Part Ten
Gemma, Chicago, 1961
Chapter 36

This is Gemma Kane, speaking with Miroslav Mucha, who was my mother’s foreman at the Armour meat packing plant, at his apartment on Damen Avenue on the near west side of Chicago, Illinois. Today is Monday, May 29, 1961, and the time is 3:30 PM.

Mucha: Can I offer you a beer?

Gemma: No thanks. May I get myself a glass of water? (Rinses coffee mug in sink piled with dirty dishes; shoos away flies; sits opposite Mucha at scarred wooden table)

Mucha: You won’t object if I have one? (Crushes empty can of Schlitz; tosses it in trash full of empties; pops open another) American beer tastes like crap, but this brand’s the local favourite. The story is that Joseph Schlitz sent kegs of his stuff to Chicago after the great fire of 1871.

Gemma: Interesting. Did Mr Schlitz think beer would help put out the fire?

Mucha: Ha. More likely, he thought we could drown our sorrows in it. (Eyes overflowing trash can, swats at fly, frowns) Some things never change.

Gemma: I’m sorry. Did I call at a bad time? I can come back later this week.

Mucha: Nah. One day ain’t no better than another. (Drinks, sighs) It’s the money. I worked at Armour forty years before they booted me. Without a pension. Told me there were too many accidents on my watch that cost them thousands in workmen’s compensation.

Gemma: (Sympathetic) That sounds like an excuse management would use to cheat you.

Mucha: I blame the union more. If it weren’t for them sissy claims, I’d have done alright.

Gemma: (Bites tongue; sips water)

Mucha: (Shrugs) Nothing I can do about it. That was fifteen years ago. I’m eighty now. Thirty-five bucks a month Social Security pays for this lousy place and two meals a day. (Points toward crumbling plaster, cracked linoleum.) Ain’t bought new clothes in decades. See this? (Indicates threadbare vest.) Red and white, like the Bohemian flag. Wore it to work every day, proud of where I come from. (Swigs; burps) Can barely make out the colours now.

Gemma: I’m surprised the company didn’t treat you better. You were a foreman. They acted much worse toward people on the bottom of the ladder. Like my mother.

Mucha: (Snorts) Yeah. Being shafted almost made me side with them. (Lights chewed-up cigar, coughs phlegm into grimy handkerchief) Ought to give these up (waves cigar, points to empty cans), but I’m too old to change. Health’s going to hell (grins), but my memory is still good.

Gemma: (Leans forward) I’m glad to hear that since I came all this way to interview you.

Mucha: (Shakes head) Don’t know why you bothered. I can’t help you find your father. You’re on a fool’s errand anyway. I figure your mother buried her secrets fifty years ago. They’re rotted in the ground by now, nothing but a useless load of dirt. (Opens another beer)

Gemma: You knew my mother right after she came to Chicago, the most likely time for some clue to slip out. Wherever she moved, the first thing she did was find a place to live and ...

Mucha: (Interrupts) She probably lived in Packingtown, like most everyone at the plant. Even if the dump is still standing, whoever lives there now ain’t gonna let you poke around.

Gemma: (Waves away comment) I know. That’s not where my question is going. The second thing she did was find a job.

Mucha: Ah, then you’re in luck. I happen to remember your mother because most of the workers were from Eastern Europe, like me. She was the first Italian I hired. (Closes eyes as if picturing her) Although she wasn’t the first pregnant woman without a husband hanging around.

Gemma: Did she say anything about my father?

Mucha: Nah. Your mother wasn’t a talker. Kept her mouth shut and did her job. Some women never closed their yaps. Drove me crazy. I tried earplugs, but I then couldn’t hear when the grinder clogged up or the belt stopped.

Gemma: I suppose you had to fix them right away.

Mucha: Yup. The last thing the plant could afford was a slowdown. Armour had to keep up with Swift. Between them, they must have had thousands of workers.

Gemma: (Checks notes) According to my research, the stockyards employed forty thousand people during the years my mother worked here. The number kept growing until after the war, when it became cheaper to pack and ship meat from closer to where the livestock were raised.

Mucha: (Nods) The Yards shut down a decade ago. Serves the bastards right. Not that it matters to me anymore. (Gets faraway look, refocuses on me) I suppose I should have asked this sooner, but how did you know I used to be your mother’s boss? I always figured we were nameless.

Gemma: The company didn’t keep records of line workers or slaughterers, but I found a list of foremen from those years. (Smiles) I’m a labour reporter. I’m good at tracking down that stuff.

Mucha: Bully for you, but back up a step. How did you know it was Armour? There were lots of plants back then, before the big companies bought them out.

Gemma: (Laughs) I remembered that my mother never bought Armour products. (Hesitates) I also talked to the brother of one of your employees, Mr Elvan Wright. Do you remember him?

Mucha: Oh, I remember Elvan all right. Not because he was The Yard’s biggest nigger. (Rears back) Oops. I should have known, you being your mother’s daughter, you wouldn’t like that word. (Grins) I hired lots of (emphasizes) niggers. Takes one animal to kill and gut another.

Gemma: (Winces)

Mucha: (Still grinning) Reason Elvan sticks in my mind is cause the grinder ate his hand. Whole damned thing. A woman was so busy jabbering she didn’t see her hair had come loose from its net. Grinder caught the tail end and pulled her head after it. For some reason, Elvan was working the line that day, not ripping out in the yard, and he reached in. Grabbed her neck just in time, but his hand ... (Grimaces) Had to shut down the line for two hours to clean up the mess. Woman didn’t even thank him. She was pissed a nigger dared to touch her. (Shakes head) I never understood it.

Gemma: (Gags) I can’t believe it either. A man saves your life and you’re angry he touched you.

Mucha: That’s not what puzzles me. It’s the sacrifice that nigger made. It’s one thing to give a helping hand, it’s another to give one up. (Guffaws at own joke, coughs)

Gemma: (Gulps another cup of water, feels nauseous)

Mucha: (Wipes eyes) When your mother suddenly stopped showing up at work, I thought maybe she was pregnant with Elvan’s baby. You got a little jigger brother or sister?

Gemma: (Takes a deep breath) Let’s just say my mother’s reason for leaving is another of her long-buried secrets, so there’s no point in you trying to dig up that dirt now.

Mucha: (Chuckles) Touché. You got your mother’s spunk. (Leans back, regards me) Judging by how you look and talk, I’d guess your mother done all right for herself in the end. (Throws empty beer can at trash, misses, lets can roll around on floor) Better than me.

Gemma: She never felt sorry for herself. And she found some kind people along the way. Friends come in all sizes and colours. You never know who’s going to reach out and lend a helping hand.

Mucha: (Sneers) I could use some help. I should have asked you to pay me for this interview.

Gemma: Good reporters don’t pay their sources.

Mucha: (Grins, self-satisfied) You didn’t learn what you came here for anyway.

Gemma: Not about my father, but you helped me see my mother more clearly. So, off the record (hands him a twenty), buy yourself a new vest and a bigger trash can.

The interview ended at 4:15 PM.