Jew in the Factory:
How He Looks to His Fellow Workers
IT WAS a late summer afternoon and the air inside the plant was thick with heat. Those of us who had come in for the evening shift a little more than an hour before began to pace ourselves slower than usual, and I welcomed an interruption when Old Mike waved to me across the packaging floor. A wide grin split his broad Balkan face as he called “Heyya! C’mere! C’mere!”
I walked over to where he stood, a short, stout man leaning on his broom. He had been in the mill for a long time, though he was still a laborer. His gray hair and slight paunch belied the powerful muscles of a man who had worked hard for too many years.
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