The Jungle | #2

Then, also, he made a map of the district, and in each block he put a black dot for every child that had died there in the past year; when he finished you would have said that his map had been made with a pepper cruet.

Chapter 2: Jurgis gets a job

Jurgis talked lightly about work, because he was young. They told him stories about the breaking down of men, there in the stock yards of Chicago, and of what had happened to them afterwards—stories to make your flesh creep, but Jurgis would only laugh. He had only been there four months, and he was young, and giant besides. There was too much health in him. He could not even imagine how it would feel to be beaten. "That is well enough for men like you," he would say "szilpnas, puny fellows—but my back is broad."

Jurgis was like a boy, a boy from the country. He was the sort of man the bosses like to get hold of, the sort they make it a grievance they cannot get hold of. When he was told to go to a certain place he would go there on the run. When had nothing to do for the moment he would stand round fidgeting, dancing, with the overflow of energy that was in him. If he were working in a line of men, the line always moved too slowly for him, and you could pick him out by his impatience and restlessness. That was why he had been picked out on one important occasion; for Jurgis had stood outside of Smith and Company's "General Time Station" not more than half an hour, the second day of his arrival in Chicago, before he had been beckoned by one of the bosses. Of this he was very proud, and it made him more disposed than ever to laugh at the pessimists. In vain would they all tell him that there were men in that crowd from which he had been chosen who had stood there a month—yes, many months—and not been chosen yet. "Yes," he would say, "but what sort of men? Broken-down tramps and good-for-nothings, defflows who have spent all their money drinking, and want to get more for it. Do not tell me, there is always work for a man! Do you want me to believe that with these arms"—and he would clench his fists and hold them up in the air, so that you might see the rolling muscles—"that with these arms people will ever let me starve?"

"It is plain," they would answer to this, "that you have come from the country, and from very far in the country." And this was the fact, for Jurgis had never seen a city, and scarcely even a fair-sized town, until he had set out to make his fortune in the world and earn his right to Ona. His father, and his father's father before him, and as many ancestors back as legend could go, had lived in that part of Lithuania known as Bialowzicza, the Imperial Forest. This is a great tract of a hundred thousand acres, which from time immemorial has been a hunting preserve of the nobility. There are a very few peasants settled in it, holding title from ancient times: and one of these was Antanas Rudkos, who had been reared himself, and had reared his children in turn, upon half a dozen acres of cleared land in the midst of a wilderness. There had been one son besides Jurgis, and one sister. The former had been drafted in the army; that had been over ten years ago, but since that day nothing had ever been heard of him. The sister was married, and her husband had bought the place when old Antanas had decided to go with his son.

It was nearly a year and a half ago that Jurgis had met Ona, at a horse-fair a hundred miles from home. Jurgis had never expected to get married—he had laughed at it as a foolish trap for man to walk into; but here, without ever having spoken a word to her, with no more than the exchange of half a dozen smiles, he found himself, purple in the face with embarrassment and terror, asking her parents to sell her to him for his wife—and offering his father's two horses he had been sent to the fair to sell. But Ona's father proved as a rock—the girl was yet a child, and he was a rich man, and his daughter was not to be had in that way. So Jurgis went home with a heavy heart, and that spring and summer toiled and tried hard to forget. In the fall, after the harvest was over, he saw that it would not do, and tramped the full fortnights journey that lay between him and Ona.

He found an unexpected state of affairs—for the girl's father had died, and his estate was tied up with creditors; Jurgis's heart leaped as he realized that now the prize was within his reach. There was panei Elzbieta Lukoszis, Teta, or Aunt, as they called her, Ona's stepmother, and there were her six children, of all ages. There was also her brother Jonas, a dried up little man who had worked upon the farm. They were people of great consequence, as it seemed to Jurgis, fresh out of the woods; Ona knew how to read, and knew many other things that he did not know; and now the farm had been sold, and the whole family was adrift—all they owned in the world being about seven hundred roubles, which is half as many dollars. They would have had three times that, but it had gone to court, and the judge had decided against them, and it had cost the balance to get him to change his decision.

Ona might have married and left them, but she would not, for she loved Teta Elzbieta. It was Jonas who suggested that they all go to America, where a friend of his had gotten rich. He would work, for his part, and the women would work, and some of the children, doubtless—they would live somehow. Jurgis too, had heard of America. That was a country where they said, a man might earn three thousand roubles a day; and Jurgis figured what three roubles a day would mean, with prices as they were where he lived, and decided forthwith that he would go to America and marry, and be a rich man in the bargain.

So it was arranged that they should leave the following spring, and mean time Jurgis hired himself as an obiezyzasy, a sort of peon laborer. He sold himself to a contractor for a certain time, and he tramped nearly four hundred miles from home with a gang of men from home to work upon a railroad in Smolensk. This was a fearful experience, with filth and bad food and cruelty and over-work: but Jurgis stood it and came out in fine trim, and with eighty roubles sewed up in his coat. No amount of work made any difference to Jurgis, and with men he had a way of his own. He did not drink or fight, because he was thinking all the time of Ona; and for the rest, he was a quiet, steady man, who did what he was told to, did not lose his temper often, and when he did lose it, made the offender anxious that he should not lose it again. When they paid him off he dodged the company gamblers and dramshops, and so they tried to kill him, but he escaped, and tramped it home, working at odd jobs, and sleeping always with one eye open.

So in the summer they had all set out for America. At the last moment there joined them Marija Biarczynskas, who was a cousin of Ona's. Marija was an orphan, and had worked since childhood for a rich farmer of Vilna, who beat her regularly. It was only at the age of twenty that it had occurred to Marija to try her strength, when she had risen up and nearly murdered the man, and then came away.

There were twelve in all in the party—and Ona, who was a little of both. They had a hard time of the passage: there was an agent who helped them, but he proved a scoundrel, and got them into a trap with some officials, and cost them a good deal of their precious money, which they clung to with such horrible fear. This happened to them again in New York—for, of course, they knew nothing about the country, and had no one to tell them, and it was easy for a man in a blue uniform to lead them away, and to take them to a hotel and keep them there, and make them par enormous charges to get away. The law says that the rate card shall be on the door of a hotel, but it does not say it shall be in Lithuanian.

It was in the stockyards that Jonas's friend had gotten rich, and so to Chicago the party was bound. They knew that one word—Chicago—and that was all they needed to know, at least, until they reached the city. Then, tumbled out of the cars without ceremony, they were no better off than before: they stood staring down the vista of Dearborn street, with its big, black buildings towering in the distance, unable to realize that they had arrived, and why, when they said "Chicago" people instead looked perplexed, or laughed, or went on without paying any attention. They were pitiable, in their helplessness; above all things they stood in deadly terror of any sort of person in official uniform, and so whenever they saw a policeman they could cross the street and hurry by. For the whole of the first day they wandered about in the midst of deafening confusion, utterly lost; and it was only at night that cowering in the doorway of a house, they were finally discovered and taken by a policeman to the station. In the morning an interpreter was found, and they were taken and put upon a car, and taught a new word—"stockyards." Their delight at discovering that they were to get out of this adventure without losing another share of their possessions it would not be possible to describe.

Tenement conditions in Chicago, Robert Hunter (1901) - Street view (Pg 167) - Not originally published in Appeal To Reason/The Jungle

They sat and stared out of the window. They were on a street which seemed to run on forever, mile after mile—thirty-four of them, if they had known it—and each side of it one uninterrupted row of wretched little two-story frame buildings. Down every side street they could see, it was the same—never a hill and never a hollow, but always the same endless vista of ugly and dirty little wooden buildings. Here and there would be a bridge crossing a filthy creek, with hard-baked mud shores and dingy sheds and docks along it; here and there would be a railroad crossing, with a tangle of switches, and locomotives puffing and rattling freight cars filing by; here and there would be a great factory, a dingy building with innumerable windows in it, and immense volumes of smoke pouring from the chimneys, darkening the air above and making filthy the earth beneath. But after each of these interruptions, the desolate procession would begin again—the procession of dreary little buildings. To the strangers it seemed like a wilderness, a very jungle—a jungle of houses. It was a jungle, too, ruled by strange powers, about which they did not understand, full of creatures which preyed upon each other—that were hunting you without rest, tracking you in the daytime and watching in your path by night. The only difference was that they sought, not your life-blood, but your money—and when you had been caught by them once or twice, you came to understand that this difference was no difference at all.

A full hour before the party reached the city, they had begun to note the perplexing changes in the atmosphere. It grew darker all the time, and upon the earth the grass seemed to grow less green. Every minute, as the train sped on, the colors of things grew dingier; the fields were grown parched and yellow, the landscape hideous and bare. And along with the thickening smoke they began to notice another circumstance, a strange, pungent odor. They were not sure that it was unpleasant, this odor; some might have called it sickening, but their taste in odors was not developed, and they were only sure that it was curious. Now—sitting in the trolley car—they realized that they were on their way to the home of it—that they had traveled all the way from Lithuania to it. It was now no longer something far-off and faint, that you caught in whiffs; you could literally taste it, as well as smell it—you could take hold of it, almost, and examine it as your leisure. They were divided in their opinions about it. It was an elemental odor, raw and crude; it was rich, almost rancid, sensual and strong. There were some who drank it in as if it were an intoxicant; there were others who turned pale and put their handkerchiefs to their faces. The new emigrants were still tasting it, lost in wonder, when suddenly the car came to a halt, and the door was flung open, and a voice shouted—"Stockyards!"

They were left standing upon the corner, staring; down a side street there were two rows of brick houses, and between them a vista: half a dozen chimneys, tall as the tallest of buildings, touching the very sky—and leaping from them half a dozen columns of smoke, thick, oily, and black as night. It might have come from the center of the world, this smoke, where the fires of the ages still smoulder. It came as if self-impelled, driving all before it, a perpetual explosion. It was inexhaustible; one stared, waiting to see it stop—but still the great streams rolled out. They spread in vast clouds overhead, writhing, curling: them uniting in one giant river, the stream away down the sky, stretching a black pall as far as the eye could reach.

They the party became aware of another strange thing. This, too, like the odor, was a thing elemental; it was a sound, a sound made up of ten thousand little sounds. One scarcely noticed it at first—it sunk into one's consciousness, a vague disturbance, a trouble. It was like the murmuring of the bees in the spring, the whisperings of the forest; it suggested endless activity, the rumblings of a world in motion; it was only by an effort that one could realize that it was made by animals, that it was the distant lowing of ten thousand cattle, the distant grunting of ten thousand swine.

The would have liked to follow it up, but, alas, they had no time for adventures just then. The policeman on the corner was beginning to watch them; and so, as usual, they started up the street. Scarcely had they gone a block, however, before Jonas was heard to give a cry, and began pointing excitedly across the street. Before they could gather the meaning of his breathless ejaculations he had bounded away, and they saw him enter a shop over which was a sign: "J. Szadwilas, Delicatessen." When he came out again in was in company with a very stout gentleman in shirt sleeves and an apron, clasping Jonas by both hands and laughing hilariously. Then Teta Elzbieta recollected suddenly that Szadwilas had been the name of the mythical friend who had made his fortune in America. To find that he had been making it in the delicatessen business was an extraordinary piece of good fortune in this juncture. Though it was well on in the morning they had not breakfasted, and the children were beginning to whimper.

Thus was the happy ending of a woeful voyage. The two families literally fell upon each other's necks—for it had been years since Jokubas Sadzwilas had met a man from his part of Lithuania. Before half the day they were lifelong friends. Jokubas understood all the pitfalls of this new world, and could explain all of its mysteries; he could tell them the things they ought to have done in the different emergencies—and what was still more to the point, he could tell them what to do now. He would take them to panei Aniele, who kept a boarding house the other side of the yards; old Mrs. Juknos, he explained, had not what one would call choice accommodations, but they might do for the moment. To this Teta Elzbieta hastened to respond that nothing too cheap to suit them just then: for they were quite terrified over the sums they had had to expend. A very few days of practical experience in this land of high wages had been sufficient to make clear to them the cruel fact that it was also a land of high prices, and that in it the poor man was just exactly as poor as in any other corner of the earth: and so there vanished in a night all the wonderful dreams of wealth that had been haunting Jurgis. What had made the discovery all the more painful was that they were spending, at American prices, money which they had earned at home rates of wages—and so were really being cheated by the world. The last two days they had all but starved themselves—it made them quite sick to pay the prices that the railroad people asked them for food.

Yet, when they saw the home of the Widow Juknos they could not but recoil, even so. In all their journey they had seen nothing so bad as this. Panei Aniele had a four room flat in one of that wilderness of a two-story frame tenements that lie in "back of the yards." There were four such flats in each "boarding house" for the occupancy of foreigners—Lithuanians, Poles, Slovaks, or Bohemians. Some of these places were kept by private persons, some were co-operative. There would be an average of a half a dozen boarders to each room—sometimes there were thirteen or fourteen to one room, fifty or sixty to a flat. Each one of the occupants furnished his own accommodations—that is, a mattress and some bedding. The mattresses would be spread upon the floor in rows—and there would be nothing else in the place except a stove. Sometimes the boarders would hire a woman to cook for them, sometimes they would do their own cooking: in a few rare cases the landlady would furnish the food and prepare it for all. It was by no means unusual for two men to own the same mattress in common, one working by day and using it by night, and the other working at night and using it in the daytime. Very frequently a lodging-house keeper would rent the same beds to double shifts of men. This had not been the custom, but it was getting to be, owing to the system upon which the packing-houses were now being run. It was said to be owing to the increasing insubordination of the labor unions that the packers were employing so many men and giving each of them such a small amount of work to do. This kept wages low and the district crowded—a sure preventive of trouble.

Panei Aniele Juknos was wizened up little woman, with a wrinkled and heart-sick face. Her home was unthinkably filthy: you could not enter by the front door at all, owning to the mattresses, and when you tried to go up the back stairs you found that she had walled up most of the porch with old boards to make a place to keep her chickens.

Though not a two-story tenement as described, panei Aniele's stairs that housed her chickens might have looked something like this. Tenement conditions, Hunter, 1901 - A "back yard" (Pg 68) - Not originally published in Appeal To Reason/The Jungle

It was a standing jest of the boarders that panei Aniele cleaned house by letting the chickens loose in the rooms. Undoubtedly she did this to keep down the vermin, but it seems probable, in view of all the circumstances, that the old lady regarded it rather as feeding the chickens as cleaning the rooms. The truth was that she had definitely given up the idea of cleaning the rooms nearly two months ago, under pressure of an attack of rheumatism, which had kept her doubled up in one corner of her room for over a week. During this time eleven of her boarders, heavily in her debt, had concluded to try their chances of employment in Kansas City, and had decamped. This was July, and the fields were green; one never saw the fields, nor any green thing whatever, in Packingtown—but one could go out to the road and "hobo it." as the men phrased it, and see the country, and have a long rest, and an easy time riding on the freight cars. Meantime, as the widow Juknos had been trying for over a year to pay for her furniture, and was in debt to her landlord besides, she was, perhaps, not to blame for concluding to give up, and let ruin come when it would.

Such was the home to which the new arrivals were welcomed. There was nothing better to be had—they might not do so well by looking further, for Mrs. Juknos had at least kept one room for herself and her three little children, and now offered to share this with the women and the girls of the party. They could get bedding at a second-hand store, she explained; and they would not need any while the weather was so hot—doubtless they would all sleep on the sidewalk such nights as this, as did nearly all of her guests. "Tomorrow," Jurgis said with quiet confidence, when they were left alone, "tomorrow I will get a job; and perhaps Jonas will get one also; and then we can get a place of our own."

Later that afternoon he and Ona went out to take a walk and look about them to see more of this district which was to be their home. In back of the yards the dreary two-story frame houses were spread out farther than in most of Chicago they had seen; there were great spaces bare—that seemingly had been overlooked by the great sore of a city as it spread itself over the surface of the prairie. These bare places were grown up with dingy, yellow weeds, hiding innumerable tomato cans; innumerable children played upon them, chasing one another here and there, screaming and fighting. The most uncanny thing about this neighborhood was the number of the children; you just thought there must be a school just out, and it was only after long acquaintance that you were able to realize that there was no school, but that these were the children of the neighborhood—that there were so many children to the block in Packingtown, that nowhere on the streets could a horse and buggy move faster than a walk!

It could not move faster anyhow, of course—on account of the state of the streets. Those through which Jurgis and Ona were walking resembled streets less than they did a miniature topographical map of a continent. The roadway was commonly several feet lower than the level of the houses, which were sometimes joined up by high board walks; there were no pavements—there were mountains and valleys and rivers, gullies and ditches, and great hollows full of sticking green water. In these pools the children played, and rolled about in the mud of the streets: here and there one noticed them digging in it, after trophies which they had stumbled on.

Children of the district gathering Christmas trophies from the Dump - Charles J. Bushnell - 1901 - Not originally published in Appeal to Reason/The Jungle

One wondered about this, as also about the swarms of flies which hung about the scene, literally blackening the air, and the strange, fetid odor which assailed one's nostrils, a ghastly odor, of all the dead things of the universe. It impelled the visitor to questions—and then the residents would explain, quietly, that all this was "made" land—that it had been "made" by using it as a dumping-ground for the city garbage. After a few years the unpleasant effect of this would pass away, it was said; but meantime, in hot weather—and especially when it rained—the flies were apt to be annoying. Was it not unhealthy? the stranger would ask; and the residents would answer "Perhaps, but there is no telling." Yet there chanced one day to be passing a young man who thought that there might be telling, and who set to work to count the deaths of the children in back of the yards. He found that they were five times as numerous as in the neighboring district, a "swell" part of the city, whence came all this garbage to be dumped. Then, also, he made a map of the district, and in each block he put a black dot for every child that had died there in the past year; when he finished you would have said that his map had been made with a pepper cruet.

Charles J. Bushnell's original map of foreign populations and child mortalities across the Stockyard & Hyde Park districts - Originally published 1901/11/01 in The American Journal of Sociology (vol 7) - Not originally published in Appeal to Reason/The Jungle

A little way further on, and Jurgis and Ona, staring open-eyed and wondering, came to the place where this "made" ground was in process of making. Here was a great hole, perhaps two city blocks square, and with long files of garbage wagons creeping into it. The place had an odor for which there are no polite words: and it was literally black with children, who raked in it from dawn till dark. Sometimes visitors from the packing-houses would wander out to see this "dump," and they would stand by and debate as to whether the children were eating the food they got or merely collecting it for the chickens at home. Apparently none of them ever went down to find out.

Beyond this dump there stood a great brickyard, with smoking chimneys. First they took out the soil to make bricks, and then they filled it up again with garbage, which seemed to Jurgis and Ona a felicitous arrangement, characteristic of an enterprising country like America. A little way beyond was another great hole, which they had emptied and not yet filled up. This held water, and all summer it stood there, with the nearby solid draining into it, festering and stewing in the sun; and then, when winter came, somebody cut the ice on it, and sold it to the people of Packingtown. This, too, seemed to the newcomers an economical arrangement; for they did not read the newspapers, and their heads were not full of troublesome thoughts about germs.

They stood there while the sun went down upon this scene; the sky in the west turned blood-red. and the tops of the houses shone like fire. Jurgis and Ona were not thinking of the sunset, however—their backs were turned to it, and all their thoughts were of Packingtown, which they could see so plainly in the distance. The line of the buildings stood clear-cut and black against the sky: here and there out of the mass rose the great chimneys, with the river of smoke streaming away to the end of the world. It was a study in colors now, this smoke: in the sunset light it was black and brown and grey and purple. All the sordid suggestions of the place were gone—in the twilight it was a vision of power. To the two who stood watching while the darkness swallowed it up it seemed a land of wonder, with its tale of human energy, of things being done, of employment for thousands upon thousands of men, of opportunity and freedom, of life and love and joy. When they came away, arm in arm. Jurgis was saying: "Tomorrow I shall go there and get a job!"

(To be continued.)