VIGNETTE #5: A brief excerpt from ‘Holocaust to Resistance’
We went down what seemed an uncertain aluminum ladder to the empty hold of the ship. These vessels would carry coal, ores, oils, and grains. Our job was to clean the area to receive the next product. I slowly adjusted to the dimly lit empty space, which reeked of unidentifiable odours. With scraper and pail, I stood on a rung of one of the many thirty-foot aluminum ladders leaning against the iron walls.
We went down what seemed an uncertain aluminum ladder to the empty hold of the ship. These vessels would carry coal, ores, oils, and grains. Our job was to clean the area to receive the next product. I slowly adjusted to the dimly lit empty space, which reeked of unidentifiable odours.
With scraper and pail, I stood on a rung of one of the many thirty-foot aluminum ladders leaning against the iron walls. I mimicked my co-workers, stretching out to scrape the crusted metal wall.
My face soon broke into a sweat as I alternated from one hand to the other. My gloves were covered with wall scrapings; when I wiped my itchy nose, I smeared my face. Perspiration hugged my clothes to my body, and the humid air tested my gut. I wondered whether I’d make it through the shift.
That evening I called Bernie at the union. “Where ya at, baby?” he greeted.
“Fine, thank you.” I pretended that the job was a breeze.
“Where do I go next?”
“Tomorra evenin’ at seven. At the Perrier dock.” I was surprised that I, the only white woman, was being given a chance to work this dirty and difficult job. Perhaps the union reps figured I wouldn’t last long. The work was indeed demanding for a woman unused to arduous physical labour. With a whole day to recover, I showered, ate a bowl of canned soup, and went to bed. The next evening, I joined the night crew of mostly young Black women. As we scraped the walls, high-pitched voices talked noisily and shouted greetings across the ladders.
Suddenly, the lights went out.
“There’s a short,” someone shouted. Women leaned across their ladders with friendly laughter as the sweet smell of cannabis floated past my nose. Getting acquainted became easy. Their New Orleans accent was not the southern drawl I expected but sounded similar to my Bronx flavoured speech. I was in my element. They used phrases that come from the Black-Cajun lingo in the Ninth Ward: “Where y’at?” “Who dat” “Ya hear?”
A new friend, Della, a rough and tumble woman in her late twenties with close-cropped curly Black hair, advised that there were easier jobs for white women. “Union jobs with good pay?” I responded. “Let me know, I’ll apply.” She counselled me to take it slow. I asked how to get my clothes clean. “There’s no way,” Della told me. The imbedded metal shavings would eat up the washing machine. After work, I followed her to a store and purchased, at minimal cost, a bundle of clothes that looked more like rags.
“I gotta get me home, now,” she said. “My boy needs me.” Her son was six years old and she had to get him to school. Astonishingly, a number of the young women were single mothers who made their living at night and cared for their children in daylight.
The women lived in the same community and knew each other. They were paid the same amount as the men because of the union. We connected as friendly acquaintances at work, but I knew it would be a long time before we could associate outside of work, given that our lives were so different. I summarized my experience for my socialist comrades, recalling the epic book Germinal by Émile Zola. In the few months I endured this job, my respect for blue-collar workers, particularly the women, was permanently anchored in me. My heart went out to them.
Holocaust to Resistance: My Journey, pp. 166-7
Copyright © 2019 Suzanne Berliner Weiss