The Polish workers working in both sections of the slaughterhouse—kosher slaughtering and nonkosher pig slaughtering—had their own union, a local of the General Polish Union of Food Workers. The Polish union was perhaps numerically larger, but the Jewish union was better organized.
The secretary of the Polish union was Geniek (Eugeniusz) Gajewski, a member of the PPS. He was an intelligent worker-activist—he had even written a book on the economy of the Polish meat market and about the place Poland occupied economically in the international meat market. After he became secretary of the union, he continued to work in the slaughterhouse and would not accept a paid position in the union, serving unpaid as secretary. He would, however, be excused from work if union matters required his attendance. And if not excused with pay, the union would compensate him for the unpaid hours he missed.
The Polish workers had a number of unusual personalities.
Władek Matraszek was an older worker. He was tall, crude, broad, with a gait as lumbering and ungainly as an ox. On his face and his whole body you could not find a smooth piece of skin, so beat and cut up was he from the fights, reckless escapades, and stabbings in which he was continually engaged. Because of these fights and wild adventures, he spent many a year in jail. He was also a terrific glutton and drinker. His son also worked in the slaughterhouse. As a young man his son had attended gymnasium and, I think, finished six classes. Externally, his son was thin, not tall like his father, rather weak, and with a chronic cough, the opposite of his father. He would not drink whiskey, only French cognac, and excused himself to his friends for this by saying that because of his poor health he could not drink any coarse drinks, only “refined” ones. He was a member of the PPS.
Nowak (I don’t remember his first name) was also an older worker, but quite a different type from Władek. He was tall and well built, with a large wen on the nape of his neck. He spoke a Yiddish that was as good as that of the Jewish workers. More than once he would even correct the Yiddish of a Jewish worker. There was no Yiddish curse he didn’t know. He even understood “the goy (Gentile) is coming.” He loved talking Yiddish while having a drink. Once he said to me, pointing to the Jewish workers, “I can be a better Jew than they.”
His two sons, Felek and Staszek, also worked in the slaughterhouse. They both belonged to the PPS and were both good socialists. In the thirties, when we were street fighting with the Polish antisemites and Fascists, the Nowaks often came and fought on our side.
In general, the relations between the Polish and Jewish workers in the slaughterhouse were not bad. But, as everywhere, when economic interests came into play, one group would think it was being taken advantage of, and on that basis, conflicts would often arise. One such conflict went on for some time.
The slaughtering in the slaughterhouse was generally done for private merchants. In addition, however, some slaughtering was for the municipal and the national government, for governmental hospitals, or for the military, etc. The Polish workers held that for governmental work they should get a larger share of the work. Around this issue, there were often disputes between the Jewish and Polish workers, and with time they became more and more vehement. Once the members of the Executive Committee of the Jewish Slaughterers Union told me the conflict was getting quite heated and that I should be ready—that they might need me.
It did not take long, in fact, and I got a phone call to come to the slaughterhouse right away. When I arrived, a big fight was about to erupt. The work had halted. The workers with their steel blades and knives in their hands stood in groups opposite each other and were swearing at each other. The cries grew louder and louder until one couldn’t make out the words, but only a wild shouting. Their rage and agitation was such that some of them were even foaming at the mouth. At any moment one of them might have thrown himself on the other with his gleaming knife, and a wild slaughter would have broken out. Looking around, I saw Geniek Gajewski standing to one side. He stood there quietly, looking on at the uproar. I ran over to him and tried to persuade him we should do something, or blood would soon be flowing. At first he remained indifferent, and I had the impression I would not move him. But eventually I convinced him.
We both went into their midst, between the two sides circling each other. Geniek shouted that everyone should shut up, and it did in fact become quiet. I then began to talk to the workers. I told them that in such an agitated state this dispute could not be settled other than by slaughtering each other. I appealed to both sides that they should first of all calm down. This dispute could not be settled here—after all, we have our unions for that. Gajewski spoke next and said I was right. The workers listened to us quietly, but they were far from happy. Out of anger they threw their knives and blades to the ground with such force that they bounced up from the asphalt floor into the air, but they listened. In the end their discipline and loyalty to the union won out. One by one they picked up their blades and knives and returned to work.
How much was drunk “in honor of this ‘reconciliation,’” is not difficult to imagine.
The dispute was in fact later settled between the two unions, and both sides were satisfied.