Standing by her machine, she waved her unfinished shirtwaist as though it were an enemy banner. "It's 'Parisian,'" she cried, "there were not enough scabs to do it in their own shop and so they sent it here! We are breaking their strike, their strike for better pay!"
She spoke in Yiddish and the Jewish girls followed her excitedly, expressing indignation at her news.
"We will strike, Sophie," her friend, Rachel, said. "We cannot do work like this; it would be wicked."
Sophie again waved her enemy banner. "Will you be scabs?" she called out, this time in English. "Do you not see? This is not our waist; it is the 'Parisian.' I see the girls; they are downstairs, and they ask us to stop, to stand by them as sisters."
"What's all this noise?" cried the foreman sternly as he entered the room. And then without waiting for a response, though it was a few minutes too soon, he threw on the power.
Sophie, Rachel, and a dozen other Jewish girls stood excitedly in the aisle, failing to go to their seats.
"Get to work!" the foreman called above the din. Then thinking it advisable to consult with a higher authority, he left the room.
In a moment Sophie had thrown off the power.
"Sisters," she cried, "down below are the 'Parisian' girls, waiting for us. Will you be scabs? Will you take their work?"
"We'll pull down the shop," came from her adherents.