Union Brother
Alan Ellis was a coal miner and union organizer who had uninvited guests one night.
Written by Eric Shipley and Charlotte Easterling
Fulton County, IL: May 1921
Illustration of Alan Ellis by Charlotte Easterling
Alan Ellis was angry. And when he thought about it, he had been for a long time, most of his life, in fact. Perhaps it was because he’d had to start working in the coal mines of southern Illinois when he was just a boy. Perhaps his dad, a lifelong coal miner from Wales, had passed down the anger he’d built up living and working under the poverty and inhumanity imposed by mine owners. It probably was both.
Portrait of John L. Lewis. By Paul Thompson - The World's Work: https://archive.org/stream/worldswork43gard#page/454/mode/2up, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=30896504
But anger wasn’t all he’d inherited from his dad. He’d also gotten the broad shoulders, stocky frame, and short stature. (In fact, another miner had said he was “short on one end” once… but only once!) His ruddy complexion and short temper were most likely inherited as well, and both traits were plainly evident.
In any case, he was now using his anger to rally the other coal miners to join and fight for the United Mine Workers. It was something he’d learned from John L. Lewis, the UMW President. (Upon meeting Lewis, the first thing Alan noticed was that the rumors about his imposing eyebrows were true.)
There had been strikes and violence in the recent past, and he knew in the pit of his stomach that more was coming, most likely soon.
But how soon? he asked himself as he pulled into the gravel driveway of his small, semi-rural house.
And as that question echoed in his head, he allowed himself a sigh and a moment to rest his forehead against the steering wheel.
So tired, he thought, then got angry all over again, this time at himself. He was only thirty—he had no right to be tired!
Alan made an honest attempt to quell his anger. He knew he was a hard man, but that was necessary to do what he had to do. The way the miners were treated was more than unjust, it was immoral. It might not technically be slavery, but with the pitiful pay and dangerous conditions, and that damned company store, it wasn’t far off. Still, he tried not to let that affect how he treated his very pregnant wife, Betty, or their kids, so he took a deep breath before going inside.
***
“Dada!” exclaimed Violet, just over a year old, as she threw open her arms. Betty was holding her but gave her to Alan when she squirmed.
“Hi, pretty girl,” he said, taking her and giving her a kiss. Then he gave Betty one as well. Her blue eyes captivated him just as much as when they’d met.
Just like a robin’s egg, he thought.
He greeted his stepsons, Marty (who was eleven) and Del (who was six), then went to get a bottle of beer from the icebox.
“Come sit down, and have a bite to eat,” said Betty and gestured to the table where something in a pot smelled good.
***
Dinner passed normally, with no more than mundane talk about how school and work had gone. And within a short time after finishing, Alan was overcome with exhaustion and settled in his chair by the fireplace for another beer and a nap. Not long after (or it seemed that way), Betty gently shook his shoulder.
“Time for bed,” she said.
She’d kept the boys and Violet reasonably quiet, although Alan didn’t fully appreciate how monumental a task that was. And she’d cleaned up too, also a monumental task given her swollen abdomen and very sore feet.
He shook himself nominally awake, then said, “Time for bed boys.” They groused, so he went on. “No backtalk. Wash your faces and tuck in.” They obeyed, albeit with token objections that annoyed Alan. He considered a more harsh follow-up, but decided against it. Betty already had Violet ready for bed, so he went to get himself ready.
***
The next thing he remembered was being shaken awake.
“Alan, wake up,” Betty whispered urgently. “Something’s going on outside.”
After hurriedly pulling on pants and a shirt, he went to the closet and took out his double-barrel shotgun and a box of shells.
Betty was standing too, holding Violet who was crying. “Alan, don’t–”
“Quiet,” he snapped, then softened a bit. “Stay in here and look after the kids.”
She just nodded and looked worried and frightened. By this time, Marty and Del were also up and came to the bedroom door. They were confused.
“Dad, what…” Marty began.
“You just stay in here and help your mother!”
“But–”
“You mind me! Get in here!”
They did as they were told, and Alan approached the front door. Something was flickering brightly outside, and he had a feeling he knew what it was. He pulled aside the curtain on the front door window.
Photo: Adirondack Almanack
Yes indeed, he thought angrily. A burning cross stood in front of his house, and not far beyond, there was a truck full of Klansmen in their white robes and pointed white hats. He could see through the window that they had rifles that they started firing in the air, and he could hear their shouted taunts through the door.
“Damn Welsh taff! You’d best knock off that union shit or someone’s gonna get hurt!”
Alan saw red and cocked the shotgun. He wanted to kill them all. Those bastards—threatening him, and then much worse, his family! He started to throw the door open but stopped when he heard a gasp from behind. He turned and saw Betty imploring him with her eyes. Please don’t.
It gave him a moment of pause.
Just like a robin’s egg, he thought again and glanced back out the window. There must be at least a half dozen of them. He knew he’d be lucky to hit one or two before they got him.
Then what?
It took him only a second to decide—he had to keep his family safe. He got a grip on his rage, and presently, the truck drove off with more gunshots and shouting.
When they were out of sight, he uncocked the gun, then opened it and took out the shells. Violet was crying loudly, and he could see tears streaming down Betty’s face. Marty was clearly holding back, but Del was not. He set the gun on the table and went to them.
“It’s all right,” he comforted. “They’re gone.”
As he held them, he remembered something John Lewis had said:
If the KKK is mad at you, you’re doing something right!
True enough. But it didn’t mollify him. Crossing picket lines was bad enough, but tonight those bastards had crossed a different line they should not have crossed. He was angry before; now he was enraged. And his union brothers would be too.
Map showing the location of Fulton County, Illinois. Map: Google Maps
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From Strongman to Strong Man
Dominicus Klimas was a Lithuanian immigrant working to find his place in the world. He found his strength in the circus.
Written by Eric Shipley and Charlotte Easterling
Orange, Massachusetts, 1928
Orange, Massachusetts; View from the South Main St. bridge looking north. Image: digitalcommonwealth.org
Joe pulled his car into the field where the circus was starting to tear down. Seated next to him was his brother-in-law, Dominicus, a bear of a man with wavy red hair.
“Sure about this?” Joe asked.
The second-guessing was irritating, especially now that it was down to the last minute.
“Yes,” Dominicus replied with exasperation. “We talked about this. My mind is made up.”
Joe rubbed his forehead. “Okay, okay. I still have a hard time believing you’re running away to join the circus, of all things… But you’re twenty. Do as you please.”
Dominicus looked away. “I have to. You know why.”
The whole family had been excited about going to the circus, but his youngest sister, Flora (just five years old) and little brother, Freddie (who, at twelve years old, hated being called “little”) had been especially thrilled. Dominicus hoped they hadn’t noticed how making plans to go had reignited some long-standing feuds.
Papa was partly to blame. Freddie was actually his bastard son, and Mother had never forgiven his infidelity. Thereby, Myra, his not-so-sweet sixteen sister, hated Papa. Then there was Karolina, his older sister (by two years) who, according to Mother, had had the unforgivable nerve to elope with James, a man she didn’t approve of.
Thankfully, there was no trouble surrounding his sister Audra. She was only a year younger than Dominicus and was married to Joe (who Mother did approve of). This kept the outing from being a complete disaster, but without Papa and Karolina, it felt like the family was hopelessly fractured.
He had been captivated by the circus, though. The bright lights and shows and the cheerful hustle and bustle felt like something he had to be part of. But was he running away? Maybe, but it felt right.
He turned back to Joe. “Take care of yourself and Audra, yes?”
“Of course.”
They hugged briefly, then Dominicus grabbed the small bag that held his few belongings and got out of the car. He gave a quick wave goodbye, then turned and ran across the field towards the circus lights.
***
“You’re a big one,” said the manager, a wiry, dark-haired man who introduced himself as Bruno. “I’ll wager you’re strong too?”
Dominicus nodded eagerly. “Yes, sir! I am!” he said and hefted a nearby crate.
Bruno was impressed. “What’s your name?”
“Dominicus Klimas.”
“Russian?”
“No, sir! Lithuanian!” Dominicus hated being called Russian.
This time, Bruno was unimpressed. “Whatever. You’re hired.” They shook hands, and with that, Dominicus had joined the circus.
***
Photo shows a crowd of people at the entrance to a circus tent. On the right, sideshow attractions can be seen. Ca. late 1920s-early 1903s. Photo: fineartstorehouse.com
He never regretted his choice. Every day, he felt useful: setting up and tearing down, driving trucks, making repairs, tending to the animals (which he enjoyed greatly, even though it could be both dangerous and disgusting—especially the elephants).
When he got an hour or two off, he would sometimes visit a nearby town. The pay wasn’t great, but room and board was free, and beer (sometimes whiskey or vodka) was plentiful. There were other benefits he hadn’t expected, like the women in the troupe who would congregate and watch when he was working with his shirt off. They often wanted to do more than watch.
June, 1929
The noon sun was hot, and Dominicus was getting a drink of water when Bruno walked up.
“Sergei is leaving,” he said without preamble.
Sergei was the strongman, one of their most popular acts. He’d been with the circus for a few years and had decided to break into acting in the movies. Dominicus was sorry to hear this. He liked and respected Sergei. With the man’s tremendous strength, he could’ve easily been a bully, but he wasn’t.
“We need a new strongman,” Bruno continued. “Sergei won’t leave for a few more weeks, so he’ll train you.”
It took a moment, then Dominicus realized what Bruno was saying.
“You want me to be the new strongman?”
Bruno laughed. “Sure! A big Russian redhead will be a crowd pleaser.”
Dominicus bristled. “I said before, I’m not Russian! I’m Lithuanian!”
Bruno was still unimpressed. “Okay, fine. You’ll need to grow a mustache and you should exaggerate your accent. Doesn’t matter what it is—audiences love an accent.”
“So you want me to talk too?!” Dominicus could feel his heart racing. “I’d rather shovel elephant shit!”
“What is it with you big guys? Sergei was the same way when he started.” Bruno shrugged and put his hands up. “It doesn’t matter. He got good at his act, and so will you. He’ll teach you what you need to know. Congratulations!”
Bruno offered a handshake that Dominicus took, dazed and confused. What just happened? He thought.
August, 1929
“You’ll do great, kid!”
Dominicus jumped, startled by the clown on stilts who called down to him on the way to the stage.
“Thanks,” he called back, then returned to squirming in his very snug singlet. He felt like he hadn’t had a choice in being the new strongman, and the lights and crowds that had been so enticing now unnerved him. He did his best to put his trepidation aside and focus on the act Sergei had helped him create. The demonstrations of strength and showmanship still made Dominicus uncomfortable—they were all designed to make things seem more dramatic and dangerous than they actually were.
Bruno, theatrical in his red tailcoat and black top hat, introduced him. “And now, be amazed by the prodigious strength of our Russian giant! Introducing the Mighty Dominicus!”
Being called Russian yet again made Dominicus angry, but Bruno clearly didn’t care. And he wasn’t the first one Bruno had rebranded, which brought to mind a certain conversation with Sergei:
“No, brother, I’m Irish. My name is really Sean.”
Dominicus did a double-take. “So your Russian accent is a put on.”
“Aye lad. I protested, but Bruno wouldn’t budge,” said Segei/Sean with a laugh and wink.
An example of a strongman act: Ivan “The Great” demonstrates his strength by holding a plank with five dancing couples on it. 1924. Photo: rarehistoricalphotos.com
Dominicus scowled as uncharitable thoughts about Bruno occurred to him, but he decided to keep the scowl; it worked well for his performance. So he strode onto the stage and began. He flexed his muscles and strutted about, lifting a series of heavy objects and playing up the difficulty with some of them. To his delight, there was soon applause and cheering from the audience.
After that first show, he got over his nervousness and started inviting audience members to sit on a platform he would lift, pick weights for him, and choose bars for him to bend. After his performances, he would circulate in the crowd and revel in the delight people showed when he lifted them. And if it got him a kiss from a pretty girl, so much the better.
October, 1929
Dominicus sent postcards and letters to his family, but they didn’t write back. Until one day when a letter from Audra arrived. He was thrilled until he read the bad news: Mother had died.
He was shocked and saddened and felt a deep sense of loss. She’d been just forty-five! Audra wrote that they’d been to visit her just a few days before her death, and she’d seemed fine. The doctors said it was a stroke, so there was nothing that could’ve been done. Even so, Dominicus was crushed. And to make things worse (if that was possible), Audra’s letter was delivered after Mother’s funeral, so he didn’t get a chance to attend it.
November, 1929
Another letter came from Myra not long after Audra’s. It was a terse note telling him that Joe had died of a ruptured appendix not long after Mother’s death. Dominicus was again shocked and saddened. He’d always expected to see Joe again. And as with Mother, by the time he got Myra’s note, Joe’s funeral had already happened. It brought tears to his eyes.
Finally, at the end, Myra wrote that Papa was coming to get all of them and move them to New York where he was living and working.
He’s finally taking care of the family, dominicus thought, glad for a bit of good news.
He wrote back the same day, sharing good memories and offering what comfort he could.
August, 1930
Illustration of Dominicus Klimas by Charlotte Easterling
It was months later when Bruno announced that they’d be stopping in Nashua, where Karolina lived. Dominicus wrote to her and asked her to come visit. She promptly wrote back (which surprised and elated him) and accepted his invitation. So shortly after the circus was set up just outside Nashua, she arrived with her two oldest children in tow. She was taken aback to see him in his costume with his red handlebar mustache.
It didn’t take long for her to get over her surprise, then she introduced him to Adrian, who was seven, and Helen, who was five. They were wide-eyed, and Dominicus was concerned it might, at least partly, be fear. So he got down on one knee.
“Hello there,” he said to them.
They continued to stare but seemed a bit less shy, so he put a hand on each of their heads, then gently scooped them up, one after the other, and set them on his broad shoulders. Karolina laughed and clapped. After a minute, however, they started looking anxious. She helped get them back down, and then held on to their hands. Dominicus said that he’d made arrangements for them to do and see anything they wanted for free.
“Oh, thank you,” she said, smiling gratefully. She would’ve given him a hug, but upon hearing that everything was free, the two children started to tug at her.
“Slow down and stay with me!” Karolina shouted to be heard over the roar of the crowd. The kids relented, but only just. She knew impatient whines weren’t far off and gave Dominicus a small, wan smile.
“How are you? You look tired,” he said.
She dismissed it with a shake of her head. “I have four children, Dominicus. How else should I look?”
“Mama!” the children chorused.
Dominicus turned to them. “What would you like to do?”
After a short debate, they settled on going to see the elephants.
“Then that’s where we’ll start,” he said and mimed an elephant trunk with his forearm. They all laughed, then he guided them to the main tent. Nobody got in their way.
***
Later, when they were eating and the kids were distracted, Karolina confided that James had lost his job. He was looking for work but hadn’t found anything yet.
“I’m sorry. I wish I could help. This damn–” Karolina cut him off with a finger to her lips.
“Sorry,” Dominicus apologized. “This Depression has everyone hurting.”
Karolina agreed and continued eating without saying anything more. Dominicus realized the conversation was over and went on eating as well. Afterwards, the children were getting sleepy, so they said their goodbyes. Before they left, though, Dominicus slipped some money into her hand. She started to protest, but this time he cut her off.
“Just some traveling money.”
May, 1931
Dominicus was still with the circus when he heard from Myra again. More bad news—Papa had died. Myra was eighteen now and wrote that she’d taken Freddie and Flora back to Massachusetts. Audra, however, was staying in New York and wouldn’t say what she was going to do on her own.
Dominicus read this, thought for a moment, then went to find Bruno.
June, 1931
The circus was in Orange again.
Where it all started, Dominicus thought with a sigh. Except Mother and Papa and Joe aren’t here.
This would be his last stop. After his final performance, he said his farewells, which concluded by exchanging thanks and a handshake with Bruno. Afterwards, he lingered for a minute and looked around, then got into a truck waiting in the surrounding field. The youngster in the driver’s seat wisely stayed quiet as they pulled out and headed into town. Dominicus clutched his small bag of belongings. It was the same one he had when he started out, except it was now stuffed with souvenirs. And the field they’d just left could easily be the same one where Joe had dropped him off three years ago.
He wasn’t sure how to feel. The happiest time he’d known was ending, and it was daunting to think about what might come next. But at the same time, he felt strangely good. When he left before, he was running away. Now, he was going back to take up his responsibilities. He smirked at the irony. It seemed like being the strongman was what had taught him to actually be a strong man.
He looked in the rearview mirror. He couldn’t see the circus anymore.
Map of the locations in the story, left to right: Nassau, New York (where Dominicus’s father lived); Orange, MA; Athol, MA (where Dominicus’s mother lived); and Nashua, NH. Map: Google Maps.
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Baby Bootlegger
Meet five-year-old Helen, whose first job wasn’t quite legal. This post is a subscriber bonus.
Helen Mazunas hauled her ratty little wooden wagon along the rough sidewalk in Nashua, New Hampshire, intent on making her deliveries. The bottles clattered under their canvas as the wagon bounced, and she turned to make sure none had fallen out. She knew that the clear liquid in them was for grown-ups only. She was just five years old—the stinky stuff that Mr. John called his “namie” (home-made) didn’t interest her. But when she knocked on doors, the adults who answered were always happy to see her, but only after a few furtive glances up and down the street.