All for Shirtwaists

Jaclynn Rogers

I've already climbed four flights of stairs,

And I've four more to go.
Three of the elevators are out,
As usual.
I'm used to this darkness,
This daily traipsing up eight floors, then back down.
I suppose it's better than nine or ten.
Many of the other girls are walking with me this morning.
Several only speak Yiddish or Slovene,
But I feel better with company.
 
I reach the 8th floor entry, and there are girls busy sewing.
I need to hurry; the sun is already beginning to rise.
My companions hurry further upstairs,
And my heels click rapidly into the main room.
In a rush, I sit at my station
And reach for a pile of colored fabrics,
But the general manager scolds me for being late.
I’ve learned not to argue.
I pick up my scissors and begin.
 
You wouldn't know that it's a March afternoon
By the wetness on our foreheads
Or the stink in the air.
Sweat is indistinguishable from cigarette
Smoking isn't allowed
But this manager often sneaks drags too.
Some of the girls are bolder today,
Sewing with a Pall Mall in between their fingers.
We continue working
And I continue cutting,
Counting down the minutes to break.
 
It's nearly five
We can feel it, though the clocks are all broken.
Many of the girls are joking to one another,
Making small talk about their families,
And the manager even turns on the radio.
Whether it’s excitement that soon we'll be free
Or the exhaustion from eleven hours of the same task,
There is a tangible change in the air.
Suddenly there is a piercing scream
And heads swivel:
"Fire! There’s a fire!"
 
The manager runs to the nearby firehose,
Then bellows "Stay calm, girls!"
He begins cranking the knob or tries to.
His voice cracks.
"This damn thing is rusted shut!"
In the time he’s taken, flecks of paper have flared
And now drift around the room, starting smaller flames
That soon catch the scrap piles and ignite.
Girls are leaping up, running and screaming now
Tables are knocked over, chairs are shoved away,
The radio clatters to the floor and cuts out.
I jump up and run too, but the door is so far away.
 
By the time I reach the 8th floor entry,
The word Fire has spread more quickly than the flames.
The upper floors have already begun fleeing,
And there is no room in the narrow staircase.
Girls are pushing and shrieking and cursing and praying.
I force my way in
And struggle towards the last functioning elevator
But it’s already failing from the heat.
Someone has pried the doors open
And girls are leaping down the shaft.
Others scramble to the stairs and try to flee
But the manager stays put
He stares ahead and murmurs "The doors don't unlock 'til five."
“We’re trapped up here.”
 
The flames have engulfed the room now:
There is only white heat and screaming
Those still stuck here hurry further upstairs,
"The fire escape!"
We have only this hope, so we climb.
 
The ninth floor of the factory isn't engulfed yet.
We climb over tables and garment scraps,
Half-finished shirts and still running sewing machines.
We run to the window where
Girls frantically rush through the opening
And begin to clamber down.
The air here isn't filled with smoke, which gives us energy.
And fire engines sound alarms below us,
But their ladders are too short.
Just as I near the window
A sickening creak occurs outside,
Then a crack,
Followed by more screaming that fades.
The ladder has broken
And the girls have fallen to the Manhattan street below.
 
A hysteric mob of young women,
Too young to have even thought of death
Or know the smell of charred flesh.
Those left of us run back to the stairwell
And climb to the roof in one last attempt.
The flames grow taller and the smoke billows higher.
In a daze, I walk to the edge of the roof and look down
Girls are jumping, choosing to go on their terms.
Firemen are holding nets, but
The nets are tearing as the bodies hit.
What else can we do?
 
The frenzy of those on the roof settles,
And the building beneath us groans
As we look at one another on the edge
To my left is one of the girls who climbed with me
This morning, a lifetime ago.
She smiles at me, sadly, and extends her hand
And I try to smile back and take it
She says something to me, and though I don't understand
I feel her meaning
Until we meet again.
We both turn to the street below us
And jump.