Fritz looked up at the ornate cuckoo clock, said it was late as Hannah entered and shooed her “boys” to bed. Jane remained to help tidy up the parlor, turn off the lights, check the windows and doors, then followed her husband up to bed. That night, when he fell asleep without touching her, she shocked herself by wondering why he hadn’t.
The more Jane found herself thinking about her status as wife, the more this confused her. Why should she be concerned, even influenced by a man’s moods, his attitudes? Why should it mater, all of a sudden how he reacted to her? She knew she was not like Camilla, who came unstuck if a man just looked at her, and an Antonia—she was most emphatically not; going around needing to entice a man as though always hungry, looking for nourishment—Jane thought debasing. Yet she remembered how John had been attracted by just that. So why hadn’t he chosen Antonia, who by all indications, would probably relish the so punctual nightly exercise. And why was she taking the time thinking such ridiculous thoughts when she had work to do and should be doing it? Well, the next time John touched her, she would be the one to turn away—go to sleep. See how he would like that! As Hannah would say, “tit-for-tat.” Do him good.
Most evenings now, the Ford men talked shop. In the testing sections, the new assembly system was giving everyone trouble; by demanding that workers remained stationary while a line moved, not only its rate of speed but its height became a crucial point of discussion. Men who knew their craft, had been in command of their every move to execute its skilled perfection, now were being asked to perform within a stationary position—rooted in place, as assembly, broken down to a wide range of separate components passed by, dictating the rhythm of their every action. Jane in her usual corner, darning needle busy, listened, as always fascinated by anything to do with her husband’s idol and his so famous “flivver” that had given the common man his freedom to roam.
As foreman, always a mother-hen type when dedicated, Carl worried about his men. “John, lifting the line to waist level may solve the stooping problem but still … Okay—I know—they clocked us when we walked and it took too long … still, we knew what we were doing … all of us. We did our job right.” His voice sounded even gruffer than usual.
Stan, his Rumanian heritage contributing to his usual somber distrust, now made his point. “What kind of worker you think will now pull down wages? Nine hours standing in one spot, doing one simple action over and over, a monkey can do—takes no brains—just endurance.”
Johann stretched out his long legs.
John proclaimed, “I bet you that in six months’ time, by spring, every line at the plant will be in constant motion. We all know that a moving line works, so why are you all excited?”
“Excited? Who’s excited!” Fritz sucked on his pipe.
“Come on, John. Since you’ve been gone, and this thing started, you know how many men have quit?” Not waiting for an answer, Carl continued, “We lose maybe forty men every week and …”
“Why, for God’s sake?!” John interrupted. “Who’d be dumb enough to leave Ford?”
“These are no boobs—these are skilled men and most of them go over to the Dodge Brothers.” Carl’s tone held censure.
“Handwork, John, is still craftsmanship to some,” observed the Englishman.
“Well, Jimmy, I’ll answer that with the words of Henry Ford, ‘Man minus the machine is a slave—Man plus the machine is a free man.’“
“You really believe that?”
“Sure! All of us here, we are building a machine that is freeing a whole nation!”
“Yeah—while its builders maybe are losing theirs!” murmured Stan.
John turned on him. “If you think that, why haven’t you gone over to the Dodge Brothers?”
Before the Rumanian could answer, Johann jumped in. “Stan, what is Mr. Sorenson doing in all this?”
“‘Cast-Iron Charlie’? He’s everywhere, watching—making notes—correcting. Heard he has some idea of bringing from my top floor some of the big parts down from above—sort of continuous shoot the chutes. Soon our Highland Park plant is going to get a new name. From Crystal Palace to Ford Motor Company Amusement Park.”
“I hear maybe we too get pulleys up high, like trolleys to come from floor to floor. How can that be done?” Peter, the wheel man, sounded thoroughly confused.
Rudy’s gaze took in the men assembled in the parlor. “So, you all are going to be happy being a monkey?”
Preferring to ignore its implication, no one rose to the bait. Fritz checked the clock, wound his pocket watch.
“John, you know that new man who came in to clear up the wage structures? Well, my friend, now, we got only three levels and the big news is, because you have now wife to feed, you go up to level C-One—and that means you’re getting a raise! Me too, also Johann, but, our so happy-go-lucky bachelor boys here? They gotta get hitched before they can get the raises!” Fritz chuckled, “See how clever our John? Gets himself married just at the right time!”
Zoltan jumped up.
“I’m off—good night!” and hurried from the room. The others followed suit. Jane caught her husband’s eye and, when he nodded, picked up her work basket and followed him upstairs to bed.
Other evenings, the parlor talk took a lighter course. Flivver jokes were retold as were the latest wonders achieved by their precious motorcar. As Jane became more and more familiar with the language and the Ford men who spoke it, she often felt she was listening to lovesick boys, extolling the virtues of a girl they all adored.
“Hey, Carl, did you hear the one about a patron of a large department store who asked for tires for his T, then was directed to the ‘rubber band’ department? Wait … I heard another … what time is it when one Ford follows another? Tin after tin!”
“Isn’t that a lulu!” Peter slapped his thigh.
Carl joined the fun. “Heard the one of the parson who’s giving a sermon on better church attendance?”
Everyone became attentive.
“Well, this parson, he is preaching that it’s the demon automobile that is taking people away on Sunday outings to have good times—instead of to church—so he says, ‘The Model T has taken more people to Hell than any other thing I can mention’ when a lady in the congregation starts clapping her hands, moaning ‘Glory to God! Praise the Lord!’ ‘What’s the matter, sister?’ asks the parson and the old lady answers, ‘A Ford never went anyplace that it couldn’t come back from, so I reckon all them folks in Hell will be comin’ back someday. Praise the Lord!’”
Some evenings, becoming suddenly aware that there was a newcomer in their midst, who not only seemed interested in their lady-love but eager to know more, the men fell over themselves telling Jane all about her.
“First, she was built all by hand in a little secret room hidden away where only Mr. Ford and special men he trusted were allowed in. That was way back in the years 1907 to ’08 and then, when finally, there she stood, all perfect, tested, finished—you know what they did, Missus Jane?” Fritz paused, letting the suspense take effect.