Olya Santa, A short story excerpt
Olya Santa fixed her eyes on the lace between her tired fingers and grasped the white cloth firmly so as not to let it slip again from the iron spool. Twelve women sat at the wooden table with her before the iron sewing machines, immersed in the various pieces of wedding gowns, adding the intricate layers of lace to hems and cuffs. Iron racks of dresses lined the industrial-style room; the air smelled stale and dusty as the quiet hum of machines ran continually, only interrupted by occasional coughs.
Olya rubbed her eyes as she tried to keep herself awake. She saw the sun beginning to set from the small brick windows lining the factory, and she had one more hour left until she could go home. Her body was starting to feel heavy, and she tried to wake herself up by doing math on the hours she worked this week. Math kept her mind busy as she worked.
20 cents an hour? She thought, "I have clocked 80 hours this week, so that is $16." Perhaps it is enough to buy some material to make a dressing gown. She would ensure it would be a beautiful gown with ruffled edges and a long train with crème ribbons.
And it was then that the fatal error occurred. Upon letting go of the spool, she accidentally pushed her finger into the moving needle so as not to let the garment slip again. Olya adjusted herself in the wooden chair and began to sweat when she looked down at the garment she was working on: a perfectly round spot of red at the center of the lace sleeve. The woman beside her turned to look at her, shocked, realizing the machine had suddenly stopped its usual hammering hum.
“Olya!” cried a woman behind her. “What have you done?”
“I can fix it,” Olya whispered, adding, “I can redo this piece or scrub it with some lye. I’ll go at once.”
The woman inspected the garment, the small red dot growing over the delicate white lace.
“Leave this instant!” the woman said sternly. She raised her voice for the other women sitting near her to hear, “And don’t come back for two months until after Christmas, too many mistakes from the likes of you, and we are behind schedule as is.”
“But Elise, I need the work,” Olya said in a final attempt, as she stopped the feeling of tears welling in her eyelids.
“I’m sorry, but the rules are the rules. That’s your third infraction this month.”
Olya could not breathe; she turned her head to the station before her and cleaned it up.
As Elise walked away, content with the cleanup, Olya felt Rachel’s palm on hers.
“I’ll give you half of my earnings this week, she pressed her lips together and added with warm eyes, trying to convince her, “I have extra hours this month.”
A gut punch began to well in Olya’s stomach, and she swallowed hard, looking for words to reply to Rachel’s offer.
“It’s alright,” she stood up as she locked eyes with Rachel. “I’ll try the factory down the road, there’s still work. It’s Christmas soon, after all.” The words came out flatly, and Olya looked toward the loft door. Elise was already waiting for her by the iron door at the end of the sea of wooden tables.
Rachel resumed sewing but followed Olya with her eyes as she made her way to meet Elise on the other side of the room. Elise took out a string of keys and unlocked the door, letting in a sliver of light from the cold side, and Olya stepped onto the cold pavement of New York City.
A chill filled Olya’s body as she walked down 5th Avenue. It was busy as always, but her eyes fixed themselves on the ground. A slew of emotions hit her stomach, and she felt the baby kick. She rubbed her stomach and attempted to button up the sweater that was getting too small for her growing belly. It was no use, none of it was any use, she thought as she walked past the rows of garment factories and made her way to Grand Central Station.
https://www.mcny.org/exhibition/garment-workers
https://www.gothamcenter.org/garment-industry-history-project
https://www.mcny.org/exhibition/garment-workers
