“Was ist los?” Lotte cried as the door opened, and then shrieked aloud, for the Grossvater lay there on the bed, crushed and disfigured and almost speechless, but lifting one hand feebly as she flew toward him.
“A sugar hogshead,” somebody said. “It rolled over him when he thought it was firm, and brought down some barrels with it. He’s past helping. May the saints have a heart for the poor children! He would be brought here, but what will you do with him?”
“There’ll be naught to do by morning,” said another. “Can’t you see he’s going?” But by morning no change had come, nor for many mornings. The wounds and bruises slowly healed, but save for the one hand that moved toward her, there were no signs of life. The strong body held by paralysis might linger for years, and Lotte must earn for him and for all. Even then a living might have been possible, for Gretchen had a place as cash-girl and earned two dollars a week, and Lisa was promised one after New Year’s. But it was a hard winter. They ate only what they must, and Lotte’s blue eyes looked out from hollow sockets, and she shivered with cold. Wages had fallen, and they fell faster and faster till by January her ten and twelve hours’ work brought her but six dollars instead of the eight or nine she had always earned. The foreman she hated made everything as difficult as possible. Though the bundle came ready from the cutting room, he had managed more than once to slip out some essential piece, and thus lessened her week’s wages, no price being paid where a garment was returned unfinished. He had often done this where girls had refused his advances, yet it was impossible to make complaint. The great house on Canal Street left these matters entirely with him, and regarded complaint as mere blackmailing. Lotte tried others, but wages were even less. She was sure of work here, and pay was prompt. With the spring things must be better. But long before the spring Lisa had sickened and died, and Lotte buried her in the Potter’s Field, and hurried home to make up the lost time, and hush the crying little ones as she could. It did not occur to her that she could write to Annchen and ask for help, and Franz had quarrelled with her because she did not put the Grossvater in a hospital and send the children to some asylum.
“I will even marry you with the children,” he said, “but never with the Grossvater who hindered and spoiled everything.”
“He has cared for me always, even when he was hard,” said Lotte. “I shall care for him now;” and Franz rushed away and had come no more.
For a year Lotte’s struggle went on. She knew only the one form of work; and she dared not take time to learn another.
“If it were not for the Grossvater,” she said, “and the children, I should have a place and work in the country and grow strong, but I cannot. If I die before them what can they do?”
There was other trouble. Gretchen’s light little head could never guard her pretty face. She was fourteen now, and tall and fair, fretting against the narrow life and refusing to stay indoors when evening came. One day she did not come home; and when Lotte sought her she saw only the evil smile and triumphant eyes of the foreman who had followed her a year ago and who laughed in her face as he shut the door.
“You’d better come in yourself,” he called. “You’d fare better if you did.”
Lotte went home dumb, and sat down at her machine. There was no money in the house, nor would be till she had taken home this work; but as she bent over it the blood poured in a stream from her mouth. She tried to rise, but fell back; and when the screaming children had brought in neighbors, Lotte’s struggle was quite over. When they had buried her in the Potter’s Field by Lisa, they took the bundle of work stained with her life-blood and carried it back to its owners.