Times were also good for the IWW. The efforts of hundreds of organizers like Aino were paying off. Membership was growing, as were the union’s influence and its geographic reach. In January 1913, Hillström was in Mexico to help organize the revolution and IWW halls were springing up there. The IWW was organizing textile workers in the East, mostly women and immigrants. In January alone, the IWW organized sixteen strikes, ranging from cannery workers in California to lumbermen in Louisiana to hotel waiters in New York City. Aino was sent to the Willamette Valley to help the families of strikers in ten logging camps. They wanted shorter hours without lowering wages, an end to mandatory overtime, and Sundays off. Owners, helped by the railroads, retaliated by shipping in scabs by the carload. The strikes failed, but a groundswell of support for the IWW continued to grow.
In February, 25,000 textile workers in New Jersey struck, demanding an eight-hour day, an end to working multiple looms, and age restrictions on child labor; 1,850 strikers were arrested and jailed. That same month 400 rail workers struck against the Pennsylvania Railroad, asking for a raise from a dollar seventy-five to two dollars and ten cents per day for a ten-hour day.
In April, sawmill workers struck in Pilchuck, Washington, asking for the right to organize, sanitary bunkhouses, decent food, and fire escapes. Aino spent three days there, organizing the food and using the strike to gain membership.
In May, sawmills in Marshfield, Oregon, went on strike. When loggers sympathetic to the IWW were fired, IWW Local 435 in Coos Bay went on strike in sympathy. When the IWW in Portland asked for her help, Aino refused. She’d stretched Jouka to his limit.
In June, however, because of her experience with loggers and lumbermen, union leaders in Portland implored her to help with recruiting in Centralia, Washington, a mill town in the middle of timber country. The IWW was building a new hall there, three blocks from the train station.
She dreaded bringing the trip up with Jouka. She knew she would be gone at least three or four weeks. When she finally got up her nerve to tell him, his reaction frightened her. He didn’t seem to care.
When Aino got off the train in Centralia, however, all feelings of guilt vanished. That night was to be the grand opening of the new hall, and an itinerant logger told her that Hillström was going to be there.
Upon reaching the hall, she set down her valise, shook the hem of her dress to get the dirt off, carefully put her glasses in a case, and tucked the case into a side pocket of the valise. Just outside the new hall, she greeted several comrades from the Nordland free-speech fight. Her people. She felt good—at home. She walked inside, adjusting her eyes to the dark. A general murmur in the hall died down. Women in the logging and mining camps were rare and women Wobblies even rarer. She hated it when everyone looked at her, but she also didn’t like it when no one noticed her.
A man who’d been talking to a small group came toward her. She smiled, remembering not to squint, wondering if she knew him.
“The Elizabeth Gurley Flynn of Chinook County,” the man announced. It was Hillström. He kissed her hand ironically. “Our own Finnish rebel girl.” Two years earlier, in 1911, Hillström had written a popular song about Flynn called “The Rebel Girl.”
She felt more than saw the twinkle of humor in his eyes. “If I could speak like her,” she said, “I’d be in Chicago not Camp Three.”
“Have you ever heard her speak?”
“No.”
“Then how do you know you can’t speak like her?”
She knew it was flattery, but she still felt as if she’d just been asked to dance—and she felt like dancing.
“Come on,” he said, taking her hand. “Let me introduce you around.”
She grabbed the valise and followed his lead. She didn’t like how Hillström didn’t even ask if she wanted to be introduced. But when he began introducing her in English, she liked it.
The opening ceremonies went reasonably well. After five or six speeches, Hillström got them singing and laughing at his clever parodies. Nervous policemen stood silently at the back of the crowd.
After the last song, Hillström gave an impassioned and, at the same time, humorous speech about how important it was for all working people to join the One Big Union and finally gain the power to end the constant pitting of immigrants against immigrants, craftsmen against laborers, man against man that the capitalists employed to keep them in poverty and under control. Aino could see he connected with the crowd by the nods and occasional murmurs of agreement. It excited her to know Hillström. She wanted everyone to know he was her friend.
“And I want to introduce you all to Aino Kaukonen, our own little Finnish Elizabeth Gurley Flynn from Chinook County who led our strike against Reder Logging. She’s been organizing loggers and mill workers from the Willamette Valley to Nordland. And I must add,” he said, letting them in on a secret, “an absolutely delightful person to share a cell with.”
The crowd laughed. Heads turned to look at her. She felt herself flushing. She wished he’d stopped short of the crack about sharing a cell.
Wives had set up coffee and a potluck dinner. Many of the women introduced themselves to Aino, seemingly making polite small talk. They’d ask questions, however, some that went all the way back to the failed strikes of 1907, over five years earlier, and the free-speech fights in Nordland. Almost all made vague references to Joseph Hillström. She realized they were trying to ascertain her relationship to him. Many Wobblies said that relationships should be free and the business only of those involved, but she knew most—especially the women—didn’t believe it. She understood. There was theory, and then there was practice—the talking of the mind and the feeling of the heart.
With people heading home, Hillström came quietly beside her and said in a low voice, “You want to get some air?” She nodded and put her empty coffee cup on the rough boards of the trestle table at the side of the hall. She felt people watching her leave with Joseph Hillström. She felt guilty. What if Jouka found out? She also felt the excitement of doing something risqué.
They walked on a trail worn by mill workers along the banks of the Skookumchuck River.
“The place is humming,” Hillström said.
“Full employment,” Aino agreed. “Lots of potential members, but less incentive to join.”
“Surely, even fully employed men want higher wages and better working conditions.”
“Sure, they want that. But what will they fight for?” She paused. “Honor and dignity rule men and work,” she went on. “Money is secondary.” Ideas were tumbling together in her mind. “Honor keeps them at their jobs, supporting their families, showing their courage. Honor makes it hard to organize. In fact, working under horrible conditions increases their honor.”
Hillström chuckled, nodding his head.
“At some point, however, living without dignity and respect will overcome honor. We organize to give them dignity. With the red card, a man holds his dignity in his hands. The red card tells the world: ‘Respect me. I am not a slave. I am not a machine.’”
Hillström took her hand. “My rebel girl, you’re not only beautiful, you’re a deep thinker.” She felt herself blushing in the dark.
They walked side by side, hips and shoulders often touching.
He stopped and faced her. “Where are you spending the night?”
She felt a quiver of excitement and danger. “At the hall.”
“On the floor,” Hillström stated.
“Why not stay with me at Michael Tierney’s? You’ll sleep a lot better than on a cold floor. There’s a lot of work to do tomorrow.”
He’d given her an excuse, but she couldn’t quite give in to herself without some sign of resistance. “I don’t want to impose.”
Hillström smiled. “You’re worried about what your husband will think,” he said.
“Yes, a little.”
“You believe in all that marriage stuff?”
He’d given her another argument, one her pride didn’t allow her to counter. How could she admit that she wasn’t a modern socialist woman? “Of course not.” She saw him smile. “It’s just that Jouka does. It’ll hurt his feelings.”
“If he ever finds out.” He let that hang in the air. “Look, Tierney’s married, with two kids. His wife, Kathleen, will be there the whole time. Her brother Jack’s staying there, too. The Tierney place is a well-known roost for all of us IWW organizers.”
She said yes.
On waking, even before she opened her eyes, she breathed in the wonderful smell of him, the pungent odor of his skin, the soft remains of yesterday’s hair tonic. She kept her eyes shut, lying on her side, her back to his side of the bed, reliving the jumble of images—him singing, the crowd looking at her, the women curious about her and him, the long river walk, the quick trip to the hall to pick up her valise, walking outside to him, his gentle but assured hands unlacing her. She rolled over to snuggle in close to him.
He wasn’t there.
She saw his valise and heard sounds from the bathroom. The feeling of sleepy contentment was replaced by a feeling of loss—and guilt.
He came into the bedroom in his undershirt, suspenders hanging down from the waist of his trousers. He’d just finished shaving.
“Where are you going?”
“South. I’m at Eugene tonight, then Roseburg, then Klamath Falls. Big sawmills.”
He looked at her and smiled. “Not soon enough, I assure you.”
“No, really, when are you coming back?” She realized she was sounding needy and switched to a more businesslike tone. “I thought you were going to be here helping with the organizing.”
“Nope. I’ll leave that in your very capable”—he walked over to the bed and took both her hands in his—“and beautiful hands.” He then went back to packing his bag. She sat on the edge of the bed, unable to speak.
She threw herself into organizing, up early in the morning at the house and back later at night to sleep in the same bedroom. Tierney’s wife, Kathleen, made breakfast for Aino; her husband, Michael; her brother, Jack Kerwin; and her two young children. When her husband went off to his sawmill job, Aino and Jack left with him. Jack focused on loggers, so because of the distances he would often not make it home at night. Even though Aino focused on closer sawmill workers, she would often come in after the family was asleep. She always found supper left in the warming cabinets along the top of the woodstove, slow heat radiating gently from embers in the firebox.
During the day, she would stand just outside the property of sawmills, catching workers as they went to their shifts or, better, when they were leaving, as that gave her more time. Mill owners called the sheriff to eject her several times and she had to scramble to an obviously public place where she had a right to be and where, in full view of others, she’d be less likely to be beaten. The sheriff would leave her with a warning. The next day, she’d be back at the edge of the mill property, preaching her gospel of dignity. She helped put together pamphlets, giving her ideas to people who could write English. She then carried the material from the printers to the hall. She went to barbershops, only to be run out by irate barbers. She stood by saloon doors, only to be threatened by bouncers. The police got to know her. Sometimes they would simply say hello and talk. Sometimes they would tell her to get her red ass out of town before they threw her into jail for vagrancy. One day, they did throw her into jail charging vagrancy, but the city attorney, a man named Polly Grimm, said to release her. He didn’t like Wobblies, but the law was the law. She had a right to speak her mind in public places and if she had a place to live, she was no vagrant. This outraged the wife of a prominent lawyer. The woman beat Aino with an umbrella, shouting that she was a disgrace to women, un-American, and should go back to Finland along with all the other reds ruining the country. She was propositioned by drunk, or not so drunk, loggers and mill hands and occasional upstanding citizens of Centralia. Once a woman asked if it was true Wobbly women had their ovaries removed so they could make love without the fear of getting pregnant. Aino replied she’d gladly lift her skirts so the woman could take a closer look and see that she had no scars. The woman hurriedly left.
The work was hard, but it was paying off and not just in Centralia. By the end of June over fifty lumber camps in Washington State were on strike, around five thousand loggers. It seemed that they were at a turning point. She decided to stay longer than the three weeks she’d told Jouka.
Two weeks later Hillström returned, bringing the embarrassing question of sharing the room.
“They’re already calling me a red whore,” Aino said to him as he stood just inside the door.
He took her in his arms. “Sticks and stones,” he said.
She wriggled free. “Easy for you to say.”
“Are you still mad about me leaving?” he asked, as if it were inconceivable.
“You could’ve told me before.”
“And what? We wouldn’t have made love then? Aino, I leave all the time. I go places.” He smiled warmly at her. “Aino, I’m organizing. I’m doing the work. Just like you.”
“You should’ve told me,” she said, somewhat mollified.
He took both her hands. She let him. “Come on. I’ll sleep in the hall. We’re comrades, aren’t we? We must support each other, not fight.”
She wanted to ask him to stay—but she knew that this would hurt the cause more than anything else she could do. “OK, friends,” she said.
“Comrades,” he replied, just as Kathleen Tierney entered the living room.
He picked up his bag and cheerfully said goodbye to Kathleen, who shut the door and leaned against it, looking at Aino until one of the children ran into the room and broke the uncertain spell.
The police began patrolling around the IWW hall, showing up at rallies and speeches in greater numbers. Aino felt an ominous chill watching them silently watch the crowd. As the audiences grew, the police added more deputies.
“I say let’s have it out,” Hillström said. It was close to eleven at night and the leaders had returned to the new hall after a well-attended rally. “Let’s show them we’re an international union, a force to be reckoned with.”
There were murmurs of assent.
“We shouldn’t be pushing so hard,” Aino said. “At some point the deputies wade in with ax handles, and people get scared and tear up their cards.”
“We’ve all faced ax handles,” Michael Tierney said.
“I’m not afraid for ax handles,” Aino said. “If you weren’t a man, I show you my scars.”
That got a laugh.
“Weeks of recruiting work will be wasted because workers afraid of cops using ax handles.”
Murmurs of assent arose for her side as well.
“A big rally gets us in the papers,” Hillström said. “We’ll sign up new members from Canada to Mexico.”
“Joe’s right,” Tierney said. “We let people know Joe’s going to be speaking and singing and we can draw a really big crowd.”
“Big crowd of cops,” Aino said.
“Come on, Aino. It’s just what we want. We’ll be in newspapers all over the country.”
“And capitalist newspapers making us look like crazy dangerous people, scaring everyone. Making recruiting harder.”
The image of Voitto passionately arguing his case before the raid came unbidden. She tried to focus, struggling with the images and the English.
“We recruit here already over three hundred. They recruit others. In a year, we have every worker in Washington on our side. Then we have power. Then we shut down entire lumber industry. Direct action! Not newspaper stories.”
“Theory,” Hillström said dismissively.
“Yes. Like the laws of Newton,” Aino shot back.
“OK, OK,” Tierney said. “We’ll put it to a vote.”
Aino knew she would lose. She did.
Pamphlets were printed and distributed. Signs posted. Aino traveled by train and walked miles on dirt roads to logging camps and mills, restaurants and saloons, barbershops and tobacco stores, advertising the rally. But advertising reaches everyone.
On the day of the big rally, Aino noticed burly men coming in on trains and going to the police station. Mill workers and loggers came into town as well, going to the saloons, getting drinks before the night’s entertainment.
She watched the happy jostling crowd with a sinking heart. Most of them were here for the spectacle. She recognized many that she’d talked to and hadn’t convinced to carry the red card.
After brief introductory speeches, Hillström mounted the platform to applause and cheering. He asked for quiet and began one of his great speeches, cutting through the fog of befuddled sociology and economics that held them in thrall. He got cheers. He got laughs. He led a few songs. Organize. Show these capitalists and their captive politicians and police what real power is. Join the Industrial Workers of the World. Get dignity, get a fair deal, and lose your chains. A cheer arose.
Then someone threw a bottle at one of the cops.
A whistle shrilled three times and the surrounding line of police and deputies stormed into the crowd, batons and ax handles flailing. People tried to defend themselves or get away. Women screamed. Men went to the ground, both police and Wobblies, and both were kicked as they lay there by other policemen or workers. Hillström ran off the stage toward the hall. Aino raced after him, but someone tripped her and she went down. A man stomped on her below her right shoulder, making her gasp with pain and briefly lose her vision. She struggled to her feet, petticoat and skirt wet with mud, her hair loose and falling over her shoulders. Fighting her way through the crowd toward the hall, she reached its doors. Men with pistols were standing guard there. She rushed past them, looking for Hillström. He was gone.
She left the hall several hours later, her blouse showing a patch of blood, her back aching. Jack Kerwin offered to walk with her to his sister’s house. He had coagulated blood in his hair and on his face and walked with a limp.
They moved through the area where the rally had been held. The platform stood empty. On the ground were letters, flyers, food, lost hats, even a shoe—and torn-up and trampled red cards. No one would risk going to jail with one of those in a pocket. Months of recruiting, lying in the mud.
Furious and frustrated, her back throbbing, Aino sat at the kitchen table as Kathleen carefully tended to her brother’s head wound and her husband’s cuts and bruises. Kathleen moved quietly between the water heating on the stove and her brother and husband. She occasionally looked at Aino, who was staring at her coffee mug saying little. Once their eyes met. Kathleen looked down at the bloody rag in her hand and then back at Aino, her eyes sad. “I heard Hillström hopped a freight.”
Aino held her gaze momentarily. She looked down at the floor, murmured, “Yoh,” and walked from the room out into the night.
Off to the northwest there was still a faint hint of light from where the sun moved beneath the northern horizon. She’d spent six weeks away from Jouka doing what she’d done to end up where she was. Now she had to go back and face him.