The Factory

When the young man from Broadway came to town and built factories, young and old, large and small came from the surrounding hills looking for work.

Some came to earn enough for a dry piece of bread and some for a dress or a pair of shoes. Mothers who owed money for bread and milk came, as did newlyweds who wanted to help their husbands support the family. Old, homeless women came who did not want to live off their sons or see their daughters-in-law glare at every bite they took. Young boys and girls who lacked money for candy, movies, and cigarettes came, too. All went, trudging carefully or rolling down the mountains.

The young man from Broadway sat in his new office and measured every newcomer from head to toe. (He wanted women workers.)

Young blossoming girls and wives who had matured too early looked at him blankly, with glossy eyes, willing to work for practically nothing. “You’ll earn more later,” he said, not raising his voice. It was as if he himself didn’t believe what he was saying.

Machines began to buzz from seven in the morning until six at night.

Powerful industrial belts filled the factory with a tumultuous cadence, sounding as if millions of people were playing jazz. Their driving force worked not only on the machines, but also on the people sitting at the machines. Elbows moved up and down quickly — lightning fast — with alarming momentum. They did not need much experience to become fast.

The huge belts reverberated in the girls’ thin veins and the mothers’ neglected muscles with such...