Part 7

In the course of time I became very suspicious of every record in the Charity Institutions. Not one appeared to me truthful. I knew I could not trust them any more than I would trust police records that are made up not to give information but very often only to shield a particular policeman. They are coloured so as to give the impression that it was difficult to procure the information. Often the detective sent out to get the particulars spends the time in a saloon or gambling house, then on a few meagre details he makes up his report. When contradicted by the "case" he simply says the man lies. The same thing happens with the investigations of charitable institutions. Knowing this I suspected every record of being far from the facts. In my investigations I made it a rule not to take _anything_ for granted from the reports, but to look into the matter myself.

One rainy day I looked through the records and laid aside the ones I intended to work upon the next day. I decided to reinvestigate cases where the pension had been discontinued. By this time it was very difficult for me to work. The investigators feared me and had drilled their "customers" to so answer my questions as to conform to the report they had made on the case. Wherever I went, under whatever guise, I was anticipated. The people were on the qui-vive and I often had to give up my investigation without marked results.

At first I did not know to what to attribute my non-success and the Manager grew impatient and spurred me on. "Results, results. If you don't bring us extra information you are of no great use to us." Such was the tenor of his speech. They needed "extra information." Right or wrong, by hook or crook, but extra information to give an excuse for my pay envelope. But it did not take long before I learned the cause of my ill success. The people were warned.

I knew of several investigators who did it and I could have reported them and had them discharged, but I disliked to do so. So I reported to the Manager that some one had warned them and that I was working on a clue to find out who had done it, when I would report. Naturally this made them stop their interference. This subterfuge gave me time to do other work--investigate the "discontinued" cases. It was work for myself and I had no need for hurry, nor did I need to make a report of my findings.

I copied a few addresses and some other particulars and the next day I set out on my tour.

One of the cases that particularly interested me was the case of a young Irish lady, a widow with four children, who had been pensioned for four years. The report of the investigator was a continuous description of misery and misfortune. One of the children, at least, was always sick. At times there were three in bed and the mother too was in an "awful condition." This was so from 1908 to 1910, until the month of December of that year, the reports never being farther apart than two weeks. Then, all of a sudden, the report was discontinued for two months, until the end of February, and was then very much colder than usual. It simply mentioned that Mrs. G. was much better and the children well. The next one, made in April, contained an interesting item. The older child, nine years old, was selling papers. "The woman denied that she knew anything about it but I saw him myself," read the report. For May of the same year there were three reports, the last one speaking of a "pail of beer and cigarettes, in company with other men and women." It advises the application of the "test." Then, after that, one big word. "Discontinued."

It took me some time before I found Mrs. G. She had moved three times in eight months and when I at last found her she was living in 63rd Street, in a house near the river. Her dwelling was more like the hole of a water rat than the quarters of a human being in a civilised city of the New World. A mattress on the floor, a folding bed with torn sides, on an egg box a gas stove, a rocking chair that had seen better days, some rags hanging on the walls, this was the furniture of the house. And the woman herself. She fitted excellently into the picture. It was as though a painter had grouped them together as the subject of a masterpiece of misery, to hold the world up to shame. Tall and angular, her hair dishevelled, her face unclean, with dress torn, through which greyish dirty linen peeped out, with bare feet in a pair of shoes picked up from a garbage can, she stood in the middle of the room and looked wonderingly at me, not knowing to what she owed my visit. She had hardly enough strength to answer my questions. There were no children in the house. I told her who I was. Her face lit up and she asked me about the investigator--a man--who was in charge of the district. Pointblank I put the question:

"How are you making a living?"

"I am not doing anything," she answered.

"Yes, but from where do you get money to buy food?"

"I am not buying any."

"But you don't live without food!"

She shrugged her shoulders and turned away in despair.

I waited a few moments, and as I got no answer I repeated my question. All in vain. She would not answer. As I sat there the door was opened and a little shrunken, dirty boy of about eight years, barefoot and wrapped up in a pair of overalls, came in.

"I got a good big one," he said, as he put a package on the folding bed. He turned round, and saw me. Mother and child looked at one another understandingly. Without another word the boy disappeared. The mother manipulated the package from the folding bed to the window sill.

"From where did the boy get this package?" I asked.

"From nowhere--he did not get it--he took it, from--"

"Why! my good lady, do you allow him to steal? Do you know where it will land him?"

"In the hospital," she answered, as she gave me the package. I tore off the paper,--a piece of cooked chicken, the remainder of a steak, three old rolls, all of them with the stamp of the garbage can, with spit and sawdust on them, and on one morsel the butt of a cigarette.

"You see," she said, "they can't arrest him for _that_," pointing to the package. "He gets it from 'Martin's' restaurant."

I tried to get at the reason of her being "discontinued," and after a time I had to ask her outright. From her talk I understood that she wanted me to believe that Mr. S., the investigator, was very attentive to her, and she had responded to his advances. That he would sit with her at night and that he even took her to a moving picture show once. I looked at her and did not believe a word she said. Mr. S. was a young man and this woman could hardly inspire an old drunkard with such sentiments. She understood the reason of my apparent doubt.

"I see you don't believe it." From under a broken mirror she brought forth a picture of a lovely young woman of the pronounced Irish type, with loose hair and clear-cut features.

"That's me," she explained, "three years ago--when Mr. S. knew me," and as she talked she put her blouse in order and tried to look like the picture. It was hard to find a resemblance, but it was undoubtedly her image. With the picture she tried to tempt me. "A few weeks of decent care and I am again the picture," she explained, thinking that this was the only way to re-enter into the possession of the pension.

"Why were you discontinued?"

"It's all my fault. I had bragged about it to a neighbour and the neighbour told it to another one who was in Mrs. S.'s care, and she reported it to him. But I got my lesson. I'd keep mum. The boys are out."

From the woman I learned how he used to get extra money for her every time, on the plea that a child was ill, that she was ill, a whole traffic in pity, and then I understood the record and understood the sudden change of face and the discontinuance.

I tried to explain to the woman that here was a wrong way. With no success, however. She told me that the former investigator, the one before Mr. S., was also very friendly, and about him she never told. She seemed to think that I was sent by Mr. S. for the same purpose, and again and again she attracted my attention to the loveliness of the picture, and appealed in its name. There must have been a trace of a great disgust on my face, for she cleaned her hands and combed herself as she spoke. From the emergency money I gave her a few dollars and told her that I would visit her again and try to get her restored on the pension list. She took the money, but I felt that she was disappointed. Was the woman in her insulted? For she still assured me of her secrecy.

Before I went away I learned that two children had not been in the house for the last four or five days.

"And where do you think they are?" I asked.

"One, I know, went on a freight, and the other must be somewhere." At the door she again stopped me.

"Here's my picture, if you want it!" she said pleadingly, as she tended it to me. I felt it would have been a great insult to have refused her gift, to destroy the hope she had that the picture might awaken desires and that these desires might bring her rent and food. There was a glimmer of hope when I promised to do all in my power to restore her pension.

Instead of going to my next address I loitered in the neighbourhood of 63rd Street, near the river. I knew that Mr. S. was in his district and I hoped to find him. I was rehearsing mentally the words in which I should clothe my opinion of his behaviour, when all at once I saw him coming from a house. I approached him, called him into a saloon, and without a word I showed him the picture.

"What about that?" I asked.

"She was all right once--that's how she looked, the cat," he explained jokingly. "Did you get at her? You--you! She was all right once, how is she now?" He took the picture and looked at it with interest, probably remembering his debauches. I immediately saw that I could learn more about the matter by handling the case dexterously, and I learned, oh! I did learn how the money of the poor is spent--how payment is taken for the bread and coal and rent, and how, when he has "another one," a fresh case, the "cat" is simply discontinued.

Mr. S. was a man of about forty and had been fifteen years in the business. He knew all the ropes and finished up with a promise to take me to a young French widow who was a "peach," a new case, as he explained, twinkling his eye knowingly. He still looked at the picture of the Irish woman.

"You would never think her to be an applicant. She has such a distinguished appearance. Oh! she's a peach--if she only could keep mum," he said, referring to the French widow.

I offered him another glass, and when this was consumed I playfully suggested: "Let's go up to Mrs. G.--just for fun."

At first S. refused, but as his eyes again caught the face in the picture he ordered another glass, and then standing up he said: "Come." He did not know her address so I had to lead the way.

We knocked and Mrs. G. opened the door and invited us in. But S. had only one look at her, when he ran down the stairs. I followed him. He was dumbfounded and kept on repeating: "Is that her? Is that her?"

I put the picture before his eyes: "How do you like the change?" I asked. "It's good charitable work. When you get another one the 'cat' is simply discontinued." I repeated his words.

A few months afterwards I saw the same woman in the street. She was decently dressed and looked much better. Remorse or fear of my denunciation had made S. provide for immediate needs. Soon she was restored on the list and again the oldest son was ill and the third one was in bed and all the tricks were resumed to have the institution pay for the lust of the coward.

THE PRICE OF LIFE

The indignities to which the poor are subjected in the offices of charity and by the employés of these organisations are of such a nature that it is my honest belief that criminals get more consideration in the police station, before the judge or in prison. After all, what are the poor guilty of? Is poverty a crime? Is it not the inevitable result of the present organisation of society? Is it possible that in the present industrial system there should be no poor and no helpless human beings? I am sure that the people who contribute tens of thousands of dollars to these institutions do it in order to help those whom they have in the course of their lives and business despoiled of their right to life and its necessities. A few scenes which I witnessed at the charities will suffice to give an idea of what the applicants have to undergo at the hands of the officers of the institutions, whether they get relief or not.

The sweetest word they ever use in connection with the poor is "derelict." A quotation made by a sister institution (A Free Loan Association), will give the essence of what they think and in what spirit they act towards the poor.

Says the President of this institution in his Twentieth Annual Report:

"The object of this Society is to loan money to those in need, instead of giving alms, and thus assist respectable people, whose character and self-respect will not permit them to receive alms, etc., etc."

So, none of the people who apply for charity are respectable people or have any self-respect! This is the spirit of all the charity workers toward an applicant. Once a man or a woman has applied for help he is no longer respectable, he has lost his self-respect. He is a "derelict." It speaks ill for humanity that there has not yet been one poor person who has taken revenge for all the injustices and insults heaped upon his brethren! It shows how degraded they are through hunger. Not that they are inherently coarse. Oh, no! but weakness, physical weakness to which all those who apply to charity are reduced before they ever come to the office. Once in the mill they are ground. I will leave the investigators for a while and show how the "derelicts" are treated in the office.

I must not forget to mention that they are frequently called to the office at nine A. M. and left in the waiting-room until five P. M., when they are again told to come to-morrow, as the committee before which they were called to appear has departed. Meanwhile, they had to sit there and hear the insults to which the others are subjected, and stay without food. Mr. Cram once told me that this sitting in the waiting-room was a very good "test" of real want, for it has happened that many of them never came back when they were again called.

"Once they pass through the waiting-room they are easy to manage," he assured me. "They get their education."

The waiting-room is the school. I wonder how many of those who could not stand the "test" turned the gas jet on. How many of them jumped into the river! How many went to the street. Too bad we cannot know all the crimes of charity.

A woman, Bertha S., about thirty years old, still good looking, despite the misery she has passed through, is called before the Manager. She has two small children whom she has left with a neighbour. She has been called for nine A. M. As it is her first experience with the charities she is at the doors at eight-thirty A. M. When the doors swing open at nine-ten she is almost frozen. She had been waiting a full half hour. She shows her letter of admission and is allowed in the building. The whole day, until four-thirty P. M., she stands in the waiting-room, sometimes walking around and crying, at other times sitting nervously twisting her hands in despair and calling the names of her two children.

At four-thirty, she and all the other women were told that on account of the cold weather the committee would not meet that day and they should come the next day. The office boy who brought the news to them meanwhile permitted himself a joke, saying "The show is off for to-night. If you like it, tell your friends."

The next day the building was so overcrowded with applicants that more than fifty had to stand the whole day. Bertha S. looked to be the most unfortunate of all. Her nervousness was painful. At three-thirty P. M., the manager began to call the applicants into his room. Every time the door swung open she hoped or feared that now was her turn, and when she saw each time that another was called she became more and more nervous. Finally, at five, she was called in. From a side door I entered the room. With the Manager sat a few other men. They looked her up and down, measuring her from her toes to her head, as though she had committed some crime. Then one of the men, a well fed, red-faced, thick-bellied brute, looked in a record purporting to be the investigator's report and the third degree, the most inhuman one I have ever witnessed, started:

"How old are you?" he yelled at the woman without looking at her.

"Thirty."

"How many children have you?"

"Two."

"How old are they?"

"One six years and, one--"

"You lie--liars you all are--how old are your children?"

"One is six years old and one--"

"You liar, you shameless liar, six years old? Ha!" and so saying this man jumped up from his chair. "Six years old, eh, and she goes around to moving picture shows and stays out the whole night. Six years old?" He approached the woman. "And what do you think, do you think we don't know what _you_ do? We know all right."

"But, mister," the woman tried to speak.

"Keep quiet. Don't talk." This was another man's advice, whereupon the first one continued.

"Here," showing her the record, "we have it in black and white--daughter goes to one moving picture show and the mother to another one."

"But, mister," the woman tried again, but the man grew angry, his fat body shook, his well-fed face flushed and he delivered himself of all the venom there was in him.

"And you dare to apply for charity. A woman of your kind, an immoral woman. And tell me and all these gentlemen here that your daughter is six years old. You are a liar, a street woman, that's what you are."

At this point the woman cried out and fell headlong on the floor. One of the other men looked in the record and remarked that Mr. W. who had cross-examined the woman had made a mistake, as the record was not that of Mrs. Bertha S., but another applicant's. I watched the whole scene and thought: "Great God! How he will have to apologise now!" But no--not a word of apology. She was only a poor woman, a "derelict." I wonder what the "gentlemen" in question, or any other member of that committee would have done to any one who would have dared to insult his wife or sister or daughter in the same manner.

Mr. W. bent down, looked again in the record book, and after convincing himself, said: "Yes, I made a mistake." Meanwhile, the woman kept on sobbing bitterly.

The secretary munched at his cigar rather nervously.

"Give her five dollars," Mr. W. said to the Manager, and the poor woman was led out, the price of her degradation in her hand. I followed her to an elevated station. She sobbed bitterly the whole way. She never appeared at the office again, but a few months later the following notice appeared in the papers:

MOTHER AND CHILD CRAZED BY HUNGER

Entire Family Has Been Without Food or Roof for Three Months.

As Patrolman B---- was walking along H---- Street, Brooklyn, early yesterday morning, he observed a woman and two children, a girl of twelve and a girl of six, standing in a door way half clothed, each nestling close to the other to keep warm. Apparently they failed in this, for the mother and children were blue from cold and were shivering.

The officer spoke to the woman. But she did not answer. He spoke to her again and she raised her eyes to him. The eyes were those of an insane person, and the officer took the mother and children to the S---- Street police station. There the police fed the family and the woman gained sufficient strength to speak.

She told the police that she was Mrs. S----. She was deserted by her husband and for the last three months, since she was dispossessed, she and her children lived in cellars and doorways. After telling that much of her story the woman collapsed. She became hysterical, insane again.

The police began to question the elder girl, the twelve year old May. May spoke only a few words and her mind began to wander. Like her mother she became hysterical.

The woman and her two children were then taken to the ---- Court before Magistrate D----. The magistrate at once saw that he was dealing with an unbalanced woman and he ordered her sent to the observation ward of the Kings County Hospital.

In the Children's Court, Justice G---- found that the children were suffering from starvation and exposure. They were sent away with the mother.

It looked doubtful yesterday whether Mrs. S---- would ever completely recover from the insanity into which she was thrown by months of starvation and homelessness.

AIR--FROM FIFTH FLOOR TO BASEMENT

The head investigator, a woman who was once a socialist, and considers herself now a social worker, was announced to lecture. Her subject was "Advice to consumptives living in a large city." The subject was interesting and the lecturer an acquaintance of mine, so I decided to go and hear her. When the doors opened the hall was crowded with people. It was in her own district and she had decided to make a big show. All the poor depending on her were ordered to the lecture. Willy nilly, they had to go.

An interesting lot they were as they sat huddled up in old rags, their street clothes left at home, those they had on the poorest they could find. All pale, haggard, hungry, they really needed the advice.

Mrs. B. was a good talker and had her subject well in hand. Her son is a physician and from him she got all the fine points, figures and explanations. She started out very convincingly and proved that poverty and ignorance go hand in hand and are the father and mother of tuberculosis. She went on to explain the absolute necessity of rich and wholesome food (What irony--they that get two or three dollars a week shall have rich and wholesome food!), diversion, quiet, and above all "Air, fresh air all the time--Live on the top floor, do not mind the few stairs more! Sleep on the roof in the summer, and keep your windows open! For God's sake keep your windows open!... Let the sunshine clean your room--Light and air are the greatest enemies of microbes and tuberculosis and the greatest friend of man, especially the one touched with the white plague. Breathe, breathe every time you get a chance. Purify your lungs and keep under God's blue roof the greater part of your time."

Thus she finished. There was the usual applause and the usual questions by some outsiders, and that was all. At the finish we walked together, Mrs. B. and I, for a half hour and we spoke about the poor and their condition, about the iniquity of the present system, and her former work for Socialism, and she told me how she had pawned her watch and chain to pay the printers that were setting up the first Socialist weekly. Naturally I was astonished to hear that. I knew that she was one of the most cruel questioners at the office. If something was to be found out she was appealed to. She had a heart of stone, of granite, and her sensuous mouth could assume a smile that set the poor applicant trembling.

"And where is he now, your husband? Do you think that I am such a fool as to believe a single word of what you say?" And when the woman would cry she would say "Rot, rot, rubbish. I am too old in the business." Such was her attitude. How could she be so sincere when she spoke to others? How could she pawn her watch for a struggling Socialist paper? Was she once better, had her work killed her heart? Thus was I thinking when I left her, and was already trying to excuse her because I found that I too had, in my work for the Charity Institution, lost a good deal of my faith in mankind.