The Tragedy of the Immigrant Girl.
In the musty old records of United States District Attorney Edwin W. Sims, in the federal building, is written the story of the tragedy of a little Italian peasant girl.
The story is similar in many details to the stories told to Mr. Sims and his assistant, Harry Parkin, by more than 200 black-haired, sloe-eyed beauties from sunny Italy. They had all been imported, brought through the underground railroad of the white slaver, over the Canadian border, down the St. Claire river, through the great lakes and into Chicago.
Whether these hunters of the innocent ply their awful calling at home or abroad, their methods are much the same—with the exception that the foreign girl is more hopelessly at their mercy.
The story of the tragedy of this little Italian peasant girl, who helped her father till the soil in the vineyards and fields near Naples, is but one of many of similar character, but it is expressive. She was a beautiful little creature. Her form was that of a Venus—her great mass of black hair hung in a dense cloud from her shapely head. One might picture her, before she was enticed into the terrible life of shame, as a little queen among the women of her race.
Yet when she was brought into the district attorney's office, having been one of a number of aliens captured in a raid by federal authorities on immoral dives in South Chicago, she was a mass of scars. Her eyes had lost their deep expressive quality. Her nerves seemed to be wrecked.
When she was brought into what the sensational newspapers would call the "sweat box" it was clear that she was in a state of abject terror. She stoutly maintained that she had been in this country for more than three years and that she was in a life of shame from choice and not through the criminal act of any person.
She attempted to tell how she had come to this country alone, but was unable to tell the name of the steamship on which she had crossed the ocean or how she had reached Chicago. In broken English she said that she had been in a house of ill repute in New York before coming to Chicago and that she had received the scars on her face through an old injury that had happened years before.
Assistant District Attorney Parkin, however, was not convinced. He asked her several questions in quick succession. To all of them she quickly answered "three years."
This is the length of time immigrants must be in this country before they may be picked up and deported as aliens.
It was this answer that convinced him that the girl had been cowed into submission and "schooled" by her procurers under threats. It was through this answer that the white slavers rested their hope that the girl's story would be believed and that they would be safe from criminal prosecution.
Soon, however, the assistant district attorney convinced her that he and his associates were her friends and protectors and that their purpose was to punish those who had profited by her ruin and to send her back to her Italian home with all her expenses paid; that she was under the protection of the United States and was as safe as if the King of Italy should take her under his royal care and pledge his word that her enemies should not have revenge upon her.
Then she broke down and related her awful narrative. That every word of it is true no one could doubt who saw her as she told it.
A "fine lady," who wore beautiful clothes, came to where she lived with her parents. She made friends with every one. Money seemed of no object to her. She lavished it upon the young girls of the district and flattered them. She told the young immigrant girl that she was uncommonlypretty and professed a great interest in her. Such flattering attentions from an American lady, who wore clothes as fine as those of the Italian nobility, could have but one effect on the mind of the simple little peasant girl and her still simpler parents. Their heads were completely turned and they regarded the American lady almost with adoration.
Very shrewdly the woman did not attempt to bring the little girl back with her, but held out the hope that some day a letter might come with money for her passage to America. Once there she would become the companion of her American friend and they would have great times together.
Of course, in due time, the money came—and the $100 was a most substantial pledge to the parents of the wealth and generosity of the "American lady." Unhesitatingly she was prepared for the voyage which was to take her to the land of happiness and good fortune. According to the arrangements made by letter the girl was met at New York by two "friends" of her benefactress, who attended to her entrance papers and took her in charge. These "friends" were two of the most brutal of all the white slave drivers who are in the traffic. At this time she was about sixteen years old, innocent and rarely attractive for a girl of her class, having the large,handsome eyes, the black hair and the rich olive skin of a typical Italian.
Where these two men took her she did not know—but by the most violent and brutal means they quickly accomplished her ruin. For a week she was subjected to unspeakable treatment and made to feel that her degradation was complete and final.
And here let it be said that the breaking of the spirit, the crushing of all hope for any future save that of shame, is always a part of the initiation of a white slave. Then the girl was shipped to Chicago, where she was disposed of to the keeper of an Italian dive of the vilest type. On her entrance here she was furnished with gaudy dresses and wearing apparel for which the Keeper of the place charged her $600. As is the case with all new white slaves, she was not allowed to have any clothing which she could wear upon the street.
Her one object in life was to escape from the den in which she was held a prisoner. To "pay out" seemed the surest way, and at length, from her wages of shame, she was able to cancel the $600 account. Then she asked for her street clothing and her release—only to be told that she had incurred other expenses to the amount of $400.
Her Italian blood took fire at this and she made a dash for liberty. But she was not quite quick enough and the hand of the oppressor was upon her. In the wild scene that followed she was slashed with a razor, one gash straight through her right eye, one across her cheek and another slitting her ear. Then she was given medical attention and the wounds gradually healed, but her face is horribly mutilated, her right eye is always open and to look upon her is to shudder.
When the raids began she was secreted and arrangements made to ship her to a dive in the mining regions of the west. Fortunately, however, a few hours before she was to start upon her journey the United States marshals raided the place and captured herself as well as her keepers. To add to the horror of her situation she became a mother. The awful thought in her mind, however, is to escape from assassination at the hands of the murderous gang which oppressed her.
This is only one of a score of similar cases discovered by the authorities.
It is only necessary to say that the legal evidence thus far collected establishes with complete moral certainty these awful facts: That the white slave traffic is a system—a syndicate which has its ramifications from the Atlantic seaboard to the Pacific ocean, with "clearing houses" or "distributingcenters" in nearly all of the larger cities; that in this ghastly traffic the buying price of a young girl is $15 and that the selling price is generally about $200—if the girl is especially attractive the white slave dealer may be able to sell her for $400 or $600; that this syndicate did not make less than $200,000 last year in this almost unthinkable commerce; that it is a definite organization sending its hunters regularly to scour France, Germany, Hungary, Italy and Canada for victims; that the man at the head of this unthinkable enterprise is known among his hunters as "The Big Chief."
Also the evidence shows that the hirelings of this traffic are stationed at certain ports of entry in Canada where large numbers of immigrants are landed to do what is known in their parlance as "cutting out work." In other words, these watchers for human prey scan the immigrants as they come down the gangplank of a vessel which has just arrived and "spot" the girls who are unaccompanied by fathers, mothers, brothers or relatives to protect them. The girl who has been spotted as a desirable and unprotected victim is promptly approached by a man who speaks her language and is immediately offered employment at good wages, with all expenses to the destination to be paid by the man. Most frequently laundry work is the bait held out, sometimeshousework or employment in a candy shop or factory.
The object of the negotiations is to "cut out" the girl from any of her associates and to get her to go with him. Then the only thing is to accomplish their ruin by the shortest route. If they cannot be cajoled or enticed by promises of an easy time, plenty of money, fine clothes and the usual stock of allurements—or a fake marriage—then harsher methods are resorted to. In some instances the hunters really marry the victims. As to the sterner measures, it is, of course, impossible to speak explicitly beyond the statement that intoxication and drugging are often used as a means to reduce the victims to a state of helplessness and sheer physical violence is a common thing.
When the United States authorities some time ago raided the French resorts on the south side in search of foreign born victims of the slave trade, some of the most palpable of slavery tactics were discovered.
"Not one woman in one of these prominent resorts was found who could speak English," said Assistant United States Attorney Parkin. "But in their own tongue everything said by them showed long drilling as to answers that should be made to inquiries. Ask any one of these women a sudden question in English and her replyto anything asked would be 'five years,' the term of residence in the United States that would prevent deportation.
"The typical story of the women was of having come to New York about four years ago as companions or servants in the family of well to do French immigrants. After several years the family had returned, leaving the girl, who about three or four months before had come to Chicago from a New York resort.
"But the slavery feature was bulwarked by every fact that we could elicit from these drilled women. Not one of them knew by what steamer she had come to the country; she could not even name the line by which she sailed. She didn't know what the steamer fares were. She could not name a single street in New York, which would have been a certainty had she even stopped there for a week at liberty.
"We seized trunks in their possession on which were the stamps of the customs officials, showing that most of the women had come in the second cabin. In some of these trunks we found sealed letters, written by girls to parents in France, begging them to write, and as completing the slavery chain, we found other letters in possession of the keepers, written long before by these girls to parents, which the keepers had received formailing but which they had refused to post for the helpless prisoners.
"The girls were 18 to 22 years old and had come through Ellis Island under assumed names. The letters in the trunks revealed the true names of the writers. None of them could tell a date of sailing or date of landing. One of these girls had $1,500 charged against her for clothing furnished by the house. Another girl said the house owed her $890, which she had been unable to collect. Once a month they were sent to the 'summer cottage' of this resort, at Blue Island, where under guard of their slavers, they had the freedom of an elaborate house and the privileges of a launch and boats on the river.
"Slavery is the only logical deduction accounting for these women's presence in these houses. None of them could tell anything about the appearance of a steamer ticket. Everything points to their having been imported to this country by slave traffickers and of their having been forwarded to Chicago directly from the port of entry under charge of some one who assumed all charge of them to every smallest detail of transportation. In the Chicago houses raided we found that some man was held responsible for one or more of these women. He lived off them and was looked to to enforce discipline among them in return for the privilege."
Only the French and the Hungarian resorts so far have been raided by the United States district attorney. It is former Assistant State's Attorney Roe's discovery that on the west side where ten years ago scarcely a single Jewess was to be found in a resort, today 80 per cent of the inmates are Russian and Polish Jews. The field here is promising to the United States authorities, who can work only from the statute which allows of deporting these women under certain residence restrictions.
One fact accounting for this increase in Jewish habitues of west side resorts is explained by a Russian exile in Chicago.
In St. Petersburg, Moscow and other capitals of Russia only the Jewess in slavery may enter. It is the only condition under which the Jewish girl may enter these cities.
At the first necessity for importation, how easy is the traffic?
The Tragedy of the Stage.
One thousand innocent girls, the majority of them still in their teens, are lured to a life of shame each year in the city of Chicago alone through the stage.
This is the statement of the police. It is the statement of the keepers of the dives themselves.
A visit to almost any of the dives of the Twenty-second street district will convince even the most skeptical reader of the truth of this statement.
Enter and inquire for a show girl.
True, she will not be the sprightly, supple and pretty creature one sees nightly on the stages of the better theaters of the city. Yet she is a show girl—or, rather, I might say, has been one.
She is a show girl who has fallen. The sparkle of wine, the glare of lights and the happy-go-lucky company of the after-theater parties have proven her downfall. Under their baneful influences she has been led on, until now you see her dull-eyed, disheveled haired, with all ambition gone, her natural appetites ruined—a Magdelen.
When a girl becomes a member of a chorus or ballet of a comic opera company—that is to say,when she enters the profession—she is usually a good girl, of fair education, with supple figure, and usually beautiful in features. As a rule she has never kept company with men, moneyed men, blase men of the world.
In every chorus one will find a number of "old stagers," or girls who have been in the profession for several years. They have been through "the mill." The gay life has attracted them. They know lots of "dandy good fellows" who are more than willing to "show them a good time."
The family names of the young men are almost copyrighted by the newspapers. Every one has heard of them.
It is easy for the "old stager" to win the young and inexperienced girl unless the younger show girl has a great amount of will power. Once won over, the work is easy.
It starts with a dash through the city in a ten thousand dollar automobile. Drinks are taken en route. Of course, the young girl can't refuse. She is with such nice fellows: The "old stager" urges her on. The "stager" may have lost her attractions, but the old gay life must be kept up. To keep her place in the whirl she must turn procuress for the rich men who must be amused. If she did not bring the young girl her company would not be asked.
The first trip usually proves the first step intothe dark pit. Even though the young show girl may not have fallen the gay company has had its effect. The next time a party is suggested there is no refusal. There is no refusal of the drinks brought to the girl. The suggestive remarks and show of animal passion of the male companion are received with less resentment.
Then the final step towards the brothel is taken. It may be in the richly furnished apartments of the young man after a night's carousal. It may be in some of the loop hotels that live off of fallen women. It may be in the brothel itself.
The senses may have been dulled by some sleeping potion. It is not an unusual occurrence for a girl to be drugged while sipping some innocent looking drink or partaking of the luxurious viands set forth at these seemingly gay parties. The "wealthy young man"—the companion of the young girl—may be a white slaver in disguise, merely spending the money of his employers, the keepers of the brothels, that he may be able to supply them with new human flesh.
The records of the police courts of the city tell of scores of such cases. They do not tell the story, however, of the thousands who have been lured in a like manner and who kept silence because of their shame.
They do not tell of the young girls to whom the promise of marriage was made and who, underthis persuasion, fell. In some instances the promise is even fulfilled, but the girl wife awakes to find herself even farther advanced toward the ultimate goal—the brothel.
Once on the downward path, there is but little chance of reformation. The thought of her shame drives her from her purer companions. She seeks company that is on a lower moral plane. The dull, innocent existence and the purer pleasures no longer attract her. Home and parents are forgotten in the mad whirl. Religion and home teachings are a thing of the past. The whole nature has changed.
She gradually assumes the habits and customs of her immoral companions. She drops into the slangy language of the underworld. The oaths and drunkenness that once were repellant to her are heard with an unmoved conscience. Her physical charms are attacked by this fly-by-night existence. All of the innocent attributes that once were applauded and extolled are dead.
The managers no longer want her. She is not sprightly enough. Her voice has lost its charm and her face is dull. They must have girls who excite interest and enliven their audiences. It is only a short time until she is unable to find a place to work.
It is a mad, wild dash while it lasts—good cheer and Bohemian fellowship, but it always has theultimate end—the furnished flat or the recognized den of vice.
It may last a year, it may last several, but the goal is the same. The girl who "saw the good time and met such nice fellows" is eventually a victim to the caprice of flesh buyers. In the end she doles out her own body for a price. This is the price she pays for her "good time."
But few of the girls who start on this downward path ever reform. Many have tried, but the way is too hard. They meet persons who have known them when they were leading this evil existence. They are slighted and scoffed at. Their ambition to again become pure and good is thwarted. As a rule they sink back into the whirl. This time they give up in utter abandon. Nothing is then too bad or repulsive. The end is not far off.
The girl in the road company is subjected to the greater temptations. She must travel at all hours of the night and day. The road shows usually play but one night in a town.
The hotel accommodations are usually poor. In some places she must "double up" with somebody. Sometimes it is a male companion.
In the burlesque shows this is not regarded as out of the way. The chorus girls of these vulgar attractions are usually "castoffs" or "has beens" from the comic operas or more wholesome attractions.Their charms have diminished, therefore they must accept these more lowly positions.
The dressing rooms of men in many of the smaller theaters are in close connection of those of the women. Recently in the city of Chicago a crusade was started against these places. Some alterations were made, but the condition in many instances is unimproved.
The young girls are taught and drilled that sex is to be forgotten on the stage.
Here feminine traits are to be left at home. If a girl is asked to kiss or throw her arms about a man, no matter what character he may be, it is her duty to do so. If she is asked to bare her body to the public gaze, with nothing but skin tights to cover her nudity, it is her duty to do so. That is what she is being paid for.
The animal nature of the audience must be satisfied.
Every year the vulgarity becomes more and more apparent. New and more suggestive novelties must be introduced to satisfy this "taste." The songs must have a "meaning"—the dances, some of which bring the blush of shame to the brow of even the most hardened theater-goers—must also arouse the passion.
The good girl first rebels at such. Day in and day out, as she rehearses, she sees other girls doing the thing that is required without kick orobjection. She gradually falls into it herself. It does not look so bad after she has bowed to the manager's wishes several times.
It isn't long before the things that once caused her to blush and falter seem to be a natural consequence. The things against which she once fought are repulsive no longer.
She gradually falls into line with the others. Her innocence is a thing of the past.
She is no longer a girl—she is a woman "who knows."
It was about a year ago that I saw a young girl, a beautiful little creature scarcely nineteen years old, at a Chicago theater. She was a beauty, even in comparison with the other comely girls in the squad of beginners.
While they were resting after an act I talked with her. She frankly told me she was stage struck, but that her desire to become a great actress was inborn and not gained by association. Before she came to the city from her home in a little town out in Iowa she had seen but one show. Her ideas of the stage had been gained from books and from day dreams.
Her conversation was the essence of innocence. Her family had been particular about her rearing. They had been in moderate circumstances and had given her everything in their power. Shehad come to Chicago to attain her ideal—to become a great actress.
She was of the frank and innocent type. Everybody she regarded as her friend. She was enthusiastic about her art. That her ambition would be realized she did not doubt for an instant.
It was ten months later when I met her again.
Her face wore a tell-tale look. The daintiness of bearing and innocent features were missing. Her shyness was gone. She was bold, and immeasureably aged.
A heavy coat of powder and rouge besmeared her face, but only served to make the dark circles beneath her eyes stand forth with more prominence. The simple, childish gown I had admired was replaced by a showy, flashy creation.
In one glance I read the answer, the secret of her changed existence.
When her eyes met mine, for a second in their dull depths I could see an expression of the old innocence. Probably it was the thought she entertained for that short space in the connecting of me with her old and pure existence.
When she spoke I could not be mistaken. Try as she did to appear the girl of old, it was useless. The pace had told and left its trace only too strongly written on every line of her face.
After the usual greeting I asked her to take dinner with me. She assented.
In the cafe I asked her what had happened. How she had fallen.
For a minute she sat gazing at me and her eyes filled with tears.
"Do I look that way? Can every one I meet read what I am?" she asked tearfully.
I tried to evade her questioning, but she pressed for an answer. Then I told her that I was afraid her secret was only too plainly written.
"Why don't you give it up and go home?" I asked her.
She thought a minute and then answered that she couldn't.
"I'm not as bad as lots of the others," she said desperately. "I don't hope and long any more to become a great actress.
"I found there were so many more girls who were more accomplished than me. I couldn't get anything but a chorus part. I became discouraged and went out for good times. I had them, I guess."
When I asked her to go home and try to begin over again her anger was aroused. The company she had kept had left its mark on her.
"Say, now, don't hand me any of that religious talk," was her angry answer. "It's nothing to you why I don't go home. I've had good times and I am going to have more of them."
I talked to her for a few minutes, but soon found argument to be useless. We ate our dinner quietly and without further words. When I parted with her it seemed as though it were for the last time. I knew the end that was near at hand—the specter that was waiting for her.
It was three weeks later when I saw her again. There was a different setting for the scene than at our two other meetings.
The scene was laid in a cell room at the Harrison street police station. On an iron cot lay a young girl. She was in a maudlin condition from drugs. Her clothes were dirty and torn. Her face was discolored and bloated.
It was the same girl—the little innocent show girl of a year before.
She had been arrested in a raid by the police on the notorious Clark street opium dive of On Ling Lung. Lying in a dirty cot in the rear of the basement den, she had been found by the raiders. She was unconscious. On a little stand by her side had been a little alcohol lamp. On the bunk beside her lay an opium pipe.
I asked the sergeant the details of her arrest.
"The station stool pigeons who had been watching the place saw her go down into it about a week ago," said the sergeant. "A well dressed Chinaman was with her. She looked as though she was drunk.
"We wanted to get all of those opium smokers down there all at once, so we waited a week. I don't think she has eaten much since she went there. Just laid there and smoked.
"After they get a taste of the dreamy stuff they can't leave it alone. It's poison and it just goes all through them.
"You don't want to monkey with her," the sergeant admonished when I suggested that I would see that care would be given her. "She's gone now. She got the taste, and there's no use trying to break it. You couldn't. She'll get a couple of months down in the Bridewell and it'll straighten her up for a while, but she'll be back in a little while.
"No, sir, there's no use talking, when they once get a whiff of that dope they might as well jump in the lake. They're no good."
She was still lying in a stupor on the iron cot when I left the dingy cell room. In a couple of hours she would awaken, but only to go into a delirium.
As I left I could see a vision of the innocent girl of the year before, standing among the sceneries of the down-town theater, telling of her ambitions.
How far had her whole being retrograded from that day!
But she was only one of many—a victim of the stage.
Probably the greatest agency through which girls are lured is the fake "theatrical agency."
In Chicago there exists many of these clearing houses for the vice trust. Sumptuous offices are maintained in great office buildings down town. Large office forces are necessary to carry on the enormous business they conduct.
These concerns operate usually under a name similar to those of the legitimate and responsible theatrical agencies. Their advertisements usually appear in papers in small towns and cities. The police keep a close watch on them, but without result.
Few of the girls obtained by the slavers through these agencies are ruined in the city.
The "theatrical agency" slaver works in this manner:
He advertises in papers all over the country for girls "who wish to take up theatrical work." Even in the city papers he inserts ads disguised, but with the same meaning.
Large salaries are offered to beginners. Chances of advancement within a few months to parts in plays are held out. Offers are made to sign contracts for several years' duration.
Every girl must answer the advertisement in person. This is imperative.
Scores of girls do answer the ads. They usually range from 16 to 21 years in age. The majority of them come from families in only moderate circumstances.
They are received with every courtesy. If the girl is good looking, of good figure and a fair entertainer she is "accepted" by the fashionably dressed manager. If she is not up to these requirements she is told to come back.
When the girl signs the "contract" her fate is sealed. Great inducements are offered her.
She is told that she must join a road company traveling in the west, and which will perform in a city probably 100 or 150 miles away on a near date.
The girl, happy at her good fortune, is enthusiastic. She bids her family a fond good-bye, the last, probably.
The kiss she places fondly on her mother's brow is that of a person going to her grave. The laughing farewells she has with her young friends are the last. The homecoming within a few months' time is never to be realized.
The signing of her name to the contract is the signing of her death warrant—yes, even worse than that.
In that stroke of the pen she signs away her body to the slavers.
Happily, probably accompanied by a relative,she goes to the "theatrical agency" office to obtain her railroad ticket. There she is introduced to a stylishly dressed man. He is to accompany her and several other girls down to the city where they are to join the troupe, she is told.
The stylishly dressed man is, in reality, her guard. It is his duty to see that none of the girls escape their fate. He is to hand them over to the divekeepers for a sum ranging from $50 to $1,000 each, at the end of their journey.
Until the girls are handed over to the denkeepers they are treated with the utmost respect.
They go to their fate like innocent sheep to the slaughter pen.
Probably they are taken to the city where they were told they were going. Probably there is a "sudden change of plans" after the girls are at the depot. They are then taken to another city from the destination told their relatives and friends.
On the arrival at the end of their journey they are met by a woman. She is stylishly dressed and wears many beautiful diamonds. She is probably introduced as the "leading lady." She has taken a special interest in the new girls. She offers to show them about the city.
It is probably at dinner or while they sleep innocently that night, dreaming of their good fortune, that they are robbed of their senses. Ahandkerchief, wet with chloroform or ether, spread over their faces does the work. Or it may be a small powder dropped in their coffee.
Then comes the awful awakening.
The scene changes to a den of vice. The young girls awake in a darkened room. Each one is alone. All of her clothes have been taken from her. She is nude. Her head seems to be bursting. It is the after-effect of the drug.
As she begins to regain her faculties more fully she makes out the figure of a man in her room. As he sees her beginning to revive he comes towards her. She attempts to cover up her nude body. She struggles to free herself as he grabs hold of her. He laughs at her pitiable efforts to repulse him.
What matter it if she does resist him! She has been ruined while she lay unconscious under the influence of the drug!
The young girl, terrified and ill, is easily made a friend of by the woman who comes to her and offers her sympathy. She drinks of the "medicine" that is offered her. In a few minutes she is in a maudlin condition.
It is more "dope."
Under the influence of this drug she is a mark at the hands of the denkeepers. She is given whisky and liquor. As the effects of the drugdie out she craves for more. Liquor is given in its stead.
For several weeks she may be kept in this state. She is maudlin and resents no liberties taken with her.
Then comes the awakening. When the divekeeper thinks she is sufficiently "broke in" she is refused liquor. She gradually becomes sober.
It is an awful awakening. The darkness of it all—the thought of her ruin drives her mad. She is watched carefully for days so that she can not harm herself. To forget the terrible things she is forced to do, she goes back to drink. Under its influence she is past knowing of her forced sins.
Her every hope is ruined. If she attempted to leave the place she would be beaten and imprisoned. The young girl is ashamed, anyway, to go home and confess the story of her "theatrical" career.
She stays behind and becomes one of them. In the little home, probably only a hundred miles away, a father and mother wait expectantly for her homecoming.
The wait is long, for she never returns. She has been swallowed up by the giant octopus, white slavery.
An example of this method of white slavery was recently exposed in the Chicago newspapers.
Two young girls, one 15 years old, the other 16, applied for positions at one of these "theatrical agencies." They were given positions in a "show" that was playing at Springfield, Illinois.
A big salary was guaranteed both of them. They were happy at their good luck. Both ran away from home to accept the positions. A man accompanied them to Springfield.
In a restaurant in the capital city of Illinois they were drugged. Poison was placed in their food. When they woke up they were in one of the lowest dives of the city, the "Big O" saloon and brothel.
In this place are kept fifty girls. The majority of them were obtained by a similar method. There is only one entrance to the floor on which the girls were confined. That door was to a stairway that connected the upper floor with the saloon. A man stood on guard to see that none of the girls escaped.
Three times the girls attempted to escape. In the last effort one of them was successful. The other two times the girls were beaten and starved when caught.
The girl who escaped made her way to a police station. She was garbed only in a short wrapper that reached barely to her knees. The remainder of her person was bare. Her clothes had been taken from her when she was taken to the place.
The police at once raided the place and rescued the other girl. The Chicago police were notified and returned both of them to their parents.
Both girls had been horribly treated. Every liberty that can be imagined had been taken with them. They had been forced to do acts beyond comprehension.
This is but one actual instance of the methods employed to lure girls to an awful fate, but it tells the story of hundreds.
This is but one method whereby the great slave mart of Chicago is kept in operation, sacrificing its thousands of girl to the demon lust.
The stage, with all its attractions, can be but the stepping stone to a life of shame, unless the girl is surrounded with every home protection.
It leads its victims a merry whirl, a gay, giddy time, while it lasts, but the end is always in sight.
The brothel flirts with the stage. It regards it as a needful source of supplies.
And the stage, fickle and flighty, lays its innocents on the altar.
Its sacrifice yearly in the great metropolis of the west is 1,000 victims a year.
The Tragedy of the Five Thousand.
It was the cold gray dawn of a late November morning. The scene is laid in the marshy slough far to the north of the buildings of the Dunning poor farm at the north edge of the city of Chicago.
In the chill and drizzling rain an aged, bent-shouldered man was digging. The soft, wet mud he tossed in a pile alongside of the hole in which he stood. Finally he slowly clambered out of the pit and surveyed his work.
The hole was nearly six feet long and three feet wide. It was about the latter in depth.
Suddenly the old man looked up. To the south of him he heard the rumble of a wagon. A few minutes later the rusty gate at the end of the meadow swung creakingly on its hinges. With a rattle and bounce the wagon again started towards him.
The wagon was a high boarded affair. On its side could be read the inscription, "City of Chicago," and then the number "321."
The vehicle drew up close to the hole. The driver reined in his galloping horses with a jerk at its side.
"Hello, Bill. Been waiting long?" yelled the driver to the old man as he jumped from his seat.
"Just finished," answered the digger.
The driver by this time was busy with the end-gate of his wagon. Letting it down, he pulled at a long box in the vehicle.
The box was a hastily constructed affair. It was of plain, unfinished boards. Sticking to the boards were pieces of colored lithographs, as though they had once been part of a dismantled billboard. The top consisted of two heavy planks roughly nailed on.
The driver struggled with the box a moment. Then he came around to where the aged man stood.
"You've got to help me, Bill. She's a darn heavy one," exclaimed the driver.
The two men clambered up on the wagon and grabbed hold of one end of the box. Together they lifted it in the air. The box slid to the ground, on end, with a thud.
The men took hold of the box and skidded it along the muddy ground to the pit. It was slid off to the top of the hole. There it stuck.
"Gee, Bill, you didn't get that hole long enough," exclaimed the driver.
"You guys up at the dead house didn't tell me she was a six footer," muttered the old man. "How'd you expect me to guess on these stiffs?"
"Never mind, Bill, I'll fix it," said the driver.
Then, suiting his words, he leaped high into the air and came down with a bound on one end of the box. The soft ground gave away after a few attempts and the big box sank with a sucking sound in the bottom of the hole.
"Take care of her good, Bill," yelled back the driver, as he clambered back on the seat of his wagon. "She's a swell one. She came from the E—— club. She certainly was a peach.
"Doc told me, when I was loading her on a while ago, that it was a dirty shame to waste such a good stiff. He said that if she hadn't been so far gone they'd have handed her over to the medical schools."
Then, with a rumble, the wagon started off on its return journey.
The old man gazed down for a moment on the box. On its top, inscribed with black paint, was the number "24331."
At the side of the pile of dirt lay a little six inch board, which the driver had thrown from the wagon. It, too, bore the number "24331."
The old man dug his spade into the wet dirt. Then he pitched a huge clod into the pit. It struck with a resounding bang on the lid of the box. In a few minutes the hole was filled. The old man stuck the numbered stick into the ground at the head of the mound.
Stretching away in long rows on either side, hundreds of other similar numbered sticks jutted from unkempt mounds.
The old digger shouldered his spade and started slowly to leave the scene. Then he stopped and slowly surveyed his work.
"A swell one, huh," he half muttered to himself. "Well, so was lots of the rest of them that's out here now—once."
Then, with a sigh, he started on his long trudge across the muddy meadow towards the buildings of the poorhouse.
It was the night of the same day.
The myriad of incandescents in the "red light" district lighted that section of the city as though it were day. Drunken crowds of fashionably dressed men caroused about the streets, hurling vile names at persons they met. Down at the edge of the district a fight was waging. A large crowd had collected. A blue-coated policeman dashed towards the combatants, club in hand. There was a wild scramble in all directions.
In the shadows of a big building a man was crouching. His cap was pulled low about his eyes to shield him from recognition.
He was a "roller," or holdup man. He was watching a particularly drunken man who staggeredalong the street. If the man went into the darkness his fate would be sealed. The "roller" would be upon him like a panther. A crunching blow on the head with the short lead bar that the robber gripped in his hand. Then a hurried searching of the man's pockets. The extracting of his money and watch. Then back into the darkness again to wait for a new victim.
Suddenly the man drew back further into his hiding place. An automobile had stopped directly opposite him, in front of the E—— club. A well dressed man leaped from the machine and gave orders to his chauffeur to wait until he returned.
The man hurried up the steps to the massive door. The bell pealed back in an inner parlor. A liveried servant opened the door. As the man entered a negress, an assistant keeper, came towards him.
"Hello, Mr. W——, where have you been for the last couple of weeks?" inquired the woman.
"Been out of town," answered the man. Then he glanced around the place.
"Where's Mabel?" he asked, with a laugh.
"She's not here any more," muttered the negress.
"What's the matter—sick, is she?" asked the visitor.
"Nope; worse. She croaked a couple of days ago," answered the woman.
"Too bad," answered the man. "She was a pretty girl. Well, that's the end of her, I guess. Got any new ones?"
"Yes, we got one in today to take her place," answered the woman. And then she added, with a laugh: "She thinks she's in a swell place and is going to have a big time. She's a beauty, though; eighteen years old and raised in a little town down state."
"All right, run her out and let me see her," broke in the man.
In the big den of vice there was no mourning. The mentioning of the dead girl's name was forbidden. The thought of death might act as a damper on the night's orgy. A day later she would not be missed. Another girl would take her place. Perchance some one might drop in some day and ask for her, but only in a matter-of-course way.
Only one girl in 80,000 dead. What did she count in that vast host?
One day, but a few weeks ago, I entered one of these dens on Armour avenue, in Chicago. I wandered up on to the second floor without the knowledge of the keepers. An open door attracted my attention. Peering in I saw a young girl lying on a bed.
Her head and face were swathed in bandages.
She seemed to be in great pain. On a table near at hand were several bottles of medicine. She was without a nurse and alone in the room.
I asked her what was the matter, but she only shook her head and refused to answer. I persisted. After much persuasion she lifted an edge of the bandage and exposed her face.
It was a mass of burns.
Before I could inquire further a negress keeper entered the room.
"You can't stay in here," she said angrily.
"What's the matter with the girl?" I asked.
"Oh, she got foolish the other day and took a dose of carbolic acid," was the answer. "She ain't burned bad—at least not as bad as I've seen lots of them. Don't give her any of that soft home talk and she'll get over it all right in a couple of days."
With this the woman held the door open and motioned for me to leave.
In the early morning, three days later, I happened to pass the same place. A wagon, painted black and without a name to designate its owner, was standing in the road at a side entrance.
I stood watching for a few minutes. Presently the door opened. Four men came out carrying between them an undertaker's stretcher. On it lay a body covered with a white sheet.
I approached and asked one who was dead.
"Just one of the girls here," was the answer. Then he added: "Say, but she's an awful sight; she took carbolic."
He pulled back the sheet. It was the girl whom the negress had said "got foolish."
"Where are you taking her?" I asked.
"Oh, she goes over to the county morgue. She ain't got any money and the house didn't want to pay for her burial. No one knows where her folks live and I don't expect they'd want her anyhow if they found out what she was doing up here. The students will get her, I suppose."
"Hurry her up, Joe," broke in another one of the men at this juncture; "let us get away from here. The boss inside'll be sore if we stick around. He ain't anxious to advertise the fact that he'd had a dead one in his house."
The men jumped on the wagon. The horses started on a trot with their burden towards the county morgue.
In one den is a girl who has saved $5,000 from the money she derived from the sale of her body. She is in a class by herself in this respect, for but a few of them save a cent.
This girl was, a few years ago, a stenographer. She was ruined by her employer and finally,when he had tired of her, discharged from her position. She had saved nothing. Penniless and without friends, she heeded the advice of an evil companion and entered a house of prostitution.
Every cent she could eke and scrape she has saved since she entered this den. Her hope was that she might be able to save enough so that she could go to the far west and live down her past life. But the grasp of the devil held her to her bargain. When the time came she found that she could not break off her unnatural habits. She could not be innocent and good again. So she stayed behind.
"How long do you think you will be able to keep up this life?" I asked her.
"Oh, four or five years, I guess," she answered between puffs of a cigarette she was smoking.
"What are you going to do then?"
"I'm not thinking about that time," she said.
"When I get worn out and they tell me they don't want me here any more, I'll go somewhere—I'm not worrying where.
"I'd quit now, but what's the use? If I left here every one would be kicking me down in the gutter. Now suppose I wanted to be good, would mothers you know want their nice, innocent daughters associating with me? No, you know they wouldn't. It would be only a couple of weeks and then I'd be back again."
"Have any of the girls in this place saved money except you?" was asked.
"There isn't a girl in the place who has ten dollars to her name except me," was the answer.
"How long have the majority of them been leading this life?"
"Most of them about two or three years. You see, this is a 'dollar house.' We don't get many of the young ones in here," was the reply.
"How are you paid in this place?" was asked.
"The girls get half of what they get from men. Then they get a tin check for two and a half cents for every bottle of beer they drink with the fellows that come in. They have to accept every drink offered them.
"They are charged five dollars a week for their board here by the keeper of the place. They have to buy all their clothes through him, too. They are charged big prices, so they don't have a chance to save."
"What does the average girl make in this place?" was asked.
"Oh, $12 to $18 a week, I guess. They have to pay their board and for their clothes out of that," replied the girl.
In the "red light" district of Chicago is an organized "trust." At its head are five big politicians. They practically control the district.
The trust owns a dry goods store, a grocerystore, a delicatessen, a drug store, a restaurant and a hotel. It has its own manicure parlors, its own dentist parlor and its own doctors. Every necessity of the denizens of the vice ridden district is catered to by this company.
The girls of the district must patronize them. This is an iron-bound order that cannot be broken.
Suppose that a girl in one of the dens wishes to purchase a dress. She goes to the dry goods store. There she makes her choice.
Before she leaves the house in which she is an inmate, the person in charge there gives her a slip of paper. It certifies that she is an inmate of that house.
She hands this to the shop keeper. After she has made her purchase she is handed back another slip. On it is marked the price of the dress. It is always double or triple the amount for which she could have purchased the same article at any other store.
When she returns to the house she turns this slip in. At the end of the week, when the house gives her the money she has earned, that exorbitant charge is deducted from the amount.
This conveys but a small idea of the bondage system that holds the girls of the district in its grasp. The exorbitant prices charged the girls for commodities keeps them constantly indebtedto the keeper of the den where they are inmates. They never get ahead.
If a girl attempted to leave the house without satisfying this debt her clothes would be taken from her. If she ran away she would probably be arrested, charged with theft or some other crime. Perjured testimony would be introduced against her. Her word would count for little. In court she would be regarded as a fallen woman. What she might say would be scorned. A jail sentence would be the result.
This is one of the many reasons why few girls leave these dens after they have once become inmates.
The white slaver, who hands young innocent girls over to this ghastly, reeking life, is not a type. He may be a prize fighter, an army officer, son of a preacher or a banker.
A year ago Chicago was startled when in a round-up of these local drivers of white slaves, the young man Leonard, son of a banker, skilled bank clerk and idol of his mother, was fined $200 and costs for his crime.
It was a former officer in the Hungarian army who but a short time ago in Chicago showed this hold that white slavery has upon the slaver. In this case the man Sterk received a sentence of one year in prison. Sterk was a man of family. He placed Tereza Jenney in a resort in Budapestand was living upon her shame. The girl escaped after a year and came to Chicago. Sterk, deserting his family, followed by the next boat. His income was gone. To get the woman back was his necessity.
But Sterk made a faux pas. He appealed to the government to deport his victim and made arrangements to return with her on the same boat. When under faulty indictment Sterk escaped the United States court, he was caught on a state charge and convicted.
In many cases, however, the court has had no chance to intervene. The girls go on and on in their lives of shame. Disease overtakes them in the end. Weakened physically by their excesses, they are unable to cope with it. Liquor and cigarettes leave tell-tale ravages.
Hopelessly battling against grim disease, the victim goes deeper and deeper into the last depths of repulsiveness. Her only hope of forgetting her affliction is in drunkenness. She loses all her womanly instincts and is a fiend. Finally liquor fails to keep her in that state of stupor in which she must remain. Cocaine and morphine are resorted to.
One day she regains consciousness. The darkness of her horrible existence enshrouds her. Remorse and recollections of her past engulf her. She realizes the futileness of her life.
Then comes the end.
Maybe it is by the aid of a bottle of chloroform; maybe a gas jet is turned on; maybe there is the lifeless body of an "unknown" woman taken from the waters of Lake Michigan the next morning.
There are no tears wasted. A shrug of the shoulders on the part of the owner of the resort—probably he swears a bit when her name is mentioned. He hates to have such things happen to girls in his place, because "people might think that he is hard with people."
The murderer goes to the gallows with the priest and minister at his side. He is given his chance of repentance. He is given religious consolation.
To the fallen woman—once pure and innocent—dragged to her shame through her innocence—is held out no comfort. She is not given the opportunity to repent. She is a thing, repellant and abhorred. The very mention of her name brings a derisive laugh. No masses are said for the repose of her soul. Religious consolation is not to be thought of.
Her obituary is the notice, hidden among the advertisements of the local newspapers.
Notice: The body of Mabel Gormly, who died on November 15, 1909, is being held at the countymorgue. If the same is not claimed by relatives within five days it will be disposed of according to law.
Disposed of according to law means that it will be turned over to the medical schools for dissection, or if the body is not fit for such, will be carted to the pauper's graveyard at the poor farm.
With a few changes in minor detail this tells the story of the five thousand.
It tells of the end of the 5,000 innocents who yearly are lured to a life of shame in the city of Chicago alone.
It tells the story of the vacant chair at the hearthside of many a home throughout the country.
It is the annual tragedy, repeated not once, but 5,000 times yearly, in Chicago.
The end is the dissecting table—the potter's field—the lake.
The Tragedy of the Little Lace Maker.
(ELLA GINGLES' OWN STORY.)
As a prelude to the story which Ella Gingles tells for herself from the beginning of her trip from Ireland to America and her horrible experiences, the following letter which was received by Attorney Patrick H. O'Donnell from her pastor, is printed.
Larne Manse, Larne, Co. Antrim, Ireland.29th June, 1909.
Dear Sir:—
Last evening two American ladies, Miss Hopkins, of Chicago, and Mrs. Murphy, of Minneapolis, called upon me with reference to the poor young girl, Ella Gingles, whom, like a chivalrous-hearted Irishman, you have done and are doing so much to protect and defend. I know her well, her father is a member of the Congregation of which I am minister, as were his ancestors before him. He is a large farmer, well off, as Irish farmers go here in the North of Ireland, and his wife, Ella's mother, is an exceedingly nice, gentle-hearted woman. They have had a large family—thirteen, if my memory serves me—and as their minister I christened them alland have seen them grow up from infancy. Ella was frequently under my roof, as she was on friendly terms with two young ladies—my adopted daughters—who reside with me. I always found her a bright, cheerful, well-principled girl, clever in many ways with her needle, etc., and especially in the art of crocheting and manufacturing lace. In the latter branches I know that she won prizes at our local annual industrial exhibitions in the town of Larne. But the family being large and their not being particularly prosperous here in Ireland, she and other young members of the family, like many other young people of energy and enterprise, have sought a land of better promise across the Atlantic with sad results to her unfortunately. As I have said, she is the child of respectable and well-off parents. She, herself so far as I know, has always been respectable and well conducted in every way, with a large infusion of enterprise and determination in her character; so that you may proceed in your generous and energetic endeavors in her behalf with the most entire confidence in her integrity in every respect. Accept for yourself and convey to those truly Christian people who are associated with you in the defense of an innocent, but much-injured young girl, the assurance of the most sincere gratitude and admiration, not only of the writer, but of the sorely-strickenparents and friends of poor Ella, and believe me,
Sincerely yours,J. Kennedy,Minister of the Old Presbyterian Congregationof Larne & Kilwaughter.(Postmarked): "Larne, Ireland, June 30, 1909."
By Ella Gingles.
It is a long and hard way when one must set forth to expose one's own butchery, shame and misfortune, but I feel that in telling this story the very fact that I have been a victim will carry with it weight.
It is a far cry from the green hills of Larne, from the wet meadows, glistening with the rains, from the song of the nightingale in the gathering dusk, the sweetness, the beauty of that green island which I call my home and which will henceforth be my only home, to the mire and filth of a criminal court in the city of Chicago, to the unspeakable horrors through which I have been dragged, and to the desperation to which I was driven.
Yes, this is a very far cry, from sweetness and light to mire and filth, but I feel that in justice to myself I must tell this thing as it is. I do not feel now as if this mire and filth had touched my person. I feel today that although I have been the victim of human fiends, although I have beenmore monstrously abused than any other girl of my age or character in the world, I myself am as clean and pure as on the day when I left that little Irish homestead 18 miles from Belfast and came to America. One who is murdered is not a murderer, nor is one who is outraged a person of bad character. And a clean mind soon forgets even the most terrible episodes, the most awful happenings. Yes, I will forget everything that has happened and become again the girl who left Ireland such a short time ago to become a victim of fiends.
There are things that one must try to forget, although I know in my heart that my sleep till my dying day will be haunted by the pictures of the demons who have worked their will upon me and who if they had their just deserts should burn in deepest hades forever. But I will forget, I must forget. If I do not forget I shall go mad.
They say that I have been cool, calm and collected on the witness stand during my trial. I have been cool, calm and collected because I was telling the truth, but the reaction from those awful hours in court have been so terrible that I shudder even yet to think of them.
It was only the thought of the green hills, of the heather, of the blossoms in Spring and the yellow corn at harvest time, of the cuddling mother love, of the kindly faces which will notturn away because I have been tortured—just the green hills, the green hills, and the rains and the sunshine and the light and the purity—I can say no more, but they will help me to forget, they will help me to become again the girl who won the lace prizes in Larne and the girl who had not been the victim of fiends. I will forget there. I could never forget here. America has become to me a nightmare, a horror; the name stands to me for all that is vile, horrible, unmentionable.
I am telling my story, not because I have any animus against anybody, not because I wish to get even with anybody, not because I wish to clear my own name, because I believe that has been cleared before the world by the solemn edict of a jury—not because I wish to create or to have brought forth the terrible things which were done to me.
I am telling this story in the hope of saving other girls, who like myself may be in danger from the beastly "slavers" and a life of shame. If I can but save a few girls from this horrible fate, if I can only help, in some modest way, to protect womanhood from the horrors of white slavery, I shall feel happy for laying bare my soul and giving to the world the true story of the attempt to make a white slave out of me.
I feel that I must write it, that American girls,and girls of foreign birth who come to America, will not be misled and trapped as I was into the veritable jaws of hell. If I can keep a single girl out of this hell on earth by telling the plain story of what happened to me, I shall feel that I have done my duty by myself.
I am told by men who know about these awful things that my case is only one of many. What happened to me may be an isolated instance and I am told that it is representative of the workings of the panders for the "upper ring," or the dealing in girls' bodies by rich men, rather than the selling of girls to cheap resorts through a quicker route.
I feel that there is no pit too deep for people who will send an innocent girl into a life of shame, who will throw temptation in a girl's way, and will, when temptation fails, resort to force to drive her into hades itself.
I was born in Larne, Ireland. My parents are respectable middle class people and property owners. Our family is a large one, there being thirteen children. We are protestants, as are most of the people of that particular district of Ireland, our church being the Presbyterian. We have always been members of that church, as the letter from our pastor shows.
Larne, the city where I was reared, is a little town about 18 miles from Belfast. One of theprincipal industries of the town is the making of hand-made Irish laces. I was brought up to the lace-making trade. I won several prizes against the best lace-makers in the Belfast region. I have invented one particular lace pattern of my own, an improved "grape-vine pattern." With this I won the lace-making prize in Larne on the occasion.
In Ireland there are continual tales of America, how easy it is to make money over there. I had never been farther away from Larne than Belfast in all my life. Many Irish girls had come to America, worked for a time and returned home with money, placing herself in a position to help out her parents in their old age. These stories attracted me. I met girls who had been to America. They had made lots of money and had fine clothes. The name America soon came to mean to me a golden land in the West, as it has meant to many another simple Irish girl. The spell came upon me so strongly that I could think of nothing else. I could see nothing but a golden land, and a fortune that I could make there with my laces, for I had heard that fabulous prices were paid for Irish laces in America. I begged my people to let me go to America. After much pleading they gave their consent.
I was about to purchase my ticket in Belfast when word reached me that Belle Raymond, agirl I knew in Belfast and who had already purchased her ticket but had been taken ill, would be unable to make the trip. I thought I might get this ticket a little cheaper. I did save quite a little by purchasing her ticket, but I was obliged, on account of the registration of her name, to come under her name. My enemies have made much of the fact that I had gone under Belle Raymond's name. I am sorry now that I did it after all that has come out in connection with my terrible experiences. But I hope I will not be too severely blamed for doing what so many other people, even business people of integrity, have been known to do. To travel on another person's pass is undoubtedly wrong, but it is not a heinous crime.