Ford investigators visited workers at odd hours to measure their home life against the American standards approved of by their Boss. Marital status was questioned, a written proof of it could be demanded, a man’s religion, his home, was he in debt and to whom, had he money saved, where was it kept, his health, his doctor, his form of recreation, his wife, his children—all was scrutinized. Nothing, no one was exempt. Each answer was duly noted, written onto special forms. The inspector’s trained eyes searched for telltale signs of bad habits, unsavory home conditions as well as neighborhoods. On the basis of these inspections, Ford workers were classified into groups: Fully Qualified, those approved of; Excluded, those not conforming to the rules of age, length of service, etc.; Disqualified, those with bad personal habits; and, finally, those Debarred because of unsatisfactory home conditions coupled with improper habits—such as excessive use of liquor, gambling, as well as “any malicious practice derogatory to good physical manhood or moral character.”
So that there could be no misunderstandings, investigators carried pamphlets extolling the virtues of soap and water and damning such habits that could constitute a fall from grace.
Most men and their women were given another chance to “Cast Out Devil Dirt, Repent, Mend Their Ways,” become the upright, God-fearing, sober, hygienic immigrants that America, with the benevolent help of Henry Ford, could be proud to welcome to its citizenry.
Those newly emigrated from ancient cultures, where women were chattel, their rights not even at issue, the memory of Ellis Island still raw, were far too intimidated to offer resistance to anyone in authority. Even those women already assimilated, by being denied the right to vote knew their assigned place in society was wholly dependent on the station achieved by the men they belonged to. In order to function within this confinement, they knew their place learned in childhood, that to struggle against it was a useless expenditure of will. Some not so readily subdued, strained against convention, but however women chose to loosen the yolk that held them, they did so cautiously.
Oppression and secrecy have a symbiotic relationship. During this time of the Sociological Department’s power and the autonomy given its inspectors, the Ford women’s primary fear was their utter helplessness. Not only did their men’s loyalty belong to the company, their livelihood depended on them making a good impression.
Automobiles still a rare sight on community streets, the arrival of a Ford inspector’s shiny new Model T could not be missed. With the help of Missus-Schneider-eight-blocks-over, and Missus Nussbaum, who lived not far from Jane, Hannah, fully recovered now her mothering skills were once again needed, organized some of the older women into a link-chain of “Watchers.” With the help of Missus Sullivan to the east, Missus Kowalski to the north, Missus Martinelli taking over the perimeter, as leaders, their patrol covered an area of more than forty blocks. Every street in Highland Park had at least two watchers who, on spying an inspector’s T, was instructed to stop whatever she was doing; if she still had young children, shoo them over to the next-door neighbor, put on her hat and shawl and, not to be seen running, arrive at the house of the inspector’s choice as though just “a friendly neighbor paying a call.” They had all kinds of ruses to gain admittance without causing suspicion of why they had come.
Jane discovered three daffodils making their way up into the light of spring when the Sociological Department came to inspect her. A man of smallish stature, dressed as though about to attend an internment, potbellied and jowled, his fleshiness far more curvaceous than hers, finding she spoke English, told his interpreter to wait outside in the car until he was through. Politely, Jane ushered him into her parlor wondering if it would be correct to offer him coffee or if that might be construed as an enticing gesture.
“Store bought?” Sensitive to his tone of censure, Jane hesitated. “How much?”
“The drapes? I made them myself.”
“Really? They don’t look homemade.”
“Well, I made them—so they are.”
Mouth set, he checked his notebook. “One child, a boy, born June of last year. Correct?” Jane nodded. “Any more on the way?” Jane shook her head. “Going to be?”
“I don’t know, ask my husband!” The moment the retort left her lips, Jane regretted it.
The heavyset face before her, flushed, anger glinted in the eyes. The man licked the tip of his pencil, noted something in his book.
“How many bedrooms?”
“Two.”
“Let’s go see them, shall we?” The inspector started for the stairs.
Jane followed. “The boy is asleep.”
“Good. Two o’clock we suggest is the correct time of the day for a child that age to nap.” The inspector mounted the stairs, running an inquisitive hand up the banister, checking for grime.
“Walls this color when you moved in?”
“No. My husband painted them.”
“Peculiar choice. One could even say a radical one. Husband’s a radical?”
“I don’t know what that means. He is a toolmaker, he designs them.”
“That, I know, lady.” His eyes roamed the immaculate bedroom.
“Clean as a whistle. You sure you’re Italian? Usually you people don’t know what a decent home is. Live like animals and seem to enjoy it … Okay, I’ve seen enough up here!”
Hand shaking, Jane closed the bedroom door behind him. Flipping pages, the inspector descended the stairs.
“Religion?”
“Catholic.” Jane said the first thing that came to mind.
“Drink?”
“Excuse me?”
“Inebriating spirits! How many bottles have you got in the house?”
“None.”
“Oh, come on. You people swill the juice of the grape like hogs do slop.”
“My husband doesn’t!”
“Okay. Let’s just have a look, shall we? Let’s see what’s in your kitchen cupboards.”
Jane was so relieved to be far from the bedroom, she led the inquisitor into the kitchen without a moment’s hesitation. His search was swift and thorough. Seeming resentful that he had not been able to unearth the proof of expected Italian debauchery, remarking that even the usual stench of garlic was missing from her house, he tipped his hat and left.
Trembling, Jane leaned against the closed door gulping for air, not quite sure if she was doing so out of relief or fury. There was a knock on the door.
Fearful the inspector had returned, Jane opened it. A distraught Missus Nussbaum stood on the threshold.
“Dear Lord in Heaven, please forgive—I have come too late—my Elsa—she swallowed a button just when I see the automobile so I had to hold her upside down and shake her till the button dropped out before I can run over. You alright? He not try anything with you?” Pushing her way in, she held Jane’s shoulders, searching her face.
“I’m alright.” Missus Nussbaum, not convinced, held her. “Really, I’m alright … my knees just feel funny, that’s all.”
“Come, we go sit and I make you some coffee. What a watcher I am! Couldn’t even get here on time! And I ran, which I’m not supposed to. Don’t know what Hannah will say when she hears!”
“We don’t have to tell her, Missus Nussbaum. I won’t.”
“Thank you, dear, that’s real nice of you. But guilty I am. Just think of it—if something had happened … my goodness gracious me! I would never have forgiven myself!” She fussed, made a pot of strong coffee, they drank and talked.
When finally convinced that everything was really alright, Missus Nussbaum hurried home to see what else her Elsa might have found to swallow in her absence.