Chapter 8

Tazia has been back at work two weeks when Elvan Wright shows up at her work station.

“You should have waited until break time.” She wants to scold him, gently, but she has to hiss loudly to be heard over the clanking line. Her swollen fingers shove pork scraps, the rotten ones dyed red, into the sausage grinder. She worries that the foreman, Miloslav Mucha, will see them talking. If she falls behind, Mucha will dock her pay. Worse, if she hurries to catch up, she could lose a finger in the churning machine. It happens all the time, but the line never stops. The finger, along with rat shit, sawdust, and human hair and sweat, is simply ground into the meat.

“I couldn’t hold off seeing you any longer.” Elvan, over six feet tall and the brawniest ripper on his killing team, crouches in a vain attempt to be less visible. The women on either side of Tazia take their eyes off their work just long enough to glare. They don’t want to lose anything either, especially on account of a Negro with no business hanging around a white woman. Thank goodness Mucha is nowhere in sight. He’s either forcing children to shove their hands inside the clogged grinder one line over, or in the toilet drinking his mid-morning beer.

“Besides,” Elvan adds, “you’re busy feeding the baby during break and I aim to steer clear of your friend Veronika. She scares me.” He covers his crotch with his four-fingered right hand. The thought of Elvan afraid of a woman, even one as big as Veronika, makes them both laugh.

Tazia stops first. Laughing makes her breasts ache. She nurses Gemma before work and pumps enough milk to last her until noon, when Veronika brings Gemma to the break room for another feeding and collects more milk to tide her over until Tazia comes home. By then, Tazia is as hungry for a sight of Gemma as Gemma is for milk. From her breast, not a bottle. Snuggling with the baby on the bed while Veronika makes dinner, before leaving for the night shift, is her favourite time of day. The break room, by contrast, is filthy, and so far from the single toilet that men piss in the corner and don’t even pretend to wipe their hands on their pants before eating or returning to work. Tazia is afraid Gemma will get sick from the germs, but she’s already gained so much weight that she’ll soon outgrow the tiny gowns Tazia embroidered on the train.

“Swing low, sweet chariot,” Elvan sings softly from his crouch, until he coaxes a smile. His deep voice, carrying over the bellowing livestock, was what had drawn Tazia to him in the first place. It was a warm day last spring, and along with the flies swarming through the window, came this marvelous sound. Tazia had taken her lunch outside to watch the man who produced it. The kicking inside her belly made it plain the baby liked the music too. Tazia had never before heard the mournful yet hopeful melodies of Negro spirituals, and it reawakened her yearning to be back in church, hearing the Latin hymns she’d grown up with.

She soon learnt that Elvan’s heart was as big as the man himself. One day, the foreman had called him inside to move some heavy machinery. At the end of the line closer to Tazia, the grinder was churning erratically because of a buildup of gristle. Mucha ordered a three-year-old girl to clean it out. He’d threatened to fire the child’s mother unless she let her daughter work. Mucha set down a stool for the child to climb on, but when she hung back, he grabbed her arm and yanked her up. The little girl teetered and tipped forward. Her mother screamed. Just as the child’s head was about to disappear, Elvan rushed up, reached in, and pulled her out. Everyone stopped breathing but the grinder kept churning, taking Elvan’s finger in place of the child’s head.

Mucha fired the sobbing mother on the spot. No one spoke for fear of losing their jobs too. He thrust a dirty rag at Elvan. “Patch yourself up, boy. I’d send you back to Mississippi if I didn’t need you on the line. Instead, I’m moving you up.” Elvan had been a breaker, separating legs from carcasses. Now he’d be a ripper, slitting live throats, the worst job on the killing gang.

Days later, meeting in a secluded place behind where the stock cars were repaired, Tazia had gingerly touched the jagged hole where Elvan’s right pointer finger had been. “You paid a high price to save that child,” she said. Her white hand looked as small as a child’s next to his huge black paw. She was glad the day’s heat excused the blush spreading across her cheeks.

“My Mama told me, with a name like Wright, you gotta do right.”

“All you got for your trouble is a worse job than before.”

Elvan laughed. “Those songs I sing about salvation? Working in this here place of death, the men can’t get enough of them.” He touched Tazia’s belly, a gesture that felt natural to her, not at all improper. “Now, bringing life into this world. That beats singing about the one to come after.” He bent down to look into Tazia’s eyes. She looked up into his. Wordlessly, they kissed.

“I’d like to do right by you and your little one,” he said. “I ain’t never gonna be rich, but I don’t drink, I seldom cuss, and I’m clean.” He winked. “Also, I cook a tasty spicy barbecue, Delta style.” Tazia knew that if it was as warm and smoky as his voice, she’d like it. Over the next few months, they continued to meet by the repair sheds, away from prying eyes. He brought her food and serenaded her. She used the American words she was learning, and gestures, to tell him about Loro Piceno. They left behind Chicago’s blood-filled yards for the warm greenery of their homes.

Now, hunkered down beside Tazia, Elvan repeats his offer. His words sound genuine, but she doesn’t trust her English enough to be sure. Much as she’s tried to blot out Ayal, she cannot forget his empty vows. “What are you saying?” she asks, wishing she could look Elvan in the eye, but afraid to remove her gaze from the grinder. He stands and takes over so she can watch his lips. “I’m asking you to marry me.” He emphasizes the word “marry,” so there can be no doubt.

She nudges him aside and shoves scraps into the relentless churning maw. “Why? Do you think I’m so disperata I’d accept a proposal from anyone?” Instantly she regrets the words.

Elvan winces. “My sister got pregnant at fifteen. The man who did it ran off, and she killed herself before the baby was born. I followed that man to Chicago, planning my revenge. I couldn’t find him, thank the Lord, but I stayed because I couldn’t go home and face my family. I ain’t never stopped feeling guilty for not protecting my sister or seeing Mama through her sorrow.”

It’s the longest speech Elvan has ever made. Tazia understands enough to say, “That’s not a good reason to marry me. I don’t need anyone’s protection.”

He smiles. “It’s true. You’re the strongest woman I know, including Mama. And I love you for it. Is that a good enough reason?”

Tazia laughs at the thought of running from the arms of a Jew into those of a Negro. Ayal’s magical world was seductive, but Elvan’s practicality is better for bringing up a child. She quickly dismisses the idea. A white woman marrying a black man is a greater liability than Gemma growing up with only a mother for a parent. Elvan mistakes Tazia’s secret smile for acquiescence. He pulls a small package, wrapped in a clean bandana, from his bloodied overalls and opens it where she can it see without taking her eyes off her work. Inside is a hand-carved wooden rattle.

Tazia marvels at the delicate ridges. “How can you carve with only four fingers?”

The rattle makes a crisp but soothing sound. Elvan replaces Tazia’s right hand with his left. Together they feed the grinder, while their free hands trade the rattle back and forth. Elvan sings, “... coming for to carry me home,” and they shake the rattle to the hymn’s stately beat.

“What the hell are you doing?” Mucha appears behind them. Tazia slips the rattle inside her smock and takes over stuffing the machine with both hands. “Get the fuck back to your station, darkie, and stay there, or next time, I’ll kick your black ass South for sure.” He spits in Elvan’s face, then into the grinder. Elvan glares and clenches his fists, but swivels and leaves. Mucha snorts with satisfaction, then turns toward Tazia. “That baby of yours a nigger too?” Tazia shakes her head. “You want to keep your job, prove it.” Mucha slaps her buttocks so hard, she almost loses her balance. “Bring me the kid so I can see it’s white.”

***

“You look upset,” Veronika says when Tazia gets home that evening. “A touch of home will cheer you up. See, I made the noodles with tomato sauce, not creamy dill.” They cook dishes from each other’s countries, although Tazia hopes that when Gemma eats solids, she’ll prefer Italian food to Polish. She accepts tea with lump sugar and lets Veronika tuck her inside a nest of pillows. She treasures Veronika’s kindness, yet envies her time with Gemma. Much as Tazia loves nursing, she is eager to wean Gemma so the women can switch shifts and she can spend daytimes with her daughter. She’ll take her to the park, splash in the lake, and show her the Italian masters at the art museum. Gemma will speak fluent English but grow up proud of her heritage too.

“Mucha pushes too hard,” Tazia sighs, rocking to the rhythm of Gemma’s sucking. “He speeds up the line after lunch to keep us awake.” Veronika sets steaming bowls and coarse bread on the rickety table. “That crazy Bohemian is worse than the Russian who lords it over my shift. He slows the machines so he won’t have to wake up from his nap if a hand lands in the sausage.”

Veronika is right about the tomato sauce. Tazia soaks it up with bread, then sucks on the crust, like a hungry baby at the breast. She looks away when Veronika feeds Felix scraps of meat from the factory. Not too many, or they’ll kill his appetite for mice. Tazia once brought scraps home too, hoping to ingratiate herself with the cat, but he only accepts food from Veronika.

“I still don’t understand why you want to work at the plant.” Veronika ladles what is left in the pot into Tazia’s bowl. She insists Tazia have seconds as long as she’s nursing and eating for two. “There’s plenty of piecework for a skilled seamstress and you could do it at home, at night.” They’ve had this conversation before. In fact, Tazia had tried piecework after she got to Chicago, but her fingers were clumsy. “It reminds me of the fire. Smoke, screams, silent bodies floating through the air.” Several times, coming home near dawn, Veronika has rushed into the bedroom to awaken Tazia from a nightmare. “From now on, I sew only for my family.” She smiles to show that she includes Veronika in this category. “Capisco,” Veronika says. “I won’t ask again.” She points to the bowl, nods toward Gemma. “Mangiare.” And Tazia does.

While Veronika washes the dishes, Tazia turns on the radio, their one luxury. Veronika bought it to help herself learn English. Now Tazia listens to do the same. “Protests continued months after the owners of the Triangle Waist Company were charged with first and second-degree manslaughter,” the announcer says. “Their trial begins in December, but demonstrators fear they’ll be acquitted. Meanwhile, the Joint Relief Committee has collected tens of thousands for victims’ families and Tammany Hall is behind a law mandating a fifty-four-hour work week.”

Tazia bolts from the table to turn it off, waking Gemma. Veronika circles the room with the child, singing a Polish lullaby, until mother and baby calm down. Then she ushers them into the bedroom. Tazia listens to her clean up, feigning sleep, then strains to hear as Veronika turns the radio back on. “ ... continue to look for the cause of the blaze that killed nearly a hundred and fifty.” By the time Tazia tiptoes across the floor and presses her ear to the door, the announcer is onto last month’s theft of the Mona Lisa. Veronika turns off the radio, locks the door, and leaves for work. Tazia lies awake, fearing that, like the famous painting, her smile will never be seen again.

***

“I’m waiting,” Mucha reminds Tazia that Friday, as he turns over her pay envelope. She counts the nine dollars inside as soon as she leaves the plant, relieved he hasn’t docked her. At lunchtime on Monday, when Veronika hands her Gemma to be fed, Tazia tells her to find the foreman and bring him to the break room. “He wants to see the baby.”

Veronika laughs without humour. “You said the man was a monster. Is he going soft?”

Tazia shrugs and says Veronika will recognize Mucha by his vest, white on top and red on bottom, like the Bohemian flag. He refuses to cover it with a butcher’s apron, and it looks like it’s never been washed. While Veronika searches, Elvan, seeing Tazia alone, comes from behind and taps her on the shoulder. Startled, Tazia jerks and Gemma, losing hold of the nipple, starts to cry. Tazia tries to soothe her while hissing at Elvan to get out of there. Neither attempt works.

Elvan swoops up Gemma and sings, “There is a balm in Gilead to make the wounded whole.” At the sound of a hymn she heard in the womb, the baby quiets. She looks up and waves her arms. Elvan makes funny faces back but keeps singing until her tiny body relaxes into sleep.

“By God if she ain’t white after all,” Mucha bellows, cuffing Elvan’s ear. “How’d you manage that, nigger boy?” Gemma awakens and starts bawling again, until Tazia takes her back and hooks the child onto her breast. Frantic at first, Gemma finally establishes a sucking rhythm.

“You feed her good, little matka,” Mucha tells Tazia. “And when she turns three, bring her to me and I’ll put her to work cleaning out the machines.” He turns to Elvan. “As for you ... ”

“He’s a dead man!” Veronika rushes at Elvan, brandishing a hook used to hang carcasses while they’re disemboweled. Mucha roars with laughter and disarms her. “Sausages are seasoned with plenty of white blood. Mr Armour don’t fancy nigger blood in there too.” He turns back to Elvan. “Don’t want no nigger babies neither. I don’t care if you are my best ripper, if I catch you hanging around a white girl again, I’ll pitch you into the grinder myself, prick, balls, and all.”

***

Elvan is waiting at the gate that evening. Tazia’s breasts drip and she longs to run home, but he draws her into an empty stock car. “Mucha’s bluffing,” he says. “He won’t fire me because every knocker, ripper, breaker, and gutter on my gang would quit too. Lots of other jobs in the Yards.”

“He could make you have an accident. You’d lose more than your job.” Tazia touches the space where Elvan’s finger used to be. She turns to leave but he grabs her wrist. “Marry me,” he pleads. “I’ll work a double shift and you can stay home with Gemma.” He crosses himself. “I’ll even join your church and learn your hymns.” He smiles. “Long as I can still sing mine at home.”

Tazia looks at the darkening sky and takes a deep breath. She pictures a clean apartment outside Packingtown where her hands, supple again, stitch clothes for Gemma and embroider a vest for Elvan to wear to Mass. At night, as she makes dinner, Elvan and Gemma play with the little dolls and animals he’s carved for her. “You’re a fool,” she says, shaking off his hand.

“So they tell me.” Elvan sings, “Beams of heaven,” quietly at first, but finishes, “I shall be free someday,” in his strong voice. “With the Lord’s help, we can make a good life together.”

Tazia is tempted. Elvan is kind and gentle. Gemma would learn not to hate people who looked or spoke differently. Didn’t they share the same God? She closes her eyes and beseeches the Heavenly Father who forgave her for Ayal and blessed her with Gemma. Can He accept Elvan too? The cattle car is silent. “I have to get home,” she whispers. “Gemma is waiting for me.”