bottles of peroxide, and a quart bottle of iodine. By now, dozens of longshoremen and seamen were pouring into the alley. Barbara went into the kitchen, gulped hot coffee, and munched on a piece of stale bread. The longshoremen crowded in, and she found herself pouring coffee and hacking pieces from a salami. The bread was gone now, used up in the making of sandwiches, and with wonder Barbara watched the half-awake men making a breakfast of salami and black coffee. It did not matter. They were victims of a pervasive and consuming hunger.
Irma Montessa arrived, and she shouted for someone to take a basket of oranges and put it in the station wagon. "Stupid bastards," she said to Barbara. "All they know is meat and potatoes."
From outside, Dominick yelled, "Bobby, Bobbyl Let's get it on the road!"
She pushed through to the door. Out in the alley, forty or fifty strikers, some of them with picket signs, were crowded around the station wagon. TTiey were rubbing their hands, hopping up and down to keep warm, grinning at her as she came out. Many of them knew her, and they shouted things like, "Hey, Bobby! Here's our girl!" and "You'll tell 'em, Bobby!" as they opened up for her to get through to the car.
She heard one of the men say to Dominick, "The goons are forming up across Fourth Street. They say they're going to make a cordon from the depot to Market Street."
"Listen, you guys," Dominick shouted. "We go down Bryant, slow. So stay around the car. If the cops try to stop us at Fourth, we push through. We get the car inside the police line and as close to the docks as possible."
Dominick climbed into the car next to her, and Barbara started the motor, easing it into low gear and moving slowly out of the alley, the longshoremen walking in a group around the car. It was eight o'clock, and already the city appeared to be converging on the waterfront. Empty of cars, Bryant Street was spotted with clusters of strikers, sympathizers, kids, curious citizens. On the other side of the street, a solid knot of a dozen men moved toward the docks.
"Goons," Dominick said.
Moving at a walking pace, the Ford's motor whining in low gear, they were approaching 4th Street. Barbara saw the line of police stretching across the street, almost shoulder to shoulder. The kids and the curious were being barred, a crowd of people beginning to fill the street. She was also able to see herself in perspective: Jean Whittier's daughter, driving a car loaded with food and medical supplies into a police barricade. She was frightened and excited at the same time.
"Are you O.K., kid?" Dominick asked.
"O.K.," she said. "I'm fine," with just the slightest quaver in her voice.
"Don't stop unless I tell you to. Just keep it going at the same speed."
They were now about fifty feet from the police line, and the crowd of strikers around the station wagon had increased to several hundred. The tight group of men that Dominick had specified as "goons" now moved into the street on a diagonal toward the strikers. A police officer moved to meet them. Another police officer began to make his way through the strikers to the station wagon. A young man with a press card in his hat pushed in among the strikers and yelled at Barbara,
"Hey, lady, what's your name?"
"Roll down your window," Dominick said. "Keep it down."
"Not closed?"
"Down. Down."
The strikers were at the police line now. "Move it, move it!" Dominick yelled.
"That wagon don't go through!" an officer shouted.
Barbara kept the car moving, and the police line gave. Several of the policemen drew their sidearms, and then an officer who appeared to be in charge waved his arms, and the policemen dropped back, opening the way for the strikers and the station wagon to move through.
Barbara's heart had stopped beating. "Thank God," she whispered. Dominick grinned at hef. The man with the press card in his hat swung onto the running board.
"Lady, you got guts. What's your name?"
"Buzz off!" Dominick yelled. The strikers pulled
Irma Montessa arrived, and she shouted for someone to take a basket of oranges and put it in the station wagon. "Stupid bastards," she said to Barbara. "All they know is meat and potatoes."
From outside, Dominick yelled, "Bobby, Bobbyl Let's get it on the road!"
She pushed through to the door. Out in the alley, forty or fifty strikers, some of them with picket signs, were crowded around the station wagon. TTiey were rubbing their hands, hopping up and down to keep warm, grinning at her as she came out. Many of them knew her, and they shouted things like, "Hey, Bobby! Here's our girl!" and "You'll tell 'em, Bobby!" as they opened up for her to get through to the car.
She heard one of the men say to Dominick, "The goons are forming up across Fourth Street. They say they're going to make a cordon from the depot to Market Street."
"Listen, you guys," Dominick shouted. "We go down Bryant, slow. So stay around the car. If the cops try to stop us at Fourth, we push through. We get the car inside the police line and as close to the docks as possible."
Dominick climbed into the car next to her, and Barbara started the motor, easing it into low gear and moving slowly out of the alley, the longshoremen walking in a group around the car. It was eight o'clock, and already the city appeared to be converging on the waterfront. Empty of cars, Bryant Street was spotted with clusters of strikers, sympathizers, kids, curious citizens. On the other side of the street, a solid knot of a dozen men moved toward the docks.
"Goons," Dominick said.
Moving at a walking pace, the Ford's motor whining in low gear, they were approaching 4th Street. Barbara saw the line of police stretching across the street, almost shoulder to shoulder. The kids and the curious were being barred, a crowd of people beginning to fill the street. She was also able to see herself in perspective: Jean Whittier's daughter, driving a car loaded with food and medical supplies into a police barricade. She was frightened and excited at the same time.
"Are you O.K., kid?" Dominick asked.
"O.K.," she said. "I'm fine," with just the slightest quaver in her voice.
"Don't stop unless I tell you to. Just keep it going at the same speed."
They were now about fifty feet from the police line, and the crowd of strikers around the station wagon had increased to several hundred. The tight group of men that Dominick had specified as "goons" now moved into the street on a diagonal toward the strikers. A police officer moved to meet them. Another police officer began to make his way through the strikers to the station wagon. A young man with a press card in his hat pushed in among the strikers and yelled at Barbara,
"Hey, lady, what's your name?"
"Roll down your window," Dominick said. "Keep it down."
"Not closed?"
"Down. Down."
The strikers were at the police line now. "Move it, move it!" Dominick yelled.
"That wagon don't go through!" an officer shouted.
Barbara kept the car moving, and the police line gave. Several of the policemen drew their sidearms, and then an officer who appeared to be in charge waved his arms, and the policemen dropped back, opening the way for the strikers and the station wagon to move through.
Barbara's heart had stopped beating. "Thank God," she whispered. Dominick grinned at hef. The man with the press card in his hat swung onto the running board.
"Lady, you got guts. What's your name?"
"Buzz off!" Dominick yelled. The strikers pulled
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