But let’s get back to the Meat Workers Union.
This union interested me because of its variegated membership, its great number of different types. A few close friends of mine, a couple of old Bundists, and others that I had known for many years, provided me with a connection to this union. They agreed to take me into the slaughterhouse for an entire working day, from early morning until noon, when work stopped.
Very early in the morning, on the agreed upon day, I went off to the slaughterhouse. The street that takes you to the Praga slaughterhouse is wide. Among the shops on both sides of the street, one kind is most evident: restaurants and taverns—Gentile and Jewish, kosher and nonkosher. The street comes to life as early as five in the morning, when it is packed with wagons waiting to distribute meat to the city, and with meat merchants, butchers, teamsters, and slaughterhouse workers, all of them heading toward a long, red brick building at the end of Namiestnikowska Street,1 the Praga slaughterhouse.
When you first enter the slaughterhouse, you are met with a huge, cavernous hall filled with large separate enclosures made of iron railings. Inside each enclosure, quarters of cow and calf meat are hung up for display. Each of these enclosures belongs to a meat merchant. Butchers come to these enclosures to buy meat for their shops. There are a couple of hundred butcher shops in Warsaw, both kosher and nonkosher. Around this huge, cavernous hall, people in white smocks are running about: these are veterinarians inspecting the animals before they are slaughtered, and checking and stamping the meat afterwards. The clamor in the hall reaches to the high heavens. The butchers bargain with the merchants at the tops of their voices. After they have already bought the meat, the shouting then begins anew: “Yosl, get my meat! Yankl, haul it down! Khatskl, take my quarter first!” And to make it more emphatic, they throw in a “the devil take your father’s father,” or some other such curse, just out of habit.
Mixed with the cries of people, one hears from a distance the rumblings and bleating of the cattle, pigs, cows, and calves that are penned up in the nearby stables. Closer by, in a neighboring hall, one hears the loud bellowing of the bulls that are resisting being led to slaughter. The bull doesn’t want to go. He is pushed and pulled from all sides. Those pushing and pulling are also crying out wildly. But even all this is drowned out by the bellowing of many more bulls as they are being slaughtered, a dreadful bleating of approximately 50 cattle that are being slaughtered at the same time in various corners of the hall. All these cries blend together in a frightful, hellish din that throws a horrific fear over anyone who steps for the first time across the threshold of the slaughterhouse.
And an even greater fear overcomes one stepping into the slaughtering arena itself. The bellowing of the bulls being tied for slaughter, or in the process of being slaughtered, becomes here even more frightful. Streams of blood flow in the canals going from the slaughtering corners of the hall and running together into a central canal. The blood is then collected and sold for various purposes. The slaughterhouse workers, in tall rubber or leather boots and in wide leather aprons, stand in water with large knives and steel blades in their hands. They are totally spattered with blood. Sweat pours down their faces. With long, shining knives, they flay the bulls that are yanked up onto hooks, and with large axes split them into halves, and then into quarters.
The sight of the freshly slaughtered bull throws one into a panic. The animal trembles, kicks. You think he will jump right up into your face at any moment. All the work around him goes on in a frightful din, including the shouting. One worker cannot simply talk to another; he must shout at the top of his voice to be heard over the wild cacophony.
After several hours of such extremely exhausting work a person is totally drained. His nerves are so strained and taut that he must run out and grab a drink in order to regain his courage and warm his blood. Drinking is regarded by the meat workers as a necessity for maintaining their strength and skill. In this way they free themselves a little bit from the atmosphere of blood and bedlam.
Around eight o’clock in the morning, my friends say, “Time to go eat breakfast.” They grab a couple of large chunks of raw meat, wash them, and take me along to “Rokhl’s” restaurant.
Rokheleh welcomed us and greeted all of us as if we were old friends. She was a short, broad woman, middle aged, blond, and pale faced. Her restaurant consisted of two large rooms with large, long, plain tables. A fire burned in the fireplace. Upon entering, they gave her the pieces of meat. She speared them onto skewers and stuck them in the fire to roast. She then quickly put a tablecloth on one of the tables, set out a large plate at each place, along with bottles of whiskey, fresh bagels, and other baked goods. Our small crowd took their places around the table. Then Rokhl came over and asked, “Who’s paying?” Somebody answered that he was paying. She noted this down in a notebook. After a week, everybody paid his bill according to Rokhele’s “bookkeeping.” She brought over the roasted meat right then, and everyone started on the feast. Of course Rokhl would not serve up all the meat she had just been given to roast, but nobody held it against her—that’s the way it had always been. At table everyone spurred the others on and piqued their appetites, especially for the drinking: “We have to drink the tea!” The brandy was served in tea glasses. “Drink a little corn water!” (an allusion to the whiskey, distilled from corn).
This was only the first “lunch.” It was called, modestly, “grabbing a bite.” After work, between one and two o’clock in the afternoon is when one then went for a proper “lunch.” The same scene as in the morning repeated itself, except this time, no one is in a hurry. One eats more relaxedly, more slowly. After everyone is now warmed up, the tables of several groups are pushed together; meat merchants come in and seat themselves at the table and eat together with the slaughterhouse workers. It becomes one big eating and drinking fest.
At this point the beggars come into the restaurant. They know when to come—not at the beginning of the meal, but afterwards, when the crowd has eaten its fill and is warmed up. These beggars aren’t penny grubbers. These are “honorable” beggars. They come to ask for “a dowry for a poor bride,” for “medicines for someone sick,” for “orphans and widows.” The crowd opens its purses and gives money. Everyone gives something.
It occurs to me to compare the meat workers and the bakers.
Their working hours are almost the same. Bakers work all night and go home in the morning. The meat workers begin their workday early, before dawn, and end their workday around noon. But what a difference between the two! The baker is dejected, weak, pale, sickly; the meat worker is full blooded, healthy, broad shouldered, with a ruddy, healthy-looking face. They both usually live in the same neighborhoods: Smocza, Niska, Wołyńska, Krochmalna—they are often seen together. But what a contrast in appearance, mood, and bearing!
Materially, the meat workers also live better. The bakers are mostly depressed, without ambition. The meat workers, on the other hand, have a drive for something better. They raise their children differently, sending them to school, some dreaming of higher education for them. They live on the street and around the slaughterhouses, but for their children they want a better life.
Slowly my circle of friends among the meat workers widened, and they began to think of me as one of their own. This happened first because of a couple of good, old friends such as Yankl Flatshazh, who was much loved by the meat workers, and Anshl Kolnitshanski. Through Anshl I was drawn closer to the whole Kolnitshanski “dynasty”: the “Khayetshkes” and the “Bertshikes.”2 Certainly it was partly because I did not exploit my friendship with them for material gain that I quickly won the confidence of the whole meat worker clan. They began to invite me to parties at their homes, asked me for advice about family matters, told me their troubles at home, and poured out their hearts to me as if I were a close friend. They even suggested a permanent stipend for me from their union. When I refused to accept, they tried to persuade me. When that wasn’t working, they tried suggesting loans and presents. When they convinced themselves that I would not accept any gain from my office in any form whatsoever, they were impressed.
1.Now, Sierakowskiego Street is in the Old Praga area.—MR
2.See Chapter 18 for these two branches of the meat workers “dynasty.”—MZ