DEATH OF A SHOP
get a loan for the Pretifit. Otherwise we might make it worse."
"vVhat could be worse?" Max said. "There isn't a stitch
of work. Two weeks wages still unpaid. The Pretifit is dead,
I tell you, a corpse. The dead sing not the Lord's praise and
the Pretifit won't give you work."
"What about our investments," the workers asked as they
followed him into the hallway.
"Demand your money. Protest. Don't be silent."
But the operators did not protest. Max Silverberg took
them to an International Labor Defense lawyer. He investigat–
ed and found that the Pretifit Company had lost all its money
in Wall Street. The cottages were deeded to their w;ves and
the shop was buried under mortgages.
A few days later the workers came to look at the shop
again. From the shop they came, to the shop they inevitably
returned. The world outside was a surging chaos 'vvhich re–
fused to absorb their hungry hands.
l\fax met them on the street. "\Vhere are you hurrying,"
he asked.
"vVe are going to that Pretifit brothel. Coming along?"
"No, there is a demonstration today. I must be there."
When they approached the shop, the workers saw two
trucks before the building. Th ey were loaded with sewing
machines and the furnishings of a clothing factory. Two
strangers were giving orders to the truckmen. The workers
were shocked. It looked like the Pretifit Company loaded
on the trucks.
They ran upstairs. The door was wide open. The machines
were gone. Only some old broken chairs, a battered desk and
a wooden packing case remained. The emptiness of the shop
choked them. The slovenly wench, the Pretifit, was cold. The
odor of dry rot and the ·smell of old hide straps filled the loft.
"It's dead!" they whispered to one another in awe. They
turned to the open door. Down the stairs they trudged, cow';!r–
ing under the tyranny of emptiness they had left behind them.
43
