Part 1
CRIMES OF CHARITY
THE NEWEST BORZOI BOOKS
ASPHALT _By Orrick Johns_
BACKWATER _By Dorothy Richardson_
CENTRAL EUROPE _By Friedrich Naumann_
RUSSIA'S MESSAGE _By William English Walling_
THE BOOK OF SELF _By James Oppenheim_
THE BOOK OF CAMPING _By A. Hyatt Verrill_
THE ECHO OF VOICES _By Richard Curle_
MODERN RUSSIAN HISTORY _By Alexander Kornilov_
THE RUSSIAN SCHOOL OF PAINTING _By Alexandre Benois_
THE JOURNAL OF LEO TOLSTOI (1895-1899)
THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF A SUPER-TRAMP _By William H. Davies_ _Preface by Bernard Shaw_
CRIMES _of_ CHARITY BY KONRAD BERCOVICI
WITH AN INTRODUCTION BY JOHN REED
NEW YORK ALFRED A. KNOPF MCMXVII
COPYRIGHT, 1917, BY ALFRED A. KNOPF
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
_To my Naomi_
INTRODUCTION
There is a literary power which might be called Russian--a style of bald narration which carries absolute conviction of human character, in simple words packed with atmosphere. Only the best writers have it; this book is full of it. I read the manuscript more than a year ago, and I remember it chiefly as a series of vivid pictures--a sort of epic of our City of Dreadful Day. Here we see and smell and hear the East Side; its crowded, gasping filth, the sour stench of its grinding poverty, the cries and groans and lamentations in many alien tongues of the hopeful peoples whose hope is broken in the Promised Land. Pale, undersized, violent children at play in the iron street; the brown, steamy warmth of Jewish coffee-houses on Grand Street; sick tenement rooms quivering and breathless in summer heat--starkly hungry with the December wind cutting through broken windows; poets, musicians, men and women with the blood of heroes and martyrs, babies who might grow up to be the world's great--stunted, weakened, murdered by the unfair struggle for bread. What human stories are in this book! What tremendous dramas of the soul!
It is as if we were under water, looking at the hidden hull of this civilization. Evil growths cling to it--houses of prostitution, sweat-shops which employ the poor in their bitter need at less than living wages, stores that sell them rotten food and shabby clothing at exorbitant prices, horrible rents, and all the tragi-comic manifestations of Organised Charity.
Every person of intelligence and humanity who has seen the workings of Organised Charity, knows what a deadening and life-sapping thing it is, how unnecessarily cruel, how uncomprehending. Yet it must not be criticised, investigated or attacked. Like patriotism, charity is respectable, an institution of the rich and great--like the high tariff, the open shop, Wall street, and Trinity Church. White slavery recruits itself from charity, industry grows bloated with it, landlords live off it; and it supports an army of officers, investigators, clerks and collectors, whom it systematically debauches. Its giving is made the excuse for lowering the recipients' standard of living, of depriving them of privacy and independence, or subjecting them to the cruelest mental and physical torture, of making them liars, cringers, thieves. The law, the police, the church are the accomplices of charity. And how could it be otherwise, considering those who give, how they give, and the terrible doctrine of "the deserving poor"? There is nothing of Christ the compassionate in the immense business of Organised Charity; its object is to get efficient results--and that means, in practise, to just keep alive vast numbers of servile, broken-spirited people.
I know of publishers who refused this book, not because it was untrue, or badly written; but because they themselves "believed in Organised Charity." One of them wrote that "there must be a bright side." I have never heard the "bright side." To those of us who know, even the Charity organisation reports--when they do not refuse to publish them--are unspeakably terrible. To them, Poverty is a crime, to be punished; to us, Organised Charity is a worse one.
JOHN REED.
CONTENTS
THE STOVE--A PARABLE 3
MY FIRST IMPRESSION 6
THE SECOND DAY 20
AT WORK 26
WATCH THEIR MAIL 49
THE ROLLER SKATES 59
THE TEST 69
SCABS 80
SAVING HIM 86
"TOO GOOD TO THEM" 90
ROBBERS OF THE PEACE 101
THE SIGN AT THE DOOR 106
WHAT IS DONE IN HIS NAME? 118
THE PICTURE 121
THE PRICE OF LIFE 131
AIR--FROM FIFTH FLOOR TO BASEMENT 139
THE INVESTIGATORS 145
THE CHILDREN OF THE POOR 150
MOTHER AND SON 161
CLIPPING WINGS OF LITTLE BIRDS 167
THE ORPHAN HOME 174
WHY THEY GIVE 185
THE KITCHEN 192
CHOCOLATE 196
OUT OF THEIR CLUTCHES 199
"THE HOME" 202
"BISMARCK" 209
TWENTY-ONE CENTS AND A QUARTER 213
VISITING DAY 223
EMPLOYMENT AGENCIES 225
MY LAST WEEK IN THE WAITING ROOM 231
TUESDAY 244
WEDNESDAY 253
AT NIGHT 258
THURSDAY 264
CRIMES OF CHARITY
THE STOVE--A PARABLE
There was once a man with a merciful heart who had a large fortune, and when he died he left much gold to his brother to use as he wished, and an additional amount in trust, to succour the poor. In his will he wrote:
"Build a big house and put therein a big stove and heat the stove well. On the door thou shalt put a sign in red letters that shall read: 'Ye poor of the land, come in and warm your bodies; ye hungry of the land, come and get a bowl of warm wine and a loaf of bread.' This will be my monument. I want no tombstone on the grave wherein my body will lie. Dust unto dust descends, but my soul will be alive in the blessings of the poor."
Peacefully the man died. They buried him in a lonely place under a tree.
Then the brother brought masons and carpenters and built a big house of stone, as was written in the will, and when the house was finished he called a painter and had painted in letters, red and big, so they could be seen from very far, the words his brother had written: "Ye poor of the land, come in and warm your bodies; ye hungry of the land, come and get a bowl of warm wine and a loaf of bread." And every one admired the good deed and many other rich men prepared their wills so as to provide help for the poor, that they might live eternally in their blessings.
The next day, when the stove, the big stove, was put in, the brother of the dead threw the doors open for a feast to the rich. And they all blessed the dead because of his goodness to the poor.
On the third day the doors were opened to the poor, and it so happened that the locusts had eaten up the wheat on the fields that year, so that there were many without bread and who had to seek shelter in other places. They passed by the red sign and came in to warm themselves and eat, and though busy with their own sorrows they blessed the dead one.
Many were the bowls of wine and loaves of bread given to the poor. But the brother was greedy and wanted all for himself, so day and night his constant thought was how to comply with the will of his brother and the sign on the door and yet not give bread and wine to the poor. He read the will again and the devil fastened him to the word "stove," and the devil within him said: "Stove--stove--the stove will save you."
Greed sharpened his wits and the next morning he rose early and made a big fire and closed all the windows and doors. When the poor came to warm themselves the heat would chase them out again, and instead of blessing they cursed the dead who had so artfully attracted them into the house, only to torture them with the heat of the room. The wine would remain untasted and the bread untouched.
The poor of the land spoke:
"Are we to be punished because the locusts ate our grain?"
And the house is called "the Devil's Spot." The wanderer freezes on the snow-covered field, the poor starve in their huts, but they take not the bread. And one day, a child said: "See! the sign! the red letters are written with blood."
In a lonely place is the forgotten grave of a merciful man.
On a lonely road is a house, where the poor dare not enter, and on the big stove stands the devil, and laughs and laughs. And when one asked him why he laughed the devil showed his teeth and answered: "This is the best place that ever man built for me."
MY FIRST IMPRESSION
I was ushered into the private office of the Manager of the Charity Institution. He was writing at his desk with his back towards the door. He did not turn when we came in. My protector, Mr. B., who obtained this job for me as special investigator, coughed a few times to attract the Manager's attention. Finally the gentleman turned around.
"Oh, how do you do? I did not know you were in the office at all! I am so busy, you see."
I well knew that he was aware of our presence, because he had sent the office boy to call us.
"And who is this gentleman?" he asked, turning in his chair and scrutinising me from head to foot.
Mr. B. introduced me, added a few complimentary remarks as to my ability and honesty, and finished with, "I know he's just the man we want."
The Manager, Mr. Rogers, kept on looking at me while the other spoke, and having most probably satisfied himself that I was all right, nodded to Mr. B., rang for the office boy and called in the Assistant Manager, to whom he in turn introduced me, finishing with, "Don't you think that he'll do?" To which the Assistant Manager respectfully assented.
"In fact," Mr. Rogers said to the Assistant Manager, "Mr. Lawson, I think I'll give him over to you."
"Sir," he again addressed me, "you are under the orders of Mr. Lawson. You will report to him, take his orders, his advice, and I hope that everything will be right." As he finished he politely led us to the door. "Good-bye, sir. Let's hope you will accomplish the right kind of work for us."
We entered the office of the Assistant Manager. Mr. B. soon excused himself and left the room. Mr. Lawson let me wait fully ten minutes before he addressed a word to me. He busied himself with the different papers in the pigeon holes of his desk, but this was only pretence, I felt right along, to impress me with his superior rank.
After having satisfied himself that he had accomplished this, he said to me, still looking at the papers:
"Why don't you sit down? Sit down, sir."
There was no chair except the one right near his desk, so I had to remain standing.
"What's your name?"
"Baer, Baer."
"Oh, yes," and he offered the chair near his desk. I had hardly seated myself when he stood up, and making a wry face said:
"I haven't any time to-day to give you instructions. We'll leave it for to-morrow. Meanwhile, I'll turn you over to Mr. Cram. He might be of use to you, as he has had a great deal of experience in this line of work."
He rang for the office boy. "Call Mr. Cram," was the order. A few seconds later Mr. Cram, a young man of about twenty, appeared. Mr. Lawson introduced me and told Cram to keep me at his desk for the afternoon. It was one o'clock.
We passed through all the offices, where he introduced me to a few of the other employees, and then proceeded to the basement.
The place was in half darkness, cold and dreary, and I stumbled along. Near the windows, towards the street, was a desk, and near the desk a gas oven. Cram put a chair near the desk, and as my eyes became accustomed to the semi-darkness I began to distinguish men, women and children sitting on the benches at the farther end of the cellar.
Mr. Cram again inquired my name, remembered that he had read some of my stories, shook hands again with me and added that he was himself a "red hot Socialist," "a reformer" of the real kind, and he grew very friendly. I had lit a cigarette, but seeing a "No smoking" sign I put it out.
"Why don't you smoke?" he asked, filling his pipe. I pointed to the sign. "That is not for us," he said, shrugging his shoulders and pointing to the people who were sitting at the farther end of the room. "That's for the applicants--for the rabble, you know."
I refused to smoke. He sat at his desk, fumbled in the pigeon-holes for awhile, then sat back in his chair and puffed dreamily at his pipe for a few moments, following with his eyes the smoke-rings. Then he called out unconcernedly:
"Grun!"
Nobody answered.
"Grun!" he called again, this time louder.
"What's the matter? Grun! Grun!" and putting his pipe down on the desk he stood up and looked over to where the "rabble" sat.
"Whose name is Grun? Grun?"
A man of about forty stood up and asked: "Grun? Did you call Grun?"
Mr. Cram looked him straight in the face.
"Can't you hear?" he thundered. "Can't you hear when I call? Come here--you."
"Ha?" the applicant queried submissively.
"Can't you hear?" and turning to me he said: "You see? that's how they are! Spite-workers. He'll let me call ten times, as though I was the applicant and not he; they are all the same, vicious scoundrels--derelicts, beggars, rascals. You'll see what a damned lie he'll put up."
He sat back on his chair and read the application a few times.
"How old are you?"
"Ha?" the poor man queried again, putting a hand to his ear and bending over the desk.
"Are you crazy? Don't you understand? How old are you?" And addressing me again he said: "A fine job, isn't it?"
"Ha? speak a little louder. I'm hard of hearing," the applicant begged.
"Write down your questions," I suggested, giving the man pencil and paper.
"Oh! I see!" Cram said, "you have no experience. Do you really think that he cannot hear? It's a fake--a fake. He hears better than you and I. It's a fake--a rotten old trick. I tell you, it's some job I have."
"But maybe he is deaf," I insisted.
Mr. Cram looked at me with scorn, and turning to the applicant he shouted at the top of his voice:
"How old are you?"
"A little louder," the man begged.
The investigator puffed at his pipe in disgust, and after my insistence consented to write down his questions.
"How long have you been deaf?" he wrote down.
"I have just been discharged from the hospital," the man answered. "They made an operation on my ears."
"You see?" I put in.
"Oh! it's all a fake--a rotten old fake. He hears better than you and I, I tell you," Cram still insisted.
"Have you a doctor's certificate?" I wrote on a slip, handing it to the applicant.
Quickly the man fumbled at his vest pocket, to prove his case, but Cram did not want to be convinced. With a movement of his hand he stopped the man.
"It's all right. We know it all. It's all a fake, I tell you, Mr. Baer. They get certificates for fifty cents."
I looked up at the applicant. His face betrayed no sign that he heard what had just been said, and I thought it fortunate for the "red hot Socialist."
Cram put his application in a pigeon-hole and told the man to go home. The man did not move, but fixed questioning eyes on Cram's lips, seeking to understand.
"Go home," the other yelled. He showed no sign of understanding except that he knew he was addressed. "Ha?" he queried.
"Go to hell," Cram answered.
I wrote upon a piece of paper: "Go home, the gentleman says."
"I have no home," he quickly answered.
"You hear?" I turned to Cram.
"If he has no home let him go and get one," was the angry retort.
"Therefore he applied to charity," I permitted myself to say.
"This is no place for vagabonds," Cram explained, without looking at me. "He must have an address so we can send an investigator and see whether it is a worthy case."
"Well, but if he has no home?"
"Then he cannot obtain charity. This is our rule."
Again Cram fumbled in his desk, gave the man back his application and wrote on top of it: "Go upstairs."
With a stupid look on his face the man stood with the paper in hand and did not know what to do or what it all meant. Cram showed him the door. The man stood stupidly. Cram rang a bell--an office boy came. "Lead him upstairs," was the order; "he's deaf."
The office boy took the man by the hand. "Come on upstairs," and jokingly to Cram, "They have spread the table for you there."
Soon I heard his heavy steps on the stairs.
"Will they give him something upstairs?" I inquired.
"They'll give him in the neck," he laughed. "They'll put him out."
"Why don't you help him? The charities are here for that," I said.
"My dear friend, you don't understand this business yet," the investigator said. "We don't take stock in his deafness. It's a fake, an old trick."
"Yes, but his certificate proves something, doesn't it?"
"I didn't see it," Cram answered.
"But he wanted to show it to you, did he not?"
"Yes, but I did not want to see it. It's all a fake. Wait, when you have been in the business long enough you will not speak that way." Again he fumbled in his desk.
I looked at him. He had eyes, a nose and a mouth--a face--yet he did not look human to me. What was missing anyway? And as I did not then know what charities were really for, I thought at that moment:
"This place is for a human being with a big heart, that could feel the pain of every sufferer--a human being with a desire to help his fellow creatures--who would speak to him who comes to apply for help words that would be like balsam, who would feel ashamed that he has a home and bread to eat while others are walking the streets, hungry and homeless. Surely 'upstairs' they do not know how this man treats the applicants. They surely don't know--they don't know."
Presently a young girl, an employee of the office, came to Cram's desk and said a few words to him. His face lit up and became human, his voice sounded sweet, and there was so much affection in the look he gave her that I was astonished. I had just thought of him as a brute. He had just behaved so to the old man. But as the rays of the sun from the little window fell on them both it lit my heart with hope. "He is too young--he will learn the truth in time," I thought.
No sooner had the girl gone away than his face again took on a stony composure, and when he again called out the name of an applicant his voice was again harsh and cold as iron.
"Roll--Ida Roll, come here."
A woman, shabbily dressed, with her face almost covered by the big shawl she wore over her head and shoulders, approached the desk. Cram looked at her for a few seconds. A tremor passed through the woman's frame at his scrutiny. She bit her lips and nervously rubbed her hands against the desk.
"What's your name?"
"Ida Rohl."
Cram made a little mark on the application.
"Where do you live?"
"Madison Street--No.--"
"Where does your brother live?"
"I have no brother."
"Where does your sister live?"
"I have no sister."
"How much does your oldest son earn a week?"
"My oldest son is only thirteen years old."
"What's the name of your husband?"
"My husband is dead."
"When did he die?"
"Four years ago."
"Did you marry again?"
"No, sir."
"Mind you," he warned her, "we are going to investigate and if we find out that you have married," and he shook his finger in her face.
"How many children have you?"
"Three--the oldest of them is thirteen."
"And how did you live till now without applying to charity?"
"I worked at the machine."
"Why don't you work now?" and turning to me he explained: "You see? Four years she has worked and supported herself. Now some one has told her of the existence of the charities, so she does not want to work any longer. She thinks she has a good case. A widow--three children--and," whispering in my ears in a confidential tone, "you'll hear her say soon that she is sick--sick--that's what they all claim. All are sick." Meanwhile he cleaned his pipe.
"Well, why don't you answer? Why don't you work now? Tell me--did you get tired--or do you think begging a better trade?"
"I am sick."
Cram glanced at me as though to say, "You see."
"Sick? and what is your disease? Lazyo-mania?"
"No, I am sick," the woman said, her eyes swimming with tears.
"Sick--what sickness?"
"I am sick. I can't tell you what sickness. I worked at pants--an operator--and now I am sick. I have pains all over and I can't work. I can't--I won't mind it for me--but my children go to bed without supper and go to school without breakfast. And I can't stand it--I can't--I never applied to charities--"
"Enough, enough," Cram interrupted. "Never applied to charity! I know that gag. You shouldn't have applied now. A strong woman like you should be ashamed--ashamed to come here with the other beggars," sweeping his hand towards the others. "Go to work. You won't get a cent from here."
"But I can't. I am sick."
"Go to a hospital if you can't work."
"And my children?" sobbed the poor mother.
"Well, then, what do you want? A pension of $200 a month, a trip abroad, a palace, a country house? Say--say quickly what do you want? I have no time. You will get everything immediately. It's a fine job, Mr. Baer, is it not?"
"I want to be helped out until I am well enough to work. My children are hungry. They have had no breakfast to-day and there isn't any supper for them either."
"That's the real stuff--her children. The more kids, the easier the money. I tell you, some class to them, my friend."
Cram looked at her and then at the application, and after a moment's thought he wrote on top of it, in blue pencil:
"To be investigated."
"Go home," he said to the woman.
"But Mr. ----"
"Go home, I say. We'll take care of it. That's all, don't stay here any longer, don't get me angry."
"But I told you my children are hungry and cold--"
"I am not a groceryman--go home. I have no time. There are others--also sick and with dead husbands and hungry children. Move on--good-day."
"But, Mr.--to-night my children have no supper and it's bitter cold."
"All right. We'll take care of that. Go home." And as the woman tried to speak again: "Now go home and don't bother me."
Again he busied himself at the desk. The woman looked at him and then at me. Big, heavy tears rolled down her careworn cheeks and she seemed to me the very personification of suffering, the suffering of a mother who sees her children tortured by gnawing hunger. She went away.
"Will you immediately send an investigator?" I asked Cram.
"In four or five days. Our investigators are very busy now and it's very cold."
"Four or five days!" I was amazed. "And meanwhile, the children--what about the poor kids?"
"Oh, well--it's not as terrible as all that. I don't believe all she said," and again he repeated his favourite sentence: "I don't take any stock in her story. It's all a fake--a fake."
Many other women and men were called, but I did not see or hear them. These two were enough. Only the harsh and grating voice of Cram and the bitter outcry of some applicant awoke me from my stupor.
THE SECOND DAY
On returning home I went to my bed without supper. The whole night through I heard Cram's questions and the answers of the poor applicants, and the whole world appeared to me to be like one huge, bleeding wound. And the question came again and again to my mind: "Was charity, organised charity, the salve to heal this wound?"