Some of us looked brighter than others of us.
Upstairs in the hall we assembled to wait upon the pleasure of the boss. The woodwork was white, the floor pale blue—it was all very impressive.
Finally, second try, the boss glued his eye on me.
“Come in here.” A white door closed behind us, and we stood in a little room which looked as if a small boy of twelve had knocked it together out of old scraps and odds and ends, unpainted.
“What experience you have had?”
He was a nice-looking, fairly young Jew, who spoke with a considerable German accent.
“None in a dress factory, but ...” and I regaled him with the vast amount of experience in other lines that was mine, adding that I had done a good deal of “private dressmaking” off and on, and also assuring him, almost tremblingly, I did so want to land a job—that I was the most willing of workers.
“What you expect to get?”
“What will you pay me?”