(This is another excerpt from that manuscript in the drawer.)

She arrived with a few minutes to spare. She unwrapped herself from coat, muffler, gloves, and hat; placed them all on a hook in the hallway that served as the workers’ cloakroom; and made her way to her station. There was a buzz of voices around her, the girls trying to fit in a last few minutes of talk before the whistle blew. After the official start to the work day, a girl could be fined for chatting when she was supposed to be working.

            Sometimes it was possible to time a bobbin change or the need for new material with that of a coworker. In those moments, it was possible to exchange a few words as the task away from one’s station was accomplished. Some of the girls had pasted favorite poems near these common areas so that they might have something to read while they grabbed what they needed. They were not allowed to post anything at their individual work stations—the foreman told them that he didn’t want them distracted while they were working, but he didn’t seem to mind the bits of things left at the bobbin station.

            Margaret sat down and began to work. It was hard to grip the needle this morning. Her hands were soaked with sweat and yet her fingers felt like ice. She could feel the tension pumping through her body. She had seen what had been done to Clara’s face, and she was suddenly afraid that when she stood up to declare a strike that the foreman would hit her. It wasn’t as if she didn’t know what it was like to be hit—her father had struck her many times—but the thought of the pain of a slap made her stomach cramp and she was suddenly grateful that she hadn’t eaten anything this morning. Perhaps her stomach would settle down if there was nothing in it to irritate it.

            She looked around to see if anyone looked any different this morning. Did they know what was coming? She hadn’t seen any of her coworkers at the meeting last night, but there had been so many people there that it would have been nearly impossible to have done. Would she stand alone? She tried to guess by looking at each of her coworkers which would stand with her and which would simply continue to sit, like cows chewing their cuds, and accept the awfulness that they worked under. What made one person decide to fight while another accepted it?

            She thought of her sisters. What had become of them after she left her father’s house? Had they followed her lead? Or had they seen what had become of her and decided to continue being the subservient chattel that their father’s bible demanded? Should she had stayed and tried to help her sisters, too? She shook her head. Why was she thinking about this now?

            The needle felt clumsy in her hand. She had taken a few stabs at the sleeve before her, but the work she was doing was the kind that she would have to rip out and do over anyway. Besides, there would be no pay for whatever work she did this morning. She was on strike, even if Boris did not yet know it. No need to concentrate on what she was doing; she just needed to look busy.

            Boris was maybe ten feet away, hovering over the shoulders of the new girls. He was berating one of them, yelling at her about her sloppiness. It was the Russian blonde, the young woman that Margaret had thought he might be attempting to seduce—or coerce. It was all the same with Boris. The question was, was this a payback because the blonde had refused him, or was it a reminder that regardless of whether she had given in to him or not, Boris was still the boss?

            Boris was shaking a piece of material in the girl’s face. “You do not get paid to do this shit kind of work, Yelena. You need to do this again.” He grabbed the material with his other hand, pulled the cloth between his fists until it ripped. “Oh. Now you’ve done it. It’s ripped. Well that piece is coming out of your paycheck.”

            Yelena was sobbing, covering her face with her hands as Boris raged at her. Margaret had seen this before. Boris was regularly cruel. This morning, though, Margaret had no patience for it. 

            She looked at the watch that Daniel had loaned to her. It was 8:28. He had said nine o’clock, but she couldn’t stand watching what Boris was doing to this poor girl. Half an hour was not going to matter. This girl needed help now. She stood up.

            “Girls!” She was afraid her voice would not be heard above the din of machines. The workers across the shop could not hear her, but those nearest to her had heard and stopped what they were doing. “Girls!” she said again, and watched the ripple effect. As different rows of girls heard her they stopped what they were doing. Their cessation caused other girls to look up. Those doing handwork set their work in their laps. Others stopped their machines. All faces turned toward hers. Including Boris’s.

            “Other shirtwaist makers are on strike as of this morning. I declare myself to be on strike. Who will join me?”

            Some of the girls rose instantly, one of them giving Margaret a gap-toothed smile. “It’s about time,” the girl yelled. “I’m on strike, too.”

            Boris was bearing down on her. He seemed to be flying and Margaret found herself steeling herself for the expected blow. Instead, he stopped just short of her. There were beads of sweat on his forehead. He was breathing hard from the effort of getting to her so fast, and she drew back from the odor of onions and beer that he was blowing her way.

            “What are you doing?” he said. His fists were balled at his sides and he leaned farther in toward her. She wondered if this was what a matador felt like when confronted with an angry bull.

            “I am declaring a strike,” she said. “The union voted last night to strike. I am exercising my right to strike.”

            Boris spat on the floor. “There is no right to strike.”

            Margaret stepped forward so that their faces were almost touching. “I don’t care whether you think there is a right to strike or not. I am telling you that I am on strike, and I am taking these girls with me.”

            Boris grabbed her upper arm, squeezed it until she thought her bones would snap. “You leave now, do not come back … ever.”

            She fought back the tears. He was hurting her. “Let go of my arm, Boris, or I will have you arrested.”

            Boris laughed, but he unclenched his hand. “Get out of my shop,” he said. “You’re sacked.”

            “I’m not sacked. I’m on strike. And I’ll be back some day when this factory pays the girls what they’re worth.”

            “You ain’t worth shit,” Boris said.

            Margaret stepped back. She turned toward the other girls who were all staring at the confrontation going on. “Who is with me?” she said, and began walking toward the hallway to find her coat.

            About half the women had stood up and were moving with her toward the door. Margaret stopped, turned toward the others. “Come with me,” she said. “He is a bully but he cannot stop you from doing this thing. If you will not fight for your rights, they will not be given to you. Nothing is ever just given. You must stand up.” She could hear herself beginning to plead, and she turned back to see Boris smiling at many women were still sat at their machines. “See?” she said. “If you stay, he wins. Nothing changes. Come with me, now.”

            Out of the corner of her eye, Margaret saw movement. A few of the youngest girls, including the blonde that Boris had been berating, had stood. She turned back toward Boris. He had flushed red. “You little bitch, Yelena. Sit down. You’re not going anywhere.”

            Yelena grabbed her friend’s hand, walked toward the hallway. Margaret went to join her. They could hear Boris shouting as they left the shop. There was a crowd of them putting on their coats. Nobody was hurrying. It was as if they had all agreed to go out for a casual stroll. How brave they all were, Margaret thought. Her eyes filled with tears. She waited while each of them donned their coats, hats, mufflers, gloves. “Ready?” she said when everyone was dressed. “Then onward to Clinton Hall. We are officially on strike.”