She knows that I cannot afford to spend money on the books, but always welcome me to read them anyways. I usually copy the words down and try to memorize them every day.

October 19, 1910

After finished cleaning the house, I took to walk around Central Park. As I walked, I heard a pair of middle-aged German-speaking women talking about job positions at the Triangle Shirtwaist Factory. I turned around and tapped them on the shoulder. “Good afternoon, I am sorry to interrupt you two. But I heard that there are positions in the factory that needs hiring. I am interested. When can I get more information?” I politely asked the two ladies in German. One of the ladies responded “The Triangle Shirtwaist Factory is hiring, mainly women to work there. You need to know how to use the sewing machine and design shirtwaist. Here is the flyer. The address is on the bottom” This is great because back in Germany, I was a dressmaker. If I get this job opportunity, I get help to improve my family’s financial dynamic, I thought. I quickly thanked the ladies and walked to the Triangle factory which is located on the corner of Greene Street and Washington Place. I walked inside, a lady is a beige dress welcomed me and spoke English “Hello Ma’am, are you interested in buying shirtwaist?” Confused with what she is saying, I took the flyer and said in half-broken English, “I want a. . . a job.” She smiled and said some English which I did not understand. It was probably about the job position and the working conditions, but I just smiled and nodded to everything.

That night, during dinner, I told Julius about the job opportunity. He frowned in disbelief and told me not to think about working. “Why not? I don’t understand. This is not Germany. We are in America. Many women are allowed to work and contribute their family’s income” I explained. Julius took a split of his carrot soup, “It is not that I want to stop you from working, but I need someone to take care of the children.” “I asked Ms. Rosi. She said that she will look after the kids. I promise you, it’s fine. I just want to relieve your burden and help get more food. There nothing you have to worry about,” I softly replied. He still didn’t seem pleased. “Look, you are working all day, you need a break. I can help you. Please let me help you,” I begged. He thought for awhile and finally agreed to let me work.

November 2, 1910.  

This was my first day at work. My position was the cutter for the shirtwaist. This means that I cut out the shape of the shirtwaist and remove the extra fabric. Scraps of unwanted fabrics cover the tiles on the floor. The factory produced over twelve thousand garments known as shirtwaist which was the latest fashion for the working women. The place was a true sweatshop, employing hundreds of young women. We were cramped space at lines of sewing machines. Many of the other workers were young teenage girls who did not speak English. Talking was prohibited in the factory to maximize the worker’s efficiency of production. Break and toilet visits were very limited. The windows were closed and smothered with black ashes. You cannot look through the window to see the city’s skyline. It is probably because the factory owners do not want their workers to be distracted from work. I looked around the large room and introduced myself, in poor English, to a Jewish sixteen-year-old teenager next to me. “Hello, my name . . . Sarah Gumpertz,” I whispered. She smiled and turned her chair towards my direction. “My name is Iris Abendana. Where are you from?” she responded and shook my hand. “Germany . . . South, you?” I stuttered. Just as she was about to speak, Mr. Rubenstein, the manager walked near us. We immediately returned back to work.

January 8, 1911

Although it was hard to adapt to the working hours, all I had in mind was my family and to strive for the best for my children. No matter how difficult the working conditions were, I tried my hardest to earn more money. I worked twelve hours a day, every day and earned about fifteen cents per hour. This is meant that I made about $250 per year. Living conditions started to improve, we are no longer eating cold bread every day. I occasionally bought some meat and cans of tomato sauce. I only got two or three hours of sleep every day. When I get home, I still needed to cook dinner and take care of the children. I didn’t dare to tell Julius that I needed help. Since he allowed me to work, I didn’t want to place more burden on him to help me cook or take care of the kids. As long as things are getting better for the family, nothing else matters to me.

As time progresses, my relationship with Iris grew deeper and soon became close friends.  I am so thankful to have a friend like Iris who understands and constantly encourages me to challenge myself. I learned that Iris is currently an orphan and has a brother, who was recently diagnosed with tuberculosis. For the past few months, she helped improve my English. Every day, during the 45-minute lunch break, we ate lunch together and she spoke with me in English. Now, I can have a basic conversion with other people without embarrassing myself.

March 25, 1911.

During our lunch break, I pointed towards the window and said to Iris “I really love looking at the window. It comforts me and relieves the stress and problems of the world.” She nods and walks towards the edge of the window. “Help me lift it up,” she whispered. “What are you doing?” I asked. “You want to look outside, right? Just hurry up before the manager comes,” she explained as she nudged my shoulder. I quickly helped open the window and the gentle breeze touched our faces. Peeking through the window, I saw the beautiful New York City skyline, a wonderful image of manmade architectures. “Wow, this looks amazing. I have never seen the view from the ninth floor. It looks like heaven from here.” I said smiling at Iris. Suddenly, I smelled something burning and heard a loud scream from the eighth floor. I stood by the window, wondering if the smell is from the outside. I frantically look for the Mr. Rubenstein to confirm what is happening. “There’s a fire,” someone yelled. My heart pounded rapidly and the girls swiftly stampeded out of their seats towards the exit. Everyone was crying and screaming as the smoke started to come in. I ripped a piece of cloth on the sewing machine and said to Iris, “sweetheart, use this to cover your mouth.” Her face turned pale white as she hastily gripped onto my arm. “You are going to be okay. Don’t worry,” I reassured her. Mr. Rubenstein turned the fire hose, but the hose was rotted. “There is no water!” he yelled. There are four elevators with access to the factory floors, but only one was fully operational. As the smoke approached, the workers had to file down a long, narrow corridor to reach the elevator. There were two stairways down to the street, but one was locked from the outside to prevent stealing and the other only opened inward. I nudged my way towards the elevator, while I tightly held Iris’s hand. Bright orange flames shoot through the window and ceiling. The women held onto the shaft of the elevator, desperately pleading for the elevator to come up. The last elevator arrived at the ninth floor, all of the girls pushed and shoved into every space. I was scared that the elevator might break since there are so many women on it. I shut my eyes and hugged Iris as the elevator closed.

Outside, the firemen arrived with the biggest ladder, but they were 30 feet too short. The ladders only stretched up to the seventh floor and the safety net failed. The nets were only capable to hold the weight of one person. I looked up at the burning building; people on the tenth and ninth floor were waving and yelling for help. All the exit staircase and elevator were in flames, they ran out of options. As I watched horrifically, two women stood by the window. The looks on their faces showed pain and hopelessness. They waved and cried help, but nobody can save them. Then they suddenly jumped. They jumped from the same window, Iris and I just opened.

May 7, 1912.

Later, I learned fire broke out in a rag bin on the eighth floor. A switch bell from the eighth floor made a call to the tenth floor, but the message never reached the ninth floor. As a result of this tragic incident, regulations were passed for doors open outward in tall buildings. Life safety code used in all fifty states is a direct result of the tragic incident. Multiple sprinkle and exits are now the law.

Sometimes I still get nightmare about the images of the women jumping out the window and wake up from the imaginary screaming of them burning alive. The guilt that I am alive and that they are dead still lingers on to me. And from that day on, every time I see a window, it reminds of that day when 146 people die. I cannot look out the window anymore.