Almost instantly on the appearance of these bills, this unhappy man and a young Jewish friend who chanced to be with him at the time of his arrest were seized and murdered by the government officers—­the friend drowned, the farmer struck dead with the blow of a cudgel.  A Christian mob formed, and the officers and the mob ravaged every Jewish house in the little town.  Thirty innocent Jews were clubbed to death, and then literally cut to pieces.  Natalya and her family, who occupied the last house on the street, crept unnoticed to the shack of a Roman Catholic friend, a woman who hid sixteen Jewish people under the straw of the hut in the fields where she lived, in one room, with eight children and some pigs and chickens.  Hastily taking from a drawer a little bright-painted plaster image of a wounded saint, this woman placed it over the door as a means of averting suspicion.  Her ruse was successful.  “Are there Jews here?” the officer called to her, half an hour afterward, as the mob came over the fields to her house.

“No,” said the woman.

“Open the door and let me see.”

The woman flung open the door.  But, as he was quite unsuspecting, the officer glanced in only very casually; and it was in utter ignorance that the rage of the mob went on over the fields, past the jammed little room of breathless Jews.

As soon as the army withdrew from the town, Natalya and her family made their way to America, where, they had been told, one had the right of free belief and of free speech.  Here they settled on the sixth floor of a tenement on Monroe Street, on the East Side of New York.  Nothing more different from the open, silent country of the steppes could be conceived than the place around them.

The vista of the New York street is flanked by high rows of dingy brick tenements, fringed with jutting white iron fire-escapes, and hung with bulging feather-beds and pillows, puffing from the windows.  By day and by night the sidewalks and roads are crowded with people,—­bearded old men with caps, bare-headed wigged women, beautiful young girls, half-dressed babies swarming in the gutters, playing jacks.  Push carts, lit at night with flaring torches, line the pavements and make the whole thronged, talking place an open market, stuck with signs and filled with merchandise and barter.  Everybody stays out of doors as much as possible.  In summer-time the children sleep on the steps, and on covered chicken coops along the sidewalk; for, inside, the rooms are too often small and stifling, some on inner courts close-hung with washing, some of them practically closets, without any opening whatever to the outer air.

Many, many of Natalya’s neighbors here are occupied in the garment trade.  According to the United States census of 1900, the men’s clothing made in factories in New York City amounted to nearly three times as much as that manufactured in any other city in the United States.  The women’s clothing made in factories in New York City amounted to more than ten times that made in any other city; the manufacture of women’s ready-made clothing in this country is, indeed, almost completely in the hands of New York’s immense Jewish population.[12]